by Ron Carter
Roger Sherman stood. “While it is true that the thirteen states each has one man at its head, it is also true that they have an advisory council. Even in Great Britain, the King has a council. It is true that he is the one that appoints it, but nonetheless, the advice of the council has weight with him and attracts confidence of the people.”
Obstreperous and crusty Elbridge Gerry arose. “I am at a loss to discover the wisdom in having an executive composed of three persons. In military matters, we would have one general with three heads!”
Gorham took a deep breath. “If there is no more debate, does anyone call for the vote?”
The vote was called. Ayes, seven. Nays, three.
The executive of the United States would be one single man without an advisory council.
Jackson recorded the vote and Gorham moved on.
“Next issue. Shall the executive have power to negate any laws enacted by the legislature?”
Once again James Wilson arose. “If the legislative, executive, and judiciary are to be distinct and independent, the executive ought to have an absolute negative power. Without such a means of self-defense, the legislature can at any moment sink the executive into nonexistence!”
Elbridge Gerry rose, shaking his head. “I see no necessity for so great a control over the legislature, as the best men in the community would be comprised in the two branches of it.”
Benjamin Franklin thumped his cane on the floor and all eyes swung to him. “I am sorry to differ from my colleague for whom I have a very great respect, but I have had some experience on this check in the executive, on the legislature, under the government in Pennsylvania.” He paused to weigh his words, then went on, blunt, candid. “The negative power in the Governor has constantly been used to extort money! No good law whatever can be passed without a private bargain with the governor, and a sizeable contribution to his pocket by way of salary increase, or donation. It became such an open practice that finally no bill that had been passed by the legislature came to the Governor’s desk for signature without a Treasury Order attached to it, in his favor. When the Indians were scalping American citizens in the western reaches of the state, the concurrence of the Governor in means of self-defense could not be got until it was agreed that the Governor’s estate would be exempted from taxation!”
The room was deadly silent as Franklin continued.
“I greatly fear that if an absolute negative should be given to the executive as proposed, more money and more power would be demanded until at last enough of both would be gotten by the executive to influence and bribe the legislature into a complete subjection to the will of the executive.”
Franklin pursed his mouth for a moment, then nodded his head. He had finished.
Roger Sherman stood. “I am against giving the executive such absolute negative powers. No one man should have the power to stop the will of the whole. We ought to avail ourselves of his wisdom in revising the laws, but not permit him to overrule the decided and cool opinions of the legislature.”
Gorham waited for a moment, then called for the vote. All voting states, “Nay.” The executive would not have absolute power to negate, or veto, a bill passed by the legislature.
It was then moved that the executive should have the power to negate, or veto, any bill passed by the legislature, but that the legislature could override the negative by a two-thirds vote in the affirmative.
Once again Gorham called for the vote. The motion passed sub silentio. Any veto by the executive could be overridden by a two-thirds vote in the legislature.
Elbridge Gerry, face sour, glanced at Franklin, then Madison, then Gorham. A one man executive who has the power to override the entire legislature—no compensation for the executive, which means only rich men can serve—no definition and no limitation on his duties—some want him elected by the common people who know nothing about government—a perfect arrangement for a disaster. What lunacy!
Franklin glanced at Madison. The little man was bent over his desk, quill in hand, writing steadily in the shorthand method he had invented to keep as complete a record as humanly possible of the proceedings. Franklin’s gaze drifted to Washington, whose face was a study in masked thought. Franklin moved his legs, gritted his teeth at the pain, then settled back. It’s going the right direction. Checks. Balances. The power divided between a legislature and a single executive—neither has it all. It is not as I would wish it to go, necessarily, but this is a new generation of Americans, and they need to be free to make their own mistakes just as we all did as younger men. And who knows? Perhaps these younger men can see farther because they stand on our shoulders. So much yet to be done. But we’ll get there. We’ll get there.
Gorham looked up at the clock, then down at the unfinished agenda and shook his head. Too much—too many heavy issues—never finish today. He scanned the room and saw sweltering men who had no more to give without an overnight reprieve.
“This committee is adjourned for the day. We’ll meet again in the morning.”
Notes
The proceedings of the Grand Convention from June first through June fourth, 1787, as they appear in this chapter, were taken from the following historical records and books.
Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, Volume One, pp. 63–141.
Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 152–62.
Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 173–88.
Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 171–74.
Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, pages named Friday, June 1, 1787, Monday June 4, 1787.
Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States, pp. 73–79.
Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 77–95.
The issues handled by the Grand Convention were more numerous than appear in this book and cannot all be included because of their volume. The central issues are set forth herein. Further, the speeches made by the individuals in the debates were often of great length, as can be seen in Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, which work is itself an abridgement of the actual debates and proceedings, and still includes three volumes, totaling over 1,800 pages. Farrand’s work includes most of the best records kept of the debates, including those of James Madison, whose contribution to the history of the Grand Convention is heroic. Thus, though some debate presented herein is verbatim as it appears in the above referenced sources, much of it is abbreviated, and some of it is adjusted by this writer to language more understandable at the time of this writing, since the language and figures of speech used in 1787 are often not readily understood today. Every effort has been made to preserve the clarity and intent of the debates, and any errors are the result of abbreviating and adjusting by this writer.
