“We have our own concerns, but one answer serves us both.”
“And that is?”
“This proposal isn’t without precedent. I suggest …”
Sherman hurried outside to witness the strange event. Wedged onto the State House steps, his height gave him an unobstructed view over the heads of the other delegates. He quickly spotted the venerable legend, situated like an ancient noble inside a glass-enclosed chair aloft on the shoulders of four strong men. The scene would have had an air of aristocracy if not for the bemused smile on Franklin’s face. His wan expression told everyone that no noble, but merely a frail old man, had come to do his duty.
“So, the great doctor makes his entrance. Now that the convicts have hauled his corpulent figure here, we may begin in earnest.” This came from Pinckney, standing beside Sherman.
“Careful, Charles, the doctor has powerful friends. Some quite close at hand.”
Pinckney gave Sherman a sharp look, but he delivered his answer in an even tone. “Everyone feels the need to caution me.” Then after a pause, “Perhaps I should learn to hold my tongue, but I object to the elevation of prominent citizens to demigods. In our republic, all men are created equal.”
Were Pinckney’s comments heartfelt? Who else had reproached him?
Sherman returned his attention to Franklin. He had heard that the old man intended to use a sedan chair, but the grand arrival had nonetheless startled him. Franklin’s gout limited his mobility, so he had imported the chair from France. Although Sherman had heard that even able Parisians used sedan chairs, this was the first he had seen in America.
The rainy weather on Friday had kept Franklin away from their first meeting, but today’s bright skies offered no obstacle. The men gently carried their charge up the three steps, down the Central Hall, and into the Assembly Room. Franklin had rented the carriers from the debtors’ prison, and they seemed happy for the recess from their boredom.
The delegates had followed the entourage inside. Now they all stood in a circle, three and four deep, as the ill-fated farmers lifted the doctor and carefully placed him in a chair in the first row. A small round of applause accompanied the impromptu ceremony; and then everyone shook Franklin’s hand or bowed briefly from the periphery. The delegates broke from the circle, either searching out a seat or breaking into small groups to continue their conversations.
Sherman watched Madison ensconce himself in the same center-front seat as Friday’s session. Sherman didn’t want his back to the delegates. He had chosen a seat to the rear and side so he could keep a watchful eye on everyone.
Soon Sherman heard the doorkeeper announce, “Gentlemen, the president of the Federal Convention, Gen. George Washington.”
The delegates stood as Washington entered from a door to the right at the front of the chamber. The general carried himself with such dignity that as soon as he sat and with no further direction, everyone quietly took a seat. The chamber began to feel crowded. Nine delegates had arrived over the weekend. Confidence had strengthened as the number of represented states grew to eight.
The high windows threw sharp shadows into the chamber, and several men on the periphery had turned their backs to the bright light. Sherman was grateful that the sun had started to bake away the dampness. Heavy wool clothing and a reduced opportunity to bathe had created a ripe, musty odor that hung heavy in the room.
Washington called on Wythe to read the Rules Committee report. Most of the rules were familiar and acceptable. The list didn’t include secrecy, nor did it include a right to reconsider prior votes. The Virginians hadn’t accepted Sherman’s swap.
Most politicians paid scant attention to rules because they were too eager to hear themselves speak. Experience had taught Sherman that rules, wielded with a deft hand, could control proceedings. One of the rules allowed any state to postpone a vote for one day, giving the weaker side an opportunity to marshal additional votes. Sherman guessed the rule was meant to mollify his weak alliance, but he judged it inconsequential.
The Rules Committee had avoided controversy by leaving the real work to be done on the floor, and Sherman didn’t believe that any of the rules would raise controversy. He was wrong.
Rufus King, of Massachusetts, immediately asked to speak. Handsome, ambitious, and a fine speaker, the thirty-two-year-old dandy was widely recognized as a rising politician. His political talents were hampered, however, by unattractive bouts of arrogance.
