Signing Their Rights Away Read online

  The Signer Who Believed in Aliens

  BORN: December 5, 1735

  DIED: May 22, 1815

  AGE AT SIGNING: 51

  PROFESSION: Doctor, merchant, minister, scientist

  BURIED: Trinity Churchyard, New York, New York

  In the eighteenth century, the night skies were a constant source of wonder, and many founding fathers studied them carefully—especially Hugh Williamson, the last man to sign the Constitution for the state of North Carolina. He never claimed to have witnessed an extraterrestrial, but he was nonetheless convinced that the heavens were teeming with intelligent life.

  Williamson was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, to a pair of Scotch-Irish parents who had immigrated to America to run a clothing business. Young Hugh was studious and serious, but, judging from his zigzagging career path, he could have used a good guidance counselor. He began divinity studies in 1759 and worked for about two years as a licensed Presbyterian minister, though he was never formally ordained. Then he switched to mathematics and landed a professorship at his alma mater, the future University of Pennsylvania. Three years after that, he quit that post and dashed over to the Continent, where he studied medicine in Scotland, England, and the Netherlands. By about 1768, as the colonies were embroiled in taxation disputes with the motherland, Williamson was back in Philadelphia, working as a doctor and observing the stars in his spare time.

  A frequent correspondent of fellow astronomy geek Ben Franklin, Williamson studied comets and announced to the world that their tails were not fire, but a reflection of sunlight. (Today we know that comet tails are in fact gas and dust, which, yes, reflect sunlight.) Extrapolating from his theory, Williamson wrongly concluded that all planets and comets had mild enough climates to permit life. “Having ventured the opinion that every planet and every comet in our system is inhabited,” he wrote, “we have only taken a very imperfect view of the astonishing works of the divine architect.”

  He quickly did some math and arrived at the conclusion that there are no fewer than “five millions of worlds, all inhabited by rational beings.” The hugeness of that number impressed him, and he made the same observation that generations of scientists have since also made when contemplating the vastness of the universe: “How do we seem to dwindle into littleness! How small, how few, are the ephemerons of this little globe, when compared with the countless myriads who inhabit five millions of worlds!” Because he was a devout man, Williamson drew a swift connection between science and God. “All these worlds, and every one of their inhabitants, are under the constant care of the Divine Being,” he wrote. “Not one of them is neglected. ‘Great and marvelous’ are his works, how terrible his power!!”

  Williamson had many interests beyond astronomy. In the early 1770s, he became a trustee of the Academy of Newark, Delaware, which wanted to become a full-fledged college. The school appointed Williamson as fund-raiser, and he traveled throughout the colonies and England to raise money. Over the course of his journey, Williamson observed growing political unrest. He witnessed the Boston Tea Party, and, when later he arrived in London, he was summoned to testify before the British Privy Council, an advisory body to the Crown. He warned the council that further pressure on the colonists would result in rebellion.

  Williamson then proceeded to do something extremely foolhardy and treasonous. While still in England, he posed as a British official, bluffed his way into intercepting letters from the Massachusetts royal governor, and passed them on to Ben Franklin, who published them as proof that the governor was conspiring with Parliament to curtail the rights of colonists. Franklin, who was living in England at the time, would take the blame for stealing the letters; until his death, no one ever knew that Williamson had in fact been the spy.

  Williamson headed home in 1777, but by then war was raging and his ship was seized by British troops. He and another man managed to elude capture by swiping a lifeboat, lowering it to the water, and rowing themselves to shore. He abandoned his life in Philadelphia and relocated to the town of Edenton, North Carolina, where he worked as a merchant and physician. He soon entered the state militia as a military surgeon and, following a rout by British forces in South Carolina, volunteered to cross enemy lines to care for American prisoners of war. On that mission and others, Williamson distinguished himself by keeping a careful eye on food, water, and hygiene. He managed to keep those troops in his care free from contagion for the duration of his service, no mean feat in the Carolina swamps.