James Madison invented his own method of shorthand writing to facilitate rapid recording of the proceedings. Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? p. 152.
Boston
June 5, 1787
CHAPTER XIV
* * *
By midmorning, the sun was a brass ball in the heavens, and dead, sultry air hung heavy on the Boston waterfront, punishing the crews working the ships and wharves and piers, sucking their strength, slowing them. By midafternoon the crew bosses were giving their men time to find shade and sit, heads down, salt-sweat dripping from their noses and chins while they gathered the will and the strength to finish their shift.
Inside the offices that lined the docks, those who managed the shipping companies had long since opened all doors and windows, praying for a stir of air from the Atlantic. None came, and they shed their tunics, removed their ties, loosened their collars, and rolled up their sleeves as they continued with the endless paperwork that keeps shipping companies running.
In the austere office of Dunson & Weems, Tom Covington, seated at his desk, raised an arm to wipe his damp face with his sleeve, then used his quill to make a large check mark on a three page contract proposal, and toss it onto a stack of rejects on the right side of his old, worn d
esk. The fledgling firm of Dunson & Weems was not yet ready to enter the world of transatlantic shipping trade. He picked the next document from the stack on his left and heaved a weary sigh. The price of salt beef from their New Jersey supplier had gone up two cents per pound, and salt beef was a necessary staple for the crews that sailed the company ships. He reached for a ledger and for several minutes searched for other suppliers of salt beef. Two cents per pound on 8,000 pounds was one hundred sixty dollars. Not a lot, but if ignored, slowly rising prices on food supplies could eat deep into profits. How many shipping companies had failed because they did not keep an iron control on fixed costs?
To Tom’s left, across the open aisle, Billy Weems was hunched over his ledger, face drawn as he struggled to finish the profit and loss sheet for the month of May. June first had arrived on the previous Friday, and Billy had used that day, and part of his Saturday seated at his desk with his quill in hand, running the totals of all costs—crews, repairs, maintenance of ships, food, insurance, taxes, rent, office supplies, harbor fees, and incidentals, against all money they had received and banked from customers. He would finish in the early evening and have a statement ready by morning with a final figure that would reveal whether the company had made a profit or sustained a loss.
Behind Billy, Caleb Dunson concentrated on a map of the east coast of the United States, and a ledger for each of their ships. The ledgers were filled with the ships’ logs of each voyage they made, to which was added the cargoes they carried from one port to another, as well as the names of every man on board, his assignment, and his pay. The estimated date for the return of each ship was carefully noted, and not a day passed that they did not check the schedule. Nothing in the business of men at sea rode them heavier than an overdue ship. A few days overdue—that could mean anchored to make repairs, or locked in a harbor riding out a storm, or docked in a port to find a doctor for an injured crewman that the ship’s surgeon was incapable of handling, or stopped to take on fresh water, or any number of ordinary incidents that would slow the return of a ship. But more than a few days? With a ship and a cargo and the lives of a crew at stake, a ship too long overdue would not let go of those at the home office. It was a worry that sat heavily on them, day and night.
And the Belle, one of their ships, was now twelve days overdue. Her captain was Einar Stengard, first mate, Christian Dodds, navigator, Adam Dunson. Her outward destination was San Salvador far to the south, in the West Indies. Her cargo going down was all manufactured goods from the New England states—needles, pins, nails, bolts, flatirons, and pig iron—all merchandise that could not be made in the islands. Her return cargo was to be rum and brown sugar. There had been a strong blow down in the Indies three weeks earlier, with some ships beached and some damaged. Other ships that had weathered the storm had since arrived back in port, or sent word, but nothing had been heard from the Belle. According to their office practice, and with dark foreboding, Tom had pulled the office copies of the insurance contracts covering loss of ship, crew, and cargo, checked them to be certain they were in order, then returned them to the file.
At the sound of men entering the office front door, Caleb and Billy raised their heads, and Tom stood. The bright sunlight streaming through the two front windows and the open door had turned the visitors into two silhouettes standing side by side, one with his tricorn in his hand; even in silhouette it was clear they were men of the sea. Tom stepped out into the aisle and spoke.
“Is there something we can do for you?”
The leader was short, stocky, powerful, with a full beard and a brass ring in his left ear. His voice came raspy. “We came about the Belle. Harbormaster said she was one of yours.”
Was?
Instantly Billy and Caleb were on their feet, moving toward the three men as Tom exclaimed, “Yes, what about her?”
The stocky man cleared his throat. “We was on the Bonnet bound for Port Royal. A blow come in from sou’sou’east, and we put in at New Providence to ride it out. When we could we went on down towards the Windward Channel to get to our port, and on the way we seen three ships run aground on reefs. One was the Belle.”
