by Ron Carter
There were murmured responses as he turned, and Madison followed him out into the hall and down to the lavish entry. He swung the heavy door open and offered his hand to Matthew.
“Will I see you in the morning?”
“I’ll be there.”
Matthew stepped out through the massive front door, which quietly closed behind him, and he stood for a moment on the porch of the mansion, beneath a gigantic overhead portico supported by six tall, white columns. By ingrained habit he glanced at the gray sky, as seamen do. It’s coming. Tonight.
He left behind the clipped, rolling grass and the fruit trees covered with white blossoms and the manicured flower beds of the Morris estate and turned west on Market, deep in thoughts and reflections on the time he had spent with the seven men from Virginia.
Suggestions. Madison said they were suggestions. Worked on them since May fourth—all seven of them—twenty days—that pile of papers was near four inches deep—and they’re suggestions? Washington—the Articles of Confederation can’t be amended—four inches of suggestions? Suggestions for what?
He walked on, oblivious to those he passed in the streets, watching only for buggies and carts as he crossed the streets.
Madison has the papers—not Washington, not Mason, not Randolph. Madison. It has to be a plan. A new plan.
It struck him with such force that he stopped, staring straight ahead, unseeing.
They have a new plan! For a new government! Madison couldn’t say it outright, but he expects me to reach that conclusion from what he let me see and hear today! And if those men succeed in the convention, he knows he’ll need the help of our committees when the new plan—whatever it is—reaches the people. That’s what this meeting was all about this afternoon!
He began walking slowly. A new plan? Why do they refuse to talk about it? Can it be that startling? Shocking? Risky? Can it?
He took charge of his wild, racing thoughts. Those seven? Maybe startling, but it will be solid—no foolish dream. Not those men.
He was not prepared for the fresh leap of hope that rose in his heart.
Notes
Ira Bouchard and Mother Asher and the Asher Boardinghouse are fictional.
James Madison had taken residence in a boardinghouse owned by Mrs. House, on Fifth and Market Streets and had arrived there at least ten days before the Grand Convention was to convene to work on his notes and plan and to confer with the other members of the Virginia delegation. At the time of the Grand Convention, there were four other conventions being held in Philadelphia: Baptists, Presbyterians, Society of Cincinnati, and the abolitionists. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 159–60; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 100.
The mansion owned by Robert Morris on Market Street just east of Sixth Street was the most sumptuous and finest in Philadelphia, as described herein. Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 100.
On May 24, 1787, eleven days after its call, there were still not enough states to constitute a quorum. Those present met and adjourned. Warren, The Making of the Constitution, p. 101.
Philadelphia
May 25, 1787
CHAPTER VII
* * *
A chill, pelting rain began in the night. By 4:00 a.m. many of the Philadelphia street lamps were dark, drowned by the steady downpour. By half-past six Matthew was in the second floor washroom of Mother Asher’s, shaving. He returned to his room to sit at his writing table, hunched forward, studying his list of the seventy-four delegates to the convention. In the yellow lamplight he went over them one at a time, silently reading the notes he had made of the history of each man, his strengths, weaknesses, habits, accomplishments. At eight o’clock he was seated at the breakfast table. He took breakfast with the other guests, then set his tricorn on his head, latched his cape about his shoulders, and walked out into the rain, hunched forward, picking his way around growing puddles on the cobblestones in the light morning street traffic.
He entered the Statehouse and stopped to throw the rainwater from his dripping tricorn and cape, then walked down the nearly deserted hall to the entrance of the East Room, where he hung his wet cape and tricorn in the cloakroom and approached Fry.
“Good morning, Mr. Fry.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Any arrivals?”
“None yet, sir. Might be a while in this rain.”
At ten-forty the Virginia delegation arrived, dripping, hung their cloaks and hats, and came to the door digging their credentials from inner pockets. Madison, cheerful, smiling, paused to greet Matthew.
“Good morning. Rumor at the Indian Queen is that we have a quorum. New Jersey has arrived. Worst weather in two weeks, and we have a quorum.”
Matthew brightened. “I hope so.”
Fry glanced at their well-known credentials, checked their names on his list, and closed the door behind them. At ten minutes before eleven o’clock a few others had arrived, but far short of anything resembling a quorum, and Matthew’s hopes dimmed. Then, with only minutes to spare, the Pennsylvania delegation arrived in force, and Matthew watched them admitted, to be led into the East Room by Gouverneur Morris, thumping on his wooden leg. It was exactly eleven o’clock when the front door of the building opened and more than twelve men entered, talking, condemning the weather, shaking out their cloaks and tricorns. They came to Fry who checked their credentials, and Matthew silently identified each in turn. Among them were the two second cousins from South Carolina, Charles Pinckney and Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, and behind them came John Rutledge and Pierce Butler. He watched the two Pinckneys enter the East Room, and moments later, Rutledge and Butler followed.
Matthew caught his breath. Twenty-seven in all. Six states represented. One more state would make it seven—a quorum! He stood tall, scarcely breathing as he searched the hall for enough delegates to complete the representation of one more state, and suddenly they were there. William Paterson and William Churchill Houston, both of New Jersey, walked through the doors and began peeling off their dripping capes and hats as they hurried to the cloakroom.
