Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  Franklin opened with a few gracious remarks and a prayer. As if cued by a stagehand, six smartly dressed servants entered bearing cod chowder, a Philadelphia tradition. The retinue then proceeded to serve the guests with practiced élan.

  Turning to Pinckney, Madison said, “Dr. Franklin sets a fine table.”

  “Indeed, he does,” Pinckney said, sipping from his tankard. “And his porter is as good as promised.”

  Switching topics abruptly, Madison asked, “What’s the mood in South Carolina?”

  “Uneasy. Charleston worries about trade, plantation owners fear the cash shortage, and the Spanish and Indians scare the backcountry.”

  “Sounds dire.”

  “Everyone has placed an unreasonable amount of hope on this convention. If we fail, we’ll face the wrath of our countrymen. Or perhaps our success will incite their fury.”

  Relieved to be on a more agreeable subject, Madison said, “People want to be delivered from their travails, but they distrust us. We must aim for a government strong enough to address national issues, but retain enough state governance for local concerns.”

  “Ah, James, ever the philosopher,” Pinckney said with a touch of mockery.

  “Philosophy can instruct, Charles.”

  “I search not for purity in principle but for solutions. That’s what will please my people. Form matters not to them.”

  Butler joined the conversation from Madison’s other side and seemed to support Pinckney’s odd plea for mediocrity. “We must follow the example of Solon. He gave the Athenians not the best government he could devise, but the best they would receive.”

  For a moment, Madison regretted having asked to be seated between the South Carolinians, but he tucked his irritation away when he remembered that his intent was to measure their mood. To delay a response, Madison dipped his spoon into his soup. He put the half-coated spoon in his mouth and cleaned it with his lips. The taste of the chowder exceeded the promise of the aroma. Eagerly scooping a spoonful, Madison wondered if Butler had endorsed Pinckney’s plan—or was the episode a ruse to gain an edge for some other aspiration?

  “Mr. Butler, undue caution may render us impotent,” Madison said.

  “Grand innovations scare people,” Butler said, with his Irish accent. “People want order, sound money, and to be free from unwarranted scrutiny of their habits. They don’t understand government systems.” He looked peeved. “But their representatives do.”

  “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “The South Carolina legislature won’t sanction a plan that threatens their vital interests.”

  “Your apprehensions seem newly born,” Madison said. “Which interests are under threat?”

  “It is not a subject for public discussion,” Butler said.

  Butler’s bitter tone gave Madison a clue to their concern. The conversation drifted to less sensitive subjects until the servants made another grand entrance, each balancing a large platter of oysters on the outstretched palm of his right hand. With a stylish flourish, they gracefully swirled the platters to each guest, as if presenting precious pearls instead of the host body.

  Pinckney selected two oysters, each over four inches. Gazing after the neatly uniformed Negro, Pinckney said, “Dr. Franklin dearly loves to instruct. He sweetens his tutelage with anecdotes and humorous stories, but his condescension is nonetheless unmistakable.”

  Franklin was a known abolitionist. His participation at this month’s Pennsylvania Society for Promoting the Abolition of Slavery hadn’t gone unnoticed. Madison realized that the skilled and self-assured service by free blacks did convey a message. He mused that his slaves at Montpelier could never put on such a lavish and well-orchestrated ceremony.

  All the states had vital interests, and each state must tolerate the others’ interests. Madison could see no logical reason why slavery should hinder progress, but emotions, not logic, often ruled politics. This issue must not be allowed to thwart the creation of the world’s first durable republic.

  “The English and the Spanish are like the two ends of a huge tong, ready to pinch us until we crumble into small bites.”

  The long meal had reached its final stage, and animated discussion engulfed the length of the table. Alexander Hamilton provoked the conversation at Madison’s end. Hamilton, thirty years old, had abundant charm to go with his good looks and lean stature. Women, especially, found his deep blue eyes, auburn hair, and clear skin attractive.

