“Jemmy, was this presented as a threat?” Franklin asked.
“Sherman’s too clever to speak directly, but there was no mistaking the meaning. He was offering a trade: secrecy for reconsideration. He said it was beyond his control, but I’ve seen his work before.”
“Delegates bolting isn’t our only risk. Congress can withdraw our sanction. Open proceedings might ignite their panic.” This came from Robert Morris, in whose parlor they now sat. Morris, known as the Financier of the Revolution, had invited his old friend, Gen. Washington, to stay in his lavish home during the convention. This evening he was hosting a dinner for prominent delegates from Virginia and Pennsylvania.
Hamilton had arrived late, looking slightly disheveled. Entering in a rush, full of apologies, he had given Madison a sly wink. With Hamilton’s arrival, they started discussing Sherman’s disturbing message as they sipped an excellent French wine from the Morris cellar.
Madison had been thinking. “If I may, we have two issues, and I think the first step is to decide which has greater importance. I believe the issue of secrecy paramount. As long as we hold our coalition, we needn’t fear new votes on settled issues.”
“I don’t know where you’re going with this, Jemmy,” Hamilton said, “but if you suggest we make concessions, I believe it an error.”
“I merely suggest that we analyze the issues based on the greater purpose. Robert’s caution is valid. We must have closed deliberations.”
Franklin suddenly took on a cagey look. “What if George’s committee reported out neither rule?”
“My good doctor, we—”
Franklin raised a hand to stop Hamilton. “We can have someone propose a motion for secrecy from the floor and easily get it passed. If Sherman makes a motion to reconsider votes, his weak support will be exposed. Force him out of the corridors and into the chamber where he’s less comfortable.”
“I don’t understand,” Morris said. “What does this accomplish? They may still quit the convention. Committee or floor, what is the difference?”
“Appearances, my dear Mr. Morris,” Franklin said. “They wish to portray us as unfair to their interests, full of connivance, and in violation of republican principles. They need to justify their mutiny to the people back home. Losing a vote on an arcane parliamentary procedure will not resound with the public.” Franklin settled back in his chair. “They’ll stay.”
“If we back down,” Hamilton fumed, “it’ll spur them to further fulmination. Ignore Sherman. Appearances are of no consequence.”
“Appearances are crucial.” Washington had followed the discussion but had remained aloof from the argument until now. “I approve of Ben’s course of action. We must avoid a donnybrook on our second day.” Washington turned in his seat and bowed toward Franklin. “Thank you for your wisdom, Doctor.”
Wythe, silent during the debate, picked up a piece of paper and made a note. The subject was closed.
To Madison, Sherman’s strategy was obvious: slow down the proceedings. It was going to be a long summer.
“I need guidance on another matter,” Madison said. “Mr. Pinckney has devised a plan of his own, and he wants to present it to the convention.”
“What?” Hamilton said. “Are we to lose complete control of this convention?”
“Easy, Alex,” Washington said. “What do you know of the design, Jemmy?”
“Nothing. I asked for a copy, but Pinckney made excuses. He’s quite adamant and brought it up again this afternoon.”
“What commitments did you make?” Hamilton bristled.
“That he may present his plan in the event of a deadlock. Every time he brings it up, I remind him of his commitment to support our plan.”
“Hmm,” Franklin mused. “If the convention deadlocks, I think your tactic may give weight to Pinckney’s proposal. Better to dispose of it immediately. Let him present directly after Randolph. Then we’ll refer both plans to committee. We can manage the committee so his grandiose ambitions never resurface.”
“I concur,” Morris said.
With a twinkle in his eye, Franklin added, “More’s been lost in committees than from storms at sea.”
“South Carolina’s crucial to our alliance,” Washington said. “We mustn’t slight anyone in this clannish delegation. Give him his platform, but bury the proposal deep in committee.”
Washington settled comfortably into an easy chair. Dinner was over and everyone but Madison had left.
