by Ron Carter
“That helped. Thank you.”
Mother Asher rose to face him. “You look better. Now go on upstairs. I’ll call you for supper.”
With supper finished, over Mother Asher’s protest, Caleb helped clear the table, and patiently dried the dishes as she washed and talked. Later, alone in his room, he sat in the shadows of deep dusk, sorting out his thoughts. The sergeant at arms. Is that the answer? Maybe. Maybe. Tomorrow we’ll know.
He slept deeply, finished breakfast at half-past eight, and walked rapidly to the Statehouse in streets flooded with sunlight. He climbed the stairs to the gallery and watched the speaker take the dais at nine o’clock. The man quickly moved through the formalities of roll call and two perfunctory matters relating to the pay of the legislators, and with the entire floor waiting in hushed anticipation, moved into it.
“The next order of business is the question of convening a ratification convention to address the new United States constitution. The floor is open.”
Before he finished speaking, half a dozen men were on their feet, including George Clymer, whose hand was raised high, and the instant the president’s words stopped, Clymer’s voice cracked out above the outburst.
“Mr. Speaker!”
“Mr. Clymer, you may proceed.”
“I propose a resolution that this body appoint delegates to attend a convention at which the order of business will be ratification of the new constitution of the United States.”
Instantly a din arose that drowned out all else that Clymer had to say. The president rose, his eyes narrowed in anger as he stared down the legislators, and then turned his face toward those in the gallery. Caleb was still seated, silent, not moving, waiting, watching, missing nothing.
“There will be order in this chamber,” the speaker fairly shouted, “or I shall order the spectators cleared from this chamber and we shall then meet in closed session.”
He waited until every person in the room was seated and quieted, then looked down at George Clymer. “Mr. Clymer, you may proceed.”
“Thank you. I further propose a resolution establishing the place of such convention, the time it shall convene, and the compensation to be paid to the delegates.”
Murmuring began, the speaker rose once again, and the room fell silent. George Clymer continued, once again enunciating with great emotion all the arguments the supporters had been so loudly proclaiming for the past four days. The Articles of Confederation were unquestionably a disaster; only the new constitution could restore peace and harmony, both within Pennsylvania and among the thirteen states; it was the product of the best minds of the times; if Benjamin Franklin and George Washington favored it, it was undoubtedly correct for the country. Delay would only heap acrimony on the glorious name of Pennsylvania if she did not take the lead in establishing the new government.
The opposition leaders rose, hot, loud, to proclaim the same arguments Caleb had heard from the time he arrived. Any such convention would be illegal, since it was mandatory that they receive proper authorization from the national congress in New York before they could legally proceed; Benjamin Franklin was feeble in his old age and did not know what he had signed; George Washington was a soldier, not a politician, and had been deceived by smooth-tongued supporters; it was only fair that time be allowed to let the people of Pennsylvania study the new document and decide for themselves.
A supporter rose and was recognized. “I move for the vote.”
An outburst erupted, the speaker jerked to his feet, and the hall quieted. Caleb glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes before noon.
A voice called, “Second the motion.”
Still on his feet, the speaker considered for a moment, then announced, “In view of the time, we will vote on the resolutions in the order they were proposed. The first vote will be whether or not we should approve the resolution calling for a ratification convention. The remainder of the proposed resolutions will be debated and voted on this afternoon. Is that clear?”
It was clear.
The speaker turned to the secretary. “Record the vote.”
In the standard monotone, the secretary called the names of the delegates, each answering “Aye” or “No,” according to his convictions, while the vote was posted on the board. Caleb watched as each mark was entered, counting. With but three votes yet to be called, it was clear the supporters had won. Murmuring began, and when the last vote was recorded, the room was once again drowned in applause from one side, and angry shouts of “illegal, illegal, illegal” from the other.
The speaker raised both hands for order, and waited while the chamber quieted before he announced, “We stand in recess until two o’clock this afternoon.”
Any sense of courtesy was lost as the crowd in the gallery shoved and pushed to get out the door and down to the assembly floor to heap laurels on the heads of their representatives or condemnation on the heads of their opponents. Caleb made his way to the floor and stood to one side, watching, listening to the uproar, making calculations. If these non-supporters lose this afternoon, this could get ugly. Will they riot?
It was past one o’clock when he made his way out into the sunshine and sat on a shaded bench, watching people hurry about on their business, wondering what the afternoon would bring, bracing for the worst. At two o’clock he took his seat, and with the gallery jammed to standing room only, the speaker called for order. The legislators took their seats, and instantly there was a gasp, and then dead silence.
Nineteen of the opposition were absent! Their chairs were conspicuously empty! Half of the supporters sprang to their feet, shouting blasphemies and threats against the others, and the word “boycott” echoed off the walls again and again. The speaker stood and pounded his desk with the flat of his hand until the chamber quieted. His face was flushed with anger as he growled out the words, “We are again in session. Mr. Secretary, call the roll.”
The hush that filled the room was like a thing alive as the names of the nineteen absent non-supporters were called, only to echo off the walls unanswered. The secretary concluded, and the hush held as he made his count, and addressed the speaker.
