Liberty

PROLOGUE: September 16, 1787

In deference to Benjamin Franklin’s failing health, the meeting was held on the first floor. Franklin knew it made more sense to have it in a basement or tucked away on an upper floor, but he could not have reached those places under his own power. The men who usually carried his sedan chair to the Constitutional Convention could know nothing of tonight’s meeting.

In truth, Franklin harbored his own doubts about the wisdom of the clandestine palaver. He wanted Randolph, Gerry and Mason to sign the final document, but was it worth putting the whole endeavor at risk just to make that happen? Forget the substance of the meeting, which was inflammatory enough. A back room deal before the ink was dry on the document was no way to launch a nation.

In the end, pushed by Madison and Randolph, he had acquiesced. Now here they sat, listening to William Jackson, the Secretary, outline the broad strokes. Alexander Hamilton, whom Franklin thought the most likely to queer the deal, interrupted.

“I agreed to listen, but I fail to see how the nation can move forward with this provision holding us back. We’ll see war between states in no more than five decades.”

“That is where you have it wrong.” Edmund Randolph wagged his finger like a disapproving schoolteacher. “You have fought against the states having enough power, but without something written to protect them war will be their only recourse.”

Franklin knew that Randolph was the closest of the three holdouts to signing and would embrace the compromise. George Mason and Elbridge Gerry were less predictable, but Mason now spoke in defense of his fellow Virginian.

“This is not how I would choose to move forward. But it does provide a check on the tendency of federal government to embrace tyranny. The battle for the delineation of rights will be fought in the states regardless of what we do here. Therefore, I will sign.”

Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts, one of the most eloquent of the anti-federalists, was uncharacteristically succinct. “I will sign. But if this gains the three of us, who will we lose?”

A damn fine question, thought Franklin. James Madison, small in stature but the most influential voice these last months in Philadelphia, answered.

“We will lose no one. None of the federalists will abandon us over this change.”

All eyes turned to Hamilton. Franklin agreed with Madison, except that he knew the retention of votes depended on Hamilton. If the New Yorker stirred up opposition, the whole endeavor would collapse.

Hamilton stood without a word, grabbed a quill from Jackson, and began signing the copies of the document. As he completed each one, he passed it to Franklin, who signed each one with rather less rapidity than Hamilton. Normally the order of signature on something like this was a topic for negotiation, but Franklin had anticipated little concern for the issue tonight. Still, he was unsurprised to see Hamilton take preemptive action.

When each document had six signatures affixed, Jackson added his own at the bottom. As he lifted his quill a final time, he looked up the other men.

“Shall I contact the printer?”

Nods formed the response, with Hamilton taking longer than the other to deliver his. Then the men rose, Franklin making his face a mask against the exertion required to stand. They left through different exits and not all at once, which Franklin found silly given that the delegates would find out about the agreement in the morning.

Franklin was the last to leave, sighing in relief when he spotted his coach parked nearby. As he leaned on his cane and shuffled in that direction, a figure emerged from the shadows.

“May I join you?”

Franklin nodded and then climbed into the carriage with the help of his driver. Edmund Randolph followed. When they were seated, Franklin shook off his fatigue.

“You are concerned about Hamilton.”

Randolph’s face tightened. “And you are not?”

“Yes. And no. He knows that whatever comes out of this meeting will be watered down in the states. He also knows that more time is likely to move us further away from the robust executive branch he wants. Whatever he does, it won’t jeopardize our ability to sign a document this week.”

Randolph nodded. “Probably true. How do you think history will record what we did tonight?”

“I confess, Edmund, I know not.”

“Nor do I. However, I believe that regardless of what happens it should be recorded in some way.”

Franklin sighed. “The hour is late, my bones are weary, and my age is advanced. You obviously have a suggestion. Pray share it with me.”

Randolph spoke for nearly five minutes. Franklin had to admit that the man had thought through nearly every contingency. Franklin asked several questions and concluded that the plan was fundamentally sound.

He did worry about how their information might be used if circumstances conspired to render Randolph’s plan necessary. So he held back one or two ideas of his own, ideas which could help blunt the potential damage of discovery by someone with less than pure motives. He would need the help of his grandson as well as his executor.

The coach stopped to disgorge Randolph before continuing on to Franklin’s residence. Franklin hardly noticed, allowing his mind to ponder the chosen course of action. A smile crept onto his lips when he thought of one particular aspect of it, and he chastised himself for a lack of humility. In many ways he considered humility the most important of the thirteen virtues he extolled, although he often failed live up to his ideal. In any case, it was a clever idea.

If the worst happened and the agreement collapsed tomorrow, to keep the document secret he would have to hide it in plain sight.

