Glenn Beck - Miracles and Massacres - True and Untold Stories of the Making of America

Young Randolph might be a reed blown by political winds, but, at least, thought Henry, he was now our reed. If Randolph could not be entirely trusted to do the right thing, at least he could be trusted to do what his heavily anti-Federalist Henrico County constituents wanted him to do.

Henry continued his look around the hall until he sighted the one man who truly worried him: James Madison—all five feet, four inches of him. It wasn’t Madison’s oratorical skills that concerned Henry; “Jemmy” didn’t really have any. Half the time people couldn’t even hear the gentleman speak. But, if anyone, anywhere, knew more about this Constitution or about the arguments for and against it than did the thirty-seven-year-old Madison, Patrick Henry had never heard of them.

• • •

The moment the Constitution was formally read into the official record, Patrick Henry bolted out of his seat. His plan was to attack, attack, and then attack once more. He would concede nothing. He would even skewer the very first words of the document: “We the People . . .” How dare the men at Philadelphia claim to speak for all the people, he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at James Madison. “The people gave them no power to use their name.”

As Henry ranted, he saw that Edmund Randolph was listening intently. Henry smiled in his direction. Acquiring the wavering Randolph for the anti-Federalist team would give them a big boost. But Randolph did not smile back.

When Henry finished, Randolph stood and slowly walked to the floor to speak. As he did, he offered a barely perceptible nod to James Madison.

Patrick Henry’s heart sank. This was going to be much, much harder than he thought.

• • •

Edmund Randolph spoke not to praise Patrick Henry, but to bury him. His voice shook with rage as he refuted point after point made by his anti-Federalist predecessor. “The government is for the people,” he thundered. “And the misfortune was that the people had no say in the government before.”

Henry’s face reddened with anger. He couldn’t believe it; Randolph had switched positions again! “I am,” Randolph continued, drawing out his every syllable and speaking in almost musical tones, “a friend of the Union.”

Patrick Henry’s mood turned as black as the suit he wore. He wanted to find the highest steeple in town and yell to everyone that their governor was the damnable crowned prince of chameleons. Instead, he sat stoically, refusing to give Randolph the satisfaction of seeing his anger and sense of betrayal.

Across the room, a disheartened George Mason, Henry’s greatest ally in the hall, could not even bear to look at Randolph. A young Benedict Arnold , he thought, a young Arnold . The sixty-year-old Mason roused himself from his gloom to take the floor. Struggling to gather his thoughts, he ran his bony fingers through his long white hair.

Mason was truly angry at Randolph, but he knew that personal attacks would get them nowhere right now. Instead, he aimed his fire on one of the Constitution’s more controversial new powers: the ability of the federal government to directly tax the people. “This power of laying direct taxes entirely changes the confederation into a consolidated government,” he said slowly and with near perfect enunciation. “Converting a confederation into a consolidated government is totally subversive of every principle which has heretofore governed us. It annihilates the state governments. Will the people submit to taxation by two different and distinct powers? The one will destroy the other: the states must give way to the general government.”

Mason conceded that the Constitution had many fine points, but he told his fellow delegates that it required fine tuning—a Declaration of Rights, very much like the one Mason had authored for Virginia itself in June 1776. He felt these amendments were essential to the Constitution and he wanted them adopted before Virginia ratified, even if it meant risking the whole process being sent back to square one.

Freedom, thought Mason, was worth spending the time to get right.

Richmond, Virginia

The Swan

North side of Broad Street

Evening of June 4, 1788

James Madison had barely spoken during the day’s session, but the excitement had left him exhausted anyway. We are winning; that much was clear to him. Getting Randolph as an ally—even if he was in favor for amendments after ratification—was a huge coup for the Federalists.

Madison retreated to his lodgings at the Swan, one of little Richmond’s better hostelries. Quarters were close so he had to be careful. The walls had ears, and worse, so did his fellow delegates.

Some daylight remained as Madison picked up a quill pen and began drafting a letter to George Washington at Mount Vernon. He’d promised Washington that he would keep him updated on the proceedings. After a great first day, Madison was excited to relay the news. “Randolph has thrown himself fully into our scale,” he wrote. “Mason and Henry take different and awkward ground, and we are in the best spirits.”

James Madison went to bed that night a very tired and very happy little man.

Richmond, Virginia

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

June 5, 1788

Patrick Henry did not know about Madison’s exuberant letter to Washington. If he had, he probably would have smiled, knowing that overconfidence and bravado were the anti-Federalists’ best friends. Henry, to paraphrase a phrase not yet uttered, had only just begun to fight.

For now, however, it was still the Federalists’ turn. Judge Pendleton, the convention’s unanimously elected chairman, roused himself onto his crutches and made his way to the floor. Despite his judge’s wig, Pendleton didn’t look like much. Fast approaching sixty-seven, he coughed and gasped for air. But Pendleton was smart and respected, and Henry knew he was a worthy adversary.

That opinion, however, did not appear to be mutual. Pendleton, his voice dripping with sarcasm, began by addressing Henry as his “worthy friend,” before curtly informing him that no natural enmity existed between constitutional government and liberty. “The former is the shield and protector of the latter,” Pendleton lectured Henry and the other anti-Federalists. “The war is between government and licentiousness, faction, turbulence, and other violations of the rules of society, to preserve Liberty.”

Other Federalists followed Pendleton, all making similar points, all virtually jeering at Patrick Henry.

But it is a dangerous thing to taunt a lion.

Later that morning, the lion rose from his chair and surveyed his fellow delegates. Moving slowly for effect, he looked skyward and perused the throng in the gallery above. A profound, awesome silence enveloped the crowd. Love him or hate him, audiences hung on Henry’s every word.

The Federalists had spent a great deal of time emphasizing the financial stability that they claimed a central government would bring. Henry, however, thought finances were inconsequential compared to the issue that revolutionary patriots had shed their precious blood for: liberty. He intended to hammer this point home as fiercely and relentlessly as possible.

“Don’t ask how trade may be increased or how to become a great and powerful people,” he bellowed. “Ask how your liberties can be secured.” His hands were clenched into fists as though he were ready to wage battle against the idea of tyranny. “For liberty ought to be the direct end of your government. Is the end of trial by jury and the liberty of the press necessary for your liberty? Will abandoning your most sacred rights secure your liberty? Liberty, the greatest of all earthly blessings—give us that precious jewel, and you may take everything else!”