Sherman had to laugh. “Our papers were prosaic; yours were brilliant.”
Madison smiled with genuine joy. “Jefferson said they were the best commentary on government ever written. My father wrote that Publius had done a magnificent job.”
“What did he say when you revealed you were Publius?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“Why not?”
“He would withdraw the praise.” Madison looked toward shore. “Steady.” The barge bumped against the shore with enough force to cause both men to stumble forward.
“Damn,” Madison said. “Clinton’s handhold kept him from tumbling into the mud.”
Sherman, and several men within earshot, burst out laughing when they imagined Clinton greeting the future president in a mud-splattered suit. Madison looked embarrassed to have caused the gaiety, but Sherman patted his shoulder to let him know that a respite of humor was hardly inappropriate.
Within minutes, a rider galloped from the woods and sharply pulled his horse up sideways to expertly stop the animal parallel to the front of the barge. “They’re a half hour behind me.”
The barge pilots immediately went to work. Wood planks had been positioned on the bed of the barge. These were now scooted out and laid on the beach to make a hard surface entry for the general’s carriage. The welcoming committee of city and state dignitaries and congressional representatives disembarked and lined the wooden pathway. Governor Clinton took the position of honor at the head of the reception line.
In less than thirty minutes, a lone rider trotted from the woods. Washington, sitting rigidly astride a great white mare, led the procession that included his empty carriage. Sherman and Madison joined the other dignitaries in sharp applause as the general dismounted with an élan born of a countless number of official receptions. Washington formally greeted each man with a deft combination of dignity and brotherhood.
When he reached Madison, the general shed some of the stiffness and clasped Madison with both hands. “Thank you, Jemmy. You’re a true patriot.” Madison managed only a nod of acknowledgement.
Washington then grasped Sherman in the same fraternal manner. “Mr. Sherman, to an extent the nation may never know, we owe this day to you.”
“I only did my part.”
“A vital part.” And he was off greeting the rest of the entourage.
After they had all boarded the barge, Washington began to rotate among the dignitaries with the aplomb of a seasoned politician, and Sherman and Madison retook their position along the rail.
“Look at all these boats,” Madison said. It seemed that the entire Hudson was filled with vessels elaborately decorated with patriotic bunting and flags.
“This is historic,” Sherman said.
“Not since Greece.”
“‘If we can keep it,’ in the words of Franklin.”
As they neared Bedloe’s Island, a sloop appeared and drew to within ten feet of the barge. About twenty men and women, in neat columns and matching dress, began to sing an honorific ode set to the tune of “God Save the King.”
“We really must cultivate our own composers,” Madison said.
“I shall speak to John Dickinson,” Sherman quipped. Dickinson had written “Liberty Song,” the most popular Revolutionary tune. “He told me that on occasion indifferent songs are powerful.”
“This would be one of those occasions,” Madison said. “It would be especially powerful if the melody didn’t evoke British royalty.”
“People feel they can treat Washington like royalty because he has no kingly ambitions.”
“The Anti-Federalists still look for anything that hints of monarchy.”
“The general’s demeanor will keep them at bay.”
“You’re wrong, Roger. In the months ahead, nothing will restrain a fervent opposition from surfacing.”
Sherman looked to the sea because of shouts to his left and right. “It seems something else has surfaced at the moment.”
Immediately alongside the barge, a school of porpoises suddenly bobbed up and down as though they were part of the official welcoming celebration. “The man has an uncanny knack for theatrics,” Madison said in awe.
The porpoises disappeared for the moment and then resurfaced in front of the barge, as if leading the flotilla to port. As they drew parallel to the tip of Manhattan, the Battery let loose thirteen cannons that rocked the barge and deafened the passengers.
At the wharf, another thirteen-gun salute welcomed the future president. More dignitaries stood in stiff lines along Murray’s Wharf at the foot of Wall Street, and an even larger crowd extended up the street. When Washington stepped from the barge, the citizenry clapped, whistled, yelled, and frantically waved flags and banners. Washington stopped and, before shaking hands with the officials, bowed deferentially toward the cheering throng. After the formal greetings, the general pulled himself ramrod straight and followed the young maidens scattering flowers along the crimson-carpeted steps that led to the street.
When Madison and Sherman reached the top of the steps, they saw Gen. Washington returning the salute of an army officer.
“General, your orders, sir.”
“I shall proceed as I am directed.” Washington almost made a complete turn to view the crushing crowd of well-wishers. “But, sir, after this reception, don’t bother yourself further. The affection of my fellow citizens is all the guard I need.”
With that polite dismissal, Washington climbed into the carriage that would take him to Franklin House on Cherry Street, which served as the temporary executive mansion.
“Where are you headed?” Madison asked.
“For a nap,” Sherman said.
“Walk with me down Wall Street; I want to buy some souvenirs.”
“James, those are for spectators; you’re a participant.”
“One with many friends in Virginia. I recommend that you don’t return to New Haven empty-handed.”
