by Ron Carter
Notes
The business of the Grand Convention for May 29, 1787, as described in this chapter is historically accurate. Delegate Edmund Randolph’s list of fifteen essentials needed to correct the fatal flaws in the existing government did not merely correct the defects in the Articles of Confederation but obliterated them, setting the entire Grand Convention adrift. Their minds boggled by the scope of the proposal, the delegates did in fact adjourn, hoping to recover by the next day. Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 84, 169–71; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 136–46; Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 66–67; Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States, pp. 68–82; Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 158–59.
Boston
May 30, 1787
CHAPTER X
* * *
The first arc of the rising sun had cleared the flat eastern skyline to set the tops of the trees that lined the streets and filled the white-fenced yards of Boston aglow against the clear blue sky. The masts of the ships anchored in the harbor and tied to the waterfront wharves were slender, brilliant yellow spires pointed into the still heavens. Carts and wagons rumbled through the streets, bringing the morning milk and cheese and produce from the farms on the Boston Peninsula, and from the mainland, through the Neck, to market. Dockhands and seamen handling the freight of the world on the docks, and merchants preparing to open their bakeries and taverns and mercantile shops could feel it coming. It was going to be a hot, sultry day.
In her modest home south of the bustling business district, Dorothy Weems stood in the archway that separated her kitchen from the dining room and parlor, arms folded in the manner of women, studying her son. Plain, stocky, quiet by nature, Billy sat at the breakfast table, hunched forward, finishing griddle cakes and sausages. There was concern in Dorothy’s face as she watched him lay his fork on his plate, wipe his mouth on his napkin, and pick up his plate and empty cup. He rose to walk into the kitchen, and she moved to let him pass. He set the utensils on the cupboard and without a word walked back out into the parlor. She spoke as she followed him.
“You’re spending too much time at your office. You’re not sleeping at night. You hardly talk any more. Do you have too much on you?”
He stopped. “I’m all right. You’re not to worry.”
“Is something wrong at the business?”
He drew a great breath and shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ve got eight ships out, from Nova Scotia to the West Indies. One of those up north was due back five days ago. The one in the Indies, six days. There was a storm—a bad one—down in the Caribbean. We might have lost that ship. Maybe the crew.” He stopped for a moment, and she saw the sick, controlled fear leap in his eyes. “Adam’s the navigator.”
She started, and her breath came short. Losing a ship was a disaster. Losing a crew could break his heart. He might never recover if any- thing were to happen to Adam Dunson. She held her silence, and he continued.
“I haven’t heard of any storms up north. There’s no reason I know of that our ship up there should be five days overdue.”
Trudy walked into the kitchen from the hall into the bedrooms, where she had been straightening beds. Plain and stout like her mother, wearing an ankle-length dress that was gray, plain, and durable, she was now in her twentieth year. No man had ever come to the door with his hat in his hand asking permission to see her, and she had accepted the reality that probably none ever would. According to Boston custom, she was just entering the age of spinsterhood, and she was doing so stoically, with the growing realization that she must harbor all her natural instincts for husband, home, and family in a private chamber in her heart, there to be sealed away for the remainder of her life. She had learned the harsh truth that inner beauty too often remains unperceived for the lack of outer beauty. She stopped and listened in silence as her mother continued.
“Billy, it’s too much. You’ve got too much on you.”
“I’ll be all right. It will work out.”
Dorothy was hearing echoes of her husband, Bartholomew. Huge, strong, he had served as first mate on a fishing boat plying the waters off the Grand Banks, far to the north, where the violence of sudden storms is legendary. Bartholomew had also smiled at her and said, “I’ll be all right. It will work out.” But it hadn’t worked out. In this life, she would never forget the day a stranger came to her door—a fishing boat captain with his hat in his hand and eyes that would not look into hers—came to inform her that Bartholomew’s boat had been lost at sea, and the crew with it.
“You can’t keep this up forever,” Dorothy scolded. “Matthew away. Captain Pettigrew away. Caleb. You and Tom Covington trying to do the work of five men. You’ll ruin your health.”