“Mr. Speaker, we do not have a quorum.”
“How many delegates must we have to bring this floor to a quorum?”
“Two, sir.”
The speaker turned to the sergeant at arms. “I hereby direct you to do whatever is required to locate two of the absent legislators, and bring them to this chamber as quickly as possible. You are authorized to exert whatever force is justified. We will remain here until your return, no matter how long it takes. Am I clear?”
Mouths dropped open, and legislators and observers in the gallery stared. Such orders were seldom issued in the hallowed halls of the Pennsylvania legislature.
The sergeant at arms blanched, swallowed hard, and stammered, “Yes, sir.” He stood stock-still for a moment, bewildered, wondering what to do next, and finally turned on his heel and nearly ran from the chamber.
The speaker announced, “We stand in recess subject to instant recall upon the return of the sergeant at arms.”
Caleb stood, tempted to go down onto the floor to talk with George Clymer, but decided against it. Until the sergeant at arms returned, no one would know whether the boycott had succeeded in defeating the supporters. He went back to his seat and sat down, nervous, waiting.
Fifty minutes later the door behind the desk occupied by the sergeant at arms opened, and the man walked in. The instant Caleb saw him, he knew.
The secretary hurried from the hall to return with the speaker, and within two minutes every available legislator was seated at his desk, eyes locked onto the speaker as he stood on the dais.
“Mr. Sergeant at arms, make your report.”
The man, tall, slender, gray-haired, looked at the speaker, licked at dry lips, started to speak, stammered, and continued.
“Mr. President, I was unable to locate even one of the absent legislators. I tried. I don’t know what els
e to say.”
All eyes went back to the speaker, waiting. For a time he stood there, eyes downcast, pondering. Then he raised his head and his voice came strong.
“We stand adjourned until tomorrow morning, September twenty-ninth, at nine o’clock.”
It had been expected that the assembly would adjourn sine die that afternoon, September twenty-eighth! Talk filled the hall as the legislators accepted the fact they would be there at least one more day, and every person in the room knew that Saturday, September twenty-ninth, 1787, would be a day they would not soon forget.
For a time Caleb held his place in the gallery, listening to the arguments and acrimony that was mounting among the observers. The crowd thinned, and he pushed through the hallway out onto Market Street, and walked again to the corner of Fourth Street, up the stairs to the second floor of the brick building, and into the anteroom of the law firm of James Wilson. The eager young apprentice led him to the door to Wilson’s office and Caleb walked in, where Wilson, George Clymer, and Thomas McKean were already gathered.
Wilson asked, “You were present at the assembly today?”
“I was.”
“You know about the boycott?”
“I do.”
Wilson gestured to Clymer and McKean. “We were just discussing what’s to be done about it. Right at this moment, we can’t reach a conclusion because we don’t know what to expect in the morning. It’s clear that Mr. Fitzsimons is going to send the sergeant at arms out at least one more time to try to bring in two more legislators, to get a quorum. If he succeeds, there will be no problem. If he fails . . .” Wilson did not finish the sentence, rather, a troubled look flitted across his face. Clymer shifted in his chair, and for the first time, McKean showed a hint of emotion in his face—a mix of frustration and anger.
Caleb interrupted. “Who is Mr. Fitzsimons?”
“Thomas Fitzsimons? He is the speaker in the legislature.”
Caleb repeated the name silently to himself and went on. “If I heard it right, the sergeant at arms couldn’t find even two of the absent legislators.”
Clymer nodded. “That’s right. I spoke with him just after adjournment.”
“Does anyone know where they are?”
“Not at the moment.”
McKean leaned forward. “I spoke with the mayor. He’s going to have the constables search for them overnight.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t they expect that?”
McKean’s eyes opened in surprise. “Probably. What else can be done?”
Caleb asked, “Does anyone keep a list of the legislators and where they’re staying while the legislature is in session?”
Clymer answered. “Yes, but if a legislator wishes to not be found, he can simply take up a room elsewhere. Philadelphia has no end to inns and taverns with rooms available.”
Wilson broke in. “I doubt we can do anything tonight. We’ll just have to wait and see what tomorrow morning brings. It is still possible we can assemble a quorum. If not, we do what we can and move on.”
Caleb looked at McKean. “Do you intend being at the session tomorrow morning?”
“I have considered it. I will likely be there.”
Caleb turned to Wilson. “Will you attend?”
“Yes. In the meantime, I see nothing else to do but wait.”
The men stood, shook hands as they said their good-byes, and Caleb walked out the door and down the stairs into the usual Market Street foot traffic with deep concern and grave doubts rising in his chest. He entered Mother Asher’s parlor and climbed the stairs, searching for a plan, an answer, to what was rapidly becoming a disaster at the Statehouse. When Mother Asher called for supper, he sat at the table speaking only when spoken to, his mind struggling. He finished his meal, excused himself, and returned to his room. From his window he watched the men light the street lamps, and for a time was seized with a compulsion to walk back down to the business district, and then the waterfront, searching through the inns and taverns for the missing assemblymen. But he did not know what they looked like, or even their names. It was midnight before he stretched out on the bed and fell into a troubled, fitful sleep.
