by Ron Carter
With the hands on the large clock just two minutes short of ten forty-five, the door behind the desk of the sergeant at arms burst open, and the man approached his desk, breathless, moving nervously. The secretary brought the speaker from his chambers, and he stepped up onto the dais.
“Mr. Sergeant at arms, make your report.”
The man gathered his courage, faced Fitzsimons, and in the hushed silence, his voice came too high, his speech too fast. Caleb did not miss a word.
“Sir, a constable in the Mayor’s office informed me two of the legislators have taken a room on the second floor of the Bellamy boardinghouse on Sixteenth Street, near Spruce. I went there. The hallway to the room was . . . filled . . . guarded . . . by three men. Large men. I was not allowed to reach the room. I returned to report that I was not able to bring the legislators.”
Caleb came off his bench and bolted for the door. He took the stairs downward two at a time, and barged through the crowded hallway to the nearest door into the floor of the legislature, to face the doorkeeper. He stopped short and exclaimed, “I have got to talk with George Clymer. He’s inside.”
The doorkeeper shook his head. “You cannot enter while they’re in session. You’ll have to wait until—”
From inside the room came sounds of a rising tumult, and the doorkeeper turned to open the door to peer inside, then turned back to Caleb. “They just declared a recess. You can go on in.”
Caleb pushed his way through the mix of men and sound to Clymer’s desk, where two men were facing Clymer in hot, angered debate. Caleb paid no attention to them.
“Mr. Clymer, I’ve got to see you. Now!”
Clymer’s face drew down in question. “Yes. What is it?”
“Are Judge McKean and James Wilson here somewhere?”
“In the chambers of the speaker. They’re discussing what ought to be done.”
“We need to see them.”
“Now?”
“Now!”
With Caleb following, Clymer pushed his way through to a door near the dais and knocked. The door opened one inch, an eye appeared, and then it swung wide. Both men entered the room and Clymer spoke to Fitzsimons, explaining the purpose of the intrusion, and introducing Caleb and his purpose in being in Philadelphia.
Fitzsimons studied Caleb for a moment, shrewd eyes missing very little. “Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Dunson?”
“It appears you need two more assemblymen to make a quorum.”
“Correct.”
“What are the qualifications of a sergeant at arms?”
All four men stared at Caleb, caught by surprise. “Qualifications?” Fitzsimons shrugged. “Twenty years of age. Physically capable.”
“They don’t have to be a resident of this state?”
Fitzsimons looked at Judge McKean. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Judge, what do you say?”
“No residency requirement I know of.”
Caleb continued. “Can you swear me in as a sergeant at arms?”
Fitzsimons suddenly leaned forward, forearms on his desk, face a blank. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Swear me in, and give me something in writing to verify it. I want the address of that boardinghouse. Bellamy. And the names of those two legislators. I’d like to try to bring them here.”
Fitzsimons was incredulous. “You what?”
There was a strange look in Wilson’s eyes as he interrupted. “Nothing to be lost by trying. Swear him in. Give him his chance.”
Clymer and McKean both turned to look at Wilson as though he had taken leave of his senses, and Wilson returned their stares as he repeated himself. “Give him his chance! Unless any of you have a better idea.”
Caleb left the building at a trot with a folded piece of paper signed by the speaker in his pocket, and the sergeant at arms puffing along behind, trying to keep up. Half a dozen men labored along behind, determined to see what was going to happen in the hallway at the Bellamy Boardinghouse.
With the sergeant at arms calling directions, they worked their way west, past the financial district, then the large, spacious homes, on to the section where the yards were neglected and the fences needed paint and some broken pickets replaced. They approached a two-storied house with paint peeling and a faded sign on a crooked post, and Caleb mounted the steps to the large porch and the front door two at a time. He knocked loudly and waited. The door opened, and a hunch-shouldered man with three-days’ growth of beard stubble and rumpled hair stood before them, looking sour, irritated.
