The next day they came to the clause “to make war.” Pinckney opened. “I oppose vesting this power in the combined Congress. I propose the Senate alone.”
Butler argued that the power should be vested in the president, and Gerry huffed, “I never expected to hear a motion to empower the president to make war.”
Madison moved to strike out “make” and insert “declare,” which he believed would leave the executive free to repel sudden attacks.
He was irritated to see that Sherman again disagreed. “The current provision stands well. The president should be able to repel an invasion but not commence war. Declare narrows congressional power too much.”
Madison could not restrain a small smile when the convention overruled Sherman’s objection and then voted to replace the word make with declare.
Rutledge gained the floor in a snit. “This convention is interminable. I’m sure the public grows impatient—I know I do. I move that the convention henceforth meet precisely at ten o’clock and never adjourn prior to four o’clock.”
Madison smiled. Rutledge intended to punish their dalliance. Nothing would light a fire under an assembly more than hampering their freedom to entertain each other with public money. But when the vote came, Madison saw that he had underestimated the delegates’ impatience. Only Pennsylvania voted against the motion, because its members could conduct business outside of session hours. Good. It would be difficult to keep his notes current, but Madison would rather things moved fast.
Mason brought up a new war powers issue. “Except for a few garrisons, there should be no standing army in time of peace. Therefore, we must rely upon the militia to defend the nation. I move to add the power to regulate the militia to the general government.”
Gerry flicked his head as unconsciously as a horse swiped its tail at pesky flies. “Gentlemen, a standing army is like a standing member: an excellent assurance of domestic tranquility, but a dangerous temptation to foreign adventure.”
Instead of laughter, Gerry received stony silence. He sputtered unintelligibly and then continued pugnaciously. “As we speak, preparations are being made to use force against us. The governor of New York has rallied his militia and drills them for war against those who support this plan. Power over the militia must be taken from ruthless demagogues.” After more comments supporting a militia controlled by the general government, Gerry offered an inane stipulation. “We should never need a standing army of more than a thousand troops.”
Washington, in a stage whisper, muttered, “Then the Constitution should include a rule that invading forces must be limited to the same number.”
Madison’s head bounced in surprise. That might have been the first full sentence Washington had uttered in these long months, but by the time he raised his sight, Washington had shrouded himself in a placid expression that conveyed not the slightest emotion.
Sherman stood and clasped his left wrist with his right hand. “The states want their militia to defend against invasions and to enforce their laws. They’ll not give on this point.”
As Madison gathered up his things for the day, he shook his head in disbelief. Sherman’s comment showed that his biases had not been totally shed.
“What are your thoughts on the assumption of state debts?” Sherman stood at Madison’s elbow.
“My thoughts, or the Virginia delegation’s position?”
“Both, if you can convey them.”
Madison ceased gathering up his belongings. Sherman had been assigned to a new committee to work out the remaining open issues. “Have a seat. The chamber is about empty.”
“Thank you.” Sherman pulled a chair around catercorner to Madison.
“We’ve repaid much of our war debt,” Madison said. “Other states have not. Virginia feels it’s unfair to punish responsible states.”
“How does James Madison feel?”
Madison needed a moment to think. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“I wish I could give you a new argument to take into committee, but the only reason I can think of is to improve ratification.”
“Would you put your head to it?” Sherman looked thoughtful. “Despite the unfairness, we still need Virginia to ratify.”
“I’ll scratch out some thoughts. What’s your opinion?”
“I believe it is an issue for the First Congress. I’d rather we stay mute on the subject.”
“Because?”
“Because it’ll require hard bargaining. Too hard to allow us to conclude our proceedings in a timely fashion.”
“Do you own Connecticut bonds?”
“I do.”
“Then federal assumption would benefit you personally.”
“I am here to serve my country.”
“Which country is that: the United States or Connecticut?”
“Connecticut today, the United States the day I sign the Constitution.”
Madison was startled by the forthrightness of Sherman’s response. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Which country demands your loyalty?”
“The United States of America—since the Annapolis Convention.” Madison hesitated. “No. Long before.”
“That may account for the friction between us.”
“Perhaps, but I’m pleased to know we’ll be allies after the signing ceremony.”
Sherman gave a rare, wide smile. “That, my good sir, is yet to be seen.” Sherman stood and nestled his tricorn under his arm. “Good afternoon, Mr. Madison. And thank you.”
Chapter 35
Saturday, August 18, 1787
Sherman gave two raps with the door knocker and was pleasantly surprised to see Gen. Washington answer the door. “Mr. Sherman, thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“I’m always at your disposal, General.”
“Then perhaps you’ll not object to a walk?”
Sherman involuntarily glanced into the Robert Morris house. “Sir? For privacy or pleasure?”
“Pleasure and business. I have ordered a carriage built, and I check the progress daily. We can talk along the way.”
“A walk will do my constitution good.” Sherman stepped aside to give Washington room to pass him down the steps. “I’m stiff as a ramrod after sitting in that steamy chamber.”
