by Ron Carter
Billy had not moved as he listened to Matthew. Now he shifted in his chair, settled, and Matthew went on.
“If I recall rightly, Eli Stroud and his family live somewhere in Vermont or New Hampshire.”
Billy nodded but said nothing.
“Right now there are two factions over there that are tearing the state to pieces. One is on the coast, the other inland, in the mountains. I agree with Madison that if we can find a way to bring them together, ratification has a much better chance.”
He stopped and Billy slowly began to nod his head. “The answer is yes. I can find Eli, and if you’ll give me a letter of introduction, I can likely find Langdon. Is that what you had in mind?”
“Yes. The question is, are you willing? You’ll be gone a while. Brigitte might not agree.”
“I’ll talk with her tonight. I think it will be all right. Is there any rush?”
“No. They haven’t begun to appoint their ratification convention yet. It will take a little time.”
“Let me talk with Brigitte.”
Matthew nodded his approval, then moved on. “Madison warns that Massachusetts is a deep concern. Our governor, John Hancock, is a popular man, and he seems to be leaning away from ratification. It’s because Elbridge Gerry refused to sign the Constitution. People know that, and it makes them uneasy. Worse, Samuel Adams has all but openly said he does not favor ratification, and he’s another popular figure. As of right now, it is likely the majority sentiment in this state is against us.”
Again Matthew waited while the other men shifted their feet and their weight, and settled back in their chairs.
“I’ll do what I can with the problem here in Massachusetts. I’ll need Adam to help.” He exhaled a deep breath and concluded. “Those are the three states Madison thinks we can help with. Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts.”
He stopped, and several seconds passed before he turned to Tom.
“That is going to leave you with pretty much the whole load of the office on your shoulders. Can we get enough people hired to get you through it? Or is it too much?”
Tom squared his shoulders. “No, it won’t be too much. There are people that have worked here before, and they’re still around. Some of them will come help. It can be arranged.”
Matthew spoke slowly, eyes boring into Tom’s. “Sure?”
“Sure.”
“All right. Just one more thing.” He stopped and gestured at the files stacked on his desk. “We’re taking a strong political stand in all this, and right now there are a large number of people on the other side of the ratification battle. If the battle gets hot enough, and people take exception to what we’re doing, it’s possible Dunson & Weems could suffer. Are we willing to accept that?”
For a time they all sat in thoughtful silence, weighing it out, forming a decision. It was Billy who broke the silence.
“The question isn’t whether or not we hurt the company. The question is whether we’re ready to let six years of war and six more years of watching this country go to pieces, come to nothing. I can’t do that. I say, let’s get on with it.”
Matthew bobbed his head. “The rest of you?”
Caleb stood. “I’ll go home and get some clothes. Can you get some money for me while I’m gone?”
Matthew looked at Tom, who drew a deep breath and rose from his chair. “There’s about four old men I need to find. They helped me set up this business and run it. With two or three of them, we’ll get through this.”
Adam stood and leaned over Matthew’s desk for the files. “Which ones of these will tell me what’s happening in Massachusetts?”
Notes
The handwriting of James Madison, as described herein, was small, well-formed, and well-organized. For a sample of his handwriting, see Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? p. 151.
The names of the politicians, that is, John Wentworth, John Langdon, James Wilson, John Hancock, Samuel Adams, and others mentioned herein, their contributions to the revolutionary time period, their attitudes toward the ratification battle, and the attitudes of the states of Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, all as described herein, were taken in large part from Conely and Kaminski, The Constitution and the States, pp. 37–53, 113–30, 181–200.
In support, see Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 199–205; Warren, The Making of the Constitution, pp. 733–44; Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, pp. 169–79.