King spoke with the assurance of an exceptionally gifted orator. “Mr. President and honorable delegates, I wish to draw your attention to the rule that votes must be entered in the minutes. Since the early acts of the convention aren’t meant to bind the delegates, a record of the votes is dangerous. Changes of opinion will be frequent. We shouldn’t furnish handles to our enemies. I move that this rule be stricken.”
So, the Virginians wanted a secret meeting with no record of the votes, even for posterity.
Butler, of South Carolina, called for the floor. “Mr. President, it’s imperative that we proceed without undue influence from beyond these doors. We must debate, weigh the arguments, adjust our opinions, and finally, after careful deliberation, vote our conscience. To facilitate this lofty aim, I wish to introduce two rules.
“The first is that no member shall be absent from the House without the leave of this assemblage. Congress cannot call members away.”
This rule surprised Sherman, but he immediately saw the need. Many of the delegates were members of Congress. In the past, when Congress hadn’t liked the course of a conference, they recalled their members to preclude a quorum.
Butler continued, “Another rule is necessary. I propose that no copy of the journal may be taken outside this chamber and that nothing that happens inside this chamber be spoken of outside these walls.”
There it was—the dreaded secrecy rule. Madison then asked to speak. His soft voice commanded attention as everyone concentrated to hear his words. Sherman noted that Madison’s quick, animated hand movements and unrelenting eye contact also worked to hold his audience.
“We need long debate before we arrive at a uniform opinion. In the meantime, the minds of members may change, and there’s much to be gained by proceedings free of public scrutiny.”
Turning toward Washington, he continued. “With secret discussions, no man will feel obligated to retain his opinion for the mere appearance of consistency.”
Madison had barely taken his seat before his fellow Virginian, George Mason, had secured the floor. “Gentlemen, secrecy is necessary to prevent misrepresentation by our adversaries. We must proceed in private, or we’ll exhaust our energies defending preliminary opinions.”
The Virginians had expected a vigorous counterargument, so an awkward stillness ensued as Sherman and his allies sat silent.
Richard Dobbs Spaight asked for the floor. “I propose we allow a new vote upon any previous question when a member sees a reasonable cause for reconsideration.”
Sherman watched Madison’s head spin from Washington’s impassive face to look at Franklin. The doctor shrugged faintly as if to say that he had no idea why North Carolina had proposed the rule.
Sherman worked to keep a smile from his face. With a quarter of her population slave, North Carolina feared a runaway convention controlled by the abolitionist North. Sherman used this fear to convince Spaight to support his goal of not finalizing votes until the entire system had been drafted. With this rule, North Carolina could hold prior votes hostage to a final outcome that would protect her slaveholdings.
The first vote of the convention unanimously defeated the motion not to record votes. Sherman was pleased. Open proceedings worked to Connecticut’s advantage, but he was willing to barter the issue as long as a complete account became public prior to state ratification.
The rest of the newly introduced rules were referred back to the Rules Committee. This maneuver delayed the vote until the next day, but Sherman foresaw that the two crucial rules would be
adopted. The Virginians had the votes to secure secret proceedings and, with North Carolina on his side, he’d have his reconsideration rule. Sherman heard the motion to adjourn with a sense of accomplishment. He had won the first exchange.
Sherman descended the State House steps at a diagonal. Sensing his companion’s contemplative mood, Ellsworth kept silent as he walked beside him. After adjournment, Sherman had spent the good part of an hour conversing with the other delegates—nothing substantial, just friendly discussions at the end of a short business day.
Their exit from the State House provided his first moment of private thought. Suddenly Sherman realized that he needed to quicken his pace. He had promised Madison to invite Witherspoon to meet him at the Indian Queen. He had dallied and needed to hurry, or Witherspoon would miss the appointed hour. As he thought about it, he realized he’d been basking in his success. A mistake. His victory had altered the mechanics, not the substance, of the convention. This was no time to slacken. Tomorrow would start the real confrontation.
