Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8

by Ron Carter

  Madison slowed, shifted his heavy leather carrying case, and turned his head to look Matthew full in the face. He stopped, and Washington stopped with him. Madison thrust out his hand.

  “I recall your letters. Exceptional. I am honored to meet you, sir.”

  “The honor is mine,” Matthew returned. “I formed the Boston Committee of Merchants at the direction of Thomas Jefferson. It was his opinion, and mine, that this convention must succeed. I am here to learn what I can about the progress, and report to the other states.”

  “A worthy cause.” Madison nodded, then turned toward Washington. “Mr. Dunson, may I present General George Washington.”

  Washington offered his hand, and Matthew reached for it as Washington spoke. “Have we met before?”

  “Yes, sir. I served as a ship’s navigator during the war. I had the honor of meeting you three times. The last was at Yorktown.”

  Washington’s eyes narrowed. “Were you the officer that led the French ships out of the York River into the Chesapeake to engage the British? Admiral Graves?”

  “Yes, sir. I had the honor.”

  Washington’s handshake was firm, sure. “That was a remarkable act, Mr. Dunson. Remarkable. Many times I have wished to extend my personal thanks. It is a privilege to do so now.”

  Matthew nodded. “I am humbled, sir. I shall never forget your great victory at the surrender of General Cornwallis.”

  For a moment a faraway look came into Washington’s eyes at the remembrance of the relentless blasting of American cannon that filled Yorktown with white smoke during the days and lighted the skies at night as they placed the British under siege. “A good soldier. Great man. We were fortunate.”

  Matthew turned back to Madison. “I apologize for interrupting you here in the street, but I need to know. Can you tell me what happened this morning?”

  Instantly Madison saw the discouragement in Matthew’s eyes. He smiled tiredly. “Nothing. It appears the delegates from some states are a bit tardy in making an appearance.” He shrugged. “So we’ve adjourned until tomorrow morning. We’ll meet again. And if they don’t appear then, we’ll adjourn until Wednesday. We’ll meet every day until we have a quorum. Seven states.”

  Relief was nearly a physical thing in Matthew. “I’m happy to know that. I was concerned.”

  Madison smiled. “So were we. But we’ll see it through.”

  “Would you mind if I talk with you from time to time?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

  Madison nodded. “Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

  The three men shook hands, and Madison and Washington took their leave, walking west on Chestnut Street. Matthew watched until they disappeared in the crowd, then turned back toward the Statehouse, anxious to see if other delegates had arrived. It was well past one o’clock when he watched the delegation from South Carolina gather at the door into the East Room to have their credentials checked, and Joseph Fry studied each of the four men. John Rutledge, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney and his much younger cousin Charles Pinckney, and Pierce Butler—the entire delegation. All too well Matthew understood that these four men, together with the delegation from North Carolina, had set their heels on the question of slavery: they would not tolerate change. The overt threat loomed as a great, black, ominous cloud. At best it might be settled by hot debate; at worst, it would divide the convention and destroy it, and with it, the hope of a United States. He watched as Fry explained the convention had not formally convened, for lack of a quorum of states. The South Carolinians talked for a moment among themselves, then walked down the corridor and left the building.