“How simple can I be? My children and grandchildren would disown me.”
“Not likely,” Madison chuckled. “I’m sure they’re conditioned to your forgetfulness.”
“Your foil has pierced a vital organ.”
“Difficult, considering the size of your heart.”
“Ouch.”
“Help me dicker. I’m terrible.”
“Very well.” Sherman extended his hand. “Lead on.”
They sauntered up Wall Street and soon encountered vendors sandwiched into every cranny of the narrow thoroughfare. They stopped midblock, where three vendors tried to bark sales spiels louder than their elbow-rubbing competitors. Madison picked up a souvenir tankard and turned it so Sherman could read the inscription—March 4, 1789.
Showing it to the vendor, Madison said, “Wrong date.”
“Not my fault, gov. Blame that muddleheaded Congress. They can’t get the first thing right.”
“Bunch of parasites, I suspect,” Sherman said.
“Got that right, gov, but don’t you worry, the general’ll get ’em lined up. Read the back of the tankard.”
Madison turned it and read out loud. “President George Washington, The Greatest Man on Earth.”
“Now or for all time?” Sherman asked, straightfaced.
The vendor cocked an eye at Sherman, “You a damned Anti-Federalist?”
“No, sir,” Sherman responded. “I support the Constitution.”
“Damn the Constitution. These souvenirs honor the inauguration. Humph. Should’ve been a coronation.”
Madison held the tankard aloft. “How much?”
“Priceless,” the vendor snipped.
“Outside our range. Good day, sir,” Sherman said.
“Just a minute, gov. Two dollars.”
“Still outside our range,” Sherman said.
“A dollar and a half.” This came from the vendor at the next table.
“Ignore that knave, his brother’s a Tory.”
“I’m not interested in a tankard,” Madison said.
>
“Then I can make you a good deal on these buttons, medals, or brooches. How about a watch fob or a commemorative plate?”
Madison picked up the watch fob. “How much?”
“One dollar. Quality silver.”
“How much for ten?”
“Ten?” The vendor scratched his head. “I don’t know if I want to sell my whole stock.”
“Someone else can handle the order,” Sherman said.
“Eight dollars.”
“New York money?” Madison asked.
“Do I look like a bank?”
“James, you’ll need to wait for the greatest man on earth to fix the money issue.”
This remark earned Sherman a nasty glare from the vendor. After they had finished bartering, Madison had bought ten watch fobs, four plates, and dozens of buttons. Sherman had bought one plate for Rebecca’s sideboard and a few other items to spread around the household.
“What are you going to do with all those souvenirs?” Sherman asked.
“Friends in Virginia. I’ll use the buttons for gratuities: they’ll be more valuable than money.”
“Good idea.”
Madison hefted his load. “These trinkets increase in value the further they get from New York.”
“And further in time,” Sherman mused. “Perhaps I should reconsider.”
“Madison gets Sherman to reconsider.” Madison smiled. “This is indeed a memorable day.”
On April 30, Madison and Sherman went to Franklin House with other congressional delegates to accompany Washington to the inauguration. They had been wakened at dawn by cannon salutes, followed by church bells that rang incessantly.
Dark clouds had hovered over the city in the morning, but by noon, as Washington’s luck would have it, the skies had cleared to a radiant blue. When the escort delegation arrived at the residence, an orderly crowd had already gathered in the street. Washington greeted them dressed in a dark brown coat with brass buttons decorated with spread eagles, brown waistcoat and breeches, white silk stockings, and shoes with simple silver buckles. Freshly powdered hair and his dress sword set off his otherwise modest attire.
The entourage included three carriages. Sherman and Madison had been assigned to the last coach in the matched set. As they crowded into their seats, Sherman said, “The general chose plain civilian dress.”
“A sharp contrast to his normal hint of a military uniform. I understand he insisted that every article be made from American cloth.”
“Good for the New England vote.”
“He spent last week visiting every member of Congress and others with influence. You’d never know he was elected unanimously.”
“Four years can be short,” Sherman said.
“He doesn’t want a second term.”
“He said he didn’t want a first.”
“Who’d follow?” Madison asked.
“Adams?”
“God, I hope not.”
A line of militiamen extended through Federal Hall to the Senate Chamber. As he strode past the men he had once commanded, Washington looked as if he were marching to his doom. When he entered the chamber, John Adams formally greeted him. After a series of introductions, Washington said, “I’m ready to proceed.”
Adams bowed and led Washington to a half-enclosed balcony overlooking Wall and Broad streets. Sherman, Madison, Gerry, Baldwin, King, Ellsworth, Paterson, Read, Butler, Robert Morris, and others squeezed onto the balcony. It was a tight fit.
The streets were even more crowded. When Washington appeared, a great shout went up from the spectators. Every window, balcony, and rooftop was packed with spectators. Someone close by mumbled, “One could traverse the block by walking on the heads of people.”
