Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Kathleen cut him off. “Pennsylvania? Did Pennsylvania have someone at the conference?”

  “No. That’s the point. Maryland and Virginia wrote to the Pennsylvania government outlining what they had done and inviting that state to join in the plan for expanding navigation on the Potomac! Think about it! Two states inviting a third. And there’s talk about inviting Delaware to come into it. Madison even mentioned delivering their work to the Confederation Congress for its approval under Article Six of the Articles of Confederation.”

  He stopped, ordered his thoughts, and concluded. “Will it spread? Will other states come into the open discussion? If they do, has something been started that will bring all the states together as time goes on?”

  Kathleen sat back in her chair, eyes growing wider with each passing second. “It’s too much for me to think about.”

  Matthew finished his cider, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. “That’s where I’ve been these past several days and why I’m late getting home. Now my work begins. I have to put all this into a letter to be sent to people in almost every state.”

  Kathleen sighed. “You’d better get to bed. You’ll need some rest.”

  “Have you heard from Billy or Caleb? About the business?”

  “Yes. They’re doing well. They have contracts that will have all six ships working in the next three or four weeks.”

  “Any problems?”

  “They didn’t mention any.”

  Matthew stood, and Kathleen rose with him. He gestured toward the door where his seaman’s bag lay. “Let me get my bag. We’d better go to bed.” He reached for his empty cider glass, and for the first time noticed Kathleen had hardly touched hers.

  Puzzled, he asked, “Something wrong with your cider?”

  She shrugged, and a strange look crossed her face. “I couldn’t drink it.” She raised her eyes to his. “There’s one thing you should know.”

  Matthew stopped dead still, waiting.

  “In about seven months, John’s going to have a baby brother or a baby sister.”

  * * * * *

  John Tyler of the Virginia legislature sat at the desk in his library, head tilted forward in deep thought, then for the third time picked up the document before him and read it again. Then he leaned forward once more, thoughts running.

  The legislature was quick to approve everything our delegates accomplished at Mount Vernon, but they refused to send it on to the Confederation Congress for its approval. They defeated that proposal. Voted it down! Somehow we must put this before Congress! Somehow!

  He laid the paper down and his thoughts went on.

  If it can’t be done directly, maybe it can be done indirectly.

  For half an hour he neither moved nor spoke. Then he reached for paper, quill, and ink. Slowly, carefully selecting the words, he wrote:

  “RESOLVED. That Edmund Randolph, James Madison, Jun., Walter Jones, Saint George Tucker, and Meriwether Smith, Esquires, be appointed commissioners . . . shall meet such commissioners as may be appointed by the other States in the Union to take into consideration the trade of the United States; to examine the relative situations and trade of the said States; to consider how far a uniform system in their commercial regulations may be necessary to their common interest and their permanent harmony; and to report to the several States . . . as, when unanimously ratified by them, will enable the United States in Congress, effectually to provide for the same.”

  He sat back and read his work, read it carefully again, and set it on the small desk.

  If the Virginia legislature wouldn’t send the Mount Vernon Compact to the Confederation Congress, maybe they’ll send this resolution. Maybe. We shall see.

  A few days later Tyler sat erect in his chair in the state legislature counting the votes, and his heart raced. He left the hall with a copy of his resolution in his papers and a sense of deep satisfaction in his soul. His resolution had passed. The legislature had set the date for convening the conference that for the first time invited all thirteen states to amicably resolve the ever-escalating troubles that had been inexorably tearing them apart.

  They would meet in Annapolis, Maryland, on September eleventh, 1786.

  Tyler entered his home, went directly to his library, and set his papers on his desk. He removed his tricorn, then sat down, and the thought came strong.

  Will all thirteen states appoint delegates? If they do, will the delegates attend? Will they?

  Notes

  James Madison and Thomas Jefferson did arrange a conference for delegates from Virginia and Maryland to meet in Alexandria on March 21, 1785. The circumstances surrounding the gathering, including the failure of the Virginia delegates to appear are accurately detailed in this chapter. The meeting at Mount Vernon did occur as described.

  Each delegation returned to their own legislatures, and the Mount Vernon Compact, as it came to be called, was quickly approved by each.

  James Madison hoped the Virginia legislature would submit the compact to the Confederation Congress, but that effort failed.

  John Tyler, of the Virginia legislature, and father of the tenth President of the United States, thereupon framed a resolution for the Virginia legislature stating that similar delegations from all thirteen states should meet to continue the resounding success of the Mount Vernon Compact conference. That effort succeeded, and the conference was scheduled for September 11, 1786, at Annapolis, Maryland. The Resolution drafted by Tyler is in pertinent part quoted verbatim in this chapter (see Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation?, pp. 97–99; Freeman, Washington, p. 532).

  Mount Vernon

  November 5, 1786

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  * * *

  The Annapolis Conference—half the states didn’t bother to send delegates last March—those that did appear framed a resolution to hold another conference next May. The Articles of Confederation—a government in name only—powerless. Citizens closing down courts in half a dozen states—talk of some states seceding from the union.

