Mr. Hamilton states that signature of the Jay Treaty is a necessity and of paramount concern to the Union. Friendship and trade with Britain are crucial to the country’s growth as an economic power and to its future strategic position.
General Washington concurs. War with Britain is certain should he not sign the treaty.
Mr. Morris dissents, stating that Britain must be forced to live up to its obligations as specified in the Treaty of Paris. He notes that he personally is owed over fifty thousand dollars for impressed goods.
Mr. Hamilton points out that fifty thousand dollars is a “trifle.” War with Britain will cut off the English market for American goods and restrict import of raw materials. The resulting economic hardships will divide the country between manufacturing and agrarian interests. The Union will not survive.
Mr. Pendleton believes that Mr. X, publisher of the Philadelphia Tribune, is the main impediment to ratification.
Mr. Hamilton concurs. Mr. Fox is a rabble-rouser who plays to the base instincts of the crowd for his own aggrandizement. His charisma is sufficient to ensure a widespread rebellion should the President sign the treaty.
General Washington promises to speak with him to express the urgency of the country’s plight. A report is promised for the next meeting.
The next meeting, held on June 19, 1795, summarized the outcome.
June 19, 1795
Present: General Washington, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Morris, Mr. Jay, Mr. King, Mr. Pendleton.
General Washington reports that his conversation with Mr. Fox was fruitless. Further, Mr. Fox promised to amplify calls for insurrection should he (General Washington) sign the bill.
General Washington states his growing conviction that his failure to sign the treaty will result in open warfare with Britain.
It is agreed that unless Mr. Fox is removed from his position of prominence, the future of the nation is at risk.
Mr. Hamilton proposes that grave measures be taken.
The vote is unanimous in favor.
Grave measures.
And then a chilling entry, three weeks afterward:
A prayer is offered on behalf of Mr. Elias Fox, killed this past Wednesday by “highwaymen” while returning to his home from the City Tavern.
Mr. King drummed his fingers on the ledger. The smell of old leather drifted to him, as intoxicating as Kentucky bourbon… these ledgers… The True History of the United States.
Washington signed the Jay Treaty later that July of 1795. The House voted funds for its enforcement by the barest of margins, 51-49. The United States had staked its prosperity on the strength of the British fleet. It was a wise decision. In the next eighteen years, the country’s landmass grew twentyfold, with the acquisition of Louisiana and lands west of the Mississippi. Manufacturing capability tripled. Population grew by fifty percent. More important, five elections had passed. The country had a history to bind it. When war with Britain arrived in 1812, America fought as a unified populace, and earned a stalemate against a far stronger country.
A silence had settled over the Long Room. The men traded glances, none liking what he read in the others’ faces. Finally, Mr. Washington looked to Mr. Pendleton. “And Crown?”
“The plan’s been drawn up. It’s a matter of moving everyone into place. I need the go-ahead to complete the arrangements.”
“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Jay. “It’s a rule never to interfere in elections. General Washington expressly stated that-”
“The election’s over,” said Mr. Pendleton, slapping an open palm onto the table. “The people have chosen.”
“We can’t afford to wait eight years to continue,” agreed Mr. Hamilton.
“Eight years,” said Mr. Morris, with a glance toward Mr. Jay. “That’s a damn long time to keep in the shadows. You yourself said she was curious. What if she decides to look into our past? It would be just like her to try and unmask us. Another of her crusades.”
“There are still two days until the ceremony,” said Mr. Washington. “I have a courtesy meeting with Senator McCoy tomorrow. Show her around her new living quarters and all that. I’m sure we can find a few minutes alone.”
“And in the meantime?” asked Mr. Pendleton. “This matter can’t wait any longer.”
“In the meantime, we vote.” Mr. Washington placed his palms on the table and stood. He spent a moment looking at each man. It was not necessary to state the motion. “All in favor?”
One by one, the men seated around the table raised their hands. For a sanction to be binding, it had to be unanimous. Mr. King hesitated, then lifted his hand into the air. When it was his turn, Mr. Washington did the same. The sleeve of his gray blazer fell to reveal a round cuff link emblazoned with the seal of President of the United States.
“The decision carries. Mr. Pendleton, you have the green light to make the necessary arrangements. But nothing happens until I let you know. I suggest we reconvene tomorrow evening.” He added, “We owe it to ourselves to make that last approach. Some people believe this office still carries a bit of power with it. If I can’t convince her…” A sad look darkened his face.
No one spoke.
The Patriots Club stood adjourned.
6
“Head down,” ordered Wolf.
The car jerked to a halt. The door opened. A palm on Bolden’s head guided him out the door. An iron hand gripped his arm and led him inside a building, his shoulder colliding with something… a wall, a door. Objects littered the floor. Several times he tripped, hearing the clatter of wood or the clank of a pipe rolling across concrete. They stopped suddenly. A grate slid open. A hand pushed him inside a confined space. Wolf and Irish crowded in next to him. The grate banged closed. For ten seconds, the elevator whirred upward. His ears popped. The doors opened. The hand guided him forward. He smelled fresh paint, glue, sawdust. Another door opened, this time quietly. Carpet ran beneath his feet. A hand gripped his shoulder, turning him ninety degrees to the right, then shoved him against a wall.
“Wait here,” said Irish.
Bolden stood still, his heart pounding. The hood was tight and cloying, the coarse filaments brushing his lips, getting into his mouth. Someone entered the room. He could feel the change in pressure, a presence circling him, sizing him up as if he were a slab of beef. Reflexively, he stood at attention.
“Mr. Bolden, my name is Guilfoyle. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. All I can say is that it’s necessary for us to speak and we can’t have anyone being privy to our conversation. Wolf, take off that hood, will you? Mr. Bolden must be getting a little uncomfortable.”
Wolf removed the hood.
“So, here’s our gadfly,” said Guilfoyle. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
He was a short, unattractive man in his fifties with narrow shoulders and a hunched posture. His thinning black hair grew in a widow’s peak that he combed away from a lined brow. His eyes were dark, cupped by fleshy pouches, his skin sallow, cheeks sagging, a turkey’s dangling chin. The smell of tobacco hung on him like a cloud.
“Come with me.” Guilfoyle led the way into another room. The décor was suited for a clerk or other menial labor: cheap carpeting, white walls, acoustic tiles on the ceiling. A veneer desk sat in the center of the room, along with two office chairs. There were no windows. “Take a seat.”
Bolden sat down.
Guilfoyle dragged the other chair closer. Sitting, he craned his neck forward, his eyes riveted to Bolden’s face. Mouth tight, lips pushed up at the corners, he looked as if he were studying a painting he didn’t like.