Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

  Madison considered Sherman’s strategy. The man thought several steps ahead and apparently had figured out that the opposition would strive to shift power to the executive from the legislature. So he pushed for multiple terms. Sherman intended to use fear of a monarch as a defense. An executive with too much power could ensure his reelection by the ruthless use of favors and patronage.

  Looking ahead, Madison saw a noisy crowd and an image that tested his sense of reality. A two-story building appeared to be casually strolling down the street. He quickened his pace to investigate the aberration. He discovered that a house undeniably traveled down the center of the city street, but ten strapping horses dragged the uprooted structure. The crowd of spectators had hidden a crude frame with huge wooden wheels that freed the house from its normally moored state. Somehow the house had been hoisted onto this contraption, and the horses, escorted by six whip-wielding men, were rolling the house to a new lot, where it presumably would behave itself and stay put.

  Madison spotted Pinckney and sidled over to him. “Good afternoon, Charles.”

  “A good afternoon would be ten degrees cooler.”

  “The heat seems relentless.”

  “Like our bickering.”

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  “I never imagined anyone would be stupid enough to move a house.”

  “Damn clever, I think.”

  “Clever? All this trouble to save a clapboard eyesore.”

  “It still has utility.”

  “So do the Articles. Yet you don’t hesitate to tear them down to build afresh.”

  “This is a solid house, not a cobbled expedient. It can still provide service.”

  “For someone beyond Seventh Street, I would hazard.”

  “Don’t they deserve a place to live?”

  Pinckney expression showed disdain. “You propose that they should elect our chief executive?”

  “I do.”

  “Foolish.” Pinckney looked at Madison, “Tell me, where do your loyalties lie?”

  “I beg pardon.”

  “To the big states or to the slaveholding states?”

  “To a republican system.”

  “You’re evading the question.”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “James, you lost the big state battle. It’s time to show your loyalty to the South, your home—and your way of life.”

  “You want me to defend slavery?”

  “I want you to shed your hypocrisy.”

  “You say that without your normal droll note.”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “Then I’m quite offended.”

  “Be that as it may, you must come to your senses. Without slaves, Montpelier would go under. Your countrymen insist on your allegiance.”

  “Insist? My family’s plantation depends on slaves, but that doesn’t obligate me to protect an institution I abhor.”

  “Slavery has been around since the beginning of mankind.”

  “You want me to speak out for slavery?”

  “Deeds trump words. You live well off the labor of slaves. Preaching abolition will not bestow absolution.”

  “Good day, Mr. Pinckney.”

  Madison whirled and hurried away. What had riled Charles? He had never assaulted him that way, at least not with a mean spirit. Fear. The South smelled a threat to slavery. The Northwest? Cutler’s deal struck terror into the slaveholding states, but the South got a good piece of the bargain, and equality in the Senate provided a sturdy bulwark. Something else. Revisionary power? They feared the power to negate state laws. He had spoken out in support of revisionary power that very day.

  Madison slowed his angry pace. His intent was to control the unruly state legislatures that issued paper money, extracted tribute from neighboring states, and caused all sorts of mischief. His target had been the North, but his grapeshot could easily splatter the South. Having figured out the cause of Pinckney’s anger quieted his intellect but did not ease his emotional torment. The charge of hypocrisy hurt. Montpelier did depend on slavery. He lived a rich and comfortable life, so comfortable that he could dedicate his life to scholarship and government systems.

  Indeed, “Deeds trump words.” What could he do? Nothing. At least nothing while his father was alive. What would he do when he inherited Montpelier? His heart thumped and he felt faint. Madison hurried his pace. He needed shade, a cool drink, and time to catch up on his notes. Yes, he had to scribe the day’s session, and he owed Jefferson a letter. He would find time to think about this later.

  Wednesday morning started with the judiciary. The Virginia Plan called for appointment by the Senate. With the Senate safely in state hands, the small states now supported the Virginia Plan, while the big states wanted executive appointment. Gouverneur Morris’s fear of bias had already surfaced. Delegates shifted positions like a gusty wind whipping around a courtyard, and Madison feared that the sundry details could keep them here for many more weeks.

  Mason started with a reasonable point. “The mode of appointing judges should depend on the mode of executive impeachment. If the judges form a tribunal for impeachment, then the executive cannot appoint them.”

  Dickinson jumped in with a rare display of emotion. “Talk about impeachment is nonsense. It’ll be near impossible to punish an executive for misdeeds.”

  Madison wanted to press their goal to weaken the Senate, so he offered the first compromise that popped into his head: judges appointed by the executive had to be approved by two-thirds of the Senate.

  Sherman surprised Madison by speaking in support of the compromise, but the vote was postponed until the next day.

  The debate moved to the guarantee of a republican government for each state. It should have been simple, but some objected that it might preclude the use of force to put down rebellions. Madison lamented that Shays’s Rebellion skewed the debate away from sound principles.

