The Shut Mouth Society (49 page)

“
So did Douglass. So would I, had I been in your place. You were heavily drugged. The doctor said memories may resurface, but they will never be clear because your mind seldom had contact with reality. The emotions are a different thing. He said they might haunt you for years. I wish I could tell you that you can forget it or it doesn’t matter or that it’ll be easy, but those would all be lies.”

She smiled wanly. “I’ll tell you what you can tell me: Tell me you love me.”

He grabbed both of her hands. “I love you.”

“
Then propose, hon,” Greta said, as she placed their breakfast in front of them. “She’s way more than you deserve, but you might get lucky.”

“
Greta, you’re looking at the luckiest man in town. She said yes a week ago.”

“
Congratulations.” She came around the table and kissed Baldwin on the cheek. “He’s a great guy.” Then she gave Evarts a stern look. “You devil. You knew what you were waiting for all along, didn’t you?”

“
Yeah, but I never really believed dreams come true.”

They had set the wedding for the Friday after Thanksgiving. The date had been his idea, because his family had a tradition of gathering for Thanksgiving, and he wanted the holiday to always remind them of how close they had come to a different ending. Actually, they were both eager to officially cement their relationship, and they wanted to separate their future anniversaries from Christmas.

After Greta left, Evarts said in a hushed tone, “You know, you don’t have to go the whole way. It’s a lifetime commitment.”

“
Greg, I want to marry you.” She smiled. “I have no doubts.” Then the smile faded. “Do you?”

“
I was talking about becoming the Keepers. We can still get married, but let someone else carry that burden.” Not everything that came from Branger’s vault and computer had been turned over to the authorities. In the future, the Keepers’ duty would be to protect this new evidence in case the union ever resurrected itself. “You ran from the Society all your life. Are you sure?”

“
I ran from something I didn’t understand. Now I know.” She took his hands and lifted until their elbows rested on the table. Then she leaned forward and kissed the backside of his hand. “I want to be the Keepers. If the union comes back, I want to know where I can get my hands on the wooden stake and the silver bullets.”

She held his eyes. “Besides, fighting the union seems to be our fate.”

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Tempest at Dawn
by James D. Best

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.