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Tha-dump. Tha-dump.
The air was hot in the Tennessee summer. Sunbeams burst into the room, encasing all within it with a blanket of sweat. But the sombre mood was anything but warm.
Jackson’s old, tired muscles mustered every inch of strength to raise his lungs in breath, a life of reckless use of his body finally catching up with him. His thin, bony hand smelt of smoke and salt, a finger tapping at each beat of his heart. They were getting slower, softer, quieter. Not like anyone else could hear. Eyes squinted against the sun, once a powerful bright blue glazed over like a cloudy day. They scanned the scene before him, old friends and cherished family stood before the comfortable bed from which he was perched in. Never in a million years when watching Hugh slowly waste away under the blistering heat in 1779 would he think this would be his end. Also surrounded by many, also slipping away in the heat.
Tha-dump. Tha-dump.
He could hear his heart grow weaker though.
Tha-dump.
With his dying breath, he addressed the room one last time.
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“Do not cry, I hope to meet you all in heaven… Yes, all in heaven, white and black…”
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Closing his eyes, satisfied with his final words, he finally let himself sleep.
Tha-dump.
‘I can't wait to see Rachel again…’
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…
Dead.
Andrew Jackson
.
June 8th 1845.
.
Cause of Death: Heart Failure.
A man like Andrew Jackson should have never died in the manner that he did. Those around him, including Jackson himself, thought he would have been torn asunder by a bullet many decades before; whether it be in a duel, war or anything in-between. Yet as his body pulled away from him, he felt his soul transfer to another place, mind still conscious enough to register the change, but not enough to see it. The other side was dark. Very, very dark, no streams of light, no pores filled with sweat, and most of all, it was cold. The heat had gone. The sun, no longer hanging above his old head. He shivered. Not necessarily from the cold.
“No light for your servant, Lord? No guidance in my last moments?”
Jackson spoke to himself, as he felt himself lying rather ungracefully on what felt like a hardwood floor. Getting used to his new predicament, he not only noticed his body moving in what seemed to be decent working order, but also that his nightgown had been replaced with the more restricting clothing of his suit and cape.
“Ah… I was hoping for more… holy clothing than just my regular work suit, but He doth work in mysterious ways”
The fabric was heavy as his newly fixed muscles worked to lift his body off the ground. But it's not like he hadn't had to pull himself up after long, gruelling illness before, this was hardly new to the old Tennessean. He found his footing as he clutched to the edge of a table, old scarred hands bulged with thin veins as Jackson placed all his focus into analysing the situation he had found himself in. He could only hope he had arrived by the Lord’s side as he had so prayed, but each passing moment only added to his confusion. The dark room showed only the smallest slivers of light under what appeared to be a door. The room was narrow, unassuming, and seemed to only contain a table and a… was it a portrait of him? A mirror? His eyes were never that good to begin with…
“Saint Peter? Are you there?”
He called out fruitlessly, eyebrows knitted in worry. This isn't right. Where was he? Was this hell? Now, Andrew Jackson did not panic. He did not let his fear get the best of him, but he could certainly feel it creeping up on him now. He knew he was dead. He knew this was the beyond that was laid out from him. Andrew Jackson is a great many things, but one thing he is not is afraid. Steeling himself, he stood up straight, brushed off his coat and strode towards the door. But not before forgetting the weakness of his legs after being bed bound so long and crashing face first into the floor.
“Cursed body! Cursed soul!”
He swore, grumbling profanities to himself. But this angle did give a unique perspective.
Tha-dump. Tha-dump.
A steady beat was slowly making its way towards the door. Jackson felt the fear rise, but his heartbeat he had so meticulously listened to in his bed couldn't be heard. Just those footsteps.
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He managed to see what was just under that crack in the door, and what he saw was the white trimming to a very nice hallway, and a pair of black boots blocking his view of it.
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Jackson swallowed a dry throat.
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…
“Sirs! You won't come to guess what I've found!”
