“The boy’s right. It’s not enough. We didn’t come begging.”
“How much can you spare, Alex?” Sherman asked.
“You ol’ skinflint” Baldwin said. “As a founder of the Bank of New York, you can afford it better than we can.”
Hamilton looked as angry as Sherman had ever seen him. Finally, his features softened, and he said, “I’ll contribute another sovereign, but if they want his land, they’ll foreclose anyway.”
“They want my land, all right. It’s fertile, with a ready supply of water.”
The coachman walked over and insisted that they climb into the carriage. Sherman gave him a no-nonsense look and said, “We’ll be five minutes, and you will wait.”
The driver looked ready to argue but instead said, “Five minutes, and you’ll hear the crack of my whip.”
Sherman followed the coachman back to the carriage and took out his satchel. He extracted a piece of fine paper and his travel writing materials. It took him only a minute to write the brief letter. Walking back to the group, he waved the paper to dry the ink. “Here, each of you sign.” Hamilton and Baldwin quickly scribbled their signatures. Sherman blew the ink dry and handed the letter to the farmer still mounted on his mare.
Embarrassed, the farmer handed the letter to his son. “I can’t read.”
After reading the note to himself, the boy sounded incredulous. “These men are congressmen. One is Alexander Hamilton.”
“Aid to Gen. Washington?”
The boy handed the letter back to his father. “The letter pleads to accept a partial payment and to extend the final payment until next September.”
“That might work. It’ll look like I have powerful friends. To think, a mile back I damned Congress.”
“As well you should,” Baldwin said. “A useless enterprise. We’re members of the Federal Convention that will put an end to the tomfoolery.”
“How can I ever repay you?”
“With three sovereigns mailed to me in New Haven, care of Yale University,” Sherman said.
The man looked down at the letter. “It may be a while.”
“I’m a patient man. Now we must get along.” Sherman handed him the coins. “Good luck.”
“Bless you. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”
“Remember us with a post,” Hamilton said. “In the meantime, when you hear of our work, support the new Constitution.”
“I’ll support anything proposed by you gentlemen. You’ve saved my family.”
Sherman grabbed his companions by the shoulders. “We must go.” As the three men raced for the coach, Sherman saw the driver make a show of whirling his whip. After scrambling into their seats, Baldwin sighed and said, “I haven’t felt so good since I left Georgia.”
As the coach lurched forward, Hamilton suddenly seemed to find something amusing. With a head bow, Hamilton touched two fingers to his tricorn and said, “Roger, I apologize for laughing when you said you were colorful. I had no idea.”
The coach stopped at an inn less than ten miles from New York. From here, Hamilton would catch a hansom buggy to his home. Unlike their midday stop, this area had the appearance of a small village. Several homes were scattered around the inn, a blacksmith shop, a livery stable, a general store, and two churches.
Sherman dismounted and stretched to his full height. “Only seventy-six miles from home.”
“Well, I don’t want to make you feel bad, but I’m only a few miles from decent food, fine wine, and my own bed.”
“Oh, you’ll be sleeping in your own bed this evening?” Baldwin asked.
“Yes, I need rest before my admirers discover I’m back in town.”
Sherman walked over and shook Hamilton’s hand. “Thanks, Alex. The country owes you a debt.”
Hamilton laughed. “So does some woebegone farmer in New Jersey.”
“Could you send a messenger if there is any news about the Cutler deal?”
“Why not join me at my home?”
“The coach leaves before dawn. I don’t want to miss it.”
“I’ll send a messenger if there’s any news, but our sluggish Congress has probably not moved their collective derrière.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you in nine days. Hopefully, we can wrap up quickly.”
Hamilton looked concerned. “Roger, when we report out a constitution, the real work begins. Powerful forces will fight us.”
He grabbed his bag and sprinted toward a waiting buggy. After he had climbed aboard, Sherman and Baldwin reluctantly walked into the dowdy-looking inn to be greeted by a portly man and a small boy. “Welcome to the Black Mare.”
“Thank you.” Sherman handed his bag to the boy. “Separate rooms, if possible.”
“Heavens, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. Yours is one of many coaches that stop here—one room per coach. You’re lucky you’re the only two passengers on the Philadelphia route.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Baldwin muttered. Turning toward Sherman, he added, “Remind me to thank Hamilton for his generosity.”
The innkeeper looked perplexed but didn’t pursue the matter. “Billy will take your bags to the room. The coach will leave one half hour before daybreak. The boy will give just one knock on your door, so move sharply. Now, would you care for some ale and food?”
“Indeed, we’re famished.” Baldwin handed his bag to the boy, and both men took a seat at the end of a long table.
“What do you think of Hamilton?” Sherman asked.
“The smartest man I’ve ever met but driven by inner demons.”
“He’ll be powerful in the new government.”
“I’ll sleep at night. I’d rather see him in a financial role than Robert Morris. Hamilton’s a bit of a royalist, but Washington has his mark.”
“His womanizing offends me, and the man has no religious underpinnings.”
“He worships Washington,” Baldwin said.
“A surrogate father?”
