Together they had defeated the most powerful nation on earth. From thirteen wildly different colonies they had forged a country united by a common and enlightened belief in the rights of man and the role of government. Never again would they take up arms for so noble a cause. The eyes of history had been upon them and they had acquitted themselves with honor.
It was a sentimental farewell.
Two hundred twenty-odd years later, the room had been re-created from top to bottom on the second floor of a Virginia country estate. From the aged wood floor to the chiffon yellow paint. From the wood-burning fireplace to the Quaker chairs, everything was as it had been that night. Even the table was said to be a replica of the one Washington had sat at that momentous evening, when one after another he had shaken his loyal officers’ hands and bid them a tearful good-bye.
“Has there been any change?” asked Mr. Washington. “Is she willing to join our ranks?”
“None,” said Mr. Jay. “Senator McCoy refuses to reconsider. The woman is as stubborn as a deaf mule.”
“But it’s not a matter of choice,” said Mr. Hamilton, his cheeks reddening. “It’s an obligation. A God-given duty.”
“You tell her that,” said Mr. Pendleton. “She’s made a career telling people like us to go to hell. For some reason, the voters seem to like her for it.”
Six men sat round the table. It was a tradition for each to take the name of one of the six founders. Oil portraits of their namesakes hung on the wall, staring down at them like moody ancestors. George Washington. Alexander Hamilton. John Jay, first chief justice of the Supreme Court. Robert Morris, the gentleman financier who had paid for much of the Continental Army’s rifle and grapeshot out of his own silk-lined pockets. Senator Rufus King of New York. And Nathaniel Pendleton, distinguished jurist and Alexander Hamilton’s closest friend.
“Does she really know who ‘people like us’ are?” asked Mr. King. “I’m wondering if you made yourself sufficiently clear.”
“As clear as I can until she joins us,” said Mr. Jay. “There’s only so much we can tell her without jeopardizing our position.”
“It’s the same approach you made to me,” said Mr. Washington. He was a tall and distinguished man with thick silver hair, the envy of other sixty-year-olds, and an inquisitor’s black gaze. “Most people would take it as an honor. That isn’t the problem. She’s made her name as a renegade. It’s what got her elected. To join with us would go against everything she stands for.”
“And if she doesn’t join?” asked Pendleton.
“She will,” said Mr. King hopefully. “She must.”
Mr. Pendleton dismissed the younger man’s idealism with a grunt. “And if she doesn’t?” he repeated.
When no one answered, he looked toward a glass cabinet in the corner. Inside were relics left them by their predecessors. A locket of Hamilton’s hair, the color of honey. A splinter from Washington’s casket (obtained by an earlier member when the Father of His Country was disinterred and reburied at Mount Vernon). A Bible belonging to Abraham Lincoln. Like him, they had been realists, wedded to the possible.
“It’s symptomatic of the times,” said Mr. Jay. “The people aren’t used to their government stirring things up. They like America to settle things down. To put out fires, not start them. Senator McCoy looks at us and believes that we’ve caused the problems.”
Mr. Washington nodded. “Two oceans don’t separate us from the rest of the world like they used to. If we want to protect our interests, we have to act, not react. God didn’t put us on this map to bow and scrape at the hem of every second-rate dictator.”
“Not problems,” said Mr. Pendleton. “Opportunities. For once, we’re in a position to shape the world in our image. It’s a question of manifest destiny. It’s time we make the most of it.”
“ ‘You are the light of the world, a city set on a hill cannot be hid,’ ” said Mr. King. A journalist and historian, he had written a Pulitzer prize-winning biography of John Winthrop. At forty, he was the youngest of the group, or the Committee, as they called themselves. Only one man in their history had been younger: Alexander Hamilton, who had founded the club in 1793 at the age of thirty-eight.
“How much does she know?” asked Mr. Pendleton. “Any names? Any specifics? Did you get around to discussing any of our initiatives?”
The mood in the room changed as dramatically as a shift in the wind. The yardarm had swung from reconciliation to confrontation.
“Nothing specific,” said Mr. Jay, pushing his horn-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his nose. He was a short man, and rotund, sparse white hair crowning a pinched, sour face. “But she knows we exist and, I would gather, that I’m a member. I assured her that we view ourselves as being entirely at the President’s disposal. To help out in those times when extraordinary actions are needed. Actions best not mentioned to the public.”
“Wasn’t she curious?” asked Mr. King. “I mean, didn’t she want to know who exactly we were? What we’ve done in the past?”
“Make no mistake, Mrs. McCoy was curious. I talked to her about a few things we’d helped out with. The Jay Treaty.”
“Did you tell her everything?” Mr. King appeared shocked at the prospect.
“What I didn’t tell her, I let her guess. She’s a smart woman.”
Mr. King exhaled slowly. In their history, only one President had refused to join. John Adams. But then, he was a President in name only. While he closeted himself away in Braintree, Alexander Hamilton was pulling all the strings, through his close friends in Adams’s cabinet. Mr. King’s palms grew moist and clammy. The entire state of affairs made him more than a little uncomfortable. He was a journalist. It was one thing to report on momentous events. It was another to bring them to pass.
On the desk in front of him lay an aged, leather-bound volume in which the minutes of each meeting were recorded. The newest member of the club, King had inherited the job of “secretary.” It fell to him to faithfully continue the record. He had studied the minutes-in this volume, and in the five others that preceded it-with an interest bordering on the feverish.
The Jay Treaty. Yes, he thought, it was the only place to begin.
In the summer of 1795, the country was in an uproar. America was caught between its allegiance to France-its ally in the war for independence, and itself in the throes of a wild and violent democratic revolution-and its hatred of England, which had reneged on many of the main points of the Paris treaty signed twelve years earlier. Britain had brazenly boarded over 250 U.S. merchantmen in the past year, seizing their cargoes and impressing their sailors. (“Impressment” was the practice of forcing captured seamen into the service of one’s own military-in this case, the British navy.) British ships had even been so arrogant as to station themselves in a picket at the mouth of New York Harbor and had seized four ships in a single day. Up and down the Eastern seaboard, there were calls for war with Britain. Riots broke out in Philadelphia and New York. The country was aflame with patriotic fervor.
Hoping to quell the dispute between the two nations, George Washington had sent John Jay, recently retired from his post as the first chief justice of the Supreme Court, to England. The treaty he negotiated reconfirmed an alliance between England and the United States, but was viewed by many as traitorous because it failed to force Britain to repay the debts it had earlier promised. Angry voices claimed the Jay Treaty returned the United States to its role as subordinate to England and that the United States might as well be a colony all over again with George III its king.
The issue was discussed during a meeting held in June of 1795.
June 12, 1795
Present: General Washington, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Jay, Mr. Morris, Mr. Pendleton, Mr. King.