Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8 Page 9

  What great secrets had the Americans learned that had driven them to the absurdity of defying Mother England? What thoughts, what principles, had become common to all of them and were so dearly held that they were willing to risk everything—even blood and suffering—to possess and maintain them?

  Matthew felt the rise in his heart as the answers came.

  Nature, and the Almighty, intended men, no matter their talents or intellect, to be equal in the one fundamental on which all else finally comes to rest: no man has the right of dominion over another. The world, both political and social, was meant to be governed by natural laws as certain as those that govern the physical world, and those natural laws are unalienable and essential to meaningful existence. The three basic natural laws are: the right to life, the right to enjoy individual liberty, and the right to own property acquired by honest industry. The purpose of government is to ensure men the enjoyment of these natural rights. Such a government must be built on a framework of morality and goodness and repudiate evil. Natural law requires that that government be plain, simple, limited, constitutional, and kept as near the people as possible. The essence of government is trust, by which those who are chosen to govern never forget they are servants, not masters. And always, always, the citizenry must remember that nothing corrupts men more readily and completely than the taste and touch of political power.

  Seconds passed before Matthew carefully reduced the whole of it to its simplest elements. It’s all here—a land so huge and rich it sets men dreaming wild dreams; a people who cherish liberty; and a convocation of wise men who understand the true principles of government, gathered now to make it all come together as a nation.

  Then he framed the fearful question. Can they do it? The north and the south? The large and the small? Can they? Can they? Despite the monarchs in Europe, who predict failure?

  He took a deep breath and felt the frustration of not knowing and spoke softly to himself as he stood. “Well, today we start. We’ll know before long.” He put on his robe and slippers, gathered his soap and washcloth, razor and strop, and softly walked down the hall to the washroom.

  The house was filled with the aroma of scrambled eggs mixed with great chunks of diced ham and hot chocolate and warm bread. At eight o’clock all ten guests were at the table with heads bowed while one said grace, and the bowls and pitchers and platters began their rounds. Excited talk flowed, marveling about the gathering of famous men at the Statehouse, anxiously speculating about the shape and powers of the government they would create, and fearing the divisions and differences between northern and southern, and the big and small states, might disembowel the entire process. Matthew finished his breakfast first, complimented Mother Asher on her splendid victuals, asked to be excused, and quickly climbed the stairs to his room. One minute later he came rapidly back down with a large packet of papers under his arm and his tricorn on his head. He paused to nod briefly to those still in the dining room and was out the door.

  The air was still and warm and filled with the sweet scent of fruit trees and tulips and roses in full bloom. The streets were alive with color and sound and movement as Matthew pushed through the front gate, hurried to the intersection, and turned east onto Market Street. Overhead, swallows did their morning pirouettes beneath a cloudless, sunlit sky in pursuit of tiny, invisible flying things. Robins stood like statues inside the fenced yards, heads cocked and turned sideways, somehow knowing an earthworm was moving just beneath the grassy surface. Then came the blurred strike, the pointed beak driving down, the rearing back, and the battle between the robin stretching the earthworm upward while it struggled to cling to Mother Earth, and to life. One would win, and one would lose, and the eternal cycle would go on.

  Matthew moved east on Market toward the heart of the city, which reached from Tenth Street eastward to the wharves on the Delaware River. In his years as a navigator, and then part owner of the Dunson & Weems Shipping Company, he had docked ships on the Philadelphia waterfront many times and walked the city streets to the plush offices of banks and corporations in the financial district, always preoccupied with the business at hand, seldom noticing the wonders about him.

  But not today. Today he was seeing the city as though for the first time. He walked with every nerve alive, watching in the heavy bustle of pedestrian and carriage traffic to catch a glimpse of any of the seventy-four men who were to assemble at the Statehouse at nine o’clock. He knew well the narrow, crooked, winding streets of Boston and New York and Charleston and Savannah, and now he marveled at the wide, level streets laid out in a square grid by Philadelphia’s founding fathers, who had named the streets running east to west and numbered those running north to south. With rare insight and vision they had arranged the wharves and docks of the Delaware River on the east side of town to be easily accessible to the merchants, and then had done all in their power to promote their city as the American hub of worldwide commerce. The result was waterfront docks stacked high with goods from ports around the civilized world: silks from India and China, woollens from Ireland, silverware from workshops in England, cutlery from Solingen, Germany, and Sheffield, England, teas and herbs from Canton, China, porcelains and art from Italy, wines from France. They early saw the potential of the printing press, and now ten newspapers—more than in any other American city—scrambled to print the more sensational news of the day, including natural disasters, funerals, sales of every imaginable product that might be desired by Philadelphian housewives, marriages, political harangues, editorials on morality, preachments by local ministers, advertisements for meetings, performances at the opera houses, and the goings-on at the Indian Queen, the sumptuous hotel-restaurant on Fourth Street near Market that was the unofficial clearing house for just about everybody and everything occurring in Philadelphia. Matthew glanced upward at the street intersections to admire the posts with lamps at the top that kept the streets lighted at night, while constables walked their beats to maintain peace and security.

