Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  Butler lifted his chin and looked disapprovingly at Pinckney down a long nose that buttressed a massive forehead. An Irishman born to a long line of nobility, Butler scorned wealth as a measure of stature. In his youth, he had served honorably in the British army and later as an officer in the struggle for independence of his adopted country. At forty-three, Butler saw himself as an elder statesman, and Sherman guessed that he disapproved of Pinckney’s youthful impudence.

  “We must go beyond our charter,” Butler said. “Without a sound government, we’ll soon be at each other’s throats.”

  Sherman didn’t voice his opinion that the Articles could be successfully revised. The innkeeper provided a timely distraction. Sherman ordered ale, soup, and a chicken potpie from the harried-looking man who seemed to be happily calculating the night’s receipts as he wove his way back through the crowd.

  Turning to Butler, Sherman said, “For eight years we fought the British to win our liberty. Now we risk throwing it all away. Europe watches, ready to pounce when we collapse into warring factions.”

  Butler looked pleased. “Exactly right. They wait to carve us into pieces.”

  Sherman always searched for broad areas of agreement before addressing specifics. He had little in common with these men, but despite their differences in temperament, wealth, and pedigree—and unlike the philosophical Virginians—Sherman believed he could deal with South Carolina. These men understood the give-and-take of politics.

  Pinckney took a slow sip of ale and said carefully, “Roger, I’m surprised you’re prepared to relinquish Connecticut’s sovereignty.”

  “That’s the challenge,” Sherman said. “How do we increase national authority while retaining state sovereignty?”

  “A Gordian knot. Do you believe it can be unraveled?”

  “Not with the Virginia Plan.”

  Pinckney suddenly looked wary. Sherman wondered if he had overstepped. He didn’t intend to disclose that he knew about South Carolina’s commitment to Madison.

  “The Virginia Plan is flawed,” Butler interjected, “but it’s a starting point. I’d feel more comfortable, however, if Jefferson were with the Virginians.”

  “I disagree,” Pinckney said. “We might need Jefferson’s words, but not Jefferson. He’d disparage all but his own schemes.”

  “Gentlemen, we don’t need Jefferson or his elevated prose,” Sherman said. “Nor do we need rabble-rousers like Patrick Henry or Sam Adams.”

  “No fear of Henry darkening our chamber,” Pinckney sneered. “He spurned his election as a delegate.” Pinckney made a show of looking around the room. Then he lifted his nose and sniffed noisily. “He said he smelled a rat.”

  Butler made a tiny grimace and said, “Patrick fears we’ll discard our revolutionary ideals for stability.”

  “I believe Henry stayed in Virginia so he can throw brickbats at our latticework when we return to seek sanction,” Pinckney taunted.

  “Just as well,” Sherman said. “Our passions must abate so we can build a nation. This job is for realists, not revolutionaries—or philosophers.”

  “Men such as yourself, Roger?” Pinckney said with an edge.

  “I’m here to represent my state. Unlike others, I have no grand scheme.”

  “Virginia provides desperately needed leadership,” Butler said defensibly.

  “Leadership—or deception?” Sherman asked. “The interests of the large states differ from our respective states.”

  Butler looked dubious. “Our interests aren’t common. The interests of New England and the South are as different as the interests of Russia and Turkey.”

  Sherman had brought the conversation to where he wanted it. “Perhaps our interests are more common than you suppose.” He leaned toward Butler and lowered his voice. “There will be disappointments coming from the large state quarters.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting an alliance?” Butler asked.

  “No, you’ve made commitments.” Sherman shifted his gaze until he caught each man’s eye. “Just remember to see me when you feel your vital interests threatened. Connecticut will work with the South on her sensitive issues.”

  Butler and Pinckney looked intrigued. That was enough for the moment. The innkeeper provided another opportune interruption by bringing Sherman his meal. He eagerly turned his attention to his soup and the inn’s famous cornbread.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, May 15, 1787

  A quick motion drew James Madison’s attention to the foyer of the Indian Queen. Roger Sherman stood in the entrance, shaking his rain-splattered cloak. Madison watched Sherman with delight and apprehension.

