“The deification of our grand hero of the Revolution.” Mason gestured toward the house with his wineglass. “This convention means to anoint him.”
“Don’t you support him?”
“My support does not require me to condone a coronation.”
“No one suggests that.”
“Mr. Hamilton?”
“Alex gets carried away. His devotion sometimes skews his otherwise sound judgment, but he sways no one.”
“The general sways delegates without their conscious knowledge. They design an unrestrained executive, assuming his personal restraint will safeguard our republic.” Mason took a forceful swig of wine. “Very shortsighted.”
Madison looked down and shuffle-kicked a small rock back into a flower bed. Had Mason seen something he had missed? After a moment, he said, “George, your concern is valid, but premature. We haven’t defined the powers of the various branches. Checks and balances will overwhelm any individual.”
“You approved a single executive when I was out of chamber.” The tone was accusatory.
Madison understood. Mason still wanted an executive that comprised three men. He suspected Mason craved executive office but judged his opportunity slight if the office were restricted to a single individual. Harboring no such ambitions himself, Madison had missed how lust for office could bias a delegate’s opinion.
“The debate was sound and I believe the decision right.”
“I’ll never agree to entrust the rights of the people to a single magistrate.”
“The rights of the people will be entrusted to a system, not one man. Do you distrust the general?” Madison challenged.
“Washington’s a man, not a saint,” Mason snapped, but quickly added in a softer tone, “I trust him more than others, but we must think in term of generations, not years. Adulation seldom charts a wise course.”
“Do you suggest I’m blinded by adulation?”
“You? No, my young friend, you’re blinded by a greater vice, the ambition to invent the perfect republic.”
“Guilty. And unrepentant.”
“There’s dirty work ahead. Crafty and powerful men will tempt you to settle for half a loaf. Don’t let ambition for your precious plan grind your principles to dust.”
Madison decided that he wasn’t enjoying this conversation. He had looked forward to this party and had no intention of wasting the evening with a bitter old man. “George, I’m going to refill my glass and join the gaiety inside. We’ll talk when there’re fewer distractions.”
Madison quickly turned and walked away as fast as good manners would permit. At the intersection of two garden paths, a giggling young woman banged into him with such force that she nearly knocked him down. Instinctively, he grabbed her shoulders with both hands as they spun a half circle to keep their balance. As they steadied, Madison stood inches from a pretty face lit with laughter. Embarrassed, he realized that she had a firm grip on his forearms.
“Excuse me, sir. I beg your pardon.”
Madison could find no words, at least, no words he could utter. The young girl’s frisky blue eyes and sweet face had instantly enchanted him. She let go of his arms and stood there expectantly. He realized he still held her shoulders and lifted his hands as if he had placed them on a hot griddle.
“Excuse me,” he said with a slight bow. “My obvious clumsiness.”
“Not at all. I was looking behind me as I ran. Please excuse my unladylike behavior.”
“No need to apologize. This was my first dance of the evening.”
The young woman rewarded him with a crackling smile that lit up every feature of her face. “You’re a gentleman. Thank you.”
With another giggle, she whirled and continued down the garden at a more dignified pace. As she retreated, Madison could not take his eyes off her backside, which she swung with a subtle rhythm that must have been for his benefit.
As Madison turned to enter the house, he spotted Hamilton on the rear stoop wearing an impish grin. “My, my, the shy little Madison makes a play for a married woman. A child, no less. You should leave such nonsense to us seasoned rakes.”
Madison felt a blush. “I had no such intention. She crashed into me.”
“The engagement held less import than the disengagement.” Hamilton gave a good-hearted laugh. “Stealing wonton glances at a woman’s behind will taint your stellar reputation.”
Madison climbed the first step and glanced back. She was gone. “I couldn’t help myself. Married, you say?”
“Dolley Payne Todd is her name, and she was running away from her playful husband. You must step into the house and hunt legal game.”