  It was past three o’clock when Matthew walked out the doors into the afternoon sunshine and strode hastily to the Indian Queen Hotel on Fourth Street. He entered the lavish foyer with great oak columns reaching the high ceiling, and a gigantic fireplace with a great, delicately carved mantel of dark maple covering most of one wall. A massive, cut glass chandelier hung on gold chains from the frescoed ceiling to dominate the entire vast room. Matthew stopped, astonished at the Monday midafternoon swarm of people. The cushioned chairs at every table were filled. Men dressed in black suits and white shirts with lace at their throats and breasts, and women demure in the latest silken finery stood in groups, chattering, some caught up in the accepted social sport of being obvious and impressive in luxurious, sophisticated places, while the men had papers spread at random on the tables and were locked eye-to-eye in heated political, or mercantile, or religious exchanges. He worked his way through the crowd, begging the pardon of those he jostled, until he reached the alcove where expensive, high-topped beaver hats, and gloves, and colorful parasols were neatly arranged on shelves and in small compartments. He stood to one side intently listening to the muddle of talk, and studying faces, searching for delegates. Minutes passed before he understood that the Grand Convention was not the only significant gathering in town. One large table in the corner of the vast lobby-restaurant was surrounded by devout Baptists, with offended expressions on their faces at the opulence they were witnessing, which in their opinion could only be termed “decadent.” Two tables to their right was a convocation of Presbyterians, competing with the Baptists in their revulsion at the sin around them. In another corner a collection of abolitionists stared judgmentally down raised noses at the slave-owning multitude. In the furthest corner sat twelve men, stiff in full military regalia, gold and stars in obvious abundance on their shoulder epaulets. Matthew studied them for more than a minute before he understood they were of the Society of Cincinnati—the military society for revolutionary war officers fostered by General Henry Knox, membership in which was to be perpetuated by blood lines only, father to son. George Washington was the most prominent member of the society but had excused his presence from their gathering to attend instead the Grand Convention.

  It was approaching four o’clock when Matthew worked his way back through the crowd, out the huge, etched, glass-paneled double doors, into the street, and slowed while his eyes adjusted to the blinding glare of a late spring sun in a clear blue sky. He made his way to Market Street and turned west toward Thirteenth Street and Mother Asher’s boardinghouse. He walked slowly, thoughtfully watching the faces and feeling the mood of those he passed. They seemed alive, outgoing, optimistic, caught up in the excitement and pivotal importance of their times. And he marveled once more at the cleanliness and orderliness of the streets and the pride the Philadelphians clearly took in their city.

  The sun was gone, the western sky was golden, and twilight was creeping when Matthew finished his fig pudding at the boardinghouse table, paid his compliments to Mother Asher, and climbed the stairs up to his room. He lighted his desk lamp, removed and hung his coat, dropped his cravat on the bed, and rolled his shirtsleeves two turns before he sat down, leaned slightly forward, hands clasped before him on the desktop. For a time he remained silent, ordering his recollections of the day before he reached for his journal and quill. Then for twenty minutes the only sound in the room was the quiet scratching of the split end of the feather on the paper until he finished his entry for that day.

  He laid the quill down, read what he had written, then closed the book and pushed it over to the corner of the desk. Behind him the room had grown dark, and the lamp was casting long, misshapen shadows on the floor and walls. He drew a fresh piece of paper from the drawer, squared it on the desktop, dipped the quill, and began to write again.

  May 14, 1787

  My Dear Family,

  I must first say that you are foremost in my thoughts as I sit alone in my room. Mother Asher is a gracious hostess, the room is fine, and the meals have been excellent. However, the world over, there is no place more dear, nor persons more precious, than home, and yourselves.

  He paused and reflected, weighing whether he should tell of the disturbing failure of most of the delegates to appear at the Statehouse on the first day of the c
onvention. He dipped his pen and continued.

  Today was the appointed day for convening at the Statehouse, however, I am saddened and alarmed to report that of the 74 men expected, only sixteen appeared, from four states. Virginia, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and South Carolina. It was my privilege to pass a few words with James Madison and George Washington as they left the East Room of the Statehouse after they adjourned their first meeting. They had accomplished nothing, since they can not commence the official business until a quorum of the states are represented. They will meet again tomorrow morning, and I shall be there. I dearly hope that enough other delegates will appear to permit the conference to proceed. It is very disquieting to realize that it is possible this convention could fail from apathy or hopelessness on the part of those appointed to save this nation.

  I will continue this letter tomorrow evening, and I pray the news will be more encouraging. Know that both of you are in my heart, and my prayers, always.

