Holding Madison more with his eyes than with his hands, Sherman said, “Congratulations, Mr. Madison, you shall have your republic.”
Madison didn’t speak, but the mist in the corner of his eye said everything. Just when the moment was about to get awkward, Sherman heard the sharp rap of the gavel. “Gentlemen, please take your seats.” Another firm, but benevolent, rap of the gavel sent the men scurrying back to their tables.
Instead of the room becoming quiet, the men, back at their tables, started congratulating their state colleagues. It took several more respectful raps of the gavel to regain order.
Washington assumed a businesslike tone. “Fellow delegates, it is my honor to announce that this Federal Convention, by the unanimous consent of the states present, does commend this Constitution to the people for ratification.”
The entire room, save three people, stood and applauded. This time, instead of rambunctious exuberance, the formal announcement elicited a respectful and firm ovation. As the clapping subsided, Gerry marched proudly out of the chamber. Sherman respected Randolph and Mason for remaining at the Virginia table.
When everyone else sat, Washington solemnly remained standing, and in a theatrical voice, gave the command they all wanted to hear. “The plan, as amended, is ordered engrossed.”
Chapter 40
Monday, September 17, 1787
Madison sat in his customary place with folded hands resting on the table. He didn’t intend to take notes today. In fact, he didn’t intend to take any more notes on any day. This signing ceremony would be the final act of the convention.
Madison noticed that his ink-stained hands looked prayerful. He thought this fitting because a reverential spirit suffused the assembly. The chamber remained hushed as the secretary read the engrossed Constitution in its entirety. At the conclusion, Franklin rose with a speech in his hand.
“Mr. President, I confess there are several parts of this Constitution I don’t like, but I’m not sure I won’t later approve of them. Most men believe they possess all truth and that whoever differs from them is in error. The older I grow, the more I doubt my own judgment and the more I pay attention to the judgment of others.
“When you assemble a group of men to take advantage of their collective wisdom, you inevitably bring together all their prejudices, passions, and selfish views. From such an assembly, can one expect perfection? It astonishes me that this system approaches so near perfection.
“Thus, I consent to this Constitution because I’m not sure that it’s not the best. My reservations were born within these walls and here they’ll die. I’ll never whisper a syllable about my uncertainties. I hope we all heartily recommend this Constitution. My wish is that any member who still harbors objections will, with me, doubt his own infallibility and put his name to this document.”
Franklin dropped his papers to his side and spoke in a commanding voice. “I move the Constitution be signed.”
The old man had made a fine last attempt to pull the three dissenters along, but Madison doubted that it would work. They would have to settle for artifice; by the unanimous consent of the states present ignored the two missing states and the seven delegates—counting those who had left—who dissented.
Gorham, looking nervous, asked for the floor. “Gentlemen, I wish that the clause declaring, ‘the number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every forty thousand,’ be changed to ‘thirty thousand.’” Hamilton immediately seconded the motion.
Washington rose to put the question to a vote, hesitated, and then expressed his opinion for the first time. “Although I have hitherto restrained myself, my wish is that the proposal be approved. Many consider the small proportion of representatives insufficient to secure the rights and interests of the people. Late as the present moment is, it will give me great satisfaction to see this amendment adopted.”
Madison turned to see Sherman’s reaction. Ellsworth tapped his forearm, but Sherman just smiled and made a flick of his hand. Sherman couldn’t countermand the sole wish expressed by the great hero of the Revolution, but Madison wished he had been rewarded with a flash of anger or at least surprise.
Without debate, the amendment was approved—in the manner so dear to Gen. Washington’s heart—unanimously.
Madison expected this to be the end, but Randolph urgently asked for the floor. Bristling with indignation, he stared at the Pennsylvania table. “I resent the allusions to myself by Dr. Franklin.” Randolph turned toward Washington. “I apologize for refusing to sign the Constitution. I don’t mean by this refusal to oppose the Constitution beyond these doors. I only mean to keep myself free to be governed by future judgments.”
Gerry felt obliged to explain his refusal. “This is painful, and I won’t offer any further observations. The outcome has been decided. While the plan was in debate, I offered my opinions freely, but I’m now bound to treat it with the respect due an act of the convention. I hope that I’m not violating that respect by declaring I fear a civil war might erupt from these proceedings.”
Gerry gave a disrespectful glance toward the Pennsylvania table. “As for Dr. Franklin’s remarks, I cannot but view them as leveled at myself and the other gentlemen who mean not to sign.”
Pinckney had lost his normal composure, but none of his arrogance. “We’re not going to gain any more converts. Let’s sign the document.”
King interrupted the initiation of the signing ceremony. “I suggest that the journals of the convention be destroyed or deposited in the custody of the president. If it becomes public, those who wish to prevent the adoption of the Constitution will put it to bad use.”
“I prefer the second expedient.” Wilson looked directly at Gerry. “Some may make false representations of our proceedings, and we’ll need evidence to contradict them.”
