"Alexander, I thought it was a lovely service." Angelica comes up behind him, her eyes red and bloodshot, and she takes his arm.
"A lovely service." He repeats flatly.
"Philip was so like you, Alexander, so like you." She says quietly.
He doesn't respond.
"Alexander?"
"Could you wait outside? I'll just be a minute." He asks. She looks at him inquisitively, but nods.
People file out of the pews- politicians, teachers, young students. They've carried his son's casket out, looking at Alexander, bent prone in the pew with pity. He isn't praying: anger is bubbling, red-hot and acidic, in his chest. The door slams; he is alone in the church. He stands and walks into the aisle, facing his child's murderer.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" He says calmly.
Alexander slowly walks up the center aisle of the church, fixing his eyes on the small wooden cross above the altar.
"All of this? Years of pain, losing all my friends and family? John was 27 when he died, did you know that? Left behind a daughter and a wife. The war was over. The war had been over for weeks, and you killed him in a skirmish. I'm sorry, was that supposed to be funny? "Be you therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful", says Luke. I don't know who he was trying to please there, because I think you're just vindictive."
He waits, but no response emanates from the wood, no booming voice reverberates from the domes with threats of damnation for his insolence.
"What was Philip, a warning shot? That was my son. My son." His voice cracks, he grabs a pew to steady himself. "My son. What have I done to yours, except praise his glory and praise his name?
Jefferson's started a war in Tripoli. We haven't been engaged in a conflict this big since Yorktown. You know why? Because they've been terrorizing the American tender ships. You know what a tender ship does? Doesn't even carry guns. Just goes around, fixes the other ships and delivers the mail. That's all it can do."
He stands in front of the altar, sunlight streaking the dark wood, and clenches his fists.
"Gratias tibi ago, domine. Yes, I 've lied, yes, I've been unfaithful. It was a sin." His voice rises until he's yelling; he raises his arms in defiance, in challenge. "I've committed many sins. Have I displeased you, you feckless thug? The National Bank, that wasn't good? I united the colonies, we're a true nation now, that wasn't enough? National credit's competitive, kept Washington in office, kept us out of war; I've raised seven children, and now I have six..."
He slowly walks up the steps to the altar, staring accusatorily at the face carved into the cross.
"That's not enough for you?" Tears are dripping onto the wood beneath him. "Haec credam a deo pio? A deo iusto? A deo scito?"
"Cruciatus in crucem!" He yells. It echoes around the church, his own sacreligion return to him.
"Tuus in terra servus nuntius fui officium perfeci. Cruciatus in crucem."
Nothing. The face stares back at him, indifferent to his anger and impiety, to his pain and agony. He turns away, dismissively waving a hand.
"Eas in crucem."
He roughly swipes at the tears wetting his cheeks and leaves the church, slamming the door behind him.
NOTES
Translation for Alex's Latin tirade:
gratias tibi ago, domine.
Thank you, Lord.
haec credam a deo pio, a deo justo, a deo scito?
Am I to believe these things from a righteous god, a just god, a wise god?
cruciatus in crucem
To hell with your punishments! (literally "(put/send) punishments onto a cross")
tuus in terra servus, nuntius fui; officium perfeci.
I was your servant, your messenger on the earth; I did my duty.
Eas in crucem
And to hell with you! (literally, "may you go to a cross")"
The war I was referring to was the Barbary War, which ran from 1801 to 1805 during Jefferson's first term.