He masked his impatience. “Things are fine. I’ll be home early today.”
Her eyes widened. “Something’s happening?”
He spoke as Trudy stepped to her mother’s side. “I intend on speaking with Brigitte tonight.”
Trudy started and Dorothy gasped and brought her hand to her mouth. “You didn’t tell me!”
“I meant to. Just too much going on right now. I spoke with Margaret last Sunday. She gave permission.”
“The ring?”
“I get it this afternoon. From Simon.”
“Oh!” Dorothy exclaimed. “The one he drew on paper?”
He nodded, and he saw a hint of pain pass in Trudy’s eyes.
“I’ll be home early. By six. Brigitte gets home from the millinery around then, and I’m to see her at seven.”
“I’ll have supper ready.”
“I doubt I’ll have time to eat before I see Brigitte. Better wait ’til I’m back.”
The two women followed him to the door and watched him pass through the gate into the cobblestoned street before they turned back and set about their day’s work.
Within two winding blocks, Billy had his coat off, hooked on one finger, tossed over his shoulder. Within another block he had his cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves rolled back and his collar open. Sweating in the humid heat, he arrived at the offices of DUNSON & WEEMS SHIPPING on the waterfront, and with the black-eyed, yellow-beaked gulls wheeling and quarreling over the carrion left by the tides, worked his key in the lock and entered. He hung his coat on the pegs near the door and went directly to the hardbacked chair at his desk. He had begun organizing the month-end bills and payroll when the door rattled and Thomas Covington entered, speaking as he closed the door.
“Mornin’. Goin’ to be a hot one.”
Billy paused to study Tom for a moment. Aging, gray-haired, in the past three months Tom had become forgetful, and from time to time his hand trembled so that his journal entries and letters were misshapen, unclear. He had to be watched.
Billy spoke. “Hot.” He gestured to a stack of letters on Tom’s desk. “Anything there that looks good?”
Tom spoke as he hung his coat. “A few. Charbonnet Company wants a one year contract. Want French porcelain-ware carried from Quebec to Charleston and Savannah. Indigo and tobacco on the return. Looks good. We got two offers from Europe. Irish silverware and Italian wine.” He took his chair and picked up the top letter, then turned to face Billy. “Think we’ll ever start crossing the Atlantic for the European trade?”
Billy shook his head. “Likely not. Too much risk. We have all we can handle right here.”
Tom nodded and fell silent, reading the correspondence, sorting out the offers to contract that met the criteria of Dunson & Weems. By 10:00 a.m. the two men had both doors of the office open, hoping for a breeze to stir the dead air, but none came. They wiped at the sweat beads on their foreheads and continued the monotonous, grinding, unending paperwork that was the backbone of the shipping company. Four times their suppliers came in with bills that had fallen due—for rope and canvas and food for the crews, and Billy patiently wrote out bank drafts for them. Two bearded men came inquiring about work and Billy took their names and where they could be reached; Duns
on & Weems was not hiring at the moment. Billy and Tom locked the office at noon to walk down four doors to a waterfront eatery where they had boiled cod and sauce and cider, then returned to their paperwork. At 2:00 p.m., Tom walked up six doors to the Red Heron tavern where the daily mail was held and returned with eight sealed documents. Billy met him at the door, and they silently went through the letters together. There were five bank drafts in payment for shipping contracts, and three new signed shipping contracts, but nothing from either of the overdue ships. Both men went back to their desks.
At 3:00 p.m. Billy stood and stretched, and Tom sat back in his chair, arms raised over his head to relax set muscles. Billy broke the silence.
“You worried about the Belle? Down in the Indies?”
Tom lowered his arms. “A little.”
“Six days. I wonder where they rode out the storm.”
“A lot of ports down there. I’m more worried about privateers. Pirates.”
Billy sat down. “Think pirates could’ve taken her?”
“Possible. It’s a worry.”