Jefferson bounded through the White House halls, his transparent, ghostly hand gripping a pack of playing cards. The other ghosts, Madison, Monroe, Henry Harrison, Adams and Washington, were all resting in the pleasant warmth of the gardens, having a lazy discussion as they took in the aesthetics of the surroundings. The ghostly side of the White House was slowly growing in numbers, long since passed were the lonely years Washington endured. Friends, both old and new, were filling out their roles in their afterlives, and so far, it seemed their world was harmonious.
Well, the ice had to be broken at some point.
“What have you found, Mr Jefferson?”
Inquired Henry Harrison, not really bothering to rise from his sunbathing position to fully face the excited redhead.
“A pack of game cards! I can’t imagine where it could have come from, perhaps Mr Tyler left it behind when handing over the house to President Polk. I couldn't imagine a man like him allowing such enjoyment in his house!”
The rest of the men laughed alongside Jefferson, as he sat down to deal the cards for a game. However, amongst the chatter and good spirit, Washington felt that increasingly familiar feeling. His fingertips grew cold and his cheeks grew warm, his head slowly pushing him towards that room. He rose from the ground, dusting himself off and speaking to the group.
“It seems we have a new housemate, gentlemen. Please excuse me, I'll be gone for not a moment.”
Excited chatter spread from man to man, the air crackling with anticipation as they guessed who their next guest would be.
“Do you think the old general has finally expired?”
Adams laughed to Jefferson, shuffling the cards absentmindedly in his hand.
“Perhaps it'll be your boy finally joining us sir…”
Jefferson’s mouth creaked up into a devilish smile.
“Want to bet on it?”
“Consider it placed”
Adams retorted, never one to back down from a challenge from his old friend.
“I shan't be a moment men, start the game without me if need be”
Washington interrupted their betting and announced his departure (not after scowling disapprovingly at their cruel bets, he certainly hoped that wouldn't become a habit) before turning on his heels and making his way to that little room that each of them ended up in at the beginning of their afterlives. As the laughter of the other ghosts grew fainter the further he walked in the hallways, there was only the clicking of his heels to accompany him to the pickup. The White House had grown so much since his death, from bustling parties to esteemed guests he wouldn't have dreamed would visit the house in its earlier days. The white paint reflected the summer’s day, bright light windows towered the home, and brought forward many good memories for the ghost. He inhaled deeply, the rich blend of scents he associated with the house filled his absent lungs. He could only hope that once he reached whoever was waiting for him, that the man could also have just as many positive memories with the home as he did.
Tha-dump. Tha-dump.
His feet grew lazy in the summer heat, and began to drag his legs ever so slightly by relaxing his military posture. His footfalls became heavy, and he could only hope it didn't alert President or Mrs Polk from their incessant workaholic stupor. But that worry didn't last long, as he finally arrived by the little room. Taking a sharp breath (and reforming his usual straight laced posture) he grasped the door handle, swung it open, and extended his hand in greeting.
“Welcome back to the White House, Mr President.”
…
Andrew Jackson was horrified.
That was not Saint Peter.
His dry throat hardly was capable of projecting all the objections he had to the situation at hand. All he could do was sit there, hands shaking as part confusion and part rage filled each corner of his mind. He scowled at the hand before him before batting it away, opting to struggle upwards from the floor at his own volition.
“Where is my judgement?”
Jackson demanded. He clearly recognised Washington, but he didn't care. His confusion was replaced with anger. This was not what he was told, what he was promised.
“Where is my judgement?! I will not be judged by man, only the Lord shall judge me! Show me to his gates!”
Washington was taken aback by the reaction, the old general was weak on his knees and clinging to the side of the door for dear life, but that didn't stop the threats pouring out his mouth. For a split moment, he was speechless. Jackson used that moment to further complain.
“Answer me man! I did not lead a life of service to be judged by a Virginian aristocrat!”
