Sherman climbed into bed and pulled the comforter tight against the night cold. Snuggled in the soft warmth, he let his weary bones relax. He had earned a good night’s sleep.
Suddenly his eyes popped open. James Madison did not make fatal errors.
Part 2
Quorum
Chapter 8
Thursday, May 24, 1787
Madison tried to pace his breathing to the heaving body beneath him. He wished he could do this as well as other men. He had the timing about right, when a fallen tree in his path made him gasp. He hated jumping a horse.
Damn Robert Morris. It was no accident that Madison sat astride the biggest horse he had ever seen. The beast’s back was so broad that Madison’s legs were splayed too wide for a comfortable ride. His anger had grown when the livery boy raised the stirrups as high as they would go. Morris had engineered this indignity.
Madison felt more at ease after the huge beast easily bounded over the tree. He searched the narrow trail ahead but saw neither Washington nor Morris. His childhood, no, his life had been plagued by illness, so he had never enjoyed what his father thought of as manly pursuits. Deciding he would never impress his host, he gently tugged on the reins to bring the horse down to a trot. Washington was renowned as possibly the best horseman in the country. It made no sense to speed through unknown woods in an attempt to keep up with him.
Morris had invited Washington, Madison, and Franklin to The Hills, his country estate along the Schuylkill River. Franklin no longer rode, so he had stayed at the mansion to enjoy the clean air, rural sounds, and river view.
Madison took a deep breath. Now that he had slowed the horse to a comfortable pace, he began to enjoy the experience. The woods smelled fresh after the city, and the rhythmic clop of the heavy horse relaxed him. He suddenly felt homesick for Montpelier. Before he could sink into a wistful mood, he turned a corner in the trail and came upon his two companions.
“Mr. Madison, there you are. We were about to circle back to see if you’d had a mishap.”
“Quite the contrary, Mr. Morris. This is a fine animal. Quick, obedient, and a good jumper. I slowed the pace after the tree to enjoy this perfect afternoon.”
“Glad to hear it. If you’re comfortable with Brutus, we’ll charge on ahead.”
“Brutus and I get along just fine. He told me that he hardly noticed my weight on his sturdy back.”
Washington laughed. “He looks a great steed. Robert could have fit out a shelty, but he holds a high regard for your riding ability. Right, Robert?”
“Absolutely. Brutus scares some.”
“Really,” Madison said as he affectionately patted the horse’s neck. “I find him temperate and responsive.”
“Well, we’ll be off then.” Morris turned his thoroughbred horse in a tight circle and spurred it to a full gallop down the trail.
Washington gave Madison a wink. “Enjoy the afternoon, Jemmy.” He turned his horse and sped away with the deep seat of an expert horseman.
Madison had never liked Robert Morris, possibly because Morris had never liked him. But now he felt released. He could explore at his own pace, and Washington had let him know that he saw the game Morris had played.
Part of the problem was that Madison failed to understand Morris. He owned land, but he did not honor land like a Southerner. He just bought it and held it long enough to sell for a profit. It made no sense. Land meant standing in the community, a family heritage to be preserved, and an obligation to care for the land and less-well-off neighbors. To a Virginia plantation owner, land meant everything. To a Pennsylvania speculator, land held no value beyond its price.
Madison shrugged off his irritation. After all, they had received word before they left Philadelphia that the full New Jersey delegation had arrived. With this new thought, Madison grew excited. Tomorrow would culminate a year’s worth of preparation. It would be a grand day.
He decided that Brutus was a gentle giant with an even temper and a clear-eyed look that hinted of uncommon horse sense. Big and smart. Madison thought of Roger Sherman and dug his heels into Brutus.
“Good delegates, please come to order. Please come to order.” A gavel banged for attention. “Gentlemen, please take your seats.”
Madison and Mason stood in a corner of the clamorous chamber. Delegates conversed loudly in the open spaces, while torrential rain pounded the windows, adding a loud, rhythmic din to the male voices. They had been meeting at the State House every day at one o’clock since May 14—the scheduled start of the convention—to see if a quorum had arrived. Because everyone had already heard about New Jersey’s arrival, delegates had arrived ahead of time to talk politics, strut their finery, and enjoy the atmosphere of expectancy. The room seethed with anticipation. The day had finally arrived.
Madison turned to Mason. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for over a year. Let’s take our seats.”
Madison jostled his way to a center-front table that he had already reserved by distributing his writing materials. He intended to take careful notes of the proceedings and wanted to see and hear everything. Happy delegates interrupted his forward progress by shaking his hand, slapping his shoulder, and offering congratulations. Friend and foe alike seemed intent on thanking him for orchestrating this momentous event.
The green baize tables were arranged in arcs facing the speaker’s platform located on the east wall. The white room, with slate-colored wainscoting, received excellent light from twenty-four large pane windows. The square chamber, designed in classic proportions and ornamented with pilasters and tabernacles, radiated dignity. This was a room meant to witness history. The president’s chair sat on a low dais behind the very desk where the Declaration of Independence and the Articles of Confederation had been signed. The Continental Congress had met here. Washington had accepted his election as commander in chief of the Continental Army in this room.
