Signing Their Rights Away Page 13

  Washington’s time off from service was exceedingly brief. In 1785, he hosted statesmen who were becoming irritated by the apparent deficiencies of the Articles of Confederation. In 1787, he went uneasily to the Constitutional Convention. He was no lawyer; what he knew was math, crops, horseflesh, and war. But his appearance in Philadelphia was necessary strategically, and he knew it. Just as he’d sported that perfect uniform, he now garbed himself as a statesman and let himself become the dignified face of the proceedings. Madison, Hamilton, James Wilson, and the others all knew that it would be impossible to dismiss the work of the delegates if the world’s two most famous Americans—the libertine Dr. Franklin and the upright Gen. Washington—were in the room.

  On the very first day, Washington was elected the convention’s president. He took a seat at the head of the hall and apologized to those assembled. I am not a politician, he basically said, keeping a tight grip on his false teeth. I lack experience, but I’ll do what is asked of me.

  The men were in awe. Some had never seen him up close and were tickled to be in his presence. He need not have worried. He had them at “huzzah.”

  Washington didn’t say much during the debates and steered clear of the legal arguments. But he was there every day, sitting in his regal chair at the head of the room. A nationalist who favored a strong government, he could have thrown himself into the arguments, and he knew the men would have forgiven his lack of legalese. But he refrained. He feared that doing so would have degraded his stature. Still, he no doubt worked miracles on reluctant members after hours, when he socialized his way through the ballrooms and taverns of Philadelphia. He also tried to convince delegates not to leave, or to return if they had. In a note to his former soldier and protégé Alexander Hamilton, he affectionately wrote, “I am sorry you went away—I wish you were back.”

  Not all of his communications were as sweet. In one instance, Washington discovered that one of the delegates had dropped a critical document—a copy of the Virginia Plan, which was supposed to be top secret—on his way out of the state house. The next day, Washington stood and sternly lectured the delegates about their pledge to respect the confidentiality of the proceedings, lest rumors doom the convention. He flung the papers on the desk dramatically. “I don’t know whose paper it is, but here it is. Let him who owns it take it.” The delegates sucked air and stared, riveted to their places. In a huff, the former general grabbed his hat and stormed out of the chambers. The papers lay unclaimed.

  It never happened again.

  In September, after the delegates had signed the Constitution, Washington’s signature at the top of the document went a long way toward convincing Americans that they should ratify it. And no one was surprised when he was chosen to be the first president under the nation’s new government. Once again his desire to be left in peace at his home in Mount Vernon was not to be. Elected in 1788, he was forced to borrow £10,000 in spending money or he never would have been able to travel to his inauguration and properly set up a second household as the nation’s first chief executive.

  Washington took his oath of office in 1789 and served two terms. He backed Alexander Hamilton in the establishment of a banking system, the assumption of state debts, and new tariffs to boost federal revenue; disagreements over these policies triggered the birth of political parties. Washington often had to play the peacemaker between his secretary of state Thomas Jefferson and Treasury czar Alexander Hamilton. When the Whiskey Rebellion broke out, Washington took command of troops sent to quell the uprising against an unpopular tax on hooch. This is the only time in history that a U.S. president led an army while in office.

  Throughout the world and the nation, Washington was still perceived as the great liberator. He traveled around the country so that people could get a look at him. When the French stormed the Bastille on the eve of their revolution, they presented Washington the key to that notorious jail, a symbol of liberation of the political prisoners long held inside. But the irony is that, throughout his life, Washington owned slaves and made efforts to keep them as long as possible. During the early years of the presidency, when the federal government was located in Philadelphia, nine slaves worked for the president and first lady in their home in that city. At the time, any enslaved person who had lived in Philadelphia for six months was granted freedom. The Washingtons purposely rotated their staff so that no one slave would reach that critical half-year mark. Today, the site of the Washingtons’ Philadelphia home, near the Liberty Bell, has been preserved as an African American heritage site.