“On the contrary sir, it seems you have”
That uncharacteristic taunt only further twisted the scowl on Jackson's face. It was clear he wanted to try and threaten Washington, but the best he could do was reach out and grip tight to his coat lapels. He brought their faces together, noses touching and heaving breath only boiling the tension higher. Washington, in return, gripped Jackson’s own coat. He was not going to let this fiery tempered frontiersman break this delicate peace he had so carefully constructed over the years. This was his family- his home! Jackson had no right to come to his home and demand and insult him to his heart’s content. This wasn't the Hermitage. This wasn't his White House anymore, it was Washington’s. And he was going to protect his White House from any man who dared breach it.
Even if he was the President.
“Is this a joke to you?”
Jackson spat, grip only tightening. He dragged Washington down slightly with his incessant weight, so he was nearly below him.
“What have you done with my eternal rest, man? Where is my judgement?”
Washington gave back a soul withering frown. He, even in death, preferred to keep more unagreeable emotions buried underneath the surface, but something about the sheer audacity of General Jackson made his non-existent blood boil. It seemed to be the same for the rest of the ghosts of this mansion. Jefferson spoke even before his death of his distaste for the man. Madison and Monroe felt no joy from his antics in the war of 1812, his liberal use of military powers and flagrant disrespect soured their opinions. Henry Harrison ran against Jackson’s vice Van Buren in the party made exclusively to stop the tidal wave of Jacksonianism in the country, so he certainly was no fan of the general. And Adams? Well, ever since he saw what the man said about his boy… the Jackson administration was some of the toughest years in his afterlife.
Jackson had asked for judgement, and he had received it. Unfortunately for him, it was hardly from people whose thoughts he held in high regard.
“You have received your judgement, General. From the people, and it has sent you here, back to the White House.”
“Blasphemy!”
Jackson pushed off of Washington, filled to the brim with fury pressing him forward. That tense exchange had given him time enough to get used to standing again, so he charged down the hallway to find his answers. He shouted as loud as his lungs could carry him.
“The Devil cannot keep me here! I am to be judged by the Divine only! I shall not let man decide my fate!”
Washington's eyes widened as the general ran out of sight, occasionally stumbling and tripping along the way, screaming as if he was alone in a clearing.
“Good God man! Keep your voice down! Do you want them to hear-”
Washington froze.
As he turned the corner where Jackson had sprinted down, he saw First Lady Sarah Polk walk down the adjacent hallway, head down engrossed in a letter delicately held in her pale hand. It seemed Jackson had not noticed her, and neither did she notice him. Just as Jackson swallowed a gulp full of air to shout once more, Washington tackled the ghost through a wall into the outside area to avoid any detection. Jackson fell to the ground in an almighty heap, the wind knocked from his chest as Washington pinned him down to stop him from any more foolish endeavours.
Tha-dump!
The bright sunlight blinded Jackson for a moment, bringing a hand to shield his eyes. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing, and he just woke up in his Hermitage again, the Tennessee summer welcoming him back to mortality with open arms. But as his eyes refocused, and the gaze of that long dead revolutionary general stared back at him, that impulsive anger only came back. He shoved the ghost off of him and scrambled to get back up, only to see a group of similarly dead men looking at them from under a tree… Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Henry Harrison… What kind of sick game was this? Was this purgatory? Was he not even allowed to plead his case before the Lord before he was tossed into this place?
“What are you doing here?”
He spat towards them, marching away from Washington’s cries, warning him of all the rules and regulations of this dour new afterlife. He didn't want his rules! He didn't want this afterlife. Hell would have been preferable to this.
He couldn't even be sure it wasn't hell.
The group’s symphony of emotions were all well read by Jackson. Their confusion, their distaste, their slowly brewing anger. Their whispers only fuelled his rant.
“I told you it would be the General, you owe me Thomas…”
“I could have swore he was a vampire, a creature of the night! I never expected he would become an apparition like us!”
“Is something the matter with him? Has his frontier upbringing made him incapable of understanding the situation at hand?”
