by Logan Beirne
Calling upon the lingering revolutionary spirit, thousands of famers—many of the very same men who had just fought the British—joined in the so-called “Shays’ Rebellion.” The revolt raged for almost a year, pitting Bowdoin’s Massachusetts establishment army—financed by the wealthy merchants of Boston—against the “common people,” whose champions “tried to make real the vision of justice and equality embodied in our revolutionary declaration of independence,” as a monument to the rebellion put it. Adopting the revolutionary rallying cry, “True Liberty and Justice may require resistance to law,” these class warriors’ uprising led many Americans to fear that the Revolution’s democratic impulse would rage unchecked, pulling the nation into perpetual anarchy.9 Democracy was a new experiment for the Americans, and perhaps it was already a failed one.
In bloody skirmishes that pitted neighbor against neighbor, the poorly armed farmers were confronted by the booming cannons and rifles of Bowdoin’s well-trained state militia. Despite Shays’ fierce leadership, his hungry, ill-equipped and ill-trained men were scattered before the Massachusetts militia’s firestorm. Losing battle after battle, the farmers began to return home as the bodies began to pile up in the fields. The rebellion was crushed. With ransoms on the heads of the rebel leaders, Shays fled into hiding in Vermont. He lived on the lam for many months, seeking to escape the Massachusetts gallows.
Governor Bowdoin, meanwhile, suffered politically for his harsh suppression of the rebellion. He was voted out of office and replaced with a more conciliatory administration. The incoming governor pardoned Shays as a step towards reconciliation with the farming communities. Shays was able to return to what was left of his farm and resume his humble existence. Although his rebellion in and of itself was not much of a military threat to the new country, it was significant as a symbolic one. The message of Shays’ Rebellion was clear: the American republic was failing miserably.
Washington could remain on the sidelines no more. He was appalled by the country’s downward spiral. “What gracious God, is man! that there should be such inconsistency and perfidiousness in his conduct?” he lamented. “It is but the other day, that we were shedding our blood to obtain the Constitutions under which we now live; Constitutions of our own choice and making; and now we are unsheathing the sword to overturn them.”10 Reflecting on the economic and political turmoil all around him, Washington bemoaned how far his nation had fallen:No morn ever dawned more favourably than ours did; and no day was ever more clouded than the present! . . . Without some alteration in our political creed, the superstructure we have been seven years raising at the expence of so much blood and treasure, must fall. We are fast verging to anarchy and confusion!11
He warned, “the wheels of Government are clogged, and . . . from the high ground on which we stood, we are descending into the vale of confusion and darkness.”12
So perilous was the situation that “even respectable characters [spoke] of a monarchical form of Government without horror.” Washington exclaimed, “what a triumph for our enemies to verify their predictions! what a triumph for the advocates of despotism to find that we are incapable of governing ourselves, and that systems founded on the basis of equal liberty are merely ideal and fallacious!”13
Just four years after his glorious victory over America’s bitter British foes, the nation’s founding hero asserted in 1787, “We are either a united people under one head, and for federal purposes; or we are thirteen independent sovereignties, eternally counteracting each other.”14 Without some sort of federal power that “pervade[d] the whole Union,” Washington could “not conceive” how the United States would survive.15 The nation needed a new government.
Washington was gravely concerned about his legacy. He was intent on protecting his pedestal in history and feared risking it by coming out of retirement. He agonized over the reputational damage should he throw his support behind government reform only to have it fail. But in the end, he was a man of action and not about to sit idly by while his beloved country unraveled. He readied his trusty horse and set off from his estate to meet with other leaders in a desperate attempt to salvage the United States.
4
The Phoenix
Washington leapt back onto the public stage in grand style. On a bright Sunday afternoon in May 1787, his black carriage cut through the bustling streets of Philadelphia.1 And this was no understated entrance. Accompanied by a ceremonious cavalry escort and a parade of top military officials, his arrival was heralded by the competing booms of celebratory cannon and gun salutes. With a population of 30,000 people, the city was the largest in the nation and throngs of these inhabitants were eager to witness the national hero’s thundering arrival.
The spring air was filled with a fanfare of chiming bells and the loud cheers of citizens crowded alongside the dusty cobblestone streets.2 As the carriage passed, admirers fawned from the ornately trimmed windows of the two- and three-story brick buildings that hugged Philadelphia’s streets. Women applauded in their colorful, low-necked cotton bedgowns and white ruffled aprons; men in billowing white shirts, woolen waistcoats, dark breeches, and white stockings waved their tricorne hats in the air; children, squirming in uncomfortable miniature versions of the adults’ clothing, cheered the procession. Washington was the first American superstar and known to elicit a few shrieks from young women—puritanical norms be damned!
