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

The barren landscape of vanished liberties that Henry sketched was having an effect. An onlooker in the gallery turned to Robert Morris. He wanted to speak but he could not find the words. A scream welled up deep inside him as he felt the cold and hard iron fetters of a devilishly new form of tyranny already pressing upon his flesh.

Henry saw the faces of those in the gallery and knew his warnings were hitting their mark. He sensed a power welling up within him. He would lacerate every argument proposed for this new Constitution—and many that had not even been considered yet.

James Madison sat uneasily in his chair as he listened to Henry dismantle the Federalists’ arguments, point by point. He slowly brought his hands together, almost as if in silent prayer. Yes , he thought, in silent answer to Henry’s latest argument against the need for a national army, an adequate military and this Constitution are necessary to protect freedom .

After watching the faces of his fellow delegates as Henry spoke, he was no longer so sure that a majority felt the same way.

Richmond, Virginia

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

June 9, 1788

Tempers ran high. Civility ran on empty. The time for arguing over articles and amendments, taxation and treaties, term limits and war powers, was passing fast.

The time for arguing personalities had arrived with a great roar.

Patrick Henry, refreshed by a good night’s rest, took the floor again and skewered the Federalists’ boasting of the “checks and balances” in their new system. “What are the checks of exposing accounts?” Henry baited them, pacing about the floor with great energy, “Can you search your President’s closet? Is this a real check?”

At just the right moment, Henry tossed another major bombshell into the proceedings. He had somehow secured a copy of a letter his hated opponent Thomas Jefferson had written four months earlier to an old friend. In it, the principal author of the Declaration of Independence and former governor of Virginia had cast doubts on the wisdom of the new Constitution.

Spreading his arms before him, like an eagle about to swoop down on its prey, Henry added to the drama by slowly introducing the letter to the gallery. “We have information that comes from an illustrious citizen of Virginia, who is now in Paris, which disproves the suggestions of such dangers as Madison and company have alleged,” he announced.

“I might say,” Henry continued, oozing with pleasure at the opportunity to summon his archrival Jefferson as a surprise witness, “not from public authority, but good information, that his opinion is that you reject this government!”

The crowd stirred and Henry paused to let the murmuring die down before continuing. “This illustrious citizen advises you to reject this government till it be amended! His sentiments coincide entirely with ours! Let us follow the sage advice of this common friend of our happiness.”

An uproar came from the gallery: Huzzahs from one faction; harrumphs and catcalls from the other. Henry simply smiled. There were not many people you’d rather have on your team, personal feelings aside, than Thomas Jefferson.

Henry continued, flitting from one topic to another, attacking each and every thing about the Constitution. When he finally finished, a raging Governor Randolph again took the floor. On Saturday, Henry had slyly puzzled over Randolph’s sudden support for adopting the Constitution without amending it first, broadly hinting that Randolph might have been bribed to support the document. He’d even suspected George Washington himself of offering the prize.

For two days, Randolph had fumed over Henry’s insinuations, barely able to restrain himself from physically confronting the older man. Now, standing in the hall, Randolph had everyone’s attention and he was not about to let the moment pass without taking direct aim at Henry’s allegations. “I find myself attacked in the most illiberal manner by the honorable gentleman,” he sputtered. “If our friendship must fall, let it fall, like Lucifer, never to rise again!”

The crowd gasped. Those were fighting words in Virginia.

The chair gaveled furiously to silence the murmuring. Henry, visibly shaken, rose to respond and solemnly avowed that he had no intention of offending anyone, particularly the “honorable gentleman”—but that hardly calmed Randolph. If anything, he grew even more inflamed, rising to tell the gallery that, if not for Henry’s apology, he’d been prepared to reveal certain unpleasant facts about Henry that would have made some men’s hair stand on end.

Henry did not take the threat well. “I beg the honorable gentleman to pardon me,” Henry said, his voice rising with every word, “for reminding him that his historical references and quotations are not accurate. If he errs so much with respect to his facts, as he has done in history, we cannot depend on his information or assertions.”

The gallery seemed to be in shock. Two of the greatest patriots in the history of the commonwealth stood at the precipice. Another insult, real or perceived, could quite possibly put them, and perhaps the entire convention, over the edge.

Fortunately, reason, and a good night’s rest, finally took command. The battle for the Constitution would continue to be waged with words—hot, vitriolic, and passionate words—instead of fists or pistols at twenty paces.

The Swan

North side of Broad Street

Richmond, Virginia

Evening of June 13, 1788

The Federalists had given it their best, but were worried that it wouldn’t be enough to counter the brilliance of Patrick Henry. He was not, after all, simply an orator; he was a force of nature.

James Madison thought long and hard about the events of the last week. His initial euphoria had long since vanished. Tonight, he again took pen to hand and reported to George Washington. But this time, his letter was much more dour, reporting that the Federalists’ chances for success were growing less favorable each day. He did not enjoy writing those words.

“Our progress is low,” he wrote. “The business is in the most ticklish state that can be imagined. The majority will certainly be small, on whatever side it may finally lie; and I dare not encourage much expectation that it will be on the favorable side.”

James Madison sealed the letter and collapsed into bed. He was exhausted, but sleep came only in fits and starts. When he did drift away, he dreamt only of defeat.

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

Richmond, Virginia

June 24, 1788

A thousand sweating, jostling spectators crammed the galleries. One way or another they would soon witness history being made. The time for talk was drawing to a close; the time for voting was drawing near.

First, however, Patrick Henry was about to drop another bombshell onto the convention. He rose and surprised everyone by presenting a series of amendments. He’d gone from opposing the entire Constitution and arguing against nearly every facet of it in great detail, to now suddenly accepting George Mason’s position: ratification, but with amendments and a Bill of Rights. Some delegates wondered if that had, in fact, been Henry’s position all along. Had he and Mason merely been playing a clever, protracted game of “Good Constable, Bad Constable”?

James Madison, who had been oddly quiet for the last few days, now rose in an effort to reframe their duty as one of world-changing significance. “Nothing has excited more admiration in the world,” he began, “than the manner in which free governments have been established in America.” But there was more work to be done. State governments were one thing, but if America could craft a well-functioning federal system then they would turn even more heads.