Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8

by Ron Carter

“Three more minutes. Take your place at the table.”

  For a time, silence held as the nine guests settled into their portions of the morning’s offerings. The omelet was a work of art, the bread without fault, the apple cider sweet. The usual morning pleasantries began only after they had tasted each, and they were halfway through the meal before Matthew noticed that the place at the far end of the table was empty. The crippled Ira Bouchard was missing.

  He spoke to Mother Asher. “Is Mr. Bouchard ill?”

  She shook her head and there was a sadness in her eyes as she answered. “He left early to make arrangements to leave Philadelphia. He’ll be back sometime today, but I believe he plans to leave Monday.” For a moment the guests looked at each other in question, and the hush held for a few moments before they continued with their eating.

  With breakfast finished, Matthew went to his room to gather his paperwork for the walk down Market Street to the Statehouse. At the bottom of the stairs he stepped into the kitchen and observed to Mother Asher, “I’m surprised at Mr. Bouchard’s leaving. I thought he was here to observe the convention.”

  Mother Asher stopped piling dirty dishes into the basin of hot, soapy water. “He was. But this is the tenth day, and it hasn’t even started and only heaven knows when it will. Maybe never. Anyway, I think it’s money. I don’t think he has the money to stay.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Matthew said as he started through the archway.

  Mother Asher followed him, speaking as they went. “So am I. That poor, dear man—hurt in the war, wife and son gone on, daughter down south, grandchildren he’s never seen.” She shook her head then paused at the front door to watch Matthew hurry to the corner and turn west onto Market Street before she returned to her kitchen.

  Matthew was halfway to the Statehouse on Sixth Street when the sun disappeared behind a small gather of billowing white clouds, and a faint stir of breeze came in from the waterfront. Then the clouds passed, the breeze died, and the city once again brightened in the sunlight as Matthew walked on. Tonight. The rain will come in the night.

  At Sixth Street he turned south to Chestnut, then entered the now familiar Statehouse, and worked his way through the usual morning multitude of judges in scarlet robes, lawyers in black robes, contestants gathering in the Supreme Court chambers to learn if they had won or lost in their lawsuits, and a host of others hurrying between offices on both floors of the building to conduct the affairs of the State of Pennsylvania.

  Joseph Fry smiled his greeting as Matthew approached, and Matthew spoke. Fry could not miss the anxiety in his voice.

  “Any more delegates this morning?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Dunson. A few more arrived late yesterday. I think Alexander Hamilton is here for New York. And Rufus King for Massachusetts.”

  Quickly Matthew made calculations, and his face fell. “Still not a quorum. Anyone inside? The Virginians? Mr. Madison?”

  “No, sir.”

  Matthew inquired, “Has Mr. Madison ever mentioned to you what it is he carries in that leather case?”

  “Not Mr. Madison, but I recall them standing here for a minute after they adjourned two or three days ago. George Mason talked about it. Mr. Madison came to Philadelphia with a written plan. Has apparently worked on it for months. He’s been meeting with the Virginia delegation every day since they got here, going over the plan point by point. Mr. Mason said Mr. Madison makes a written record of everything.” He smiled. “He’s the smallest of the delegation, but when Mr. Madison speaks, they listen. Even General Washington.”

  Fry’s eyes diverted from Matthew, and he turned to face Nathaniel Gorham, Elbridge Gerry, and Rufus King, from Massachusetts. Each held a parchment in his hand on which the great seal of the State of Massachusetts was prominently stamped, together with the few lines of beautiful cursive handwriting, and the signature, that declared their authority to attend the Grand Convention.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Fry said, quickly scanning their documents as they passed into the convention hall. The door closed behind them, and within seconds other delegates began to arrive in twos and threes. For fifteen minutes the sporadic appearances continued—Madison and Washington and Mason, the two cousins Pinckney, Rutledge, Butler—and then the arrivals ended. Matthew made a mental calculation and shook his head.

  “Still two states short of a quorum.”

