Miracles and Massacres (8 page)

•   •   •

The moment the Constitution was formally read into the official record, Patrick Henry bolted out of his seat. His plan was to attack, attack,
and then attack once more. He would concede nothing. He would even skewer the very first words of the document: “We the People . . .” How
dare
the men at Philadelphia claim to speak for all the people, he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at James Madison. “The people gave them no power to use their name.”

As Henry ranted, he saw that Edmund Randolph was listening intently. Henry smiled in his direction. Acquiring the wavering Randolph for the anti-Federalist team would give them a big boost. But Randolph did not smile back.

When Henry finished, Randolph stood and slowly walked to the floor to speak. As he did, he offered a barely perceptible nod to James Madison.

Patrick Henry's heart sank. This was going to be much, much harder than he thought.

•   •   •

Edmund Randolph spoke not to praise Patrick Henry, but to bury him. His voice shook with rage as he refuted point after point made by his anti-Federalist predecessor. “The government is for the people,” he thundered. “And the misfortune was that the people had no say in the government before.”

Henry's face reddened with anger. He couldn't believe it; Randolph had switched positions again! “I am,” Randolph continued, drawing out his every syllable and speaking in almost musical tones, “a friend of the Union.”

Patrick Henry's mood turned as black as the suit he wore. He wanted to find the highest steeple in town and yell to everyone that their governor was the damnable crowned prince of chameleons. Instead, he sat stoically, refusing to give Randolph the satisfaction of seeing his anger and sense of betrayal.

Across the room, a disheartened George Mason, Henry's greatest ally in the hall, could not even bear to look at Randolph.
A young Benedict Arnold
, he thought,
a young Arnold
. The sixty-year-old Mason roused himself from his gloom to take the floor. Struggling to gather his thoughts, he ran his bony fingers through his long white hair.

Mason was truly angry at Randolph, but he knew that personal attacks would get them nowhere right now. Instead, he aimed his fire on
one of the Constitution's more controversial new powers: the ability of the federal government to directly tax the people. “This power of laying direct taxes entirely changes the confederation into a consolidated government,” he said slowly and with near perfect enunciation. “Converting a confederation into a consolidated government is totally subversive of every principle which has heretofore governed us. It annihilates the state governments. Will the people submit to taxation by two different and distinct powers? The one will destroy the other: the states
must
give way to the general government.”

Mason conceded that the Constitution had many fine points, but he told his fellow delegates that it required fine tuning—a Declaration of Rights, very much like the one Mason had authored for Virginia itself in June 1776. He felt these amendments were essential to the Constitution and he wanted them adopted before Virginia ratified, even if it meant risking the whole process being sent back to square one.

Freedom, thought Mason, was worth spending the time to get right.

Richmond, Virginia

The Swan

North side of Broad Street

Evening of June 4, 1788

James Madison had barely spoken during the day's session, but the excitement had left him exhausted anyway.
We are winning;
that much was clear to him. Getting Randolph as an ally—even if he was in favor for amendments after ratification—was a huge coup for the Federalists.

Madison retreated to his lodgings at the Swan, one of little Richmond's better hostelries. Quarters were close so he had to be careful. The walls had ears, and worse, so did his fellow delegates.

Some daylight remained as Madison picked up a quill pen and began drafting a letter to George Washington at Mount Vernon. He'd promised Washington that he would keep him updated on the proceedings. After a great first day, Madison was excited to relay the news. “Randolph has thrown himself fully into our scale,” he wrote. “Mason and Henry take different and awkward ground, and we are in the best spirits.”

James Madison went to bed that night a very tired and very happy little man.

Richmond, Virginia

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

June 5, 1788

Patrick Henry did not know about Madison's exuberant letter to Washington. If he had, he probably would have smiled, knowing that overconfidence and bravado were the anti-Federalists' best friends. Henry, to paraphrase a phrase not yet uttered, had only just begun to fight.

