Tempest at Dawn

by James D. Best

“All counts could be disclosed on a single day.”

  “Too much opportunity for chicanery.”

  “Are you firm on this?”

  The question gave Sherman pause. “I’m open to reasonable alternatives.”

  “Would you consider dinner with me and Rev. Witherspoon?”

  “I’d look forward to it.”

  Madison gave him a friendly nod, then scurried across the lawn like an energized child who had spotted a new toy.

  “What did the little titan want?”

  Sherman turned to see Dickinson. “Now I remember why I avoid the State House Inn. Everyone bothers a simple man trying to write a letter to a friend.”

  “Every part of that sentence is a lie. You’re not a simple man, delegates hurry in other directions when they spot you, and no one besides myself can abide you.”

  “I am writing a letter.”

  “Rebecca?”

  “No, John Adams.” Sherman set the letter aside. “Pull up a chair. I’ll buy you lemonade or an ale.”

  Dickinson picked up another cane chair and positioned it beside Sherman. “What does John say?”

  “He’s frustrated. The English refuse to give him the recognition due an emissary from a sovereign nation.”

  “He expects too much.” Dickinson raised a hand to signal a tavern maid. “The English will treat us like an errant child until we prove otherwise.”

  “That requires a sound government backed by a secure source of funds. We have neither.”

  “Nor in the future, I suspect.”

  This startled Sherman. “You think not?”

  “We design a hodgepodge. We should follow the British model. They built a vast empire, and a British subject has greater liberty than a citizen of any other nation.”

  “Then why did we break away?”

  “Need I remind you that I voted against the Declaration?”

  Sherman had momentarily forgotten this pivotal episode in his friend’s life. It seemed long ago, but it had actually been only eleven years. A comely tavern maid gave Sherman an excuse to avoid a response. “May I bring you gentlemen some refreshment?”

  “I promised to buy this patriot a lemonade.”

  “You promised an ale.”

  “I suppose I did. Two ales, please.”

  As the maid retreated to the tavern house, Dickinson asked, “What’s your intent with the executive?”

  “I want the states to control his election.”

  “Why?”

  “If the states elect the executive, and his term is short, and he’s eligible for additional terms, he can’t ignore any region of the country. He’ll be forced to be a national leader. An executive from the South will need political friends in the North and vice versa. Nor will an executive feel free to turn a blind eye to new states.”

  “Madison wants the people to elect.”

  “The people elect the state legislatures.”

  “You think it’s the same?”

  “Better.” The maid returned, and Sherman took his ale from the young girl. After a bracing swallow, he attempted to explain. “State politics are fought in tight quarters, and the closeness means that elected officials are held to account. If they choose a bad national leader, they’ll have to explain it to their neighbors.”

  “This convention carries a severe prejudice against state legislatures.”

  “A few irresponsible houses have sullied the reputation of the rest.” Sherman ran his finger around his damp shirt collar and took another sip of ale. “Their sin is a craven servility to popular demand, not exactly the kind of tyranny that suppresses the will of the people. Besides, will this sin be banned at the national level?”

  The two men languished into silence a minute, and then Dickinson said, “I still fear we’re designing a hodgepodge. It’s not the balanced system Madison brought to Philadelphia, nor a copy of a working model. It’s cobbled together each day from scraps and remnants. How can it possibly succeed?”

  Sherman knew his friend needed an answer. “John, if the mix of interests crammed into the chamber can agree on a plan, then it has a good chance of working. It’ll mean that all those political rivals feel secure. That’ll happen only if we balance power, build checks, and erect defensive measures. If the diverse interests in the chamber are protected, interests not present will also be protected.”

  “If everyone feels safe in their defensive armor, who has enough power to lead?”

  “The darling of Mr. Madison—the people.”

  Chapter 30

  Sunday, July 22, 1787

  “Come, take a look,” Witherspoon said.

  Madison, Sherman, and Rev. Witherspoon had met at the Coach and Horses for Sunday supper. The tavern had been Witherspoon’s choice. The Coach and Horses appealed to the merchant class and tradesmen, not the leisured affluent, but the food was good and the service cordial. Witherspoon selected this tavern because he wanted to show Madison and Sherman a novelty he found fascinating.

  The two men followed Witherspoon into the kitchen. The first thing to strike Madison was the aroma of roasting meats. His mouth watered, and he realized that the long Sunday service had put many hours between his breakfast and supper.

  The kitchen was a beehive. Two men stood at a central table, one butchering and the other skewering meat. A boy in the corner made a hasty swipe at the plates and glasses that had been dumped on a small table by a scurrying woman. Two other women, skirts hiked to protect against embers, moved in and out of the huge fireplace, adding kettles, stirring pots, and slicing meat off various spits. The bustle looked normal for a popular inn, but then Madison noticed three small dogs running inside wood cylinders to turn the spits.

  Before Madison could say anything, Sherman asked, “Are they bitches?”

  “How did you guess?”

  Madison turned to see a rotund tavern owner looking as proud as a new father.

  “In my experience, males don’t tread the same path indefinitely,” Sherman said.