Over a period of time, a writer using the pen name “Centinel” did publish eighteen articles in Pennsylvania newspapers, attacking the constitution, criticizing Benjamin Franklin as too old to know what was going on at the constitutional convention, and demeaning George Washington as having been duped by fast-talking politicians. It was a common practice in the revolutionary times for writers who entered the political arena to disguise their true identity by using such peculiar pen names as “Centinel,” or “Publius,” as shall become apparent in later chapters of this volume. Conely and Kaminski, The Constitution and the States, pp. 49, 87, 88.
Philadelphia
September 24, 1787
CHAPTER XXVIII
* * *
In the warmth of a late September afternoon, Caleb stood on the porch of the large, square, two-storied home on Thirteenth Street in Philadelphia with the modest sign “Asher’s Boarding” displayed in the well-kept front yard. In one hand he grasped the handle of the bag holding his clothes, and he had raised the other hand to knock on the door a second time when he heard quick steps inside. The handle turned, the door swung open, and he found himself looking down at a short, robust, gray-haired woman with large, shining blue eyes. She wore a light gray dress that reached her ankles, and was wiping her hands on her apron that showed splotches of flour. The sweet aroma of hot peach pies cooling in the kitchen reached out.
“Yes,” the woman said, “is there something I can do for you, young man?”
“My name is Caleb Dunson. My brother recommended your boarding . . .”
She clapped both hands to her cheeks and exclaimed, “Matthew Dunson! Your brother is Matthew Dunson! I can see it as plain as plain in your face. He’s taller, but there’s that look about you. Oh, how is he? He’s just the sweetest man. He was here—let me see—May, wasn’t it? Oh, has it been four months? That long? He recommended you come here? Oh, that’s just wonderful. You need a room? With the summer gone, all the conventions are past and done, and I have some rooms. Would you like the one he had? Upstairs in the corner? It’s available. Is that why you’re here?”
“Well, yes. I will need a room for about one week. Perhaps a few days longer. You have one then?”
“Oh, yes. Do come in. Supper’s in the oven. We only have four other guests right now, but serving supper for one more will not be a problem. Do you like beef roast and potatoes? Peach pie? Oh, goodness, there I go again. Can’t stop talking. Can you forgive me? My late husband, Horatio, said I talk too much. He was right, but what am I to do about it? Got it from my mother, you know. Do come in. Come in.”
The parlor was clean and orderly, the carpet showed wear, and the paintings on the walls were ordinary, but there was the look of care and warmth. The little woman prattled on.
“Caleb? Did I hear your name is Caleb? My name is Sarah Asher. Like in the Old Testament. Abraham’s wife. But you call me Mother Asher. Or just Mother.” She pointed. “Right up those stairs, down in the corner, last room. Sheets are fresh. Down the hall is a washroom if you need it. Now you just take your bag right on up there and make yourself at home. I’ll bring the key up directly. Caleb. That’s a nice name. It’s in the Bible, you know. I’ll call you for supper. Six o’clock. We can talk then.”
Caleb hesitated. “What’s the price of the room, and when do you need to be paid?”
“The price? The same as for your brother. And don’t worry about when to pay. We’ll settle that when we talk.”
Caleb obediently marched up the stairs with his bag in one hand and his hat in the ot
her, battling the need to laugh. When we talk? When who talks? So far it’s one of us talking and the other one listening!
Caleb entered the room and laid his bag on the bed, opened the window to let in fresh air, then sat on the bed. It was firm, comfortable, with a thick comforter and two snowy-white pillows. He walked to the window to look down at the intersection of Thirteenth and Market Streets, where the coach and foot traffic was heavy with people leaving the business district for their homes. He was listening to the noises of the city when the rap came behind him, and Mother Asher strode across the room.
“Here’s your key. Towels and washcloth in the dresser. You can wash before supper if you like. Oh, it’s good to have you here. Do you have other brothers or sisters?”
“Yes. Two sisters and another brother. Brigitte and Priscilla, and Adam. Prissy and Adam are twins.”
“Twins! Five of you. Your mother must be so proud.”
Caleb smiled. “She puts up with us.”
