by Ron Carter
In the six years following the surrender of the British at Yorktown in 1781, thinking men throughout the new nation had watched the North-South factionalism, epidemic bankruptcies, and burgeoning distrust pull the thirteen states to pieces and threaten the destruction of all they had won in eight bloody, hard-fought years. Fear that America was on the brink of war between the states rode heavily in the minds of Washington, Franklin, Madison, Jefferson, Mason, and too many others. Sick at heart, in the winter of 1786–1787, Matthew sought out Thomas Jefferson and laid bare his worst fears. Jefferson, soon to leave for Europe on political assignment, directed Matthew to James Madison. When Matthew learned of the last-ditch effort by Madison to save it all by gathering representatives from all thirteen states to one last convention on May 14, 1787, in Philadelphia, he made the journey to meet Madison. Too well he recalled his surprise at first seeing the little man. Madison, scarcely over five feet tall, heart-shaped face, regular features, piercing blue eyes, soft voice, educated, brilliant, the astute politician, arrived at the convention with a plan that became known as “The Virginia Plan,” which eventually shaped the new Constitution; but no one doubted by whose genius it had been created. Matthew, a Harvard College-educated Boston navigator, who had been caught up in the shooting war at the age of twenty-one and who had survived some of the deadliest and bloodiest sea battles in the Revolutionary War, came to meet him. Madison the politician, Matthew the warrior. Madison the theorist, Matthew the realist. Madison and Matthew each saw the strength of the other and sensed that both would be vastly broadened in their grasp of the affairs of their new, infant country if they would share their gifts. A bond quickly formed between them.
The convention wore on in the sealed east room of the Pennsylvania Statehouse, through the unbearable heat and humidity of the Philadelphia summer, before the exhausted delegates emerged on September 17, 1787, with a new Constitution. In the time following, the two men had exchanged letters. Madison rose ever higher in the new government while the Dunson & Weems shipping company grew to become one of the largest on the eastern seaboard.
During that same time, across the Atlantic, Napoleon had risen to dominance in France, filled with lust for world conquest. The result was war with England and Russia, and within weeks those major powers were engaged in a do-or-die battle for supremacy at sea. They declared endless embargoes against each other and against all ships of all countries, which closed most major ports to foreign shipping, and the warring nations issued policies claiming the right to stop and search commercial ships of any origin, wherever they found them, with the power to confiscate their cargoes if they were destined for delivery to an enemy. Instantly, the international shipping trade of the civilized world was plunged into chaos, and the impact on American foreign trade was catastrophic. Dunson & Weems, and all other American shipping companies who depended on open and free seas and open foreign ports to stay alive, found themselves crippled, desperate, dying.
In those dark years, Madison had sent word to Matthew nine times: I need your advice—come to my office—and nine times Matthew had made the journey from Boston, first to Philadelphia, then to New York, when the seat of government was transferred. In the privacy of Madison’s office they had exchanged the brutal facts, neither holding back, and they gave and received the best that was in them.
In the clean, cool October air, Matthew stood once more, and judged it would take the six men ten more minutes to have the lumber wagon empty and ready to go northwest, into the city, if such there was. He drew out the letter and for a moment studied the even, scrolled handwriting. “Mister Matthew Dunson, Esq.” He slipped it back into his pocket and sat back down with the thought clear in his mind.
I know why Madison wants to see me. The Chesapeake. He has John’s report—wants to know if that unprovoked attack by the British man-o’-war Leopard is justification to declare war on England. Three American seamen dead—four taken—twenty-two injured—the Chesapeake shot half to pieces—justification for war? It was war. It’s coming—sooner or later we’ll fight it out with England again—I can feel it.
War! The ugly evils of war! Memories came flashing in his mind and for a few moments he bowed his head while a deep sense of sadness welled up inside, and scenes came flashing in his mind.
October 11, 1776—Lake Champlain—seventeen tiny, flat-bottomed American boats built in three months of green lumber—twenty-four British gunboats—the desperate battle to save George Washington and the American Continental Army—lost every American boat and half the crews, but they stopped the British.
He reached to touch the three-inch scar on his cheek that was his constant reminder of how close he had come to being dead in that fight, and his memories continued.
September 23, 1779—dusk—twelve miles off Flamborough Head—western coast of England—John Paul Jones—the Bon Homme Richard—attacked the far-superior British man-o’-war Serapis—rammed her—lashed the railings of the two ships together—under pale moonlight the big guns roared and the din deafened both crews as they fought face-to-face, hand-to-hand—the shout from the Serapis to strike colors—Jones’s defiant answer—“I have not yet begun to fight”—Tom Sievers up in the rigging—the grenade—thrown down the open hatch of the Serapis—the horrendous blast when it ignited a dozen barrels of gunpowder—second deck—blew all the guns and crews to oblivion—the British surrender—recalling the sickening thud of the British musket ball in Tom’s chest as his old, dear friend descended from the rigging—then holding Tom in his arms as he died.