The last hour confirmed Madison’s suspicion that the fight for ratification would be divisive and mean-spirited.
The motion passed to deposit the journals into the hands of Washington.
Finally, all other business completed, Washington formally called on the delegates to sign the Constitution. The secretary had arranged the Syng inkstand that had been used to sign the Declaration of Independence on a green baize-covered table. Washington walked around the table and signed first. He then called the states from north to south. The delegates remained silent and reverential as they approached the low dais to apply their signatures.
When Virginia was called, Madison felt a tightening in his stomach. This Constitution would permanently bind his beloved country. When he picked up the pen, he looked at Washington, who stood respectfully to the side, instead of behind the table. The precedents set by this man would seal these words. Madison grabbed the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed with confidence. When he looked up, Washington gave him a nod that made Madison think he had read his mind.
Despite his illness, Franklin had remained standing after he signed, shaking hands with delegates and whispering an occasional aside. While the last members were signing, tears glistened in Franklin’s eyes. With an obvious struggle to control his emotions, he began to speak in a stronger than normal voice.
“Gentlemen, have you observed the half sun painted on the back the president’s chair? Artists find it difficult to distinguish a rising from a setting sun. In these many months, I have been unable to tell which it was. Now, I’m happy to exclaim that it is a rising, not a setting sun.”
Once the last signature was in place, no one wanted to spend another moment in this room that had dominated their lives for so many months. Besides, John Dickinson had left a banknote with George Read to pay for a celebratory dinner at the City Tavern.
Because of the momentous day, Franklin had abandoned his rented prisoners and intended to walk out of the State House. Madison grabbed one elbow, and Wilson took the opposite side to help the old man out of the chamber. Madison hoped he could protect Franklin from being jostled by the bubbling delegates, but Washington took a point position i
n front of their little group, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
“I want to thank you gentlemen for helping an enfeebled and diminished old man,” Franklin said.
“I witnessed your diminished capacity these many months,” Madison said. He became puzzled when this somehow evoked a hearty chuckle from Franklin.
The doctor glanced between Madison and Wilson. “I’m usually assisted by the inmates of Walnut Street Prison. It occurs to me that you men have been prisoners in this chamber.” Franklin chuckled again. “With the power vested in me by the State of Pennsylvania, I pardon and set you free.”
At that precise moment, with theatrics that seemed natural to Washington, the sentries threw open the doors to the State House, and Madison was assaulted by bright sunlight and a deafening roar. Hundreds of people cheered, clapped, and whistled at the sight of Gen. George Washington framed by the great double doors of the State House.
The threesome stopped a respectful distance behind Washington. This crowd was not going to part so easily. In fact, the sentries had skipped down the three steps and joined arms to hold back the surge of people.
“Our rambunctious session on Saturday told our fair citizens that we had concluded our business,” Franklin observed.
“Are you riding with the general?” Madison asked.
“Relax, boys. The general will know the exact moment to step off the stoop.”
True to Franklin’s prediction, Washington gauged the crowd’s mood perfectly, and when he stepped down, they gave the men a narrow path to Washington’s beautiful new carriage.
As they followed in the general’s footsteps, the people continued to cheer and applaud. A woman leaned her head past Madison to yell, “Dr. Franklin, what is it to be? A republic or a monarchy?”
The doctor hesitated in his step and looked over the throng of anxious people. His answer came in a firm, loud voice.
“A republic—if you can keep it.”
Part 7
Inauguration
Chapter 41
Thursday, April 23, 1789
“Hello, Mr. Madison. Nice weather.”
“Thank goodness. I get frightful seasick.”
Sherman looked to the sky. “I believe we’ll have a smooth sail.”
“Portentous?”
“I suspect the luck of our president. Even the weather does his bidding.”
“Still an ordinary citizen. I can’t wait for this inaugural celebration to be over.”
Sherman and Madison, part of the Congressional Welcoming Committee, stood at the railing of a barge that was nearly fifty feet long. Thirteen pilots in crisp white suits rowed the freshly whitewashed barge toward Elizabeth Town, New Jersey.
The general had left Mount Vernon on April 18, and in six days, had traveled two hundred and eighty miles through five states, soon to be six when he entered New York. Washington was due on the opposite shore in a few hours, and the barge would float him and his entourage the fifteen miles back to Manhattan. As they plowed along the Hudson, a multitude of ships, sloops, and barges took positions alongside to witness the event.
Federal Hall, the temporary seat of the new government, sat at the corner of Wall and Broad streets. The First Congress had been meeting there since early April, but they had marked time by establishing parliamentary rules and electing officers. Their only real accomplishment had been to plan the inauguration. The original date to induct the new president had been March 4, but Congress didn’t have a quorum until April, so their first order of business had been to reset the date to April 30.
“Clinton looks as if he’s in charge of this event,” Sherman said.
