by Ron Carter
He paused for a moment, then continued. “By the powers that I believe are vested in the office of President of this convention, I intend to issue an order that while we are in session, the door is to be locked. Further, the windows shall be closed, and the blinds drawn. I have no illusions about the skill of curious newspaper reporters and some members of the general public to utilize such things to gain access to what goes on in here. Are there objections?”
Stunned silence held for a few moments before open talk began. Lock the door? Close the windows? Draw the blinds? In the heat of a Philadelphia summer? Ridiculous! Beyond any need!
Washington let the tumult continue for several seconds before he called them to order.
“If we are to protect our work, I see no other way. Is there debate?”
The talk dwindled and died as the delegates accepted the hard truth: Washington was right.
Washington turned to the secretary. “Hearing nothing to the contrary, I direct that you draft such an order today for my signature.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. We shall now move on to the heavier business of the day.” He turned his head to look at Edmund Randolph of Virginia. Thirty-three years of age, striking in appearance, six feet tall, Randolph was of the celebrated Randolph family of Virginia. A graduate of William and Mary College, he had early become a lawyer, served on the staff of General Washington, become the youngest member of the Virginia convention of 1776, served as attorney general for his native Virginia, then three years in the Confederation Congress before he was elected governor to succeed Patrick Henry. A gifted and forceful speaker, his strong reputation preceded him to Philadelphia.
Washington said to him, “Mr. Randolph, I understand you are prepared to address the convention.”
Randolph rose, his long, unpowdered brown hair flowing and for a few seconds straightened a thick stack of documents on his desk. He took the top one in hand and raised his voice.
“I am, sir.”
For more than one hour he spoke. His discourse began calmly with a description of the form of government all patriots had dreamed of and fought for—a government that derived its power from the consent of the people. His voice rose as he counted on his fingers the fatal defects of the Articles of Confederation: powerless to raise money to pay its own expenses, powerless to resolve disputes between states, powerless to regulate treaties with foreign sovereigns. He reached the peak of his argument when he listed the fruits of the flawed Articles, including the rebellion and war between Shays’ followers and the United States military; the horrendous commercial havoc inflicted on the United States by the issuing of paper money by the states; the humiliation and ridicule heaped on the country by foreign banks and merchants; the treaties between United States and foreign sovereigns that had been breached by the Americans because they could not meet their obligations; the disputes between states over rights to the navigable rivers, westward expansion, and tariffs, that had come perilously close to destroying the union altogether. Randolph invited them to envision America as three separate nations: north, central, and south. Should that occur, he declared, we are lost forever. Murmurs broke out. Some shuddered at the thought.
He stopped, asked for and was given a glass of water, drank, and set the glass on his desk.
Madison laid a fresh sheet of paper on his table and dipped his quill in the ink bottle.
Washington leaned back in his chair, glanced down at Madison, then at George Mason and George Wythe. All six of the Virginia delegation turned their eyes to their seventh member, Edmund Randolph, and waited in strained silence. Over the previous three weeks, they had all helped with the address Randolph was presenting. James Madison had been the chief architect and the others had helped with the polish. They knew that Madison, with his soft voice and manner was not the one to deliver it with the force and fire it demanded. It would need the voice and the figure and the power and the flair of Edmund Randolph. Madison the architect, Edmund the deliverer.
They settled into their chairs and their breathing shortened as Randolph moved into it.
“I therefore propose the following as essentials for completing our work of establishing a durable government:
“First, that the Articles of Confederation be corrected and enlarged to accomplish the objects proposed by their institution.”
Other delegates glanced out the windows in disinterest, wondering what it would be like to sit in the hall with the windows closed, the curtains drawn, and the door locked. There was a disquieting sense that it sounded much like prison. Few were paying more than casual attention as Randolph continued.
“Second. A scheme of representation be devised, based on contributions or population.
“Third. A bicameral legislature.”
Delegates were letting their minds wander, mentally composing letters home to wives, families, legislatures, their businesses.
“Fourth. Election of the first branch by the people.
“Fifth. Election of the second branch by the first, out of a proper number of persons nominated by the state legislatures.”
Words began to catch in the minds of a few. Representation by population? Bicameral legislature? Election? People vote? They pulled their thoughts together and began to listen.
“Sixth. Authority in the national legislature to pass laws superior to those of any state, with power to override state laws that contravene laws of the union, and to use force against recalcitrant states.”
Suddenly there was a rustle in the room, and the sound of chairs squeaking as men sat bolt upright in utter shock.
“Seventh. An executive to be elected by the legislature, to be compensated, and ineligible for reelection, and possessed of general authority to execute the laws.”
Men were turning, looking at each other with astonished stares, unable to grasp what they were hearing. An executive with supreme powers to execute laws that would override any state law? A king? We just got rid of a king!