  Only too well had Matthew studied the leading citizenry of the city, which proudly claimed the world-renowned Doctor Benjamin Franklin as her own, as well as Robert Morris, the richest man in the United States, Doctor Benjamin Rush of medical and political fame, Charles Willson Peale who had captured the men and the most memorable events of the Revolution with his paintings, oils on canvas, and David Rittenhouse, who had invented his own telescope to survey and settle ancient boundary disputes. As Matthew walked in the warmth of the morning sun, amidst the cleanliness and orderliness of the streets and felt the spirit of the city, he understood why it had been chosen for the gathering of men that were expected to construct a nation. The cultural, intellectual, financial, social, scientific, and political leader among all major cities in the United States, it was here the rebellious colonies had declared their independence in July of 1776, and it was here, in the same assembly hall eleven torturous years later, they would finish the work they had begun.

  He had just reached Sixth Street when he saw a crowd gathering one block south, to his right, toward the Statehouse. He stood tall for a moment, peering, then strode hurriedly on Sixth Street to Chestnut and was entering the intersection when he saw four wagons in the street with bareheaded men in coarse clothing standing in the huge wagon boxes, feet braced as they shoveled loose brown dirt over the high sides of the wagons while the drivers held the four-horse teams back, moving the wagons slowly as the dirt piled in the street. On the cobblestones, twelve men moved slowly with the wagons, spreading the dirt evenly, eight inches deep. Matthew stopped in disbelief, then walked on until he reached the first bearded man working with a shovel, sweating, intent on making an even spread.

  Matthew asked, “Dirt? In the streets? What’s the purpose?”

  The man stopped long enough to wipe perspiration from his forehead onto his shirtsleeve.“If I been asked that once this mornin’ I been asked a hunnerd times.” He grinned. “About nine o’clock the convention starts right over there in that building.�
�� He pointed. “Those gennelmen is supposed to fix the gov’ment, and a few of us got orders that they aren’t to be disturbed. We was told to spread dirt in the streets around the buildin’ to stop the noise of all the buggies and wagons and such, and all the people who’re gonna be dead set on gettin’ as close as they kin to what’s goin’ on over there.” He stopped and once again wiped at the sweat, then pointed at the old Independence Hall, now renamed the Statehouse, and continued. “Over there, about noon, they’ll have a passel of constables with orders to watch ever’body that stops to take a look. Well, after they had one look, them constables will tell ’em to keep movin’. They don’t want nobody interruptin’ those proceedin’s.” The man spat into the dirt, wiped at his beard, and bobbed his head at Matthew. “Anyway, that’s why we’re spreadin’ dirt.”

  Matthew shook his head in amazement. “I never would have guessed.”

  The man chuckled and gestured to the other crews. “Funny thing. Me’n the others spend most of our time keepin’ the streets in this fair city clean. Feels right confusin’, sweepin’ ’em clean one day and throwin’ dirt on ’em the next.” He shrugged. “But isn’t that the way of it? Undoin’ one day what you done the day before?”

  Matthew smiled back at him. “That’s the way of it.”

  The man winked and resumed spreading the dirt, moving the high places to the low, while Matthew looked at his pocket watch— 8:33 a.m.—and walked on toward the Statehouse. He slowed as he approached, studying the simple, classic lines of the square, two-storied structure and took his place in the loose line of those entering the building. He was conscious of a sense of excited anticipation as he passed through the door, and he stepped to one side for a moment while his eyes adjusted from the bright morning sunlight to the lesser light in the interior of the building.

  The entry and the hallways were filled with men, some gathered in clusters talking, gesturing, others striding rapidly to disappear through doors, or into the moving, milling crowd. Voices and clicking heels echoed off the stone walls and granite floor, and resounded from the high ceiling. Five lawyers clad in black robes and powdered white wigs, with large, leatherbound books clutched beneath one arm made their way through the throng to pass between large columns and high arches into an austere courtroom with an oak bench elevated at one end. Before the bench were two heavy, dark tables and chairs. One side of the room was sectioned behind a banister with chairs for a jury, the other side for spectators. It was here the three judges, clad in distinctive scarlet robes, conducted the business of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court, and Court was in session.

  Matthew stood still for a time, scanning faces, searching for those who would be gathering in the large hall on the east side of the building, opposite the Supreme Court.

  There were none.

  He walked on to a broad cross-aisle and turned east to the chamber where the Constitutional Convention was to convene in less than fifteen minutes. A man stood at the locked door, stocky, formidable, silently watching everyone who approached or passed. Matthew stopped, facing the man, who coolly measured Matthew as Matthew spoke.

  “Sir, I understood the Grand Convention was to convene this morning.”

  The man’s voice was firm. “That is correct, sir. In about twelve minutes.”

  Matthew gestured. “Are some of the delegates inside?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are they meeting at some other place before coming here?”