  Citizen George Washington stood at the library window in his Mount Vernon mansion, staring out at the bare trees thrashing in the heavy November wind that carried sleet and freezing rain slanting beneath dull clouds that shrouded the late afternoon world in gray. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, feet spread slightly, listening to the whistling at the windows and the sucking at the huge stone fireplace, oblivious to the costly paintings that hung on three of the walls and the thick carpet that covered the polished oak floor.

  Farmers closing down courthouses to prevent further court actions of foreclosure or sending men to debtors prison—citizens forming groups to petition legislatures for reform of the entire system of money and courts—state legislators passing laws to punish them—the entire system of government in question—public and private affairs approaching chaos.

  He flinched at a rap at the door, then turned. “Enter.”

  A short, sparse servant walked into the sumptuous library and announced, “Your mail has arrived, sir,” then laid several documents in a neat stack on the large desk.

  Washington nodded and the servant left the room and closed the door. Washington stared at the documents for a time before he walked to his desk and sat down with a dark foreboding growing in his breast. Methodically he went through the documents, carefully studying the names of the senders. The largest and heaviest was from Matthew Dunson. Curious, Washington set the others aside and broke the wax seal. Inside the letter was a second document, the seal broken. Washington laid the second paper aside and flattened the letter before him.

  October 24, 1786

  Boston, Mass.

  Dear Sir:

  I write with regret, partly from respect for your much deserved privacy, partly from what I am convinced you would want to know, as follows.

  Slowly Washington read on, the sad litany by now so familiar to him.

  Debt, worthless money, courts—critical in Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Hampshire—c
itizens losing farms—debtors prison—beleaguered citizens now organizing to protect themselves—August 29th blockaded Courthouse in Northampton—stopped court foreclosures—unrest spreading to Worcester, Concord, Taunton, Great Barrington—on to New Hampshire—Connecticut—September 25th a 44-year-old Pelham farmer named Daniel Shays led farmers to shut down the courthouse at Springfield for three days—Shays a former Continental Army captain—served bravely and honorably at Bunker Hill, Saratoga, Stony Point.

  Washington stopped reading and for a moment stared at his hands, confounded. A former captain who had honorably survived such battles, now leading other veterans against his own government? Could that be possible? He read on.

  Massachusetts Governor James Boudoin issued orders—General Benjamin Lincoln to take 4,400 Massachusetts militia—put down the rebellion—defend the courts—restore order to the Commonwealth.

  Again Washington stopped while he let his thoughts run, then finished reading the letter.

  I take the liberty of enclosing a letter lately received from Nathan Tredwell of Springfield, the said letter self-explanatory.

  Should you find it beneficial I would be happy to receive such response as you care to make.

  Your humble and obd’t svn’t,

  Matthew Dunson

  Boston Committee of Merchants

  Slowly Washington unfolded and laid out the second letter. The words were formed with great care, almost as though drawn, not written.

  October 2nd 1787

  Springfield, Mass.

  Dear Mr. Dunson:

  My wife Rachel writes this because I do not write good. Your brother Caleb was here. He saw what I am writing about. I think your committee needs to know things is worse since he left. Daniel Shays from Pelham led men that stopped the courts here for three days in September. Armed militia came. Farmers is organizing all over, at Worcester and Concord and Great Barrington and in New Hampshire. There’s talk about muskets. Daniel Shays says the war was fought for all Americans, not just the rich. He says we got a right to fight for our farms and what’s ours. If the legislature and the congress don’t do something, there will be bloodshed. I believe us farmers does have right on our side, but it is hard to fight against my own flag. I hope you can do something, soon. My family sends our greetings to Caleb. He is a good boy.

  Yr Obed’t Serv’t,

  Nathan Tredwell

  Washington raised his head and a great sadness settled on his face.

  “ . . . hard to fight against my own flag.”

  He pushed the letters away toward the two large stacks of correspondence on the right side of his desk, then turned to peer out the window at the wind and sleet.

  Men who risked all for this country—forced now to choose between home and flag—our worst fears happening—spreading—what have we done?—what have we done?

  Slowly he selected a letter from the stacked correspondence on his desk, unfolded it, and read the signature. Harry Lee. Former Commander of Lee’s Light Horse Cavalry that had performed so well both in the North and South. Carefully Washington read the stiff handwriting.

  “ . . . and there is talk of the abolition of debts, the division of property, and reunion with Great Britain. Should affairs become more critical than at this moment, Congress might call on Washington to go to the eastern States, since it is presumed that your influence would cause the disorders to subside.”

  Washington shook his head. Reunion with Great Britain? Heresy!

  He selected another document from the correspondence, looked to be certain of his own signature, and read his answer to his old subordinate officer, Harry Lee.

  “ . . . I am mortified beyond expression when I view the clouds that have spread over the brightest morn that ever dawned upon any country. As for remedy, you talk of employing influence to appease the present tumults in Massachusetts. I know not where that influence is to be found and, if attainable, that it would be a proper remedy for our disorders. Influence is no government.”

