Tempest at Dawn (6 page)

He tossed the paper aside. Mrs. Marshall’s
admonition to write his wife reminded him that his evening remained
unfinished. He had married Rebecca three years after his first wife
died. He had been forty, while she had just celebrated her
twentieth birthday. Sherman couldn’t have asked for a better
partner, either political or domestic. But Rebecca believed that he
had sacrificed enough for his country and needed to stay close to
home to rebuild an estate for his family. Although Sherman didn’t
disagree, Connecticut needed him in Philadelphia, not New Haven. He
just hoped this business would go quickly. He didn’t have many
remaining years to provide for his family.

He extracted writing materials and several
sheets of paper from a worn valise. He sat quiet for many minutes.
Eventually, he dipped his pen into the inkwell and struck the first
words.

Dearest Rebecca,

I have arrived safe, but I do not feel safe.
Desperate and able men have gathered for a tense contest that will
determine our county’s future. There will be no rules, no
precedents, no arbitrator. God grant me the wisdom do what is
right…

Chapter 4

Tuesday, May 15, 1787

Madison had felt annoyed ever since the two impolite
officers had stumbled out of the Indian Queen. He mentally shook
off his irritation, leaned forward, and said, “The Rules Committee
must decide whether the proceedings are to be public or
private.”

“
Private,” Robert Morris answered
instantly.

“
I agree,” added Washington. “If we’re
to have any chance of success, we must debate openly, without a
gallery, and without the press exciting the people or the
Congress.”

“
Shroud our proceedings in secrecy?”
Gouverneur Morris said. “Are we sure it’s necessary?”

“
Public sentiment is against a strong
national government,” Madison said. “The delegates need to hear the
whole design and debate it without the interference of public
passion.”

“
And our plan will threaten Congress,”
Robert Morris sniffed.

“
Private then,” Gouverneur Morris
conceded. “Our self-important Congress feels threatened enough. No
need to add to their weighty burdens.”

Madison expected that many would be stunned
at the audacity of their plan. Persuading a majority to support
their scheme would take time and seclusion from outside
influence.

“
Then we’re all agreed?” Robert Morris
asked.

“
Yes.” Washington looked at Madison.
“Tell Mr. Wythe that the proceedings are to remain secret until we
make our final report.”

“
Of course, sir, but I have a concern.
Dr. Franklin always says, that three may keep a secret if two are
dead.”

“
Good point, young man,” Gouverneur
Morris said. “We must put the fear of God into the
delegates.”

Washington leaned conspiratorially close.
“No, gentlemen, not the fear of God—fear of the Society of the
Cincinnati.”

“
Our two visitors?”

“
They are but a reminder. As president
of the society, I attended early meetings. When I saw the mood, I
distanced myself, pleading other obligations. The danger is real,
gentlemen. Many of their number believe a military coup d’état
offers the only salvation.”

“
Surely cooler heads will
prevail.”

“
Perhaps, but it would be a grievous
error to count on it. Shays was one of their own. His rebellion
might spark others, but I believe they’ll bide their time as long
as I lead the convention.”

“
You believe that will hold them off?”
Gouverneur Morris asked.

Washington spoke in a low voice. “Yes, along
with secrecy.” Washington met everyone’s eyes. “Gentlemen, if they
know our path and disapprove, they’ll take action.”

“
This is indeed disquieting. How do we
inform the other delegates without causing panic?” Gouverneur
Morris said.

“
Individually,” Madison said. “Each
delegate must believe that he is the sole recipient of this
privileged and clandestine information. Each must swear to speak
naught of it.”

“
But they will. It will be relayed in
hushed tones in taverns and coffeehouses.”

“
That will further two aims: the
election of the general as president and acceptance of secrecy,”
Madison said.

“
Jemmy’s right,” Washington said. “We
can hardly announce the threat in open assembly. Are we all
agreed?”

Everyone nodded their heads, but the table
assumed a foreboding mood.

“
If I may, I have one more issue.”
Madison shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Are we sure we want
Edmund Randolph to present the Virginia Plan?”

Washington gave Madison a stern look.
“Jemmy, we’ve covered this ground. Randolph has a rightful claim to
present the plan. As the governor, he is the senior member of our
delegation.”

Madison found this statement
disingenuous. Randolph held the office of governor, but everyone,
from delegate to newspaper vendor, knew that Washington was the
real power in the Virginia delegation. Madison held no illusion
that Washington would present the plan

his poor delivery made him a reluctant
speaker

but Madison had hoped
to persuade the general to appoint someone stronger than the
weak-willed Randolph to this weighty task.

It wasn’t their first time discussing such
matters. The seven members of the Virginia delegation had met
privately each morning and then joined the Pennsylvanians at three
in the afternoon for dinner. There was a difference, however,
between building agreement between the two delegations and this
confidential discussion with the leaders.

Madison believed his mission both crucial
and right. The United States experiment must not fail. He knew, was
certain in his heart, that the fifteen resolves in the Virginia
Plan encompassed the necessary characteristics for a republic to
endure, defend itself, and protect the liberty of its citizens.
This mighty objective stoked his ambition and excused his
connivance.

This lofty—no, noble—goal required ample
cunning to bind the conflicting interests of the states. If Gen.
Washington presided, and they carefully directed the committees,
then nothing should take them by surprise. There would be
setbacks—fierce resistance from some quarters—but momentum and
common need would propel events along the desired course. He
relaxed and sat back in his chair, confident that the convention
could be controlled to his ends.

Their business settled, the general and
Robert Morris prepared to leave. The owner of the Indian Queen
appeared instantly.

Bowing respectfully, he asked, “Gentlemen,
is there anything else you desire … another ale, tea and cakes, a
plate of cheese? We have excellent cognacs.”