“Us backcountry folk don’t complicate things. If they choose each other, then it speaks well for both their judgments.” Baldwin gave Sherman a friendly grin. “Roger, mostly you keep your religion to yourself, but underneath you’re a strident prude.”
“I try not to be judgmental.”
“You mean you try to keep your mouth shut.”
Sherman laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Who else offends you?”
Sherman used two fingers to pinch his mouth shut.
“Come on. It’s just us now, talking over tankards of ale.”
Sherman glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation. “Gouverneur Morris.”
“What? My favorite delegate. There’s not a pretentious bone in his body. The man knows how to enjoy life, and he’s a good republican.”
“He ridicules religion, treats women as entertainment, and uses the Lord’s name in vain. He sets a bad example.”
Baldwin found this amusing. “You ol’ humbug. The closer you get to home, the more puritanical you get. Well, you shan’t change my mind. I like Morris, and I think he’s one of the most balanced thinkers in the chamber.”
“I trust his political judgment, and I can’t help liking him. At least he’s not a hypocrite. He never pretends to be pious.”
“Roger, most of the men in that chamber lack piety. Why won’t you excuse Gouverneur Morris?”
“Because he makes a cause of being irreverent.”
“I know this’ll come as a surprise to you, but some politicians project an image like a woman shows cleavage. It doesn’t mean they’ll jump in bed with the first rogue they encounter—they just like the attention.”
“That’s foreign to me.”
“Obviously.”
“You think I should be more tolerant?”
“More?”
Both men laughed. “I’ll endeavor to be forbearing—and if I fail, I resolve to keep my mouth shut.”
After an adequ
ate supper, Billy led them to their room with a lantern. To light a candle sconce, the boy had to shimmy sideways in the scant space between the bed and the wall. The room was devoid of any other furnishings, and the bed’s lumpiness was evident even in the poor light.
“God, I hate traveling,” Baldwin muttered.
Sherman tried to step to the other side but stumbled over their bags, which had been dropped at the foot of the bed.
Regaining his balance, he asked, “They board an entire carriage in this room?”
“Since there’s only two of you, Mr. Wilson put you in the women’s chamber.”
Baldwin found this hilarious. “We must quit spoiling our womenfolk.” Looking back at the door, Baldwin asked, “How did they ever get that bed in this closet?”
“Don’t know, sir. It’s been here as long as I have.”
Sherman handed the boy a two-penny coin. “Thank you, son.”
Baldwin had to sit on the bed in order to give the boy enough room to close the door. “I hope that’s only mildew I smell.”
A few minutes later, they heard a rude knock on the door. When Sherman opened it, the innkeeper held out an envelope. “This was delivered moments ago.”
Sherman took the envelope and examined the wax seal. “It’s Hamilton’s mark.” Sherman used his finger to break the seal and then extracted the letter. Looking up, he said, “Congress approved the Cutler deal this afternoon.”
“Any other news?”
“The Scioto Company allocation also passed.” Sherman handed the letter to Baldwin. “When their interests are on the line, Congress moves swiftly enough.”
After a moment, Baldwin looked up from Hamilton’s note. “A lot of men are now wealthy.”
Sherman plucked the letter out of Baldwin’s hand and edged the corner of the paper into a candle flame. As the letter burned, he kicked the chamber pot from under the bed and dropped the smothering remnants into the bowl. “Not wealthy. They have an interest in a lot of wilderness that’ll prove worthless in their lifetime.”
“You believe that?”
“There’s such a vast quantity of frontier that we bribed them with a fool's paradise.”
“You’re not rationalizing?”
Sherman shrugged. “Let’s go to bed.”
Sherman stretched as much as he could in the close quarters. He reminded himself that he should also thank Hamilton for buying the extra seats to New York. On this leg, there were seven men crammed into a space that would crowd four. The width of the carriage wouldn’t accommodate three sets of shoulders, so one man had to lean forward. An unspoken protocol dictated that when the pain became unbearable, a little shuffling would ensue so the man could rest his back.
The seventh man sat on the floor with his back against the door, so no one could stretch his legs. Sherman told himself to be grateful he wasn’t on the floor. Once he had volunteered for the position because he thought it would be more comfortable for his long legs. He learned a lesson quickly. Every bounce of the carriage reminded him of his father’s paddle. After that experience, Sherman never hesitated to use his age to get a seat.
He was surprised that all the other passengers were strangers. New Haven had a population of about twenty thousand, but Sherman was the mayor, a congressman, a superior judge, and had been the treasurer for Yale and a major town merchant. He normally could recognize most of the residents and frequent visitors. Three of the men were really boys anxious to arrive early for their term at Yale, while the other two men were making the trip to buy oysters and clams, the economic mainstay of the New Haven harbor.
Sherman and Baldwin didn’t mention their convention membership. If they had let it be known, they would have had difficulty fending off questions without appearing rude. Politics dominated the conversation, and the discussion reminded Sherman of Randolph’s comment that the popular mind remained fixed at May 25. Sherman reviewed his own shifting opinions since the beginning of the convention. Hamilton was right—once they reported out a constitution, their work would have just begun.