Matthew watched their every move, and was standing next to Fry when he checked their credentials, opened the door, and ushered them into the East Room.
Matthew spoke. “Didn’t that make seven states? A quorum?”
A look of hope mixed with fear came into Fry’s eyes. “Seven. They can convene.”
Matthew shifted his feet, nervous, before he responded. “I wonder what they’re doing in there. How they’re organizing.”
Fry scratched at his chin. “Time will tell. We wait.”
Inside the chamber, the delegates took seats at random, with the exception of James Madison. No one paid attention when he quietly sought the table and the chair at the front of the room, facing the elevated podium on which the large desk and the upholstered chair prepared for the presiding officer had been placed. He set his large leather case on the table and sat down, a small man in a large room filled with larger men. He laid fresh, blank paper on his desk, reached for the quill on the far edge, dipped it, carefully wrote the date in the upper left corner of the first sheet of paper, and laid the quill down.
The East Room was rectangular in shape, with a high ceiling and tall curtained windows spaced in the two long, opposing walls. The entrance faced the far end of the room where the raised platform, or dais, was placed. The wall behind the dais was oak paneled with hand-carved, unremarkable adornment at the top. There was an exit door in either corner. Immediately flanking the dais on either side were two rather small marble-faced fireplaces. Little had been done to break the austere appearance; there were no paintings, nothing to interrupt the plainness of the walls except the lamps and candleholders. The bare, polished hardwood floors accented the click of leather heels, and sounds echoed slightly. An aisle led from the entrance door to the dais, with plain desks on either side prepared for the delegates, arranged at angles so that each desk faced the dais and the presiding officer, directly. On
each desk was a quill, inkwell, and small fixed box for odds and ends. It was a solid, no-nonsense, practical room, intended for use in handling the business of the State of Pennsylvania.
Talk buzzed until Robert Morris, at once the financial savior of the American Revolution and entrepreneur whose risky empire of land speculation made prudent men skeptical, stood and tapped on his desk. All eyes turned to him, talk ceased, and the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of rain outside. Morris cleared his throat and began.
“Gentlemen, by the instruction and in behalf of the deputation of Pennsylvania, I have the honor to propose George Washington, Esquire, late Commander in Chief, for president of the convention.”
Loud talk filled the room and held for a time. Every soul in the room knew. George Washington was the most admired man in the nation. There was no other who symbolized everything this infant nation stood for, aspired to become. Virtuous, respected, honorable, successful, principled. It was inconceivable that any other man alive could sit in the presiding chair without diminishing the convention—tarnishing it, detracting from its luster, damaging its legitimacy.
Instantly John Rutledge of South Carolina was on his feet, thumping his desk, waiting for the talk to subside.
“With every confidence that the choice will be unanimous,” he exclaimed, “I second the motion.”
“Hear, hear!” Strong voices filled the room.
Without hesitation Morris and Rutledge walked to either side of Washington, who stood, and the two men escorted him to the front of the room, up onto the raised dais, to the chair from which he would preside. Washington raised a hand, the room fell silent, and every man present hung on each word the tall Virginian spoke.
“I am deeply moved by the honor you have bestowed upon me. I have long pondered the novelty of the scene of business in which I am now to act, with you. I am keenly conscious of my lack of qualifications in the position I will now occupy, since the past many years of my life have been devoted to matters far removed from those now before us. I have no doubt that I will commit error from time to time, and in those occasions I can only beg of you to be patient and indulge me in my inexperience.”
Few noticed that James Madison, at his desk directly in front of Washington, was quietly but rapidly writing, catching the essence of the utterances of Washington. Citizen George Washington concluded his remarks, Rutledge and Morris returned to their chairs, and Washington took charge.
Most of those present knew that only one other man had been briefly considered for the position now filled by Washington: Benjamin Franklin. Eighty-one years old, plagued daily by gout and failing health, the fires of youth dwindling, it was Franklin himself who made it clear the mantle of leadership must fall on Washington. He had prepared to take the floor of the convention himself to make the nomination so no one would question who was to preside, but the rain and the chill had made swinging his legs out of bed a matter of torture. He could not attend the session. He had summoned Robert Morris to his bedside and given him the high honor of nominating George Washington.
Washington sat down, scanned the desk before him, raised his face, and began.
“We will now entertain nominations for a secretary to the convention.”
Nearly every man present understood that Major William Jackson of Philadelphia, not a delegate to the convention, had let it be known more than two weeks previous that he intended serving as secretary, and had campaigned openly for the position. His nomination was almost automatic, but as soon as it was seconded, a New Jersey delegate came to his feet. The room quieted, Washington recognized him, and the man spoke.
“I rise to nominate William Templeton Franklin of New Jersey to serve as secretary. Indeed, it was he who endured the lengthy and arduous task of serving as secretary to the American delegation which negotiated the Treaty of Paris with the British, which delegation included his grandfather, Benjamin Franklin.”
