Mr. President (20 page)

So it would be. Pinckney, Morris, Franklin, Wilson, Hamilton, Madison, Sherman, and thirty-two others affixed their names to the proposed form of government, with its newly created office of the president. Mason, Gerry, and even Randolph, who had introduced the first draft, did not. Randolph explained that his refusal to sign did not imply he would oppose the plan in the end. He wanted only to remain “free to be governed by his duty” to the people. After apologizing personally to Dr. Franklin, he promised not to “oppose the Constitution without doors.”

Gerry and Mason made no such pledge. Gerry listed eleven specific complaints with the document and predicted it would promote a civil war in his home state of Massachusetts. Mason vowed to oppose the new plan when it came to a vote in Virginia. Back on June 4, as he argued against a single executive, Mason had warned, “The genius of the people must be consulted,” and now at last that would happen.

George Mason stewed. His last-minute attempt to add a Bill of Rights had failed to garner the support of a single state delegation, his call for an executive council had fallen on deaf ears, and his final warning against “the danger of standing armies in time of peace” had been summarily dismissed. He was greatly concerned for the fate of the nation and the cause of liberty, and nobody seemed to be listening. So on the back of his copy of the Committee of Style’s printed draft, he “drew up some general objections, which I intended to offer, by way of protest,” as he reported to Thomas Jefferson, in France at the time, but he was “discouraged” from reading his objections on the floor “by the precipitate, & intemperate, not to say indecent manner, in which the business was conducted, during the last week of the convention, after the patrons of this new plan found they had a decided majority in their favour.”
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Mason’s first and primary objection was the absence of a “Declaration of Rights.” Since the state declarations did not apply to the new national government, he argued, the people’s liberties were “no longer secured.” Beyond that, Mason listed a dozen other reasons to oppose the Constitution, and several of these touched on the powers allotted to the Senate and the president.

The Senate and the president, in combination, had the power to
make treaties and appoint “ambassadors and all public officers” with absolutely no input from the people’s only true representatives in the House. Treaties had the force of law, but they were not made like other laws, which required House consent. Further, since the Senate tried impeachments, the president was beholden to it. The Senate, unlike the House, would be “continually sitting,” and members would serve lengthy terms. Senators could “accomplish what usurpations they please upon the rights and liberties of the people.” It didn’t have to be that way, if only the convention had granted Mason his independent executive council.

The stage was set for cabal, Mason continued. If some designing men tried to seize power and were consequently convicted of treason, the president had the full and unchecked authority to pardon them, should they be his friends or allies. Mason also complained of the “unnecessary office of the Vice-President, who for want of other employment is made president of the Senate, thereby dangerously blending the executive and legislative branches.” The Senate-and-president combination was dangerous enough in any case, and the vice presidency seemed to bond them even tighter.
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Mason had presented these objections during the convention and they were rejected, so now he searched for alternate venues. Gouverneur Morris, when his views did not prevail, had also taken them elsewhere, but Morris had narrowed the field, not broadened it. Morris needed to convince only five of ten committee members to go his way, while Mason had to address the entire nation—a tall order. If he succeeded in raising the alarm, the people themselves would then call for a second convention, and that venue would be more conducive to providing safeguards for liberty and guarantees against governmental abuse.

Mason started his mission the moment the convention ended, perhaps even a day or two before. He made copies of his objections and gave them to local political operatives in Philadelphia whom he suspected would be likely allies. He also gave a copy to Elbridge Gerry, a fellow non-signer, to circulate in Massachusetts, and Gerry, on his way home, showed it to like-minded political figures in New York, a state currently ruled by dedicated foes of a centralized government. Most significantly, he sent a copy to Richard Henry Lee, who was representing Virginia in Congress, currently meeting in New York. At least on paper, Congress still exercised whatever authority resided in the Confederation; it was his best, most immediate hope for overruling the group in Philadelphia.