Ellsworth mistook Sherman’s quickened pace to mean that he had finished his musing. Stepping quickly to catch up, he said, “An excellent day; events went exactly as you predicted.”
“The rules work to our advantage, but we only won a few delaying tools. They still own the votes. Unless we alter the balance, the convention will be their beast.”
“But the stampede has been checked. Besides, I enjoyed the surprise on Madison’s face.”
Sherman stopped walking and faced Ellsworth. “We’ve gained their attention, but now the Virginians will be on guard.”
Ellsworth took a snuffbox out of his waistcoat, laid an ample portion along his wrist, and raised it to his nose. “The large states sail under a false flag.”
He took a long sniff, inhaling every speck.
“Roger, you must force those freebooters to hoist proper colors.”
Chapter 10
Monday, May 28, 1787
“Dr. Witherspoon, what a pleasure to see you.” Madison scurried across the Indian Queen foyer, hand extended, to greet his old teacher.
“Please, James, call me John. You’re no longer my student.”
“Thank you, John. But excuse me if I slip occasionally. Old habits die hard.”
“New habits, my dear boy, new habits chase the doldrums away.”
“Perhaps, but I cling to old habits like a warm comforter.”
“Can we sit somewhere? You can tell me about your habits and exciting new venture.”
“Will you be my guest for dinner?”
“Unfortunately not. My benefactor has invited me to dine at his home with my two summer charges. We’ll have ample time in the days ahead, but now I’m anxious to hear about your grand scheme of government.”
Madison felt Witherspoon’s arm around his narrow shoulder as the two men ascended the stairs that led to a sitting room on the second floor. After settling comfortably in two facing wing chairs, Madison ordered tea and cakes from an attentive steward.
“Our proceedings are private,” Madison said. “I can’t discuss details, but I can tell you that you’ve influenced the design. Thank you for your letters over the last year.”
“I enjoyed the intellectual exchange. Whose philosophy did you follow?”
“You may think this arrogant, but I choose no single guide. I blended Aristotle, Locke, Hume, and Montesquieu with my own reasoning—a unique design.”
“Excellent. The student becomes the sage.”
“Doctor, I mean John, you’re far too generous. I did nothing new; I merely sifted the thoughts of the best minds to mix a new brew.”
“Every cook uses the same ingredients. Some prepare indigestible hash, while others concoct dishes that delight the palate. Don’t denigrate your feat, young man. I’m confident you’re a great cook”
“Thank you. I believe I’ve designed a system that harnesses man’s predilection for wrongdoing.”
“Then you’ve performed a miracle. Man is a bloodstained creature.”
“Bloodstained, but capable of noble acts. A sound design can steer him along an elevated course.”
“James, that’s the function of religion, not government. Don’t set your sights too high.”
“Government can’t make man virtuous, but government can constrain his vices, deny opportunity, and restrain the lust for power.”
“No wonder Mr. Sherman spoke so highly of you.”
“Roger Sherman? He’s positioning himself to lead the opposition. Sherman’s an obstructionist.”
“Surely you exaggerate. I spoke to him this morning, and he was quite complimentary to you.”
“Sherman’s a political beast. He tells people what they wish to hear.”
“I believe Sherman earnest in his praise.”
“I don’t trust the man. He has no anchor, no principled underpinnings.”
“I’ve also worked with Roger and have found him a devout Christian and a man of virtuous intentions.”
“John, the government must remain secular,” Madison said, exasperated.
“You’re wrong. The government must not force a particular religion on anyone, but it must never interfere with the free expression of faith.” Witherspoon reached out and touched Madison’s forearm. “James, a government can never be secular when filled with god-fearing men.”
“This is old ground. Our disagreements don’t affect the design.”
“I shall forgo the argument for the moment,” Witherspoon said. “But you must explain your qualms about Sherman. He holds his piety close.”
“He holds his fealty to Connecticut closer.”
