“Relax, my boy,” Madison said. “Do not fear challenging me. Charge in, question notions, but argue with logic and consistent principles.”
Mrs. Madison beamed at me. “James hates sophism, but he lives for sound debate. Your visit has already sparked his mood. Proceed, proceed. No need to apologize or equivocate. James only looks fragile. You’ll soon discover the orneriness of a bobcat.”
“Dolley exaggerates. A scraggy house cat can challenge the prowess of this weathered creature.”
Sukey burst through the door, carrying a large tray. I felt relief at the sight of the hearty meal as she distributed plates and bowls filled with generous portions of porridge, bacon, boiled eggs, biscuits, gravy, and pineapple. The aroma pulled the trigger on my appetite.
“I don’t force my habits on my guests,” Madison said, looking amused.
Sukey gave me an impish grin and an abbreviated curtsey, and retreated toward the kitchen. Why did I feel that everyone knew my disposition, while I remained baffled as to the temperament of this household?
“Mr. Witherspoon,” James Madison said, “there were many hurdles we had to overcome at the Federal Convention—what today people call the Constitutional Convention.”
“Mr. President,” I interrupted, “shall we save our political discussion until after the meal? I’m sure Mrs. Madison would appreciate lighter conversation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Witherspoon,” Dolley said. “I never grasped politics, not even after sixteen years in the White House—eight as Jefferson’s hostess and eight more with James. A young man such as yourself, with all your schooling, understands these issues so much better than a woman. Perhaps we can talk about the latest European fashions.”
“I apologize, madam, but I know little of women’s fashions.”
James Madison chuckled. “Mr. Witherspoon, let me save you from an embarrassing moment. Dolley enjoys playing the harlequin to humble male conceit. While president, I found few advisors more astute.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to denigrate your knowledge of political matters. I was only trying to be polite.”
“Of course, Mr. Witherspoon. Your limited perspective isn’t entirely your fault.”
“Dolley, I believe your egg is getting cold and your mood heated,” James Madison said. “Our friend was simply unaware of your interests.”
The old man smiled with his eyes as he took a small bite of toast, clearly enjoying the exchange. I felt deflated. I saw my mission, and myself, as more important than merely providing entertainment for an old man.
Madison, apparently done eating, sat back in his chair and watched me devour my breakfast. When Sukey reappeared, he asked for coffee.
“Mr. Witherspoon, we did compromise, but compromise greases the axle of governance.”
“One should never compromise principles.”
Madison’s expression didn’t change. “Our goal was to build a functioning republic. We approached collapse. Anarchy was the only other course.”
“I find it hard to believe the situation was that dire.”
James Madison looked irritated for the first time. “If we had not acted, the Revolution would have been for naught.”
“Men died in that Revolution for liberty—liberty that your convention denied to half the citizens of the South.”
“Do you mean women?” Dolley asked.
“Women? Well, uh, no. I meant Negroes.”
“Negroes aren’t citizens,” she said.
“They are in the North.”
“Women are citizens in the North and the South.”
“Women know nothing of politics.”
“Slaves do?”
“They can learn.”
She leaned back. “I see.”
“No. I mean …”
“Should we free male Negroes and keep their women slaves?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what would you have?”
I glanced at James Madison. He seemed to enjoy my predicament. Without thought, I reacted emotionally. “Slavery is an abomination. It has nothing to do with suffrage. A man shouldn’t own other human beings.”
“Mr. Witherspoon, what are your intentions with this book?” Dolley asked.
Her directness flustered me. “I made that clear in my letter. My intention is to document the founding of our American republic. Many different accounts have circulated, but all are suspect. The rule of secrecy allowed different participants to paint self-glorifying portraits. I want to present a true account.”
Madison rubbed his hands, massaging what looked more like huge fleshy walnuts than knuckles. “You don’t intend an abolitionist tract?”
Obviously, I wasn’t good at deception. “I won’t mislead you. I want to expose the deceit that ingrained slavery into our society, but that isn’t my sole aim. I sincerely wish to document the founding of our republic.”
Dolley gave me one of her radiant smiles. “Do you intend an expansion of the pamphlet you published last spring?”
“You’ve read it?”
“Of course. Did you imagine Virginia part of the hinterlands?”
“Of course not. It just, well … the pamphlet sold poorly.”
“There are always a few copies around to embarrass a supplicant,” Dolley said.
I turned to her husband. “You knew my views, yet you still granted an interview?”
“You seem a sharp, passionate young man. And I owe a debt to your grandfather.”
I hesitated and then blurted, “Denying women the right to vote is wrong, but slavery is evil.”
“We heard you before,” Dolley said.
“But I didn’t say it so eloquently.”
“A writer should be good with words.”
“A writer has the opportunity to rewrite.”
“You mean you don’t always get it right the first time?” Dolley’s smile had turned coy.
I felt embarrassed. These two old people, one quite enfeebled, had made me look foolish.
“The consequences of what you suggest would be catastrophic—then, now, or in your children’s lifetime,” James Madison said. “I suggest we put aside the issue of slavery for a time. I’ll give you an opportunity to examine this institution and to gauge the tenor of our agrarian culture.”