Behind enemy lines was wholly inadequate to describe the position in which Richard Bunyan found himself as his pocket watch ticked past two in the morning. At first glance, every shadow seemed to be a Confederate soldier lying in wait. He reminded himself that when a nation tears itself apart in war, everyone and no one is the enemy.

Tonight he had the honor of accompanying Josiah Hawthorne on a mission which could change the course of the war and the country. His job was to help protect Hawthorne and the document he carried, and Bunyan intended to do the job or die trying.

Six months ago he had served in the infantry in the United States Army. Three months ago on his twenty-fifth birthday, two things had happened. First, he had suffered a bayonet wound in his left leg. The injury had occurred during a skirmish so minor that no newspaper reported it, but it was significant for Bunyan. The injury meant a discharge and a return home.

The day after arriving home, Bunyan’s great uncle invited him to a gathering of what the man called “Patriots of the Republic.” With his wound already healing fast and nothing better to do, Bunyan went along. There he met Josiah Hawthorne, who took little time in corralling the younger man.

“Are you glad to be out of the Army?”

“No, sir!” Bunyan had replied.

Hawthorne had chuckled. “You should be. I could use a man like you, fresh from combat. That is, if you’re interested in really making a difference in the war and setting our great nation back on course.”

The three months since then seemed a whirlwind with the sole purpose of directing him to this moment.

Now, as they moved through the darkness, the damp night air raising chill bumps on his exposed flesh, he could just make out Hawthorne on the horse a few feet in front of him, holding up his hand to indicate a stop.

“What is it, Mr. Hawthorne?” he whispered.

“How many times have I told you to call me Josiah? The kind of work we’re about tonight has no room for formality. We’re almost there.”

Bunyan had lost count of the number of patrols they had already dodged. Fortunately Meade and Lee had already bloodied each other badly enough that no one was expecting any sort of night-time incursion. The patrols they encountered were men wounded or asleep on their feet, hardly a challenge to slip past.

Hawthorne dismounted and tied his horse to a tree; Bunyan followed suit. They needed to complete the final phase of the journey on foot. The location was secluded enough to prevent discovery of the horses as long as they returned and left the area by dawn.

Hawthorne whispered as they walked. “Our sources indicate that he is sick and making frequent trips to the latrine. That will be our opportunity to speak with him.”

Bunyan nodded, feeling a measure of relief. Their original plan of sneaking into the officers’ quarters seemed reckless, but he hadn’t seen any alternative. Hawthorne always held things close to the vest, and Bunyan had wondered if he would come up with an alternate plan. Now they’d have a fighting chance to deliver their message.

They wore a style of gray uniform which some southern regiments had worn earlier in the war. They wouldn’t survive close examination, but they might provide enough misdirection to allow the completion of the mission. As they walked now, they saw more and more tents as well as men sleeping in the open.

They saw bodies too, and the stench that assaulted Bunyan’s nostrils was familiar from his time in uniform. The smell was a combination of blood, sweat and decay, but Bunyan associated it with only one thing: death.

Hawthorne pulled him aside under some of the few trees that had survived the invasion of tens of thousands of men. He gestured with his hand. “Quarters are about three hundred yards that way. All we need to do is find the nearest latrine.”

Bunyan nodded. “The one used by the top ranking officers will likely be covered, unlike the ones for the rest of the men. But how do we find it?”

Hawthorne grinned, barely visible in the dim light from various sources in the area. “We follow our nose”

Bunyan couldn’t pick up anything beyond that smell of death, but Hawthorne’s nose was obviously more discerning. In short order they crouched in the darkness near what had to be the officer’s latrine.

“What now?” Bunyan asked.

“We wait.”

They didn’t wait long. A figure with a white beard stumbled towards the covering, bent over with a hand on his stomach. The torch nearby illuminated his face, and Bunyan recognized him easily despite the illness-induced pallor. General Robert E. Lee.

Hawthorne moved quickly the instant Lee disappeared through the opening, and Bunyan hurried to keep up. He ducked inside just in time to hear Hawthorne say, “General Lee. We’d like a word with you.”

Lee turned, his hand already reaching for his sword. Hawthorne held a pistol aimed at his midsection. “Please put that away. We have no desire to hurt you, but if you attack us or call out I’ll have no choice but to fire.”

Lee’s hand remained on the hilt of his sword for several seconds. The pain from his stomach was evident on his face, but his hand and his head remained steady. Finally he nodded and put his hands at his sides. “Say your piece. With those uniforms, you’re northern spies and you won’t be leaving here alive.”

Hawthorne said, “I’ll be brief and direct. I have a document here which can help end the war.”

“If you think that, son, you know nothing about war.”

“Why don’t you read it and judge for yourself?”

Still keeping the pistol trained on Lee, he removed an envelope from an inner pocket and handed it to Bunyan. Bunyan opened it, extracted a piece of folded parchment and handed it to the general.

