by Ron Carter
We will finish it for you. We will make a nation. We will succeed.
Notes
The events, dates, persons, times, places, and speeches appearing in this chapter are taken from the following sources.
Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 172–74.
Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 116–130.
Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 313–67.
Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 196–200. As the convention adjourned on July 26th for its hiatus until August 6, Robert Morris and George Washington made the horseback ride to Valley Forge where Washington spent time visiting all the familiar places from the Valley Forge affair in the winter of 1777–78, most of which were in ruins. Further, the quotation cited in this chapter wherein the Philadelphia newspaper Pennsylvania Packet referenced the East Room where the convention was meeting as “Unanimity Hall,” appears and is quoted verbatim from page 203. The same quotation appears on pages 114–15 of Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States.
Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution, pp. 113–17.
Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, Vol. 2, pp. 21–128.
Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, pages named July 17, 1787–July 26, 1787.
The reader is again reminded that the speeches and proceedings have been necessarily abridged, since it is impossible to include them all in this work. Some speeches have been modified to make them more understandable today. Every effort has been made to preserve the intent and meanings of the speeches and debate, and any errors are those of this writer.
Also, much of the original thought in this chapter is to be credited to Max Farrand, as found in his masterful work, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States.
Boston
August 6, 1787
CHAPTER XXV
* * *
In the hot, late afternoon Boston sun, Margaret Dunson spread her hand to lay it flat against one of the six stiff sheets still hanging from the clothesline in her backyard. It was Monday, and her gray, ankle-length wash-day dress and old leather shoes were still damp from the heavy labor of wash day in Boston.
Adam had remained at home in the early morning hours to set up the washtubs and the tripod, build the fire beneath the heavy kettle, and carry the first load of water before he had to go to the shipping office of Dunson & Weems. At noon Prissy had come dashing home from her work at the bakery for an hour before she ran back. It was Margaret who had kept the exhausting work going since dawn.
She closed her hand on the sheet and could feel the dampness that remained. Another hour, she thought. She walked to the root cellar, lifted the outer door, descended the steps to the lower door, and entered the cool gloom to pick a jar of apple cider from a shelf. For a moment she stood there in the twilight, on the cool earthen floor that John had covered with sand, wishing she could sit down for just ten minutes and do nothing. But wash day in Boston tolerated no such reprieve, and she climbed back up the stairs into the dead, humid heat of an August afternoon and walked steadily to the back door of the kitchen.
Through the open door she heard the faint sound of footsteps in the parlor, and as she entered, she called, “Brigitte? Is that you?”
“I’m home,” came the answer.
“Did you get a copy of the law? From Harold Trumbull?”
“Yes, I have it.” At twenty-nine years of age, by all the unspoken rules of Boston’s high-nosed society, Brigitte was a spinster, consigned to employment at the women’s clothing store the remainder of her life. She was also tall, beautifully formed, striking, with curls of auburn hair clinging to the light perspiration on her forehead, and as of recent days, betrothed. She walked into the kitchen as her mother, shorter, still attractive in her middle fifties, was setting the jar of apple cider on the cupboard.
“What does it say?”
“Pretty much what Reverend Olmstead told us.”
Margaret gestured and the two walked into the dining room together and sat down at the long table, Margaret at the head, Brigitte to her left. Brigitte opened her bag and drew out a folded piece of paper with printing on one side, and laid it before Margaret.
“There it is.”
Margaret flattened the paper on the tabletop and said, “Cool cider in the kitchen. Get a cup for both of us.”
Brigitte walked to the kitchen to pour cider, and returned to set both cups, half-full, on the table. She sipped at hers while she sat silently, waiting. Margaret drank from her cup, then, following the printed lines with her finger, silently mouthing each word as she went, she read the document slowly, intently.
AN ACT FOR THE ORDERLY SOLEMNIZATION OF MARRIAGES
Passed in the State of Massachusetts June 22, 1786.
A Justice of the Peace, or an Ordained Minister is authorized to perform marriages but only when the bride, or the groom, or both, reside in the town where such Justice of the Peace or Ordained Minister resides and performs his duties.
Prior to their marriage, the proposed bride and groom must publish their intent to marry and shall do so by public announcement at three public religious meetings, on different days, not less than three days between, or, they may post in writing for the space of fourteen days, a written declaration of their intent to marry, in some public place.
Such publication having been completed, said bride and groom shall then obtain a written certificate signed by the town clerk in the town where they reside declaring that their intent to marry has been appropriately published according to the foregoing.
Upon delivery of such certificate to any Justice of the Peace, or any ordained Minister, they may then perform the marriage ceremony solemnizing the marriage of such bride and groom.
Margaret finished her cider, leaned back in her chair and said, “You and Billy will have to give public notice before you can get married. Is that what this says?”
Brigitte bobbed her head once. “That’s what Harold said.”