Dolley said, “Mr. Witherspoon, you should attempt to understand our way of life before you instruct us on how we ought to live.” Now the smile. “Perhaps European fashion would have made a more appropriate breakfast topic.”
Her kind face, full of goodwill, erased my embarrassment and created an urge to please rather than irritate. I wondered what would have been the fate of two administrations, absent Dolley’s rare gift.
After we had resettled in the sitting room, Dolley asked, “How would you like to start your inquiry?”
I directed my answer to James Madison. “Before my grandfather died, he told me that you took extensive notes during the convention. I’d like to study them.”
“No.”
Madison’s abrupt answer startled me. “May I ask why not?”
“You may ask any questions you like, but you may not have access to my records.”
“But that is why I came.”
“You requested an interview.”
“I thought your notes would prompt my questions.”
“They will be published after my death.”
“I don’t wish to publish them, only to use them to educate myself on the proceedings.”
“I shall educate you.”
“Your memory—”
The president’s firm expression stopped me. After a deep breath, I continued, “Sir, I know delegates engineered compromises that eroded your republican intent. I want to document their obstructionism.”
“That’s not a question.”
Another deep breath. “Why did you compromise?”
“We crafted perilous paths between differing opinions,” Madison said, “that allowed us to leave Philadelphia with something t
o present to an anxious nation. I have no doubt that today we would be under the yoke of a European power if not for the success of the Federal Convention.”
“Why did you not include a bill of rights?”
“An error. One I corrected in the First Congress.”
“The Bill of Rights does not extend to slaves.”
“That would have meant emancipation.”
“Justice, and our character as a people, demand that we should consider slaves as human beings, not as mere property. Yet slaves remain in spite of declarations that all men are born equally free.”
Dolley’s chin lifted. “Those are my husband’s words.”
“Yes,” I answered, keeping my eyes on James Madison.
He glanced down at his folded hands. “My words, not my deeds.”
I thought I detected a hint of despondency. “Why did your deeds fall short of your words?”
Madison eyes closed. “Politicians deal with the practical … the achievable.”
“My faith makes no such allowances.”
The old man opened his eyes and chuckled. “Roger Sherman used to say that faithfulness is not how one lives, but what one aspires to.”
I felt my back stiffen. “I’m appalled to hear you quote Sherman. That man used the Constitution to shackle Negroes.”
Madison’s eyes lost any hint of melancholy. “Young man, you seem at a loss about how to proceed. I suggest I tell the story as it happened. Then you may judge us against any standards you choose.”
“I don’t mean to judge.”
“Of course you do. We’ll start with Roger Sherman.”
Part 1
An Assembly of Demigods
Chapter 1
Tuesday, May 15, 1787
Roger Sherman shook the rain from his heavy cloak.
“Are you meeting someone, sir?”
“Yes, but I don’t yet know who.”
Sherman ignored the doorman’s haughty look and turned his attention to the central hall of the Indian Queen. The bright tavern smelled of wet wool, spilled beer, tobacco, and good food. Knots of men clogging the open spaces boisterously greeted old friends. Cheerful innkeepers swung through the crowd, brandishing tankards of ale and platters of food.
“Can I help, sir?”
Sherman turned to look again at the young doorman.
The Indian Queen was an expensive Philadelphia tavern. The well-built Negro, dressed in a blue embroidered coat, red silk cape, buff waistcoat and breeches, ruffled shirt, and powdered hair, presented an unmistakable message: the poor should continue down Fourth Street to find another tavern, one more suited to their station and budget.
Sherman, sixty-six years old, may have looked out of place in his scuffed brown suit, but he had spent many evenings in similar establishments. The display didn’t intimidate him, and he looked forward to a better than average meal. Handing his cloak to the pretentious doorman, Sherman said, “I’m with the Federal Convention. Perhaps you can direct me to some of the other delegates.”
“Just to your left, sir. Many of your colleagues have gathered in the Penn Room.”
Sherman walked through double doors to a large room arranged with tables covered in turquoise cloth and set with white-and-blue-patterned china. A festive mood filled the room as men carried on animated discussions with their dinner companions. Despite the cheerful appearance, Sherman spied ominous signs in the quieter corners. Beyond the merriment and goodwill, small clusters of powerful men sat quietly scheming. Alliances had already been formed, and he would need to catch up with his opponents.
The United States had won its independence from England four years before, and already the elite plotted to overthrow the government. They believed that the country’s loose confederation—sufficient during the imperative of war—had proved inadequate in peacetime. These privileged few wanted a forceful central government, one suited to the empire they intended to rule.
Sherman had arrived today, eager to refresh his intelligence with news, opinions, and tavern gossip. The future of his young nation depended on the outcome of this gathering, and Sherman held few illusions about the task ahead. He feared that this Federal Convention would strive to give unprecedented power to a national government. To protect Connecticut’s interests, he had to win delegates to his side.