  The doorman sobered and looked him in the eye. “Ten days overdue. I’m starting to wonder. Worry.”

  “Anyone suggested what they’ll do if they can’t raise a quorum?”

  There was a pause before Fry answered. “Nothing. They’ll go home, and that will be the end of it.”

  “And what of the country?”

  “Sectionalize is my guess. North, Middle, South. Three separate countries.”

  Matthew softly blew air for a moment. “We’ll have destroyed ourselves.”

  Fry’s face was a blank, his eyes dead. “Like Europe. Fragmented. Disputes. Wars.”

  Within fifteen minutes the doors opened and the entire assembly filed out. There was little talk among them, and the delegates did not linger, but made their way directly out of the building. Matthew followed them out into the overcast light to watch them separate and merge into the Thursday morning Philadelphia traffic and disappear. He pondered a moment, then walked quickly to the Indian Queen. With the conventions of the Presbyterians, Baptists, and the Society of the Cincinnati concluded and their crowds gone, the great, lavish foyer was nearly vacant at this hour of the morning. A few of the delegates were scattered about at tables, talking, waiting for their orders of a late breakfast. Matthew saw none that he shared familiarity with. He walked back out into the street, turned north, and hurried to the huge boardinghome of Mrs. House. Inside, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked down the hall to the room of James Madison. He knocked, waited, knocked again, and there was only silence. He was turning to leave when the light sound of steady footsteps on the hardwood staircase reached him, and he stopped to wait. James Madison appeared at the head of the stairs, alone.

  The little man with the piercing blue eyes nodded a greeting. “Mr. Dunson! Have you come to see me?”

  “Yes.”

  Madison worked the key in the lock. “Come in.” They entered the small room, Madison set his leather case on the writing table heaped with papers and books, gestured, and they sat down in facing chairs.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Matthew took a moment to compose his thoughts before he spoke. “I was at the Statehouse this morning. This is the tenth day and still no quorum. I’m concerned.”

  Madison’s brows peaked, and he spoke in his high, soft, quiet voice. “With good reason. All of us are—those of us who are here. George Mason is irritated at the pomp and ceremony of Philadelphia. General Washington is showing impatience with those who don’t understand the meaning of punctuality. I’m discouraged at the lack of preparation I sense in the others. If we don’t soon reach a quorum, I am fearful of what will happen.”

  Matthew put the pivotal question to him. “Would those here go home?”

  “They very well could. All these men bear heavy responsibilities. They’re willing to give time for their country, but not to waste it on a failed project. If they do go home, I doubt they will return.”

  “General Washington?”

  “Concerned.”

  “Can anything be done? Anything I can do?”

  “Nothing. Wait. Be patient.”

  “Are you meeting with the Virginia delegates again this afternoon?”

  “The usual. Three o’clock at the home of Robert Morris. Little remains for us to do until we reach a quorum and convene.”

  For several seconds the two sat in silence, searching for a way to force what could not be forced. Finally, Matthew stood and gestured to the leather carrying case on the writing table.

  “I’ll leave you to your work. I appreciate your time.”

  Madison stood, near
ly a foot shorter than Matthew, and raised a hand. “Wait. Would it ease your mind if you came to our three o’clock meeting at the Morris mansion?”

  Matthew stopped in surprise. “Wouldn’t my presence interfere?”

  Madison reflected for a moment. “I doubt it. They know who you are—why you’re here. Might be a good thing.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. Come along.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

  Matthew said little during the midday meal at Mother Asher’s table, and at three o’clock, beneath a gray overcast that hid the afternoon sun, he was at the huge set of double doors in the front of the Robert Morris mansion at Sixth and Market Streets. A gray-haired, round-shouldered, uniformed servant answered his knock.

  “May I tell Mr. Morris who is calling?”

  “Matthew Dunson. I was invited to be here by Mr. James Madison.”

