Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  Tempest at Dawn

  Also by James D. Best

  The Shopkeeper

  Leadville

  Murder at Thumb Butte

  Tempest at Dawn

  Principled Action, Lessons from the Origins of the American Republic

  The Shut Mouth Organization

  The Digital Organization

  Praise for Steve Dancy Titles

  “You'll find yourself lost in the book—the fast pace keeps it interesting.”—Maritza Barone, Woman's Day

  “This is a fast paced tale with an interesting hero ... you’ll certainly find enough twists and turns to provide an entertaining and exciting story.”—Western Writers of America, August, 2008

  “The Shopkeeper is quick and fun to read, perfect for a vacation escape.”—Diane Scearce, Nashville Examiner

  “A great book, I do hope that The Shopkeeper gets the readership it richly deserves.”—Simon Barrett , Blogger News Network

  “Once again, Best has penned a fine read.”—C. K. Crigger, Roundup Magazine

  “I loved it! The story is told in such a classic, smooth tone--it's really fast paced throughout.”—Jonathon Lyons, Lyons Literary

  “I enjoy Best's style of writing, and it's a quick read.”—BookAdvice.net

  “I would highly recommend these two westerns to anyone with an imagination and curiosity about the history of our country. And besides, they are just excellent reading.”—Holgerson’s Book and Bookstore

  “The Shopkeeper brings a hint of the ‘difference’ that is being called for in westerns, and the story moves along at a fast pace that provides a most enjoyable few hours of relaxation.”—John H. Manhold, Fascinating Authors

  Praise for The Shut Mouth Society

  “The Shut Mouth Society is a fast-moving, well-written novel.”—David M. Kinchen, Huntington News

  “The author has done an excellent job of building the story. It is a good, quick read with some exciting historical teasers.”—Bookadvice.net

  Praise for Tempest at Dawn

  “If you want to learn about the evolution of one of the greatest documents ever created by man---the Constitution of the United States---relax in your bed, favorite chair or recliner, and enjoy Tempest At Dawn.”—Allen Ball, Beaufort Observer

  “The author’s ability to flesh out so many characters so effectively makes the book, which could easily have been dry and flavorless, sparkle with subtle verve and wit.”—Martin Sielaff, What Would the Founders Think?

  “I highly recommend this book to anyone who has an interest in our nation’s founding, the principals involved, and in great historical writing. The research fleshes out the story and makes it informatively entertaining.”—Militant Reviews

  “This is an important story told in a lively fashion. Tempest at Dawn might be the ideal way of introducing the American public to the gripping story of how our Founding Fathers gave birth to our constitution.”—Jon Bruning, Attorney General, Nebraska

  Tempest at Dawn

  a novel

  James D. Best

  Tempest at Dawn

  James D. Best

  Published by Queen Beach

  Copyright © 2009 James D. Best.

  Cover design by Jim Wood

  Discover other titles by James D. Best at

  http://www.jamesdbest.com/

  ebook International Standard Book Number: 978-1-4524-0182-9

  Print Edition Published by Wheatmark®

  610 East Delano Street, Suite 104

  Tucson, Arizona 85705 U.S.A.

  www.wheatmark.com

  International Standard Book Number: 978-1-60494-344-3

  “The infant periods of most nations are buried in silence, or veiled in fable, and perhaps the world has lost little it should regret. But the origins of the American Republic contain lessons of which posterity ought not to be deprived.”

  James Madison

  Historical Note

  In July of 1776, thirteen North American colonies declared their independence from Great Britain. Fighting had actually started a year earlier at Concord and Lexington with “the shot heard ’round the world.” War continued for seven more years until, on September 3, 1783, the Treaty of Paris finally legitimized the sovereignty claims of the United States of America. At that time, the thirteen former colonies considered themselves independent states loosely connected for self-defense.

  The Articles of Confederation, the first United States Constitution, proved barely adequate during the imperative of war and a failure in peacetime. Within a few years, the military had been reduced to near extinction, depression and hyperinflation sapped hope, insurrection sprang from civil injustice, a confused government tottered perilously close to collapse, and European powers hovered like vultures, eager to devour the remains.

  In the summer of 1786, a convention at Annapolis collapsed without making any recommendations to our enfeebled government. James Madison and Alexander Hamilton attended the aborted Annapolis Convention and made a pact to promote another national conference the following summer. In May of 1787, fifty-five men came to Philadelphia with a congressional charter to revise the Articles of Confederation.

  Prologue

  October 6, 1835

  Anxiety woke me before dawn. Rolling to my side, I pulled the heavy quilt over my exposed ear. Was I ready? Had I prepared sufficiently? Would the old man reveal what I had come here to learn? He was stubborn and had frustrated many before me.

  Eventually I stirred and made my way to the lamp. I fumbled to light it, then held quiet, alert to any noise in the house. Nothing. I started to dress.