Madison reached his table and looked up to see a self-important Robert Morris impatiently waiting for the laggards to settle.
Taking a deep breath and looking about the chamber, Morris said, “Gentlemen, thank you. I’m pleased to announce a quorum.” A dramatic pause. “We may proceed.”
Cheers rang through the chamber.
“Gentlemen, please. Thank you. Our first order of business is to elect a president.” Standing tall upon the short dais, Morris continued, “I’d like to place in nomination a true and selfless patriot, the commander of our victorious Continental Army, a man of unquestioned integrity and honor, the illustrious Gen. George Washington.”
Madison found himself instantly on his feet with the other delegates. The applause continued long and spirited, with occasional whoops and cheers. Everyone turned to the sole person who remained seated, George Washington. The general looked genuinely uncomfortable.
The sound hadn’t abated, nor had everyone regained their seat before John Rutledge of South Carolina boomed, “I consider it the greatest honor to second the nomination of Gen. George Washington!”
Again, Madison rose, clapping enthusiastically to honor the great hero of the Revolution. And again, Washington sat in embarrassed silence.
As the applause died down, more quickly this time, Morris asked, “Are there any further nominations?”
The room remained still.
Waiting a respectful moment, Morris said, “We have a motion and a second. Will the states please confer, determine your vote, and mark your ballot.”
It didn’t take long, nor was the vote a surprise. Washington was elected unanimously by the seven states present.
Madison watched Morris escort Washington to the dais. As he had expected, Washington gave a poorly delivered speech. He modestly accepted the honor, thanked the delegates, reminded them that he lacked experience, and hoped that his errors would be excused.
After Major William Jackson of South Carolina was elected secretary, he read their instructions from Congress, a procedure that caused Madison discomfort. The Congress of th
e United States had authorized a convention of delegates “who shall have been appointed by the several states to meet at Philadelphia, for the sole and express purpose of revising the Articles of Confederation, and reporting to Congress and the several legislatures, such alterations and provisions therein, as shall, when agreed to in Congress, and confirmed by the states, render the federal Constitution adequate to the exigencies of government, and the preservation of the union.”
Madison had a copy of the Virginia Plan in front of him. The plan didn’t revise the Articles; it replaced them. He didn’t intend to present his plan to Congress for agreement or to the states for confirmation. He intended a bloodless coup d’état. Many would be aghast at his effrontery, but making adjustments around the edges of the Articles would never work. Their grand experiment with republicanism would fade into history, remembered as a mishap of foolish aspiration. This plan, however, the one he now fingered possessively, would ensure liberty for the citizens of the United States for countless generations.
Governor Clinton of New York had engineered their restrictive instructions. He ran the state as his personal fiefdom and wanted no interference from a central government. Because Congress convened in his state, Clinton unduly influenced legislation, which extended his power to the national level. New York should have been part of Madison’s large state alliance, but Clinton had stacked the delegation with two lackeys to outvote Hamilton. Although New York would fight his proposal, Madison was sure they would never join the small states. New York would remain a maverick and try to position itself on the fulcrum so it could tilt the convention in either direction.
Jackson read the state credentials. Madison knew that even Virginia’s credentials allowed only revision of the Articles.
“The state of Georgia by the grace of God, free, sovereign, and independent. …”
Thankfully, this was Friday. The weekend would distance the reading of the instructions and credentials from Randolph’s presentation of the plan. The convention’s vested authority was thin, but at least they were officially sanctioned by Congress. If he could engineer a strong majority, then despite their limited charter, no one would be able to ignore what came out of this convention.
Pinckney suddenly took the floor and made a motion to appoint a committee to draw up rules of order. Wythe, Hamilton, and Pinckney made up the committee, with his fellow Virginian, George Wythe selected as chairman. When they adjourned until ten o’clock Monday, Madison felt relieved that the first day had held no surprises.
He gathered up his papers, and as he leaned over to pick up his valise, a large shape loomed over him. The first thing he noticed was a handsome pair of new shoes. Looking up, prepared to make some banal comment about the day’s proceedings, he saw Roger Sherman of Connecticut.
“Excuse me, James, but I wonder if you’d be kind enough to forward a rule suggestion to Mr. Wythe?”
Madison busied himself shuffling papers. “I’d be pleased to, but I have work I must attend to. It’d be better if you presented your idea directly to Mr. Wythe.”
“I agree, but the committee has already charged out of the room. I understand you’ll see Mr. Wythe at the Morris house this evening.”
Madison head jerked up. Sherman seemed to know everything.
“What’s your suggestion?”
“I’ve been conferring with my colleagues. We believe a rule that any vote can be reconsidered would facilitate deliberations.”
Madison slowly stuffed his papers into his valise. “Not unprecedented, but certainly unusual. It could be disruptive.”
“I don’t see the harm. My colleagues feel strongly that the opportunity to reconsider will quicken debate and soothe disagreement. It’s an issue that kindles their passion. I fear early disharmony—perhaps worse.”
“That’s a vexing statement.”
“Unfortunately, the small states aren’t organized, nor do they have a leader. Your plan frightens them.”