“Nothing will compare. The brief encounter has spoiled me.”
Hamilton clasped Madison’s shoulder and pulled him toward the house. “Come. There’re lots of ladies eager to meet a wealthy gentleman. Fate has someone picked out for you.”
“Alex, I must trust in fate, for my charms seduce no one.”
“You underestimate the seductive power of money.”
Madison couldn’t help but laugh as he bounced back into the house, eager to rejoin the party. But the image of the bright young girl lingered, titillating him. It was a moment he would not soon forget.
Chapter 21
Sunday, June 24, 1787
“No way to make it simple?” Ellsworth looked worried.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Sherman said. “But sometimes politics just gets complicated.”
“Simplicity is highly overrated,” Dickinson huffed.
Sherman had arranged to met Ellsworth and Dickinson in his room after church. He wanted to test his plan with his closest friends, away from adversaries or the curious.
“Can we coordinate events in both Philadelphia and New York?” Ellsworth asked.
“Others can.”
Ellsworth went for his snuff, a sure sign of his unease. Sherman sipped his tea and waited.
Finally Ellsworth said, “I hope you don’t intend to appeal to Washington’s greed.”
“No,” Sherman responded immediately. “It wouldn’t work, nor is it necessary.”
Dickinson said, “Anyone who approached him with something that looked like a bribe would find himself on the receiving end of a cane.”
Ellsworth continued to look worried. “Robert Morris owns huge expanses of western lands, and Franklin and Washington also have interests in the frontier. A deal of this sort increases the value of their holdings. They might misconstrue your intent.”
Ellsworth had touched on Sherman’s biggest concern. “Prudent advice. I haven’t felt the cane since my father died.”
“Must you use Washington?” Ellsworth asked. “The price’ll be dear.”
“No one else can control both delegations.”
“Our side isn’t without influence in Congress,” Ellsworth said.
“Perhaps I’ve missed something. Have we captured this convention?”
“Of course not. The Virginians hold the reins.”
“And only a Virginian can take us down a different path.”
Ellsworth shook his head. “I feel like we’re conspiring with the opposition.”
Dickinson reached over and patted Ellsworth’s forearm. “Trust those instincts, my boy, for that’s exactly what our devious friend proposes.”
Ellsworth looked soulful as he slowly fingered his snuffbox. “I didn’t anticipate building a great republic with something so seedy.”
Dickinson wore a sly expression. “It may look untidy, but if you watch the early brushstrokes of an artist, his work looks puzzling and unattractive. Later—and from a distance—you see symmetry and beauty. Those apparent random colors eventually become a work of art.”
“My error,” Ellsworth said with a taint of sarcasm. “I forgot we’re artists, laying down dark hues that’ll one day blossom into a beautiful pastoral scene.”
Dickinson gave Ellsworth another pat on the arm. “You do eventually catch on.”
&nb
sp; Ignoring his snuff, Ellsworth turned to Sherman. “Have you considered approaching someone other than the general?”
“Washington’s the only choice. Mason’s too arrogant, Randolph’s a weather vane, and Madison’s a purist. Washington can ram a constitution through this convention, but he knows it’ll never get ratified without support from a few small states. He sees this clearly—one of the few.” Sherman hefted the teapot and felt that it was empty. “Besides, Washington carries enough clout to pull this off.”
“Why would he conspire with us?” Ellsworth asked.
“Washington can put the preliminaries in place, but I hold the lynchpin. When I lay it out, he’ll see we must work together.”
Ellsworth went for his snuff and took an inordinate amount of time with his little ritual. “Roger, wait a few more days. You said we need only one state to shift to our side. Surely, we can find another way.”
“The morality bothers you?”
Ellsworth answered Sherman with silence.
“John?”
“It’s a nasty piece of business.” Dickinson hesitated. “Sometimes, if you stall, problems disappear; passions abate. Other times, if you dawdle, you lose opportunity. Why do you want to move now?”