  The servant bowed slightly and gestured Matthew inside. The entry was massive. An oak stairway spiraled upward two floors. A great stone fireplace with a matching, carved oak mantel nearly filled one wall. Paintings, great and small, graced the walls. A figure sculpted from marble of a biblical woman holding a water pitcher on her shoulder dominated one corner. Matthew listened to the fading click and the echo of the heels of the elderly servant on the hardwood floor as he disappeared down a broad hallway to his right. A door opened, closed, opened again, and the servant reappeared.

  “This way, sir.”

  Matthew followed him back down the hallway rich with murals on both walls and gold-gilded lamp fixtures. The servant pushed open a massive, dark door, and held it while Matthew entered the library of the great Morris mansion.

  Before coming to Philadelphia for the convention, he had created in his mind an imaginary library befitting the grandest mansion and the richest man in America. But never had his imaginings approached the reality. The ceiling reached two stories. Two walls were lined with oak book shelves filled with books of every description. Interspaced between the volumes were bronze and marble sculptures of all the gods of the pagan and eastern and Christian worlds and busts of the great philosophers and historical figures reaching back to the dim beginnings of the Old Testament. One entire wall was a fireplace of cut and matched stonework, crowned with a massive, delicately hand-carved oak mantel, in the center of which was a hand-crafted clock with a twenty-inch face, mounted in carved, stained maple. A silver chandelier with three tiers of hundreds of candles hung from the heavy, overhead ridgebeam. Thick, intricately woven India carpets covered the polished hardwood floors. Original paintings by the world’s masters were prominent on the walls. The faint scent of furniture oil and cleaning compound was light in the air.

  On one side of the spacious room was a long, heavy oak table with sculpted legs, surrounded by twelve matching, upholstered chairs. As Matthew entered, the seven men seated at the table rose and turned to face him. Nearest was James Madison, then George Mason and George Wythe. At the head of the table was Governor Edmund Randolph, and on the far side, George Washington, James McClurg, and John Blair. The entire Virginia delegation, and some of the most prominent men in America. For an instant Matthew’s eyes swept the group, and then he walked directly to James Madison.

  “It is good to see you again, sir.”

  Madison nodded. “Nice that you could come.” He turned and his hand slowly made a gesture that included all the others. “I believe you have met these gentlemen on previous occasions.”

  Matthew bowed. “Indeed I have. It is my great pleasure to renew their acquaintance.”

  Madison gestured to the chair next to his. “Would you care to be seated?”

  Matthew stepped to the chair, waited for a moment, and they all sat down together. For the first time, Matthew noticed that documents and letters lay on the tabletop, some in stacks, some at random. Madison’s leather carrying case lay before him, empty; the documents were in a large stack directly in front of him.

  Madison’s soft voice reached out. “Gentlemen, months ago Mr. Dunson counseled with Thomas Jefferson. Mr. Jefferson advised him to work through the committees of merchants in the states to form a network, as it were, of men whose primary purpose is to promote the mending of the flaws that now threaten the union. Mr. Dunson has done so. He is in Philadelphia for the convention and is much concerned that the ten-day delay bodes ill for this entire affair. I invited him here today that he may inquire of you.” He turned back to Matthew. “Do you have specific questions?”

  Ill at ease to suddenly be the center of attention in such a gathering, Matthew cleared his throat, then responded, nervous, halting. “Yes. Seventy-four men were commissioned—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dunson, but you’ll have to speak up if I’m to hear you,” John Blair said, leaning forward and cupping an ear.

  “I’m sorry,” Matthew said, then in a stronger voice began again. “Seventy-four men were commissioned from the thirteen states to meet May fourteenth. This is May twenty-fourth. Less than twenty-five delegates have appeared, and less than seven states are represented. Is this convention doomed to fail?”

  Matthew studied each man in turn. There was instant surprise in their eyes that he had not attempted to be solicitous, and then the surprise was hidden by a veil that dropped to shield their innermost thoughts from this tall, direct, dark-haired man who had taken a scar on his left cheek at the battle of Lake Champlain, but who was yet largely a stranger to most of them. For a few seconds the room was caught in silence. Then Madison drew a breath and spoke.