“Perhaps, how he ever entered the office at all is beyond God’s grace”
“Look how his veins bulge. Even after shaving ten years off his skin he still looks like an old rot.”
“You should have never come here.”
Tha-dump.
“Never come here?”
Jackson repeated that last taunt through gritted teeth.
Tha-dump.
“NEVER HAD COME HERE?!”
The group was silent. Even Washington dare not be the man to invoke Jackson’s wrath.
“I NEVER WISHED TO COME HERE! I AM SUPPOSED TO BE IN HEAVEN, SIDE BY SIDE WITH CHRIST AND RACHEL! NOT INTERMINGLING WITH FOOLS AND DANDIES!”
Washington reached out his hand to try and calm him down, as not to draw attention from the First Lady or worse yet, the President. But before he had a chance, another shriller, somehow even more angry voice beat him to it.
“Fools and dandies, sir?!”
Adams sat up. The rage he felt for Jackson had been potent since the 1828 election, and it all seemed to be bubbling out now. No man would throw such mud and humiliation at his namesake and leave unscathed. The war was only just beginning, and the peace had finally cracked.
Tha-dump.
The sound of straight laced boots made its way through the halls of the White House and towards the gardens. The ruckus had truly caught the wrong attention.
The President had heard them.
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“Fools and dandies?! You walk into our house, nay, our home, insult us to our face, demand an audience with the Lord, have you no shame? Have you no decency?”
Adams, despite being spectacularly trumped by Jackson’s height, felt no fear, and marched straight up to the newly dead ghost and jabbed a sharp finger into his hollow chest.
“You have never had decency. You invited prostitutes and drunkards into your cabinet, you uphold a philosophy of tyrannical rule, beating and shaming any man brave enough to speak out against your dictatorial madness!”
Jackson tried to get a word in edgewise, but anyone who knew Adams knew he would stop speaking when he decided he wanted to stop speaking, and he still had a few choice words for the man before him.
It was Washington who first heard the footsteps from inside.
Tha-dump.
Cold sweat fell down his pinprick pupils.
“You, General, are everything I worked to get rid of from this great country. I can only imagine the revolution happening decades earlier if you were the King of England at the time! You have no honour and neither do any of your shady friends and family. You're a power mad-”
Tha-dump.
“-poorly read-”
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“-agent of chaos-”
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“-that should have stayed in whatever swamp he crawled out of-!”
Tha-dump.
“GET DOWN MEN!”
The group had been so entranced by the red hot speech of the small man from Massachusetts that none of them had heard the inevitable approach of the President’s footsteps which had come to investigate what all the ruckus he could hear from his garden was about. Washington’s quick warning and dragging both Adams and Jackson by the collar behind the tree (with the others not far behind) led to them being undetected in just the nick of time. The President’s dark set eyes scanned the garden before him, icy irises narrowing at where they once were. Washington’s breath stopped momentarily, and not even Jackson dared to breathe, fearing interference in a world that no longer wanted him.
“Hmmm…”
They heard the President hum, before tutting sharply and muttering.
“Damned wind, fooling me from my work.”
Before he could investigate further, a cry from inside the White House of the First Lady drew the President’s attention once more, and so he precisely turned on his heels and disappeared down the long corridors once more, leaving the ghosts to sigh a breath of relief amongst them. None of them truly knew what to say. Words had failed them both in that moment and in the protection of their little world together.
Jackson was the first to break the silence.
“...what would have happened if my dear young hickory saw us?”
The group was silent, but Washington spoke first. He had already quickly learned his lesson from all this.
“We are dead, General Jackson. It is not our place to present ourselves in the world of politics. Not anymore. We cannot allow ourselves to influence. Not in any way. Not ever.”
Jackson’s mouth went into a hard line, eyes downwards as he let the adrenaline high of the situation wear off. Washington could have sworn he saw a reflective glint in the corner of his eyes, but Jackson quickly wiped it away.
“So… I'm dead…”
“Correct.”
“...and I am a spirit. A ghost.”
