Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  “No, no,” Morris said. “We’re ready to retire. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  The innkeeper never looked at Morris; instead he aimed a witless grin at Washington. “My pleasure. The general’s always welcome at the Indian Queen.”

  All evening, Madison had found the innkeeper’s solicitous behavior irritating. Now he was amused by his inadvertent slight toward the rest of the party. Washington often elicited bumbling adulation.

  “Thank you,” Washington said, with a regal nod of the head. “We’ll be in Philadelphia for a spell, so we’ll visit your fine establishment again.”

  “Yes, the Federal Convention. A noble endeavor. My best wishes.”

  “And what might those wishes be?” Washington asked.

  “My wishes? Oh my. Yes, well, I suppose I … uh … yes … I, uh, wish you gentlemen great success.”

  When the innkeeper recalled the incident for friends, relatives, and customers, his answer would undoubtedly be eloquent and coherent. He would tell everyone that the great general George Washington had asked for his advice and that he had responded with sage counsel.

  Washington betrayed nothing. Looking genuinely interested, he said, “Success comes in many guises. Do you support a strong federal government?”

  Now, the innkeeper looked nervous. “Dear General, with deepest respect, I don’t think so. I, uh … well, I work hard, all day and well into the night. Please excuse me—sir, I don’t mean to be impertinent—but taxes already lighten my purse. A larger government will surely demand more money. I see no benefit.”

  Washington looked like he was mulling over a new concept. “Taxes are a congenital disease of government. The country, however, suffers from many ills that I believe only a strong federal government can cure.”

  “Philadelphia seems unaffected by these ills. People prosper, trade flourishes, and our vigorous commerce supports many public works. In time, the rest of the country will follow our lead.” Then, with a little stronger voice, the innkeeper added, “Most of our problems emanate from politicians. They already meddle too much.”

  Madison found the man’s newfound tongue intriguing. His purse obviously held greater import than the risk of offending the great hero of the Revolution.

  Washington looked contemplative. “You make valid points, sir. I appreciate your forthrightness. Philadelphia, however, is unique in its enviable position. The rest of the nation won’t adopt your sound principles as long as state sovereignty reigns uppermost. Your fine city may provide a radiant example, but not a solution.”

  “Dear General, I believe we can lead the nation far better than New York. Move the nation’s capital from that cow pasture to Philadelphia. We deserve no less. Only London has a larger English-speaking population.”

  Washington bestowed upon the innkeeper a thin smile as he stood to leave. “Thank you, sir, for your views. Balancing the interests of our varied populace will present us with a challenge.”

  With a slight bow, the innkeeper asked, “Shall I present the bill?”

  “Charge it to my quarters, please,” Madison said, as he pushed away from the table.

  For the first time, the innkeeper turned his attention to someone other than the general. “Of course, sir. James Madison, correct?”

  “Yes,” Madison said. “I’d be grateful if you itemized the account.” Madison nodded to the innkeeper. “Thank you, we had a wonderful evening.”

  Washington treated everyone with courtesy, despite flaws in opinion or character. He seemed to like everyone he encountered. Madison thought this a splendid attribute for a politician, but it was one he didn’t share with the general. As he said good night to his companions, he reminded himself to check the bill carefully.

  After their group broke up, Madison headed for his room. So many tavern guests had unobtrusively made their way to the exit that the place suddenly seemed to have grown quiet. He knew that some had left to visit one of Philadelphia’s notorious bawdy houses, while others may have arranged late-night liaisons with more respectable women. Madison’s passions drove him in a different direction.

  His apartment was located on the third floor. He bounded up the stairs two at a time. As he reached his landing, an Argand lamp cast a bright glow down the hall. This recent Swiss invention produced ten times the light of a conventional whale oil lamp. Madison made a mental note to buy several for Montpelier and another for Jefferson. This thought reminded him that he wanted to write his friend a letter.