Washington’s carriage slowed to a stop in front of the finest house in the city. Here he was to be graciously hosted by its owners, who were honored by his mere presence. As the crowd roared in adulation, Washington’s large, almost majestic frame emerged from the carriage. Standing up to full height, his tall powerful figure presented a simply regal appearance. With his white-powdered hair tied in black satin and his famously masculine features, he exuded the confidence and grandeur for which the nation yearned. A man of elegantly understated fashion, he dressed in the fineries befitting his high station, yet nevertheless carried himself with his trademark humility as a servant of his nation.3 Although he was not a king, the eminent man sure was treated like one.
Washington was just one of Virginia’s delegates to the nation’s Constitutional Convention. The elected assemblies of the states had chosen representatives from among America’s top political leaders to attend this convention for the purpose of fixing the nation’s government. 4 These seventy men were considered by many to be the “wisest and best men in the country,” and such confidence in their wisdom and character would be crucial to the public’s acceptance of their plans for mending the country.5
Americans feared both ends of the political spectrum: a repressive government that would lead them back to monarchy or an unchecked democracy where unruly masses effectuated perpetual chaos. Further complicating matters, each state had different—and often conflicting—interests. For example, small states wanted protection from the large states’ dominance in national affairs, and southern states wanted to ensure the continuation of slavery while many northern states had abolished it.
The country was so fractured, in fact, that Rhode Island refused to send delegates to the Philadelphia convention. The Rhode Islanders viewed the meeting as an illegal assembly that threatened to usurp their state’s sovereignty.6 They even threatened to use their veto power under the Articles of Confederation to quash anything the convention accomplished. In such a climate of dissention and suspicion, to say that the public was skeptical of the ability of even the nation’s “best and brightest” to create a sound and agreeable government was an understatement. Everyone knew that the situation was precarious and that the delegates needed to find a delicate balance in order for the public to accept their reforms.
Washington gathered with the first-arriving delegates at the Pennsylvania State House. This two-story hall was already historic: it was colloquially called “Independence Hall” because the Declaration of Independence had been signed there eleven years earlier. With that one daring stroke during the early part of the war, America d
ismembered the British Empire. And in the ensuing struggle, the hall remained a meeting place for the Continental Congress and the epicenter of the American war effort. The stately brick building had black shutters and white trim, with pale masonry and ornate windows lending decorative detail to an otherwise boxy facade. The small grounds included a square courtyard that was barren except for a few freshly planted elm trees. Guarding this yard was a seven-foot wall that afforded an air of solemn secrecy.7
Privacy was of the utmost importance in fostering frank discussion among the delegates. To this end, the building was shielded from curious onlookers by sentries posted at all doors. To protect further against distraction, the guards spread fresh dirt on the cobblestones outside to soften the blows of powerful hooves of passing horses. High above the dampened din of the street, this sanctuary’s gently slanted roof was dominated by a tall, churchlike bell tower that coaxed the delegates’ eyes heavenward as they approached. This was fitting, since they faced a lofty challenge and would need all the help they could get to prevent the country from disintegrating.
The May sun’s powerful rays poured through high windows as Washington entered the building. The obsessively punctual celebrity was cordially greeted by the few delegates already present.8 Also in attendance was perhaps the second most famous American: Benjamin Franklin. This world-renowned scientist and diplomat had not only greatly advanced human understanding of electricity, but also invented the lightning rod, the Franklin stove, the odometer, and a host of other contraptions. During the Revolution, the wily gentleman had used his guile to charm the French court—particularly the female contingent. Through parties and chess games, he wore down France’s resistance to involvement in the fight against the British. He masterfully persuaded the French to send aid to the American cause and eventually declare war on Britain, which proved decisive in the American victory. For these many achievements, he was internationally praised.
Now in his mid-eighties, Franklin suffered from gout, a painful form of arthritis caused by eating rich foods and imbibing large quantities of alcohol. So immobilized, he had to be carried to the hall from his nearby home.9 Even as his frail limbs hobbled beneath his round abdomen, his aged, balding head was ever filled with ingenious ideas, and he still inspired deep reverence. His star power combined with Washington’s to lend the convention an even greater air of importance.
As Washington and Franklin entered the hall’s cavernous meeting room, they were greeted by its familiar dark hardwood floors and white walls adorned with ornate molding. Before them was a grand fireplace topped with a white mantle beneath a large chandelier encircled by a decorative ceiling medallion. The room was a beautiful sight.
The gentlemen present were from all walks of life—farmers, lawyers, printers, merchants, financiers—but all were patriots and the vast majority had served their country during the Revolutionary War, politically or militarily, or both.10 These proud men took the opportunity to rekindle friendships and reestablish acquaintances with fellow alumni of the war effort. They could accomplish little else, since they had to wait for other states’ less punctual delegates to arrive.
At first, Washington and the other delegates were unconcerned about the paltry attendance. The journey from far-flung states such as New Hampshire and Georgia took up to three weeks and, with bad weather hitting parts of the eastern seaboard, it was possible that some of the other delegates were merely delayed. But as the nation’s leaders trickled into Philadelphia only slowly over the next two weeks, many feared that some delegates were boycotting the Constitutional Convention and that it would end before it started—they were keenly aware that many Americans opposed the convention and there was a real chance that a proper quorum of states would never be reached. And without a quorum, the convention’s recommendations would lack the political weight necessary for legitimacy.