  The plump inn owner rolled in laughter. “Right you are. The male pups flip directions like a gull searching for another crumb.”

  “Are they hard to train?” Madison asked.

  “My, yes. No one has been able to replicate my success.” The innkeeper touched his nose with his forefinger. “I have my secrets.”

  Madison watched the small dogs relentlessly trudging toward an unreachable goal. “These animals and I are kindred spirits. I too run in circles, yap to no notice, and spend my energies to fill someone else’s belly.” Madison was pleased to see everyone laugh at his quip. Sherman even gave him a pat on the back, a rare display of intimacy from the stiffest man he had ever encountered. Perhaps this meeting would prove productive.

  “They must draw customers,” Sherman said.

  “My whelps bring them in and my food brings them back. My place settings may not be fine china, but no one in Philadelphia serves better food.”

  “The food is good,” Witherspoon said. “Otherwise, you’d be buying me dinner at an expensive tavern.”

  The innkeeper put a guiding hand on Madison’s back. “Take a seat, and I’ll have one of my daughters at your table faster than a dog can wag its tail.”

  “With pleasure,” Witherspoon said. “Our appetites have been charged by the Lord Almighty.”

  The innkeeper was as good as his word. Within seconds, a stout young woman approached their table, wiping her hands on her apron. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope you brought an … Rev. Witherspoon, good to see you again.”

  “And you, my dear. I brought some friends today.”

  “I see. What can I get you men?”

  “What’s your soup today?” Madison asked.

  “Lentil. Made fresh and hearty.”

  “We’ll start with a bowl of soup, a basket of bread, and Madeira, followed by a salver of meats and a platter of fresh vegetables.” Madison turned to his guests, “Does that meet with your approval?”

  “Indeed,�
�� Witherspoon said. “And load the salver with a generous portion of pork.” Witherspoon cocked his head toward the kitchen. “They roast it slow with a constant turn by our wee canine friends. Delicious.”

  The maid bounced her ample hip against Witherspoon’s shoulder and said, “I’d never forget your fondness for our pork, my dear man. I’ll personally carve a crispy end piece for you.” With that, she whirled away toward the kitchen.

  “New admirer?” Sherman teased.

  The reverend blushed. “I eat here often. It fits my budget.”

  Madison had a friendly, but somewhat formal, relationship with Witherspoon. Still, he decided to join in the ribbing. “That lovely maid seems very familiar with your habits.”

  “She’s not that … James, you must guess at the extent of her knowledge. I’ll not enlighten you.”

  Madison looked at Sherman, and they both started laughing. Any other response by Witherspoon would have tempted the two to throw additional ribald allegations at their ever-proper dinner mate.

  Witherspoon looked askance at their jocularity and asked, “Did you enjoy the morning services?”

  “I always enjoy services,” Sherman said. “Even if the sermon proves less than enlightening, I always leave refreshed.”

  “As you should. God cleanses the soul so that when we converse with ourselves, we enjoy a guiltless companion.”

  “Then I should be grateful, because I spend a lot of time alone,” Madison said.

  “Too much James—you needn’t be so intense.”

  “Much is at stake, Reverend. Opportunity cannot be discarded for frivolous pleasures.”

  “When do you intend to marry?” Witherspoon asked.

  Madison felt his face flush. “You must guess, because I’ll not enlighten you.”

  “Your father worries.”

  “You’ve been in communication with my father?”

  “Only because you have not. Why don’t you write?”

  “About my amorous affairs?”

  “You have some?” Sherman asked in a tone that said he was jesting.

  “Excuse me, but we must change the subject,” Madison seethed. His notes and research took all his private time. Besides, he had no news he could share with his father, certainly none about a future wife. Others might find time for dalliance, but he had a mission.

  “All right,” Witherspoon said. “Then tell me, what place has religion in your design for a new government?”

  “None.”

  Madison looked at Sherman. They had both answered together and with equal forcefulness.

  “None? What will guide the men that guide us?”

  “We can’t rely on the goodness of men,” Madison said dismissively. “Bad characters, as well as good men, seek power.”

  “God chastens bad characters.”

  “We cannot rely on his thoroughness.” Madison grew irritated.

  Rev. Witherspoon gave Madison a long look, then shook his head and turned to Sherman. “Why does a pious man answer the same as our naïve young friend?”

  Sherman sat very still for such a long time that Madison thought he resembled a marble statue. When he spoke his voice was even. “My faith is personal, and I grant the same privilege to others.”

  “We agree at last,” Madison said.

  Sherman smiled. “We agree more than you suppose.”

  The maid suddenly appeared with three bowls of soup and a loaf of uncut bread. A small sip of the soup convinced Madison that the quality of the food hadn’t been exaggerated. He dug in with relish.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Witherspoon said. “The soul, as well as the body, needs nourishment.”

  “Men seldom get nourishment in a government chamber,” Madison said distractedly.

  Witherspoon showed a hint of prickliness. “Make light, if you must, but the crass impulses of men can be tempered only by a reminder that a greater power will one day sit in judgment. God helps weak men do good.”