  “That I do not know, sir. Earlier I saw members of the Virginia delegation, and most of the Pennsylvania delegation, but no others. They must enter through this door, so I can check their credentials. Only delegates can enter, and none have done so yet.”

  Matthew asked, “You are the doorman for the convention?”

  “Yes, sir. Once I’m officially appointed.”

  Matthew thrust out his hand. “I am Matthew Dunson, of Boston. I’m here to follow the proceedings.”

  The man, shorter and older than Matthew, grasped his hand. “I am Joseph Fry. I’m here to help if I can.”

  “Thank you. Did you mention that none of the delegates have arrived? None? No one?”

  “I don’t know if they’ve arrived in Philadelphia. I only know they have not arrived here, at this door.”

  “Is it all right if I stand nearby?”

  “Yes.”

  Matthew nodded and stepped to one side, close to the wall, away from those in the broad hallway, where he stood bewildered, searching for an explanation that would not come. A sudden quiet near the building entrance held for a few seconds, followed by a great, spontaneous outburst of voices that brought him up short, and he raised his head, searching. For a time he could see only a crowd of men gathered and moving slowly toward him, and then he saw one head above the others, and recognition struck. The gray hair caught behind the head, the large Roman nose, the set of the chin—he was looking at Citizen George Washington of the Virginia delegation. Matthew remained where he was as those gathered about the Virginians opened a path, and the delegation moved steadily toward the entrance into the east hall. Relief flooded through Matthew as they approached, and he studied their faces, their build, their dress, identifying each in turn. George Washington, John Blair, George Mason, George Wythe, and James McClurg. Two were missing, and it was not until they were abreast of him that he saw the diminutive James Madison in the mix, nearly hidden on the far side of George Washington, who towered over him. It was Madison, the smallest among them, who carried a thick leather case. There was still one missing—Governor Edmund Randolph—and Matthew strained to find him in the crowd, but he was not there. The delegation stopped before Joseph Fry and each produced a paper. Fry read each in turn, nodded, opened the door and held it while six of the Virginia delegation entered the chamber before he closed it.

  The crowd clustered in the hall remained for a time, excited, pointing, exclaiming, and then began to move away in twos and threes, and the echoing talk subsided. Matthew drew and slowly released a great breath. It’s begun. The General is here. Madison is here. And Mason and Wythe. Randolph—where’s Randolph? And the delegates from the other states? Where are they? He drew his watch from his vest pocket and studied the delicate hands. Ten minutes past nine. And only one state represented. What’s happened?

  With growing concern he remained where he was, near the wall, not far from the door into the Convention chamber, waiting, watching, listening. At nine-forty, without fanfare or notice, five more men presented their credentials at the door, and Matthew studied them carefully. Thomas Mifflin, George Clymer, Thomas Fitzsimmons, James Wilson, and Jared Ingersoll, all of Pennsylvania.

  Matthew’s breathing slowed. The Pennsylvania delegation. Only five out of eight. Where are the other three? Franklin, and Robert Morris and Gouverneur Morris? Critical to the convention—where are they? By ten minutes past ten o’clock, another delegate had been cleared and given entrance, John Dickinson of Delaware. Matthew stood with teeth set, mouth a straight line. Two states with a majority of their delegates—enough to be recognized. Virginia and Pennsylvania. One state with one man. Ten states with no one here. Not one delegate. What’s happening? What’s happening?

  He remained where he was with dark forebodings growing steadily. He was unable to find, or invent, an explanation, a reason, why ten states had failed to have even one of their delegates present, and one other had failed to have a quorum. Had they misunderstood? How? How could they misunderstand the letters from Madison and Hamilton? How could they fail to see that this convention was the final desperate hope for the United States? Some of the greatest men on the face of the earth—Washington, Franklin, Morris, Mason, Randolph, Pinckney, Gorham, Wythe, Rutledge, and others—knew! Either this convention succeeds, or the last great hope for America, and the world, is doomed! What had gone wrong?

  Matthew paced, and waited.

  It was just past eleven o’clock when the door into the chamber rattled, and then opened. Matthew turned and stood, braced, not b
reathing, watching the delegates file out. Thomas Mifflin and Jared Ingersol of Pennsylvania led, with George Clymer and James Wilson following, and the others bunched behind. Their faces were set, void of expression, as they passed into the broad corridor, speaking only rarely to each other, while the late-morning hall traffic slowed to watch and point and exclaim.

  Shock hit Matthew and he stood transfixed, numb as he watched them pass. General Washington, toward the rear with James Madison, was less than six feet from him when Matthew forced some semblance of reason to his scattered thoughts.

  Is it over? With ten states making no showing of any kind, did they decide it was hopeless? A waste? Have they adjourned sine die?

  He fell in behind the group and followed them out the large front doors of the building into the bright sunlight, and came in beside James Madison, stride for stride. Madison glanced at him, and Matthew exclaimed, “Sir, I am Matthew Dunson of the Committee of Merchants in Boston. We’ve exchanged correspondence.”