For now, however, it was still the Federalists' turn. Judge Pendleton, the convention's unanimously elected chairman, roused himself onto his crutches and made his way to the floor. Despite his judge's wig, Pendleton didn't look like much. Fast approaching sixty-seven, he coughed and gasped for air. But Pendleton was smart and respected, and Henry knew he was a worthy adversary.

That opinion, however, did not appear to be mutual. Pendleton, his voice dripping with sarcasm, began by addressing Henry as his “worthy friend,” before curtly informing him that no natural enmity existed between constitutional government and liberty. “The former is the shield and protector of the latter,” Pendleton lectured Henry and the other anti-Federalists. “The war is between government and licentiousness, faction, turbulence, and other violations of the rules of society, to preserve Liberty.”

Other Federalists followed Pendleton, all making similar points, all virtually jeering at Patrick Henry.

But it is a dangerous thing to taunt a lion.

Later that morning, the lion rose from his chair and surveyed his fellow delegates. Moving slowly for effect, he looked skyward and perused the throng in the gallery above. A profound, awesome silence enveloped the crowd. Love him or hate him, audiences hung on Henry's every word.

The Federalists had spent a great deal of time emphasizing the financial stability that they claimed a central government would bring. Henry, however, thought finances were inconsequential compared to
the issue that revolutionary patriots had shed their precious blood for: liberty. He intended to hammer this point home as fiercely and relentlessly as possible.

“Don't ask how trade may be increased or how to become a great and powerful people,” he bellowed. “Ask how your liberties can be secured.” His hands were clenched into fists as though he were ready to wage battle against the idea of tyranny. “For liberty ought to be the direct end of your government. Is the end of trial by jury and the liberty of the press necessary for your liberty? Will abandoning your most sacred rights secure your liberty? Liberty, the greatest of all earthly blessings—give us that precious jewel, and you may take everything else!”

The barren landscape of vanished liberties that Henry sketched was having an effect. An onlooker in the gallery turned to Robert Morris. He wanted to speak but he could not find the words. A scream welled up deep inside him as he felt the cold and hard iron fetters of a devilishly new form of tyranny already pressing upon his flesh.

Henry saw the faces of those in the gallery and knew his warnings were hitting their mark. He sensed a power welling up within him. He would lacerate every argument proposed for this new Constitution—and many that had not even been considered yet.

James Madison sat uneasily in his chair as he listened to Henry dismantle the Federalists' arguments, point by point. He slowly brought his hands together, almost as if in silent prayer.
Yes
, he thought, in silent answer to Henry's latest argument against the need for a national army,
an adequate military and this Constitution are necessary to protect freedom
.

After watching the faces of his fellow delegates as Henry spoke, he was no longer so sure that a majority felt the same way.

Richmond, Virginia

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

June 9, 1788

Tempers ran high. Civility ran on empty. The time for arguing over articles and amendments, taxation and treaties, term limits and war powers, was passing fast.

The time for arguing personalities had arrived with a great roar.

Patrick Henry, refreshed by a good night's rest, took the floor again and skewered the Federalists' boasting of the “checks and balances” in their new system. “What are the checks of exposing accounts?” Henry baited them, pacing about the floor with great energy, “Can you search your President's closet? Is this a real check?”

At just the right moment, Henry tossed another major bombshell into the proceedings. He had somehow secured a copy of a letter his hated opponent Thomas Jefferson had written four months earlier to an old friend. In it, the principal author of the Declaration of Independence and former governor of Virginia had cast doubts on the wisdom of the new Constitution.

Spreading his arms before him, like an eagle about to swoop down on its prey, Henry added to the drama by slowly introducing the letter to the gallery. “We have information that comes from an illustrious citizen of Virginia, who is now in Paris, which
disproves
the suggestions of such dangers as Madison and company have alleged,” he announced.