  “Shays and his ilk attack from within, but we should be casting an alert eye to the horizon,” Robert Morris added.

  “No need to look to the horizon,” Washington said. “Enough enemies reside in our backyard.”

  Butler leaned in to gain attention. “The Carolinas and Georgia are deeply troubled by the Spanish on our frontier.”

  “And England loiters in the Great Lakes region.” Hamilton slapped the table. “We must insist that the British comply with the peace treaty and vacate their forts.”

  “I shall send them a letter forthwith.” Washington’s rejoinder drew laughter from all sides.

  “And if they fail to respond, we must forcibly evict them,” Hamilton said, as if Washington had been serious.

  “Difficult without an army,” Washington said.

  Turning to Butler, Hamilton asked, “Did you know that Congress has reduced the army to seven hundred?”

  “You must be mistaken,” Butler said.

  “I visited Secretary Knox’s New York headquarters. Three clerks. That’s it.”

  Butler looked at Washington. “How will we defend South Carolina?”

  “Not with militia,” Washington answered. “And British garrisons within our sovereign territory will eventually lead to another armed conflict.”

  “Something will break soon,” Hamilton huffed. “Either the belligerent British in the North or the crafty Spanish in the South will test our resolve.”

  Madison wanted to remind South Carolina of their stake in the convention. Turning to Butler, he asked, “How serious is the trouble on your western frontier?”

  Butler answered Madison while directing his eyes toward Washington. “If something is not done—and soon—our settlers on the other side of the Appalachians will join the Spanish to protect their families and farms.”

  From Madison’s other side, Pinckney added, “This spring, the Spanish incited Indian raids on the Georgia frontier. Seven families slaughtered.”

  “The Spanish are testing the pioneers’ allegiance to us,” Butler said. “Georgia declared martial law. We may not be far behind.”

  Hamilton now banged the butt of his dinner knife against the table. “We must stop the Spanish before they set the entire frontier ablaze with insurrection.”

  Madison straightened his napkin and folded his hands in front of him. Brave talk at a dinner party, safely nestled in the heart of a thriving city, didn’t impress him. Madison appreciated Hamilton’s logical mind, but the man’s passion caused him discomfort. Inciting emotions defeated reason. Hamilton’s love of bluster would this time, however, serve Madison’s purpose. He wanted the delegates to fear a helpless government.

  Hamilton shifted to his favorite subject. “The conflict has begun on the field of commerce.” Hamilton leaned into a conspiratorial posture. “John Jay has kept me abreast of our trade negotiations in London. He writes that England refuses to lift the embargo on West Indies trade. And the Spanish have already closed the Mississippi to block our western trade. They intend to impoverish us so we cannot raise an army or equip a navy.”

  When Hamilton spoke, Madison paid attention. During the Revolution, Hamilton had served on Washington’s staff and greatly influenced the general’s thinking. Or perhaps it was the reverse. Hamilton had a habit of repeating Washington’s words, especially in situations in which the general didn’t want them directly attributed to him.

  “The risk of war is real,” Morris said, “but my greater fear is internal rebellion. The mood outside the ci
ties is ugly.” Morris looked at Butler. “In the North, farmers dominate state legislatures and get them to pass tender and stay laws that cheat creditors. The states print money like handbills, encouraging slothful behavior and distrust between neighbors.”

  Madison suppressed a snicker. The richest man in Pennsylvania, perhaps the country, begrudged others a chance to hold on to their small farms. Morris owned huge tracts of western land, and Madison had heard rumors that ethical behavior seldom tempered his speculative fever.

  “Are you implying that money is the sole cause of our travails?” Madison asked the two money-obsessed men.

  “Money is the root system that supports the tree of liberty,” Hamilton answered. “Money is a promise, a commitment. Not good, nor evil.”

  “You mean debt?” Butler asked.

  “No, I speak of money. Money is a promise by the government: if you put it in your purse, everyone will accept it in exchange for goods when you draw it out. The government must keep money whole.”

