Tempest at Dawn (30 page)

“
Roger, what’s our
position?”

“
Neither plan fits the country’s
needs, but a system that falls between them might work.”

“
What about the Virginia Plan with
equal vote in the Senate?”

“
What do you think?”

“
I can support such a
system.”

“
We need more, but the rest will fall
after suffrage.”

“
And you have a plan?”

“
I’m working on one.”

“
That was a quick meeting.”

“
Things move fast now.”

Howard had come to freshen up the
room when he saw the men leave. Sherman had a thought. “Howard, are
you familiar with copiers?”

“
Not personally, but boarders seemed
pleased with Williamson’s.”

“
Reasonably priced?”

“
I’ve never heard a
complaint.”

“
Where are they located?”

“
On Chestnut, between Seventh and
Eighth, not far from the State House.”

“
Thank you.”

“
Anything else I can do for
you?”

“
Yes, do you know where Robert Morris
lives?”

“
Of course, on the corner of Market
and Sixth. It’s the grandest home in Philadelphia.”

“
I need a letter
delivered.”

“
My pleasure, sir.”

“
Thank you. I’ll bring it down in a
minute.”

Sherman climbed the stairs to his room to
write letters. He decided to write Rebecca first. Her last
correspondence conveyed a forlorn tone. She continued to worry
about money and the children’s health, and she had been
particularly upset by the theft of an heirloom silver tankard. The
loss also upset Sherman, but he wanted to make light of it to ease
her mind. When he got to that part of the letter, he wrote, “How
much trouble and anxiety is saved. We shall no longer be troubled
to put it away so carefully every night.”

He tried to assuage her other concerns but
knew that only his return would make her happy. The convention
would go long or badly. He could only hope for a long enough recess
to visit New Haven. He tucked that goal in the back of his mind as
he turned to the other letter he needed to write.

The letter to Washington required care.
Sherman wanted to be brief and explicit, much more difficult than
being verbose and vague. He sat at his writing shelf thinking that
his little note would probably take as long to compose as Paterson
would need to scribe the entire New Jersey Plan.

After several false starts, marked by the
balled-up stationery strewn at his feet, Sherman finally found the
right tone

Your Excellency,

Thank you for your precious time this
morning. You have my cooperation within the limits of my
obligations.

This convention must report out a sound
system of government that strengthens the national system. I
believe it will. Compromises will be struck and a consensus
built.

However, if Congress fights our work, all
will be lost. I believe that a confidential dialogue with key
congressional members may avert disaster. If I may, I recommend
sending an emissary to New York to act as an arbitrator between the
two bodies.

This individual must enjoy your highest
trust. I suggest Mr. Hamilton. No one would doubt that he spoke for
the leadership of the Federal Convention and his vote is wasted in
any case.

With sincerest regards,

Roger Sherman

Sherman wondered how this letter would be
received. The advice was sound, but Washington would suspect that
Sherman had a private scheme in mind. He didn’t—only an inkling of
a plan—but it depended upon a communication channel to Congress.
Sherman could set one up, but the channel had to be tied directly
to the power at this convention. His idea depended on Virginia’s
endorsement, so they might as well control the emissary. Sherman
hoped Washington would sense the need and that his trust in
Hamilton would override his reservations. Governor Clinton had
stacked his New York delegation with cronies who would fight a
strong federal government, so the loss of Hamilton’s vote posed no
additional risk.

Sherman read the note several more times. He
resisted the temptation to add to it. The more he wrote, the more
suspicion he would raise. Washington would take the bait because he
knew Sherman had his own contacts in Congress. The Hamilton
suggestion was the masterstroke. He was a member of Congress, lived
in New York, spoke for Washington, and possessed a genius for
finance.

Sherman heard a light knock on the door.

“
Come in.”

“
Mr. Sherman, this package arrived for
you.”

“
Thank you, Howard. Can you take this
letter to Mr. Morris’s home right away?”

“
Of course, sir.”

Howard turned to leave, then immediately
whirled. “This letter is addressed to Gen. George Washington.”

“
He’s staying with Mr.
Morris.”

“
Should I insist on hand
delivery?”

“
I shouldn’t think that
necessary.”

Howard looked disappointed. “I just thought
I might meet the great man.”

Sherman smiled, remembering his own meeting
this morning with “the great man.” “I’m sorry, Howard, I don’t know
what I was thinking. You’re quite right. This is highly important,
and I want you to insist on hand delivering it to the general.”

“
Thank you, Mr. Sherman.”

Sherman climbed the narrow
staircase. The package Howard had delivered had held Paterson’s
original of the New Jersey Plan, and Sherman had left immediately
to have copies made. By the time he arrived, it was already after
three in the afternoon. Williamson’s occupied the second floor of a
new brick building sandwiched between other buildings under
construction.

Sherman entered through a door
marked with a brass plaque that read “Williamson Secretary &
Copyist.” About a dozen men sat facing the two walls, each intently
bent over his desk with quill in hand. Three large tables ran down
the center of the room dividing the men. Obsessively neat stacks of
papers lay across the tables, each held in position by a brass
paperweight positioned at the exact midpoint of the top page. An
intensely groomed man approached him immediately.

“
May I help you?”

“
I hope so. I have an
emergency.”

“
We’ve never had one of those before,” the man
said with a self-confident grin.

“
I have twelve pages, and I need
ten copies by tomorrow morning.”

“
The Federal Convention?”

“
How did you guess?”

“
Ten copies, plus the original,
meet the needs of eleven states.”