Lee unfolded it and began reading. His face gave nothing away, though Bunyan thought he detected an extra weariness descend over the man. When he finished Lee looked up.

“How do I know it’s real?”

“You’re a student of history. What do you think?”

Lee sighed. “I think men smarter than me have been fooled before. But even if it is real, what do you want me to do?”

“You’ve heard that West Virginia is about to be admitted to the Union? One more northern state?”

Lee nodded.

“Well think about that document and imagine the impact.”

Lee held up the document. “This carries no weight of law.”

“Maybe not, but if you bust through the Union center tomorrow, that document could sway enough minds to force the abolitionists to back down. Compromise will be possible.”

Hawthorne reached out his hand. “I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll have that back and you do what you think is best. If you can win a great victory tomorrow, that document will be made public.”

Hawthorne took the document before Lee could react further. He began back-pedaling, and Bunyan scrambled to get out of the opening before him. Bunyan kept expecting a bullet or a sword in the back, or at least a yell,which would expose them. None came.

Back in the tent, Robert E. Lee hadn’t moved, his mind reeling. They want me to bust through the Union center. As if I can just order that and have it be done. If I succeed, it could change the course of the war even without that document. The loss of life will be massive, though, and failure here might doom us. A lightning charge might do it, hit them so hard and so fast it breaks them.

If I give the order, if we break through, if Meade doesn’t outflank us, if reinforcements arrive, if that document was real, and if the lunatic who just held a gun on me follows through.

Lee shook his head as another wave of cramps hit his stomach. A strike at the Union center was daring. But nothing good ever came of relying on that many ‘ifs.’

Hawthorne and Bunyan made it back to the horses and through the lines without incident. Bunyan wondered if the older man had made a deal with the devil as he seemed to anticipate and avoid every possible encounter with the enemy. By the time the first lights of dawn began to pierce the darkness, they had traveled many miles.

Bunyan heard the gunshot and the cry from Hawthorne at about the same time. Hawthorne toppled from his horse to the ground, and only Bunyan’s military training prevented him from calling out. Instead, he slid out of the saddle with his pistol ready. He couldn’t see anything in the dim light, and he crouched next to Hawthorne while keeping his ears open for anyone coming closer. He felt terribly exposed, but he needed to find out how badly Hawthorne was hurt. If Hawthorne couldn’t continue, he needed to get the document to safety.

“Get those Rebs!”

The cry was followed by the sound of hoof beats, at least a dozen horses by the sound of it. Shots tore into the ground around him and Bunyan dived for some bushes a few feet away. He scrambled on his hands and knees like a wild man, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the shooters. The irony of being attacked by Union troops was not lost on him, but he had to focus on survival. He would have to come back for the document.

The trees grew thicker, and he got to his feet and started to run. Bullets and excited voices pursued him. A sharp pain hit his leg and he fell to the ground, rolled once, and then felt himself sliding downward. Some part of his brain knew that he had stumbled into a steep gully, but he couldn’t see anything as he somersaulted.

Then his head struck something hard and everything went black.

The sun was in the middle of the sky when he woke up. He felt thankful that the Union soldiers had missed him. Then he remembered Hawthorne and staggered to his feet.

Everything looked different in the light, and it took him over an hour to find the location of the attack. He wouldn’t even have found it except that his pack was still tangled in the bushes near where he had lunged away from the shooting.

He found no sign of Hawthorne or the horses other than some marks in the dirt from the skirmish. He tried to track where they had gone, but he had never possessed that sort of skill. Eventually he gave up and dropped to his knees.

He had failed. Even if Lee succeeded, there would be no revelation to force an end to the war. Men would continue to slaughter each other with no end in sight.

Bunyan sucked in a lungful of air and got to his feet. He had to get back and report this. Maybe some others in the organization would know what to do.

It took him two days to get back to Maryland after stealing a horse from a nearby farm. He arrived at the familiar porch near midnight and knocked on the door. Despite the late hour, the door opened almost instantly, revealing the elderly man to whom Bunyan needed to report. Bunyan had never even learned the man’s name.

The man smiled. “I’d like to congratulate you on the success of the mission. Unfortunately, Lee failed. General Pickett came within a whisker of pulling it off before the casualties were too much.”

“Hawthorne is dead.”

The man’s eyebrows narrowed and his expression became guarded. “Come on in. Tell me everything.”

Bunyan did, feeling the emotion welling inside him as he went. He finished fighting back the tears. “The document is gone. All is lost.”

The man waited over a minute before answering, leaving Bunyan to hang his head in his hands. Then he said, “It is a setback to be sure. The path will be harder. But all is not lost.”

He leaned in so his face was inches from Bunyan.

“There is another.”