Matthew swallowed hard as he felt once more the heart-wrenching emptiness that had seized him as he cradled the old man to his chest, stroking his hair, and feeling life leave him. He brushed his hand across his eyes as though to push out the scene, while his thoughts ran on.
September 5 , 1781—Yorktown—the French ships filing out of the York River in their run to the open water of Chesapeake Bay to meet the waiting British fleet—the great men-of-war of both sides squaring with each other—the world filled with the roar and the white smoke of the big guns—the British retreat out into the Atlantic and down to the South Carolina capes—British General Cornwallis and his army of six thousand regulars landlocked in the tiny village of Yorktown—the American army and the French infantry putting the red-coated army under relentless cannon siege—battering them into submission.
For a time Matthew pondered. How many lesser sea battles had he survived? He could not count them. How many men had he seen killed and maimed? There was no way to know. How many men had he killed? He shuddered at the thought. In his mind he saw Kathleen and their children, and Margaret and Dorothy Weems, and then he saw the tens of thousands of faceless mothers and wives on both sides who had waited and counted days, and then months, and then years, for husbands and fathers and sons who would never return. And the single unanswered question that had haunted him since the shooting began at Lexington on April 19, 1775, came surging once again.
Why war? What’s wrong with the human race that it can’t avoid the insane evil of war? The answer is so simple! So simple! Charity! So simple.
Matthew started from his thoughts at the sound of the workman’s voice calling from the wagon.
“Finished. You want to get up in the driver’s seat? We’re ready to go for the next load.”
Matthew stood, nodded his understanding, picked up his sea bag, and walked rapidly to the heavy lumber wagon, while one man climbed to the driver’s seat and the other five clambered into the empty bed. Matthew passed his bag to them and climbed up the big wheel to take his place beside the driver. The man unwound the long leather lines from the brake pole, sorted them out, threaded three between the fingers of each hand, and called to the six horses as he slapped the reins on the rumps of the leaders. The horses, which had been standing hipshot, dozing with their heads down, jerked alive and leaned into their horse-collars. Their caulked shoes bit into the heavy timbers as the wagon lurched forward and rumbled hollowly on the dock whil
e the horses came into their pulling stride.
They moved steadily west with Matthew gaping, dumbstruck at what he was seeing on all sides. They passed hollow-eyed men with filthy beards and ragged clothing who were standing idly or rooting with hogs through the garbage and trash and discard for something to eat, or wear, or sell. Some stopped to stare at the passing wagon, and in their faces Matthew saw heart-wrenching black despair and hopelessness. In a few of them he saw envy and hatred of his black suit and top hat, and his black, square-toed shoes with the silver buckles. They were the forgotten vagabonds and riff-raff of the world, who had gravitated to a place where they believed they would find food and housing and purpose. Surely the seat of power of this new, young, vibrant nation with the dream of the common man would provide for its neglected needy. Instead, they found closed doors, starvation, and people who refused to look at them. The hope in their hearts and the light in their eyes died, and their lives went on unchanged, with them digging with pigs in rotting, stinking garbage heaps to stay alive.
The wagon rumbled west on dirt trails that meandered around marshes and bogs. There were no markers naming streets or locations. Windowless shacks nailed together from discarded scraps of lumber were everywhere. They passed the putrefying carcass of a dead horse left to rot where the animal had broken a leg and been unhitched from its harness and shot. Snakes slithered from the dirt road into the swamps of green, stagnant water, where mosquitoes and dragonflies and flies swarmed. Matthew was suddenly struck with the realization that there was no pedestrian traffic to be seen; no one was moving about, conducting the business of government, or any other business he could identify.
Matthew turned to peer intently at the highest of the rolling hills to the northwest, seeking the rounded dome of the capitol building that was intended to dominate the entire city. It was not there. Rather, two square, half-finished, white-stoned, widely separated buildings stood on the dusty, barren hilltop, connected by a long wooden walkway that had a roof overhead, but no walls. It took Matthew a full minute to understand he was looking at the twin buildings that would house the Senate and the House of Representatives. He recalled the sadly comic article that had appeared on the front page of a Boston newspaper four years earlier, announcing to the world that shoddy workmanship had resulted in a section of the roof of the Senate wing collapsing. The collapse was bad enough, the article trumpeted, but the falling roof very nearly struck the seat occupied by the vice president of the United States. That the debris had missed him was either fortunate or unfortunate, depending on your political views. With plaster and dust still falling, the terrified vice president had called an immediate adjournment, which was quite unnecessary, since every senator was already madly scrambling for the doors. Nor was the roof of the House of Representatives wing to be spared. It was constructed of glass, and when it rained, it leaked so badly that puddles and pools of water formed on the floor of the House, and soaked the representatives, their chairs and desks, and the documents left in the open.
Matthew turned to the driver. “How far to the Executive Mansion? Someone there should be able to tell me where to find Mister Madison.”
The man pointed with his chin. “Right on up this road, just a little way.”