  Gen. Washington followed Madison’s gaze and remarked, “I see Connecticut sent Sherman.”

  “Yes,” Madison responded. “We’re one state closer to a quorum, but he’ll fight our plan.”

  “Without a quorum, we remain idle,” Washington said. “Far better to endure a few opponents than to never leave the stable. Our alliance will hold, Jemmy.”

  Madison feared the general underestimated Sherman. Many did. Sherman was a strange man. His big frame made him one of the few who could look Washington in the eye, but unlike the general, he did not carry himself with even elemental grace. He lacked wealth, dressed plainly, pulled his hair straight back with neither wig nor powder, and hid his humor behind a dour countenance. His big square face, thin lips, dark eyes, and expansive forehead gave the impression of a dullard plodding through a mediocre political career. Madison knew better. Despite his slovenly appearance, Sherman possessed a sharp wit, expansive knowledge, and decades of experience, both in his native Connecticut and on the national level. Madison held no illusions that he could alter Sherman’s mission. The small states would fight mindlessly to protect their supposed sovereignty.

  It troubled Madison when he saw Sherman sit down with South Carolina. He was a threat Madison would keep his eye on, but Washington was right: bringing Connecticut to the convention was far more important to the upcoming course of events.

  Madison returned his attention to his dinner mates. On the other side of the table sat Robert Morris and Gouverneur Morris, both from Pennsylvania, related only by politics. Robert Morris, reputed to be the richest man in the United States, revered Washington and stayed close to the general, both physically and politically. Gouverneur Morris, a stalwart champion of a strong central government, sat at the end of the table, allowing him to stretch his inflexible wooden leg and girth into the aisle. Thirty-five, talkative, wealthy, and brilliant, Gouverneur Morris usually got his way—in politics, in business, and with women.

  Gouverneur Morris had also watched Sherman’s entrance. “I wonder what Roger’s purpose is with South Carolina?”

  Robert Morris swiveled in his seat to look behind him. Watching Sherman squeeze in amongst the South Carolinians, he said, “I don’t like this. Sherman likes to stay in the background, negotiating deals out of public sight. He’ll do everything in his power to stop us. He’s as cunning as the devil. If he suspects you’re trying to bamboozle him, you might as well catch an eel by the tail.”

  “South Carolina will stay with us,” Washington said. “Her western settlers are on a pivot, and the touch of a feather will turn them toward the Spanish.”

  Robert Morris turned back to Washington. “But will she remain steadfast when we address other issues?”

  Robert Morris looked exactly like what he was, a wealthy financier: pudgy, with a serene round face well supported by an ample double chin. He exuded the confidence that came from a long line of accomplishments.

  Washington took a thoughtful moment. “Connecticut and South Carolina differ in their manners, circumstances, and prejudices. I doubt Roger can find a common interest.”

  “If a common ground is to be found, he’ll find it,” Madison put a hand on his knee to quiet a jittery leg. “He’s not easily managed.” Glancing back toward Sherman, Madison added, “Roger relishes the process, not the outcome. I’m wary of m
en not guided by principle.”

  “You’re too severe, Jemmy,” Washington said. “In my dealings with Sherman, no man has shown a better heart or a clearer head.”

  “Perhaps,” Robert Morris said, “but Sherman is extremely artful in getting his way. That makes him dangerous.”

  “My good sirs,” Gouverneur Morris said jovially, “Connecticut has no more chance of hauling South Carolina to her side than I have of carrying Dr. Franklin to the State House. Sherman is fishing in a droughty pond.”

  Madison took comfort from Gouverneur Morris’s droll assurance, but his unease persisted. He had put so much effort into this plan, worked so hard. He didn’t need someone working the back channels to unravel his careful preparations.