  I had arrived the previous night, eager to ask questions, but the old man had sent me to bed, explaining that he thought more clearly in the mornings. Now I knew this was fortuitous. If I had charged ahead, I would have blundered and disclosed my true objective. The old man knows secrets and he has documents—documents he has kept hidden from public view for fifty years. I counseled myself to be patient and approach my subject obliquely.

  The events that concerned me had occurred fifty years ago, when the old man was thirty-six. He would die soon, the last witness gone. Powerful men had gathered, met in secret, and plotted to overthrow a government. When he died, no one would be left to expose what had happened behind those locked doors.

  I grabbed my coat, intent on a brisk walk to clear my mind. Just before opening the bedroom door, I stopped. I had traversed the path only once. I decided to leave the lamp lit, so the spill of light would help me navigate the landing. The front door stood directly in front of the stairs, so if I found the first step, I should avoid stumbling.

  Escaping the house, I discovered enough nascent light to guide my way. At the back of the estate, a horseshoe-shaped garden greeted me. Flowers and ornamental shrubs bracketed vegetables, fruit trees, and grape arbors. The garden appeared withered, prepared for winter’s dormancy, but its general neatness still impressed—four acres of unruly nature rigidly ordered and groomed to match the taste of its owner.

  The morning chill chased me back toward the house. A thick forest girdled a vast arc of grass spilling across the front acreage. Stately white pines lined the approach road, and clusters of trees occasionally broke the uniformity. I took a deep sniff and smelled wet foliage that carried a hint of decay.

  A noise from the porch drew my attention to the mansion. I saw two people work their way across the porch. The old man shuffled unsteadily as he clung to a strong black arm. The manservant slipped a hand under the old man’s elbow and lowered him into his rocker. When he had settled, the patriarch sat back to allow his servant to spread a heavy blanket across his lap.

  “Thank you, Paul, I’ll be fine now. Tell Sukey I’m ready for my tea.”

  I s
tood silently and watched my host tuck the blanket tight against his legs. Kneading his rheumatic hands, he gazed at the rolling mountains in the distance. Before I could decide how to signal my presence, the mistress waltzed onto the porch, breaking the old man’s reverie.

  “James, I know you love your morning ritual, but it’s far too chilly for you to be out here. Come. I’ll help you move into the sitting room.”

  “I’m bundled warmly. If you want to ward off my chill, hurry Sukey with my tea.”

  “Sukey’ll be here shortly,” she said, one hand on her hip, “I won’t argue, but may I remind you that you barely made it through last winter? Just think how disappointed you’ll be if you can’t read your books.”

  “Clever, my dear, but I’m staying—although, I might expire right here if I don’t get my tea.”

  “I’ll see what’s keeping Sukey, but breakfast will be served in the dining room.” She threw this last over her shoulder as she retreated into the house.

  The subject of my investigation looked small enough that a soft breeze could tumble him away with the autumn leaves. How could such a frail man rouse his partisans and enemies to such passion? His soft voice furnished not the slightest hint of authority.

  Yet he somehow struck an imposing figure, sitting exquisitely still in his black silk gown, black gloves, and tight-fitting skullcap. Sharp, birdlike features and a stern expression erupted from the dark garb. The tiny man, reputed to have an enormous intellect, still possessed eyes that promised an alert mind.

  My hesitancy allowed another player to enter the scene, a petite black woman who emerged from the house balancing a large tray with tea service. The old man acknowledged her with a faint nod. The woman served the tea with an élan gained from years of experience. She arranged a second cup. Was this meant for the woman of the house or me? The aroma spurred me to action.

  As I walked toward the porch, the man’s wife reappeared. I stopped—one foot on the first step—waiting for the appropriate moment.

  My host glanced at his wife and said to his servant, “Sukey, set breakfast up out here. I don’t think we’ll have many more mornings to eat outside.”

  “James, we’ve already discussed this. Breakfast will be served in the dining room. Sukey, tell Paul to put fresh logs on the fire.”

  Whirling around, the wife nearly bumped into me. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Witherspoon,” she said. “I hope you slept comfortably.”

  “Yes, very comfortably, thank you.”

  I turned toward my host. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  “Mr. Witherspoon, please sit. Tea tastes especially good on a brisk morning.”

  I sat opposite the wisp of the once-great man. “You have a wonderful and gracious home. This is my first visit to Virginia, and it’s as beautiful as I had imagined.”

  “You’ve lived your whole life in New Jersey?”

  “I’ve traveled to New York and New England, but this is my first visit to the South.”

  “Welcome. You’ll find our habits different.”

  “The South is different, but you’re not. I’ve read everything you’ve written, and I’m impressed by how much you think like someone from the North.”

  “I presume you meant that as a compliment?”

  “Of course. Your roots are in Virginia, but your thinking and erudition reflect that you were schooled in the North.”

  The old man sat quietly for a moment. “Have you secured a publisher?”