Sherman spotted James Madison in a far corner. They knew each other from their years together in Congress. Madison’s pale, boyish face made him look much younger than his thirty-six years. A small and graceful man, he often appeared dwarfed when standing next to those giants, the tall and stately Gen. Washington or his friend and neighbor, Tom Jefferson. What Madison lacked in physical presence, however, he made up in energy and intellect.
Madison was bright and learned, but Sherman considered him a zealot. He had arrived on May 3, a full eleven days before the scheduled start and well before everyone else. He had prepared for a year, badgered everyone to attend, orchestrated events, and left his imprint everywhere. Sherman believed him capable, but young and naïve in the ways of achieving political consensus.
When Madison briefly caught his eye, Sherman pretended not to notice. He wanted to avoid the Virginians for now. This was a night to gather information and form relationships, not a time to expose his strategy to opponents. Sherman knew Madison had a plan, an alliance, and Gen. Washington on his side. He must break this juggernaut. Connecticut’s survival depended on it.
Squeezing his large frame through the packed room, Sherman walked heavily toward a table of South Carolina delegates. Although this key Southern state stood firmly in the Virginia camp, Sherman believed that with patience and skill, he could erode the alliance. His task was to find common ground, but breaking the South Carolina bond with the large states would require care and patience.
“Mr. Butler, may I join you?”
Not surprisingly, Charles Pinckney responded. “Of course. Sit down, sit down.” Pinckney scooted his chair aside to make room. “When did you arrive?”
“This afternoon. With the rain and mud, the trip was long and tiring. I’m glad to settle in on hard planks that don’t wash side to side like a ship out of trim.”
Pinckney didn’t look sympathetic. “We came by sea. I’d tell you about it, but the subject fatigues me.”
Sherman glanced about the tavern. “Quite a boisterous crowd. Are these delegates? I don’t recognize many.”
“Most of those noisy gentlemen are members of the Society of the Cincinnati, here for their own convention.”
“That explains it.” Sherman turned back toward his table companions. “I thought it looked like a gathering of good fellows.”
Pinckney sneered. “The officers of the Revolution are still congratulating themselves for thrashing the most powerful nation on earth.”
“Surely you don’t begrudge our soldiers an occasion to celebrate,” Sherman said.
“Soldiers?” Pinckney tone conveyed disdain. “More like an aristocracy in waiting. Each convinced he single-handedly won the war. Their leader, Gen. Washington, sits over there, regally presiding over the Virginians.”
Pinckney—rich, vain, and handsome—was only twenty-nine years old. Despite his upbringing, he did not comport himself as a gentleman. Sherman found him irreverent, aggressive, and, above all, ambitious. Exuding an aristocratic air, Pinckney supported populist and backcountry issues.
“The Presbyterians are here as well,” Pinckney continued derisively. “But their pretensions are more ethereal. We must surely have a good convention, with the military class and the clergy to give us guidance.”
Sherman had forgotten the Cincinnati would be in Philadelphia. The city had grown large and prosperous, and served as a favorite gathering place for societies, leagues, and conventions. The Society of the Cincinnati was an organization of Revolutionary officers who many feared had their own ideas about how to cut out the decay gripping the nation.
“No wonder Philadelphia has grown expensive,” Sherman said. “If the confe
rence goes long, Connecticut may not have authorized sufficient funds.”
“Oh, it’ll go long—or very short,” Pinckney said. “Did you find adequate lodgings?”
“Quite adequate. I can walk to the State House in minutes.” Sherman was sure the South Carolinians were quartered far more luxuriously, probably here at the Indian Queen. He decided to turn the conversation in a different direction.
“I visited Dr. Franklin this afternoon and discovered that we are all invited to dine at his home tomorrow afternoon. He promised to open a cask of excellent porter, recently arrived from Europe.”
“So you too have made the pilgrimage to the great doctor’s home.” Pinckney waved dismissively. “So have we all. Sipping tea under his mulberry tree, talking about the great things we’ve done or intend to do. Chuckling at the old man’s witticisms.”
Sherman ignored the sarcasm. “How close are we to a quorum?”
“Close with your arrival. Perhaps we can start soon.” Pinckney cast his eyes about the table, adding lightly, “I can only wonder at what we’ll be starting.”
The comment drew subdued laughter. Sherman calculated that they were on their third ale. Unlike Pinckney, he wasn’t eager to see the proceedings begin, because he wanted time to talk to delegates before the heat of the convention. Adopting an innocent tone, he said, “We’ll build a working government. One that can deliver us from our present disorder.”
“What authority do we have?” Pinckney demanded.
“We’re sanctioned by Congress,” Sherman said.
Pierce Butler shifted in his chair and joined the conversation. “Congress ruled that we may only revise the Articles of Confederation.”
Pinckney looked around at his fellow South Carolinians. “That’s what we’ve been debating. Do we have the power to write a new constitution or merely adjust deficiencies in the Articles? Most people believe the latter.”
“We have whatever authority we assume,” Butler said.
“So we’re to be our own masters,” Pinckney said. “Those outside our famed little conclave may disagree.”
Tempest at Dawn Page 2