“If you’re looking for a room, we’re full.” He reached to close the door, and Caleb stopped it with his foot. He unfolded the paper signed by Fitzsimons, thrust it forward, and said, “I am an authorized sergeant at arms from the Pennsylvania legislature. I have been sent here by the speaker to assist two of your boarders back to the legislature. Their names are Henry Pollard and Josephus Edmunds. I believe they are on the second floor. I am under orders to proceed. Now.”
The man looked at the crowd behind Caleb, and Caleb saw the hesitation and turmoil in his face as he spoke. “There’s men up there in the hallway. I don’t want no trouble.
Caleb answered, “Neither do I.”
He pushed past the man and with the crowd following, marched up the stairs and into the hallway. There was no question where the two assemblymen had taken refuge. Three men sat on chairs in the hallway, two on one side of a door, one on the other. At the sound and sight of Caleb and those behind him walking steadily down the hall, all three men stood and gathered together, shoulder to shoulder, in front of the door, silent, waiting.
Caleb was still twenty feet from the nearest one when the sergeant at arms grasped his coat sleeve and whispered, “The big one has a pistol in his belt. I saw it this morning.”
Caleb walked steadily to them, stopped, and faced the biggest man, directly in front of the door. He estimated the man at six feet three inches, and two-hundred-forty pounds. Those beside him were both slightly smaller, but over six feet tall and above two hundred pounds. Their dress was of the streets, and their faces showed marks of many battles. Their eyes were dead, flat, without expression.
Caleb looked up into the face of the big man. “I am a sergeant at arms sent by the president of the Pennsylvania assembly. There are two men in this room, Henry Pollard and Josephus Edmunds. I’m under orders to bring them back to the Statehouse.” He held up the Fitzsimons paper. “This is my authority, signed by the speaker of the legislature.”
The big man ignored the paper and looked down at Caleb. An insolent grin flickered for a moment. “Those men aren’t here.” He pointed at the sergeant at arms who had flattened himself against the wall behind Caleb and was standing white-faced, frozen. “I told him the same thing this morning.”
“Then why,” Caleb asked, “are you standing here guarding an empty room?”
A quizzical look crossed the man’s face, and then a darkness rose in his eyes. “That’s none of your business.”
Caleb ignored it. “If those men aren’t in there, you won’t mind letting us in, will you?”
The big man’s face clouded. “Get away from here. Get away.”
Caleb shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
The big man shifted his left foot forward with his right hand folded into a fist and Caleb read the moves perfectly. His left hand flicked up and out as his fist broke the big man’s nose and his right hand sunk eight inches into the fleshy paunch. As the big man grunted and doubled over, Caleb’s left hand struck just above the man’s ear dropping him to his knees, stunned, unable to move or rise. The man to Caleb’s left reached for Caleb’s left arm and Caleb’s right fist caught him flush on the point of the chin with every pound Caleb had, and the man was knocked over backwards, rolling, twitching for a moment, then lying still. The third man, to Caleb’s right, threw up both hands and backed away, pasty-faced, muttering, “I’m out of this, I’m out of this.” He turned and raced pounding down the hall and
the stairs, and they heard the front door slam shut behind him. Less than ten seconds had passed from the time the big man had moved his foot to get braced to hit Caleb.
The sergeant at arms remained flat against the wall, eyes popping, and the crowd that had followed were bunched beside him, stunned, motionless, staring first at the two men on the floor, and then at Caleb, trying to make their minds accept what they had just seen.
Caleb tipped the big man off his hands and knees, onto his side, opened his coat, and jerked a pistol from his belt. He opened the frizzen to check the powder load, snapped it shut again, and thrust it to the sergeant at arms, who recoiled as though it were a snake.
“Take that,” Caleb demanded, “and keep it pointed at these men until I’m back out here.”
The sergeant at arms grasped the pistol with both shaking hands and pointed it down, with his back still flat against the wall. Caleb stepped to the door and knocked loudly. There was no answer, and no sound from inside. He knocked again and waited, but there was no response, nothing. He took one step back, and kicked hard with his right foot. The door jamb splintered and the door swung open.