  “High interest. I need only to present a novel view that applies to current politics.”

  “I hope my views are not novel.”

  “The views of an actual participant would be novel.”

  The old man settled back ever so slightly into his chair. “My home has hosted historians, politicians, and other eminent people, but your visit is special. I look fondly back on my days at the College of New Jersey and the Reverend Doctor Witherspoon. I owe a great debt to your grandfather. You should be proud.”

  These comments from James Madison pleased me more than I would have expected. “Thank you, sir. I struggle to be worthy of his name.”

  “Where do you wish to start?”

  “A difficult question. So little is known. Was it necessary to keep the proceedings secret?”

  “Neither nations nor children should be conceived in public.”

  I was taken aback. “You supported secrecy?”

  “It passed unanimously—without debate. The times and circumstances required private deliberation.”

  “As a historian, I disagree. Secret cabals should not design governments. The Constitutional Convention should have been open.”

  Madison gave a little laugh. “Jefferson agreed with you. He said that secrecy represented an abominable precedent that could be justified only by ignorance.” The sun had fully emerged, and Madison paused to take in the Blue Ridge Mountains, now awash in fall color. When he again made eye contact, he spoke as if there had been no interruption. “Mr. Witherspoon, if the convention had met publicly, it would’ve stifled debate. Private deliberations allowed the kind of raucous exchanges that illuminate hard choices.”

  “Why haven’t you disclosed the details of the proceedings?”

  “Our work should be judged by the outcome, not the process.”

  “Some would judge the outcome immoral,” I blurted.

  The next few seconds felt like a minute. “May I ask what novel view you intend to propose to your publisher?”

  “An accurate account. You’re the last of the founding fathers. You can explain the travesties.”

  “And what travesties might those be?”

  “The victory of property rights over liberty, elitism over representation, and—the worst blasphemy—the endorsement of slavery in our country’s most sacred document.”

  “You’re an abolitionist?”

  “As are all righteous men.”

  Madison gave a dismissive shrug. “We were driven to find common ground by need.”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but the goal should have been to guarantee liberty for everyone, including slaves.”

  Madison sat quietly, looking at me with an unblinking stare. I could feel the old man taking my measure. “You’re young—and perhaps a bit naïve.”

  He scrunched up in his chair. I unconsciously shifted in my seat as well, stretching my long legs in a new direction. The old man looked as delicate as a ripe dandelion. How could someone so weak intimidate me?

  Madison finally said, “What are they teaching young people today? True, it’s been nearly fifty years, but how could such important events have become so distorted?”

  “Perhaps I’ve been misinformed. That’s why I requested this interview—to get a firsthand account.”

  “I presume you’re aware that I own over a hundred slaves and that your breakfast is even now being prepared by a slave.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with the situation. Nor do I understand it. You have repeatedly condemned slavery. I can only presume that you had no choice in your lifetime. But change is coming.”

  “Some adulate change; some abhor it. A few see a degree of change that exists only in their imagination.”

  I bristled. “I see myself as one who incites change.”

  “Meaning you’re not a tavern abolitionist?”

  “I am a revolutionary, as you once were.” I took a sloppy sip of tea and wiped my chin. “Excuse me, sir. Of course, you have not grown passive in retirement. You support the expatriation of slaves to Liberia. I simply work for a solution closer to home.”

  “And what solution might that be?”

  “Complete abolition. Unless I misunderstand your writings, you support the same goal.”

  “You presuppose, young man.” Turning slightly to look over my shoulder, Madison said, “Paul, I assume breakfast is ready?”

  Paul had walked onto the porch and stood quietly to the side.

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Madison asked me to bring you indoors.”
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br />   “Of course she did. Very well. Mr. Witherspoon, please precede us. You can assure Mrs. Madison that we are making our interminable way to the dining room.”

  The seat at the head of the table and those on either side had been set at the end near the fire. Mrs. Madison stood behind one chair, so I stood behind the chair opposite. Despite Madison’s protestations, I welcomed the warmth from the fire. We kept our places as Paul helped the former president of the United States traverse the length of the room.

  As soon as Madison took his seat, Sukey placed a large plate in front of him. The broad expanse of china dwarfed the thin slices of jammed bread accented with a slender wedge of melon. I couldn’t help staring at the plate. My long trip had famished me. Surely, more food waited in the kitchen.

  Seating herself, Mrs. Madison scooted her chair toward the table, giving me a radiant smile that engaged every feature of her face. In repose, she looked ordinary, but her face when lit up stunned and captivated. I had never before encountered anyone who could shed so many years with a smile.

  “James eats little these days,” she said. “It doesn’t take much to nourish his body. Nourishing his mind, however, is an endless task he still relishes. He’s been looking forward to your visit.”

  Glancing toward the kitchen door, I ironed a linen napkin across my lap with the flat of both hands. “Sir, I must apologize for my comments on the porch. I’m here to learn, not preach. I meant no offense.”