“I might say,” Henry continued, oozing with pleasure at the opportunity to summon his archrival Jefferson as a surprise witness, “not from public authority, but good information, that his opinion is that you reject this government!”

The crowd stirred and Henry paused to let the murmuring die down before continuing. “This illustrious citizen advises you to reject this government till it be amended! His sentiments coincide entirely with ours! Let us follow the sage advice of this common friend of our happiness.”

An uproar came from the gallery: Huzzahs from one faction; harrumphs and catcalls from the other. Henry simply smiled. There were not many people you'd rather have on your team, personal feelings aside, than Thomas Jefferson.

Henry continued, flitting from one topic to another, attacking each and every thing about the Constitution. When he finally finished, a raging Governor Randolph again took the floor. On Saturday, Henry had slyly puzzled over Randolph's sudden support for adopting the Constitution without amending it first, broadly hinting that Randolph might have been bribed to support the document. He'd even suspected George Washington himself of offering the prize.

For two days, Randolph had fumed over Henry's insinuations, barely able to restrain himself from physically confronting the older man. Now, standing in the hall, Randolph had everyone's attention and he was not about to let the moment pass without taking direct aim at Henry's allegations. “I find myself attacked in the most illiberal manner by the honorable gentleman,” he sputtered. “If our friendship must fall, let it fall, like Lucifer, never to rise again!”

The crowd gasped. Those were fighting words in Virginia.

The chair gaveled furiously to silence the murmuring. Henry, visibly shaken, rose to respond and solemnly avowed that he had no intention of offending anyone, particularly the “honorable gentleman”—but that hardly calmed Randolph. If anything, he grew even more inflamed, rising to tell the gallery that, if not for Henry's apology, he'd been prepared to reveal certain unpleasant facts about Henry that would have made some men's hair stand on end.

Henry did not take the threat well. “I beg the honorable gentleman to pardon me,” Henry said, his voice rising with every word, “for reminding him that his historical references and quotations are not accurate. If he errs so much with respect to his facts, as he has done in history, we cannot depend on his information or assertions.”

The gallery seemed to be in shock. Two of the greatest patriots in the history of the commonwealth stood at the precipice. Another insult, real or perceived, could quite possibly put them, and perhaps the entire convention, over the edge.

Fortunately, reason, and a good night's rest, finally took command. The battle for the Constitution would continue to be waged with words—hot, vitriolic, and passionate words—instead of fists or pistols at twenty paces.

The Swan

North side of Broad Street

Richmond, Virginia

Evening of June 13, 1788

The Federalists had given it their best, but were worried that it wouldn't be enough to counter the brilliance of Patrick Henry. He was not, after all, simply an orator; he was a force of nature.

James Madison thought long and hard about the events of the last week. His initial euphoria had long since vanished. Tonight, he again took pen to hand and reported to George Washington. But this time, his letter was much more dour, reporting that the Federalists' chances for success were growing less favorable each day. He did not enjoy writing those words.

“Our progress is low,” he wrote. “The business is in the most ticklish state that can be imagined. The majority will certainly be small, on whatever side it may finally lie; and I dare not encourage much expectation that it will be on the favorable side.”

James Madison sealed the letter and collapsed into bed. He was exhausted, but sleep came only in fits and starts. When he did drift away, he dreamt only of defeat.

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

Richmond, Virginia

June 24, 1788

A thousand sweating, jostling spectators crammed the galleries. One way or another they would soon witness history being made. The time for talk was drawing to a close; the time for voting was drawing near.

First, however, Patrick Henry was about to drop another bombshell onto the convention. He rose and surprised everyone by presenting a series of amendments. He'd gone from opposing the entire Constitution and arguing against nearly every facet of it in great detail, to now suddenly accepting George Mason's position: ratification, but with amendments and a Bill of Rights. Some delegates wondered if that had, in fact, been Henry's position all along. Had he and Mason merely been playing a clever, protracted game of “Good Constable, Bad Constable”?