“
This must be handled with strict
confidentiality. Our proceedings are secret.”

“
As I’ve been reminded repeatedly.
My firm does work for the Pennsylvania legislature and all the
prominent attorneys in Philadelphia. Not a word has ever been
whispered outside that door.” With a voice that brooked no
haggling, the man added, “The fee is two sovereign
crowns.”

“
How many Pennsylvania
dollars?”

“
Emergencies dictate sovereign
crowns.”

Sherman sighed and reached for his purse.

Chapter 18

Saturday, June 16, 1787

Madison read the note he had written in his
journal.

The members from Cont., N.Y., N. J, DEL. and
perhaps Mister Martin from Maryland, made common cause on different
principles and had concocted the New Jersey plan. The eagerness
displayed from these different motives produced serious anxiety for
the result of the Convention.

The previous
evening, he had been too disturbed to organize his notes. Following
breakfast, he hurried back to his room to rewrite his record of the
prior day’s proceedings, adding this rare personal observation.
Madison lifted his pen to strike the comment and then laid it back
down. He might change it later, prior to publication, but for now
he’d leave it.

Why had Washington insisted on giving
Paterson an opportunity to present? This only delayed matters.
Madison believed their six to five margin would hold, but they’d
have to endure endless hours of arguments. Old ground covered
again. The New Jersey Plan made lilliputian improvements to the
Articles, improvements so restrained that they didn’t merit
consideration. Yet, here they were, ready to debate a plan that
would throw the country into ruin.

Madison jostled the new pages and laid them
neatly on top of a substantial stack of stationery. He stared for a
moment at the pile of paper that comprised his diary of the
proceedings. Would the journal tell the story of calamity or
godsend? How high would the stack grow? Madison let his eyes wander
to the ceiling. No, he smiled, surely the convention couldn’t last
that long.

Madison packed his valise with a fresh
supply of stationery, a blotter, his silver penknife, and two
quills. He always knew that getting his plan adopted would be
difficult. Republics represented the rarest form of government, and
trying to combine thirteen existing republics added unimaginable
complexity. He needed patience and perseverance, spiced with a
healthy dose of connivance, to assemble a United States of
America.

His mood improved as he trotted down the
stairs. Then as he turned a corner, he nearly bumped into
Pinckney.

“
Mr. Madison, can we walk
together?”

“
It’ll be a pleasure.”

“
You seem bright this morning. With
the interference from all these vicious little gnats, I presumed
you’d be swathed in gloom.

“
Mr. Pinckney, one must learn to
ignore gnats. Nothing’s to be done with them.”

“
You can kill them.”

“
Not all of them. Better to continue
to your destination with all due haste.”

“
Excuse me, but I believe we’ve been
thrown back to our starting point.”

“
A brief detour. We’ll be back on
course in a day or two.”

“
We have three plans. You really
believe a few days will extricate us from this bog of
schemes?”

His query pulled Madison up short.
Pinckney’s plan was never reported out of committee. “The will of
the delegates has been determined. The New Jersey Plan won’t
require lengthy deliberations. It’s a weak patchwork.”

“
And my plan?”

“
It’s already been
considered.”

“
And dismissed without debate. You
smothered it.”

“
I did not. It was your obligation to
draw support to your side. Has your state endorsed it?”

“
You promised that if the convention
deadlocked, I’d get a full hearing. We’re heading for a
cul-de-sac.”

“
You had a full hearing and, if memory
serves, no one stood to second your proposal.”

“
Perhaps converts now teeter in my
direction. The days ahead will be bloody, and my plan may provide
the only—”

“
Mr. Pinckney, why do you persist in
this penny-farthing?”

“
Mr. Madison, why do you resist
democracy?”

“
A sound government must protect
itself from the mob.”

“
People turn into a mob only when
aroused.”

“
Then they’re easily
aroused.”

Madison realized their pace had quickened
with their words. He stopped and faced Pinckney. “Charles, we
differ only in degree. I want safeguards; you advocate unfettered
experimentation. Republics of your concoction decay faster than a
ripe peach.”

“
You think yourself the only expert. I
demand another opportunity to present my plan.”

“
Demand?”

“
I am a South Carolina delegate to the
Federal Convention. I have as much right as you to propose a new
system.”

Resenting Pinckney’s smug expression,
Madison said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The two men resumed their walk in silence.
After a few minutes, Pinckney said, “I’m sorry to be brash, but I
believe in my proposal. It’s not just ego.”

“
I said I’d see what I could
do.”

“
The people can be
trusted.”

“
They have shown
otherwise.”

“
Only on occasion and only
temporarily.”

“
It takes but one occasion to destroy
a republic.”

Pinckney stopped at the base of the State
House steps and put his hand on Madison’s shoulder. “James, I’m
sincere in my faith in the people. Don’t misjudge me by my scoffing
airs.”

“
I don’t doubt your sincerity; I doubt
the validity of your plan.”

Pinckney smiled, not his typical smirk but
an expression of friendly embrace. “In that case, I’ll endeavor to
argue with more persuasive fervor.” Patting Madison’s shoulder, he
said, “I believe it’s time for us to enter the fray.”

With that, the two men climbed the three
steps and entered the State House.

John Lansing, a New York Clinton lackey,
began the session. He attacked the convention’s authority and
claimed the people would never approve the Virginia Plan.
Concluding his harangue, he said, “Randolph’s plan absorbs all
power except for the tiniest local matters. New York cannot and
will not support it!”