by Ron Carter
By the time the delegates sat to their supper tables, most of them had sensed that tomorrow there would be no quarter asked, and none given, in a battle to the death. By midnight, most were still sitting hunched at their desks, or casting misshapen shadows on the walls as they paced the floors in the yellow lamplight of their quarters, caught in the impossible bind of either giving up that which they could not give up, or watching the United States broken to pieces.
Dawn broke hot, and some were perspiring as they walked down the corridor to the East Room, where Joseph Fry admitted them, then closed the doors and took his position. Washington called the convention to order and declared, “The first order of business is the motion of Mr. Ellsworth of Connecticut, that each state have one vote in the Senate.”
The first man on his feet was David Brearly of New Jersey. “I respectfully move,” he exclaimed, “that the President of this convention immediately write to Governor Sullivan of New Hampshire, urging the attendance of the delegates from that state.”
The ploy was all too transparent. Brearly, and the small states, wanted one more small state added to their number before the final vote could be taken.
Rutledge, King, and Wilson hotly condemned the whole idea, and the motion was soundly defeated.
Washington moved on. “Having disposed of Mr. Brearly’s motion, we now return to Mr. Ellsworth’s motion regarding representation in the Senate.”
He had no sooner said it than James Wilson of Pennsylvania was again on his feet. His demeanor was charged with emotion, his voice loud, ringing. “Can we forget for whom we are forming a government? Is it for men, or for the imaginary beings called states? A government founded on a principle by which a number of states containing a minority of the people can control those containing a majority can be neither solid nor lasting! Every man in this new government must have equal voting power!”
King rose hot. “Any reform would be nugatory if we should make another congress of the proposed senate.” He paused, took a deep breath, and cut loose. “I am convinced of the obstinacy of the small states, and I consider that we are already ground asunder, sacrificed to the phantom of state sovereignty.” There were open gasps from the small state delegates, and he paused for a moment before finishing. “I am amazed that when a just government founded on a fair representation of the people of America is within our reach, we should renounce the blessing from an attachment to the ideal freedom and importance of states! I repeat. Are we creating a government for people, or for states?”
Madison, ever levelheaded, conciliatory, but firm in his commitment to the Virginia plan, took the floor. “I find no reason for the small states to fear a combination against them of the large states from the north and from the south, because the states are divided into different interests. Not by their difference of size, but of circumstance, partly from climate differences, but principally from the effects of having or not having slaves.”
Few were prepared for the slavery issue to again rear its ugly head, and chairs creaked as startled men moved, and murmured, and then settled. Madison continued in his soft, cultured voice.
“In a word, the differences do not lie between large and small states. It lies between the northern and the southern states.”
Again men moved and murmured, then quieted.
“As regards the Senate, I suggest that voting power in the southern states could be augmented by granting those states the right to increase their vote by giving them authority to cast votes equal to three-fifths of the total number of slaves.”
The small state delegates stiffened, and Jonathan Dayton of New Jersey came to his feet, finger thrust upward, voice too loud. “Declamation has now replaced argument! Gentlemen, I consider the proposed system of the larger states to be a novelty, an amphibious monster which can never, never be accepted by the people!”
Large state delegates looked at each other in surprise. Some were in the act of rising when Gunning Bedford of tiny Delaware sprang to his feet. All pretense of holding back was abandoned as he plunged in.
“There is no middle ground between a perfect consolidation and a mere confederacy of the states. The first is out of the question, and in the latter they must continue, if not perfectly, at least equally sovereign. If political societies possess ambition and avarice, and all the other passions which render them formidable to each other, ought we not to view them in this light here, and now?”
He stopped and leaned forward, palms flat on his desk, stiff arms supporting his upper body.
“Will not the same motives operate in America as elsewhere? If any gentleman doubts it let him look at the votes! Have they not been dictated by interest? Ambition? Are not the large states evidently seeking to aggrandize themselves at the expense of the small?”
Again he stopped, straightened, and waited for his words to strike home before he continued. “They think no doubt they have right on their side, but self-interest has blinded their eyes! Look at Georgia. Though a small state right now, she looks forward to the prospect of soon being a large one, and has shown her ambition by voting with the large states. Consider South Carolina and North Carolina. Two small states with the same ambitions as Georgia. Can any man here say honestly that an inequality of power will not result from an inequality of votes? Give the opportunity to any government, and ambition will not fail to abuse it. The whole history of mankind proves it. No matter what arguments are offered to justify granting larger states more power, the result will be the same. The smaller states will be ruined! Will the smaller states ever agree to the proposed degradation they are now facing?”
He paused to order his thoughts and bring his raging emotions under control, and then he delivered the most explosive conclusion yet heard in the East Room. His voice was under control, his words plainly spoken, not as a threat, but as a simple statement of fact.
“You of the larger states say you never will hurt or injure the lesser states.” He drew a breath, looked the larger state delegates in the eye, and said simply, “I do not, gentlemen, trust you.”