Margaret drew and released a great breath. “Is Billy coming over tonight after supper? To pick a day?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Margaret said decisively, “this became law June twenty-second of last year. You can’t get married until you’ve given public notice. You can give notice at church through Silas, or you can write it out and post it in a public place, whatever that means. Then you have to get a certificate from the city clerk saying you did it. The city clerk is Harold Trumbull. Is this what he told you?”
Brigitte nodded but remained silent.
Margaret ballooned her cheeks for a moment and then shook her head. “What’s this world coming to? You can’t just go get a license and get married anymore. You’ve got to publish it so the whole town knows it, and then prove you published it so the city clerk can issue the license. If you publish it, Silas sure ought to know it without getting a certificate from Harold to prove it.” She shook her head. “What’s it going to be next? You’ve got to get a certificate to have your babies? Will you have to publish notice of that in advance, too?”
Both women blushed and chuckled, and then Brigitte leaned forward, barely able to contain her laughter as she blurted, “Exactly what are you supposed say in that kind of a publication?”
For one moment the two women pondered the language that could appear in such a notice, and then both exploded into gales of laughter. It held until their faces were red, and tears were running down their cheeks, both unable to speak, or even to rise from their chairs. Eventually Margaret wheezed, “We ought to have whoever thought up this public notice idea tell us what we’re supposed to say about having babies.”
They lapsed back into their laughing seizure, wiping at the tears that were streaming, and Brigitte choked out, “How would he know? He’s never had one.”
Beyond control, neither of them heard the front door open, nor did they see the two men step through the dining room archway and stand there staring at the two hysterical women. Caleb and Adam stood wide-eye
d, mouths hanging open, dumbstruck at the sight of their mother and older sister laughing as though they were demented, wiping at their red, tear-streaked faces. The two men waited until the uproar began to subside before Caleb spoke.
“It must have been good. What was it?”
Both surprised women turned to look at the men, and were instantly lost in laughter once more. Finally they brought themselves under control and Margaret said, “It’s nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”
Caleb looked at Adam, then back at his mother. “Nothing? Nothing had you two about to fall off your chairs?”
Margaret wiped at her eyes with her apron. “Brigitte’s getting married. She has to give notice.”
Caleb’s forehead drew down in puzzlement. “Oh! That’s hilarious.”
Adam said, “Are you talking about that new law? From last year?”
“Yes,” Margaret answered, “you have to give public notice of your intent to get married.”
“How are you going to do it? At church? Or by writing in a public place?”
Slowly the women came back to the business of the notice. “Well,” Margaret said, “I suppose at church. Silas will do it.” She turned to Brigitte. “What do you say?”
Brigitte shrugged. “At church.”
Adam broke in. “Billy said he’s coming over after supper to get all this settled.”
Margaret leaned back to peer into the parlor at the clock on the mantel. “Forgot all about supper. Come on, Brigitte. Prissy’s due home any time, and we’ve got to gather the sheets off the line and change clothes and get supper on the table. You boys go out and put the tubs and kettle away and then be sure there’s enough kindling to keep the irons hot tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of ironing.”
The front door opened as Margaret and Brigitte stood, and Prissy called, “I’m home.”
Margaret answered, “We’re in here. Your day all right?”
Prissy walked through the archway. “Good. All right. Is the wash done? Can I help with supper?”
Margaret gave the orders. “The wash is done. Change your clothes and help Brigitte gather the sheets. Fold them carefully so they don’t wrinkle. I’ll get supper.”
No one questioned, no one challenged, as each went to their assignment. Since the nineteenth day of April 1775, when Tom Sievers had brought their father home from the fight at Concord mortally wounded and dying from a .75 caliber British musketball in his right lung, Margaret had carried the household on her shoulders. They had watched her hands become old and her shoulders round, and her face set and growing wrinkled from the work of both the woman of the house and the man, doing anything she could—washing, ironing, knitting, making meals for neighbors—to eke out enough money to pay the bills and doggedly maintain their independence. They had learned very early to take her orders in obedient silence and do the work well enough to receive her judgmental nod of approval. They were a team. If anyone failed, someone else had to pick up the load. The single exception was Caleb. Caught in the confused, bewildering time when the boy was trying to become the man, his world had been shattered when he had watched his father die, and he could not control the hot, bitter hatred for the British that had filled his soul. He could find no light in the war, and abandoned any belief in a God that could allow such pain for his mother, and his family, and himself. At sixteen he had left home to join the Continental Army with but one thought burning in his brain: Make the British pay. Make them pay.
It nearly broke Margaret’s heart, to have young Caleb leave home, but she had no time to mourn. She had put the ache in a place in her heart and sealed it off in the hope that some day, some blessed day, her burdens in life would lift, and she would have time to go to that place to feel the pain, and sort it out, and begin to heal.