“Eighth. A council of revision consisting of the executive and selected judges who shall have a qualified veto over acts of the legislature.
“Ninth. A judiciary consisting of one supreme tribunal with lesser tribunals as needed, each empowered with jurisdiction national in scope.”
National? What is national? We have a federal government, not national! A national court with national jurisdiction? What of our state courts? Abolished?
“Tenth. Admission of new states with less than a unanimous vote in the legislature.
“Eleventh. A guarantee to each state of its republican institutions and its territory.”
No one was moving. There was no sound. Eyes were wide in shock.
“Twelfth. A provision for the continuance of the Confederation Congress until a day certain after the reform of the Articles of union.”
The Confederation Congress terminated? Impossible!
“Thirteenth. Provision for the amendment of the new constitution without the assent of the legislature.”
New constitution? Constitution of what? Each state has its own constitution. Are we to have one new constitution that applies to all states? Revoke all thirteen state constitutions? Are the states to be dissolved, done away with, eliminated?
“Fourteenth. A requirement that all state officers be bound by oath to support the new constitution.”
The death knell of the states?
“Fifteenth. Ratification of these proposals once they are approved by the Convention by state conventions expressly chosen by the people.”
Randolph laid his paperwork down, stood to his full six feet, and turned his face to Washington to speak firmly.
“These, Mr. President, are the proposals that I wish to place before this body for debate and approval.”
“Thank you, Mr. Randolph.”
Not one of the Virginia delegation—not Madison, Washington, Randolph, Mason, Wythe, Blair, nor McClurg—had even the faintest idea of what the reaction of the convention would be. Madison�
��s work had begun years before when he had made government and the principles on which true government is based, the center of his life study. It was he who in those years had first set pen to paper to begin the labor of reducing those principles to a plan, one at a time, organizing them, making the complex simple, finally reducing the fruits of his labor to the fifteen recommendations Randolph had delivered. It was the other six men in the Virginia delegation who had labored for weeks with Madison behind closed doors, nudging the plan, laboring with one word here, another there, polishing, adding, discarding.
They knew what they had done. Their first recommendation—to “correct and enlarge” the familiar but fatally flawed Articles of Confederation—was intended to, and did, suggest to the Convention that they were attempting to preserve the Articles, because the commission granted by each state to each delegate was to amend those Articles. Their next fourteen recommendations did not amend the Articles. They demolished them. They left no vestige, no part, of the Articles standing. Rather, they launched the entire convention into uncharted waters never dreamed of, with no compass, no North Star, no lighthouses, and no chart showing the shoals and reefs and rocks that could rip the bottom clear out of their foundling ship of state.
Randolph sat down. For a few moments not one word was heard. The delegates sat white-faced, immobilized, thoughts fragmented, wild, disorganized, minds lurching about, reeling, unable to focus.
National? Bicameral? Executive? Elections? Veto? Constitution? Supreme Tribunal? States subservient? Force against nonconforming states? Confederation Congress abolished? In the name of all under heaven that is holy, what are they proposing?
The seven men in the Virginia delegation sat without moving, watching, trying to gauge how violently they had stirred the convention, waiting for the volcano to erupt. Murmuring started among the others, and the Virginians waited.
No one stood. No one pounded his desk and shouted, “Blasphemy!”
The Virginians were stunned. Why had not someone—Lansing or Yates or Ellsworth or Dickinson—particularly the pacifist Dickinson—leaped to his feet and shouted, “Treason!” Clearly, the proposals fathered by the genius of Madison and delivered by the eloquent Randolph had breached the commission of every delegate in the room. Not one state had authorized one delegate to utterly destroy the Articles of Confederation, and none had even dreamed of creating the government Randolph had described. It could not be more clear that the framework of government now before them was shot through and through with just about everything they thought had led to the war and the throwing off of the yoke of England! A national government, with one executive, to which every state was subservient at the risk of destruction for disobedience? What, pray tell, was the difference between that proposal, and a king, with an army to crush anyone who disagreed with him?
Mutterings began, with no one rising to make a coherent response, because no one could spontaneously decide where to begin to attack the avalanche that just buried them all. They were all jolted when Charles Pinckney rose.
“Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
The room silenced and all eyes were on the young delegate from South Carolina.
“Gentlemen, I have presumed to reduce some of my ideas on a new government to a system, which I prepared in writing prior to my arrival in Philadelphia. In review, I must confess that it is grounded on much the same principles as the proposal of Mr. Randolph. Nonetheless, I request permission to present this proposed draft of a federal government at this time. I have a copy to be delivered to the secretary.”
“Very well. Your proposal shall be filed with the secretary.”
Pinckney recoiled slightly. “It was my intent to read the proposal.”
“The hour is late. It shall be filed with the secretary for those who wish to obtain it.”
With a flourish, Pinckney picked up a copy of his writing, passed it to William Jackson, then sat down. His proposal was ignored, never again to be mentioned, throughout the entire convention.
