by Ron Carter
He made his way down the hall with his thoughts reaching back to a time that not one other man in the building could recall. Born in Boston in 1706, the youngest of twelve children, he left home at age seventeen for Philadelphia to seek his fortune. Now, this morning, the first day of June of 1787, he could not remember the plethora of high positions he had held, both in America and in Europe, nor all the inventions that had come from his genius, nor all the honors and laurels that the world had heaped on him as a scientist, statesman, inventor, philosopher. Nor did he care. None knew better than he that the world cannot give that which is most precious in life. That is earned, not given. He could not reckon the number of kings and monarchs who had it in their hearts and hands to do great and grand works, only to sacrifice the dream to the insidious seduction of power and adulation. Great works are reserved for those with the strength and the vision to hold to a loftier view. None knew it better than Franklin.
He fumbled inside his rumpled coat for his credentials, smiled at Joseph Fry as the doorman waved him into the chamber, and walked slowly to his desk. He took his time in backing up to his chair and easing his body down, then heaved a great sigh while he smiled and nodded to those who paused to pay him silent respect. With his cane laid across his desk, he moved his feet to ease the ache. For a moment his jowled face sobered.
Today we find out the shape of the executive office of the United States. Will it be one man, with the risk of him becoming a corrupted despot? Or will it be a council, with the risk of jealousies and greed between them destroying the office altogether? And what powers will the executive have? A puppet? A king? He shrugged and settled back to listen.
Nathaniel Gorham took his chair on the dais, Jackson reported a quorum present, and Gorham scanned his agenda.
“The first business to come before this committee today is the following resolution.” He tracked with his finger as he read in a voice devoid of emotion: “‘Resolved, that a national executive be instituted; to be chosen by the national legislature; for a term of years to be determined; to receive punctually at stated times a fixed compensation for the services rendered; in which no increase or diminution shall be made so as to affect the magistracy existing at the time of such increase or diminution; and to be ineligible a second time; and that besides a general authority to execute the national laws, it ought to enjoy the executive rights vested in Congress by the Confederation.’”
He finished reading and peered out into the faces of the delegation. A strange silence held, as though the delegates were reluctant to speak. Franklin straightened his left leg and sat upright, concern creeping into his face as he waited. Gorham wiped at sweat on his forehead, looked at Washington in question, then Madison, waiting for someone to rise. No one moved or spoke.
Gorham’s voice sounded too loud in the silence and stifling heat. “Is there debate?”
Slowly James Wilson of Pennsylvania rose, and every eye in the room was on him. “I propose that a national executive to consist of a single person be instituted.”
The delegates struggled with the temptation to turn and stare at George Washington, the only living man on earth in whom they would dare place such power. Every delegate had lived part of his life under the hand of a king and had learned the bitter truth. Power corrupts. Some were remembering King George II of England who died insane, and some were remembering King George III whose lust for power had cost England the thirteen colonies, and some were remembering the Governor of Pennsylvania who had turned his high position into an open and notorious extortion business. And a few were remembering that Robert Morris, seated among them as a delegate from Pennsylvania, had become a despot in his office of Superintendent of Finance for the United States. For his alleged abuse of power, he had been removed from office and a committee appointed to replace him. His salvation as a politician and financial wizard rested on the fact that despite his excesses, he had rescued the country from the vortex of financial ruin and most likely civil war.
Franklin allowed the strained, odd quiet to continue for a time, then thumped the floor with his cane. Gorham acknowledged him, and Franklin spoke without rising.
“Gentlemen. The form of the office of the presidency of this government, and the powers with which it is to be vested, are a point of great importance. We ought not hesitate, but speak out boldly. I urge you all to deliver your sentiments on it.”
The delegates covertly glanced about before John Rutledge of South Carolina rose. “Am I in error in my perception that there is a sense of shyness among us regarding this resolution, and other resolutions as well? And am I in error in concluding that it is a result of most of us having previously openly and frankly taken a hard position on the issues, that we now feel we are precluded from changing our minds? I do not take that to be the case at all. Quite the reverse. Only by taking a position and then engaging in lively debate to defend it do we find its weaknesses and flaws. And once such flaws are discovered, prudent men change their minds accordingly. On the question before us, it is my opinion that the chief executive should be one person, and one only, although I do not favor giving him the power of war and peace. A single man would feel the greatest responsibility and administer the public affairs best.”
Rutledge stopped and the robust voice of Gouverneur Morris boomed, “Hear, hear!”
Charles Pinckney was on his feet instantly. “I recommend that the proposition of Messrs. Rutledge and Wilson and Gouverneur Morris is correct. The executive should be but one person. Only then can we expect that office to be executed with energy and dispatch.”
Roger Sherman of Connecticut tossed his quill on his notes and stood. “I disagree.” He leaned forward, one index finger thrust upward for emphasis. “The traditional view of such an executive, and the view I urge us to take, is very simple. The executive is nothing more than an institution for carrying the will of the legislature into effect.” He paused to let murmuring grow, then decline, and he went on. “The number of persons serving in the executive office should be determined by the legislature, and the legislature should select them and appoint them.”