“Also correct.”
“And the only ones living who can see us, we cannot speak to under the threat of our very democracy.”
“Right once more sir.”
“I see.”
For the first time since Washington had met him, Jackson was silent. He let the situation stew in his mind, clogs turning in his head as he realised his new situation. His new purgatory.
His new home.
“I am to assume I cannot see my wife. I cannot leave this purgatory given to me.”
“...no. You can’t. But don't speak of it so bleakly, you will find your family here, as we all have.”
Jackson let out a bitter chuckle.
“Of course! Rachel is by the Lord’s side in Heaven, where I'm sure she was transported by Archangel Michael himself…”
He trailed off, looking up towards the sky. Towards that sun which had not left his side. He could no longer feel the sweat that it gave his body, the warmth remained however. But that beat was gone. That beat that reminded him of himself was gone. He looked at Washington head on, but his mind was still a million miles away, and wasn't coming home anytime soon.
“I… I think…”
He turned his head away. He could not be seen in this sort of state in front of these men. Washington promised that one day they'd grow to be his family. But for the time being, Jackson only wished to mourn the one he just lost.
“I will take my leave, gentlemen. Good day.”
His voice cracked ever so slightly as he pushed past Washington, taking a swift, anxious look about the grounds to ensure neither the President or First Lady could see him, and floated up the stairs to a dark corner of the White House to weep in.
Washington felt nothing but pity for the man. Jackson’s usual posture was replaced with a small, slumped figure. His head hung low, eyes misty and face obscured by shadows. Maybe this was purgatory for him, Washington thought. He couldn't say his time here in the beginning before his long rest was what he wanted from the afterlife. Maybe this was divine retribution from God towards him, towards all of them for the sins they committed in office and beyond. To be trapped here, to serve until there is nothing left to serve. Perhaps it was purgatory.
Perhaps it was hell.
But as Washington’s eyes peeled away from the gloomy aura of Jackson and focused instead on the rest of the men around him, of the friends old and new he had carefully cultivated long and fulfilling friendships with over the years. His mind came out from talk of hell and divine smite, he promised himself no more. He would not let any new President feel unwelcome, he would not put personal grievances before his new family. He would make each new ghost, no matter how bitterly despised, feel welcome in this family of his. He feared that they would all go mad if not.
“Whatever is the matter with you General?”
Queried Adams. Washington had hardly noticed he started smiling.
“Promise me gentlemen, this one thing.”
He took a deep breath as he captured the group’s attention once more.
“This group, this friendship, is immensely important to me. It will always hold a sweet place in my heart, but we cannot expect it to stay this way forever. The country is changing and so in turn are we.”
He set his sights on the White House once more. His family. His home. And he had so rudely fought with one of its new members not so long ago.
“I hope you will all be courteous to General Jackson from now on. He has just lost his family. We must do good on our morality and provide him comfort in this time.”
Adams sneered at this, and doubtful whispering came from the rest of the group too.
“Courteous, sir? To that madman? He nearly exposed us to the President! We have all gone through what he is going through now and we never kicked up such a fuss. He has no right to throw a tantrum like a petulant child.”
Adams protested. Murmurs of agreement came from the rest. Washington merely kept up his patient smile.
“I understand your concerns Mr Adams. General Jackson has been most uncivil today, and I do not expect you to forgive him; for today or for any of the other wrongs he has committed against you. I can't say I forgive him either.”
He lingered on the thought.
“...But maybe, just maybe, if we keep our passions in check, he may swallow his pride enough to earn it back in due time. We only have each other now, men. And he only has us. Perhaps he’ll think of this less of a purgatory if we show this Christian charity to him.”
Before Adams could say his (Washington is sure very well thought out and planned rebuttal) he strode into the house, trying to map the route in which Jackson took to his small refuge. In the distance, he could hear the President’s footsteps pace his office.
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Washington couldn’t help but let a satisfied smirk creep onto his lips. Perhaps he'd still make family out of the old general yet.
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