Washington quickly moved on. “We have the proposal of Mr. Randolph before us. The floor is open for debate.”
Debate? Where does one start with a proposal that point blank sets forth fourteen propositions that systematically sweep an entire government into oblivion? The delegates turned to one another befuddled, unable to spontaneously organize their thoughts into a workable plan of debate. Finally one of them stood.
“Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
“I move that we adjourn for the day in favor of beginning debate tomorrow.”
Another stood.
“Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
“For the debate, I move that we dissolve the entire delegation into a committee of the whole. I further move that the presiding officer of such committee be Nathaniel Gorham of the State of Massachusetts.”
For a moment all eyes shifted to Washington, concerned at how he would receive the implication that Gorham, not he, would best serve as the presiding officer of the committee of the whole. A few saw the relief in Washington’s face.
Nathaniel Gorham celebrated his forty-sixth birthday as he traveled to Philadelphia to attend the convention. The son of a packet boat operator in Charlestown, across the harbor north from Boston, his formal education was sketchy; at age fifteen he was apprenticed as a mechanic to New London. He became a reasonably successful merchant and politician until 1775, when most of his property was destroyed by the invading British. Without hesitation he turned to privateering against the British and selling his prizes on the open market, to emerge at the end of the war with enough wealth to live comfortably, despite his failures at investing wisely. He served in political capacities ranging from a representative to town meetings in Charlestown, to the Congress of the United States, where he was speaker of the lower house for three years, as well as a member of the board of war, and a judge in the Middlesex court of common pleas. None, including Washington, questioned his mastery of parliamentary procedure, nor his qualifications to preside over the committee of the whole.
Debate was brief and unanimous. The vote on both motions was in the affirmative.
Washington concluded. “This convention will reconvene at ten o’clock a.m. tomorrow and immediately dissolve into a committee of the whole. Mr. Nathaniel Gorham of Massachusetts shall be the presiding officer of the committee. I remind each of you that this delegation is sworn to secrecy. Nothing of what we have said or written is to leave this room. We stand adjourned until tomorrow morning.” He stood and walked down the aisle while the convention waited until the doors closed behind him.
Color had returned to the faces of most delegates as they stood and gathered their papers. Loud talk filled the chamber, and as they opened the door to begin their exit, it spilled out into the hallway to echo and reecho for a moment. Persons in the building on other business slowed and stopped to stare at the outburst, the like of which had never before been heard coming from the East Room. As though by a signal, each suddenly remembered Washington’s admonition of secrecy, and the delegates clamped their mouths shut to exit in near total silence.
Instantly Matthew was at the door, groping to understand the silence and the flat expressions on their faces as the delegates marched down the hall and out into the sunlight. Madison slowed and gestured for Matthew to walk with him, and they made their way out without a word, then slowed in question at the crowd gathered at street’s edge, excited and exclaiming at the sight of Benjamin Franklin laboriously stepping into his sedan chair and closing the door. The four burly convicts seized the poles, hoisted the sedan off the cobblestones, and walked north on Chestnut.
Madison looked up at Matthew and smiled. “Only Benjamin Franklin,” he said, and the two of them turned toward the Indian Queen. They were halfway there before Madison stopped, and Matthew spoke.
“Something momentous happened in the convention today.”
Madison nodded, and in his qu
iet voice said, “Yes. It did. The entire delegation was sworn to total secrecy. No one can utter a word of what occurs in the convention. Nothing. We cannot speak of it in letters, even to our families. No written document is to leave the hall. No one outside is to hear a single word.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Newspapers?”
“Particularly newspapers.”
“For how long?”
“Until we finish and adjourn sine die.”
“Effective when?”
“Five hours ago.”
For several seconds Matthew stood silent while he accepted the fact that his stay in Philadelphia, and his overpowering need to be part of the effort to save his country were gone, vanished. For a moment he set his teeth before he spoke.
“Doesn’t that end it for me, for now?”
Madison answered. “It does. Do you see the good sense in it?”
Matthew’s response was slow, reluctant. “Yes. I do. I wish it were otherwise, but I do see the need.”
Madison shifted his leather case. “I should join my delegation at the Indian Queen.”
Matthew asked, “Would you agree to let me write to you on occasion?”
“Absolutely, so long as you understand I cannot say a word about the convention.”
“I understand that. My only purpose would be to find out when you expect it to end. I plan to be here for that.”
“Write me. I’ll give you what I can.”
Matthew offered his hand to Madison and felt the surprising strength in the grip as Madison’s small hand took his. The two locked eyes for a moment, then turned and went their separate ways—Madison to a meeting in which no one could speak of the revolution that had been touched off in the convention that morning, Matthew to the waterfront to find a ship on which he could arrange passage to Boston and Kathleen and John and a shipping business.