An expression of comprehension came over Witherspoon’s face. “I think I understand. Listen, James, Sherman’s not a thinker, he’s a doer. None better. You want him on your side.”
“He’ll never join the nationalist cause.”
“I hope you’re wrong; otherwise you must engage a formidable foe.” Witherspoon scrunched up in his seat. “How’s your father?”
“Excellent health, thank you.”
“And Montpelier?”
“Montpelier prospers.”
Witherspoon looked as if he were about to ask another question, then gave a small shrug and said, “I’m glad to hear things are good at home.”
When Madison offered no additional information, Witherspoon asked, “Can I address a sensitive subject?”
“Of course. You’re a friend.”
“What are your intentions about slavery?”
Madison nibbled a piece of cake and followed with a sip of tea. “Slavery cannot become an issue at this convention.”
“It must.”
“It cannot. It will destroy any chance of agreement.”
“James, only you can weave a path out of this evil morass. You’re the architect of this new government—and a slaveholder.”
“I am not.”
“A niggling distinction. You’ll inherit slaves.”
“You’re from the North. You can’t grasp the emotions around this issue in my region.”
“I can see that slavery corrodes justice.” Witherspoon again touched Madison’s arm. “James, look inside yourself.”
Madison sat for a moment. “I’m helpless.”
“I can’t accept that. You’re one of the smartest men I’ve ever encountered. Surely you can devise a solution acceptable to your fellow Southerners.”
“Southerners aren’t the only slaveholders. May I remind you that only Massachusetts has outlawed slavery? Pennsylvania has four thousand slaves, many in Philadelphia. New Jersey—your state—has twelve thousand.”
“James that’s not fair, you know—“
“It is fair. The South holds no monopoly on this vice.”
“Our economy doesn’t depend on slavery.”
“So why not free yours?” Madison looked away. “Let’s change the subject.”
“A sinner cannot excuse his depravity by pointing to another sinner. You cannot avoid complicity.�
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“Ending slavery means sacrificing our republic. Too high a price.” Madison tossed a remnant of cake back onto the plate. “And a quixotic quest.”
“You must do something,” Witherspoon said, with a tranquil earnestness that reflected years of ministering to intractable sinners.
Madison tapped his empty teacup against his front teeth. “There’s only one thing I can do. Virginia has outlawed the slave trade. We’re the only Southern state to have done so. I can work to extend the prohibition in the new Constitution.”
“A start.”
“John, I cannot end this evil. The best I can do is to thwart its growth.”
“I must trust your political instincts.” Witherspoon smiled. “And I’ll work to end slavery in New Jersey, so I can be more self-righteous at our next meeting.”
Madison laughed at the reverend doctor’s self-deprecation. Instead of reminiscing about his college days, they had discussed difficult matters. Better to end on a friendly note. As they parted, Madison realized that he had just negotiated a compromise with a nondelegate. He hesitated a moment and then bolted out the front door, proceeding to Market Street. In two blocks, he reached his destination: Wilcox Apothecary.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Madison. How can I help you?”
“Good day, Mr. Wilcox. Can I have a pennyweight of ginseng mixed with chalk powder and two bottles of Stoughton’s?”
“Stomach ailing again?”
“A bottle of balsam of Tolu as well.” Madison was grateful that the shop was empty.
“Of course. Take just a moment.”
While the chemist busied himself pulling down ceramic pots and measuring jars, Madison wandered over to a wall plastered with broadsides for patent medicines made from plant and animal extracts or metallic derivatives.
“Anything new?”
The chemist kept grinding the pestle against the mortar to mix the ginseng into the chalk. “Keyser’s pills, but they’re for syphilis.”
Madison laughed. “I’ll strive to avoid that ailment.”
Madison scanned the wall behind the counter. After perusing the tiny drawers interspersed with glass and ceramic pots of every conceivable size, Madison asked, “Anything to quiet bowels?”
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