Liberty: 1784

Chapter 9

“Well, Major Fitzroy, what have you found about spies and such?” asked General Burgoyne. He was in a good mood. An almost empty food plate was on his desk and a snifter of brandy was in his hand. He’d moved from that drafty tent to a hastily built cabin with a genuine wood floor, and a fire burned in a stove that some insisted had been designed by the rebel, Benjamin Franklin. If the old rebel had indeed designed it, Burgoyne silently saluted him as the device gave off plenty of heat, keeping him and anyone else in the one room cabin warm and dry.

Fitzroy took off his snow-soaked cape and hat and sat down. “Nothing firm, sir, but many suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how did the rebels learn that Braxton was going to attack where he did? On top of the suspicious fire in Detroit, it is too much to be coincidental.”

Burned Man Braxton had returned to Detroit the day before with a handful of men. He was wounded and hungry. Several of his toes were frostbitten, and possibly part of what remained of his nose. He would lose the toes and the joke around was that any loss of his nose wouldn’t make him any uglier than he already was. He’d lost almost all of his men in what was obviously an ambush. He’d ranted almost incoherently about betrayal and Fitzroy had to agree with him. Someone had indeed betrayed him.

Burgoyne took a sip of brandy. “I can’t imagine you’re terribly distressed about Braxton’s failure.”

“I’m not, but if the rebels can find out about a matter so unimportant, what else can they learn about our major plans, our capabilities and, more important, our weaknesses?”

The general wiped some crumbs and grease off his chin with his sleeve. “Good point. What do you propose?”

“Sir, despite the wretched weather, there is still commerce between the Detroit community and the farmers across the river. I believe at least one of them might be playing a part in betrayal, and I continue to hear rumors that a tavern a mile or two up the road has been known to harbor strangers who might be rebels. With your permission, I propose to take some men across and raid that tavern.”

Burgoyne nodded angrily. “Permission granted and the devil with Haldimand and his concern with provincial boundaries. I’ve already written him that such forays might be necessary. He won’t respond, of course. Will you wait until spring?”

Fitzroy winced. The river was sometimes frozen solid and the rest of the time the ice flowed freely and with dangerous floating chunks. Even though the locals still crossed occasionally, it was not something he was looking forward to. Some enterprising souls had rigged a rope line between the two sides, and flat bottom sleds carrying people and supplies could be pulled across. If a ship did happen by, not likely at this time of year, the rope could be slackened so that the keel passed over it. If the sled being pulled went through the ice, it would float and could still be pulled along. At least that was the theory. Fitzroy shuddered at the thought of making such a trip, but had decided it couldn’t wait several months for the river to be clear of ice.

“No sir, I plan on going over in the next few days.”

“Then go and good hunting.”

As Fitzroy left the office he nearly ran into General Banastre Tarleton. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Major Spy-Chaser,” Tarleton said with an undisguised sneer.

Fitzroy glared at him. “Sir, I believe you’re drunk.”

“I am and you ought to be,” Tarleton answered. His breath nearly caused Fitzroy to stagger backwards. “It’s the only way to exist in this miserable shithole of an outpost. At least I’ve accomplished something while you spend your days and nights fornicating with that Dutch whore who’s just as likely a rebel spy as anyone in this primitive place.”

Fitzroy seethed. How dare he call Hannah a whore, and how dare he imply that she was a spy. Still, one doesn’t challenge generals to a duel, especially one like Tarleton who might accept and kill Fitzroy. No, he stifled his anger. He would have satisfaction some other time and place.

Fitzroy smiled insincerely. “And what wondrous deeds have you accomplished lately, General?”

If Tarleton was aware of the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “While you have been looking on and under mattresses for spies,” he replied. “I have arrested a number of Hessian deserters who are doubtless sending information to the rebels.”

“Hessians who are spies? Here? Why on earth would someone from Germany come here to spy? They would be so utterly obvious.”