Robert Morris, sitting across from the general said, “You look disturbed, George. What bothers you?”
“I know we’re well organized, but it’s probable that no plan will be adopted. I fear another dreadful conflict is in our future.”
“A year ago we had scant opportunity,” Morris said. “Now opportunity sits at our door.”
Washington remained despondent. “Perhaps, but I can’t help but worry. No morning ever dawned more favorably and no day ever looked more clouded.”
Madison knew the general didn’t mean the heavy rain outside. Today’s opening session had been exuberant and consensual, yet he kept hearing grim premonitions from people within his own bloc of support.
Morris leaned back. “The matter this evening is a bagatelle, easy to overcome.”
“I worry about timing. The people may not be ready to retract from error. Evil must be sorely felt before it can be removed.”
Madison sat forward. “We mustn’t underestimate the people. I assure you, they’re ready. People sense misdirection. Daily they feel the dearth of money and its consequences. Entrenched officials are the ones we should fear.”
“Many of those entrenched officials reside with us in Philadelphia.” Washington took a sip of brandy. “Jemmy, we must present a system the people will accept—all the people, even those from obstinate states. Whoever tries to govern this country must govern all. We’re either a united people or thirteen independent sovereignties.”
“You know my sentiments, General,” Madison said. “The convention may become acrimonious at times, but need will prevail in the end.”
Morris bowed his head toward Washington. “And after that fateful event, I’m confident you’ll be selected to lead our new government.”
“Thank you, but it is far too early to contemplate such events. However, I do have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Morris responded.
“If, in the course of events, we do propose an acceptable system, and I am again selected for leadership, there’ll be inevitable accusations of monarchy. I must not be seen as having brewed the ingredients of my own regime. For this reason I’ll be reserved in the proceedings … and I request the same of you.”
“Surely people won’t attribute my contributions to be at your direction? I have a long and honorable record of public service.”
“Robert, I’m staying in your home. We’re fast friends. In my silence, people will assume that you’re presenting my views. This system must be seen as the judgment of all the states, or I won’t be able to govern. If it’s thought to be my design, I’ll be of no use to the country.”
“George, you know I’ll honor your request.” Then Morris said with a smile, “I assume I’m free to express my opinions in my own home.”
“Of course,” said Washington, returning the smile.
Chapter 9
Monday, May 28, 1787
“Convention suffrage?”
“One vote per state.”
Sherman threw the answer over his shoulder as he squeezed down the narrow stairs. Oliver Ellsworth, Sherman’s fellow delegate from Connecticut, had arrived the night before.
“Gouverneur Morris tried to base suffrage on population, but the Virginians killed the idea,” Sherman added. “They were afraid of a small state revolt.”
As they entered the dining room, Mrs. Marshall greeted the men. “Good morning, Mr. Sherman, Mr. Ellsworth. Please take a seat, and I’ll bring breakfast. Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please
. It smells wonderful,” Sherman said.
“I knew you’d be down soon, so I brewed a fresh pot. Just a moment.” She immediately whirled around, departing before Ellsworth could state a preference.
During the war, the British had closed off tea, so it had become a symbol of patriotism to permeate your home with the smell of coffee. Most women burned the beans. Mrs. Marshall had the knack. Whether she was roasting, grinding, or brewing, the hearty aroma always made Sherman crave a cup.
Sherman’s relationship with Mrs. Marshall continued to improve, which wasn’t a new experience for him. His courtesy, attentive conversation, and oafish ways combined in some haphazard formula that appealed to women in the same way that a big, shaggy dog always finds a caring home.
They took their seats and Mrs. Marshall returned, using a folded towel to carry a coffeepot in one hand and a tin of breakfast puffs in the other. Setting the puffs down, she poured the coffee. From each cup billowed a tiny fog wafting an invigorating aroma. Mrs. Marshall then reached for the cream and placed it directly in front of Sherman.