  “It could be, but I do not think it will.”

  Madison turned to George Mason, but said nothing. Mason, high forehead, dark hair, leaned back in his chair, his round, slightly jowled face a mask, mouth drawn slightly in deep thought. Then he broke the silence.

  “It will not fail for lack of delegates or states. They’ll get here eventually. That isn’t the problem. We have some issues between the states that are far weightier than tardy delegates.”

  Edmund Randolph moved in his chair, and George Wythe snorted softly under his breath, then spoke. “Population. Northern versus southern interests. Slavery. Economics. Westward expansion. River navigation rights. Tariffs.” He clamped his mouth shut.

  Randolph shook his head. “Those are symptoms. The fundamental fault is that the Articles of Confederation are fatally flawed. I don’t know if they can be amended sufficiently to meet the need. I just don’t know.”

  George Washington quietly said, “They can’t.” All eyes turned to him, waiting for him to finish his thoughts, but the fifty-five-year-old man who had carried his beloved country on his shoulders for eight long, terrible years said no more.

  John Blair pointed to the stack of documents before Madison. “We’ve been working on those since May fourth. We can only hope our work is of some use.”

  Matthew straightened and stared at the pile of papers for a moment, then locked eyes with Madison, silently asking the question. Madison tapped the papers.

  “These are some recommendations that we hope to present to the convention. We’ve gathered the best principles on government we can find from every source available and organized them in anticipation of the debates that are surely coming.”

  Mason cut him off. “Correction. You have gathered the best that can be learned about sound government, clear back to the Garden of Eden. We have only made suggestions.”

  Matthew saw the faint smile form on Madison’s face, then pass. Madison responded, “We will offer this at the convention to those who will listen.” Matthew leaned forward, and his boldness stopped every man at the table as he spoke to Madison. “General Washington has declared the Articles of Confederation cannot be amended adequate to the need.” He pointed at Madison’s papers. “Then these are not proposed amendments? Is this a new plan?”

  In that instant a tension leaped through the room like something alive. Not one man moved, or spoke, and then Madison smiled. “These are only suggestions. We have no idea h
ow they will be received.” The others at the table stirred in their seats but remained silent as Madison’s young face settled, and an intensity Matthew had not seen came into the dark blue eyes. “It was our intent that our suggestions would remain with us until they are presented at the convention.”

  Matthew could not miss Madison’s meaning. He nodded. “I presume once they are introduced on the convention floor they will become available to the public.”

  “That,” Madison replied, “will be decided by the delegations.”

  Matthew dropped his eyes in thought for a moment. “I understand. I’ll wait.”

  The masked expressions on the faces of the six other men did not change, but the tension that had charged the room began to drain. Hunched shoulders relaxed and quiet remarks began to flow among them. Madison let a little time pass before he turned back to Matthew.

  “I invited you here this afternoon for two reasons. First, I thought the resolve of this delegation would interest you. We believe the convention will occur. We’re prepared. Second, you have helped create a net-work of committees that has the potential of being a tremendous help in doing what we think must be done later. When the time comes, your work will be as vital as ours.”

  Madison stopped, and Matthew’s breathing slowed as the weight of Madison’s words settled in. Madison’s face brightened with a smile that was at once sincere and engaging. “So, Mr. Dunson, we will do our work and trust you to do yours when your time comes. Is there anything else we can do for you now?”

  Matthew looked into the face of each man briefly. Their expressions were of men who understood the intricate and complex workings of human nature and had learned the necessity and the art of wearing expressions on their faces that said what they wanted at any given time. At this moment, their expressions were bland, amiable, noncommittal, and Matthew knew it. There was nothing to be gained by going further. The meeting was over.

  He smiled at Madison. “No, not at this moment. If I can be of any use, will you let me know?”

  “Rest assured.”

  Madison stood and Matthew also arose. He bowed slightly to those still seated at the table. “Gentlemen, I’m honored to be in your presence. Thank you for your time.”