“Hamilton is about to leave for New York. He must carry instructions from the general.”
Dickinson spun his empty teacup in a chipped saucer. After a few distracted seconds, he looked up, and Sherman was surprised to see compassion in his eyes. “Roger, how do you feel about this?”
Sherman felt a pang of melancholy. Working out the mechanics had mercifully seized his mind for the last few days. Sherman didn’t tend toward introspection, but he had wrestled with these issues on many solitary walks. In the end, he couldn’t reconcile his proposal with his religious beliefs. The money side bothered him, but he could live with the consequences. It was the slavery side that struck deep, far too deep to slough off with little excuses.
Was he too determined to make a deal, any deal? Would he sacrifice any principle? Roger believed himself an honest man. An honest man must first and foremost be honest with himself. His plan didn’t sanction slavery, but it used the South’s need to protect this institution as a means to protect Connecticut. The convention would never endorse a government that didn’t tolerate slavery, but he couldn’t use this as a rationalization. He had decided to do wrong—to sacrifice the freedom of thirty-five percent of the population in the South to get a workable federal government.
Perhaps sacrifice was too strong a word. Negroes were already in bondage, and nothing that happened in Philadelphia in the summer of 1787 would change their condition. Every state except Massachusetts allowed slaves. A less honest man might tell himself that bargaining with something the other side already controlled was clever, not evil. Sherman knew better. As soon as he struck his deal, he would be sucked into the morass of slavery.
Sherman heard a quiet knock at the door. “Come in.”
Howard opened the door enough to stick his head in and asked, “Would you gentlemen care for more tea? Mrs. Marshall has baked fresh scones.”
“Thank you, Howard. You’re very thoughtful. A fresh pot of tea sounds good, and I never turn down Mrs. Marshall’s cooking.”
“I’ll return in about ten minutes. Sorry to interrupt.”
The three men sat silent until Howard withdrew his head and closed the door with a barely audible click.
Dickinson caught Sherman’s eye. “Are we cutting a pact with the devil?”
Sherman glanced at the closed door, then returned to meet Dickinson’s eyes, “No, John, but his surrogates fill our dance card.”
Sherman entered the chamber and immediately felt suffocated by the humid atmosphere. Summer had come early this year, and the morning temperature was unusually warm. He glanced toward the closed windows and wished they could be opened to allow some unspoiled air into the chamber. As he took his seat, Sherman feared that both the heat and tempers would worsen in the days ahead.
At the opening of every session, he made a habit of looking around to observe the members’ moods, to see if he could spot any knowing glances between delegates who had conspired into the night, or perhaps catch a hard glare between men who had gone to bed angry. Pinckney started speaking before Sherman completed his scrutiny of the room, and he found himself drawn into a skillful exhibition of eloquence and energy.
Sherman got his work done by craft and perseverance. How much more could he have accomplished with Pinckney’s good looks and easy grace? Despite the clammy heat, Pinckney appeared cool and unaffected. He moved with poise, spoke with authority, and projected confidence. Sherman tugged at his moist wool pants and felt envious of the linen attire favored by Southerners.
“Gentlemen, we must remember that we’re unique. Compared to other countries, there are few distinctions of rank and fortune. Every freeman has the same rights, honors, and privileges.”
In private conversation, Pinckney enjoyed irritating people, but he knew how to deliver a speech and command a chamber’s attention. Although he often wasted his talent to make small points, today he seemed to have a larger sense of purpose.
“Equality will continue in our new country because we reward industry. Almost every member of our society enjoys an equal opportunity to achieve wealth or rise to high office. Gentlemen, it would be a mistake to design a government meant for a different people.”
Pinckney modulated his voice in a pleasing rhythm that seemed natural to those reared in the Southern aristocracy. Sherman knew his Yankee twang grated on the ears of the gentlemen from the South.