  In the yellow lamplight he read the half-page, then placed it in the drawer. He rose and walked to the window to pull back the curtain and peer down at the intersection of Thirteenth Street and Market, eyes widened in surprise. Lamps on tall posts on both sides of the street shone in the night, and nearby a constable tended his beat, nodding amiably to passersby who walked the night streets unafraid, unconcerned, chatting as they moved on. Half an hour later, Matthew hung his clothing in the wardrobe, pulled on his nightshirt, and knelt beside his bed with his hands clasped before his bowed head.

  He was up with the sun, washed, shaved, and at the breakfast table with the other guests when Mother Asher bustled in with a large steaming bowl of cooked oatmeal laced with raisins, bread hot from the oven, berry jam, and buttermilk. By half-past eight he was at the Statehouse, standing at the door into the East Room, intently watching the heavy flow of men moving about in the corridor. At ten minutes before nine o’clock, the Virginia delegation, led by Washington and Madison, worked its way to the door, where Madison turned to Matthew as the others filed into the chamber.

  “Good morning, sir. Mr. Dunson, as I recall. Matthew Dunson.”

  Matthew nodded deeply. “Good morning, Mr. Madison. I believe you are the first this morning. Do you know if others have arrived in town?”

  Madison thought for a moment. “A few. Not many.”

  Matthew continued. “Is there an explanation for their failure?”

  Madison shrugged. “The rains last week may have slowed some who have a long distance to come. Stopped others. I think they’ll get here sooner or later. In the meantime we’re doing what we can.” A light came into his eyes as he patted the heavy leather carrying case beneath his arm.

  Matthew asked, “Your delegation is working on something?”

  “A few things we think will be helpful. We’ll meet daily until the convention begins.” He gestured to the door. “I should go in with my colleagues. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Dunson.”

  “The pleasure is mine.”

  Madison submitted his credentials to Joseph Fry, and Matthew studied the delegate as he disappeared into the East Room, aware that there was something in the little man that somehow silently drew respect. There was an unmistakable aura about Madison, a confidence that he knew who he was, why he was here, and where he was going.

  For a few moments Matthew reflected on his notes of Madison. Born March 16, 1731, at Port Conway, Virginia—childhood spent on a 5,000 acre tobacco and grain plantation in Orange County, Virginia, with one hundred slaves—schooled first at home, then preparatory school, then Princeton College in New Jersey—a dedicated student—plunged into the writings of Locke, Newton, Swift, Hume, Voltaire, Cicero, and a dozen other great philosophers from all ages—graduated Princeton 1771 with a Bachelor of Arts Degree—continued studies under the tutorship of Princeton President John Witherspoon, a strict Scottish moralist and pragmatist—entered the ministry, then the law, but soon realized his future was in the study of human nature and government and spent eleven years refining his conclusions—his brilliant and creative mind were legendary—a member of the Virginia Assembly that created the first Virginia Constitution—elected to the Confederation Congress from 1780 to 1784—then the Virginia Assembly from 1784 to 1787—unequaled in his powers of logic and reason—of him Fisher Ames of the Confederation Congress said: “He is a thorough master of almost every public question that can arise or he will spare no pains to become so—well-versed in public life, was bred to it—it is rather a science than a business with him”—small in stature and delicate of bone and structure, heart-shaped face of refined features, a voice that was rather high and soft, and dark blue eyes that penetrated.

  Joseph Fry closed the door into the East Room, and Matthew reflected on what he knew of James Madison. He lacks the physical stature of George Washington and the sagacious wit of Franklin, but neither of them can touch his mind or his grasp on government. Madison is the one to watch.

  At ten o’clock Matthew nervously fingered his watch from his vest pocket, then replaced it. By his count, there were but three more delegates inside than yesterday. At eleven o’clock the doors opened, and the small entourage walked out, stone-faced, paying little attention to the traffic in the huge corridor. Matthew fell in stride with Madison.

