Tempest at Dawn (3 page)

“
Yes,” I answered, keeping my eyes on James
Madison.

He glanced down at his folded hands. “My
words, not my deeds.”

I thought I detected a hint of despondency.
“Why did your deeds fall short of your words?”

Madison eyes closed. “Politicians deal with
the practical … the achievable.”

“
My faith makes no such
allowances.”

The old man opened his eyes and chuckled.
“Roger Sherman used to say that faithfulness is not how one lives,
but what one aspires to.”

I felt my back stiffen. “I’m appalled to
hear you quote Sherman. That man used the Constitution to shackle
Negroes.”

Madison’s eyes lost any hint of melancholy.
“Young man, you seem at a loss about how to proceed. I suggest I
tell the story as it happened. Then you may judge us against any
standards you choose.”

“
I don’t mean to judge.”

“
Of course you do. We’ll start with
Roger Sherman.”

An Assembly of Demigods

Chapter 1

Tuesday, May 15, 1787

Roger Sherman shook the rain from his heavy
cloak.

“
Are you meeting someone,
sir?”

“
Yes, but I don’t yet know
who.”

Sherman ignored the doorman’s haughty look
and turned his attention to the central hall of the Indian Queen.
The bright tavern smelled of wet wool, spilled beer, tobacco, and
good food. Knots of men clogging the open spaces boisterously
greeted old friends. Cheerful innkeepers swung through the crowd,
brandishing tankards of ale and platters of food.

“
Can I help, sir?”

Sherman turned to look again at the young
doorman.

The Indian Queen was an expensive
Philadelphia tavern. The well-built Negro, dressed in a blue
embroidered coat, red silk cape, buff waistcoat and breeches,
ruffled shirt, and powdered hair, presented an unmistakable
message: the poor should continue down Fourth Street to find
another tavern, one more suited to their station and budget.

Sherman, sixty-six years old, may have
looked out of place in his scuffed brown suit, but he had spent
many evenings in similar establishments. The display didn’t
intimidate him, and he looked forward to a better than average
meal. Handing his cloak to the pretentious doorman, Sherman said,
“I’m with the Federal Convention. Perhaps you can direct me to some
of the other delegates.”

“
Just to your left, sir. Many of your
colleagues have gathered in the Penn Room.”

Sherman walked through double doors to a
large room arranged with tables covered in turquoise cloth and set
with white-and-blue-patterned china. A festive mood filled the room
as men carried on animated discussions with their dinner
companions. Despite the cheerful appearance, Sherman spied ominous
signs in the quieter corners. Beyond the merriment and goodwill,
small clusters of powerful men sat quietly scheming. Alliances had
already been formed, and he would need to catch up with his
opponents.

The United States had won its independence
from England four years before, and already the elite plotted to
overthrow the government. They believed that the country’s loose
confederation—sufficient during the imperative of war—had proved
inadequate in peacetime. These privileged few wanted a forceful
central government, one suited to the empire they intended to
rule.

Sherman had arrived today, eager to refresh
his intelligence with news, opinions, and tavern gossip. The future
of his young nation depended on the outcome of this gathering, and
Sherman held few illusions about the task ahead. He feared that
this Federal Convention would strive to give unprecedented power to
a national government. To protect Connecticut’s interests, he had
to win delegates to his side.

Sherman spotted James Madison in a far
corner. They knew each other from their years together in Congress.
Madison’s pale, boyish face made him look much younger than his
thirty-six years. A small and graceful man, he often appeared
dwarfed when standing next to those giants, the tall and stately
Gen. Washington or his friend and neighbor, Tom Jefferson. What
Madison lacked in physical presence, however, he made up in energy
and intellect.

Madison was bright and learned, but Sherman
considered him a zealot. He had arrived on May 3, a full eleven
days before the scheduled start and well before everyone else. He
had prepared for a year, badgered everyone to attend, orchestrated
events, and left his imprint everywhere. Sherman believed him
capable, but young and naïve in the ways of achieving political
consensus.