With this elephant in the room, a palpable anxiety permeated the hall despite the cordial conversation. The delegates knew that without adequate attendance, their convention would fail, and possibly the nation along with it.
Finally, they arrived. With just twenty-nine delegates from nine states in attendance, they reached a quorum and the convention was officially convened. Over the next few days, twenty-six more delegates trickled in, better late than never. In all, fifty-five of the seventy delegates originally chosen actually showed up to represent the independent states. America had sent her finest and the convention proved to be quite an eclectic assemblage of minds.
Their ages ranged from an impetuous 26-year-old veteran named Jonathan Dayton to the sickly 81-year-old sage, Franklin.11 Like Dayton and Franklin, the vast majority of these men were held in high esteem for their contributions to the patriot cause during the war. Alexander Hamilton, for example, at only thirty years old, had already served as Washington’s shrewd right-hand man and closest confidant during the war. His sharp chin and pointed nose matched his cutting criticism of the Articles and ardent advocacy of a more centralized nation. While Washington, Hamilton, and Dayton were joined by other decorated war veterans, the room was actually dominated by politicians.
About three-quarters of the delegates had served in Congress, while others had served in their state legislatures. Each was lauded for steering the United States through the perilous Revolution. One such politician was James Madison, who at age thirty-six had already proven himself a masterful consensus builder as a member of Congress during the Revolution. He was a mere five feet tall and 120 pounds, but his intellect towered over the convention even if he did not. The young gentleman was praised for blending “the profound politician, with the Scholar”12 while adeptly “command[ing] the rich resources of his luminous and discriminating mind.”13 Such mental prowess and the “polish of his pen” were “united [with] a pure and spotless virtue.”14 The fine-featured Madison, with his white powdered hair and prominent widow’s peak, arrived to the convention in his usual fastidiously prepared fashion: he had already outlined a plan for a whole new government. With this trick up his sleeve, the slight young man quietly joined the assemblage as they took their seats.
Whether military or political veterans, these august men were the nation’s elite. They were property owners and professionals. In a time when few Americans attained any advanced education, 60 percent of these gentlemen had attended college, touting degrees from Yale, Harvard, Princeton, or Columbia.15 Whatever their credentials, they were quite a colorful—and rather portly—group.
From the upper crust of society, the majority of this well-fed contingent were rather overweight, a sign of wealth during this era since it signaled access to plentiful food and minimal manual labor.16 These men were certainly known more for their oratory than their aerobics. Because clothes were a signal of a gentleman’s station, each was fashionably dressed in a painstakingly tailored waistcoat that primly hugged his torso and flowed to mid-thigh.17 The rich greens, blues, browns, and reds of their jackets made them a more colorful group than the typical men outside. Their metal buttons, fine threading, and straight lines added to the air of dignity with which these lauded men carried themselves. Under their coats were white ruffled dress shirts crafted from fine fabrics and lace, neatly tucked into snug-fitting breeches that typically matched the colors of their waistcoats. In the fashion of the time, they wore white knee-high stockings and low-heeled leather shoes fastened with ostentatious buckles. The attire would certainly have been uncomfortable in the summer heat, but it was important to the delegates to dress properly. They were intensely aware that they were important men doing historic work.
Despite the impressive assemblage of intellect and accomplishment, Washington stood head and shoulders above the rest, both literally and figuratively.18
5
Wield the Sword
From the start of the Constitutional Convention, Washington was “held in awe by the delegates and already the de facto leader of the country.”1 In one of their first acts, his fellow delegates unanimously elected him president o
f the convention. Washington, meticulously groomed in his characteristic understatedly elegant fineries, presided from a lone desk in the front of the room. Adding to the pomp, his station was elevated by two steps above the rest. Here, he sat on a throne-like wooden chair with a high back, topped with a gilded carving of a rising sun that vaguely resembled a halo over his head.2
When Washington rose to speak, a reverent hush seized the delegates. This silence was not just respectful but also practical—Washington was not a powerful speaker. It would take some effort to hear his words.
Washington did not like making speeches. At parties he was “much more open and free in his behaviour,” especially “in the company of ladies,” but when addressing large crowds he came off as stiff and mumbling.3 This awkwardness owed partly to his horribly uncomfortable false teeth, which continuously chafed his mouth as he labored to project his voice. He had begun losing his teeth in his twenties and they were almost all gone now. He blamed this on his penchant for cracking nuts with his teeth, but it was more likely due to the nutrition and dental hygiene typical of the time, along with the noxious substance called calomel that was used as a medicine for the many illnesses from which he suffered as a young adult. As was common practice for a man of his stature, he obtained dentures made from hippopotamus ivory and human teeth. However, in an age when dentists typically only offered teeth they purchased from white men, what was uncommon was that Washington used teeth pulled from slaves—more likely due to his frugality than egalitarianism.4 In any case, while his language was “manly and expressive,” his voice was hushed and his words indistinct.5
