What Is A Legacy?

Chapter Twenty-Two

He had just fallen into what was probably one of his better segments of sleep when a bell sounded above deck. Someone shouted something, but it was too far away and too muffled to make any sense of it. Groaning, Thomas forced himself to his feet, pulled on his boots and shirt, and clumsily made his way to the upper deck. The boat rocked, or maybe it was his own instability, but he found himself slumped against the wall trying not to pass out.

"Hey man, you alright?" A passing sailor took note of his state and stopped, concerned. "Did you hear? We're in Virginia now."

That was the best new Thomas had heard in eight months. He tried to express something resembling excitement, but everything was kind of fuzzy. "Do you want a hand?" the man asked, and Thomas nodded. That actually sounded pretty good.

"Please."

The man wrapped an arm around his torso and Thomas slung his arm around the man's neck. It always surprised him, the kindness of people in a world where other humans were hell bent on being cruel.

When he had been helped to the upper deck, the sight of the large buildings nearly brought tears to his eyes. Finally, after all this time, he was home. Not well, but in one piece, at least.

Then Joe was there, a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Well, we're home. We're going to call for a doctor to take you straight from the docks to the hospital."

Thomas nodded. "Thank you. But. please, try not to draw attention. Not until the public is ready."

"I hear you. We'll keep it under wraps. This port is generally quiet, and there's usually a doctor around to tend to the sick, those who fall ill aboard ship. That includes you." He glanced at his sailors around him. "And these men are smart. They'll keep their mouths shut. Johnson, when we reach the docks I want you to head straight for the President's estate. Let him know his diplomat is home." He raised an eyebrow. "Be discreet, but waste no time."

"Yes, sir!" Johnson nodded, and ran to the side of the ship's bow to help throw ropes over onto the dock. Workers already there caught them and tied the boat down as it pulled into the ports. Once they were stable, Johnson jumped over the side and took off down the pier.

One of the sailors went ahead, pulling aside a man with greying hair. As Thomas came down the ramp, supported by Joe, the doctor made his way over to them.

"We can't talk here," Joe said. "He needs to go to a hospital now."

The doctor gave him a quick once over, and his eyes grew wide. "Come with me, we have a carriage on standby."

Thomas forced himself to focus as he was led down the pier, and kept his head down. To reduce attention, yes, but the sun was bright, and it hurt.

The doctor took notice of this. "You hit your head?"

Thomas grimaced. "Yeah, about six months ago."

"And you're still in pain?"
He nodded. "Yes, but either it's fading or I'm getting used to it. I also got shot, if that means anything. My friend said to tell you that I still have shrapnel in the wound, so I would appreciate that getting looked at."

The man swallowed as they reached a small plain carriage by a stray sidewalk. "Anything else I should know?"

Thomas shrugged. "I haven't eaten a good meal or drank properly in six months. Maybe that can tell you something."

The doctor didn't hide his surprise. "Son, what happened to you?"

"Do you want the chronological order or the alphabetical one?"

Joe chuckled. Thomas had forgotten he'd even existed. "You're a funny one, Mr. Jefferson."

The doctor did a double-take. "Jefferson?"

Thomas was helped into the carriage and left the doctor's question unanswered. Joe was left on the dock to wave goodbye. Thomas never saw him again, but his kindness would stay with him for the rest of his life.

It was a quick ride to the hospital, and a painful journey to his room. He was told it would be a few days until he could be admitted to surgery, to give him time to get his strength back up. Thomas didn't even think he was that weak, but when his clothes were removed for fresh ones, he could count every rib. It was more disturbing than Thomas expected.

The nurses examined him quickly, and jotted notes down on his chart. A lot of notes, he noticed. He heard words like, "untreated concussion," "emancipated," "deprived of nutrients." Sounded about right.

One plump-face nurse was tasked with cleaning his wound, which he thought he would be used to by now. But it still hurt like hell-fire. She had a great poker face, but when she jotted down something on her notes, Thomas heard her mutter, "Signs of infection."

He refused to take a shower, not until he had actually rested and had strength to stand. He hadn't even been at the hospital for an hour before Washington arrived. He was sitting up in bed, eyes closed and arm slinged to his chest. His injured leg had been propped on a pillow, and he was the most comfortable he'd been in eight months.

The lights had been turned off in his room, with an oil lamp burning low to softly illuminate the room without hurting Thomas. The door swung open and George's stately figure filled the doorway. The president took in the man's bruised and battered state, and he froze for only a second. Then he was hurrying to Thomas' side faster than he thought the man could actually move. His usually calm demeanor was showing cracks, and the President was rambling, something Thomas had never seen him do.

"I am so glad to see you. And I am so incredibly sorry for all the suffering you have gone through. I never should have sent you to France. It was foolish and irrational and-"

Thomas raised his good hand, cutting the president off. It was almost comical to see the president rambling like he did, but he had something he needed to say. "Just promise me one thing, Mr. President."

"Of course." George looked willing to promise anything Thomas asked for.

"Never send me back to France again."

The president let out a laugh, one he hoped was of relief. "You are not leaving Virginia for a long time, Thomas."

"Good."

 Washington's status didn't allow him to stay for even fifteen minutes, before the same plump nurse who tended to his wound came in and began to shoo the president out.

"Your man needs to rest, and I don't think he can do that running his mouth off. Heaven knows how he can even lift his head, let alone talk," she said, and Thomas managed a small smile at the nurse's gentle teasing, and at the look on Washington's face as he was led out. Thomas did a double take at who was waiting for the President.

Alexander was craning his neck to peer into the room, a strange look of concern plastered across his face mixed with something that looked similar to relief. They met eyes, and after a moment, Alexander nodded.

"Glad to see you back on American soil, Mr. Jefferson." He sounded sincere, which was surprising.

"Glad to be back," Thomas answered. Then the door shut, sealing him away from the rest of the world. Which was needed. Now that he was home, and safe, he could finally relax. He fell into a deep slumber for the first time he left the Bastille.