Being George Washington (28 page)

George Washington slid into his Windsor chair and, with no further direction, the delegates quit their gossiping and hastily took their own seats at their baize-covered tables. The mid-morning air was already hot, stale, and infested with blackflies. The blistering Philadelphia summer
had been made worse by the secrecy of these meeting. Windows were nailed shut. Guards patrolled outside. Inside, tempers flared.

Washington knew the convention was about to blow apart, but he kept his face stoic. He could not show weakness. So much was at stake.

A vote on Connecticut’s proposal to provide each state with equal representation in the Senate would be the first order of business. Washington stood and addressed the convention.

“It is,” he began, his voice unwavering, “probable that no plan we propose will be adopted. Perhaps another dreadful conflict is to be sustained. If, to please the people, we offer what we ourselves disapprove, how can we afterwards defend our work? Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair.”

The room was silent. Dozens of eyes stared at him and he seemed to make contact with each of them.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, “the event is in the hand of God.”

Connecticut’s proposal had been around for weeks, but the large states had always easily defeated it, demanding representation only on the basis of population. Washington remained unsure regarding which was the better plan but he knew this: if the convention was to succeed, compromise was essential.

Today’s vote, which would be taken among the eleven states represented, should have broken down this way: Rhode Island, unwilling to bow to any national government that would limit its right to print worthless fiat currency, simply hadn’t shown up—and never would. New Hampshire’s delegates were taking their sweet time to arrive and still hadn’t gotten there. That left the “large state” bloc (Virginia, Massachusetts, Georgia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, North Carolina, and South Carolina) in a position to easily defeat the small states alliance (Connecticut, Delaware, New Jersey, and New York—which had joined the small state voting bloc because their governor had grander plans than to cede power to a national government).

With such a sizable majority, the large states would never agree to even talk of compromise—and that was a major problem. The small states, realizing their lack of leverage, had threatened to walk out of the
convention if the Virginia Plan were to pass. That would spell disaster for both the convention and the country.

A compromise was needed, but without something dramatic to shake the entrenched confidence of the delegates, it looked unlikely. Without it, the small states would never agree to union and an ungovernable country was just as bad as having no country at all.

Washington rapped his gavel and requested a roll call. States voted from north to south, and everything proceeded as anticipated, until …

“Maryland?”

Despite his self-discipline, Washington felt his back stiffen. He gazed out over the assembly, but the mood was still the same. Very few people were paying attention. That, he knew, was about to change.

“Maryland aye.”

Washington saw a few heads lift, and a couple of delegates nudging elbows, but most remained buried in their notes or conversations. Maryland usually voted with the large states or stalemated when Washington’s longtime friend, Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer, canceled out his fellow delegate Luther Martin’s vote. Today, however, Jenifer was inexplicably absent. This should have raised more eyebrows, Washington thought. Being absent on such an important day was, to put it mildly, uncommon.

One delegate did realize that something was off kilter: James Madison. Washington caught his inquiring look out of the corner of his eye, but avoided looking at him directly.

Again, all moved forward normally and Washington still saw only disinterest throughout the chamber. Most of the delegates were probably more concerned about how much vitriol they would have to endure after the small states lost yet again.

The secretary barked. “Georgia?”

After a theatrical pause, Harvard-educated Abraham Baldwin responded in a steady voice, “Georgia is divided.”

The chamber went still. Every head turned toward Georgia’s table. Colonel Few and Major Pierce were missing. It was no secret that they had suddenly departed for New York City to take their seats in the Confederation Congress, but no one had expected their absence to matter. The vote should’ve remained the same “yes” it always had. Yet somehow, inexplicably, Georgia’s two remaining delegates had split their ballots.

Washington gave a single rap with his gavel. “Mr. Secretary?”

“The vote is a tie, five to five with one state divided. The motion fails.”

The Connecticut motion had failed once again. That was not a surprise—but
how
it failed certainly was. The large state coalition had not won; they had merely
not lost
. The distinction was not minor.

The room erupted. Chairs scraped against the floor. Heads bent conspiratorially close. Voices rose in anger or wonderment. Washington saw the same question on every face:
How could this have happened?

They would soon find out.

Into this uproar sauntered George Washington’s longtime friend, Maryland’s Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer. The delegates stared at him as he casually took his seat beside Luther Martin, then their gaze shifted toward Washington.

The youthful but balding Massachusetts delegate Rufus King stood.

“Mr. President, Mr. Jenifer appears to have been unavoidably detained. I make a motion for a new vote.”

Washington rapped with more force than usual. “Denied. The rules do not allow a second vote on the same motion in a single day.” Washington laid the gavel on the table and moved his hand away from it. The finality of the gesture was not lost on the delegates.

Washington recognized South Carolina’s General Charles Cotesworth Pinckney.

“Mr. President, some compromise seems to be necessary. The states are exactly divided on the question for equality of votes in the second branch. I propose a committee consisting of a member from each state be appointed to devise a compromise.”

James Madison jumped up to object to Pinckney’s scheme. He wanted no part of compromise.

But his objection did not stand—Madison lost, and a committee was to be formed. For the first time since the convention started, compromise had a real chance.