  They think my presence will provide sufficient influence to end the civil unrest? And what becomes of them when my influence ceases to be? When I am gone? Who then provides such influence?

  Again he reached for a document of correspondence and read the signature. Henry Knox, Secretary at War, United States. The same Henry Knox who had braved the New England winter of 1775–1776 to lead a column of men from Boston to Fort Ticonderoga and return with the cannon of Fort Ti to provide Washington the firepower to place the British in Boston under siege. The same General Knox who had commanded the Continental Army artillery throughout the war and finally at Yorktown. Bright in Washington’s mind was the memory of the short, rotund man throwing his arms about his beloved general and sobbing like a child when Washington resigned his commission, and invited the corps of officers who had stood with him through it all to a farewell at Fraunces Tavern. In 1785, Congress had turned to Knox to serve as Secretary of War. True to his commission, Knox had gone personally to observe conditions at Springfield, then written to Washington.

  Washington spread the letter and read.

  “ . . . Were there a respectable body of troops in the service of the United States, so situated as to be ordered immediately to Springfield, the propriety of the measure could not be doubted. Or were the finances of the United States in such order, as to enable Congress to raise an additional body of four or five hundred men, and station them at respective arsenals, the spirit of the times would highly justify the measure.

  “I have visited Springfield and completed my investigation. I am satisfied that the creed of the insurgents is that the property of the United States has been protected from confiscation of Britain by the joint exertions of all, and therefore ought to be the common property of all. And he that attempts opposition to this creed is an enemy to equity and justice and ought to be swept from off the face of the earth.”

  Washington stopped reading, laid the letter down, and for a time was lost in reflection.

  Secretary Knox—caught in the trap that is slowly strangling the country—not enough money to maintain an army and nothing in the Articles of Confederation authorizing him to send Continental troops to interfere in a State matter if he did have the money—and worse, contending with men who believe all Americans should share in the land we won from the British.

  He stood and slowly paced back to the windows to stand close, watching the gray, late afternoon slowly darken as evening came on beneath black clouds and wind and sleet. He stood thus while twilight filled the room, and the dancing flames in the fireplace cast changing reflections on the walls of the great library.

  How does one change minds that for generations have known but one form of government? One wins at war by defeating another by force of arms. But having won at war, how do we win the peace when the fatal flaw preventing it is in ourselves?

  He shifted his weight, and as he stood in the somber room, he suddenly felt old, spent, defeated, useless. For a moment his shoulders sagged, and the weight of having carried his country on his shoulders for eight years seemed crushing. He raised his head, straightened his shoulders, and by force of the iron will that had sustained him, pushed his thoughts on.

  Who will rise in this hour? Jefferson? Adams?

  It came to him gently, naturally.

  Madison. James Madison. Once a representative in Congress. Now a member of the House of Delegates. He has the intelligence, the will to work, the vision.

  For a long time he stood still, working with words and sentences in his head. Then he walked to his desk, lighted a lamp, pushed aside the letters, and reached for fresh paper. He took up his quill and carefully began writing.

  “ . . . I applaud the refusal of the House to refuse approval for emission of paper money. I join in the hope that the House will, at this critical moment, calmly and deliberately consider that great and most important of all objects, the federal government.”

  Washington stopped, read his own words, then with a fervent prayer in
his heart, concluded.

  “Let prejudices, unreasonable jealousies and local interest yield to reason and liberality. Let us look to our national character, and to things beyond the present period. Wisdom and good examples are necessary at this time to rescue the political machine from the impending storm.”

  He read his words and laid the quill down beside the paper. For a time he stared at the page, searching for any words that would add to what he had written, and there were none. He signed his name, sprinkled salts on the finished letter, dusted it off, folded the paper, and reached for the wax and the seal.

  Notes

  Conditions for the farmers and working class people in the United States reached desperate proportions when the courts were flooded with property foreclosures and complaints to put men in debtors prison. Daniel Shays, a 44-year-old Pelham farmer, formerly a captain in the Continental Army, who served with distinction as described in this chapter, became the leader of organized farmers who began barricading courthouses all over Massachusetts, thereby preventing further court actions against them. Neighboring states joined the Massachusetts insurgents. September 25, 1786, Shays and his followers closed down the Springfield courthouse for three days. Shays preached that the land won from England was won for all Americans, not just the rich. Letters were exchanged. Harry Lee wrote to General Washington as herein described, and Washington answered as set forth in this chapter. Henry Knox, former general of Continental Army artillery and now Secretary at War, personally went to Springfield for his own investigation, then wrote to Washington. Washington answered their letters, and many, many others too numerous to include herein, all expressing alarm, then fear for what was happening.

  The letters appearing in this chapter from Knox, Lee, and Washington, are all quoted nearly verbatim from their original texts. It was at the conclusion of the episodes herein described that Washington wrote his now famous letter of November 5, 1786, to James Madison, in which he implored the brilliant young Congressman to lead the House in considering the first and greatest issue before them, to rescue the federal government from “the impending storm” (Freeman, Washington, pp. 533–35; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, pp. 446–49; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation?, pp. 92–95).