Standing opposite the door, before a window at the far end of the room, were two men, one heavy, the other slight, both wide-eyed, white-faced. They had heard the sounds of a brief pitched battle in the hallway, and were now looking at one man facing them in a splintered doorway. In the hall behind him was a thin man holding a pistol with both hands, pointing it at one of their hired bodyguards who was lying on the floor, dazed, unable to rise to his feet. Caleb held up the paper.
“I take it you are Mr. Pollard and Mr. Edmunds. I have written orders from the speaker of the Pennsylvania legislature to escort you back to your desks at the Statehouse. You can come peacefully, or you can resist. Either way, you’re coming. Your choice.”
The men looked at the thin man with the pistol, and their hired bully helpless on the floor, and they swallowed hard before the heavy one stammered, “You can’t do this . . . you’ve got no authority.”
Caleb started across the room. “Tell that to the speaker of the legislature. Are you coming? Make your choice.”
The two men hesitated for one second, then walked across the room, out into the hallway with Caleb following. They paused for a moment to stare down at the two men on the floor, one unconscious, the other still too dazed to stand, and then they looked at the pistol, and they walked down the hall, Caleb right behind.
In the twenty-five minutes it took to walk them back to the Statehouse, not less than fifty people fell in behind the entourage, the strangest anyone could remember seeing in Philadelphia. Two men marching shoulder to shoulder, followed closely by a man who watched them like a hawk, and behind him, an elderly thin man with a pistol, followed by a growing knot of excited men, who were talking loudly, pointing, expounding a story that was past belief.
The column walked through the doors of the Statehouse, down the big hallway, past the doorman, and onto the floor of the legislature, with the doorman standing stock-still, eyes bugging in disbelief. Caleb pointed, and the two delinquent legislators took their seats at their desks. Twenty supporters gaped, then came crowding around.
Caleb said, “Keep them here while I get the speaker.”
He walked to the door, knocked, and was admitted by a secretary, who followed Caleb to face Fitzsimons seated behind his desk. Fitzsimons laid down his pen, looked carefully at Caleb, and said, “Well?”
“Pollard and Edmunds are at their desks. That should make a quorum.”
Slowly Fitzsimons leaned forward. “What?”
“You’ve got a quorum.”
Fitzsimons gaped. “How . . . is either of them harmed?”
“No.”
“Then how did you . . .”
“Their bodyguards didn’t fare so well.”
Fitzsimons recoiled. “Dead?”
“No. They’ll be fine by tonight.”
Fitzsimons forced some sense of order to his thoughts and stood. “Enough of that. If they’re here, let’s get on with it.”
Within ten minutes all the supporting legislators were at their seats, euphoric at the sight of Pollard and Edmunds in their chairs, knowing what was coming. The gallery was filled.
Fitzsimons took the dais and declared, “We are now in session. Mr. Secretary, take the roll call.”
The names were called, the answers were taken, the secretary ran his tally, and turned to Fitzsimons.
“Sir, we have a quorum.”
“We shall proceed with . . .”
A voice rang out, the president stopped in midsentence, and Pollard waved a hand. “Mr. President, I have urgent need to leave the floor. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
The man seated next to him battled a grin. “I believe he really does need to leave. I’ll go with him to be sure he returns.”
Fitzsimons stared, first at Pollard, then the volunteer next to him, and it dawned on him what would prompt a man to request permission to leave for just five minutes. Fitzsimons raised a hand to thoughtfully scratch beneath his chin for a few moments before he spoke.
“Mr. Pollard, it seems to me you’ve delayed this legislature long enough in the past two days. We’re going to proceed with our business, and you will remain where you are until we are finished.”
Muffled laughter was heard, which slowly dwindled, and Fitzsimons picked up the paper on which was written the agenda.
“First order of business. Having already voted to conduct a ratification convention, the question is, where shall it be held, and when?”