Tom handled the three seamen who came looking for work at three-thirty, and the two men who came to negotiate contracts to supply salted beef for the ship crews. At four o’clock Billy paused in his work to rotate his head to stretch tight muscles in his neck, peered through the front window, and suddenly stood.
“I’ll be right back.”
Tom glanced at him. “Need something?”
Billy pointed out at the docks. “I think the Bethany just tied up. One of the Weston ships. Back from the Caribbean. Maybe she has news of the Belle.”
Tom walked to the door and watched as Billy hurriedly worked his way through the bustle of the waterfront, down to a merchantman just lowering her gangplank. He saw Billy stop on the dock, cup his hands about his mouth, and call up to the first mate. There was an answer, an exchange, Billy nodded and turned back to the office. Tom retreated to his desk, waiting in silence.
Billy spoke as he entered the door. “Strong gale. They came through all right. One ship on a reef. Not one of ours. Others anchored in ports to ride out the blow. They don’t know about the Belle.”
Tom fingered his quill for a moment, then both men continued with their book work. At five o’clock Billy closed his ledgers, stood, stretched, and spoke as he walked to his coat by the front door.
“I need to leave. You’ll be here for a while?”
“Six o’clock. A little after.”
“Lock up?”
“Sure. Yes.”
“See you in the morning then.”
Billy made his way through the familiar waterfront jumble and sounds of men and crates and nets filled with goods loading and unloading and the screeching of gulls and terns and grebes, past the business district, to a white frame home with a small, delicately carved sign hanging from a white post in the front yard. SIMON. SILVERSMITH & JEWELER. He passed through the gate and rapped on the door.
A slender, gray-haired woman met him, smiling. “Mr. Weems! Do come in. Friedrich is expecting you.”
Billy followed her to a room off the parlor where Friedrich Simon—short, paunchy, bald, heavily jowled—rose from the stool at his workbench to greet Billy. The Swiss accent was strong as he hooked his thumbs in the straps of his work apron and tilted his head forward to peer over his spectacles and speak.
“So good to see you again. You are coming to get the ring. Nein?”
Billy grinned. “Yes.”
“It is finished. Yesterday. It is looking nice. Wait one little moment.”
He used a key to open a square metal box on the corner of his workbench. His eyes glistened with pride as he drew out a tiny box made of oak, with a single beautiful rose engraved on the top. He removed the top, pursed his mouth to give his work one last inspection, then handed it to Billy. He turned his round face upward to watch Billy’s expression as he took the box and peered at the ring.
Simple, elegant, the engagement ring was one diamond clustered in four tiny ones, set in silver. The wedding band matched, etched with eight roses on stems. Billy’s eyes sparkled, and Friedrich beamed.
Billy nodded his approval and pressed the top back onto the small box. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“For that girl—Dunson—Brigitte Dunson. Nein?”
“Yes. Brigitte.”
“She is a fortunate girl.”
Billy shook his head. “I’m the fortunate one.”
Friedrich’s paunch moved when he laughed. “Nein. You do not understand. She is fortunate that she is getting her wedding rings from Simon. Getting you for a husband, well, that is a different story.”
Billy laughed as he reached for the leather purse in his pocket. “What do I owe you?”
Friedrich fumbled with some papers on his desk, removed one, and showed it to Billy. Billy opened his purse and counted coins while Friedrich marked the bill paid and signed it. They exchanged the paid bill for the coins, Billy pocketed the precious rings, and Friedrich followed him to the front door.
“You are telling her—Miss Dunson—that Friedrich wishes her long life and great happiness. You will do that?”
“I will. Thank you for everything.”
Friedrich hooked his thumbs in his apron straps and peered over his spectacles to watch Billy disappear down the street.
It was five minutes past six o’clock when Billy walked through the gate in front of his mother’s home. Dorothy and Trudy were waiting inside the open door, faces alive with anticipation, and Dorothy called to him, “Will you have time for supper?”
He shook his head as he entered the door. “No time. I have to get washed and change clothes.”