  In 1796, Washington finally got what he longed for: the chance to be an ordinary citizen once again and to return home for good. But his time at ease was brief. About three years after he left office, he fell ill with a bad cold and sore throat after working outside in snowy weather. The illness blossomed into a massive, suffocating infection that refused to abate. During his life, the grand general had beaten tuberculosis, smallpox, malaria, diphtheria, pneumonia, tonsil infections, dysentery, and bouts of dark depression. But this time he couldn’t seem to shake what ailed him. Using leeches, doctors bled him of eighty ounces of blood, or 35 percent of all the blood in the human body. What a shock: he got worse, not better. Sensing the end, Washington summoned his lawyers, tended to his affairs, and made his secretary promise that he would not be buried until he lay dead three whole days. (George had once “miraculously” revived a slave who was presumed dead; he knew that people could sometimes look dead but, in fact, had not shuffled off this mortal coil.) On December 14, 1799, he died. The father of his country was sixty-six years old. He left behind a grief-stricken wife and nation as well as an estate worth more than a half million dollars. By the terms of his will, his slaves were to be freed when Martha died, which she did in 1806. Both tombs rest on the grounds of Mount Vernon.

  The Underachieving Signer

  BORN: 1732

  DIED: August 31, 1800

  AGE AT SIGNING: About 55

  PROFESSION: Judge

  BURIED: Bruton Parish Churchyard, Williamsburg, Virginia

  This book features plenty of stories about the men who shaped the Constitution—men who argued passionately, men with great ideas, men who worked tirelessly for the good of the nation, staying up until all hours to improve the future of the fledgling United States.

  Sadly, John Blair was not one of those men. In fact, he may have been the only signer to (1) remain absolutely silent throughout the convention and (2) abstain from serving on a single committee. About the only thing he did do was to sign his name to the final document.

  Blair was born in Williamsburg, Virginia, to a wealthy and connected family. His father, John Sr., was a successful merchant and a major political player in Williamsburg, then the state capital. John Sr. also served as president of the governor’s council, or panel of advisors, and as acting governor as well. For a time, Blair’s father owned Raleigh Tavern, a legendary meeting place for Virginia patriots. Washington was a regular patron of the watering hole, and the nonimportation agreement against Britain was drafted on its tables. As nineteenth-century journalist Benjamin Lossing described it, “The Raleigh Tavern and the Apollo Room are to Virginia, relatively, what Faneuil Hall is to Massachusetts.”

  The red-headed Blair’s political pedigree and advantages led him to study law at prestigious Middle Temple in London, then a popular choice for well-to-do colonists. While there, he met and married Jean Balfour, and the couple went on to have two daughters. When he returned home to Williamsburg, he joined the bar and started his own practice.

  Blair’s introduction into politics came in 1766, via the House of Burgesses, where he held the seat designated for the College of William and Mary. He didn’t support every item on the revolutionary agenda and probably seemed mild compared to stauncher Virginia patriots, like Patrick Henry. In fact, Blair opposed Henry’s resolutions to denounce the notorious Stamp Act.

  But it wasn’t long before Blair had changed his mind. When the royal governo
r, Lord Botetourt, dissolved the House of Burgesses in 1769 as punishment for their protest against acts of the British government, Blair’s opinions became more firmly aligned with those of his Virginia compatriots, Henry and Washington. However, the exiled burgesses would not be dissuaded. Despite their disbandment, they held their own meetings at Raleigh Tavern; it was during this time that they signed the agreement boycotting the importation of British goods until the taxes were repealed. Later in the year, they were called back into session by Botetourt. That same year the British repealed the Townshend Acts, which levied taxes on glass, lead, paints, and paper, but did not lift the most lucrative tax, on tea.