“Our situation is distinct from the people of Greece or Rome. Can Solon’s orders work in the United States? Do the military habits of Sparta resemble our habits? Are the distinctions of patrician and plebeian known among us? Were the Helvetica or Belgic confederacies, or the Germanic Empire, similar to us? No—they’re all different.”
Pinckney’s reminder of his own classical education was aimed at the scribbling little man in the front row. Madison sat at his usual place, his quill pen moving in smooth swirls, interrupted by unconscious detours to the inkwell. Sherman wondered what Madison intended to do with his precious notes.
“The constitution of Great Britain may be the best in existence, but Parliament is a creature of chance. The monarch needed money, and the nobility wouldn’t permit taxation unless they were given a voice, so they blended the Commons with the Lords to form Parliament.”
As Pinckney said this, he raised his hands in front of him at equal height, right palm up and the left palm down. “Since that time, nobility have been a part of Parliament, but their power has diminished, as the power of the Commons increased.” With this he lowered his left hand and raised his right palm upward. Sherman grew jealous. He never used appropriate gestures to accent important points. In fact, he seldom used gestures at all.
“The United States will never accept nobility, and this country contains few men wealthy enough to pose a dangerous influence. Perhaps there aren’t one hundred such men on this continent.”
Sherman thought that at least thirty of those with “dangerous influence” sat in this chamber. The thirty-first stood before them.
“Can this situation change?” Pinckney asked. “From what cause? The landed? That interest is too divided. Moneyed interest? If that happened, it would be the first time nobility sprang from merchants.”
This last was said with such disdain that no one could mistake Pinckney’s contempt for the merchant class. Sherman stole a glance at Gerry and spotted annoyance.
“Fellow delegates, we’re here to form a government for the people of the United States. We’re a vast new country, capable of extending the blessings of liberty to all its citizens—capable even of making them happy.”
“What kind of government suits us best?” Pinckney then stepped to his desk and picked up his notes.
After what Sherman considered an excellent preamble, Pinckney proceeded for the second time to
present his plan of government. Unfortunately, the high interest shown for his opening remarks didn’t extend to the populist theme of his plan. Sherman detected no converts. He noticed that even Madison had put down his quill and folded his hands on the table, a clear sign that he didn’t intend to record Pinckney’s plan. Sherman was pleased that the tiff between Madison and Pinckney hadn’t been squelched. Personal rivalries often presented a mallet to break opposing coalitions into manageable pieces.
“If no better plan is proposed, I move for the adoption of this one.”
With this weak close, Pinckney walked over and plopped a copy of his plan on the table in front of Madison. Madison kept his hands folded and studiously appeared indifferent to the document.
“An excellent scheme; I highly endorse it,” Robert Morris said.
Washington gave Morris a cautionary glance. “I’ll consider it overnight and speak to you before the opening of tomorrow’s session.”
Strange, but Sherman felt more comfortable with Washington’s equivocation than with the unqualified endorsement from Morris. Both had speculated in western lands, but Washington dabbled, while Morris had committed a huge portion of his vast fortune. The general’s measured response made Sherman feel better. If Washington came to embrace the plan, it meant he too had decided that the objective justified whatever expedients might be necessary.
“Of course, sir. I expected nothing more,” Sherman said.
“On the contrary, your expectations astound me.”
Washington’s crisp reproach surprised Sherman. The three men sat in the parlor of the Morris home. Sherman wanted to meet with Washington alone, but the general had insisted that Morris be present. Sherman assumed that Washington had an inkling of the visit’s purpose and wanted a witness.
“I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but I can’t think of another way to move us beyond this impasse.”
“Mr. Sherman, you’re a religious man, yet you barter with slavery.”
Sherman was taken aback by Washington’s indignation about the slavery side of the proposition instead of the western lands. When Sherman heard himself speak, he sounded defensive. “Only with the greatest reluctance, sir.”
Tempest at Dawn Page 25