James Wilson rose again, and all eyes turned to him. “I perceive that the only powers strictly executive in nature are those of executing the laws passed by the legislature and appointing officers other than those to be appointed by the legislature. May I repeat. This being true, one single executive will certainly bring more efficiency and dispatch to the office than two or more.”
At the front of the room, James Madison rose. Heads craned to see the small man, and men strained to hear his soft voice.
“Respectfully may I suggest that we are approaching the question of the office of the executive in reverse of its proper order. How can we determine whether the executive office should consist of one person, or more than one, until we decide on the extent of the duties and authority of the office?”
He stopped, reflected for a moment, then sat down.
Governor Edmund Randolph came to his feet and waited for the room to quiet. “I strenuously oppose the proposition of an executive consisting of one man.” He paused to let the murmuring stop. “One man in that position of power is the fetus of monarchy. I have no motive to be governed by the British government as our prototype. Nor do I mean to throw censure on that excellent fabric. If we were in a situation to copy it, I do not know that I should be opposed to doing it. But the fixed genius of the people of America requires a different form of government. I do not see why the great requisites for the executive department, which are vigor, dispatch, and responsibility, could not be found in three men, as well as in one man. The executive ought to be independent. It ought therefore to consist of more than one.”
George Mason rose and the room fell silent. “I concur with my colleague Governor Edmund Randolph. The executive office ought to consist of three persons, and further, such persons should have access to a Council of Revision composed of members of the judiciary whereby they shall increase the strength of the executive in defe
nding itself against the encroachments of the legislature.”
He stopped to organize his thoughts, and to look into the startled, blank faces of the delegates before he went on.
“If strong and extensive powers are vested in the executive, and that office consists of only one person, the government will of course degenerate into a monarchy—a government so contrary to the genius of the people that they will reject even the appearance of it.”
The delegates broke off staring at him and exchanged glances as he continued.
“To allay state jealousies I propose that one member of the executive be chosen from the Northern states, one by the Middle, and one by the Southern.”
For a few moments, Mason studied the faces of his colleagues, trying to gauge their acceptance—or rejection—of his proposal. Then he sat down and waited.
Elbridge Gerry stood and his grim hatchet face was drawn. “I favor the policy of annexing a council to the office of the executive. It will give weight and inspire confidence.”
James Wilson stood once again, and the flat of his hand smacked on his desk. “Though the thirteen states agree on scarcely anything else, they are agreed on placing a single magistrate at the head of the government. No state has accepted the idea of three heads. Among three equal persons in one office, I can see nothing but uncontrolled, continued, and violent animosities which would not only interrupt the public administration, but diffuse their poison through the other branches of government, throughout the states, and at length throughout the people at large.”
Franklin leaned back in his chair, yawned, flexed his legs, and closed his eyes. They’re into the nut of the thing. The devil is in the detail. How do we select the executive, and for how long?
By noon the handkerchiefs of the delegates were damp with sweat. By two o’clock the arguments were growing strained, direct, abrasive. Motions were made to delete some words from the resolutions, change others, add to, delete from. How long should the executive serve? James Wilson insisted seven years. Pinckney was abrupt—three years only. And what of a reappointment? “Yes,” argued Sherman, “to reap the benefit of experience.” “No,” insisted Mason, “since uninterrupted tenure would invite intrigues between the legislature and the executive, and eventually corrupt the entire government.”
By mid-afternoon a delegation of sweated-out, exhausted men put the question, how long shall the executive serve, and the vote was taken on the proposition of seven years.
New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Virginia, and North Carolina—“Aye.”
Connecticut, Georgia, and South Carolina—“Nay.”
Massachusetts, divided.
Six “ayes,” three “nays,” one state divided. The executive, whoever or whatever that was to be, would serve for seven years.
Gorham droned on. “What compensation shall be granted for the services of the executive?”
Franklin stirred and came erect in his chair. “I respectfully move that the question of compensation for the services of the executive be postponed in order to make a substitution in the proposal as it now stands. The substitution should be that the executive shall receive such compensation as to defray all necessary expenses, but he shall receive no salary, stipend, fee, or reward whatsoever for his services.”
All murmuring ceased and all eyes came to Franklin. He took a paper from his desk and continued. “I am very sensible of the effect of age on my memory and have been unwilling to trust it for the observations which seem to support my motion. So I have reduced my thoughts to writing, and I request permission of the committee to have James Wilson read it.”
The paper was passed to Wilson, and for several seconds he scanned the writing, then nodded to Franklin, and began.
“In this particular of salaries to the executive branch I happen to differ; and as my opinion may appear new and chimerical, it is only from a persuasion that it is right, and from a sense of duty that I hazard it.