“There,” Mrs. Marshall said. “While I get things together, you just try one of these puffs, Mr. Sherman. The recipe came from a friend in Virginia, and everyone says they’re wonderful.”
As Sherman took a test sip of the scalding coffee, he noticed that Ellsworth gave Mrs. Marshall a wary look before he said, “I brought a letter from your wife.”
“Thank you.” Sherman put the sealed envelope in his waistcoat pocket.
Ellsworth’s consternation amused him. Mrs. Marshall wasn’t unattractive, but at sixty-six, he had other interests on his mind. Sherman never confused a woman’s good-hearted attentions with a romantic interest; at least, he hadn’t in many years.
Mrs. Marshall smiled. “Mr. Sherman, it seems you have secured the advice you sought from an ‘intelligent woman.’ I hope between the household news, Mrs. Sherman found time to fulfill her obligations as your political confidant.”
Ellsworth looked puzzled. “Political confidant?”
“Mrs. Marshall, please,” Sherman said. “You mustn’t reveal our late night discourse to Mr. Ellsworth.”
When Mrs. Marshall saw Ellsworth’s expression, she explained, “I gave Mr. Sherman difficulty one evening.” Turning to Sherman, she said, “I apologize. I’m afraid I was not kind.”
“No apology needed,” Sherman said. “My behavior was brash and inappropriate.”
Sherman gave Oliver a reassuring wink just as another guest entered the room. Both men immediately stood.
“Good morning, Reverend,” Mrs. Marshall said. “Gentlemen, may I introduce the Reverend Doctor John Witherspoon. The reverend is president of the College of New Jersey. This is Mr. Roger Sherman and Mr. Oliver Ellsworth, delegates to the Federal Convention.”
Sherman took a step forward and extended his hand. “It’s a great pleasure to see you again, Reverend.”
“Mr. Sherman, this is indeed a pleasant surprise,” Witherspoon boomed in a voice more appropriate to a classroom. “How grand. Your presence will improve the quality of the evenings.”
“You know each other?” Mrs. Marshall asked.
“Oh, they know each other,” Ellsworth said. “Neither is inclined to boast, but they both signed the Declaration. You’re looking at a couple of genuine revolutionaries.”
“Worn and tattered revolutionaries,” Sherman said. “What brings you to Philadelphia, Reverend?”
“I’m tutoring two students for the summer. Brothers enrolled at the college. Both equally poor students, burdened with rich parents. Dunderheaded boys forced to feign an interest in scholarship. I fear a long, dreary summer.”
This could present difficulties, Sherman thought. “As luck would have it, one of your former students is representing Virginia. Have you had an opportunity to see Mr. Madison?”
“Goodness, no, I arrived just last night. Do you know where he’s staying?”
“At the Indian Queen. I’ll see him shortly. If you’d like, I can let him know you’re in town.”
“Please. He was an exceptionally bright student.”
“We should adjourn early, perhaps by two o’clock. Will you be here?”
“Yes, yes. I should be returning about that time. I’d consider it a great favor if you would let him know I’ve boarded at Mrs. Marshall’s.”
“Of course. James is still a great scholar. He’s grown to become the trusted pilot for our noble endeavor.”
As they sat down to breakfast, Sherman thought about the possible repercussions of Madison’s academic mentor living in the same house as the Connecticut delegation. Would Witherspoon eavesdrop on their conversations? Could he be used to send signals to the other side?
“When did you see Madison last?” Sherman asked.
“Years, but we’ve traded correspondence. He has an inquisitive mind.”
Sherman chewed on a spoonful of oatmeal laced with nuts and raisins. “You must have a half dozen former students at this convention.”
“More, I suspect. I look forward to revisiting them all, but Madison possessed a special quality.”
“Did he share his plan with you?”
“Goodness, no. Only questions. I’m anxious to hear what he came up with.”
“As are we,” Sherman said as he vowed to make Witherspoon’s presence an opportunity, not a liability.