Monday, July 2, 1787, Late Afternoon

Indian Queen Tavern

Philadelphia

“You manipulated the vote,” Madison fumed. “I don’t know how you did it—but you did it!”

Madison was as angry as Washington had ever seen him. Washington uncharacteristically put his hand on his shoulder and led him to a corner. Over Madeira, Washington tried to calm him. “Jemmy, you ardently believe that both houses should be proportional to population, and I agree that the national government has to be strengthened beyond the Articles—but I don’t wish to subjugate my beloved Virginia to oppression from an unchecked national government.”

Washington held up two fingers to halt Madison’s objection. “Two houses. A Senate with equal state representation. A House based on population.”

“With all due respect, sir, you are mistaken. The balancing and checks must reside within the national system itself. The states can add little but corruption to the mix.”

Washington admired Madison’s intellect and knowledge of classical thought, but he was uncomfortable with his inflexibility. The Virginia Plan was undoubtedly superior to the Articles, but it could not possibly be the
only
good design. Many feared the increased authority of the national government. Who would check a runaway national government if not the states? One would have to rely on a perfectly balanced system, and Washington knew enough of men to never believe in perfection. And besides, Washington thought, how could Madison argue so vehemently for states’ rights on the one hand and call the states so corrupt on the other?

“Jemmy, you need to be open to the ideas of others. Giving the states a voice at the national level will help control the new government, appeal to our citizens, and facilitate ratification.”

Washington would’ve expected Madison to soften his stance as their conversation continued, but, on this day, his manner was as black as the wardrobe he normally sported. “Sir, I cannot step away from my principles.”

“Jemmy,” Washington responded, “don’t worry—you will come around to defending this way of government.”

He wasn’t sure, however, if that was really true or not.

Dusk, Monday, July 2, 1787

State House Yard

Philadelphia

Washington was alone. And in more ways than one.

He paced the State House Yard’s circular footpath. No delegates had joined him when he left the Indian Queen. No member of the public could get past the yard’s guardhouse. Tonight, this space was the quietest spot in the city.

As Washington contemplated the work ahead, he grew more confident. His pace quickened. He had finally come to peace with this compromise—now he must bring it to fruition.

A light breeze had cooled the night air. He lifted his gaze to the buildings across the street. He loved Mount Vernon, but there was one brief moment of the day when he preferred Philadelphia. At dusk, when there was still enough natural light to see, and lamps began to illuminate windows, he imagined contented families inside feeling safe and free to go about their business. This is what he wanted to bequeath to his nation.

Last year, he had written to a friend, “No morn ever dawned more favorable than ours did; and no day was more clouded than the present! Wisdom, and good examples are necessary at this time to rescue the political machine from the impending storm.”

Washington turned his face to the sky. It appeared the storm was finally subsiding.

Monday, September 17, 1787, Mid-morning

Pennsylvania State House

Philadelphia

It was finally done. Today the new Constitution of the United States of America would be signed.

Washington touched the edge of the document before him as he
listened to Benjamin Franklin’s final appeal for all to sign. Franklin ended his speech by moving that the document be signed “Done in Convention by the unanimous consent of the States present the 17th of September.”

Washington felt enormously gratified. After four grueling months, they were presenting the nation with a proposal for an entirely new government. Not just something that would be new to America, but new to the entire world.

Once they settled that each state would have two senators, they were able to rebalance all the remaining elements until they had an excellent design. Not a perfect design, of course, but certainly the most thoughtful and debated republic in world history. A nation formed not with the sword, but with reason. Now it would be up to the people to ratify their work.

At the conclusion of Franklin’s speech, Nathaniel Gorham, a Massachusetts Congregationalist, asked for the floor. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I wish that the clause declaring, ‘the number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every forty thousand,’ be changed to ‘thirty thousand.’”

Washington slowly rose to call for a vote, hesitated, and then expressed his opinion publicly for the first time during official proceedings. “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.”

It passed unanimously. No one dared deny the hero of the revolution his sole request over these many months.

Washington kept his visage properly masklike as the vote concluded, but James Madison, sitting nearby, could see Washington’s head turn ever so slightly toward him. Madison knew that his fellow Virginian’s little speech was a gift to him, in appreciation for Madison finally agreeing to—as Washington had predicted—the great compromise that had made this new constitution possible.

Washington summoned the delegates geographically, north to south, to advance. He signed first, inscribing his name with a flourish. Hamilton signed, too, though he represented no one but himself.
Pennsylvania’s Gouverneur Morris hobbled forward on his wooden peg leg to sign. When Georgia’s delegates—including Colonel Few and Major Pierce—had finished, Washington commended the delegates for their accomplishment, but with a warning. “Should the states reject this excellent constitution,” he said, “the probability is that an opportunity will never again offer to cancel another in peace.

“The next will be drawn in blood.”

Benjamin Franklin quizzically looked toward the back of Washington’s chair—and pointed to a painted half sun.

“Painters find it difficult to distinguish a rising from a setting sun,” Franklin said aloud to the delegates standing around him. “I have often in the course of these sessions looked at that painting behind my dear friend without being able to tell if it was rising or setting.

“Now, at length, I have the happiness to know that it is a rising sun.”