  “Just as a debtor must repay,” the wealthy Robert Morris added.

  Hamilton nodded. “Today, people turn to their state governments to avoid their obligations.” Hamilton’s voice filled with sarcasm. “The Europeans watch our feeble efforts with glee, anxious to graft our broken pieces onto their empires.” Hamilton was building to a climatic moment. “We’re not a nation, but mere children playing adult games.” Hamilton paused for dramatic effect. “The primary cause of our disorders lies with the small states and the tenacity with which they guard their sovereignty. These intransigent states must not be allowed to destroy our nation.”

  Everyone turned to glare at the far end of the table. Madison saw that only Sherman took notice.

  As dusk darkened the large room, most of the dinner guests had left. The banquet was over, but the people next to Washington couldn’t leave until the general signaled his readiness to retire. Franklin, with the assistance of his manservant, had moved down the table to join the small group. The stragglers seemed content to smoke their tobacco, sip well-aged brandy, and converse in a relaxed fashion. Pinckney and Butler had turned amiable, their earlier unease dissipated by the meal and drink. Madison hoped they would depart so he could talk openly about their earlier comments, but they also seemed bound by the general’s lingering.

  Madison found Washington puzzling. Stiff and formal with strangers and in public, he obviously enjoyed being around people. He had heard the general brag that he couldn’t remember a meal he had taken alone, or with only Martha. When away from home he dined with his host or a gathering of local dignitaries, or he found a crowded tavern. Mount Vernon’s reputation for hospitality provided an endless string of visitors. While commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, he had eaten with his staff officers.

  “General, you must voyage to France,” Franklin said. “Your name is on the lips of every Parisian. You’ll learn what posterity will say of Washington, for a thousand leagues is the same as a thousand years.”

  “Perhaps you’ve not noticed that I am otherwise engaged.” With a sideways nod at Madison, Washington added, “Our young Jemmy has waylaid me from my preferred inactivity.”

  “We all had a hand in that,” Franklin said.

  Washington looked annoyed. “Having brought the ship safely into port, I didn’t want to embark on another sea of troubles.”

  “Our troubles can be managed,” Franklin said. “We are an enlightened people. Every man reads and is informed.” Franklin took on an expression meant to charm. “But we shouldn’t expect our new government to be formed like a game of chess is played. The players of our game are too many, their ideas too different, and their prejudices too strong. Each move will be contested. So, gentlemen,” Franklin said with a lilt that signaled the climax of his little parable, “the play is more like backgammon with a box of dice.”

  “Dr. Franklin, you hearten my soul,” Washington said. “I trust my luck with dice far more than my skill at chess.”

  Everyone laughed, not at the general’s self-deprecating remark.

  Hamilton quickly rejoined. “General, I eagerly put my faith in either your luck or your skill. If you can lead us to victory against the mighty British Empire, you can surely handle a few headstrong delegates.” The gratuitous flattery caused an awkward moment, but Hamilton seemed unaware.

  George Mason joined the conversation. “The Revolution was nothing compared to the business before us. Then, the people were inflamed. Now, we propose to invent a new government through calm reason.” Mason ranked with Washington and Jefferson in the Virginia hierarchy. As the sixty-two-year-old patriarch of Gunston Hall, he was one of the richest planters in Virginia. He held an almost religious fervor for reason. He championed individual rights and had authored the famed Virginia Declaration of Rights. He leaned across the table. “The happiness of unborn millions depends on us.”

  Madison became excited. “No nation has ever changed its government without war or rebellion. We can set a new course for mankind.”

  “Most of the world hopes we fail,” Mason said.

  “The British certainly do,” Franklin said. “They don’t want our example to incite further rebellion within the empire. The British newspapers exaggerate our disorder and mislead on purpose.”

  “Perhaps they don’t exaggerate as much as you think, Doctor,” Pinckney said. “You’ve been out of the country. Our problems seem difficult to overstate.”