Caught by surprise, the delegates turned to each other in question, and a buzz started. Talk held for a moment, then quieted, and they waited for a second to the nomination. It did not come. A delegate stood and said, “I call for the vote.”
There was but one man whose nomination had been seconded, and the vote was obvious. William Jackson became the secretary. Hastily the men who had nominated him, and seconded the nomination, left the chamber and marched to the small room nearby where Jackson was nervously pacing. They escorted him back inside where Washington congratulated him, and directed him to take his seat. A beaming Jackson settled onto the chair at one side of the dais, surveyed his surroundings, and nodded to Washington, who moved on.
“Our next order of business will be the reading and recording of credentials.”
Each delegate took his turn in standing to read the commission and credentials granted him by his home state, authorizing his actions as a delegate.
Washington waited until Jackson finished his notes, then went on.
“We shall now appoint a messenger and a doorman for the duration of the convention.”
A delegate promptly stood. “I nominate Nicholas Weaver to become the official messenger and Joseph Fry to become the doorman.”
It was unanimous. Weaver took his position at a desk near Jackson, and Fry remained at his post, standing at the door.
Washington nodded his approval and continued. “Nominations are now in order for a committee to prepare standing rules and orders for the conduct of our business.”
Nominations were made in rapid order, seconds were made, the vote taken, and three delegates became the committee: George Mason of Virginia, Alexander Hamilton of New York, and young Charles Pinckney of South Carolina.
Washington glanced at the top of the desk, then back at the delegation. “The committee on rules is requested to have their proposals at the earliest time possible, tomorrow if they can.” He paused for a moment, then went on. “I believe that concludes the business we can properly address this morning. This convention is adjourned until ten o’clock a.m. Monday next, May twenty-eighth.”
It seemed everyone stood simultaneously, and talk rolled freely between the delegates. They began a slow migration toward the door, and out into the hallway, still talking among themselves. Matthew waited and watched and listened, and relief came in a rush when he heard that George Washington had been unanimously elected President. William Jackson serving as secretary came as no surprise, since Jackson’s campaign for the position had been open and ongoing. Fragmented sentences about a committee of three who had a vaguely defined assignment to do something about rules brought questions in Matthew’s mind, and he waited and watched for Madison. The little man was in the last three to exit the hall, his leather case tucked under one arm. Matthew approached, and Madison stopped as Matthew spoke.
“General Washington presides?”
Madison smiled immensely. “Unanimous vote. No one else was nominated.”
“William Jackson?”
“Secretary. There was a suggestion about William Templeton Franklin—Benjamin’s grandson—but it failed.”
Matthew’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Is William Jackson a delegate?”
“No. It was not required that he be a delegate. Secretary is a salaried position.”
Matthew moved on. “A committee? Three men? To do what?”
“Messrs. Mason, Hamilton, and Pinckney—Charles Pinckney—assigned to draft rules of procedure.”
“When do you meet next?”
“Monday morning, ten a.m.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Madison shrugged. “Wait. See what Monday brings.” He drew out his pocket watch. “I should go to my room. Some writing I need to finish.”
Madison pocketed his watch, and he and Matthew walked to the cloakroom, where small drippings of water had collected on the floor from the wet capes and coats, and the thick smell of wet wool hung in the air like a pall. Matthew breathed lightly while they buckled their capes over their shoulders and pushed their
damp tricorns onto their heads, with the leather hatbands cold on their foreheads. They walked out the doors together, heads forward, shoulders hunched into the rain, each to go his own direction.
Matthew stopped at the door into Mother Asher’s boardinghouse to shake his cape and tricorn, then stepped inside where his landlady was waiting. “Here, let me hang those for you.” She did not wait for a response, but took them from him and hung them in the small cloakroom before she turned back to Matthew.
“Well?” She stood still, plump and motionless, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“They convened. Seven states were represented.”
She clasped her hands to her breast. “Thank the Almighty! Did they do anything?”
“George Washington is President. William Jackson is secretary. Three men are assigned to draft rules of procedure. They reconvene Monday morning, ten a.m.”
“When will they finish? When will we know?”
Matthew smiled at her impetuousness. “No one knows. Soon, I hope.”
She bobbed her head. “Come to the kitchen. I held some dinner for you.”
Matthew carried the covered platter of warm bread, currant jam, hot sliced mutton and steamed cabbage, with a cup of cider, up to his room and set it on his writing table while he took off his wet shoes and put on thick wool house stockings. He finished the meal, took the platter and utensils downstairs, thanked Mother Asher, and returned to his room. At his writing table, he drew the unfinished, two-page letter he had been adding to each day from its drawer, and scanned it. He dipped the quill into the ink bottle, and thoughtfully added the final entries.
25th May 1787
Philadelphia
My Dearest Family:
Today ended the long wait. Seven states were represented, and the Convention was officially opened. George Washington was unanimously elected president, with William Jackson of Pennsylvania appointed secretary. Mr. Jackson is not a delegate. They appointed three men, George Mason, Charles Pinckney, and Alexander Hamilton as a committee to draft rules of procedure. They adjourned and will meet again Monday next.