  His new neighbors chose him to serve in North Carolina’s legislature in 1782, a year before the war ended. His colleagues there sent him to Congress and the convention in May 1787. He seemed a good match for the other profound thinkers who had assembled to hammer out a new constitution; Thomas Jefferson praised Williamson’s “acute mind” and “high degree of erudition.” Indeed, Williamson was the most active and vocal of the three North Carolina delegates. As the group debated the composition of Congress under the new constitution, he insisted that the “aristocratic” branch—then code for the future U.S. Senate—should hold the nation’s purse strings and vote on taxes; he didn’t think the common people represented by the lower branch—the House—would wisely spend tax revenue. This proposal was shot down by George Mason of Virginia, who asked, in effect: Where would the money come from? The common people, that’s who! Aristocrats will soon forget where the money is coming from, spend poorly, and there will be tyranny. Although this proposal was rejected, we know at least one of Williamson’s contributions to the Constitution made it all the way to the final draft: the six-year term for U.S. senators.

  By then a prickly fifty-three-year-old bachelor who did not suffer fools and flatterers gladly, Williamson found love with a wealthy twenty-one-year-old New Yorker named Maria Apthorp. They married in 1789, but Apthorp died only a few years later, after the birth of the couple’s second son. The tragedy may have blunted Williamson’s relentless productivity; after three years in the new Congress under President George Washington, he moved back to his late wife’s beloved Manhattan to educate his sons and indulge his own love of learning.

  In his retirement, Williamson dabbled in science, wrote books and research papers, volunteered at hospitals, engaged in philanthropy, and never stopped staring up at the stars. When Maria’s father died in 1797, Williamson dutifully handled financial affairs on behalf of the large Apthorp family, and eventually he bought for his sons a section of the two-hundred-acre estate in Bloomingdale, a rural suburb in what is now the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The framer lived another twenty-four years, until his death in 1819, at age eighty-three. He is buried in his wife’s family plot in New York City, right at the head of Wall Street. The stone covering the spot bears the Apthorp name and makes no mention of the versatile man who loved religion, stars, math, and statesmanship, all with equal passion.

  XI. South Carolina

  The Signer Who Attempted Suicide

  BORN: September, 1739

  DIED: July 18, 1800

  AGE AT SIGNING: About 48

  PROFESSION: Lawyer

  BURIED: St. Michael’s Church Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina

  He defended Charleston during the Revolutionary War, chaired the committee that created the first draft of the U.S. Constitution, and even enjoyed a short stint as chief justice of the Supreme Court. But none of these achievements could shield John Rutledge from the tragic depression that would make him try to take his own life.

  The Rutledge, Pinckney, and Middleton dynasties were to South Carolina what the Kennedys would later be to Massachusetts: moneyed first families of politicians and lawmakers. This trio of South Carolina families—which associated socially and intermarried—contributed five signers to the two most significant documents in American history. Of the lot, John Rutledge was perhaps the most eloquent and legally brilliant. His life, both political and personal, took its fair share of nose-dives over the years, but through it all he remained dedicated to the country whose governme
nt he played a crucial part in framing. How else can you explain the fact that he named his son States?

  Rutledge was born in Charleston to an Irish immigrant and a well-established doctor. His mother, only fifteen years old when she married, was reputedly the wealthiest heiress in the colony. Rutledge’s early life was spent with tutors and at the library. He lost his father when he was only eleven and began spending time at his uncle Andrew’s law office, studying what would become his life’s work. His uncle was also speaker of the lower house of the South Carolina legislature, which gave Rutledge the chance to observe his second calling: politics. He would watch the debates whenever he could. Later, Rutledge studied law at the prestigious Middle Temple in London. On his return to Charleston, he learned that his uncle had died and his mother needed help managing the estate. He took primary responsibility for the education of his younger brothers, Edward and Hugh, and funded the completion of their studies in England.