Then Mason headed south to his home plantation, Gunston Hall, only five miles downstream from Mount Vernon on the right bank of the Potomac. Along the way, near Baltimore, his carriage tipped over, causing him much loss of blood and severe head and neck pains.
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George Washington, traveling separately from Mason, also suffered a mishap while heading back to the Potomac. On Wednesday, September 19, at the Head of Elk, he came across a creek swollen by rain. Unable to ford at the usual spot, he risked crossing on “an old, rotten & long disused bridge,” as he wrote in his journal. His lead horse fell fifteen feet into the river, almost dragging his baggage-laden carriage with it. While Mason’s injury attracted no attention, Washington’s near fall became the story of the hour. Two newspaper accounts of the incident were reprinted a total of seventy-one times over the next two months, in every state except North Carolina. According to the first, “His Excellency had alighted in order to walk over the bridge, which fortunate circumstance probably saved a life so dear to his country.” (The term “alighted” was misleading, perhaps deliberately so. Washington had been riding in his carriage, not upon the horse.) The second article celebrated the “providential preservation of the valuable life of this great and good man … for the great and important purpose of establishing, by his name and future influence, a government that will render safe and permanent the liberties of America.” This is what Mason and other opponents of the proposed Constitution were up against. They could not contest the office of a chief executive without seeming to oppose Washington himself, who more than likely would become the first president under the new plan.
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When Mason and Washington arrived home, they found their corn crops wanting. While in Philadelphia, they had been informed this might be so, but the shortage was even worse than they thought. Neighboring North Carolina, however, produced an abundant harvest that year, and Mason had made some contacts there through his fellow delegates. Washington knew this, and on October 7 he wrote to his neighbor: if Mason wanted to purchase North Carolina corn, “I would gladly join you.” Later that day, Mason responded: “If I can be of any service to you in making such a contract as you approve, it will give me a great deal of pleasure.” All very practical and cordial. This was life as usual for such close neighbors, and it continued despite their political differences.
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Washington was not shocked by Mason’s brash opposition to the
proposed Constitution, but he was clearly upset. Mason had “rendered himself obnoxious in Philadelphia by the pains he took to disseminate his objections,” he wrote to Madison. (“Obnoxious,” in those days, connoted insistent or insufferable, not loathsome or repugnant.) “To alarm the people, seems to be the ground work of his plan.” Mason would have agreed with this last statement; his list of objections would eventually find its way into twenty-five different newspapers, from Maine to South Carolina.
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As Mason pushed resistance, Washington promoted adoption. He did not step aside and let others do the work of advocacy, as is often reported. He wrote to other supporters, he tried to convince fence-sitters, he strategized, he arranged for publication of pro-Constitution materials, and he exerted his personal influence. Immediately upon his return to Mount Vernon, he sent copies of the proposed Constitution to three former governors of Virginia, Patrick Henry, Benjamin Harrison, and Thomas Nelson. “I accompany it with no observations,” he wrote at the outset, and while it is true he made no reference to the specific contents of the plan, he did comment on its importance: “I wish the Constitution which is offered had been made more perfect, but I sincerely believe it is the best that could be obtained at this time; and, as a Constitutional door is opened for amendment hereafter, the adoption of it under the present circumstances of the Union is in my opinion desirable.” Had the convention failed to draft new rules, he closed, “anarchy would soon have ensued—the seeds being richly sown in every soil.”
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More letters followed. To Henry Knox, his former general whom Congress had appointed secretary of war, Washington touted the virtues of the Constitution while warning Knox to expect “our Govr [Edmund Randolph] & Colo. Mason” to do all in their power “to alarm the people.” To David Stuart, Mason’s fellow representative from Fairfax County in the House of Delegates, he passed along James Wilson’s detailed rebuttal of Mason’s objections. Perhaps Stuart could arrange for the “re-publication” of Wilson’s argument, he suggested—not that Mason really needed any rebutting, he noted, since “every mind must recoil” at his ideas.
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When Hamilton and Madison, separately, sent him the first “Publius” essays, later published as
The Federalist