The two women stepped aside as he strode through the parlor, down the hall to his bedroom, poured tepid water from the large pitcher into the basin, stripped to the waist, and washed. He dried with a towel and then sat down on his bed for a few moments towel in hand, to mop at the perspiration until it stopped. Unexpected thoughts came, and he sat for a moment, head tipped while he stared down at the towel in is hands.
I am going to marry a woman whose heart is divided. Part of it still belongs to her English officer—Richard Arlen Buchanan—and he is dead and I can do nothing about it. Nothing. Will he always be there, between us? One day will it do harm?
He sighed and rose and went to the wooden wardrobe to reach for his Sunday suit, shirt, cravat, and trousers. He laid them on the bed, then returned to reach his best square-toed shoes with the silver buckles from the wardrobe floor, and clean white stockings from a dresser drawer. By force of will he dressed slowly to avoid perspiring. He spent a little time brushing back his damp, sandy red hair, inspected himself in the small mirror above the wash basin, started for the door, and stopped short. He spun around, thrust his hand into the pocket of his workpants on the bed, and drew out the small ring box. Opening it to admire the ring once more, he then closed the lid and carefully put it in his coat pocket, took a deep breath, and walked out into the parlor where both women were waiting.
He passed them for the door before it hit him. He stopped, turned, and came back to them.
“Do I look all right?”
Dorothy’s eyes shone. “You look fine.”
“Mother, I’m going to ask a woman to marry me, and I don’t know what to say.”
Dorothy raised a hand to stop him. “Be yourself, Billy. Say what’s in your heart. I’m so proud of you.”
“Would you like to see the rings?”
Trudy exclaimed, “Oh, could we?”
Billy drew the box from his coat pocket and handed it to his sister. Her hands were trembling as she removed the top, and both women gazed at the simple beauty of the set. For a few moments neither spoke, and then both exclaimed at once.
“ . . . precious . . . beautiful.”
“Think she’ll like them?”
Trudy closed the lid. “She’ll love them, Billy. Oh, Billy!” Impulsively the plain girl threw her arms about her brother, and he
wrapped his arms about her and she held him for a few seconds with all her strength before she released him and stepped back. Instantly Dorothy buried her round, homely face in his shoulder and for a time held him close. Then she pushed herself back and smiled as she raised her apron to wipe at her tears.
“Look at me! A happy time, and I’m crying. You go now. We’ll be waiting.”
The two women were standing in the door when Billy opened the front gate and turned left, and they were standing at the front fence watching as he walked slowly away, moving more like a man going to the gallows than on his way to make a proposal of marriage to a woman he had secretly loved for as far back as he could remember.
As he walked, thoughts rose to crowd his mind. Marriage. Children. Responsibilities. He slowed in the stifling, humid, late afternoon heat, at a loss to know what he was going to say to Brigitte. For eleven years he had lived with the dream that this day would come, never really believing that it would. He could not remember how many times he had invented perfect scenes in his mind of cool moonlight and the sweet scent of honeysuckle and roses for his proposal of marriage, and he had composed perfect sentences that he would speak. And now, walking to her home in the oppressive late-afternoon heat, the scene was all wrong, and every word, every sentence he forced to his mind sounded ridiculous, flat, contrived. He could not recall how many times he had faced musket, bayonet, and cannon in his six years of war, nor how many times he had stared into the terrible face of death. But for one flitting moment a battlefield seemed a very desirable place to be.
Arriving at the Dunson home, he paused before opening the gate and making his way up the countersunk cobblestone walkway to the front door. This had been his second home since the day he was born, yet he was seeing things in the carefully kept yard that he had never noticed before—daisies with heads drooping in the heat, and branches in the fruit trees that needed to be pruned.
He used his handkerchief to swab at the perspiration on his face, then thrust it back into his coat pocket. He felt for the ring box, squared his shoulders, and knocked. It seemed an eternity before footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor inside, and Margaret swung the door open to face him.