“You tell her how fortunate she is. Well, I’d better get back down to the kitchen. I think the roast is about done. And I’ve got to get pickles out of the root cellar.”
“Can I help with something?”
Her eyes widened. “How kind of you! No, I’ll take care of it. I’ll call up the stairs when it’s time.”
Caleb had washed and was again standing at the window, lost in his own thoughts when the call came up the stairs, “Supper is ready.”
Mother Asher met him as he entered the dining room and pointed to his chair. There were two elderly married couples already seated, and she made introductions all around. Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Theophilus opposite Caleb, kindly, quiet, shy, and Mr. and Mrs. Ulysses Milwood beside him, portly, talkative. Mother Asher required they all bow their heads while she returned grace for the bounties of life, and the steaming bowls and platters began the rounds.
The beef roast was tender, the potatoes and condiments rich and pungent, the buttermilk strong, and the peach pie rare. Conversation was sparse, and when the meal was finished, Caleb excused himself and returned to his room. Mother Asher cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes, then climbed the stairs to rap on Caleb’s door.
“Would you care to come down to the library for a while? We need to talk.”
They sat facing each other in an orderly room with the maple bookshelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and an old, ornately carved desk near the stone fireplace. On the wall opposite the bookshelves was a painting of a square-jawed man with a fringe of white hair circling his head, bushy eyebrows, and a stern look.
“Horatio,” Mother Asher said, pointing. “I miss him so.” She turned to Caleb, and an unexpected intensity came into her face.
“Your brother was here for the convention, but they disallowed the public. The convention is finished, and the constitution has been published. I presume you’re here to complete what your brother started.”
Caleb sobered at the unexpected perceptions of Mother Asher. “To become law, the constitution has to be ratified by nine states. I’m here to follow the Pennsylvania ratification convention.”
For a moment she studied her hands. “I see.” She raised her eyes. “At this moment there is strong sentiment both for and against the new government. The legislature is divided. Things are not good.”
“I know. I’m to find James Wilson. A lawyer. He was a delegate to the convention. Do you know of him?”
“James Wilson?” she exclaimed. “Oh, yes. A prominent man. Lawyer, politician. He favors the document, and he makes no apologies for it. Are you two acquainted?”
“No. Matthew knows him. They’ve exchanged correspondence. Where can I find him?”
“He has an office somewhere in the business district. Market Street, around Fourth or Fifth Street, I think. Either there, or attending court, or at the Statehouse with the legislature. He is very influential. Powerful.”
“Do you know his appearance? What he looks like?”
She reflected for a few seconds. “I’ve only seen him once, at a distance. He’s tall. Round-faced. And he wears spectacles. I remember the spectacles.”
“That will help,” Caleb answered.
“You were worried about paying me. We’ll work that out when you leave. Is that agreeable?”
“Agreed.”
“Well,” she said, rising, “I imagine you have things you need to do to get ready for tomorrow. If you need anything washed or ironed, you tell me.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“Breakfast at eight o’clock. Porridge and ham and eggs.”
“I’ll be there.”
The high rift of clouds that caught the morning sun were gone by eight o’clock, and the city was awash in bright, fall sunshine when Caleb took his place at the breakfast table. With bowed head Mother Asher returned thanks, then hurried into the kitchen for the platter of scrambled eggs and diced ham, still in the oven, then the pitchers of fresh apple cider. There was light talk as each took portions and ate. Caleb used a thick piece of fresh-baked bread to clean his plate, commended a blushing Mother Asher, and excused himself.