“Of course they would be, that’s why we caught them. Twenty of the bastards are now in custody and they’ll all hang.”

Now it became clearer. Tarleton had captured his “spies” in advance of the arrival of the Hessian officer tasked with finding and punishing deserters. His name would go to London and be praised for his diligence.

“What proofs did you find them with?” Fitzroy asked softly.

Tarleton belched loudly and the effort pitched him off balance. He steadied himself with effort. “They’re Hessians. Don’t need proof.”

“General, people from the Germanic states have been living in the colonies for generations. That doesn’t make them spies, and they cannot be deserters if they were never in anybody’s army. We need proof they deserted before they can be executed.”

“They’ll be what I make them to be, Major, and the bastards will all hang. That’ll send the fear of God, or whatever Germanic totem they worship, into the Hessian deserters now at Fort Washington and preparing to fight us.”

Fitzroy managed to extricate himself and went to the provost’s office in the fort where he looked on the score of confused and bedraggled men crammed together in a small cell. They were in shackles and looked at him mutely. Some were bruised; it was obvious they had resisted being arrested.

How on earth could they be spies? Several were old enough to be his grandfather and others were still children. To hang these people would be an atrocity. But then, he reminded himself, Tarleton specialized in atrocities.

“Bloody Christ,” he muttered to himself. “How do I stop this from happening?”

* * *

Benjamin Franklin loved to have little soirees where he could make the informal contacts that were his specialty and use his still considerable influence to affect the course of the young nation.

Sadly, his get-togethers were nothing like what he’d held in Paris, or even Philadelphia. The surroundings were plain at best, and the refreshments were Spartan. There was bread and butter, and some meats and jams, and a choice of raw whiskies or a kind of tea to drink. Nobody went hungry, but there was nothing impressive or tantalizing. Certainly, there were none of the French wines that had made dealing with the miserable French themselves so pleasant and tolerable. Most of those present were thankful for a surprisingly good beer that a former assistant of Samuel Adams had managed to brew. Even though these were the rebellion’s leaders, their dress was shabby. Many men wore buckskins and otherwise plain woolen cloth. Again, none of the elegance of France or even Philadelphia was present. It was so depressing. It didn’t help matters that the floor was dirt.

Every host needs a hostess, and Franklin had called on Sarah and a handful of others to fulfill those duties. The ladies had managed to find enough fair quality dresses to make them presentable. He made pains to ensure that everyone knew that Sarah was his hostess and not his mistress, although he also made pains to let anyone know that he would be delighted if she were. For her part, Sarah found it amusing, as did Will.

In return for her duties, she’d insisted that Franklin also invite Will, who stood against a wall, sipping a wretched tea and watching the great and the not so great mingle. Cyrus Radnor, a man who referred to himself as a congressman from South Carolina, stood by him and smiled affably.

“I understand you were rescued from prison by a Negro?”

“That is correct,” Will answered, puzzled by the question. Radnor was one of many congressmen who represented absolutely nobody. An obscure militia colonel and an only moderately successful tobacco farmer, he’d owned property and slaves before being chased out of South Carolina by the British and their Tory allies. He had not signed the Declaration of Independence, nor had he been sent to Congress in Philadelphia. He’d been chosen by the others to be in the current Congress because of his South Carolina residence and the fact that the Congress needed someone from South Carolina to claim any degree of legitimacy. There were some who doubted that Radnor had ever been a congressman in the first place.

“Then you have opinions about slavery, do you not?” Radnor asked.

“The Negro who freed me was a free man himself. He was never a slave and I would not want him to ever be one. I owe him too much for that to happen.”

Radnor nodded, causing loose skin from his face to shake. It looked like he’d lost weight, but then, so had many people in Fort Washington. Will thought he was one of the few who’d gained, since he’d still been suffering from his privations when he’d arrived.

Radnor persisted. “Doctor Franklin says we should abandon the slave issue, Major, do you agree? Do you think slavery is inherently evil?”