There was an audible intake of breath by the large state delegates. They were men of substance, experience, influence, reputation, and they had just been accused of being untrustworthy.
Bedford did not hesitate. He locked eyes with them, drew a breath and concluded with measured words. “If you possess the power, the abuse of it could not be checked. We small states have been told by you, with a dictatorial air, that this is the last moment for a fair trial in favor of a good government. But the large states dare not dissolve the confederation. If you do, sooner than be ruined, the small states will find some foreign ally of more honor and good faith who will take us by the hand and do us justice! If we solemnly renounce your new project, what will be the consequence? You will annihilate your federal government, and ruin must stare you in the face.”
There it was! Finally, finally, the breach had been called out in raw, blunt, abrasive, unmistakable terms. If Bedford was right, the small states were prepared to walk out before they would become the pawns of the larger states, to enter into an alliance with a foreign power to protect themselves, regardless the fact that the United States would cease to exist! These were the words that the larger states had feared from the beginning, yet now that they were ringing off the walls, not one man was ready—or willing—to hear them. They sat there, minds reeling, sick in their hearts that they had not found a solution to the issue that was wrenching the convention to pieces.
King rose, angry, offended, to strike back at the humiliation Bedford had heaped upon him and the other large state delegates. His arm shot up, finger pointing directly at Bedford. “I protest the intemperance and the vehemence indulged in by Mr. Bedford. He has declared himself ready to turn from our country and seek the protection of some foreign power. I am grieved beyond expression that such a thought has entered into Mr. Bedford’s heart. I am more grieved that such an expression has dropped from his lips. I cannot excuse it, except possibly that he was
overcome with passion, however misplaced. For myself, whatever might be my torment, I would never turn to a foreign power for relief.”
King sat down, breathing heavily, face flushed, anger leaping from his eyes.
Washington raised a hand, and in an instant the hall fell silent. No man in the room dared confront, or challenge, George Washington.
He spoke with calm deliberation. “Gentlemen, we are adjourned for the day. We will meet Monday morning, July second, ten o’clock a.m. Remember your oath of secrecy.”
The waking hours of Sunday were spent by weary delegates in caucuses, venting their anger, cooling, probing, slowly coming to understand that one side, or the other side, or both sides, would have to yield, to compromise, to meet in the middle, to avoid the unthinkable disunion of the United States. None wished to ponder their fate if they were to report to the thirteen states that they had not only failed to create the new government they had dreamed of, but they had succeeded in wrecking the United States.
Monday morning saw them gathering at the Statehouse, staring straight ahead, saying nothing. Joseph Fry admitted the last of those who arrived and closed the door.
Scant notice was taken of the absence of some of their number, since from time to time, one delegate or another would be absent for a short while to take care of a business crises at home, or a family illness, or even a short but much needed visit. Alexander Hamilton had returned to New York, convinced his contribution to the entire proceeding was meaningless since his New York colleagues Robert Yates and John Lansing repeatedly combined to override him.
Washington called the convention to order, and the secretary, William Jackson, noted the absences. William Pierce of Georgia had gone to New York to attend the Confederation Congress for a short period and to fight a duel for which Alexander Hamilton was to be his second. William Few of Georgia was not present, for reasons not yet known, but Abraham Baldwin and William Houstoun were present, giving Georgia two of her four delegates. Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer of Maryland was simply late in arriving. James McHenry of Maryland was at the bedside of his dying brother, and John Mercer and Daniel Carrol were not due to arrive for the convention for another fourteen days, thus, the single remaining delegate from Maryland was Luther Martin. Jackson looked up at Washington and certified there was a quorum of eleven states present. The vacant chairs were largely ignored.
There was strain in Washington’s voice as he declared, “The convention will now proceed with the vote on Mr. Ellsworth’s motion for each state having one vote in the Senate.”
The tension in the room was like something alive, unbearable on the shoulders of each delegate. All they had done in the stifling heat of the East Room since the twenty-fifth day of May, and all their dreams of a new government for the United States, and their terrible fear they were going to force a disunion of the states, came down to what would happen in the next five minutes. No one, not one man, could now help or hinder. Washington, Franklin, Madison, Morris, Gerry, King, Wilson—all sat helpless, able only to wait for the country to stand or fall. Words and voices seemed distorted, strange, as Jackson called for the vote.
Connecticut. Aye.
Massachusetts. Nay.
Pennsylvania. Nay.
New York. Aye.
Virginia. Nay.
New Jersey. Aye.
Maryland. Aye.
North Carolina. Nay.
South Carolina. Nay.
Delaware. Aye.
In dead silence the delegates realized there were five states for, five states against—a tied vote—a deadlock! Neither side had won! It was Franklin who suddenly sat straight up, aware of what had caused it. The tardiness of Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer and the absence of James McHenry, John Mercer, and Daniel Carroll, all of Maryland, left only Luther Martin to cast the Maryland vote, and with his habitual morning imbibing of brandy or strong wine under his belt, he had voted “Aye.”