  Though he never participated in the Continental Congress or fight during the Revolutionary War, Blair served on the Privy Council, an advisory group, for his state’s first governor, Patrick Henry. In 1778, Blair advanced from lawyer to judge, serving first on the general court of Virginia and eventually rising to the post of chief justice. He then moved on to the Virginia High Court of Chancery, where he served alongside famed legal scholar (and Declaration of Independence signer) George Wythe. Blair was also a member of Virginia’s first court of appeals.

  Despite a couple notable absences from Virginia’s delegation to the Constitutional Convention in 1787—Jefferson was busy in Paris; Patrick Henry declined to attend because he “smelt a rat”—the group was an impressive one. George Mason, George Wythe, then-governor Edmund Randolph, James Madison, George Washington—all were big names with equally large revolutionary reps. Yet, despite the enormity of the state, both in population and in revolutionary clout, only three men ultimately signed the Constitution for Virginia: Madison, Washington, and little-known Blair; the other four did not sign.

  Despite his attendance at the convention, Blair was all but invisible. He made no speeches and served on no committees. About his only memorable moment came at the end, when he was traveling home with George Washington and one of the horses pulling their carriage fell through the bottom of an old bridge. Had the other horse gone through as well, Washington wrote, he “would have taken the carriage along with him.” Fortunately, the men escaped unharmed and headed back home, where the battle for ratification awaited.

  As a member of the York County delegation, Blair attended Virginia’s ratifying convention in support of the Constitution. The state barely passed, thanks to strong anti-Federalist feelings, many embodied by the fiery Patrick Henry, who declared:

  That this is a consolidated Government is demonstrably clear, and the danger of such a Government, is, to my mind, very striking. I have the highest veneration of those Gentlemen, —but, Sir, give me leave to demand, what right had they to say, ‘We the People’? My political curiosity, exclusive of my anxious solicitude for the public welfare, leads me to ask who authorised them to speak the language of, ‘We the People,’ instead of ‘We the States’? States are the characteristics, and the soul of a confederation. If the States be not the agents of this compact, it must be one great consolidated National Government of the people of all the States.

  But by this time, the Constitution was already in effect, thanks to New Hampshire’s ratification, and none of Henry’s bluster could halt the momentum. Virginia became the tenth state to ratify, with a vote of 89 to 79.

  Soon afterward, Washington appointed Blair an associate justice of the Supreme Court, but his role in the high court was short-lived. He resigned in 1796 because of illness. In his final years, he suffered a great pain, describing what sounds much like a stroke: “All at once a torpid numbness seized my whole face and I found my intellectual powers much weakened and all was confusion.”

  Blair died in 1800. His hometown of Williamsburg is a must-see for historians of all backgrounds. To commune with his spirit, you can visit the John Blair House and Kitchen within Historic Williamsburg, stop by Raleigh Tavern (rebuilt in 1932 after an 1859 fire), or visit Blair’s grave, located in Bruton Parish Churchyard.

  The Father of the Constitution

  BORN: March 16, 1751

  DIED: June 28, 1836

  AGE AT SIGNING: 36

  PROFESSION: Lawyer

  BURIED: Montpelier Estate, Orange, Virginia

  A little man with big ideas—standing between five-foot-two and five-foot-six and weighing maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet—James Madison has the distinction of being the shortest president in U.S. history. But what he lacked in stature and even in personality (the guy was dry as toast), he made up for in ideas and conviction.

  Madison grew up on his father’s plantation, Montpelier, in Orange County, Virginia, and enjoyed every advantage offered to children of the planter aristocracy. Boarding school and tutors led to study at the College of New Jersey (now Princeton University), where, after completing his degree, he stayed on a year to study theology. He had the added benefit of studying under John Witherspoon, then president of the college, who went on to be the only practicing clergyman to sign the Declaration of Independence. Madison didn’t have the lungs for preaching, and though he had studied law—the profession of choice for well-bred sons of planters—that avenue didn’t appeal to him, either. He never needed to work or hold down a job and was not interested in following in his father’s footsteps in the planter world. What did appeal to him were books and government. Throughout his education and his life, he learned everything there was to know about political theory, governments past and present, plus some ancient philosophy, for good measure.

