by Ron Carter
The noon recess did not cool things. The debate plunged on in the afternoon until Caleb leaned back, wearied, with a rising feeling of disgust at his first exposure to the business of politics. The clock on the wall behind the president had reached fifteen minutes past four before the president stood.
“We are adjourned until tomorrow morning, same time.”
Caleb was the first on his feet in the gallery, and the first out the door. He walked rapidly to the staircase down to the second floor and took up a position near the door. Most of the legislators were still inside, gathered again into clusters, loudly proclaiming the virtues of their position and the lack of their opponents. Caleb waited until the speaker made his way through the press of men and confronted him at the door.
“Sir, I need some help. Do you know, is James Wilson in this building?”
The speaker’s face showed no emotion as he quickly measured Caleb. “I don’t believe I know you, sir.”
“Caleb Dunson. Massachusetts. I was sent here to find James Wilson. I thought you might know how to find him.”
“He should be in his law office right now. He appeared before the Supreme Court this morning, down on the first floor. It’s likely he went back to his office.”
“Could you direct me how to find his office?”
“Yes. On Market street at the corner of Fourth Street. Second floor. There will be a sign.”
“One more thing. Who is the chief spokesman for the supporters in the assembly?”
“I think you’re referring to George Clymer. He was here today.”
Caleb nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
The speaker returned the nod, and Caleb stepped aside to let him pass. Ten minutes later Caleb was opening the polished oak door on the second floor of a brick building at the intersection of Market and Fourth Streets. The unpretentious sign beside the door read JAMES WILSON, LAWYER. He entered the anteroom and faced a young man seated behind a moderately-sized, beautifully engraved oak desk. Framed on the wall to the right of the desk was a painting of George Washington, with other original engravings of Coke and Blackstone on the remaining walls. The hardwood floor was polished, the appointments excellent.
The young man, bespectacled, thin, pinched shoulders, long face, stood. “May I assist you, sir?”
“Is Mr. Wilson available?”
“He is in conference in his office.”
Caleb handed him the folded paper signed by Matthew. “Could you deliver that to him?”
The young man unfolded the document, read it, then looked at Caleb. “You are the brother of Matthew Dunson?”
“Yes.”
“Do I understand you are sent here to promote the ratification convention? For the new constitution?”
“Yes.”
“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Wilson know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
Caleb sat in the quiet, aware of the scent of well-oiled furniture, and of the subtle feel of quality all around him. He shifted in the upholstered chair, impatient with his day of sitting on a hardwood bench in the gallery of the Pennsylvania State legislature for seven hours while hot, emotional arguments were thrown back and forth, repetition piled on repetition. He flinched when the clock on the beautifully sculpted mantel above the small stone fireplace chimed five o’clock, and within two minutes the door to his right opened and two men emerged, still engaged in conversation. One was average in build, the other taller, with a round face, round chin, round nose, jowls just beginning to sag, gray hair, and spectacles. The two walked to the door, said their good-byes, and the man with the spectacles turned to Caleb.
“Mr. Dunson, I presume?” He offered his hand, soft, thick-fingered, fleshy.
Caleb stood. “Right. Caleb Dunson. Are you James Wilson?”
“I am. Won’t you come into my office?”
Caleb followed him into the office and waited while Wilson took his place behind his massive oak desk. It was stacked with organized piles of papers and law books. One wall was given to bookshelves filled with orderly rows of law books. A large painting of the city of Philadelphia was centered on the opposite wall. Behind Wilson was a brick fireplace with a carved mantel and a great clock.
“Please be seated,” Wilson said, and Caleb sat in the upholstered chair facing the desk while Wilson sat down in his leather chair opposite him.
For a moment Wilson studied Caleb with the skilled eye of a lawyer and a politician who needs to know who he is facing. In the same brief time Caleb looked into Wilson, making his calculations of what the man was. Their unspoken impressions continued to build as they talked.
Wilson picked up the letter of introduction from Matthew, smiling, amiable, while his eyes were shrewd, probing. “Your brother indicates you’re here to do what you can to assist in the ratification of the new constitution.”
“Yes.”
“Did you attend the legislative session at the Statehouse today?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“Standoff. There are some things I would like to know about what I saw and heard.”
“Can I be of help?”
“Who is George Clymer?”
Wilson did not hesitate. “It was my great privilege to serve with him at the constitutional convention. He was a fellow delegate from Pennsylvania. Great man. Very strong in support of ratification. Was he there today?”
“Yes, he was. He took a strong position for the new constitution. I was told I should talk with him.”
“You should. No one is more acquainted than he with what is happening now.”
“In the assembly, who has the majority? Supporters or non-supporters?”
“Supporters, but it is a close margin.”
“Can you tell me why the others are so determined to delay convening a ratifying convention?”