  “I’ve had the privilege of observing our European brethren, and I can assure you that we don’t hoard the world’s woes. Our conditions, desperate though they may seem, are preferable to Europe's troubles. Lofty aims drive our discontent.” Again, Franklin struck a whimsical expression. “Everyone can be happy if they maintain a happy disposition; such being necessary even in paradise.”

  “Ah, so it is merely our dispositions that bring us grief,” Pinckney said. “Our reputed difficulties shall disappear as soon as we change our outlook. How simple. We’ll merely write a joyful disposition clause into our new constitution.”

  A flash of irritation crossed Franklin’s face, but it was immediately replaced with a bemused smile. “The human condition is never simple, Mr. Pinckney. You cannot legislate how people think. I find humans badly constructed. They are more easily provoked than reconciled, more disposed to do mischief than good, more easily deceived than undeceived, and more impressed with their own self than considerate of others.”

  Having delivered his disguised reproach, Franklin steered the conversation away from Pinckney’s gibe. “I’ve also observed that man takes more pride in killing than in begetting. Without a blush, they assemble great armies to destroy. Then, when they have killed as many as they can, they exaggerate the number. But men creep into corners or darkness to beget.”

  Madison laughed. Late evening conversation, once turned to begetting, seldom returned to more serious subjects. Alienating esteemed colleagues never garnered support, nor advanced plans. Also, judging by Butler’s look, Pinckney would receive an admonishment from his fellow South Carolinian to restrain his sharp tongue. Madison sat back, ready to enjoy some quick-witted bantering about sexual follies, when Pinckney’s voice destroyed his evening.

  “Dr. Franklin, do you consider Madison badly constructed because he owns over a hundred slaves?”

  Chapter 7

  Thursday, May 24, 1787

  Sherman found the decision hard. Each day he had walked the streets of Philadelphia, and the same question plagued him. Now he stood with his back to the street as well-dressed people sauntered along the sidewalk behind him. Sherman looked down at his scruffy shoes.

  “We can have you measured and fitted in a single day.”

  Sherman turned to see a boot maker leaning out of his shop door. Sherman had been staring at a fine set of boots displayed in his window. The wood sign swinging over the door read, “Cordwainer.” In Sherman’s experience, this pompous term meant that the boots he admired would be expensive.

  “M
y father was a boot maker, and he taught me the trade. These are certainly well-crafted boots.”

  “Thank you. You have a keen eye for workmanship.” Stepping further out into the street, he asked, “Would you care to step in? We have several boots in work. A close inspection by an experienced eye always results in an order.”

  “That’s my fear. My other is that the price is too dear for my purse.”

  “Our prices are reasonable, when you consider the quality. Cobbled boots don’t wear, and they’re uncomfortable. Mine will fit expertly and last forever.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  In the shop, Sherman saw three apprentices working on different stages of construction. None seemed to take notice of him as the master boot maker led him over to the bench. Oil lamps augmented the large front window to provide the men good light.

  The orderliness of the shop impressed Sherman. Tools not in use were neatly hung through holes in a half shelf within easy reach above the bench. Sherman saw tanned leather stacked by color and grade on large shelves along the opposite wall. The floor was clean and nearly free of remnants. An expensive rug lay at the front of the shop, where two sturdy chairs and a table made a comfortable fitting area. The table displayed several pairs of beautifully finished boots.

  The scent of the shop recalled his youth. He had grown up above his father’s store, and his earliest memory was of the strong smell of leather. The odor permeated the house and his father. He sniffed deep and knew he was going to make a purchase.

  “Craftsmanship goes for naught if you don’t start with good tanned hide,” the boot maker said, as he led Sherman to the orderly shelves of raw material. He pulled out a sample and presented the hide to Sherman as if it were fine lace. “I do all my own buying and deal only with tanners who know their business. You’ll not find higher quality anywhere in Philadelphia.”

  Sherman turned the hide over and felt both sides. “My father also took pride in his skill at selecting the best hides.”