  Madison is often described by historians as “frail” and “sickly,” but modern assessments of his health suggest the illnesses from which he suffered were both real and imagined. He was a prematurely bald young man who utilized a comb-over to conceal a shiny pate. Shy and soft-spoken, he was incessantly referred to as “modest” by anyone who knew him (these are not the usual traits that spring to mind when one thinks of a career politician). He joined the revolutionary cause early on but did not serve actively in the militia. Instead, he joined Orange County’s Committee of Safety in 1775 and, the next year, attended the Virginia Convention, where he helped write that state’s first constitution. He later entered the legislature and served on the Council of State.

  Madison also served on the advisory committees to two famed Virginia governors, Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson; the latter would become a lifelong friend. When Madison finally went to Congress the year was 1780, and he was the youngest man there. This was the era of the Articles of Confederation—the precursor to the Constitution—and during this period Madison played a role in structuring the government. He soon cultivated a friendship with fellow nationalist Alexander Hamilton.

  Upon returning to the Virginia legislature in 1784, Madison began writing in various capacities about the limits of the Articles of Confederation; one of his most famous works is a document titled “Vices of the Political System of the United States” (otherwise known as “Madison’s Vices”). When he attended the Mount Vernon Conference (which was convened to help settle disputes between Virginia and Maryland over the navigation of the Potomac River), Madison became even more convinced that the articles were not cutting the colonial mustard. He knew that more disagreements between states would be inevitable—and that a strong national legislature was needed to keep things in check. The conference, held at George Washington’s plantation, was a precursor to the Annapolis Convention, where Madison connected once more with Hamilton; the pair helped convince everyone that Congress should put out a call to the states to send delegates to Philadelphia and iron out a new system of government.

  Madison arrived in Philadelphia with a vast knowledge of governments and their shortcomings. Indeed, he had spent most of his thirty-six years preparing for this moment. He arrived early, checked into a boarding house, and began taking notes, many of which would form the basis for the Virginia Plan, which, in turn, would help shape the Constitution.

  Madison had some very real concerns about power and human frailty. He believed that “human beings are generally governed by rather base
and selfish motives, by suspicion, jealousy, desire for self-aggrandizement, and disinclination to do more than is required by convenience or self-interest, or exacted of them by force.” This was a not-too-subtle jab at human nature by a guy who rarely raised his voice. He was also wary of interest groups and, like many of the framers, feared mob mentality. He felt the need to keep power in check and once observed, “You must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place, oblige it to control itself.”

  Madison had a number of other concrete ideas: The national government should tax citizens directly. Representation should be proportional to population. The national government should be able to veto state legislation. The chief executive of this national government should not have as much power as the legislative body. Yet, for all his fears, he took comfort in the fact that the aforementioned interest groups would have a tough time gaining momentum strong enough to disrupt government, because the country was so large and everyone was so spread out and—don’t forget—it took weeks for a letter to get from one place to another. (His frail little body would have collapsed into a quivering heap at the thought of what today’s special-interest groups can accomplish on the Internet.)

  On the very first day of the convention, Madison requested permission from Washington to sit at the front of the room, with his back to the general, so he could take notes. Washington obliged. Despite his low, virtually-impossible-to-hear voice, Madison spoke at least 150 times at the convention, bested in speech count only by James Wilson and Gouverneur Morris. He also served on the important Committee of Style and that of Postponed Matters.

  In the end, the Virginia Plan was modified by the Great Compromise, which pleased Madison not at all. He signed the document with his tiny signature, adding a “Jr” after his name. All in all, the convention did not go the way he had hoped. But the copious, detailed notes that he took, along with the outline for government that he helped shape into the Virginia Plan and his tireless urging to hold the Constitutional Convention in the first place, helped establish him as a primary—if not the primary—force behind the modern U.S. government.