David Wood, Edward G. Talbot
Liberty
PROLOGUE: September 16, 1787
In deference to Benjamin Franklin’s failing health, the meeting was held on the first floor. Franklin knew it made more sense to have it in a basement or tucked away on an upper floor, but he could not have reached those places under his own power. The men who usually carried his sedan chair to the Constitutional Convention could know nothing of tonight’s meeting.
In truth, Franklin harbored his own doubts about the wisdom of the clandestine palaver. He wanted Randolph, Gerry and Mason to sign the final document, but was it worth putting the whole endeavor at risk just to make that happen? Forget the substance of the meeting, which was inflammatory enough. A back room deal before the ink was dry on the document was no way to launch a nation.
In the end, pushed by Madison and Randolph, he had acquiesced. Now here they sat, listening to William Jackson, the Secretary, outline the broad strokes. Alexander Hamilton, whom Franklin thought the most likely to queer the deal, interrupted.
“I agreed to listen, but I fail to see how the nation can move forward with this provision holding us back. We’ll see war between states in no more than five decades.”
“That is where you have it wrong.” Edmund Randolph wagged his finger like a disapproving schoolteacher. “You have fought against the states having enough power, but without something written to protect them war will be their only recourse.”
Franklin knew that Randolph was the closest of the three holdouts to signing and would embrace the compromise. George Mason and Elbridge Gerry were less predictable, but Mason now spoke in defense of his fellow Virginian.
“This is not how I would choose to move forward. But it does provide a check on the tendency of federal government to embrace tyranny. The battle for the delineation of rights will be fought in the states regardless of what we do here. Therefore, I will sign.”
Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts, one of the most eloquent of the anti-federalists, was uncharacteristically succinct. “I will sign. But if this gains the three of us, who will we lose?”
A damn fine question, thought Franklin. James Madison, small in stature but the most influential voice these last months in Philadelphia, answered.
“We will lose no one. None of the federalists will abandon us over this change.”
All eyes turned to Hamilton. Franklin agreed with Madison, except that he knew the retention of votes depended on Hamilton. If the New Yorker stirred up opposition, the whole endeavor would collapse.
Hamilton stood without a word, grabbed a quill from Jackson, and began signing the copies of the document. As he completed each one, he passed it to Franklin, who signed each one with rather less rapidity than Hamilton. Normally the order of signature on something like this was a topic for negotiation, but Franklin had anticipated little concern for the issue tonight. Still, he was unsurprised to see Hamilton take preemptive action.
When each document had six signatures affixed, Jackson added his own at the bottom. As he lifted his quill a final time, he looked up the other men.
“Shall I contact the printer?”
Nods formed the response, with Hamilton taking longer than the other to deliver his. Then the men rose, Franklin making his face a mask against the exertion required to stand. They left through different exits and not all at once, which Franklin found silly given that the delegates would find out about the agreement in the morning.
Franklin was the last to leave, sighing in relief when he spotted his coach parked nearby. As he leaned on his cane and shuffled in that direction, a figure emerged from the shadows.
“May I join you?”
Franklin nodded and then climbed into the carriage with the help of his driver. Edmund Randolph followed. When they were seated, Franklin shook off his fatigue.
“You are concerned about Hamilton.”
Randolph’s face tightened. “And you are not?”
“Yes. And no. He knows that whatever comes out of this meeting will be watered down in the states. He also knows that more time is likely to move us further away from the robust executive branch he wants. Whatever he does, it won’t jeopardize our ability to sign a document this week.”
Randolph nodded. “Probably true. How do you think history will record what we did tonight?”
“I confess, Edmund, I know not.”
“Nor do I. However, I believe that regardless of what happens it should be recorded in some way.”
Franklin sighed. “The hour is late, my bones are weary, and my age is advanced. You obviously have a suggestion. Pray share it with me.”
Randolph spoke for nearly five minutes. Franklin had to admit that the man had thought through nearly every contingency. Franklin asked several questions and concluded that the plan was fundamentally sound.
He did worry about how their information might be used if circumstances conspired to render Randolph’s plan necessary. So he held back one or two ideas of his own, ideas which could help blunt the potential damage of discovery by someone with less than pure motives. He would need the help of his grandson as well as his executor.
The coach stopped to disgorge Randolph before continuing on to Franklin’s residence. Franklin hardly noticed, allowing his mind to ponder the chosen course of action. A smile crept onto his lips when he thought of one particular aspect of it, and he chastised himself for a lack of humility. In many ways he considered humility the most important of the thirteen virtues he extolled, although he often failed live up to his ideal. In any case, it was a clever idea.
If the worst happened and the agreement collapsed tomorrow, to keep the document secret he would have to hide it in plain sight.
Behind enemy lines was wholly inadequate to describe the position in which Richard Bunyan found himself as his pocket watch ticked past two in the morning. At first glance, every shadow seemed to be a Confederate soldier lying in wait. He reminded himself that when a nation tears itself apart in war, everyone and no one is the enemy.
Tonight he had the honor of accompanying Josiah Hawthorne on a mission which could change the course of the war and the country. His job was to help protect Hawthorne and the document he carried, and Bunyan intended to do the job or die trying.
Six months ago he had served in the infantry in the United States Army. Three months ago on his twenty-fifth birthday, two things had happened. First, he had suffered a bayonet wound in his left leg. The injury had occurred during a skirmish so minor that no newspaper reported it, but it was significant for Bunyan. The injury meant a discharge and a return home.
The day after arriving home, Bunyan’s great uncle invited him to a gathering of what the man called “Patriots of the Republic.” With his wound already healing fast and nothing better to do, Bunyan went along. There he met Josiah Hawthorne, who took little time in corralling the younger man.
“Are you glad to be out of the Army?”
“No, sir!” Bunyan had replied.
Hawthorne had chuckled. “You should be. I could use a man like you, fresh from combat. That is, if you’re interested in really making a difference in the war and setting our great nation back on course.”
The three months since then seemed a whirlwind with the sole purpose of directing him to this moment.
Now, as they moved through the darkness, the damp night air raising chill bumps on his exposed flesh, he could just make out Hawthorne on the horse a few feet in front of him, holding up his hand to indicate a stop.
“What is it, Mr. Hawthorne?” he whispered.
“How many times have I told you to call me Josiah? The kind of work we’re about tonight has no room for formality. We’re almost there.”