Being George Washington (27 page)

And then there were the other personal and professional commitments he had made for the time during which the convention was scheduled. It was all just too much.

George Washington signed his name to the letter and put his pen away. It was time for others to lead.

April 5, 1787

Mount Vernon

The last three months had been torturous. Washington’s decision to not attend the upcoming convention had weighed on him daily. When he was able to forget about it for a moment, others were none to happy to remind him.

But it wasn’t just the gentle prodding of friends that had forced him to rethink his position; he also saw what was happening to his country. Shays’s Rebellion—in which the Massachusetts legislature had almost
been overthrown—was a startling reminder of just how fast a spark of anarchy could ignite the entire country. The Articles of Confederation were far too weak and, Washington knew, it was only a matter of time before a crisis would eventually tear them apart.

“I won’t do it! I just won’t do it, Martha!”

“Yes, George,” Martha Washington answered very quietly and calmly, not even looking up from her knitting. The world rarely saw her husband’s great passions bursting forth, but he was comfortable enough with her that he allowed her to see the person he really was.

“Look at me! Just look at me! My arm in a sling from this blasted rheumatism! I’m in no shape to travel. And who would run this place? Lund? Why it would all finally go to rack-and-ruin!”

He was speaking of his cousin, Lund Washington, his estate’s overseer. Martha might have reminded her husband that she and Lund had operated Mount Vernon together for eight years during his wartime absence—and the building they now conversed in had not fallen down even once in that whole time. Nonetheless, she maintained a discreet silence on the subject and instead played to her husband’s strength. “You are certainly right about not having to go if you don’t want to—you
have
done enough.”

“Yes, exactly, Martha. That’s what I’ve been saying!”

And so their conversation, if one might call it that, ended, with Martha excusing herself, leaving George alone to continue his fuming.

Martha ducked into the servants’ quarters and found her husband’s manservant Billy Lee in the kitchen, carving slices of ham. In a low voice, the tiny woman ordered him: “William, start thinking about packing Master Washington’s trunks—for a long trip—and yours as well, of course.”

“Yes, Miz Washington. Where are we going to?”

“Philadelphia, William.”

Lee looked quizzically at Martha.

“Does General Washington know he’s going to Philadelphia, Miz Washington?”

“Not yet, William—but he will.”

Lee bowed and was about to leave when he turned back to face her. “Miz Washington, I believe everyone in the country—
except the
general
—knows he’s going to Philadelphia. I started packing his trunks two weeks ago.”

May 13, 1787

Mrs. Whitby’s Inn

Chester, Pennsylvania

George Washington was enjoying a pleasant lunch with old acquaintances from his army days, including Henry Knox, when the clatter of horses interrupted their discussion about their past triumphs and the challenges posed by the Constitutional Convention, which Washington would soon join.

It was the Philadelphia Light Horse, resplendent in their brilliant white breeches and dark, plumed hats. In 1775, this unit had escorted Washington from Philadelphia to Boston to assume command of the new Continental Army. On this afternoon, however, these cavalrymen would escort his coach twenty miles north to Philadelphia. He had hoped to be just another delegate (he was, after all, not even chair of the Virginia delegation) and to share modest quarters at a Market Street boardinghouse with James Madison, but this splendid greeting was a clue that his wish was not going to be granted.

Despite threatening skies, the whole city turned out to cheer Washington’s arrival in Philadelphia, a thirteen-gun salute ensuring that even those in the surrounding areas would be aware of the celebration. Every steeple bell (and the city had so many that visitors thought it downright “papist”) clanged its praises. The banker, Robert Morris, “the Financier of the American Revolution,” eagerly descended upon Washington and demanded that he forgo the boardinghouse and instead reside with him at his magnificent newly built mansion.

It was a welcome worthy of a king on coronation day. And, if many citizens had their way, that’s exactly what George Washington would soon be.

June 27, 1787

State House

Philadelphia

Benjamin Franklin wanted the floor.

He was never one to say much, and he said even less than usual during this convention. He was eighty-one years old and had to be transported about the city in an ornate, French-made, glass-enclosed sedan chair, carried upon the shoulders of four convicts from the Walnut Street Jail.

But today, because things were not going well at all at this Constitutional Convention, he spoke. And what the old freethinker said surprised everyone:

In this situation of this Assembly, groping as it were in the dark to find political truth, and scarce able to distinguish it when presented to us, how has it happened, Sir, that we have not hitherto once thought of humbly applying to the Father of lights to illuminate our understandings?

In the beginning of the Contest with Great Britain, when we were sensible of danger we had daily prayer in this room for the divine protection. Our prayers, Sir, were heard, and they were graciously answered. All of us who were engaged in the struggle must have observed frequent instances of a Superintending providence in our favor. To that kind providence we owe this happy opportunity of consulting in peace on the means of establishing our future national felicity.

And have we now forgotten that powerful friend?

I have lived, Sir, a long time, and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth—that God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid?

We have been assured, Sir, in the sacred writings, that “except the Lord build the House they labour in vain that build it.” I firmly believe this; and I also believe that without his concurring aid we shall succeed in this political building no better than the Builders of Babel: We shall be divided by our little partial local interests; our projects will be confounded, and we ourselves shall become a reproach and bye word down to future
ages. And what is worse, mankind may hereafter from this unfortunate instance, despair of establishing Governments be Human Wisdom and leave it to chance, war and conquest.

I therefore beg leave to move, that henceforth prayers imploring the assistance of Heaven, and its blessings on our deliberations, be held in this Assembly every morning before we proceed to business, and that one or more of the Clergy of the City be requested to officiate in that service.