  “The design must assume otherwise,” Madison said.

  “Gentlemen,” Sherman said, “let’s enjoy our meal. Granted, our design doesn’t impose piety, but neither does it preclude piety. Each man must make peace with the Maker. It shall be ever so, despite laws and admonishments.”

  “Admonitions are my profession,” Witherspoon said.

  Madison saw Sherman grow even stiffer. “Sir, do you admonish me?”

  “Certainly not.” Madison enjoyed watching Witherspoon’s discomfort. The reverend cut the bread as he surrendered. “Roger’s right; let’s enjoy our meal.”

  As the three satiated men stepped out of the tavern, Madison turned toward Witherspoon. “If I could beg your pardon, may I have a moment with Mr. Sherman?”

  “Do you mean to speak about me?”

  His question caught Madison off guard. Witherspoon must still be smarting from their previous discussion. “No, I must check on an item concerning the convention.”

  “An item so sensitive that you must take him aside?”

  “Our proceedings are secret.”

  “We spoke about your convention earlier.”

  “Our convention has never addressed religion, so our discussion was philosophical.”

  “More’s the pity.” Witherspoon gave a nod of his head toward the street. “I’ll wait over there.”

  Madison hesitated until Witherspoon had walked a few paces. “I’m afraid we may have offended the reverend.”

  “Don’t let your defenses down; he’s over there regrouping for another charge.”

  “I believe you’re right. I’ll bet he brings the subject up again.”

  “As he said, it’s his job. Stick to your principles. I never told you, but I agree with your Statute for Religious Freedom.”

  “That was not my statute. Jefferson wrote it.”

  “You got it passed by the Virginia legislature. The honor goes to the one that puts theory into practice.”

  “Perhaps there are other areas in which we agree.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Ratification. Can you support ratification by the people?”

  “The state legislatures should ratify.”

  “I intend to push for direct ratification.”

  “Do as you think best.”

  “Will you join me on this issue?”

  Sherman looked at Madison. Finally, he said, “I’ll propose ratification by the state legislature, but I won’t insist.”

  Madison felt relieved. When Sherman insisted, events seldom took another course. He decided to move to the next issue. “Do you remember the suggestion that each senator would vote independently?”

  “I accepted that procedure.”

  “With a single vote per state, only an odd number of senators can avoid split votes like we have here. Three senators per state would be too many and one too few. Two seems perfect, but only if they vote independently.”

  Sherman smiled. “James, I already agreed.”

  “I’m sorry. I practiced that argument assuming resistance.”

  “And a fine argument it was.”

  Sherman’s agreeability unsettled him. He had left the most difficult item for last and would soon see how far Sherman’s newfound cooperation extended. “On the election of the executive, I—”

  “I believe we should end on a good note,” Sherman interrupted, and with that, he made a formal bow capped with an informal smile. “Good day, Mr. Madison, and thank you for a wonderful meal and your engaging company.”

  Sherman gave a wave of his hat to Witherspoon and walked off.

  Madison cringed. He had turned in the direction of a ruckus behind him and saw that New Hampshire had finally waltzed in—two months late. They had entered the chamber to the type of fraternal greetings used by politicians and horse traders to convey supposed intimacy. Their earlier presence would have given Sherman a greater edge in negotiating privileges for the states. At this late date, another small state made little difference.

  Th
e new delegation caused a delay because the keeper had to find an additional table. When the session opened, they debated a resolution that required national officers to take an oath to support the Constitution. Wilson objected. “I’m not fond of oaths. A good government doesn’t need them, and a bad one doesn’t deserve them.”

  Despite Wilson’s reservations, the clause was approved. Because of his jittery anticipation of the next issue, Madison recorded the vote with quick strokes of his pen. They would now consider the clause requiring that the Constitution be submitted to the people for ratification. Ellsworth immediately moved to refer the new Constitution to the state legislatures.

  Mason presented the counterargument. “Succeeding legislatures, possessing equal authority, can undo the acts of their predecessors. The national government cannot stand on such a tottering foundation. Where must we resort? To the people, the ones who retain all power.”

  The evidence for Mason’s argument sat in the room. They were superseding the existing government, and they should make it difficult to do the same thing in the future. The most effective blockade would be approval by the people, not government agencies that could withdraw support at will.

  Randolph sounded testy. “Gentlemen, I remind you, the popular mind remains fixed at May 25.”

  This offhand comment startled Madison. The journey that the men in this room had traveled included no outside passengers. He would have to put some thought into how to bring the populace beyond May 25.

  Gouverneur Morris clomped to the front of the room and stared at the Connecticut table. “Mr. Ellsworth assumes that we proceed on the basis of the Articles. I thought we were beyond that. A majority of the people can alter the federal government, just as any state constitution can be altered by a majority of the people in that state.” Morris sat with a finality that said he had squashed the argument once and for all.

  As Madison scribbled his notes, he recognized that, true to their earlier conversation, Sherman would propose, but not insist upon, ratification by the state legislatures. He almost let out a whoop when the convention voted nine to one to refer the Constitution to special assemblies to be chosen by the people.