When Madison briefly caught his eye, Sherman
pretended not to notice. He wanted to avoid the Virginians for now.
This was a night to gather information and form relationships, not
a time to expose his strategy to opponents. Sherman knew Madison
had a plan, an alliance, and Gen. Washington on his side. He must
break this juggernaut. Connecticut’s survival depended on it.

Squeezing his large frame through the packed
room, Sherman walked heavily toward a table of South Carolina
delegates. Although this key Southern state stood firmly in the
Virginia camp, Sherman believed that with patience and skill, he
could erode the alliance. His task was to find common ground, but
breaking the South Carolina bond with the large states would
require care and patience.

“
Mr. Butler, may I join
you?”

Not surprisingly, Charles Pinckney
responded. “Of course. Sit down, sit down.” Pinckney scooted his
chair aside to make room. “When did you arrive?”

“
This afternoon. With the rain and
mud, the trip was long and tiring. I’m glad to settle in on hard
planks that don’t wash side to side like a ship out of
trim.”

Pinckney didn’t look sympathetic. “We came
by sea. I’d tell you about it, but the subject fatigues me.”

Sherman glanced about the tavern. “Quite a
boisterous crowd. Are these delegates? I don’t recognize many.”

“
Most of those noisy gentlemen are
members of the Society of the Cincinnati, here for their own
convention.”

“
That explains it.” Sherman turned
back toward his table companions. “I thought it looked like a
gathering of good fellows.”

Pinckney sneered. “The officers of the
Revolution are still congratulating themselves for thrashing the
most powerful nation on earth.”

“
Surely you don’t begrudge our
soldiers an occasion to celebrate,” Sherman said.

“
Soldiers?” Pinckney tone conveyed
disdain. “More like an aristocracy in waiting. Each convinced he
single-handedly won the war. Their leader, Gen. Washington, sits
over there, regally presiding over the Virginians.”

Pinckney—rich, vain, and handsome—was only
twenty-nine years old. Despite his upbringing, he did not comport
himself as a gentleman. Sherman found him irreverent, aggressive,
and, above all, ambitious. Exuding an aristocratic air, Pinckney
supported populist and backcountry issues.

“
The Presbyterians are here as well,”
Pinckney continued derisively. “But their pretensions are more
ethereal. We must surely have a good convention, with the military
class and the clergy to give us guidance.”

Sherman had forgotten the Cincinnati would
be in Philadelphia. The city had grown large and prosperous, and
served as a favorite gathering place for societies, leagues, and
conventions. The Society of the Cincinnati was an organization of
Revolutionary officers who many feared had their own ideas about
how to cut out the decay gripping the nation.

“
No wonder Philadelphia has grown
expensive,” Sherman said. “If the conference goes long, Connecticut
may not have authorized sufficient funds.”

“
Oh, it’ll go long—or very short,”
Pinckney said. “Did you find adequate lodgings?”

“
Quite adequate. I can walk to the
State House in minutes.” Sherman was sure the South Carolinians
were quartered far more luxuriously, probably here at the Indian
Queen. He decided to turn the conversation in a different
direction.

“
I visited Dr. Franklin this afternoon
and discovered that we are all invited to dine at his home tomorrow
afternoon. He promised to open a cask of excellent porter, recently
arrived from Europe.”

“
So you too have made the pilgrimage
to the great doctor’s home.” Pinckney waved dismissively. “So have
we all. Sipping tea under his mulberry tree, talking about the
great things we’ve done or intend to do. Chuckling at the old man’s
witticisms.”

Sherman ignored the sarcasm. “How close are
we to a quorum?”

“
Close with your arrival. Perhaps we
can start soon.” Pinckney cast his eyes about the table, adding
lightly, “I can only wonder at what we’ll be starting.”

The comment drew subdued laughter. Sherman
calculated that they were on their third ale. Unlike Pinckney, he
wasn’t eager to see the proceedings begin, because he wanted time
to talk to delegates before the heat of the convention. Adopting an
innocent tone, he said, “We’ll build a working government. One that
can deliver us from our present disorder.”