  The Virginia Plan—his plan—had been Madison’s obsession for over a year. He had risked his health, labored to the point of exhaustion, and sacrificed his father’s approval to define the essential elements of a new government. Now everything had come together in Philadelphia. He had a plan and he had the votes. Virginia and Pennsylvania represented the solid core of their alliance. Massachusetts and the Southern states assured a majority. South Carolina, as the leader of the Deep South, had to remain firmly tied to their cause.

  Madison’s greatest achievement sat beside him. When Washington arrived in Philadelphia two days ago, he had been greeted with ceremonial adulation. Three generals, two colonels, and the Light Horse Calvary had escorted him into a city of cheering throngs, exploding cannons, and pealing church bells. The people cherished their Revolutionary hero. Washington’s fame was so broad and pure that his mere presence lent credibility and authority to the proceedings. Convincing him to attend had not been easy, but it was a crucial element of Madison’s scheme to replace the Articles with a new type of government—one never before seen in world history.

  Madison’s thoughts brought him back to the issue they had been discussing. “Then we’re all agreed. Robert will nominate the general for president of the convention?”

  “This seems far too planned and arranged for my taste,” Washington said. “Why not let the selection take its own course?”

  Robert Morris took the assignment of convincing his reluctant friend. “General, you resisted coming to this convention in fear that it might be a debacle like last year at Annapolis. You decided that the risk to the country exceeded the risk to your reputation. Now that you’re here, you must assume the position of leadership to avoid a disastrous outcome.”

  “Mr. Morris, I do not like to be manipulated.”

  “General, sir, we have no such—”

  “You do, sirs,” Washington broke in. “My reputation is far too important to squander on misadventures.”

  “General, we remain mindful of your reputation,” Robert Morris added weakly.

  “Mr. Madison and Mr. Jefferson argued for my attendance on the basis that the country was in dire jeopardy, and the convention needed my stature to draw delegates.” Washington gave them each a hard stare. “I fulfilled that obligation. Now that you have me, you insist I assume the presidency. What if the vote doesn’t go in my favor?”

  “I’ve queried everyone who’s arrived,” Madison interjected. “I can assure you that you’ll be elected overwhelmingly, perhaps unanimously.”

  “My dear general,” Gouverneur Morris said, “your reputation is as safe as a homely maiden’s virtue. Do not fear. Jemmy will ne’er squander his greatest asset.”

  Gouverneur Morris took more liberties with Washington than others dared, but he had learned the limit. He had once wagered that he could slap the general on the back in a hearty greeting but had suffered such a glaring reproach that he never mistook the bounds again.

  Washington brooded for a long moment. Eventually, he said, “I agree, but on my terms. I’ll preside over the deliberations but take no formal role in the debates. I want strict compliance to parliamentary procedures, and the debates must conform to gentleman’s precepts. I’ll make my views known, but only to individuals outside the formal gatherings. Is that acceptable?”

  “Of course, General,” Robert Morris responded for the group.

  Washington turned a hard gaze on Madison. “Are you satisfied, Jemmy?”

  Madison had urged Jefferson—serving as minister to France—to write letters beseeching Washington to attend the convention. Madison had always intended to convince the general to preside over the assemblage, once the general had committed.

  He knew that the people around this table viewed him as their resident scholar, more theologian than practical politician—Jefferson’s bright little friend who supplied the rationalization for what they wanted to do. They believed they were the experienced national leaders with the stature and temperament to win tough contests. Their attitude didn’t distress him. His years in Congress and the Virginia Assembly taught him that his small frame, soft speaking voice, and tendency to argue from history and logic didn’t impress seasoned politicians—men more comfortable bartering votes than changing minds. They failed to notice how often he set the stage for their grand appearances.

  Madison ignored Washington’s rebuff and responded to the general’s conditions. “After your election, the convention will appoint a committee to prepare standing rules. George Wythe has agreed to serve, and I’m sure he’ll be selected chairman. We can trust our fellow Virginian to follow the general’s wishes.”