  Wilson proposed a compromise that everyone accepted: “a republican form of government shall be guaranteed to each state and that each state shall be protected against foreign and domestic violence.” Wilson’s wording permitted the national government to put down insurrections and override tyranny imposed at the state level. The convention used this high point to adjourn on a positive note.

  “Jemmy, quick, jump in the coach.” Gouverneur Morris sat in a hired coach, propping the door open with his wooden leg.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Sassafras Street. The general commandeered a thoroughbred from Robert Morris and intends to race any devil-may-care with a fat purse.”

  Madison hopped into the coach and squeezed between five other delegates. He looked across at Hamilton. “What’s the general thinking?”

  “He’s thinking fun,” Hamilton said. “Horse racing and gambling are two of his favorite pastimes.”

  Gouverneur Morris chuckled. “And I’ll enjoy pocketing some dupe’s coin.”

  Everyone shared a laugh except Madison. “The appeal escapes me.”

  “Jemmy, my boy,” Morris said. “Racing’s a basic impulse of the human species. Since the beginning of time, if it moves, someone wants to race it. Whether it’s on foot, on hoof, or on wheels, people enjoy contests of speed. Especially our dear general.”

  Hamilton slapped the roof of the carriage and yelled, “Faster, driver! A quarter doubloon if you get us there in five minutes!”

  Madison heard the crack of a whip and the scream of a pedestrian as the coach lurched forward and bounded along the cobblestones at breathtaking speed. Madison grabbed a leather strap hanging from the roof and held on for dear life. Their destination was the northern edge of the city. The official name, Sassafras Street, had been supplanted by the nickname Race Street due to the rowdy pastime that had claimed the dirt road.

  In less than five minutes, the coach came to a slow roll. Hamilton stuck his head out and said, “Word’s out. The street’s clogged with foot and carriage traffi
c. Let’s walk.”

  The men tumbled from the coach, and Hamilton made good his promise to the driver. The streets were packed with people in a frenzied gay mood, all moving north in a hurry. Madison and his friends joined the throng and eventually elbowed their way onto Race Street. At first, it looked like bedlam, but once they squeezed by the ruffians, the street peddlers, and the merely curious, they spotted Washington astride a mount about a block ahead.

  By moving to the center of the street, they were able to walk quickly toward their leader. For once Madison appreciated the heat because it had baked the horse-droppings dry and odorless. On second thought, it made him wonder about the fine dust being kicked up. He pulled a handkerchief to wipe the grime from his watery eyes and then held it in front of his mouth as he squinted against the onslaught of sun and grit.

  Before they had closed half the gap, a man intercepted them and shook a bag of coins in their face. “Wager?”

  “How many contestants?” Hamilton asked.

  “Four, but separate races.”

  “Odds?”

  “Two to one against the ol’ man in the first race. Straight up for the second two.”

  “Do you know who that old man is?”

  “Of course. Jared Ingersoll can’t gather a crowd this size.”

  “Yet you set the odds against Gen. Washington.”

  “The general knows how to flog men, but that doesn’t mean he can flog a horse. These boys are here most afternoons, and your general has matched against the best. Besides, by the third race, his bonny mare will be tuckered.”

  “How’re the bets going?”

  The man shrugged. “You’ll bet the general—like the other delegates and sightseers.”

  “And the experienced betters?”

  “How much do you wish to wager?”

  Hamilton turned to give his companions a knowing smile. “Ten sovereigns.”

  The bookmaker scratched his chin. “A rich bet. On most days beyond my means, but¾” He waved his hand over the crowd. “Let’s see the coin.”

  After everyone but Madison set a bet, the men moved further down the street toward the champing horses.

  “You didn’t place a wager,” Hamilton said.

  “I don’t gamble.”

  Hamilton laughed. “This is no gamble.”

  “Nothing’s sure.”

  Gouverneur Morris looked over his shoulder. “This is, my boy. As sure a thing as you’ll encounter. The general has the best riding seat in Virginia, and Robert Morris paid a princely sum for this mare. These boys will get a rude lesson from that ol’ man.”

  “We have another edge,” Hamilton added.

  “What’s that?”

  “The general doesn’t like to lose.”

  As they approached the starting point, Madison’s attention was riveted on Washington’s mount. He had never before seen such perfection. All the horses in the Robert Morris stable were first-rate, but this one looked like Michelangelo had sculpted it as the rightful companion for David. The shimmering red coat highlighted smoothly delineated muscles that looked taut and ready for the slightest nudge of the heel. As the well-groomed mare pawed at the ground, she occasionally threw her head in disdain for all those about her.

  It took a while for Madison to notice Washington. He sat in calm dignity, seemingly oblivious to the pandemonium or the side-strutting horse beneath him. He wore a blue and buff trouser suit that carried a military hint but fell short of a uniform. Both man and horse clearly were in command of their purview.

  Madison regretted not placing a wager.

  “The man’s in love.”

  “What? Who?”

  Gouverneur Morris rollicked in laughter. “The general. I’ve never seen him so smitten.”