George Washington, now the presiding officer of this convention, beamed—but Alexander Hamilton did not. He told the delegates that he believed asking for this kind of “foreign aid,” as he so condescendingly put it, could reveal to the world just how poorly things were going.

Washington was not pleased at all by his protégé’s words. In some ways, he thought, young Hamilton still had much to learn. But in the end, it was not Hamilton’s objections that ruled the day; it was same dreadful finances that had plagued the old Confederation Congress: there was not a silver dime available for such purposes. Franklin’s motion failed.

Virginia governor Edmund Randolph quickly rose to propose that a “sermon be preached at the request of the convention on the 4th of July, the anniversary of Independence, and thence forward prayers be used in ye Convention every morning.” And that was done, with George Washington leading delegates to church on Race Street that Independence Day.

Prayer was now a part of this great constitutional enterprise. However, Washington also knew that prayer without action was a losing proposition.

So, he decided to give the convention a boost of his own.

Saturday, June 30, 1787

North of Philadelphia

It was not yet July, but Philadelphia was already hot as blazes. George Washington had asked Alexander Hamilton to set off with him on an early morning ride into the countryside to escape the heat and Hamilton had readily agreed.

But, perhaps to young Hamilton’s surprise, the weather was simply an excuse; what Washington was really looking for that day was a private place to speak with him.

“What a muddle this has become!” Hamilton exclaimed. “We are getting nowhere. We are a debating society that settles nothing. Big states at small states’ necks—and no one willing to give an inch! We made a good start, agreeing to junk those damned Articles—but now this! I might as well go home!”

“Why don’t you?” Washington responded, in a manner that seemed a little too matter-of-fact.

Hamilton knew his commander too well not to suspect something. He also knew better than to ask anything more than the basic questions. He simply nodded.

“When should I leave, General?”

“Immediately!” Washington replied. He pulled a packet from his satchel and handed it to Hamilton. “Don’t return to Philadelphia. Instead, ride to New York and present this to the secretary of the Continental Congress. Wait for his response—and return with it to me immediately.”

Hamilton just stared at him.

“Does that sound crazy, Colonel?”

“About as crazy as Trenton on Christmas Night, General.” With one hand on the reins and one on the whip, Hamilton galloped north toward New York City.

Sunday, July 1, 1787

City Tavern

Philadelphia

“General Washington, what are you doing here on the Sabbath?”

“Just running an errand, Colonel Few,” Washington answered, handing him a packet. “This arrived for you and Major Pierce. Odd that it was delivered to me, and not to you gentlemen directly.”

William Few, one of Georgia’s two delegates, tore the packet open. As he did, his fellow Georgia delegate, Major William Pierce, could not but help notice that Alexander Hamilton had accompanied Washington on
this visit. This was not unusual by itself, but Hamilton’s dust-covered appearance certainly was. The unshaven Hamilton, who usually looked liked he had spent his Saturday nights with the ladies, instead appeared to have not bathed or slept for days.

“Well,” Few said after reading the letter he’d pulled from the packet, “it seems they demand that myself and Major Pierce be in New York. They need a quorum in the Confederation Congress—to do what, I don’t know, but they claim it will be some business affecting Georgia that we will be quite interested in.” Georgia, it seemed, took duties of both the Constitutional Convention and the Confederation Congress lightly, and to save on expenses, had appointed Few and Pierce to serve on both.

“Don’t worry, gentlemen, nothing will happen here in your absence,” Washington assured the Georgians. “Nothing ever does … By the way, I think there’s a coach bound for New York still waiting at the Indian Queen Tavern. Perhaps, if you hurry, you can still make it!

“In fact, Mr. Hamilton, why don’t you ride there right now and ensure the coach is held for them.”

Sunday, July 1, 1787, Afternoon

Home of Robert Morris

Philadelphia

George Washington sat at his friend’s desk and stared blankly into space. The previous day, Gunning Bedford from Delaware had offended nearly everyone in the room with an inexcusable tirade over the Virginia Plan, which would allow for national representation based on state population.

“The small states,” Bedford had exclaimed, “can never agree to the Virginia Plan because the small states will end in ruin. And if we are to be ruined, I’d rather let a foreign power take us by the hand. The little states have been told, with a dictatorial air, that this is our last chance to build a good government. The large states dare not dissolve this confederation. If they do, the small ones will find a foreign ally, one with honor and good faith!

“Let me be clear. It’s treason to annihilate our duly established
government. Treason! Gentlemen, I do not trust you! The sword may decide this controversy.”

Bedford’s words were still weighing on Washington’s mind. He knew that things were becoming perilous. The delegates would not last much longer without a breakthrough.

Washington dipped Morris’s quill pen and composed a letter to a friend.

Incompatibility in the laws of different States, and disrespect to those of the general government, must render the situation of this great country weak, inefficient, and disgraceful. It has already done so, almost to the final dissolution of it. Weak at home and disregarded abroad is our present condition, and contemptible enough it is.

To please all is impossible, and to attempt it would be vain.

A great compromise was the only possible solution.

He waited at the Morris home the rest of the afternoon, half expecting news to come that the convention had been dissolved. He could barely eat, and sleep was out of the question—but he did continue to think.

Monday, July 2, 1787, Mid-morning

Pennsylvania State House

Philadelphia

It continued just as Hamilton had described—debate after debate, nothing settled, acrimony growing, not diminishing. The large states kept winning votes, but their victories only prevented any real progress from being made. The small states felt pushed aside. They would never agree to trade Britain’s power for that of Virginia or Pennsylvania. Something had to be done to grab the large states by their collars and haul them to the bargaining table—to hammer out a new government that every state, no matter its size, could agree to.