“I see.” Madison tucked his case under his arm, preparing to leave. Looking up into Sherman’s strangely placid face, he said, “I’ll mention your idea to Mr. Wythe.”
“Thank you, James. One more item. There’s a rumor that the Rules Committee will recommend secrecy. A republican government shouldn’t be shrouded from public scrutiny—but I’m sure it’s only a false rumor.”
Madison hastened out of the chamber.
“Good God, man. Move that carriage!”
“Hold your horses, fool!”
Madison stood in the crowded Central Hall, watching the tangle of carriages jockey for position in front of the State House. The unrelenting rain had turned the street into disorder and the coachmen into snarling contestants. The door stood open as the delegates peered over each other to see which carriage had secured a position at the uncovered entrance.
“Do the heavens, my dear Mr. Madison, augur a stormy convention?”
Madison recognized Pinckney’s voice at his shoulder. Was he to be haunted by this man? Without turning his head, Madison said, “The weather doesn’t foretell, nor can man foretell the weather. Both operate on their own cycle.”
“Perhaps you’re right, the weather may not foretell, but I predict today’s unanimity will disintegrate into the same discord we witness before us.”
“Disagreement’s inevitable, Mr. Pinckney, but discord sometimes disguises progress. Watch. This mess will sort itself out, and we shall be whisked to our quarters.” Turning to look Pinckney in the eye, Madison added. “The convention may suffer some storms, but in the end, we’ll deliver to our countrymen a sustainable republican government.”
“Hear! Hear! This dismal day needs a dose of optimism. You might be right. A plan might eventually emerge, but who among us can predict its final form?”
“The Virginia Plan provides the framework, and it has sufficient support, especially with South Carolina on our side.”
“Don’t worry, James, we remain steadfast. But again, things may not proceed in a straight line. If events go awry, my plan may present a more acceptable formula.”
Madison had hoped Pinckney had abandoned his plan. “Mr. Pinckney, I’m not so naïve as to believe that the Virginia Plan will pass without a few alterations.”
“Perhaps more than a few,” Pinckney taunted.
“Liberty depends on the total design. Alterations must be carefully balanced against other elements. I’ll fight to pass the Virginia Plan with as few changes as necessary to achieve consensus.”
“A grand objective, James, but a question remains: if events go as you expect, how do you propose to get Congress and the states to ratify your plan? You threaten powerful men.”
“We shan’t seek their permission,” Madison said. “There’s another authority.”
Pinckney’s surprised expression pleased Madison.
“And who, may I ask, is this other authority?”
“The people. We’ll bypass Congress and the states and go directly to the people.”
Pinckney laughed. “Jemmy, I admire your audacity. You are truly a rapscallion mutineer.”
Pinckney started the conversation by addressing him as Mr. Madison, shifted to James, and then delivered his jocular reproach using a name reserved for his closest friends. Why did Pinckney do this? Why did it irritate him so? Madison realized that the second question answered the first.
Could history be made with such allies? Did Pinckney take nothing seriously? Was he completely unlearned? Republican theory clearly stated that the people held all political power, and only they could delegate authority to a government. The people were free to change governments at will. They didn’t need permission from incumbents.
At that moment, the Indian Queen carriage jostled into position at the foot of the State House steps. Madison took the opportunity to escape Pinckney. Tucking his valise tightly against his chest, Madison dashed to the carriage, arriving before the coachman could climb down and open an umbrella. Trotting in place, head bent against the downpour, Madison
fumbled with the carriage door latch. Finally getting it open, he stepped up into the dry interior and collapsed into a seat. Just as he exhaled deeply, Pinckney clambered in behind him.
“This weather makes a warm fire and a brandy seem positively luxurious,” Pinckney said with good humor.
Despite himself, Madison laughed in agreement. “Yes, and on such a stormy day, a cozy bed with a willing maiden would be the epitome of decadence.”
“A splendid suggestion,” said Hamilton as he climbed aboard. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I won’t be getting off with you at the Indian Queen. Jemmy, your bright ideas never cease to amaze me.”
The now-crowded coach tittered with amusement. The ribald quip had instantly erased the weather’s gloominess and reinstated the exuberance of the Council Chamber.
In his break for the carriage, Madison had forgotten that Pinckney was a fellow guest at the Indian Queen and would follow in his footsteps. But revelry now seemed to be the order, and Pinckney’s flippancy fit the mood. Madison quite enjoyed the short carriage ride. Hamilton, true to his word, remained in the carriage but waited to give the coachman directions until they had all departed.
“Absolutely not!” Hamilton was furious. “We cannot accede to this—ever.”
“The alternative may be worse,” Madison said.
“No! They intend to use this rule to win by attrition. We cannot allow it. Never!”
“What we cannot allow is the shattering of this convention before it has a chance to do its duty.” Franklin also looked grim.
“Nothing will come of our work if we concede to unreasonable demands at the outset,” Hamilton said.
Franklin leaned toward Hamilton. “Fury doesn’t help us resolve this dilemma. It took untold maneuvering to get these men together, and they can disperse as quickly as a flock of disturbed gulls.”
“But we cannot acquiesce to a bald threat,” Hamilton said.
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