The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

“Where is it?” asked Peter.

  “The scrapbook? In a safety deposit box.”

  “Anything else to sell? Any more letters from famous Americans?”

  Morris Bindle smiled. “Maybe.”

  “HE KNOWS MORE,” said Evangeline.

  “You think?” Peter started the car. “The president of a historical society sells one letter for an old man who dies mysteriously, then he gets to keep a scrap-book full of letters for himself?”

  “Sound fishy?”

  “It’s a violation of society ethics, at least.”

  She laughed. “Small society, small violation.”

  Just down the road a bridge crossed the Blackstone River. Traffic was light and cars were moving across the little span as though it were as nondescript as a thousand other New England bridges.

  But Peter slowed as they approached. “Look … all stone, a single graceful arch—”

  “The river isn’t wide enough for more than one arch,” she said.

  “But it’s the fourth most powerful river in North America.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “It drops four hundred and forty feet in forty-six miles between Worcester and Providence. You’re looking at the birth canal of the American industrial revolution.”

  “I guess I won’t go swimming, then.”

  The mill ran along the north side of the river. On the other side, shielded by trees, was the grand house.

  Every nineteenth-century mill town had one. It was the house where the owner lived, proclaiming both his wealth and his commitment to the community. It was also the house where Buster McGillis had died.

  “Greek Revival,” said Evangeline. “Built some time in the 1830s. Big white pillars supporting a triangular front, so the house looks like a Greek temple, and everyone is reminded of the kinship between the first democracy and ours.”

  “Very observant. Have you also observed that we’re heading south?”

  “What about lunch at MacReady’s?”

  They drove under the ancient railroad bridge. Then they came into the town square—a nice bank in the old train depot, a thrift shop, a doughnut shop, a Tru Value hardware, Bindle’s Antiques, and of course, a white steeple. The road forked. Left to Rhode Island and Connecticut. Right to Worcester.

  “Rhode Island?” she said as Peter turned left.

  “Connecticut, if you can wait for lunch. I think we should talk to the buyer.”

  A few cars behind them, a black Chrysler Sebring made the same turn. Though it had Rhode Island plates, it headed for Connecticut, too.

  ON A GEOLOGICAL map, the hills of Litchfield County, Connecticut looked like ripples radiating out from the Taconics and the Berkshires, which themselves were ripples from the big mountains of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. But draw a graphic map that put the emphasis on money, and those rippling hills became the Rockies, taller than anything around them, because there was money in northwestern Connecticut, new money and old money, trust fund money from New England and fast-made money from New York, money sleeping quietly in the forests and fields and money galloping with the horses and grazing with the sheep on the gentleman farms.

  Don Cottle represented himself as a gentleman farmer, though Peter Fallon wasn’t so sure. Most of New England’s gentleman farmers were long and angular and talked as if they had Connecticut Yankee lockjaw, even if they’d grown up in the Bronx. Don Cottle was square and solid, with a crew cut and a broken nose. He had no affectations, except, perhaps, a distaste for small talk.

  He met them at the George Washington Tavern in the little town of Washington Depot.

  The Father of His Country was everywhere here—in an engraving over the taproom fireplace, in an old inn sign hanging from a beam in the dining room, in prints on the walls, in silhouette on the restroom wallpaper.

  Evangeline looked up at one of the great frozen faces and ordered an omelet.

  Peter and Don Cottle ordered hamburgers and beers.

  Then Peter looked out at the hillside behind the restaurant, at the trees exploding into color. “Now those are sugar maples.”

  “They certainly are,” said Cottle. “You have another letter for me to buy?”

  “Depends on whether the owner decides to sell. He comes from a place with sugar maples, too.”

  Cottle looked at Evangeline. “Does he always speak in riddles?”

  “Sometimes, it’s conundrums,” she said.

  “There are sugar maples all over New England,” said Fallon. “The owner lives somewhere in New England. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  Cottle took a sip of beer, then said, “Look, Mr. Fallon, I’m enjoying lunch and all, but you said you had a letter.”

  “I said I may. I’d like to offer it to you. But I need to know if it’s right for you. Otherwise, I might offer it to one of my more regular customers.”

  Cottle laughed. “I’ve heard of adoption agencies for dogs, where the owner has to pass muster, but not for Henry Knox letters.”

  “Well, that’s the thing. Is it just Knox letters you’re after?”

  “I’m interested in letters that relate to the founding of the country. And it was not founded in 1776 but in 1787.”

  “You mean, the year the Constitution was written?” said Evangeline.

  “That would be 1787,” said Cottle.

  “Does this relate to the present political fight?” asked Evangeline.

  Cottle blinked once. “My interest is in preserving the past for the future. That’s why I bought the Knox letter. And I’d love to continue collecting things from that period, with signatures by Knox, King, or even Will Pike.”

  “Why someone as insignificant as William Pike?” asked Peter.

  Cottle shrugged. “Because of his connection to these other people.”

  And as food arrived, Evangeline came to a conclusion. He’s lying.

  This was ironic, she thought, considering that on the wall behind him was the face of the man who could not tell a lie.