  “With whom?”

  “The mare, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  “Robert had an agent buy her in Maryland. She arrived this week, and it was love at first ride. The general would mortgage Mount Vernon to get her, but Robert won’t sell.”

  “She looks strong. Can she win three races?”

  “The second two will be easy, if she can win the first one,” Morris said, as he pointed at the challenger.

  For the first time, Madison noticed the rider next to Washington. The small-framed boy could not have been more than seventeen, and he appeared overmatched. Looking nervous amongst all the commotion, he had a hard time controlling his wiry horse that stood two hands shorter than his rival’s mount. His brown trousers, open-necked white shirt, and scuffed saddle contrasted with the general’s proper attire and shiny black tack.

  “You’ve seen him race?”

  “That boy keeps me in tavern money,” Morris said. “He and his horse may look common, but they run with uncommon speed.”

  “Did you bet on him?”

  “Heavens, no. I wouldn’t want to be seen collecting a wager against the general.”

  “But you think it’ll be close?”

  “The edge goes to the one with the greatest will to win. And they’re equally matched in that category.”

  “Are you talking about horse or man?”

  “Both, my dear boy. Both.”

  Suddenly, a man stepped in front of the two riders waving a handkerchief. The skittish horses snorted and stepped back, away from the flag-waving starter. Two other men ran down the road, shooing people out of harm’s way. The race was about to begin. Everyone was shouting and cheering as a path cleared, and the mob surged back and forth as people strove for a place to see. Madison was shoved to the side and found himself separated from his friends.

  As things grew almost hushed, the starter yelled, “Riders, get ready!”

  Washington, if possible, grew even more still, his body posed slightly forward with his weight carried in the stirrups.

  The starter raised both arms and held steady for a moment. The boy’s horse seemed to settle on his rear legs and snorted with checked energy.

  The starter’s arms dropped.

  The horses bolted. Hoofs flew, dirt sprayed, people yelled, and Madison found himself pushed and shoved as spectators fought to get a view of the riders dashing down the lane. He couldn’t tell who led, but the cheering grew strident as the riders approached the finish. In what seemed like an instant, the race was over.

  Madison looked around but saw nobody he recognized. Then he spotted the looping gait of Gouverneur Morris, fifty feet down the street. How could a man with one leg move so fast? Running, Madison caught up with Morris and realized that everyone was sprinting toward the finish.

  “Who won?” Madison panted.

  “Well, Jemmy, my boy, I think the general, but I’m guessing.”

  “From the cheering?”

  “The people do love their hero.”

  Soon, the sea of people parted, and Gen. Washington emerged, trotting his horse back to the start line. The closed-mouth grin confirmed that he had won the race. Dozens of men raced alongside him, patting the horse, leaping to pat the general, or, if blocked by other well-wishers, they just patted each other on the back.

  Madison decided he liked horseracing.

  Madison and the other delegates decided to walk back to the Indian Queen. The commotion was too maddening to attempt to hire a coach. Gouverneur Morris had been right: Washington won the second two races easily after nosing out the first contest.

  Hamilton tossed a bag of coins from hand to hand. “Easy money.” Then with a laugh, he said, “I think Jemmy should buy dinner.”

  “I didn’t bet.”

  “Penalty heaped on punishment. A Puritan tradition.”

  “We’re not in New England, nor am I a Puritan. I trust you’ll be a gentleman and part with one or two of your sovereigns.”

  “Very well, the night’s entertainment is on me. I haven’t played host in a while.”

  “If that is the measure,” Morris said, “it would be your turn for the next two weeks.”

  “Gentlemen, my duty is not to pay but to en
tertain you poor souls and bring cheer into our little conclaves.”

  “Indeed. Every evening, I look forward to your relentless pessimism.”

  “Bah! You’re a good-natured beast, Mr. Morris, but you need reminding that the common man carries a bag of faults he tosses to the wind with no discernible pattern.”

  “Man sins, but he can also be noble,” Madison said, halfheartedly.

  “As we prove with this convention,” Hamilton said. “A noble enterprise, nobly achieved.”

  Morris looked irritated. “It is a noble enterprise. Perhaps not nobly achieved, but we’ll achieve it nonetheless.”

  “We’re not finished yet,” Madison said.

  “Don’t worry, Jemmy. You shall have your republic.”

  Madison glanced at Morris. “What makes you so confident?”

  “The general doesn’t like to lose.”

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday, July 18, 1787

  “How is Mrs. Sherman?”

  “Lonely.”

  Sherman had returned late to his boardinghouse. As on his first night in her home, Sherman had found Mrs. Marshall knitting in the parlor. She beckoned him with a two-handed wave of indigo yarn and said, “Come in, Mr. Sherman. Sit a spell.”

  “Thank you.” Sherman took a seat in an opposing chair positioned in front of the dead fireplace. “What’re you knitting?”

  “A cap. I have someone who sells them for me on Market Street.”