  Madison held no doubts. Republics had come and gone throughout history. The challenge was not to forge a republic, but to build one that would endure. The key to a lasting republic was the design. Studying other republics, he had paid special attention to their structure, looking for the flaws that accelerated their demise. The Virginia Plan held the ingredients of a republic for the ages. Now, at long last, it was all about to begin. Thinking in a rush, he had a letter to Jefferson composed in his head by the time he entered his room.

  Madison’s room was small but pleasing, with an unobstructed view of the Delaware River and the Jersey shore. The furniture included a comfortable bed, a bureau, a writing table with drawers, a large looking glass, stuffed chairs, and two nicely framed oil paintings on the walls. A handsome night cabinet, pushed into a far corner, hid the chamber pot. Today’s newspaper and London magazines were splayed across the table.

  Shrugging off his coat, he immediately went to the writing table. He spent a minute arranging the ink, the paper, and his thoughts.

  The sound of the town crier in the street below disturbed his concentration. “Ten o’clock and weather clear, ten o’clock and weather clear.” This Philadelphia tradition irritated him. All night long his sleep would be interrupted on the hour by this rhythmical chant. He hoped time would numb his awareness of the intrusion.

  He looked at his ink-stained hand, pen poised to strike the first letter. Madison had never been to Europe, so the idea of communicating to France fascinated him. How he wished he could just talk to Jefferson. The hopes and aspirations they had shared for over a decade were about to come to fruition.

  The pen suddenly leaped to life, filling Madison’s ears with the familiar and reassuring sound of a quill scratching paper.

  Dear Tom,

  In a few days, we shall begin at long last to build our republic. If men were angels, no government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, no controls on government would be necessary…

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, May 16, 1787

  “Perhaps I should cease boring you with political matters.”

  “On the contrary, we need to work together,” Paterson said. “Something you’ve refused to do in the past.”

  Sherman and William Paterson of New Jersey sat in Mrs. Marshall’s parlor. They had met at Sherman’s boardinghouse to plot a strategy for the convention.

  Sherman tried to look sympathetic. “Our hands are full with the rebellion by our western settlers against Pennsylvania. Times are too tense to engage another state.”

  New York was using her harbor to extort unreasonable taxes from both Connecticut and New Jersey. When nothing came of New Jersey’s request to Congress for redress, New Jersey had quit contributing taxes to the national government and asked Connecticut to join her in an armed offensive against New York. Connecticut had declined.

  “Until stopped by force, New York will continue to pillage our treasury.”

  “The convention can strengthen the government so it can deal with such matters.”

  “Such talk scares me. Roger, the Virginians advance sedition.”

  “William, you go too—”

  “You aren’t suggesting that we withhold criticism of their corrupt scheme?”

  “Of course not. You’re right to harbor fears, but casting dispersions on their proposal won’t be enough.”

  “We must expose their treachery. Their treason!” Paterson got up and paced the room. “Honor demands that we stop them. Stop the theft
of our state sovereignty, stop the theft of our liberty, and stop the theft of our purse.”

  Sherman glanced toward the door. “William, please lower your voice. Other guests may be within earshot.”

  Paterson gave Sherman a long stare. The lawyer was forty-one and wore short-cropped hair without a wig unless he was in court. Well-proportioned facial features decorated a small head perched on a stumpy body. His perpetually pinched mouth and disapproving eyes gave people the impression of an earnest clergyman searching for a moral blemish to reprimand. In fact, he was an aggressive prosecutor who preferred much more earthly punishments.

  Sherman gestured toward the chair opposite his own. “William, please sit. I agree, we need to stop their plan, but we must proceed with stealth. An enemy forewarned is an enemy forearmed.”

  Paterson stopped pacing. “I don’t believe you see the threat as clearly as I do.”

  “I see the threat as imminent and frightening, but beating back the Virginians will take more than shouting.”

  Paterson rested his hands on his ample hips. “What do you propose?”

  “We need a plan of our own.”