“Sir, there are two passions which have a powerful influence on the affairs of men. These are ambition and avarice, the love of power and the love of money. Separately each of these has great force in prompting men to action; but when united in view of the same man, they have in many minds the most violent effects. . . . And of what kind are the men that will strive for this profitable preeminence? It will not be the wise and moderate, the lovers of peace and good order. It will be the bold and the violent, the men of strong passions and indefatigable activity in their selfish pursuits. These will thrust themselves into your government and be your rulers.”
Wilson paused for a moment, and in that instant Franklin turned his head far enough to see George Washington, seated to his left, stoic, noncommittal, and then Wilson went on.
“To bring the matter nearer home, have we not seen the great and most important of our officers, that of General of our armies executed for eight years together without the smallest salary, by a patriot whom I will not now offend by any other praise; and this through fatigues and distress in common with the other brave men his military friends and companions, and the constant anxieties peculiar to his station? . . . I think we shall never be without a sufficient number of wise and good men to undertake and execute well and faithfully the office in question.”
Wilson finished reading and for a time stood gazing at the paper. Seconds passed before anyone stirred, and then Gorham broke the silence.
“Mr. Franklin moved for time to amend the executive compensation clause as it now exists, and that motion is granted.” He looked down at his agenda and continued. “The next question is the mode of appointing the executive.”
A weary James Wilson rose. “I once again declare for appointment by the people, along with both houses of the legislature. Only in that way can the executive and the legislature be as independent of each other as possible, as well as independent of the states. To allow the legislature to appoint the executive invites intrigues.”
John Rutledge shook his head. “The executive should be elected by the second branch of the national legislature. Not by the people. Their lack of experience and judgment in matters of government will only defeat it.”
George Mason raised a hand of caution. “The executive ought to be responsible to the people, not the legislature. I strongly urge that Mr. Wilson be given time to digest his proposal into a form acceptable to him.”
Gorham rapped for order. “Mr. Wilson shall have his time. This committee is adjourned until tomorrow morning, Saturday, June 2, at ten o’clock a.m.”
Saturday morning broke sweltering and by ten o’clock the men seated in the sealed East Room were mopping sweat. George Washington took the dais, called the convention to order, immediately resolved it into the committee of the whole and turned the platform over to Nathaniel Gorham. As Washington stepped down to his desk, he was suddenly aware that for a few moments a strange quiet had settled. He sat down and studied the faces and the demeanor of the delegates, and then it came to him.
Reality had seized them. It had finally broken clear in their minds that they were far, far beyond amending their failed Articles of Confederation; they were deep into a task that was profound beyond anything they had imagined. They were inventing a new government like nothing any of them had ever seen before, and there was a growing awareness that what they were creating might forever decide the fate of republican government. Each was reaching deep inside himself, seeking new inner wells of vision and determination for the journey.
On the dais, Nathaniel Gorham scanned the assembly and spoke.
“Mr. Secretary, let the record show that delegate James McHenry of Maryland received a dispatch informing that his brother lay dangerously close to death and has taken leave to return to Baltimore.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson nodded and his quill scratched in the convention ledger.
Gorham pursed his mouth while he reviewed the agenda, then continued. “We will take up the debate on the unresolved issues of yesterday, June first. Debate is open on the quest
ion of the mode of appointing the executive.”
Slowly and guardedly at first, then more swiftly and obviously as the heat inside the East Room raised perspiration and tempers, the division of the delegation into two opposing camps clarified.
One camp followed the thinking first presented by James Wilson, that the executive ought to be one man.
The other camp doggedly followed the thought first presented by Roger Sherman, insisting that the executive had to be comprised of at least three men. And further, if the recalcitrant Elbridge Gerry had his way, that committee of three would have an advisory council to be certain the three did not wreck the office of executive by intrigue, conspiracy, or infighting!
Debate raged. Delegates wiped at sweat and battled to control nerves frayed raw by the stifling heat and the bulldog obstinacy of those who lacked the common sense to agree with them. By late afternoon a frustrated and exhausted Gorham adjourned the muddled convention until Monday, June fourth.
Monday arrived, but neither the sweltering heat in the East Room, nor the fervor of the debate had cooled when they reconvened. Nathaniel Gorham braced himself, took the dais after George Washington called the convention to order, and plowed into the agenda of the committee of the whole once more.
Pinckney rose. “I move that we resume debate on the question of whether the executive be a single person.”
James Wilson raised his hand. “Seconded.”
Gorham declared, “On the motion made and seconded, the committee will continue on the question of the executive. Shall it be one single person, or three, and shall a council be appointed to advise the executive?”
James Wilson stood and was recognized. “I again strongly urge that the executive must be a single person. The idea of three heads for one government can only lead to uncontrolled, continued, and violent animosities. The result would not only interrupt the public administration, but diffuse their poison through the other branches of government, then through the states, and at length through the people at large. Should the executive be constituted by three separate men, it is possible that all three might adopt a separate view on a given subject, and never reach accord on any of it. May I repeat my statement of two days ago? While we may differ on nearly everything else, it is my position that all thirteen states have learned that a single executive is essential to a unified government.”