Wilson took a breath and exhaled it slowly. “Let me give you a brief background. At one time the others controlled the legislature, but at the last election, control shifted to the supporters. The next election for legislators is October ninth. The others have met to plan their strategy, and they’re desperate to postpone the ratification convention until after October ninth, in the hope that they can regain control of the legislature in the election. If they succeed, they intend voting down anything to do with a ratification convention, and if they are successful the constitution will most likely not be ratified in this state, at least not for a very long time.”
Wilson stopped and watched Caleb’s eyes until they showed understanding before he continued.
“The supporters have also met and planned their strategy. They are going to force a vote for a ratification convention before they adjourn this session, if they can. Right now they have the majority in the legislature, and it appears they might succeed.”
Caleb interrupted. “If the supporters have the majority, why would they fail?”
Caleb saw the weariness of endless political and legal battles in Wilson’s eyes as he responded.
“The others intend to argue that this legislature does not have authority to create a ratification convention because we have not yet received official documents from the national congress in New York stating they have examined the constitution and are forwarding it to all states for the ratification process. They claim that lacking congressional permission, we lack the authority to act.”
Caleb nodded. “That’s what I’ve been hearing all day. Is it true?”
Wilson pursed his mouth for a moment. “Arguably.”
“There’s no way to get the congress in New York to act?”
“I doubt it. They move at their own pace.”
“If the national congress did send the documents you mentioned, what would happen next?”
“We in the supporting camp would make a motion in the legislature for the ratification convention.”
“Could the opposition stop it?”
Wilson reflected for a moment before he answered. “Yes, th
ey could. They could boycott the legislature. The legislature cannot vote unless they have two-thirds of the delegates present. If the non-supporters refuse to attend, and the supporters cannot muster a quorum, there can be no legal vote. That could happen. I don’t know if they’ve thought of it yet, but we have.”
“Do I understand this session is to end on Friday? September twenty-eighth?”
“That is correct.”
Caleb leaned back, mouth rounded for a moment. “We’ve got a problem. This could be interesting.”
The difference between the two men was emerging. Wilson had never borne arms, never killed in combat, never faced death, and was an intellectual giant, gifted in his grasp of human affairs, committed to what he thought to be right, fearless in his convictions, honest, straightforward. Caleb had never been in politics or law, had borne arms for more than four years, killed men, faced death a hundred times, had little patience with wasted time, knew no fear once his mind was clear, and had an inner need for action, even foolish action if that was all that was left to him. Each man sensed and silently acknowledged that they were near exact opposites, and each strangely respected the strength of the other. Instinctively they knew they could speak freely.
Caleb asked, “Do you have a plan?”
Wilson slowly shook his head. “Not yet. We’re waiting for the papers to arrive from New York. If they don’t get here, we’ll have to do the best we can.” He stopped and for a time sat with his fingers interlaced on his desk before him, eyes downcast in thought. Then he raised his head and continued.
“There’s a second man you need to meet. Judge Thomas McKean. He is chief justice of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. A great soul. He’s dedicated to getting this constitution ratified in this state. Let me make an arrangement with you. If we do not hear from congress in New York by Thursday afternoon, I will have George Clymer and Justice McKean in this office at five o’clock. Can you be here?”
“I can.”
“They’ve both corresponded with your brother Matthew, and if I tell them he has sent you, I believe they will come. Is it agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Wilson leaned back. “Is there anything else for now?”
Caleb shook his head. “Not that I can think of. I want to thank you for taking time with me.”
“It has been my pleasure. Your brother has certainly done his country a service.”
“If something comes up in the meantime, may I come again?”
“Whenever necessary.”
Wilson stood and walked Caleb out into the foyer, to the outer door and opened it. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
Caleb reached to shake his hand. “Thank you.”
He walked down the stairs into the bright sunlight of late afternoon on Market Street, and fell in step with the press of people leaving their offices. He worked his way west on the cobblestones toward Thirteenth Street, preoccupied, caught up in the dilemma of two opposing sides that had long since abandoned any hope of resolution of their differences and were locked in a hot, blind, emotional war from which neither would, nor could, retreat.
He ate his supper in near total silence, speaking only when spoken to, and excused himself under the worried eye of Mother Asher to go to his room. He opened the window and for a time stared unseeing at the dwindling Market Street traffic. He paced the floor for a time, and with dusk coming on, returned to the window to watch a man light the street lamps that transformed the city into a wonderland of light and shadow in the trees and on the buildings. It was late when he stripped off his shirt and shoes and lay on the bed to drift into a sleep filled with grotesque images of angry, shouting men shaking their fists at each other.
For two more days, Caleb sat in the observation gallery of the Pennsylvania legislature, listening again and again to arguments that did not vary. Pennsylvania must convene a ratification convention or be remembered forever as a state that failed the Revolution. No, Pennsylvania cannot convene a ratification convention until authorized by the congress now in session in New York.
On Thursday, September twenty-seventh, Caleb gritted his teeth, cursed all politicians, endured until the speaker adjourned the session for the day, and got out of the building into fresh air as quickly as he could barge his way through the crowd. Without a word he marched to the law office of James Wilson, where the thin young apprentice at the front desk admitted him into Wilson’s private office. The door closed with Wilson facing Caleb, and two men on either side of his desk. Wilson took control, gesturing as he spoke.
