Tempest at Dawn by James D. Best Page B

great steed.
Robert could have fit out a shelty, but he holds a high regard for
your riding ability. Right, Robert?”
    “ Absolutely. Brutus scares
some.”
    “ Really,” Madison said as he
affectionately patted the horse’s neck. “I find him temperate and
responsive.”
    “ Well, we’ll be off then.” Morris
turned his thoroughbred horse in a tight circle and spurred it to a
full gallop down the trail.
    Washington gave Madison a wink. “Enjoy the
afternoon, Jemmy.” He turned his horse and sped away with the deep
seat of an expert horseman.
    Madison had never liked Robert Morris,
possibly because Morris had never liked him. But now he felt
released. He could explore at his own pace, and Washington had let
him know that he saw the game Morris had played.
    Part of the problem was that Madison failed
to understand Morris. He owned land, but he did not honor land like
a Southerner. He just bought it and held it long enough to sell for
a profit. It made no sense. Land meant standing in the community, a
family heritage to be preserved, and an obligation to care for the
land and less-well-off neighbors. To a Virginia plantation owner,
land meant everything. To a Pennsylvania speculator, land held no
value beyond its price.
    Madison shrugged off his irritation. After
all, they had received word before they left Philadelphia that the
full New Jersey delegation had arrived. With this new thought,
Madison grew excited. Tomorrow would culminate a year’s worth of
preparation. It would be a grand day.
    He decided that Brutus was a gentle giant
with an even temper and a clear-eyed look that hinted of uncommon
horse sense. Big and smart. Madison thought of Roger Sherman and
dug his heels into Brutus.

    “ Good delegates, please come to order.
Please come to order.” A gavel banged for attention. “Gentlemen,
please take your seats.”
    Madison and Mason stood in a corner of the
clamorous chamber. Delegates conversed loudly in the open spaces,
while torrential rain pounded the windows, adding a loud, rhythmic
din to the male voices. They had been meeting at the State House
every day at one o’clock since May 14—the scheduled start of the
convention—to see if a quorum had arrived. Because everyone had
already heard about New Jersey’s arrival, delegates had arrived
ahead of time to talk politics, strut their finery, and enjoy the
atmosphere of expectancy. The room seethed with anticipation. The
day had finally arrived.
    Madison turned to Mason. “I’ve been waiting
for this moment for over a year. Let’s take our seats.”
    Madison jostled his way to a center-front
table that he had already reserved by distributing his writing
materials. He intended to take careful notes of the proceedings and
wanted to see and hear everything. Happy delegates interrupted his
forward progress by shaking his hand, slapping his shoulder, and
offering congratulations. Friend and foe alike seemed intent on
thanking him for orchestrating this momentous event.
    The green baize tables were arranged in arcs
facing the speaker’s platform located on the east wall. The white
room, with slate-colored wainscoting, received excellent light from
twenty-four large pane windows. The square chamber, designed in
classic proportions and ornamented with pilasters and tabernacles,
radiated dignity. This was a room meant to witness history. The
president’s chair sat on a low dais behind the very desk where the
Declaration of Independence and the Articles of Confederation had
been signed. The Continental Congress had met here. Washington had
accepted his election as commander in chief of the Continental Army
in this room.
    Madison reached his table and looked up to
see a self-important Robert Morris impatiently waiting for the
laggards to settle.
    Taking a deep breath and looking about the
chamber, Morris said, “Gentlemen, thank you. I’m pleased to
announce a quorum.” A dramatic pause. “We may proceed.”
    Cheers rang through the chamber.
    “