Sherman gave Baldwin a gentle nudge with his elbow when he spotted the outer neighborhoods of his hometown. Like Philadelphia, New Haven was laid out in a grid, with thirty-two blocks covering an area of about six square miles. The population was comfortably scattered in neat two-story wooden homes generously spaced along wide parallel streets. A French visitor had once told Sherman that a European city would pack six times as many people in the same space. Despite having nearly half the population of Philadelphia, New Haven retained the appearance and attitude of a small town.
Sherman felt the coach roll to a gradual stop at a central square simply called the Green. He leaped out, not waiting for the driver to come around to open the door. He immediately marched around the back of the coach and stood facing the Green. Taking a deep breath, he felt a surge of tranquility. The well-groomed Green was one of the most beautiful spots in New England. Tall elms bordered the grass plot, but Sherman could see through them to the stately Yale brick buildings set back on the far side. In the morning, he would attend services at his own church, the one that stood guard at the top of the Green. The northwest side sloped up to a calm burying ground Sherman knew would be his permanent refuge.
“Rebecca not meeting you?”
“I arrived faster than the post.”
“Then I shan’t interrupt your reunion. I’ll be off to my brother’s.”
“That’s neighborly of you.” Sherman caught his bag as the driver tossed it. “See you in church.”
Lugging his bag of dirty clothes, Sherman cut the corner of the Green and headed for College Street. Unlike Philadelphia, where brick or stone facades crowded the sidewalk, New Haven’s wood homes stood comfortably back from the street. Trees and shrubs decorated the median that put a civilized distance between a man’s home and clattering carriages.
When Sherman passed a house once owned by Benedict Arnold, a splinter of disquiet intruded on his reverie. Sherman’s relationship with Arnold had been long and bumpy. Twenty years ago, the youthful Arnold had been arrested for breaking into a house, and Sherman had sentenced him to a public whipping. Later, when Sherman was treasurer for Yale, Arnold had contributed generously to the college and had grown to become a respected member of the community. His bravery and Revolutionary victories had made him a hero in New Haven and throughout the nation. Now Sherman wished he could get Arnold back into his courtroom. He would never understand how anyone could betray their neighbors and country for money or petty grievances. The mercurial traitor had escaped to England, but Sherman hoped his conscience denied him a peaceful sleep.
Sherman found himself standing in front of his own home. Dusk had started to mute the summer colors, and the faint glow of a lantern lit the parlor window. He jostled his bag and stepped with purpose down the stone walkway. As he opened the door, he smelled baked apples and heard the rhythmic twirl of a spinning wheel.
Lost in concentration, his wife hadn’t noticed him enter. He set his bag softly on the floor. “Rebecca?”
“Roger!”
Sherman was sure his grin looked silly on his normally stoic face. She waited until the wheel spun down and then leaped at him. “Oh, Roger, I’m glad you’re home.” She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss that validated her words. Sherman felt wetness on his cheek, and he knew he wasn’t crying.
“Mrs. Sherman, I must leave home more often just so I can enjoy this welcome.”
Rebecca feigned a firm face and slapped his forearm. “You do and I might just get a proper husband.”
“Not a sea captain, I hope. You’re the type of woman who needs a farmer, one with a small farm so he’d never be out of sight.”
“Go ahead. Make fun. I married a merchant with two successful general stores. I could keep my eye on you in those days.”
“Before you get too excited, I have bad news. I’m home for only six days.”
“Damn it, Roger.”
“Rebecca.”
“I’m sorry for swearing, but damn—” She took a quick swipe to dry her eyes. “How much longer?”
“Not long. We’re on a ten-day recess for the Committee of Detail to scribe a document.”
“First the war, then Congress, and now this interminable convention. At least when you’re in New York, you get home.”
“Rebecca, all that remains is the ceremony.”
“Then why do you have to return?”
“I mean to sign our new Constitution.”
Now she actually looked apologetic. “Of course you do.” She threw her arms around him again and hugged a bit too tight.
When she broke, Sherman could tell the momentary anger had passed. “I need to put more meat in the pot.”
“No hurry.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“Starving, but it can wait. I’d like to bathe first.”
She smiled coyly. “Good idea. I’ll put some water on the fire.”
The next morning, Sherman returned from his walk to find breakfast ready. Rebecca was a great cook, and the house smelled so good that he could eat the banister. “Good morning.”
Rebecca was crouched in the hearth. Without rising, she spun and gave him a welcome smile. “Ready when you are. I’ve already fed the boys, and they’re off to work.”
“Now would be just fine.”
“Then bring over a couple of bowls.”
Last evening, Sherman’s two youngest boys had returned home while he was still in the tub, and he caught up with their lives while he soaked. Both were apprenticed to accomplished craftsmen and, before his morning walk, they had gobbled their breakfast and charged out of the house.
As they sat down to porridge, bacon, and the best biscuits in the world, Rebecca brought up her big worry. “Roger, can you do anything about money while you’re here?”
Sherman floated a generous amount of maple syrup on his porridge. “I’ve already set up a couple of trials to judge, and I’ve corresponded with people who owe me old debts. I’ll also see about getting my allowance for the convention extension.”
Tempest at Dawn Page 39