“
What authority do we have?” Pinckney
demanded.

“
We’re sanctioned by Congress,”
Sherman said.

Pierce Butler shifted in his chair and
joined the conversation. “Congress ruled that we may only revise
the Articles of Confederation.”

Pinckney looked around at his fellow South
Carolinians. “That’s what we’ve been debating. Do we have the power
to write a new constitution or merely adjust deficiencies in the
Articles? Most people believe the latter.”

“
We have whatever authority we
assume,” Butler said.

“
So we’re to be our own masters,”
Pinckney said. “Those outside our famed little conclave may
disagree.”

Butler lifted his chin and looked
disapprovingly at Pinckney down a long nose that buttressed a
massive forehead. An Irishman born to a long line of nobility,
Butler scorned wealth as a measure of stature. In his youth, he had
served honorably in the British army and later as an officer in the
struggle for independence of his adopted country. At forty-three,
Butler saw himself as an elder statesman, and Sherman guessed that
he disapproved of Pinckney’s youthful impudence.

“
We must go beyond our charter,”
Butler said. “Without a sound government, we’ll soon be at each
other’s throats.”

Sherman didn’t voice his opinion that the
Articles could be successfully revised. The innkeeper provided a
timely distraction. Sherman ordered ale, soup, and a chicken potpie
from the harried-looking man who seemed to be happily calculating
the night’s receipts as he wove his way back through the crowd.

Turning to Butler, Sherman said, “For eight
years we fought the British to win our liberty. Now we risk
throwing it all away. Europe watches, ready to pounce when we
collapse into warring factions.”

Butler looked pleased. “Exactly right. They
wait to carve us into pieces.”

Sherman always searched for broad areas of
agreement before addressing specifics. He had little in common with
these men, but despite their differences in temperament, wealth,
and pedigree—and unlike the philosophical Virginians—Sherman
believed he could deal with South Carolina. These men understood
the give-and-take of politics.

Pinckney took a slow sip of ale and said
carefully, “Roger, I’m surprised you’re prepared to relinquish
Connecticut’s sovereignty.”

“
That’s the challenge,” Sherman said.
“How do we increase national authority while retaining state
sovereignty?”

“
A Gordian knot. Do you believe it can
be unraveled?”

“
Not with the Virginia
Plan.”

Pinckney suddenly looked wary. Sherman
wondered if he had overstepped. He didn’t intend to disclose that
he knew about South Carolina’s commitment to Madison.

“
The Virginia Plan is flawed,” Butler
interjected, “but it’s a starting point. I’d feel more comfortable,
however, if Jefferson were with the Virginians.”

“
I disagree,” Pinckney said. “We might
need Jefferson’s words, but not Jefferson. He’d disparage all but
his own schemes.”

“
Gentlemen, we don’t need Jefferson or
his elevated prose,” Sherman said. “Nor do we need rabble-rousers
like Patrick Henry or Sam Adams.”

“
No fear of Henry darkening our
chamber,” Pinckney sneered. “He spurned his election as a
delegate.” Pinckney made a show of looking around the room. Then he
lifted his nose and sniffed noisily. “He said he smelled a
rat.”

Butler made a tiny grimace and said,
“Patrick fears we’ll discard our revolutionary ideals for
stability.”

“
I believe Henry stayed in Virginia so
he can throw brickbats at our latticework when we return to seek
sanction,” Pinckney taunted.

“
Just as well,” Sherman said. “Our
passions must abate so we can build a nation. This job is for
realists, not revolutionaries—or philosophers.”

“
Men such as yourself, Roger?”
Pinckney said with an edge.

“
I’m here to represent my state.
Unlike others, I have no grand scheme.”

“
Virginia provides desperately needed
leadership,” Butler said defensibly.

“
Leadership—or deception?” Sherman
asked. “The interests of the large states differ from our
respective states.”

Butler looked dubious. “Our interests aren’t
common. The interests of New England and the South are as different
as the interests of Russia and Turkey.”