  In 1761, at only twenty-one years old, Rutledge became a member of the South Carolina legislature. His reputation as a lawyer had already begun to take hold, with rumors of his winning streaks in court growing like the size of a wide-mouthed bass after a long, drunken fishing trip. He married Elizabeth Grimké, a planter’s daughter, in 1763, and the pair ultimately had ten children (the last of whom was named after a political-geographical designation). At the tender age of twenty-five, he was appointed the state’s attorney general.

  On the national stage, Rutledge’s first gig was the Stamp Act Congress, in 1765, in New York, where representatives gathered to decide how to respond to the paper-and-documents tax imposed on them. Rutledge made an impression as the youngest attendee. When South Carolina’s royal governor dismissed the legislature in 1774, Rutledge and others formed the Committee of Public Safety, a rebel watchdog group, and met in alternate locations.

  That same year, Rutledge was head of the delegation to the first Continental Congress. John Adams had already taken note of him, writing, “John Rutledge still maintains that air of reserve, design, and cunning.” Adams credited Rutledge with helping to unify the otherwise disparate views of the delegates.

  When Rutledge returned to the Second Continental Congress, he served on a number of committees; but as time wore on, he saw that the situation between the loyalists and the patriots in South Carolina was worsening. He returned to Charleston. Meanwhile, his younger brother Edward went on to sign the Declaration of Independence.

  Back in Charleston, Rutledge chaired the committee that drafted South Carolina’s constitution, which he also helped to write. The legislature also elected him as the first president of the lower house of the assembly and commander of the state’s military. Though Rutledge was a moderate who believed in peacefully solving problems with those across the pond, if possible, he was always prepared to take things to the next level. That moment came in 1776, as British troops parked themselves off Sullivan’s Island, just outside Charleston, and were ready to fire on a fort under the command of Colonel William Moultrie. Washington’s own commander, Major General Charles Lee, thought Moultrie and the others should evacuate. Rutledge, the supposed moderate, disagreed. He reminded Moultrie that he, Rutledge, was the only one who could draft the order to evacuate, adding, “I would sooner cut off my hand than write one.” As it turned out, the bombing by the British was ineffectual against the palmetto logs used to build the fort. Moreover, American sharpshooters fared well against the sitting ducks offshore, fatally wounding Lord William Campbell, whom the British intended to put back in charge as royal governor. The fleet tucked tail and left. The Sabal palmetto—a hero of the encounter—remains the state tree of South Carolina and is prominently featured on its flag.

  Though he had run-ins with political opponents, Rutledge was elected the first governor of South Carolina and exercised such free reign that some referred to him as “Dictator John.” Dictator or no, his primary concern was recruiting militia and otherwise prepping Charleston for the coming Redcoat onslaught. When the city finally fell to the British in 1780, his estate was seized and Rutledge escaped to North Carolina, thus avoiding capture. As a man with money, property in town, and plantations, he had much to lose. His public duties were costing him a lot, and there was little income when he had no time to practice law.

  Rutledge retired as governor in 1782, and his brother-in-law John Matthews took over. In 1782 and ’83, Rutledge served as a congressional delegate, this time to the Congress of the Confederation, and in 1784 he was judge of the chancery court in South Carolina, a position he held for seven years. He liked seeing cases resolved speedily, saying, “Delayed justice is injustice.” Unlike his brother Edward, he was not a man about town, flitting around Charleston’s buzzing social scene, but was well regarded on the national level as a man of integrity.

  In 1787, Rutledge was off to Philadelphia for the Constitutional Convention. His reputation as a barrister and governor preceded him, and he arrived as a major player (he seconded the nomination of Washington as president). He spoke often and convincingly—and not infrequently in defense of the slave trade; he is at least partly responsible for keeping any prohibitive language regarding slavery out of the Constitution. He chaired the five-person Committee of Detail, responsible for drafting the Constitution, and is considered a major contributor to the document.

  Rutledge was in favor of wealth-based representation, wanted the sessions to be kept secret until their conclusion, and understood the meaning of the word compromise, though he may not have always been happy with the outcome: “Is it not better that I should sacrifice one prized opinion than that all of us should sacrifice everything we might otherwise gain?” After signing the Constitution, he returned to South Carolina to lobby for ratification; the vote passed with a healthy margin of 149 to 73, making his state the eighth to endorse the document.