  Paterson hesitated, and then the muscles in his face relaxed. “What sort of plan?”

  “One that protects our sovereignty.”

  Paterson sat down. “That’ll take time—and allies.”

  “We must gain time. If Madison is allowed to rush the convention, we’re doomed.” Sherman spoke as if a new thought had occurred to him. “What about a Committee of the Whole?”

  “That would buy us time and force the Virginians to disclose their full scheme.” Paterson uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Can we get it?”

  “I’ll petition Gen. Washington.”

  “He won’t help. He leads the Virginians.”

  “He’ll be elected president of the convention and probably leader of the new government. He’s already thinking about governing after the new system is approved, and he knows he’ll need support from our states.” Sherman leaned in conspiratorially, as if confiding to a close friend. “I believe the general will consider arguments that mollify opponents. I’ll approach him today.”

  “New Jersey and Connecticut cannot stand alone.”

  “Delaware will join us,” Sherman said, turning to see who had just entered the parlor.

  “May I bring you gentleman tea?” The interruption came from Mrs. Marshall’s rangy Negro servant.

  “No, thank you, Howard. We must leave soon.” Then Sherman impulsively asked, “How long have you worked for Mrs. Marshall?”

  “All my life, sir. I first worked for her husband in the shipyard before his death. Now I help Mrs. Marshall with her guests.”

  “You certainly didn’t acquire your deportment in the shipyards. How were you educated?”

  “Mr. Marshall took me in when I was twelve. He taught me himself. Each evening he gave me a lesson and encouraged me to learn more on my own.”

  “Mr. Marshall sounds like a fine man,” Sherman said.

  Howard flashed a self-deprecating smile. “I suspect he didn’t want a big dumb youngster hanging around his dock.”

  “I’m sure he had grander motives.”

  Howard stood slightly straighter. “Mr. Marshall was a great man. Many didn’t appreciate him because he was a hard taskmaster, but he was fair to those who were loyal and worked hard.”

  “You’re a credit to his character. I’m sorry I didn’t have an opportunity to meet him.”

  “That’s a compliment he would have appreciated.” Howard bowed his head slightly. “If you gentlemen are content, I have other chores.” Looking self-conscious, Howard turned and disappeared into the central hall.

  Sherman returned his attention to Paterson, only to find him wearing an expression meant to convey extreme impatience.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption,” Sherman said. “My curiosity sometimes distracts me from important affairs. We should leave or we’ll be late for Dr. Franklin’s party.”

  Sherman and Paterson left Mrs. Marshall’s and walked up Third Street toward Dr. Franklin’s house. Sherman marveled at Philadelphia’s size and rapid expansion. One of the largest freshwater ports in the world drove the city’s prosperity. Philadelphia had been a cultural nucleus since colonial times, but it had grown into the commercial, banking, insurance, and transportation center for the young country.

  Construction seemed to burst from every street corner. In late afternoon, when most cities started to quiet down, Philadelphia still rang with hammers and the shouts of men ordering up materials. Elegant carriages squeezed through the streets between wagons carrying lumber, bricks, and goods from around the world. Sherman knew that only darkness would calm the frantic activity.

  When they reached Market Street, Paterson touched Sherman’s forearm. “I saw you with the South Carolinians. Surely you don’t expect to sway their vote?”

  Sherman tried to suppress his irritation at having his thoughts interrupted. “Not until events develop further. Our common interests are few, but we each have parochial interests that don’t tread on each other’s affairs. They can be bartered.”

  “Don’t expect much from South Carolina. Charleston, like New York, extorts an import tax from her neighbors. She’ll be unsympathetic to our commercial interests.”

  Sherman didn't argue the point. Politicians who fixated on a single issue bewildered him. He didn’t believe in limiting his options, and he knew that South Carolina could eventually prove useful. His job, however, was not to teach legislative skills but to represent his state.