Washington gallantly put a hand over his heart and bowed several times. When people refused to stop cheering, he took a seat in an armchair and waited. Eventually, the audience hushed, and Washington rose and went to the railing.
On a small red-draped table, a Bible rested on a crimson velvet cushion. Robert R. Livingston, the presiding judge of New York’s highest court, had been designated to administer the oath. Livingston came forward, and Washington reverently placed his hand on the Bible and looked Livingston directly in the eye.
Repeating after Livingston, Washington took the thirty-five-word oath prescribed by the Constitution: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.” Washington then added four more words, “so help me God,” and leaned over to kiss the Bible.
“It’s done,” Livingston said. He turned to the spectators and shouted, “Long live George Washington, president of the United States.”
The crowd immediately took up the cry and then shifted to wild cheers and huzzahs. A flag was raised on the cupola, and thirteen cannons went off at the Battery. Church bells tolled in every steeple in the city. The United States had just peacefully transitioned to an entirely new government and inaugurated its first duly elected chief executive. No one in this crowd, including those on the balcony, could remain silent or reserved.
President George Washington bowed several times, and then, before the audience calmed, he retreated into the Senate Chamber. When Madison and Sherman made their own way into the chamber, Washington had already taken his seat on the dais to wait for people to take their places. Ignoring protocol, members of both houses scrambled for the few seats in an atmosphere of confusion and happy chatter.
When Washington finally rose to give his inaugural address, the sound of scraping chairs filled the chamber as everyone stood.
Washington spoke in a shaky voice that conveyed both modesty and embarrassment. He reminded Congress about his lack of experience but promised to execute his duties to the best of his abilities. He then expressed anxiety over the weight of responsibility, saying that he would have preferred to remain at his beloved Mount Vernon.
“I was summoned by my country, whose voice I can never hear but with veneration and love.”
He then moved to a highly religious tone and said that he saw divine guidance in America. Throughout the address, Washington constantly shifted the manuscript of his speech from hand to hand and never overcame his tremulous delivery. A weak finish didn’t dampen the rousing applause or the exuberant congratulations that took most of an hour.
Special services were scheduled at St. Paul’s Church. The entire Congress intended to accompany the president, but the crowd outside prohibited bringing up carriages and even blocked the senators and representatives from leaving the building. When Madison and Sherman finally made it to the street, they asked the whereabouts of the president.
“He walked.”
“Seven blocks?”
“He insisted.”
Madison looked at Sherman. Sherman shrugged and said, “Let’s walk.”
People thinned after a few blocks, and Madison said, “Good speech.”
“I understand you wrote it.”
“Editing would be a better description.”
“A fine job, just the same. It moved some to tears.”
“He originally made a big point of being childless.”
“Childless?”
“He wanted the country to understand that there was no way he could create a hereditary monarchy.”
“The country would check that.”
“That’s why I deleted it. By the way, did you know the Bible came from St. John’s Masonic lodge?”
“God’s word comes from him alone.”
Madison looked embarrassed. “The president looked nervous and unsure.”
“If the country hadn’t called Washington to other vocations, he would’ve been our greatest thespian.”
Madison looked startled. “Are you saying he feigned modesty?”
“I’m saying George Washington is precisely the man the country needs at this moment.”
“Mr. Sherman, may I
have a word?”
Sherman turned from Abraham Baldwin to face Madison. “Of course, James.”
“Do you need privacy?” Baldwin asked.
“Good morning, Abe,” Madison said, reaching around to shake hands with both men. “Yes, if it wouldn’t be too inconvenient.”
The three men stood in the cloakroom to the house chamber prior to their first session since the inauguration. Sherman put one hand on Madison’s shoulder and extended his other arm toward a corner. “Let’s step over there.”
After they had moved away from the milling representatives, Sherman asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“A bill of rights.”
“A worthy goal.”
“I believe it should be our first order of business.”
Sherman glanced around at the other representatives. “We have many serious issues before us.”
“None more serious,” Madison said.
“Abe would disagree. Georgia needs protection against the Spanish and the Indians.”
“Commitments were made to achieve ratification.”
“By whom?”
“Myself—among others. Ratification wouldn’t have been possible otherwise.”
“We can address rights later. First, we need to resolve our finances and security.”
Madison looked nervous. “If we don’t address rights immediately, we may never get to them. There will always be pressing matters.”
“James, personal liberty is not threatened at the moment. Farms and our territorial sovereignty are. The public wants us to solve the nation’s problems.”
“This won’t take long. I’ve brought a revision with me.”
“What kind of revision?”
“I’ve incorporated the rights into the text of the Constitution.”
“James!”
“What?”
“That will require another convention and ratification.”
“I kept everything identical except for adding rights in the appropriate place.”
“If we change the Constitution, our opponents will seize the event to reopen the debate. We barely eked out this one.”
“Look at it before you judge.”
Sherman looked anxiously around. “Why did you come to me?”
Tempest at Dawn Page 50