, Washington forwarded them, at Madison’s request, to a contact in Richmond, the state capital, for republication there. “Altho’ I am acquainted with some of
the writers who are concerned in this work,” Washington noted, “I am not at liberty to disclose their names, nor would I have it known that they are sent by
me
to
you
for promulgation.”
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While Washington’s political activism appeared to run counter to his public persona, his commitment to nationalism was hardly new. When he retired as commander in chief back in 1783, in a letter he termed his “legacy,” Washington had presented his own “system of policy,” a broad outline for a stronger central government. There should be “an indissoluble union of states under one federal head,” he had said. “There should be lodged somewhere a supreme power to regulate and govern the general concerns of the confederated republic, without which the union cannot long endure.” By “supreme power” he meant neither God nor an individual executive but a national government, a “supreme authority” over and above the separate states. Now his wish for a national government was almost fulfilled. Only one step remained: ratification of the convention’s proposed Constitution.
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The new plan would not be approved, though, unless Americans relinquished “their local prejudices and policies,” to use the words of his legacy letter. They needed “to make those mutual concessions which are requisite to the general prosperity, and in some instances, to sacrifice their individual advantages to the interest of the community.” Opponents of the plan were not doing that, Washington believed. Although Mason and others used high-toned arguments, they were motivated by local interests and jealousies. Mason’s more famous arguments demanded a Bill of Rights and an executive council, but Washington believed his true reason for opposing the Constitution was that it ran counter to Virginia’s interests. In his objections, Mason insisted that “commercial and navigation laws” should require a two-thirds vote so “the five Southern states, whose produce & circumstances are totally different from that of the eight Northern & Eastern states,” would not be “ruined.” This was the sort of language that absolutely infuriated George Washington. He too was a Virginian, but the “separate interests” of the states, even his own, needed to be reined in. “That there are some … who wish to see these states divided into several confederacies is pretty evident,” he wrote to David Stuart. “But as nothing in my conception is more to be depreciated than a disunion, or these separate confederacies, my voice, as far as it will extend, will be offered in favor of [union].”
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Washington had no good words to say about those “who are no
friends to general government—perhaps I might go further, & add, who would have no great objection to the introduction of anarchy & confusion.” Such adversaries were “more active & violent” than were friends of the Constitution, and their appeals were “addressed to the passions of the people, and obviously calculated to rouse their fears.” Washington’s demonizing the opposition served a purpose. By viewing them as selfish and inherently disruptive, he skirted any real issues they might pose. The structure of the Constitution was not at issue, merely the fact of its existence. All substantive critiques—including serious questions about the powers, manner of selection, and term in office of the president—could therefore be ignored. If these presented problems, they could be fixed later.
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Washington’s commitment to a stronger union, combined with his dim view of the opposition, fueled his own passions, and according to eyewitness reports his renewed sense of purpose was good for his health and spirit. “He is in perfect good health, & looks almost as well as he did twenty years ago. I never saw him so keen for any thing in my life, as he is for the adoption of the new form of government,” wrote Alexander Donald, who stayed for two days at Mount Vernon in October.
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At least initially, Washington did not wish to go public with his advocacy. His private secretary, Tobias Lear, knew this, so when Lear published a refutation of Mason’s objections in the
Virginia Journal
, he did so under the name of Brutus, and he made a point of not telling his employer what he was doing. On December 27, however, an excerpt from one of Washington’s many letters supporting the Constitution was published in
The Virginia Herald
. There was “no alternative” between the “adoption” of the Constitution and “anarchy,” he wrote, as he had written several other times in the previous three months, but this time his dire warning was read by the public. Over the next three months, forty-nine newspapers from Georgia to New Hampshire reprinted the former commander in chief’s passionate support of the new plan. Washington was a bit taken aback, but not dismayed. He complained to Charles Carter, the recipient of the letter that became public, but not so sternly as one might expect: