by Ron Carter
The weather here is cold, and a steady rain has been falling since about three o’clock this morning. My health continues good. My landlady, Mother Asher, cannot refrain from mothering me. You would enjoy her very much.
I am unable to tell you the relief I felt at the opening of the convention this morning. Mr. James Madison has recently predicted to me personally that the convention will take care of its business, although he does not presume to know what the results will be.
I close this letter by telling you that there is no time you two are not in my mind, and my heart. Tell John that if he will continue to act for me as the man of the house, it is possible I will find something to bring him. And you.
You have my love as always,
Your obd’t husband and father
Matthew Dunson
He folded the letter, heated the wax over the chimney of the lamp, and sealed it, and walked quietly down the stairs to Mother Asher, bustling about the kitchen as always, preparing the supper meal. She looked at him as he entered.
“A letter?”
“For my wife.”
She wiped her hands in her apron as she walked to him. “Here. I’ll see it gets posted.”
He handed her the letter, and coins for postage. “Thank you.”
Matthew returned to his room to sit at his table, deep in thought, listening to the gentle undertone of rain falling outside. It was late in the afternoon when he heard the outside door open downstairs, and the uneven footsteps of Ira Bouchard move across the parlor entry. A few minutes passed before Matthew slipped on his shoes, took coins from the leather purse in his traveling bag, and walked steadily downstairs to the room of the crippled man. He knocked, listened, and the door swung open.
The old man raised his eyes in surprise. “I didn’t expect a visitor.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Come in. I’m packing. The room is in disorder.”
“That’s all right.” Matthew waited until Bouchard gestured to the only chair in the little room, and the two men sat down—Matthew in the chair, Bouchard on the edge of his bed.
“Is there something I can do for you?” the old man inquired.
Matthew came directly to it. “I understand you’re leaving.”
“Got to go home. Get back to work. I came to see the convention, but it hasn’t even started, and I can’t stay longer.”
“It started today, but nothing will happen until next week.”
The old man started, then settled. “What happened today?”
“George Washington will preside. They appointed a committee to make rules. Nothing else.”
The old man’s eyes shined. “Gen’l Washington? Then it will be all right. It will be all right.”
Matthew nodded. “I think so.”
The old man’s head tilted forward, and he stared at the floor. “That’s good, but I can’t stay longer.”
“You live in Reading?”
“Yes. A long day’s ride.”
“Horseback?”
“Freight wagon. I talked with a man leaving Monday with a load of freight.”
“Your daughter is in South Carolina?”
Surprise came into the aged face. “Just outside Charleston. Why?”
Matthew stacked the coins on the table. “There’s enough here for sea passage to Charleston, and back, and on to Reading. And forty pounds British sterling to spare. I want you to take it. Go see your daughter. Stay for a while. Then go home. Will you do it?”
Matthew could not recall ever seeing such an expression in the face of an aged man. Ira Bouchard tried to speak and could not, and he waited and cleared his throat and tried again.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
“You earned it. Your country can’t pay, but I can. Do this for me. Will you do it?”
The old voice cracked. “I can’t repay.”
“I didn’t expect it. Will you do it?”
Ira Bouchard swallowed at the lump in his throat and could only nod his head.
Matthew stood and his words were forceful. “Not a word to anyone. Not Mother Asher, not the guests, not your daughter, not anyone. Just book your passage and go. Agreed?”
There was wonder in the old eyes as he nodded again, and Matthew turned and walked out the door and closed it.
Notes
The Statehouse, formerly Independence Hall, and the East Room, where the Grand Convention was held, are accurately described herein. Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 303–5.
On Friday, May 25, 1787, Philadelphia was drenched with rain. Finally, twelve days after the call, a quorum of states was present, and the delegates convened. Matters went forward as described herein, including the details about Benjamin Franklin, who was to have nominated George Washington to preside as President, but being bedridden with gout, Franklin had extended that privilege to Robert Morris. James Madison did in fact select the seat directly in front of the dais on which the presiding officer would sit, so he could hear and record all that was said. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 161–65.
Philadelphia
May 26, 1787
CHAPTER VIII
* * *
Every green and flowering thing in Philadelphia was in full glory as the Saturday morning sun rose in a clear blue sky on a city still dripping from the spring rain that had stopped only one hour earlier. Spirits soared. There was a lift in the air, and a special swing in the stride of those in the streets. Greetings were called with unusual gusto, and hats were tipped a bit higher than social custom required. The words convened and committee dominated conversations, and the name Washington was everywhere spoken.
The Convention had begun and would convene again on Monday! The gathering that was expected to be the salvation of America was under way. The ten newspapers that collectively scoured the city unceasingly for every savory scrap of news, or gossip, or calamity, or blessed event, had pounced on the proceedings. The lamps and candles in their offices glowed all night as the reporters compiled every bit of information they could on each delegate and every tidbit about the brief proceedings of the preceding day. Feverishly they reduced their findings to writing, while the typesetters scrambled, and the operators spun the wheels on the tops of their printing presses. By breakfast, Saturday newspapers were everywhere, headlines declaring Washington as the presiding and dominant presence. With him were twenty-seven more of America’s finest sons, abundantly blessed with every virtue known to the human race. Never had there been such a gathering. Who could doubt the success of the venture, with venerable Benjamin Franklin in the mix? And Robert Morris and Gouverneur Morris, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, George Mason—the list went on and on. Philadelphians seized the newspapers, and excitement mushroomed at the Indian Queen and in the taverns. Opinion and speculation ran wild over what the first order of business should be on Monday morning.
At one o’clock, Pierce Butler of South Carolina sat alone at a table in the Indian Queen, away from the stream of traffic coming and going, quietly sipping at hot tea. Before him were three newspapers, with the Herald on top. Around him were citizens from the upper level of society, newspapers on the tables, thumping them with stiff index fingers as they exclaimed their views, their biases, their prejudices, their judgments on what had been done, and on what was yet to come. Butler watched, and he listened, and he thoughtfully sipped at his steaming tea.
At three o’clock, eight blocks to the west, with a copy of all ten newspapers clutched under his arm, Matthew Dunson turned from Market Street onto Thirteenth, entered Mother Asher’s boardinghouse, hung his tricorn in the cloakroom, ascended the stairs two at a time, and barged into his room. He drew back the window curtains to let sunlight flood the room, then set the stack of newspapers on his table, sat down, and began studying them. He interrupted his second reading for supper, then returned to his room to finish. He had studied them all a third time before he pulled his nightshirt on over his head, blew out the table lamp, and knelt
beside his bed with bowed head.
Sunday morning breakfast at the boardinghouse was alive with talk, opinions, speculation. The text chosen by the Reverend Becker for his sermon was taken from the New Testament, the book of Matthew, Chapter 22, verse 21, “Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s; and unto God the things that are God’s.” With a resounding amen, the congregation filed out of the white church to linger, gathered in groups on the grass and cobblestones to chatter and gesture about what belonged to Caesar and what belonged to God, and exactly which had claim on the United States. Matthew returned from church to the boardinghouse, sat down at his table, reached for quill and fresh paper, and spent the afternoon writing a two-page letter to Kathleen and John. He spent the evening writing a second letter to Billy Weems, and a third letter to his mother and Caleb and Prissy.
By nine-thirty Monday morning he was striding east on Market in brilliant sunlight, then over to Chestnut, making his way toward the Statehouse, when he slowed. The entry was jammed, with people backed up fifty yards into the streets in both directions, and he could hear the rumble of their exclamations over something in their midst that he could not yet make out. It broke in his mind that someone was down, hurt, and instantly there was a grab in his stomach. Could it be one of the delegates had been assaulted? Assassinated? He broke into a trot and pushed his way through the crowd to the center, and stopped in his tracks, stunned into silence. His jaw dropped open and he stared at an apparition that reached beyond his wildest imagination.
Benjamin Franklin had arrived. While his arrival was noteworthy in any event, his arrival in a swaying sedan chair, carried on poles by four husky convicts from the nearby Walnut Street jail was sensational beyond belief. Until that moment, no one in America had ever seen a sedan chair. It was something that existed only in books written about strange people in exotic lands and was a truly foreign device to the practical, isolated Americans. To see Benjamin Franklin arrive at the Grand Convention inside such a conveyance was a scene none of them would forget so long as they lived.
Franklin thrust his arm out the window, the four convicts stopped, the sedan chair settled onto its four stubby legs, and two of the prisoners came to his door to open it. The old man slowly worked one leg out, and the convicts reached inside to help support his aging body as he struggled until both feet were out and he was standing on the cobblestones. He heaved a great sigh, stood still until he could straighten his back, then took a tentative step on one gout-ravaged leg. It trembled but held, and he took a step with the other. He wore a plain brown suit with an unremarkable shirt and a tie at his throat and a sparse fall of wispy, long gray hair hanging down from under an aged tricorn.
A path opened to the front doors of the Statehouse, and the old man slowly made his way, swaying slightly from side to side as his pain-wracked legs took the load. He smiled and raised a hand to those on each side as he passed, ever mindful of drama, politics, and an opportunity to enhance his already legendary reputation among both the elite and the common folk. Women gasped and exclaimed, and men pointed and murmured as he approached the door. Someone opened it for him, and he continued down the hall to the entrance into the East Room. He fumbled for his credentials, but Joseph Fry waved him on in before he found them. Benjamin Franklin was his own best credential.
Matthew clacked his mouth closed, stood for a few seconds recovering from the unprecedented scene he had just witnessed, then worked his way through the throng of people gathered to watch the other delegates arrive. He jostled his way through the hall, hung his tricorn in the cloakroom, and peered about, searching for delegates. Five more elbowed their way toward the door, and the doorkeeper was hard put to keep the entrance free enough for the delegates to approach. More arrived, and Matthew helped keep a corridor open for them to have their credentials checked and enter the East Room. Madison arrived alone with his ever present leather case and paused at the door only long enough to nod to Matthew before he entered. At exactly ten o’clock the last of the delegates arrived and were admitted. Matthew turned to Fry.
“I counted twenty-nine. Gorham and Strong are here from Massachusetts, and Ellsworth from Connecticut.”
Fry ran his finger down the list. “Twenty-nine.”
Within minutes the buzzing crowd began to thin, and Matthew stood close to the door, listening intently. The only sounds from within were the opening of the windows. Matthew looked at Fry and shook his head.
“This could take some time. I think I’ll get a chair to wait it out.”
Inside the chamber, Washington mounted the dais, took his place behind his desk, and scanned the room, finally looking down at the eager face of Madison, directly in front of him. All talk ceased and every eye was on Washington as he sat down.
“Mr. Secretary, is there a quorum present?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Thank you. We are now in session. Our first order of business is a report from the committee assigned to rules. Does the committee have a spokesman?”
Charles Pinckney rose. By any fair reckoning, young Pinckney, twenty-nine years of age, had earned his seat at the convention. Born to wealth and power, he had risked it all when he took up arms as an American officer in defense of his beloved Charleston. Captured by the British, he had suffered their reprisals and survived. He studied law, became a competent lawyer, served three years in the United States Congress to become an active, vital force in politics and an avid supporter of changes in the Articles of Confederation to heal the fatal ills of his country. Handsome, popular, vain, a dandy, he harbored a few ideas of his own concerning the direction this convention should go. And, in a not-so-covert attempt to gain notoriety, he had calmly claimed to many to be “twenty-four years of age,” and the youngest member of the convention. The others winked and smiled and said nothing.
“I have the honor,” Pinckney said.
“Very well. Proceed.”
Pinckney cleared his throat, raised a document to reading level, took a deep breath and began.
“The committee is agreed upon the following propositions. First, as it has always been in the Confederation Congress, the voting on all matters properly before the convention shall be by the states, and not by the individual delegates.”
He paused, fully aware that the next sentence could draw debate so violent that the convention could deadlock and end before it had begun. He continued.
“Each state, regardless of size or population, shall have one vote.” He stopped.
The intake of breaths could be heard throughout the room. The large and populous states had quietly made it known in casual conversations at the Indian Queen and in the taverns and the boardinghouses, that they had grown bone-weary of conventions and congresses where small states with small populations had the same voting powers as the large and populous states. The Pennsylvanians had been adamant that they intended correcting the obvious inequity at first opportunity, and this was the opportunity. In their view, fairness required that states should have voting power commensurate with their population; the larger the state, the greater the power. After all, who could argue in favor of a state such as Georgia, with a population of 56,000 having the same voting power as Virginia, with 650,000—more than ten times larger. On that principle, the small states could block the big ones at will, for any reason convenient to the small state, no matter the consequence to its larger neighbor. Understandably, the small states took the opposite view. Why should they be forever subject to the big states, who could abuse them and their welfare at will if granted voting power based on population? Only days before the convention convened, the Virginians had poured oil on the troubled waters by urging the large states to remain silent in the opening days, to avoid a collision that could wreck the convention before it got started. Be patient.
Now Pinckney had boldly made it the first issue to come before the delegation. He stood with eyes straight ahead, waiting for the explosion. Seconds ticked by in silence. Men glanced at each other
, and some set their jaws, but no one spoke. Washington’s face was a mask of discipline as his eyes worked the room. Franklin leaned back and flicked imaginary breakfast crumbs from his vest. Madison remained hunched over his journal, quill poised in hand, holding his breath, waiting for the storm.
Silence held until it was clear that this issue, which could split the states and end the convention in bitterness, would be raised and debated on some future day when it could be framed cleanly, with nothing else on the calendar to detract.
Pinckney took his cue and moved on.
“Each delegate will scrupulously conduct himself befitting a gentlemen. Proper decorum in this august body shall be observed at all times. Delegates will receive permission from the President to speak and shall stand when speaking. At all times when a delegate is recognized by the President and is speaking, all others will refrain from whispering, reading, or passing notes. Further, should anyone offend in this particular, any other delegate may call him to order, as may the President. Further, all delegates shall show deference and due respect to the President in all matters, and his powers and dignity shall be recognized and maintained. When the house shall adjourn, every member shall stand in his place until the President pass him.”
Pinckney paused for a moment before concluding. “Any member of the delegation shall have the right to call for the yeas and nays and have them entered on the minutes.” He continued by setting forth, one at a time, the standard rules of protocol that had been used for thirteen years in the Confederation Congress, and with slight modifications in most state legislatures. Finished, he raised his eyes to Washington.
“That is the report of the committee.”
Washington nodded. “Is there debate?”
A delegate rose. “Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
“I object to the rule allowing any member to call for the yeas and nays and have them recorded. That could become a device to delay proceedings indefinitely by simply calling for the yeas and nays every few minutes. I move that rule be stricken.” He sat down.