He strode east on Market Street, conscious that the streets were wide, orderly, tree-lined, and laid out in a square grid, with the named streets running between the Delaware River on the east, and the Schuylkill River on the west, while the numbered streets ran square with them. He passed through the business and financial district, impressed by the care and pride he saw reflected in neat signs, and the clean cobblestone sidewalks, and the well-kept storefronts. He stopped to ask a uniformed constable directions to the Statehouse and followed his instructions to the square, red-brick building. He entered the huge, vacuous hallway and asked directions from a man passing between two offices. He was directed upstairs, where he opened a door and entered the spectators’ gallery, overlooking the floor of the Pennsylvania legislature, assembled. A dais dominated the room with a great, dark wooden desk and hardbacked chair for the president, a flag behind it, a desk and chair on one side for the secretary, and another one opposite for the sergeant at arms. There was scant frill or pretense; this was the place where the political battles were fought that moved the government of Pennsylvania.
The gallery was filling with Philadelphians from both factions, neither of which showed hesitation in voicing their opinions, for and against ratification. Caleb picked a place on the bench overlooking the gallery railing to watch the legislators enter the chamber and go to their desks for a moment, then gather in clusters to add to the growing undertone of talk, for and against the new constitution. At nine o’clock a man climbed the two stairs onto the dais, assumed his position behind the desk, and the legislators took their positions at their individual desks.
“The legislature will come to order.” His words rang hollow in the large, sparse chamber. “The secretary will call roll.”
The secretary droned out the names, and most were present. “Mr. Speaker, we have a quorum.”
“We shall proceed with the business of the day,” the speaker declared.
Caleb settled, listening and watching intently.
It was close to ten o’clock before they finished with the trivial housekeeping items on the calendar, and the speaker announced, “The next matter of business is the pending motion to call a state convention for ratification of the proposed constitution of the United States.”
There was open comment in the crowded gallery, some calling for the convention, others condemning the proposition altogether. Caleb turned to peer at them for a moment, startled at the intensity he saw in most faces. He turned back and concentrated on the proceedings below.
The speaker continued. “Debate is open.”
Four men sprang to their feet simultaneously, each speaking loudly to be recognized first. The speaker called out a name, three of them sat down, and the fourth launched into it.
“It is critical to the future of this state that we convene a ratification convention prior to our proposed adjournment date of S
eptember twenty-eighth. That is this Friday! Should we fail to do so, there is no predicting when, if ever, this state will ratify the constitution of the United States, and failure to do so will plunge this state into chaos and disasters that will remain so long as there is a Pennsylvania!” The man’s voice was rising, filled with emotion, beginning to tremble. “What will our posterity say of us? That we considered the entire revolution as nothing? Twelve years of blood and turmoil and discord. Nothing? If it is the concensus of this august body that we not ratify the constitution, then so be it. But let us do it as men, in a fair vote, and not as cowards who shrank from the task and failed our state and our posterity by default!”
The man continued for a time before he sat down, and instantly half a dozen other men were on their feet, clamoring for recognition. The speaker uttered a name, and one man remained standing. He raised his voice to a near shout, with one finger thrust upward.
“Clearly, we are being urged—battered if you will—by those who would have this body make the fatal mistake of calling a ratification convention before we have even received the official statement of the United States Congress now convened in New York, that the constitution is completed, and that they are forwarding it to the several states to be considered for ratification, with their official authorization that we do so. Lacking that official authorization, we are not empowered to assemble a ratification convention. Any such convention would be an outlaw gathering, and no matter what the result, it would be illegal. Why are we even considering such ridiculous proposals? Until we have the authority to do so, we are wasting time with it! We have no choice! We must wait for authorization from the United States Congress in New York!”
Again the hall was filled with emotional outbursts from the gallery. Some citizens stood, fists raised in defiance. The speaker glared upward and boomed, “There will be order, or the sergeant at arms will clear the gallery.” The people in the gallery resumed their seats and the chamber quieted.
The debate raged on, with Caleb listening intently, first to one side, then the other, all the while with his thoughts and questions running. Who are the leaders on both sides? Why are the suppoters so anxious to call the convention, and why are the others so bent on postponing the whole thing? Which side has the most men on the floor down there? Who is “Centinel” and why is he so strongly opposed to ratification? What’s his stake in all this?