  Market Street was a novelty. Stretching all the way from the docks, a series of narrow stalls ran down the center of the thoroughfare. Tradesmen, merchants, and itinerant vendors peddled every imaginable type of goods in the tiny cubicles. Bustling foot traffic clogged the streets, so experienced Philadelphians directed their horses and carriages along other routes.

  In the middle of a block of four-story houses, a stately iron gate marked the entrance to Franklin’s hidden courtyard. The gate stood open, but a liveried servant kept the curious at bay. Sherman and Paterson passed unchallenged into an arched alleyway that tunneled through the brick townhouses facing the street’s hectic activity. Once they emerged into open air, an odd building stood between them and Franklin’s house. The three-story structure had an arched hole in the center that lined up with the passageway they had just walked through. From previous visits, Sherman knew that it was a print shop Franklin had built for his son.

  After they passed through the tunnel-like opening, they could see Franklin’s handsome home built in the exact center of the busy city block. The groomed gravel walkways, gardens, and manicured grass plots always startled first-time visitors who did not expect an oasis of solitude in the heart of the biggest city in the United States. Sherman saw scattered knots of people in private conversation, but he guided Paterson around to the opposite side of the house, where they found a large crowd gathered under Franklin’s famed mulberry tree.

  The sound of light laughter came from the circle of people surrounding Franklin. “Everyone seems in a festive mood,” Sherman said.

  “You’d think we were here to celebrate a wedding, not to annul a nation’s faithful compact.”

  Sherman excused himself and gratefully moved to engage other delegates.

  “Have you actually seen a balloon aloft?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Franklin. “Outside of Paris. Over a hundred thousand people gathered to watch. They nearly rioted during the long preparation, but when it finally lifted, it was magnificent, and the crowd gave a hearty cheer.”

  Benjamin Franklin sat in his place of honor, surrounded by admirers. Sherman liked and respected Franklin but hadn’t seen him in many years. He was saddened to see that he had grown old and trunched in a bulbous body that seemed fixed to the chair. Gout rendered the doctor nearly immobile. A bald pate ringed in white locks above an irreverent grin gave him a mischievous air that belied his plain Qua
ker dress.

  After days of wet gray, the sparkling blue sky had refreshed everyone’s spirits and enlivened the conversation. Sherman nodded greetings to several of the delegates, one of whom told him that the discussion had been prompted by someone admiring a balloon brooch worn by Sarah Bache, Franklin’s daughter.

  Mrs. Bache and her family lived with the doctor, and she served as hostess at his social affairs. She had gained a good share of notoriety during the Revolution by going from door to door to solicit donations. Many men thought the war had confused women and hoped that peace would quickly resettle them into their customary role.

  “I wish I could see a real balloon,” Mrs. Bache said. “Do you think we’ll have them in America?”

  “Of course,” Franklin said. “England already has balloonists, and we shall have ours, if for no other purpose than to annoy the masters of the British Empire.”

  “Can anyone ascend with a balloonist?” Madison asked.

  Sherman noticed that Madison sat in one of the privileged chairs close by the great doctor.

  “Some take passengers. The price is outrageous, but nevertheless it’s the rage. You’ll not find me, however, venturing into the boundless sky. The thrill of watching is enough for this foolish old man.” Franklin wore an impish grin. “How about you, Jemmy, would you fly amongst the birds with these adventurers?”

  “Perhaps. I want to see a few flights first … but I think I might go. I understand weight is crucial, so surely they’d provide me a favorable price. ”

  Some wag’s portrayal of Madison as “no bigger than half a piece of soap,” had spread quickly. Sherman thought Madison’s self-deprecation clever.

  Franklin laughed. “Take care, dear boy. They may mistake you for one of their bags of sand and toss you out.”

  At this cheerful moment, the crowd parted as if on command. George Washington and Gouverneur Morris broke the outer circle and advanced to greet their host. Both cut a wide swath: the tall, stately Washington by his demeanor and Morris by his wide-swinging wooden leg.