All eyes swiveled to the Georgia delegation, the only state which had not yet voted, and the heart went out of all the small states. From the beginning, Georgia had voted with the large states, looking forward to the time they would be among them, able to dominate the small ones. With William Few and William Pierce absent, there were but two delegates left, Abraham Baldwin and William Houstoun. Both had consistently voted with the large states.
Jackson called, “William Houstoun. How do you vote?”
Houstoun’s voice came loud. “Nay.”
Jackson marked his record and raised his head. “Abraham Baldwin. How do you vote?”
Few men were breathing in the terrible tension.
Abraham Baldwin was not a native Georgian. He was a transplanted Connecticut Yankee. The son of a learned blacksmith of North Guilford, he had graduated from Yale College, become a minister, served four years as a chaplain in the Continental Army, read the law, and become a successful lawyer. Then, in 1784, anxious for new adventures, he left for Augusta, Georgia, where he served in the Georgia legislature and was elected to the Confederation Congress. A confirmed bachelor, his reputation for hard work, common sense, and a good nature made him the most prominent delegate from Georgia, albeit one who thought much and spoke seldom. True to the commission issued to him by his adopted state to attend the Grand Convention, he had steadfastly voted with the larger states.
Baldwin studied Jackson for several seconds of deep thought, then said, “I vote aye.”
Half the large state delegates partially raised from their chairs, shocked, stunned beyond words, certain there had been a monstrous error.
Startled, Jackson’s head thrust forward and he exclaimed, “Aye? Does Abraham Baldwin vote aye?”
The calm, studied answer came back. “Yes. I vote aye.”
Washington and Franklin sat wide-eyed, unmoving for one moment, struggling to accept what had happened. With the vote tied, five to five, Abraham Baldwin, a confirmed large state supporter, had voted for the small states! With his vote of aye, and Houstoun’s vote of nay, Georgia was divided. Houstoun and Baldwin had cancelled each other! Georgia had not broken the tie. Neither side had won! The Union had survived. The small states had lived to fight another day!
The room filled with the outburst from the small state delegates. On the dais, Washington grasped the fact that the astonishing results of the vote had subtly shifted the momentum. It was now the large states who were on the defensive, trying to recover from the shock of the vote that had robbed them of certain victory. Washington let the din roll on for a time, watching the large state delegates like a hawk, fearing they might burst into some demonstration.
Slowly the room quieted, and when he could be heard, Oliver Ellsworth stood and waited until Washington recognized him.
“I respectfully move that a committee composed of one man from each state be appointed to create a compromise which will be acceptable to both the large and the small states.”
Both Madison and Wilson rose to condemn any such notion, but failed. The motion was approved by a resounding majority.
Washington flattened both palms on his desk. “The motion passes. Agreeable to all, the committee will be appointed by ballot.”
Ballots were cast, Jackson counted them, and the committee was announced. From the large states, Gerry, Franklin, Mason, William Davies, and Rutledge. From the small states, Ellsworth, Yates, Paterson, Bedford, Martin, and Baldwin.
For a moment Washington studied the eleven men. The committee favors the small states! Those chosen from the large states will tend to compromise! The expression on his face did not change as he inquired, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, Mr. President. This is July second. May I suggest that it would be much in the interests of this convention to reward ourselves with a brief respite? Tomorrow is July third, and Wednesday is July fourth. Might we adjourn until July fifth, to give the newly appointed committee time to deliberate, and to celebrate the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence?”
Those nearest saw the
immense relief and the tiny smile that flickered on Washington’s face.
“This convention is adjourned until ten o’clock on July fifth.”
It was later, in the privacy of his own library in his home at Franklin Court, that Benjamin Franklin sat sipping hot chocolate, reflecting on the unbelievable results of the day. For several terrifying moments the very existence of the United States had hung by a single tenuous, tiny thread. One vote—a single vote—from a man dedicated to the forces that would have destroyed the convention and the country—had abandoned his declared loyalty and saved both. What had caused it? Why had Abraham Baldwin breached his own commission to vote with the small states? What was in his mind?
A slow smile crossed the wrinkled, jowled face of the old man. What was in Baldwin’s mind? I doubt he will ever say. We’ll likely never know. Odd how such things happen. Some delegates absent, some tardy, and the United States survives because one man changes one vote. It seems to me that man rose above himself—saw his place in history—and answered the call. Like sparrows that fall and nations that rise. Odd.
He smiled again and squinted one eye to gingerly sip at his steaming chocolate.
Notes
The material appearing in this chapter is taken from the following:
Moyers, Report from Philadelphia, pages named Wednesday, June 20, 1787, through Monday, July 2, 1787.
Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 233–65.
Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 161–67.
Farrand, The Records of the Federal Convention, pp. 334–521.
Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 103–12.
Rossiter, 1787: The Grand Convention, pp. 182–92.
Farrand, The Framing of the Constitution of the United States, pp. 91–98.
