Tempest at Dawn by James D. Best Page A

be enjoying a superb supper with stalwart
companions.”

    As Sherman washed his face at a basin in his
room, he marveled that appeals to vanity worked best with the least
capable. No matter. He had won what he wanted at an inconsequential
price. The plan they had formulated met his goals. The New Jersey
Plan strengthened the national government while preserving the
sovereignty of Connecticut.
    Sherman went to the writing shelf to tell
Rebecca the good news. He hadn’t received a response from his last
letter, but that wasn’t unusual because the round trip took more
than a week. She wanted him to complete his business and return
home, so she’d be happy to hear that the convention would finally
start.
    Sherman wrote six pages but omitted
mentioning his new shoes. With their limited funds, she wouldn’t be
sympathetic to his indulgence. Sherman vowed to tighten up on other
expenditures. He was grateful that New Jersey had bought his
extravagant meal this evening.
    As he dressed in his nightshirt, Sherman
felt confident about tomorrow’s opening session. Madison had made a
fatal error. Even if he passed his Virginia Plan, the national
Congress and the states would never ratify it. His was an
idealist’s mistake: purity of principle overriding common and
political sense. Sherman’s plan remained obedient to the
instructions from Congress. Madison’s plan dissolved Congress. When
the alternatives were laid out to responsible delegates, they would
recoil at the attack against their authorizing agency.
    Sherman climbed into bed and pulled the
comforter tight against the night cold. Snuggled in the soft
warmth, he let his weary bones relax. He had earned a good night’s
sleep.
    Suddenly his eyes popped open. James Madison
did not make fatal errors.

Part 2

Quorum

Chapter 8

Thursday, May 24,
1787

    Madison tried to pace his breathing to the
heaving body beneath him. He wished he could do this as well as
other men. He had the timing about right, when a fallen tree in his
path made him gasp. He hated jumping a horse.
    Damn Robert Morris. It was no accident that
Madison sat astride the biggest horse he had ever seen. The beast’s
back was so broad that Madison’s legs were splayed too wide for a
comfortable ride. His anger had grown when the livery boy raised
the stirrups as high as they would go. Morris had engineered this
indignity.
    Madison felt more at ease after the huge
beast easily bounded over the tree. He searched the narrow trail
ahead but saw neither Washington nor Morris. His childhood, no, his
life had been plagued by illness, so he had never enjoyed what his
father thought of as manly pursuits. Deciding he would never
impress his host, he gently tugged on the reins to bring the horse
down to a trot. Washington was renowned as possibly the best
horseman in the country. It made no sense to speed through unknown
woods in an attempt to keep up with him.
    Morris had invited Washington, Madison, and
Franklin to The Hills, his country estate along the Schuylkill
River. Franklin no longer rode, so he had stayed at the mansion to
enjoy the clean air, rural sounds, and river view.
    Madison took a deep breath. Now that he had
slowed the horse to a comfortable pace, he began to enjoy the
experience. The woods smelled fresh after the city, and the
rhythmic clop of the heavy horse relaxed him. He suddenly felt
homesick for Montpelier. Before he could sink into a wistful mood,
he turned a corner in the trail and came upon his two
companions.
    “ Mr. Madison, there you are. We were
about to circle back to see if you’d had a mishap.”
    “ Quite the contrary, Mr. Morris. This
is a fine animal. Quick, obedient, and a good jumper. I slowed the
pace after the tree to enjoy this perfect afternoon.”
    “ Glad to hear it. If you’re
comfortable with Brutus, we’ll charge on ahead.”
    “ Brutus and I get along just fine. He
told me that he hardly noticed my weight on his sturdy
back.”
    Washington laughed. “He looks a