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Turning to the debate at hand—the issue of amending the Constitution before or after ratification—Madison appealed to both common sense and fear. He explained that if the anti-Federalists were to win, the other nine states that had already ratified would have to reopen their conventions to address the new amendments. Anything could happen at those new conventions—from new amendments proposed to votes being changed. The entire process, Madison told them, could be derailed by Virginia’s stubbornness.

Then, perhaps playing a game of “Good Constable, Bad Constable” himself, Madison offered an olive branch to Patrick Henry. “His proposed amendments could be subsequently recommended,” he told the crowd, “not because they are necessary, but because they can produce no possible danger, and may gratify some Gentlemen’s wishes. But I can never consent to his previous amendments because they are pregnant with awful dangers.”

Henry fumed. These amendments aren’t necessary? he thought, his face crimson with rage. Freedom of religion is not necessary? Trial by jury is not necessary? The right to bear arms is not necessary? If a Declaration of Rights is necessary in enlightened Virginia, how much more vital is it in the mighty consolidated government these Federalists have cooked up for us?

“Madison,” he bellowed, his voice drawing out the name into three very distinct syllables, “tells you of the important blessings which he imagines will result to us and to mankind from this system. I see the awful immensity of the dangers with which it is pregnant. I see it. I feel it.” Henry’s voice rose higher and higher. “I see beings of a higher order anxious concerning our decision. We have it in our power to secure the happiness of one half of the human race. Its adoption may involve the misery of the other hemisphere.”

And, suddenly, those “higher beings” seemed to personally invade the debate. A distant thunder drew near, and then cracked close by. The skies grew black, then bright white as lightning streaked through overhead. The storm seemed to want to sever the building’s roof from its walls. Heavy oak doors slammed shut from the force of the mighty winds. Lead windows rattled and seemed ready to crack and explode into a thousand violent shards.

Patrick Henry stood silent and passive, a calm eye at the center of a great tempest. The chair furiously banged his gavel for adjournment. There was no way anyone could proceed in the midst of this chaos.

Those in the balcony simply stared and marveled at Patrick Henry, the man who could seemingly call down the heavens as his witness.

Theatre Square (“The New Academy”)

Broad Street, between Twelfth and Fourteenth Streets

Richmond, Virginia

June 25, 1788

Patrick Henry sensed trouble was brewing.

The roll call commenced on the series of prior amendments Henry had proposed to ensure American rights. This vote was everything. If the delegates decided to shoot down the idea of ratifying with amendments, then Henry knew he would lose the larger battle as well.

He watched intently as the votes began to come in. Delegates from Virginia’s first four counties all voted “no”—against the prior amendments, and against Henry. Back and forth it went.

James Madison rose from his chair to gain a better vantage point of what votes remained. A glare from Chairman Pendleton quickly forced him down. With 160 votes counted, the vote stood even. George Mason slumped. He knew that many committed Federalists were still left to vote. If the anti-Federalists were to win, it would have to be on a final flat-footed tie. One by one, the remaining delegates voted, solidly and firmly: “No.”

There would be no prior amendments.

Henry and Mason knew that the final vote on ratification of the Constitution itself was now a foregone conclusion. The tight margin, 89–79, belied the anticlimactic nature of the roll call. With Virginia on board, the Constitution and a new nation built around a far stronger federal government would now move forward.

No cheers greeted the final tally. The vote had been too close for that. There had been too many good patriots on either side. And there still remained much work to do. There might be no “previous” amendments, but, in the end, Patrick Henry and George Mason would win their fight for “subsequent” amendments and the badly needed Bill of Rights.

EPILOGUE

James Madison and Edmund Randolph rose from their seats and walked out toward the street. Nobody spoke, but James Madison heard a voice in his head. It was Patrick Henry’s, and the words that came to him were the same ones Henry had spoken over the previous two weeks.

“Virtue will slumber,” Henry had warned. The Constitution could not hold it up. “The wicked will be continually watching,” he cried to the heavens. “Consequently you will be undone.”

The words repeated themselves, over and over again, faster and faster, in James Madison’s mind. Virtue will slumber. The wicked will be continually watching. Consequently you will be undone .

He tried to vanquish the thoughts from his head but instead the warnings grew louder and faster. What if, Madison thought, factions did arise, taxation did become oppressive, or the government did become consolidated? What if the states became impotent in the face of an ever-growing central government? What if foreign treaties endangered our freedoms and crushed our sovereignty? What if this new government eventually moved so far away from the principles they’d all agreed on that it could not even pay the interest on its legal debts? What if privacy was no longer respected? What if the press was not independent and instead an instrument of the state?

Virtue will slumber. The wicked will be continually watching. Consequently you will be undone .

And then Madison heard the words of anti-Federalist James Monroe: “There are no limits pointed out. They are not restrained or controlled from making any law, however oppressive.” These words melded with Henry’s, creating a great, pounding prophetic cacophony of trepidation, as disturbing as any storm of thunder and lightning.

Madison shook his head and took a deep breath. No , he thought, these things could never happen. The Constitution—and, certainly this Bill of Rights they’ve insisted on—would hold such tyranny at bay. Not even in three hundred years could these iron bulwarks we have erected fail to protect our hard-fought liberty .

But Patrick Henry, unable to rise from his chair inside the hall, silent and speechless for once in his life, feared otherwise.

4

The Barbary War: A Steep Price for Peace

Chambers of Abd al-Rahman

London, England

March 28, 1785

The ambassador shifted in his seat. It had been twenty minutes and mysterious odors were beginning to waft into the waiting room from the kitchen. He impatiently glanced at the Arabic script and mosaic tiles covering the walls and heard his stomach growl. He missed his Virginia plantation and the meals his slaves cooked for him.

The ambassador was a man of contradictions. He was a revolutionary, but he’d never fired a gun in anger. He was a profligate spender and chronic debtor, but he hated government expenditures and fought ferociously against a national debt. And he was a well-known slaveholder, who was also his country’s most eloquent advocate for liberty and equality.

The only contradiction that currently mattered, however, was Thomas Jefferson’s attitude toward the ongoing hostage crisis in the Mediterranean. Hundreds of American sailors, the victims of pirates backed by petty dictators on the Barbary Coast, were languishing in North African prisons. These pirates had also confiscated thousands of dollars’ worth of ships and goods. Jefferson hated the Europeans’ policy of ransoming their hostages and buying peace by bribing the marauders, but he was equally distrusting of the strong central government that would be required to build a navy strong enough to protect American commerce with force.