Sherman went to his room to read the letter from his wife. What he read between the lines was more important than her words. She had dealt with their fifteen children and household affairs in his absence many times, but obviously things were beginning to overwhelm her.
Rebecca was his second wife. She shared his religious convictions and understood his commitment to civic duty. His first wife had died in 1760, after bearing him seven children. Three years later, he married Rebecca, and Sherman could not imagine a better match. Rebecca was beautiful, shrewd in politics, and always cheerful. Eight more children crowded the boisterous household, and despite several having grown old enough to leave home, the burden on Rebecca remained enormous.
She wanted to know how long he would be away. Too long. This convention would meander for several weeks before he’d be able to measure its duration, but he already knew it would probably run several months.
He decided he needed to write several letters: one to Rebecca, another to his minister, and yet another to a good neighbor. He had to depend on others to keep an eye on his family while he toiled in Philadelphia. Rebecca could handle family and even business affairs, but she needed the kind of encouragement and support that only a husband could provide. Sherman vowed to write to her often.
When his letter was almost complete, he remembered to add a warm salutation from Washington. The general had said nothing, but the small lie would remind her of her proudest moment. Several years ago, Rebecca had visited Roger while he was in Congress, and Washington had invited them to a dinner party. To Rebecca’s surprise, the general had escorted her in to dinner and seated her to his immediate left. In an unbelievable breach of etiquette, Mrs. Hancock had complained that she was owed the distinction because of the status of her husband, the governor of Massachusetts. Washington, who disliked the haughty John Hancock, had taken his seat and simply said, “It’s my privilege to give my arm to the handsomest woman in the room.”
That incident had made Washington a hero in the Sherman household. The general later visited New Haven and called on the family. When he was ready to leave, Sherman’s daughter Mehetabel raced to open the door. The general, bowing graciously, said, “You deserve a better office, my dear little lady.” Mehetabel curtsied before responding. “Yes, sir, to let you in.”
Sherman smiled. He hoped that a greeting from Washington would lift his wife’s spirits and give her something to innocently drop into conversations with her friends.
Sherman entered the State House Central Hall and looked around for a specific delegate. The Pennsylvania State House was an elegant Georgian building. The Assembly Room sto
od to the left, through a single door decorated with a shell-and-leaf frieze above the frame. To the right, the architect had used three arches to open the Pennsylvania Supreme Court Chamber to the public. At the back of the Central Hall, a striking Palladian window drew attention to the double-height Stair Hall that gave access to the second floor.
Sherman watched a group of delegates disperse in robust laughter. Obviously, someone had punctuated the end of their conversation with an amusing story. Richard Dobbs Spaight, a young delegate from North Carolina, wore a lingering smile as he walked across the lobby. Sherman moved quickly to intercept Spaight before he became engaged with another group.
“Richard, may I have a moment?”
“Of course, Roger. What's on your mind?”
“The Virginia Plan.”
“A bit early to discuss it.”
“The plan, yes, but it’s not too early to discuss the rules. Do you think the plan will pass intact?”
“Of course not.”
“My thinking exactly.” Sherman took Spaight’s elbow and led him to a quieter corner. “My concern is that we might agree on some aspect of the plan, say, executive term length, before we define the powers of the executive. What may look correct one day might look wrong after several more votes.”
“I follow you, Roger, but I don’t know where you’re going.”
“This isn’t a single piece of legislation but an entire system. We may need to reconsider prior decisions, especially after we see the distribution of power.”
Spaight stiffened. “North Carolina stands firmly with Virginia.”
“I'm not suggesting you do otherwise.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” A cautionary note suffused Spaight’s manner and voice.
“North Carolina has different—sensitive—interests from the Northern states. You must stand fast to your commitments, but you needn’t lay yourself bare to their ill-considered compassion.”
“We have discussed this among ourselves, but why is Connecticut concerned?”
Tempest at Dawn Page 10