“Mr. Dunson, may I present Mr. George Clymer of the Pennsylvania Assembly, and Mr. Justice Thomas McKean, Chief Justice of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court.”
Caleb stepped forward to accept the extended hand of Clymer. “I am honored, sir.”
Clymer was of average build, strength in his handshake, handsome features, strong chin. His eyes seemed to have a perpetual smile. “The honor is mine, Mr. Dunson.”
Caleb turned to Justice McKean to shake his extended hand. McKean was the tallest of the three men facing Caleb. His face was long, his chin pointed, eyes serious, intense, and slightly sunken, mouth a straight line, face a mask without emotion.
“It is my honor to meet you, sir.”
The judge bowed slightly without a change in his expression. “My pleasure, I assure you.”
“Well,” Wilson said, “shall we be seated? We have a few matters to discuss.”
As they took their seats, Caleb glanced at the two men beside Wilson’s desk. It was clear to him they had reservations about spending time here with a man half their age, from the state of Massachusetts. He ignored it.
Wilson turned to Clymer. “Would you care to share your plan, as you have just explained it to Justice McKean and myself?”
Clymer leaned forward, one forearm on the desk, intense, talking rapidly. “Tomorrow morning on the floor of the legislature I am going to propose resolutions calling for a state ratification convention. The papers have not yet arrived from New York, and it’s clear there will be an uproar, but there is no other choice. We do have a majority of supporters in the assembly, but no one knows what the opposition will do. If they walk out—and they might—we will lack a quorum. Without a quorum we cannot make a legal vote. And that will be the end of it for now.”
Clymer stopped, and Justice McKean interrupted. His voice was a monotone. “If they boycott the legislature—walk out—the president can order the sergeant at arms to go find them and bring them back. He has that authority.”
Wilson leaned forward with his forearms on his desk. “If he can find them.” Wilson was watching Caleb—his face, his eyes, the movements of his hands, his feet.
Caleb spoke up. “May I inquire, how many men do you have serving as sergeants at arms?”
Wilson’s eyes were alive. “One.”
“If he does find absent assemblymen, and he does order them to return, what’s the penalty if they refuse?”
“If they’re found in this state, they could face a fine, or even suspension for a period of time. If they cross the river into New Jersey, the sergeant at arms can do nothing. He lacks jurisdiction. But either way, we will still lack a quorum for the crucial vote.”
For five seconds no one moved nor spoke. Caleb had his hands folded in his lap, and was staring down at them while he worked with his thoughts. He raised his head.
“Are you expecting a boycott?”
Wilson nodded his head twice but said nothing.
For a time the only sound in the room was the steady, rhythmic tick of the large clock on the mantel, and then Caleb spoke to Wilson. “We’ll see about that.”
Wilson was leaning forward, watching Caleb’s face and eyes with a fierce concentration, and he saw it, there in Caleb’s eyes. Caleb, the warrior. The man of action. Wilson eased back in his chair and spoke.
“You’ll be there?”
“I’ll be there.”
Wilson glanced at Clymer and McKean. “Is there any
thing else we need to discuss today?”
Both men remained silent.
“Good,” Wilson continued, and turned to Clymer. “Mr. Clymer, if things go ill for us tomorrow, would it be a good idea to come back here to talk it over?”
Clymer looked at McKean. “What do you say?”
McKean nodded but said nothing. In the entire interview, the expression on his face had not changed.
Wilson stood. “If we are successful tomorrow, the matter is concluded. If not, we will meet back here as soon as the legislature adjourns for the day.”
The others stood, and as Caleb shook their hands, he saw it in the faces of both Clymer and McKean. Both were in question as to why they had been called to Wilson’s office to waste valuable time talking with a man from Massachusetts who obviously had no grasp of politics, no standing to do anything with the Pennsylvania Assembly, and almost no conception of the breadth and depth of the crisis that was going to erupt tomorrow in the Statehouse.
Caleb made his way down the stairs onto Market Street and walked steadily through the crowd, sorting out his thoughts and reaching for conclusions. Those men—Clymer, Wilson, McKean—will talk this thing to death—but they won’t go past talking—finally, if talk fails, someone has to do something—even if its wrong, someone has to do something—and they won’t do it because they’re politicians.
Mother Asher met him at the door, head thrust forward, hands clasped in front of her, face drawn in concern. “Caleb, you do not look well. Haven’t looked right for two days. Come into the kitchen and have some cider. You need a minute to catch up.”
Caleb stopped short and took stock of himself. She was right.
They sat in the kitchen together, sipping sweet cider, with Mother Asher chattering on about the weather, and her deceased husband, Horatio, and her sainted mother, and the secret she had discovered of how to make the flakiest pie crust in Philadelphia. Caleb listened and nodded from time to time and saw his own mother, Margaret, sitting opposite him, trying to lighten a load that had become too heavy. He finished his glass, set it on the table, and stood.