Instead of marching past Sherman, Washington held out an uplifted palm, signally that Sherman should descend the stoop first. “Perhaps rheumatism is God’s curse on politicians. Military service has its hazards, but at least a military man lives outdoors.”
Sherman laughed as he walked down the three steps to the broad sidewalk. “Yes sir, politicians are indoor creatures.”
Washington descended the steps, apparently oblivious to the deferential glances from the people in the street. “Not a smidgen of fresh air lightens our stale breath. I fear we shall expire in our own gases.”
“Some would say we deserve such a fate.”
“Some would say.” Washington marched off at a brisk pace.
They didn’t speak for half a block. Washington had a motive for this invitation, so Sherman remained silent to allow the general to lead the discussion.
When people became rare on the sidewalk, Washington asked an odd question. “Whom do you know in Fairfield?”
Sherman thought a moment. “Politicians and merchants. It’s along the route to New Haven.”
“Is it a hotbed of Connecticut loyalists?”
“No.” Washington gave him an odd look, so Sherman added, “It is a hotbed of plowmen.”
Washington nodded. “You’ve heard the rumors about Frederick Augustus, the Bishop of Osnaburg?”
“Yes.”
“I dispatched Hamilton to investigate. He discovered that the rumor surfaced first in a broadside printed in Fairfield.”
This was news to Sherman. He had heard the rumor that the convention was going to anoint the second son of George III as king of the United States, but he hadn’t known that the story had originat
ed in Connecticut. “That doesn’t sound in character with the town,” Sherman mused.
“Someone in Fairfield wants to harm this convention.”
“This rumor spread too fast and furious to be propelled from a coastal village.”
Washington smiled. “I believe you’re right. Someone probably used a Fairfield sympathizer to hide his identity. Once the printed word had lent respectability to the falsehood, they got the rumor spread through larger newspapers.” Washington gave Sherman a sideways glance. “Who would you suspect?”
Sherman didn’t hesitate. “Governor Clinton. He’s devious enough, and Fairfield is close by New York.”
“Then Alex isn’t overly suspicious?”
“I can’t render judgment on that score, sir, but if Alex believes the most likely culprit is the esteemed governor of the sovereign state of New York, I agree with him.”
Washington walked a few more paces and then said, “New York may ruin this convention yet. We need to squelch this rumor.”
“You think people give it credence?”
“An outrageous lie, if repeated often enough, and with fervent indignation, will eventually be accepted as truth.”
Sherman took half a step to avoid the leavings of a dog. “They can accuse us of anything.”
Washington drew a folded piece of paper from his coat. “I’d like you to read this.”
Sherman stopped walking and rested his buttocks against a low fence as he withdrew his glasses. He recognized Hamilton’s handwriting.
“Many letters have been written to the members of the Federal Convention from different quarters, respecting the reports that we intend to establish a monarchical government and to send for the Bishop of Osnaburg. Although we cannot tell you what we are doing, we can tell you what we are not doing— we never once thought of a king.”
Sherman extended the single page back to the general. “What do you want me to do?”
Washington made no attempt to accept the piece of paper. “Agree with the text and have it printed in Connecticut newspapers.”
Sherman refolded the paper and slipped it into his own pocket. “Anything else?”
“After the notice has been printed, send letters to influential people and tell them that powerful forces outside the convention have spread this rumor because they want to put public pressure on us to create a monarchy. Plead with them to support our work, because otherwise a king might be thrust upon us.”
Most politicians would be pleased to squash a harmful rumor, but Washington went a step beyond. After deflecting the blow, he used the force of the thrust against the perpetrators. People underrated the general’s political skills, owing to his deft sleight of hand.
“Other states?” Sherman asked.
“The statement will be printed in the Pennsylvania Herald and then throughout the country. Ben has broad influence.”
Sherman thought that an understatement. Washington suddenly started off again and quickly stepped into an alleyway that ran alongside a leather shop. After they entered a courtyard in the center of the block, Sherman spotted the carriage maker. A furniture shop shared the small courtyard, and about half a dozen smocked men worked on sundry pieces scattered around the open area. Sherman briefly admired the quiet professionalism of the craftsmen before noticing the handsome carriage sitting just inside the wainwright’s wide double doors.
“Watch out, man!”
The shout threw Sherman against the wall. Two gruff men rolled large wheels with remarkable speed by slapping their hands against them in an upward motion. The dirt pathway had muffled the noise, catching Sherman by surprise.
“Are those wheels for your carriage?” Sherman asked as he brushed off his shoulders.
“Mine are mounted. I watched them being made across the street. Good solid craftsmanship.”
Wheels were a specialty trade, and most people would have been satisfied with a brief inspection of the wheel maker’s shop. The way Washington simultaneously handled so many interests fascinated Sherman. He orchestrated political events taking place in front of the curtain, directed the intricacies behind the curtain, and at the same time, paid close attention to the small details of his personal business.