“He has no right,” Madison said. “We barely nudged by his obstructionism.”
George Clinton and John Adams monopolized the greeting end of the barge. Adams, as the elected vice president, deserved the place of honor. Clinton, a massive man who had been a massive nuisance, had elbowed his way to the front.
Ratification had been fought in the newspapers first. After the convention, Madison had immediately returned to New York and found himself drafted to write The Federalist essays with Hamilton and John Jay. George Mason wrote Objections to the Proposed Federal Constitution and said that the convention was a conclave of “monarchymen.” Luther Martin wrote The Genuine Information and disclosed some of their sensitive voting. To the joy of printers in all thirteen states, the Federalists and Anti-Federalists fought this second revolution with words instead of swords. A few heroes of the first revolution, like Sam Adams, Patrick Henry, and Richard Henry Lee, opposed the new Constitution and made the contest agonizingly tight.
The strongest Anti-Federalist argument was that the Constitution granted unrestrained power to a national government. The strongest Federalist argument was that the Anti-Federalists had no alternative design. Within five months, Delaware, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Connecticut, and Massachusetts ratified—six of the nine needed states. In April and May, Maryland and South Carolina ratified, but even though the number had grown to eight, the vital states of Virginia and New York wavered. New York tried delaying for political leverage but rushed into the union after Virginia ratified in June. The hottest debates occurred at the Virginia Ratification Convention, with every contestant convinced that the outcome in Richmond would dictate the outcome for the nation.
“I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on ratification,” Sherman said. “It’s a shame you didn’t have the honor of being the ninth state.”
Madison smiled. “New Hampshire beat us by three days, but we didn’t know it. We believed the future of America rested on our vote.”
“It did. Your ratification moved our corpulent friend up there, and I can’t imagine a United States divided by Virginia or New York.” Sherman squeezed back to let someone move past. “I heard debates were contentious.”
“Henry’s a great speaker.”
“Someone once told me that although Patrick Henry had been speaking for three hours and had to urinate so bad it hurt, he stayed because he was afraid he’d miss something.”
“Thank God, logic and need won in the end.”
“You’re being modest.” Sherman leaned his buttocks against the railing. “Is it true Henry called the wrath of God down on you?”
Madison laughed. “Literally. He had been speaking all morning, and in his summation, he called on God to punish those who would inflict this tyranny on his beloved country. At that very instant, a great crack of thunder echoed through the hall, and a deluge followed within minutes. Frightening.”
“You should be president. The general defeated only the British Empire.”
“No, thank you.” Madison shook his head as if trying to fling off a bug that had just landed in his hair. “The general has his hands full with an unruly bunch like us.”
Roger Sherman and James Madison had been elected to the first House of Representatives. Other members of the Federal Convention, now commonly called the Constitutional Convention, had also secured important posts in the new government. Elbridge Gerry, Abraham Baldwin, and several others had been elected to the House of Representatives. Rufus King, Oliver Ellsworth, William Paterson, Robert Morris, George Read, William Blount, Pierce Butler, and others had secured appointments from their state legislatures to the Senate. Charles Pinckney had won his race for governor of South Carolina.
It was common knowledge that Washington would appoint Alexander Hamilton Secretary of the Treasury, and James Wilson and John Rutledge would get seats on the Supreme Court. The enigmatic Gouverneur Morris had ventured off to France and the French Revolution, an offspring of the subversive American spirit that had caught the European capitals unaware.
“We may prove the least of the general’s challenges,” Sherman said.
“Foreign intrigue?”
“I was referring to his cabinet.”
“Jefferson and Hamilton. You might be right.”
“And Randolph.” Edmund Randolph was to be attorney general.
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“We needed his support for ratification,” Madison said defensively. “Did you know Clinton wrote him a letter inviting him to form a devilish pact? He didn’t know the general had already seduced our dear governor back to the side of virtue and light.”
Sherman took a long look toward the approaching shoreline of New Jersey. “Sometimes I think we were both pawns.”
“Excuse me?”
“The general pulled our strings.”
“Not mine,” Madison demurred.
“Perhaps not, but for someone who spoke only once, he orchestrated events to a remarkable degree.”
“To what purpose?”
“Union.”
Madison seemed contemplative. “An honorable goal. One I shared.”
“As did I. At least after the first weeks.” Sherman tried to catch Madison’s flitting eyes. “You were masterful in The Federalist papers.”
“Thank you, but again, I was but a part.”
“No. The papers you wrote were incisive.”
“As were the others. Hamilton hid his objections.”
“As you did your Southern roots.”
“Hamilton’s admonition. He wanted New Yorkers, but Duer wrote poorly and Jay became ill. Were you Letters of a Landholder?”
“That was Oliver. I helped some.”
“I expect you did.” Madison’s eyes settled for a moment. “No wonder you recognized Washington’s behind-the-scene maneuvers.”
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