  “Adjourned for the day?”

  Madison tossed up his free hand. “Nothing else we could do. We’ll reconvene again in the morning.”

  The delegates reconvened the following morning, May sixteenth, and the following two mornings, May seventeenth and eighteenth, still lacking a quorum, able to do nothing more than adjourn and wait and hope. On Friday evening, May eighteenth, Matthew sat alone in his room, the lamp casting distorted shadows on the walls. His chair was turned away from the table, and he sat hunched over with his elbows on his knees, slowly rubbing the palms of his hands together in despair, staring at them unseeing, his thoughts dark and foreboding.

  Five days, and only half enough delegates to convene with a quorum. Is this how it ends? Nothing? No one?

  He did not know how long he had sat thus before he opened the drawer to the table, drew out the unfinished letter to Kathleen and John, squared it on the tabletop, and picked up his quill.

  May 18, 1787

  My Dearest Family,

  For the fifth consecutive day there are not enough delegates for the convention to commence its business. In fact, there are less than half enough to make a quorum. I do not know the reason. I only know that I cannot recall the last time I felt such blackness inside. I will remain here until a quorum convenes, or until the convention is abandoned. I am no longer able to determine if I expected too much, or they expected too little to come of such a convention.

  How I wish I could be home with both of you. The center of my life is there, not here. Aside from my discouragement, I am well; do not fear for my health. But I ask that each night you seek the blessing of the Almighty upon this effort. I will post this letter tomorrow.

  I send my love,

  Your obd’t husband and father,

  Matthew Dunson.

  Notes

  The description of the enlightened plan by which the city fathers laid out the city of Philadelphia, as detailed in this chapters is factual. See F. E. Compton Company Division of Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., Compton’s Encyclopedia and Fact-Index, volume 19, pp. 251a and 251b. With a population of 45,000, Philadelphia was the largest city in the United States and had become the center of commercial, scientific, financial, social, political, and cultural affairs, boasting residency of such leading citizens as Benjamin Franklin, Robert Morris, Charles Willson Peale, David Rittenhouse, and others. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 25–26, 33; Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 247–48.

  The size of the United States, and the wealth therein, as herein described, is accurate. The western lands lying between the thirteen states and the Mississippi River were hotly contested by both the adjacent states and land speculators, who saw and coveted the wealth. Rossiter,
1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 24–25, 50–51; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 39–40.

  The realization by the leaders of the time that they stood at a singular crossroads in history and their fear that failure to seize the moment would result in a disunion among the thirteen states are generally set forth in Warren, The Making of the Constitution, chapter one, which consists of 54 pages and is titled “Fears of Disunion.”

  Matthew Dunson’s reflections on the “great secrets” the Americans had learned concerning the “laws of nature” and that the Almighty intended man to be free, with rights to life, liberty and property earned by honest industry, is set forth in excellent detail in Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 59–61, as is the fact that skeptical European monarchs predicted the United States would fail, p. 24.

  The Indian Queen Hotel on Fourth Street was Philadelphia’s most sumptuous hostelry and the gathering place for just about any event of note. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, p. 181; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 118.

  In consideration of the anticipated Grand Convention and in an effort to minimize outside noise, the City of Philadelphia did in fact haul in dirt which was spread over the cobblestone paved streets adjacent to the Statehouse. Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States, p. 55; Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, p. 160; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 304; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? p. 155.

  Joseph Fry is an historical figure who served as doorman for the Grand Convention. Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, volume 1, p. 2.

  The description herein of James Madison is accurate. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 124–26. Madison was once described as being as big as “half a piece of soap.” Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, page dated Wednesday May 23, 1787. (This resource book by Moyers identifies the pages by dates, not numbers.)

  The Grand Convention was scheduled to convene May 14, 1787, but on that day only two delegations appeared, Virginia and Pennsylvania, five short of the seven states required to form a quorum. The available delegates met only to adjourn until a quorum of states appeared. Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 101.