“Your carriage?” Sherman asked, pointing to the nearly finished carriage in the doorway.
“Yes. What do you think?”
The black and gilded carriage was too pretentious for Sherman’s taste, but he said, “The workmanship looks exceptional.”
“Even fine workmen need to feel the watchful eye of an overseer.” With that curt statement, Washington marched into the shop. The barnlike structure had an expansive feel, housing three carriages in varying states of construction. The two wheelmen were situating their handiwork against a wall, and five other workmen bustled around the carriages.
A beefy man approached the general. “We didn’t expect to see you today, General.”
“You should always expect me, Mr. Greer.”
The man grimaced and looked back at the carriage. “It’ll be ready in ten to twelve days, as I explained yesterday.”
“The upholstery?”
“The leather has not yet arrived, but that won’t delay us.”
“You said that yesterday.”
The large man’s eyes grew hard and he leaned ever slightly toward Washington. “General, with all due respect, our work is impeccable and on time.” The man gave another glance at the coach behind him and continued in a voice loud enough for his workmen to hear. “Constant interruptions are the only thing that might delay us.”
“I’m sorry if my visits disturb you, but I’ll never relinquish the right to oversee my interests.” Washington leaned toward the man’s ear, but he spoke with his stage whisper. “Let me be clear: I will not discontinue my inspections nor limit my remarks to avoid hurting your feelings.”
Greer retreated half a step and then bowed his head respectfully. “Of course, sir. I apologize if my meaning was misunderstood. I only meant that the work is at a delicate stage that requires concentration. The gilding must be done to exacting standards.”
“So must the coachwork. I insist on inspecting the calfskin and horsehide.”
“The horsehide for the coachman’s seat is in the back. I assumed you were only concerned with the passenger compartment.”
“You assumed incorrectly. May I see the material?”
“Of course. If you’ll wait, I’ll bring it into the sunlight.”
The burly man moved with unusual speed to the back of the shop. Washington turned to Sherman. “Your committee will make a recommendation on the militia. I would take it as a personal favor if you didn’t preclude a standing army.”
The abrupt change startled Sherman. “We have a tradition of relying upon a citizen militia.”
“We must face our defects and provide cures. I fought a war with well-meaning, but undisciplined, volunteers. We should not do so again.”
“You were successful.”
“Barely.”
“You’re asking only that there be no stipulation against a standing army?”
“Correct.”
“I will work to that end.”
“Thank you.” Washington turned to the returning coach maker, who held the horsehide in his outstretched arms.
Washington reached out and turned over one corner of the hide to examine the back. “What do you think, Roger?”
Sherman didn’t need to touch the hide. “These are remnants. Serviceable, but not top grade.”
“Mr. Greer?”
“Sir, I beg to differ. This hide is tanned to the highest standards. In this business, we use all our materials.”
Washington raised an eyebrow in Sherman’s direction. He felt uncomfortable that Washington had put him in the middle, but Sherman stepped closer and took a careful look at the remnants. “Mr. Greer, if you use these hides, how will you handle the seam?”
The man looked uncomfortable. “Yes, I see. The seam would go down the middle of the
seat.”
Washington nodded toward the other carriages. “Use these remnants on one of those.”
“Yes, sir, of course. I’ll get you a hide that’ll require no seam.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greer. I’ll leave you to your work.”
Washington turned on his heels and walked toward the alleyway. Sherman scrambled to catch up and expected the general to remark on the scene that had just transpired. Instead he asked, “What will your committee recommend about state debts?”
Without hesitation, Sherman said, “Assign the power, but not the obligation.”
“Why?”
“We don’t have the information in front of us. It will take weeks, perhaps months, to negotiate and separate war debts from other borrowings. I also don’t believe we have authority on this issue.”
“We don’t have the authority to write a new constitution.”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you want us to address state debts?”
“No. I believe your reasoning valid.” Washington gave a small wave to a passerby. “We’ll let the First Congress sort that mess out. Assigning the power serves the purpose.”
Sherman smiled. He walked the rest of the way, confident that the first executive under the new government could handle the troubles plaguing this youthful nation.
“And to make all laws necessary and proper for carrying into execution the foregoing powers, and all other powers vested, by this Constitution, in the Government of the United States or any department or officer thereof.”
Sherman felt a twinge of unease. He had read the clause several times, and it had never given him pause, but hearing it read aloud raised an instinctive alarm. Could “necessary and proper” create a breach? Before Sherman could put his qualms into words, the measure passed without objection.
Sherman listened to the next clause. “Direct taxation shall be regulated by the whole number of white and other free citizens and inhabitants of every age, sex and condition, including those bound to servitude for a term of years, and three-fifths of all other persons not comprehended in the foregoing description, (except Indians not paying taxes) which number shall, within six years after the first meeting of the legislature, and within the term of every ten years afterwards, be taken in such manner as the said legislature shall direct.”
Tempest at Dawn Page 43
