Whiskers In The Dark

13

September 25, 1787

Tuesday

A low fire glowed in the elegant fireplace in Ewing’s library, which also served as his office. The first blush of fall shone on the trees, and as the sun set, an early chill filled the air. Weymouth, the butler’s son, had built a fire for Ewing, who had been glued to his desk since late afternoon.

The large grandfather clock chimed the half hour in the hallway. Seven-thirty. The middle-aged man removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. In front of him on his desk rested the Constitution, which had been signed on September 17, 1787, by those delegates still in Philadelphia, a small number, thirty-eight, but the wrangling had gone on since May 25.

A farsighted man, Ewing paid under the table the princely sum of five hundred dollars to Roger Davis, who traveled to Philadelphia with James Madison, acting as the small gentleman’s unofficial secretary. As the convention dragged on and on, Ewing made certain Roger received further compensation. After this last spectacular service, he would amend the amount, nearing one thousand dollars to one thousand three hundred. Roger, having recently married, could certainly use this sum.

Many would see this as exceedingly generous, but given that Ewing was one of the few private citizens to be reading the document early, Roger’s efforts were worth every penny. Fortunately, the young man’s handwriting was clear, for the Constitution, when printed, proved large. This was sent to every state assembly. Virginia used the term “House of Delegates” for the state Senate. But in the main the term “assembly” proved accurate for the proceedings therein.

Ewing had regular fine paper, the normal size, which allowed him to receive this by post, for which he paid thirty dollars. However, the package would arouse little suspicion, the suspicion being: How did this successful businessman receive what state governments had received or were still receiving if further south or north of Virginia?

Once again, Ewing read General Washington’s cover letter. “Sir, we have the honor to submit to the consideration of the United States in Congress assembled, that Constitution which has appeared to us the most advisable—”

The appeal continued, as Washington knew full well that this document would create the largest exercise in public debate imaginable. The Constitution had to be ratified by the states to be in force. Knowing the dramatically different economic interests of those former colonies, this would be as much a test of the new nation as had been the war to separate from England.

What pleased Ewing was the phrase in Washington’s appeal that this involved “prosperity, felicity, safety, perhaps our national existence. This important consideration…each state in the Convention to be less rigid on points of inferior magnitude….And thus the Constitution, which we now present, is the result of a spirit of amity, and of that mutual defense and concession which the peculiarity of our political situation rendered indispensable.”

Ewing read and reread Washington’s letter and the Constitution three times. He wanted to be certain he understood the contents. Pushing back in his chair, he inhaled the odor of the wood burning, again rubbed his eyes as the candles flickered. While the hour wasn’t late, he had been reading, reading for hours. This was far too vital to toss off.

Did he understand it? He thought he did. He feared Massachusetts and, oddly, South Carolina. Would those states, so very far apart in economy, be able to accept this? The representation issue, which vexed everyone, was resolved thanks to the Connecticut Compromise, but there were other issues that were bound to be raised as the memory of an irresponsible and then seemingly vindictive king were stirred up. While the Constitution appeared to be neutral concerning economies, could the difficulties of a New England state enduring rocky soil, really relying on trade by sea, trust a state with soil perfect for rice?

It seemed to Ewing that the New England states, anticipating being overshadowed by the more robust agriculture of the southern states, would naturally be suspicious of the large southern landowners. A banking elite, a concentration of monies, loans, and foreign dealings with other banks loomed large in Ewing’s thoughts. If New England could concentrate income through its banks, that would more than offset the influence of the wealthy in the South.

As he was one of those wealthy ones, this deeply concerned him, yet he felt that Hamilton was right. The country needed an economic elite, it needed liquid assets, so to speak, it needed a government, strong and central, to prevent the weaker agricultural states from being held hostage by the richer northerners. But the reverse was just as unsettling. The country needed a securities exchange, which Massachusetts created in 1741, the Land Bank, only to see it destroyed by the British government.

So he put his glasses back on and read again.

Worn out, mind fatigued, he gave up by nine o’clock when Weymouth came in for the second time to refresh the fire.

“Weymouth, thank you. I’m going to retire for the evening.” Ewing stood up. “You retire, too. It’s been a long day and I hear there was another rumpus at the barn.”

Weymouth nodded, not wishing to get caught in the middle. If Ralston learned Weymouth, older and far more powerful than he, had criticized him, the younger man would find a sneaky way to get even.

“It’s cooled down even more. Would you like me to start a fire in your bedroom?”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled warmly at Weymouth, in his twenties, a good young man but not his father’s equal, which troubled both his father and Ewing.

Once in his spacious bedroom on the second floor, the room pleasantly warm, Ewing disrobed, pulling on a light wool navy robe. The windows overlooked the rear garden of Cloverfields, the mountains beyond, the outline just visible in the starlight. The small graveyard reposed below. He always looked out to his wife’s beautiful tombstone of a recumbent lamb with a cross between its front legs.

“Isabelle, times are changing, changing so fast. You were always better at seeing these things than myself.” He smiled, thinking of her often terse but accurate assessment of events, of people.

Ewing felt intelligent women possessed insights men did not. Isabelle left the business to him, yet she wasn’t upset when Catherine took an interest in it. Still, she counseled her older daughter to keep her thoughts to herself, as Catherine also learned from her father.

And as he now sat on the edge of the bed, it was Catherine who filled his thoughts. He would have her read the Constitution tomorrow. Of course, they couldn’t discuss it publicly, but they could between themselves. Better for no one to know what he now knew. Once Virginia’s governor, Edmund Randolph, and the others came to their conclusion, and he felt sure they would ratify the document after fulsome and tiresome discussion, then he could say he had read the same in a broadsheet distributed after the state’s vote.

He was in his late forties, becoming old, although he felt good. When his time came Cloverfields would be held in common by his daughters but not by their husbands. Unconventional as this was, it was a form of dower rights, which could then be again passed on to their children. He needed to talk to their husbands but not yet. He liked John and Charles enormously, saw how happy both sons-in-law made his daughters, but neither man was a businessman. Catherine was. Rachel would follow Catherine’s lead.

This new world, this new form of government: He prayed it would hold. He prayed his girls would thrive once he was united with Isabelle. Even if there was another war with a foreign power, he believed Catherine would find a way not just to survive it but to capitalize on it.

As he rested his head on the pillow and pulled up the covers, he prayed for that amity that Washington had written about and he prayed for peace even as he knew France was falling apart and his nation would be urged, seduced even, to help the power that had been so critical to its victory. The country simply could not be drawn into European wars. With that thought and a prayer for his family, he fell asleep.