“
No, no,” Morris said. “We’re ready to
retire. Thank you for your hospitality.”

The innkeeper never looked at Morris;
instead he aimed a witless grin at Washington. “My pleasure. The
general’s always welcome at the Indian Queen.”

All evening, Madison had found the
innkeeper’s solicitous behavior irritating. Now he was amused by
his inadvertent slight toward the rest of the party. Washington
often elicited bumbling adulation.

“
Thank you,” Washington said, with a
regal nod of the head. “We’ll be in Philadelphia for a spell, so
we’ll visit your fine establishment again.”

“
Yes, the Federal Convention. A noble
endeavor. My best wishes.”

“
And what might those wishes be?”
Washington asked.

“
My wishes? Oh my. Yes, well, I
suppose I … uh … yes … I, uh, wish you gentlemen great
success.”

When the innkeeper recalled the incident for
friends, relatives, and customers, his answer would undoubtedly be
eloquent and coherent. He would tell everyone that the great
general George Washington had asked for his advice and that he had
responded with sage counsel.

Washington betrayed nothing. Looking
genuinely interested, he said, “Success comes in many guises. Do
you support a strong federal government?”

Now, the innkeeper looked nervous.
“Dear General, with deepest respect, I don’t think so. I, uh …
well, I work hard, all day and well into the night. Please excuse
me

sir, I don’t mean to be
impertinent

but taxes already
lighten my purse. A larger government will surely demand more
money. I see no benefit.”

Washington looked like he was mulling over a
new concept. “Taxes are a congenital disease of government. The
country, however, suffers from many ills that I believe only a
strong federal government can cure.”

“
Philadelphia seems unaffected by
these ills. People prosper, trade flourishes, and our vigorous
commerce supports many public works. In time, the rest of the
country will follow our lead.” Then, with a little stronger voice,
the innkeeper added, “Most of our problems emanate from
politicians. They already meddle too much.”

Madison found the man’s newfound tongue
intriguing. His purse obviously held greater import than the risk
of offending the great hero of the Revolution.

Washington looked contemplative. “You make
valid points, sir. I appreciate your forthrightness. Philadelphia,
however, is unique in its enviable position. The rest of the nation
won’t adopt your sound principles as long as state sovereignty
reigns uppermost. Your fine city may provide a radiant example, but
not a solution.”

“
Dear General, I believe we can lead
the nation far better than New York. Move the nation’s capital from
that cow pasture to Philadelphia. We deserve no less. Only London
has a larger English-speaking population.”

Washington bestowed upon the innkeeper a
thin smile as he stood to leave. “Thank you, sir, for your views.
Balancing the interests of our varied populace will present us with
a challenge.”

With a slight bow, the innkeeper asked,
“Shall I present the bill?”

“
Charge it to my quarters, please,”
Madison said, as he pushed away from the table.

For the first time, the innkeeper turned his
attention to someone other than the general. “Of course, sir. James
Madison, correct?”

“
Yes,” Madison said. “I’d be grateful
if you itemized the account.” Madison nodded to the innkeeper.
“Thank you, we had a wonderful evening.”

Washington treated everyone with courtesy,
despite flaws in opinion or character. He seemed to like everyone
he encountered. Madison thought this a splendid attribute for a
politician, but it was one he didn’t share with the general. As he
said good night to his companions, he reminded himself to check the
bill carefully.

After their group broke up, Madison headed
for his room. So many tavern guests had unobtrusively made their
way to the exit that the place suddenly seemed to have grown quiet.
He knew that some had left to visit one of Philadelphia’s notorious
bawdy houses, while others may have arranged late-night liaisons
with more respectable women. Madison’s passions drove him in a
different direction.

His apartment was located on the third
floor. He bounded up the stairs two at a time. As he reached his
landing, an Argand lamp cast a bright glow down the hall. This
recent Swiss invention produced ten times the light of a
conventional whale oil lamp. Madison made a mental note to buy
several for Montpelier and another for Jefferson. This thought
reminded him that he wanted to write his friend a letter.

Madison held no doubts. Republics had come
and gone throughout history. The challenge was not to forge a
republic, but to build one that would endure. The key to a lasting
republic was the design. Studying other republics, he had paid
special attention to their structure, looking for the flaws that
accelerated their demise. The Virginia Plan held the ingredients of
a republic for the ages. Now, at long last, it was all about to
begin. Thinking in a rush, he had a letter to Jefferson composed in
his head by the time he entered his room.

Madison’s room was small but pleasing, with
an unobstructed view of the Delaware River and the Jersey shore.
The furniture included a comfortable bed, a bureau, a writing table
with drawers, a large looking glass, stuffed chairs, and two nicely
framed oil paintings on the walls. A handsome night cabinet, pushed
into a far corner, hid the chamber pot. Today’s newspaper and
London magazines were splayed across the table.

Shrugging off his coat, he immediately went
to the writing table. He spent a minute arranging the ink, the
paper, and his thoughts.

The sound of the town crier in the street
below disturbed his concentration. “Ten o’clock and weather clear,
ten o’clock and weather clear.” This Philadelphia tradition
irritated him. All night long his sleep would be interrupted on the
hour by this rhythmical chant. He hoped time would numb his
awareness of the intrusion.

He looked at his ink-stained hand, pen
poised to strike the first letter. Madison had never been to
Europe, so the idea of communicating to France fascinated him. How
he wished he could just talk to Jefferson. The hopes and
aspirations they had shared for over a decade were about to come to
fruition.

The pen suddenly leaped to life, filling
Madison’s ears with the familiar and reassuring sound of a quill
scratching paper.

Dear Tom,

In a few days, we shall
begin at long last to build our republic. If men were angels, no
government would be necessary. If angels were to govern men, no
controls on government would be necessary
…