It would be held at the Statehouse, or at such other location in Philadelphia convenient and agreeable to the delegates, two weeks after the election of the delegates.
“When shall the delegates be elected?”
November sixth.
“How shall the delegates be compensated?”
They would be paid commensurate with the pay received by the legislators.
The president stared at his agenda for a few seconds to be certain there was no possible way for the furious non-supporters to claim error or impropriety in what had been done, and there was none. All matters necessary to convene the ratification convention had been completed under authority of the national congress at New York, and by a majority of the Pennsylvania assembly vote, with a quorum present.
It was finished.
Fitzsimons stood and the chamber quieted. “We stand adjourned, sine die.”
The supporting faction came to their feet in loud, heady talk at their resounding success, shaking hands, clapping each other on the back. Pollard nearly ran for the door and down the hall. Citizens in the gallery rose to call out their sentiments, both for and against the action just completed on the floor below them. Caleb stood, drew and released a great breath of relief, and made his way to the door. He walked down the stairs, to the door into the floor of the legislature, to find George Clymer. He found him huddled with Judge Thomas McKean and James Wilson, shaking hands, exclaiming, congratulating each other. Clymer saw Caleb approaching and turned to face him directly.
“Young man, need we say how grateful we are for your performance?” He seized Caleb’s hand to shake it firmly and repeatedly. Clymer released his hand, and Wilson seized it to shake it, then McKean.
“Thank you,” Caleb said. “Would it be possible to spend a minute with Mr. Fitzsimons?”
“Absolutely,” Clymer exclaimed. He took Caleb by the arm, and with Wilson and McKean following, made his way to the chambers of the speaker. Inside, Fitzsimons came to his feet the moment they entered the door.
“Mr. Dunson, I’m not certain that any of us fully understands the value of what you did for us today. My hearty congratulations, sir, and my deepest thanks.” He thrust out his hand to Caleb, who seized it.
Caleb said, “Mr. Fitzsimons, I need to be certain. Is the matter finished?”
Fitzsimons reflected for a moment. “I believe I had better not answer that. I am the speaker, and I
have to remain unbiased in these things.” He turned to Clymer. “Mr. Clymer, how would you answer that?”
Clymer was emphatic. “Absolutely! I give you my personal guarantee that Pennsylvania will ratify the constitution. The convention is set, the time, place, and compensation decided, and it was all done pursuant to instruction from the United States Congress convened in New York, and by majority vote of a quorum in the legislature. It is over. Finished. Complete. I will write your brother my letter saying so within the next two days.”
Wilson cut in. “George, you might make mention that none of it would have happened, except for the service of this young man.”
“By all means! By all means! We are in your debt, sir. Deeply in your debt.”
Wilson turned to Caleb. “Would you care to share with us what happened at the Bellamy Boardinghouse?”
All four men turned, waiting in fascinated silence.
“Nothing, as to Pollard and Edmunds. There were three men in the hall blocking the door. Pretty big. I can see why your sergeant at arms came back empty-handed. I showed them the paper Mr. Fitzsimons signed for me. We had a brief discussion. They decided to let me enter the room. Pollard and Edmunds came peacefully enough.”
Wilson shook his head, grinning. “No, you left something out. The brief discussion. I want to know about that.”
Caleb looked at him for a moment, wiped at his mouth, and answered. “Three men were at the door. The big man, maybe six feet three inches, two-hundred-forty pounds, refused to let me in. He moved his left foot and balled his right fist to hit me. He got a broken nose and a lump over his left ear before he went down. The man to his right made a grab and he got hit on the chin. He went down. The third man left. In a hurry. I took a pistol from the belt of the big man while he was on the floor and gave it to your sergeant at arms. He held it on the two men while I entered the room—kicked the door open—and asked Pollard and Edmunds to come peacefully. They saw the pistol and two of their bodyguards on the hall floor, and came along without any trouble.” He stopped for a moment, then finished. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Mr. Wilson?”