  FIVE

  August 1787

  GEORGE WASHINGTON WAS STARING at Will Pike, and he did not seem pleased.

  Will looked into those gray eyes, then diverted his gaze to something a bit closer—the tops of Washington’s shoes, because Will was on his hands and knees.

  He was not there out of devotion. That would have irritated Washington even more. But an attitude of groveling suited Will Pike at that moment, for he had dropped a sheaf of papers, and among the material fluttering to the Philadelphia cobblestones was a first draft of the document that they had been ruminating over, arguing over, and compromising over through that whole humid Philadelphia summer.

  The Committee of Detail had organized the draft into sections and articles. Copies had been printed and distributed that morning. Then the convention had adjourned so that the delegates could read the draft. Will was charged with handling Rufus King’s papers. This meant that as the Massachusetts delegates returned for the afternoon session, Will followed with a leather satchel under his arm and a respectable distance between himself and his superiors so as not to intrude upon their private conversation.

  This had brought him to the gates of the state house at the same moment as Washington, who had been walking alone from the opposite direction. The guards had presented arms, and Will had naturally deferred to the general, who acknowledged him with a decorous nod.

  And so awestruck was Will by the presence before him—the height, the regal gait, the fine black suit—that he had not noticed the clasps on his satchel opening and the papers slipping out….

  Now Will was on all fours, snatching up notes, letters, and a long sheet of paper—the second page of the new-printed draft. As he reached for the first page, Washington’s shadow grew and a big hand snatched the page from under Will’s nose.

  Will stood and looked into those eyes, two nail heads set amidst reddening pockmarks. He had heard of Washington’s temper, legendary though rarely displayed. He feared that it was abo
ut to explode in his face.

  “Instead of dropping our papers on the street,” said Washington, “protect them with your life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Washington held the sheet out. Will looked at it, afraid to move.

  “Take it,” snapped Washington.

  By now, Rufus King had hurried back from the state house steps. He slipped the sheet from Washington’s hand and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  Washington’s color returned to gray composure. “We must mind the rule of secrecy. If our private papers should be discovered by those inimical to our interests, it could go badly for us.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered King.

  “See that your assistant is more careful. Either that or carry your papers yourself.” Washington turned and strode across the garden.

  King handed the sheet back to Will, who placed it in the satchel. As he did, he noticed a second folio sheet within the first. Rufus King was actually in possession of two copies of the plan.

  Will tried to tell him. “Unh … sir.”

  But King was in a rush. “Come along. I have letters for you to transcribe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will closed the satchel and followed. “I’m … I’m sorry, sir. I hope the general doesn’t hold it against you, that I dropped the papers.”

  “He brings us to order in the morning and gavels the end of each day. Otherwise, he has spoken only once in open session—when a packet of papers was discovered on the floor of the chamber.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “He threw the papers on the table and said, ‘I must entreat the gentlemen to be more careful, lest our transactions get into the newspapers and disturb the public repose by premature speculations.’ “ King looked at Will. “He used more direct language with you because our ideas have now been set in print, which makes them all the more volatile in a country where half the people distrust what we’re doing and the rest don’t think we have a right to be doing it.”

  WILL WAS NOT privy to the deliberations that day. He never was. He had his tasks and his reading, and he spent the afternoon in the library, making copies of King’s letters. But that evening, King invited him to dine with some of the New England delegates—Elbridge Gerry and Samuel Gorham of Massachusetts, Roger Sherman and William Johnson of Connecticut, Nicholas Gilman and John Langdon of New Hampshire. As New Englanders, these men considered themselves of like interest, if not like mind, on most issues.

  Not all of New England was represented, however. No one came from Vermont, as it was not a state; or from Maine, as it was part of Massachusetts; or from Rhode Island, as it was controlled by the political cousins of the Massachusetts Regulators, who saw no good in a convention of merchants and lawyers determining how power would be shared in a nation where they were the smallest state.

  During the meal, the gentlemen said little about the day’s business. Instead, they discussed the weather, Will’s meeting with Washington, and news from home. But once the table was cleared and the port was brought out, along with walnuts and fruit and a round of cheddar, Elbridge Gerry turned the talk to the plan.

  “A moment, sir.” Rufus King filled a glass and gave it to Will. “Lest we incur the wrath of General Washington, I’ll ask my assistant to step outside and guard the door.”

  Will was happy to remove himself to the hallway, sip port, and read his law books. He positioned a chair in front of the door, so that the lamp in the wall sconce would cast its light over his left shoulder. Then he sat and considered the day just past.

  He had held in his hands the blueprint for a new government. He had looked George Washington in the eye. And he had broken bread with some of the most brilliant men in New England. Even then, their voices were rumbling in the room behind him, while loud voices and laughter reverberated up from the taproom.

  It had been a year, almost to the day, since the sheriff had come for Will’s father. The young man who had stood in that field watching a Hampshire County hawk could never have imagined how far he would travel or how much he would see in so short a time. But still he thought of home.