  When John Jay, chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, retired in 1795, Rutledge was quick to let Washington know that he wanted the job, and Washington was quick to appoint him. Congress wasn’t in session to approve him, so he served in the interim. Then things went strangely awry. Rutledge made the mistake of criticizing the controversial Jay Treaty, a postwar agreement between the United States and Britain; many shared Rutledge’s belief that the treaty was far too easy on the British. But given that his predecessor had negotiated the accord (and Washington had approved it), you’d think Rutledge would’ve been smart enough to keep his views to himself. He didn’t, and his confirmation by Congress was not to be.

  Toward the end of his life, Rutledge again served in the South Carolina legislature, but he was tragically deteriorating, both physically and mentally. His behavior became erratic, bizarre, and at times deranged. He twice attempted to drown himself. The second time, he waded fully clothed into Charleston’s Ashley River, resisting and verbally abusing the men who came to his aid. Several factors contributed to his decline: the deaths of his wife and his younger brother Edward, a kidney ailment, and his inability to get his finances back on track. Creditors were closing in for the kill. The loss of love, money, health, and, arguably, position was a surefire recipe for a bad bout of depression.

  Rutledge died at age sixty-one and is buried in St. Michael’s Church in Charleston, the same churchyard that is the final resting place of his fellow signer Charles Cotesworth Pinckney. Today, you can visit his house and even spend the night there, amid the soaring palmetto trees and mint juleps. It is a lavishly ornate bed-and-breakfast in the historic district of Charleston.

  The Signer Who Wouldn’t Bribe the French

  BORN: February 25, 1746

  DIED: August 16, 1825

  AGE AT SIGNING: 41

  PROFESSION: Lawyer, planter

  BURIED: St. Michael’s Church Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina

  Ah, the French. America’s relationship with the Gauls is a long, storied, and often contrary love affair. When France helped the colonies trounce the Crown, it appeared that la vie would be all en rose between the two na
tions. But after only a decade or so, the two countries were bickering, and war seemed imminent. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney earned a spot in the history books for escalating rather than defusing the tensions. In one notable encounter, he told the French to stick it.

  Pinckney was the son of an extraordinary woman who single-handedly introduced to the colonies a miracle crop—indigo—that would eventually account for one-third of South Carolina’s exports. This ancient plant produced a rich blue dye prized by textile manufacturers since antiquity. Once Pickney’s mother shared its secrets with her planter neighbors, South Carolina was well on its way to one day becoming the wealthiest state in the union.

  When Pinckney was only seven years old, his father (a judge) was assigned to serve as South Carolina’s agent, or nonvoting representative, in Great Britain. Dad took the family to live with him in London. Though his parents returned home five years later, Charles Cotesworth stayed behind to study law at Oxford and Middle Temple. He finished with a tour of Germany and a stint at a French military school and then returned home to South Carolina to work for his colony’s royal attorney general. And he married Sarah Middleton, whose father was the wealthiest planter in the colony.

  South Carolina was one of the first colonies to declare itself independent from Mother England. Pinckney, who had already participated in patriotic assemblies, became a captain in the first South Carolina regiment. He defended his beloved city from a sea attack by the British in 1775, fought at Germantown and Brandywine in Pennsylvania, and led troops in a losing battle against British forces in Florida. When the Redcoats besieged Charleston in 1780, Pinckney was among the soldiers captured. Unlike his brothers-in-law (and Declaration of Independence signers) Edward Rutledge and Arthur Middleton, who were shipped off to serve time in St. Augustine, Florida, Pinckney was imprisoned just outside Charleston. When he fell ill, British officers allowed him to return home to recuperate as long as he (a) agreed not to take up arms and (b) remained confined to his property. Pinckney arrived home to learn two things: his only son had just died, and his parole had been revoked. Grieving and ill, he returned to prison until his release in February 1782. His wife, who was not yet thirty years old, died in 1784.