The man paused and Tom blurted, “Did you stop?”
“Stopped and sent a longboat. No one on board the Belle. Cargo gone. Demasted. Burned bad.”
Caleb was scarcely breathing. His voice was low. “The crew dead?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know. There was no bodies. We looked. She was hulled four times on the port side by cannon. Mainmast shot in half, and down. Marks and holes from musket balls. Railings all broke. She’d had a bad fire.” The man paused before he went on. “She had no cannon. Couldn’t defend herself.”
Tom exclaimed, “Pirates? Pirates had taken her?”
The man nodded. “Had to be.”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “In a storm?”
“The way we saw it, she’d been taken just before the storm broke. They took the war chest and most of the cargo and set her afire and left her when the storm come in. She was burning when the wind and rain hit and the rain got the fire.” The man paused to gather his thoughts. “As for the crew, there was no longboats left on the Belle. We spent half a day moving as close to the island beaches as we dared, usin’ our telescopes, but we didn’t see a longboat or a body or a signal fire or a sign of the crew. It looked like them that survived the fight was left on the Belle when she was set afire and the storm hit, and they launched the longboats and tried for the island. No way to know if any made it.”
Billy cut in. “When? When did you see all this?”
“Ship’s log on the Bonnet says it was Sunday, the twentieth day of May.”
“Where is the Bonnet? Who is her captain?”
“Tied up at the pier used by the Hubert company, unloading. A little way up the docks. Cap’n is Horace Messina. He sent us here. I’m Stuart McDaris, First Mate.” He turned to the taller man next to him, slender, cavernous eyes, dark, swarthy. “This is Ulysses Waltman. Bos’n.”
Caleb spoke as he turned to the great map on the right wall of the room. “Come show us exactly where you were when all this happened.”
A moment later all five men were clustered at the wall, staring at the detailed map of the east coast of the United States, reaching south far past the West Indies, far south of the state of Florida, to Trinidad. It took McDaris three seconds to orient himself and drop his stubby finger, pointing.
“Right here. Just making landfall on the north islands of the Bahamas.” His finger moved as he spoke. “The blow came and we put in here, at New Providence and rode her out. When the worst of it was past, we moved southeast towards the island of San Salvador, here, holding as close to the islands as we dared. We found the Belle here”—he tapped the map—“on a reef, wrecked.” He looked up at Caleb. “Like I said, we hunted for any sign of the crew but there was none. We went on down and turned starboard through the Windward Channel to Port Royal, here, where we unloaded our cargo and took on a load of rum.” He dropped his hand back to his side, finished.
Caleb’s eyes were glowing. “You’re certain?”
A faint smile crossed Bos’n Ulysses Waltman’s taciturn face, but he said nothing. He could not remember how many times McDaris had sailed among the countless islands in the Bahamas, and the Caribbean, and south into the Antilles, into every port, including Trinidad, less than five miles from South America. Few seamen knew the Bahamas and the Caribbean better than McDaris.
McDaris nodded. “Certain.”
Caleb asked one more question. “The storm was moving from south to north?”
McDaris’ finger traced a line. “Sou’sou’east to nor’nor’west. Right up the coast.”
Caleb fell silent, and McDaris continued. “I figured the Belle might have been bound for San Salvador.”
Tom nodded. “She was.”
McDaris drew a breath and made a guess. “Any of you have family on board?”
Caleb nodded. “Brother. Navigator.”
>
McDaris’ face fell for a moment, and the pain showed, but he said nothing.
Billy straightened and turned. “You’ll be in port here for a while?”
“Probably four, five more days. We have to finish unloading, and then load.”
“We might need you. Verify the loss for insurance and paperwork.”
“Anytime.”
McDaris and Waltman turned and the five men moved to the front door where Tom, Caleb, and Billy stopped, and Billy reached to shake McDaris’s hand.
“We appreciate what you did down there, and for coming here to tell us.”
McDaris bobbed his head once. “No thanks necessary.” He was referring to the unwritten law of the sea. Ships did what they could for those less fortunate, and reported disasters to the owners if they could.
Billy, Tom, and Caleb watched the two disappear into the crowd on the waterfront before they turned back into the office, silent for a moment, each lost in his own bleak thoughts. They gathered at the wall map to stare for a moment, as though somehow it would tell them where to find Adam and the others.
Caleb broke the strained silence. “I’m going down there.”
Instantly Tom exclaimed, “You can’t! If the British or the Spanish found you down there in those islands, you know what they’d do! You’d rot in a jail if they could find an excuse.”
Caleb ignored it, and Billy broke in. “Tom’s right.” He raised a finger to Caleb. “You’ve read that order issued by the British government. That Orders In Council paper. We’ve got a copy in a file. They lost the shooting war, but they’re not going to lose the commercial war down there. American ships and American goods are banned from British ports, and as far as they’re concerned, from all waters south of Florida. The Spanish are none too friendly down there either, and even the French are jealous about their trade.”