  So he took out a letter from his father, written four months before:

  All is well. I am eating better. And the state has lifted the death sentence on the Regulators, so your brother has visited. He brought news that someone killed Nathan Liggett. I asked him to stay, but he said a man had offered him a job on a Newport East Indiaman. He said he’d had enough of tree-cutting and the sea would be his new home. It will not last. Something else will tempt him … a new job, another woman. My guess is there’s a woman in Newport. Remember, son, love is for rich men and fools. Ignore women until you gain a reputation. Let your brother blow like the wind. You stick like the rock. Hold to your convictions and remember that your father is proud.

  Will had answered the letter immediately, had reread it dozens of times, had prayed for a reply ever since….

  The voices of the gentlemen grew louder on the other side of the door.

  Will took up his law book, angled it to the lamp, read a paragraph, felt his eyelids droop. After another paragraph, his head dropped, his chin struck his chest, his eyes popped open.

  He could hear the high-pitched voice of Elbridge Gerry: “We must have a bill of rights. Otherwise, this document is a hollow sham.”

  Someone said, “A bill of rights is implicit in the plan, because the plan does not supersede any bill of rights in any state constitution.” It sounded like Roger Sherman, the simple, square-faced barrister who had signed for independence in ’76 and had returned to reshape an independent nation in ’87.

  “If a right is not granted, that does not rescind it,” said one of the others.

  “Gentlemen”—the voice of Nicholas Gilman—” ‘tis more important to contend with the material printed here than with things which are not addressed….”

  Will recognized Rufus King’s voice: “I, for one, would like to see what a bill of rights might look like. What issues would we confront? How would we codify them?”

  Someone else said, “We must guarantee that church and state are separate.”

  “But we are a Christian nation,” mumbled another.

  “Indeed,” said John Langdon. “But we need no state religions.”

  “And what about the right to bear arms?” demanded another voice.

  “An interesting issue,” said Gerry, who sounded as if he was standing just the other side of the door, “especially given the actions of the so-called Regulators against the Springfield arsenal.”

  Will imagined Gerry, bald head reflecting lamplight, eyes radiating flinty resolve.

  Rufus King said, “If those farmers had had more weaponry, their uprising might have been more destructive.”

  “You don’t suggest men should not have the right to carry weapons?” said Gerry.

  “I simply state the obvious,” answered King. “There was bloodshed that day. And there might have been more if they had gotten their hands on the guns.”

  Will yawned, blinked several times, tried to get back to his reading.

  There came a sound of shuffling papers and the voice of Rufus King: “It seems, gentlemen, that I have an extra copy of the draft. Each of the four folio pages wraps another. Perhaps we might use the extra pages to set down our thoughts on matters we wish to spell out in the next draft or in an attached bill—”

  And Will Pike felt his eyes droop once more….

  Some time later, he heard the door opening. He leaped to his feet and turned.

  Rufus King was smiling at him. “A noble guard. Come and collect the papers.”

  “Yes, sir.” Will slurred the “s” because he had fallen asleep with his mouth open. He moistened his tongue and said, “Will you be needing them again tonight, sir?”

  “No. I’ll be spending the rest of the evening at the parlor of Mrs. Powel and her husband. They keep a late salon. Leave the papers in my room.”

  THE PHILADELPHIA STREETS were lit by whale-oil lamps and paved in c
obblestone. Though the hour was late, ladies and gentlemen strolled leisurely along. Carriages clattered through pools of yellow light, into deep shadow, back into light. And the clopping of the horses’ hooves offered counterpoint to the human music of the night … someone playing a spinet in a home on Walnut Street, ladies talking by an open window on Sixth, two men laughing at the witticisms of a third as they walked along Eighth.

  The boarding house was on Spruce Street. Will slept in a room over the barn. Though he carried a key to King’s room, he did not have one to the main house. And the front door was locked, which meant the master had retired early with his jug.

  Will considered him a cranky old sot who would be even crankier should a young man awaken him from a drunken stupor, even to deposit papers in the chamber of Rufus King. Such a young man would receive a torrent of invective sprayed through a mist of foul-smelling breath, then see the door slammed in his face.

  Will decided that instead he would sleep with King’s papers under his pillow and deliver them in the morning. So he made a stop in the outhouse, then went up the stairs at the back of the barn.

  The horses were quiet in the stalls.

  The smell of hay and manure reminded him of home.

  At the top of the stairs a door led into the loft. The hay bales were stored at one end, and a rough room, perfect for servant or apprentice, occupied the other.

  Will pushed open the door to the room … and froze.

  Someone was sitting by the window.

  “Who’s there?” demanded Will.

  The shadow said nothing.

  “I’m armed,” said Will.

  The shadow laughed. “You’re never armed.”

  Will squinted into the darkness. “North?”

  A flame flared in a lamp. North’s face appeared, as if afloat in the darkness.

  “My God … it’s you.” Will rushed across the room, took his brother’s hand. “There were times I thought they’d hang you.”

  North grinned. “Times I thought the same. So did Pa. When I come home, he made me sleep in the root cellar, in case Chauncey Yates—”