No one in Philadelphia knew of the small, wiry rider, weary and exhausted, who dismounted a deep-chested, jaded bay mare on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River while the morning star was still bright in the eastern sky, and led the horse clattering onto the ferry bound for Philadelphia, across the river. None knew that he had left New York thirty-six hours earlier, and changed horses four times on his mission to carry a packet of papers from the national congress in New York, southwest on New Jersey dirt roads, to the speaker of the Pennsylvania legislature. In the packet was a letter declaring that the national congress had officially reviewed the new constitution and authorized and recommended that ratification conventions be arranged by all thirteen states. With the letter were twelve copies of the new constitution.
The ferry docked on the Philadelphia waterfront, the rider mounted his mare once more, and raised her to an easy lope north on Market Street with her iron horseshoes striking sparks from the granite cobblestones. The morning star was fading when he reined her to a stop before the Statehouse. He dismounted, loosened the saddle cinch, led her to the nearest watering trough, and stood beside her, rubbing her neck as she sunk her muzzle into the clear water, and he heard the gugging sound as she sucked the water up the rings of her gullet.
She drank her fill, and he dipped water from the trough with his hand, drank, then led the horse to the nearest hitching rack to tie her, then sat down on the bench nearby to let the tension begin to drain from muscles, wound tight and set from two days in the saddle. He was still sitting on the bench when the sun rose, and the first people arrived to unlock the Statehouse and prepare the building for the business of the day. He followed a man to the front door and spoke to him while the man worked a large brass key in the lock.
“I have an express package from the congress in New York for the speaker of the Pennsylvania legislature. Is the legislature adjourned, or will he be here today?”
The man with the key saw the lines of weariness in the courier’s face and the road dust collected on the wrinkled clothes. He glanced at the horse on the street, head down, lines of dried salt sweat gathered around the saddle and bridle.
“The session is still convened. He’ll be here shortly. Can I deliver the package for you?”
“My orders are to deliver it to him by my hand.”
“Would you like to come in? I can take you to his private chambers. You can wait there.”
Shortly after eight o’clock, Mr. Fitzsimons walked down the great hall, leather heels clicking a steady cadence, and slowed as he came to the door to his chambers. He stopped before the little man who rose to meet him.
“Sir,” Fitzsimons said, “are you waiting for me?”
“Are you the speaker of the legislature?”
“I am.”
The man handed him the package. “I am Robert Clarington. I’m an express rider for the United States Congress in New York. I am under their orders to deliver this to you, sir.”
Fitzsimons’ eyes widened for a moment before he unlocked his door. “The congress in New York? Would you come inside and wait? I may have a message for you to carry back.”
The spectators’ gallery overlooking the floor of the assembly was jammed long before nine o’clock, with Caleb in his seat at one end of the front bench, near the exit door, nervous, apprehensive, watching the large clock on the wall behind the president’s dais. The clock struck nine times, and the room fell silent in expectation of the speaker making his appearance, but he did not. It was five minutes past the hour when his door opened and he marched to the dais. Silence held while he spoke.
“We are now in session.” He paused until the floor was silent before he continued. “I have received this morning a dispatch from the congress convened in New York.”
Caleb nearly stopped breathing. Not a man on th
e floor moved.
“I have their letter before me, with twelve copies of the new constitution. The congress has officially given notice to all thirteen states that they have received and reviewed the new constitution of the United States and have recommended that all thirteen states convene conventions for purposes of ratifying it.”
For a moment the only sound was the clock ticking, and then the room was filled with sounds, both cheering and booing.
Caleb’s eyes closed and his head rolled back as relief flooded through his system.
Fitzsimons waited until the room quieted, then turned to the secretary. “Mr. Secretary, call roll.”
The nineteen chairs that had been vacant during the Friday session, were still vacant; there was not a sound as the secretary called the roll, made his tally, and turned to the speaker.
“Sir, we are still two assemblymen short of a quorum.”
Fitzsimons did not hesitate. “Very well. Mr. Sergeant at arms, you will immediately visit the office of the mayor to determine if they were able to locate some of the missing assemblymen overnight, and if they did so, you will bring at least two of those assemblymen here by whatever reasonable means necessary. Do you have any questions?”
“No, no, sir.”
Fitzsimons bobbed his head. “We stand in recess subject to immediate recall upon the return of the sergeant at arms.”
Caleb stood but remained at his bench while talk filled the chamber. It seemed that time was standing still while the legislators on the floor, and the spectators in the gallery gathered into small clusters, pointing, gesturing, exclaiming. Caleb studied the men below and located George Clymer. James Wilson and Judge McKean were not to be seen. They were not legislators, but did have political standing to be on the floor below. Caleb ran a nervous hand over his hair. Where are Wilson and McKean? If they don’t get a quorum down there, we’ll need them. Where are they? He looked again at the clock, then sat down to wait out the return of the sergeant at arms.