Matthew craned his neck. What road? There is no road! No markers, no signs, no directions. Just a dirt trail winding through tree stumps and discarded gravel piles and trash dumps and garbage heaps, among a hundred other dirt trails, leading only heaven knows where!
They plowed through stagnant water that had accumulated in a shallow gravel pit, and crested a rise, and there, two hundred yards ahead of them were the incomplete walls of what was called the Executive Mansion. There was no road leading to either door, no fence, no yard, no signs directing traffic to the front door, the servants’ entrance, delivery entrance, or any other entrance. Matthew sat aghast at the huge piles of rubbish and cast-off building materials thrown and scattered about the treeless, barren grounds. A few workers paused to stare at the passing wagon, but there was not one person at the Executive Mansion to pay respects or to conduct business with the president of the United States.
The driver of the lumber wagon hauled back on the reins, and the heavy draft horses came back on their hind quarters to bring it to a stop in a cloud of dust that reached the large double doors in front.
“There she is,” he said.
Matthew spoke. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“Nothin’,” the driver said. “Compliments of the United States of America. They’re payin’ our wages.”
Matthew climbed down from the wagon, and the men in the bed of the wagon passed his sea bag to him. He nodded his thanks, turned, and walked to the great double doors set in the stark, white walls. There was no doorman, and Matthew lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall three times. It was a full minute before a man in work clothes opened the door and peered into Matthew’s face. Behind him, Matthew could see enough of the huge, vacuous reception room to realize that the great circular staircase connecting the first floor to the second floor had not yet been constructed. From the front door, it appeared that the two floors were not yet connected.
The man asked, “Something I can do for you?”
Matthew removed his hat. “I’m Matthew Dunson. I need direction to find Mister James Madison. Secretary of state. He sent for me. I thought someone here might direct me.”
A quizzical expression crossed the man’s face. “He told you to come here?”
Matthew repeated himself. “Not here. He requested I visit him here in Washington, D.C. I have a letter. I don’t know the location of his office. Is there someone who can direct me?”
The man stepped back. “Yes, I expect I can do that. Mister Jefferson isn’t here right now. Left this morning early to see someone in the Senate. Excuse us for not having the usual doorman here, but we got an emergency. Some of the roof fell in on the big audience chamber up the hall, and we’re doin’ all we can to get it back up. It irritated Mister Jefferson considerable. The room had a lot of wet wash hung to dry when the roof came down.”
The man paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “All right. You’re looking for Mister Madison. Secretary of state. I think he’s likely at his office right about now. On up the street. They haven’t finished the capitol building yet, or any of the other government buildings. Follow me. I’ll show you how to get there.”
Matthew followed the man out into the dust of the clearing in the front of the building, and the man pointed northwest.
“Right on up this street about five minutes. Right side. Still under construction. Nobody taken up residence yet, so some of our government people got their offices there. I think you’ll find Mister Madison there.”
Matthew tried to mask his uncertainty. “This street? What’s the name of this street?”
The man snorted. “Pennsylvania. It’ll be a street someday. Right now you just follow that path. You’ll know the building when you come to it. On the right side of the road.”
Matthew nodded and settled his hat back on his head. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck.”
There was no street, nor anything resembling a street. There was only a dirt trail, tromped by countless feet, that twisted and turned and meandered around bogs and marshes and piles of cast-off trash. Five minutes became ten before a building was suddenly there, thirty yards from the trail, partially hidden behind aspen trees with leaves that had been touched by October frost. Matthew picked his way to the front door, which was closed and had a hole bored through for the handle. He looked for the knocker, could find none, and rapped with his knuckles. He waited, and was raising his hand to rap again when he heard rapid footsteps inside. The door swung open and an elderly man with a trimmed beard and faded gray eyes, and dressed in a suit, faced him.
“Yes, sir. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I am Matthew Dunson. I received a letter from Mister Madison requesting that I visit him. Have
I found his office?”
“Oh, yes, temporarily. Come in. I’ll fetch his assistant.”
Matthew removed his hat and stepped inside as the man turned on his heel and disappeared down a hall with lumber stacked against one wall. The walls of the large reception room were plastered but not painted. A thin, white dust covered the hardwood floor. Within one minute the little man hurried back to motion to Matthew.
“Will you follow me? Mister Madison’s assistant will see you.”
Matthew followed the man down the hall, glancing through the open doors of rooms on both sides, startled to see that most of their walls had not yet been plastered. None had finished floors or finished woodwork. Fireplaces were half built, with stacks of brick and stones lying in heaps. They stopped at a large, stained oak door and knocked. A voice called, “Enter,” and the man pushed the door open.
“Mister Dunson is here to see Mister Madison.”
The walls were plastered and partially covered with dark oak. None of the windows had draperies. The hardwood flooring showed dust, and Matthew’s heels clicked as he approached the large desk facing him, with the well-dressed man seated behind, silhouetted by the great window in the far wall. At Matthew’s approach, the man raised his head. He was solidly built with a heavy brow and a square chin, and at the moment of recognition a smile came, cordial, warm, and he rose from his desk, hand extended.