  Madison was about to address another sensitive subject, when two impeccably dressed gentlemen interrupted them.

  “General, sir, sorry for the intrusion, but we wish to express our delight in seeing you once again lead our nation in this hour of peril.”

  Washington stood. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Lieutenant Colonel Elijah Vose and Major William Perkins. Both served with distinction in the Continental Army.”

  Everyone stood. Madison reflexively stepped back when their foul breath accosted him. The soldiers, wearing inane grins, had obviously imbibed well beyond the limit of a gentleman. The little ceremony had an awkward feel as chairs scraped and extended hands tangled, and the two officers gawked when Gouverneur Morris stiffly lurched onto his wooden leg.

  “Excuse me, sir, did you lose your leg in service to your country?” Perkins got this out just before a tiny burp punctuated the query.

  “Oh, my goodness, no,” Morris said. “It embarrasses me to admit this to you fine soldiers, but I lost it jumping from a lady’s balcony.”

  The officers, looking nonplussed, wavered slightly in a vain attempt to maintain erect posture.

  With an impish grin, Washington said, “Yes, indeed, and the experience has sharpened his morals. He now works harder to control his illicit impulses.”

  “My dear general,” Morris said, “you argue the point so handsomely that I’m tempted to part with the other leg.”

  All six men now enjoyed an easy laugh that erased the uncomfortable moment. Madison forced laughter to keep from spoiling the story. Morris had actually lost his leg in a carriage accident, but he savored his reputation as a rake, and this little scene had been played many times before.

  “Gentlemen, before we part, I must correct your erroneous notion that I shall lead the Federal Convention,” Washington said. “I’m a tired old soldier. We need men with far greater political skills than I to set our government right.”

  Vose blanched. “Excuse me, sir, but the situation is far too grave for dithering politicians.” The man tried to steady his bearing, shuffled half a step, and, after catching himself, comically puffed himself up. “Many fine men have expended their estates, hazarded their lives, and sacrificed their families’ needs in the service of our country. Now disorder and anarchy rule. The time has come for decisive action—action dictated by leaders with the will to suppress the rabble.”

  Washington’s expression grew as stern as his voice. “This rabble, as you call them, is composed of our countrymen, who are trying to deal with problems not of their making. Our leaders must see themselves as servants of the people, not
disciplinarians.”

  “Sir, we spent our youth as servants of the people, spilled our blood, and have come to know their miserly and ungrateful nature. Now they defy authority like unruly children,” Perkins responded. He added in a rather nasty tone, “The country needs a strong taskmaster, one backed by a loyal army to impose his will.”

  Madison watched Washington turn crimson. When he spoke, Madison had never heard a colder voice. “May I remind you, a soldier’s place is on the battlefield. In peacetime, a warrior may feel discarded, but his blood does not buy him the right to ration his countrymen’s liberty. Good night, gentlemen.”

  Both officers rocked back on their heels. Vose somehow found enough composure to bow and say, “My apologies, General. Impatience prompted our rash comments. We shall leave you to your business.”

  With that, the two officers squared their shoulders, executed an awkward about-face, and departed with as little staggering as they could muster.

  “Did that man threaten an overthrow by the military?” Robert Morris asked.

  “I believe so,” Gouverneur Morris said. “That young officer sounded as if he meant business.”

  Washington looked worried but simply said, “Yes, and let’s do as the man suggested and return to ours.”

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, May 15, 1787

  “Land is the only measure of wealth,” Pinckney said. “A man must be born to it, marry it, or swindle his way to it.”

  The Indian Queen’s food matched the elegance of its dining room. As Sherman ate, he let the conversation drift to the weather and political gossip, but now Pinckney got himself into an argument with Butler that threatened to become heated.

  “A man’s birth right is not land, but family name,” Butler said.

  “A family name has less value than a bean if not propped up by land.”

  “Do you insult my family?”

  “Of course not,” Pinckney said. “I was merely trying to explain the fever for western lands.”