The shooting war had ended with the surrender of General Cornwallis and his eight thousand redcoated troops at Yorktown in October of 1781, but the headlong plunge of the country into near bankruptcy and the brink of civil war had given her no reprieve. She had found little time to reach inside herself for peace, and now she wondered if she could. She had stored so many things inside that it had become a habit she did not know if she could undo. She worried, but for now, there was wash to be gathered and kindling to be split and supper to prepare and a meeting with Billy Weems that would decide when her eldest daughter would marry.
Supper consisted of cold, sliced ham, home-baked bread, buttermilk, and fresh peaches. The women were clearing the table when a knock came at the front door, and Adam invited Billy in. The men sat in the parlor while Margaret and Prissy followed Brigitte to her room to help her fuss with her hair and set her thoughts in order. Then Margaret led them into the parlor, and the men stood.
Billy nodded. “Good evening.” He was nervously twisting his tricorn in his hands, and for a moment looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know what it was.
“Good evening,” Brigitte answered, smiling.
The three women sat down, and the men sat down, with Margaret seated between Brigitte and Billy. Adam and Prissy, the twins, were watching intently to learn how these affairs were conducted. Caleb leaned back in his chair with a casual, almost humorous, interest in how uncomfortable Billy was and the delicious joy the women were taking in the whole affair.
Margaret opened the business of the evening. “We’re delighted that you could come, Billy.”
“I’m happy to be here.”
A hint of a smile played around Caleb’s mouth.
Margaret saw little reason for the usual formality of circling the subject for a discreet amount of time before coming to it. After all, from the time any of the children could remember, Billy had been the extra member of the family, inseparable from Matthew, in and out of the Dunson home as though it were his own.
“I believe the time of engagement has been sufficient,” she declared. “Is it time to talk about the marriage?”
Billy answered, “I think it is, that is, if Brigitte is in agreement.”
Brigitte’s eyes were shining. “I agree.”
Margaret turned to Billy. “You’re aware of the new law? About giving notice?”
“I’ve heard of it, yes.”
“Have you thought about how you would like the notice to be given?”
“You mean at church or in writing at a public place?”
“Yes.”
Billy paused for a moment. “I couldn’t find the meaning of ‘a public place.’”
Caleb cut in. “The jail. That’s public. Very public.”
Billy shifted uneasily in his seat, and Prissy stifled a giggle.
Margaret cast a disapproving eye on Caleb, and continued. “You and Brigitte should come to some agreement about giving notice. I thought it would be proper to have Silas do it at church.”
Billy nodded. “I agree.”
“Good.” Margaret bobbed her head and went on. “Have you, uh, thought about when? When would be a good time?”
“I’ve thought about it. It seems to me Brigitte should be the one to decide,” Billy said.
Caleb leaned forward, face drawn with intensity. “August of 1789. Two more years. That should be about right,” he intoned.
Billy looked panic-stricken.
Margaret turned to Caleb with a perplexed look. “Will you be serious?”
Caleb’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “What’s wrong with 1789? No sense rushing into these things. They need to get to know each other first.”
Prissy exclaimed, “They’ve known each other forever! Since before you were born!”
Caleb sobered and stared at the floor. “Oh!” he murmured, “I forgot.”
Adam ducked his head, grinning.
Margaret raised one hand in frustration. “Brigitte, have you thought about when you would like this marriage to occur?”
Brigitte was trying to maintain a serious composure in the midst of the nonsense. “You and I talked about August thirty-first. That’s a Friday.”
Margaret
turned back to Billy. “That’s enough time for Silas to give notice and get the certificate from Harold.”
Billy reflected for a moment. “That would be fine. It won’t interfere with the business at the company.”
“Then it will be Friday, August thirty-first. Where? At the church? At home?”
Brigitte answered. “Church. In the evening.”
Billy nodded.
Margaret reflected for a moment. “Have you thought about where you’ll live? Here? With Dorothy?”
Billy shook his head. “I spoke with Horatio Cutler today. He’s decided to sell his home. With Druscilla gone, he’s going to live with his eldest son in Harrisburg. I’ve made an appointment with him for next Friday. I thought Brigitte and I could go look at his home.”
“The Cutler home near the Common?” Margaret asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “That’s a good home, and the Common is a beautiful place. All the open grass.”
Brigitte beamed. “A home of our own on the Common? Wonderful!”
“Well,” Margaret said, “I think that concludes everything for now. You two had better go visit Silas. He’ll need to start the notices Sunday.”
Brigitte straightened in surprise. “Go see the Reverend now?”
“Now. He’s expecting you. I told him.”
Margaret rose from her chair, and the others rose and followed Billy and Brigitte to the front door. The family stood clustered outside in the afterglow of a sun now set, watching Billy and Brigitte walk through the front gate into the cobblestone street and turn right toward the church where the small, wiry, white-haired Silas Olmstead, who had been their spiritual guide since they could remember, lived with his ailing wife, Mattie, in the tiny quarters at the rear of the building. Billy and Brigitte walked steadily in the still, warm twilight, saying little, caught up in an unexpected sense of peace and rightness.