“Whether I think it is evil or not is irrelevant. The egg has been broken and cannot be mended. Slaves have been free for a while now and will not take lightly to being reenslaved. During the war, the British raised several regiments of Negro infantry and they acquitted themselves quite well against Indians, although, to my knowledge, they never fought against us. If we win and attempt to enslave them again, it will be another war resulting in a bloodbath that could destroy what we had won.” Assuming we win anything, he thought.

Radnor sighed. “With extreme reluctance, I tend to agree, although not all of my southern friends are of like mind. At the worst, they feel that we can import fresh slave stock for our plantations; however, the British will not permit that. They suggested that planters use white prisoners as indentured servants, and that won’t work for several reasons. First, there aren’t enough of them to supply the needs of the planters, and, second, the two groups hate each other and there would be murders.” He blinked owlishly and Will realized that Radnor was drunk. “There must be a third reason, but I can’t think of it.”

“And why can’t the planters import fresh slaves?”

Radnor chuckled and took a beer from a passing serving girl. It was Sarah’s cousin Faith and she winked at Will.

“Goodness, what great tits on her and I think she likes you, Major. Too bad her cousin does as well.”

Will winced. Were there no secrets in this bloody town?

Radnor laughed at Will’s discomfort and continued, “Southern planters cannot import a fresh crop of slaves because the British have used their navy to close down the slave trade from Africa and the Indies. The British government is beginning to come under tremendous pressure to abolish slavery altogether and it may come to pass. In which case, they will piously impose their decision everywhere they can.”

Will thought that would be a good thing, but kept quiet.

“Franklin wants us to have a constitution,” Radnor continued, “and he wants that document to include a statement of freedoms to all Americans so they can see what we’re fighting for and why the British proposals are so odious. The British have, in the opinion of many people, seized the moral high ground by freeing the slaves, and Franklin feels that we can attract followers by declaring our freedoms within an official constitution.”

“How do you feel, Mr. Radnor?”

“I heartily agree with the need for a constitution and reluctantly agree that the issue of slavery is over and must be put behind us.”

Will added. “Then whatever document we agree on must be published throughout the colonies well before the British strike so it can be another weapon in our humble arsenal.”

Radnor belched, nodded and walked away. A moment later, Abigail Adams took him by the elbow and steered him away from the wall.

“Are you having a pleasant time, Major Drake?”

“Indeed, and are you Mistress Adams?”

She laughed wickedly. “Surprisingly so. There are too many men and too few women. I do believe I’ve had my middle-aged bottom patted a good dozen times and not all of them by Dr. Franklin.”

“Doctor Franklin is a most interesting man,” Will said, grinning.

“And I think your poor Sarah is suffering the same fate. She is a quite remarkable woman, I hope you realize.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t lose, her, Major. And how was your conversation with the distinguished gentleman from South Carolina?”

“We discussed slavery.”

She arched an eyebrow. The arguments for and against slavery had been a divisive issue in Congress. “I’ve heard rumors that he was wavering?”

Will smiled. “They would appear to be correct.”

* * *

Owen and Faith met in a dark and cluttered storeroom after Franklins’ party. He was delighted that she was willing to be alone with him, particularly since they were in what could easily be considered a compromising situation. Even though he felt that she liked him, she had seemed withdrawn instead of drawing closer since his return from Detroit.

Now that they were together, he wasn’t certain what to do. He arranged a pile of clothing as a makeshift couch. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and invited her to sit, but she shook her head and continued to stand as did he. There was no heat in the storeroom and the wind came through the plain wooden walls. He thought he heard scurrying in the piles of clothing and wondered how many small animals were making their homes there. He hoped they didn’t bite or have fleas.

“I hope you like the smell of tobacco,” she said. “So many of the men at Franklin’s were smoking pipes and that I could almost cut the smoke with a knife.”

“I think you smell wonderful,” he said.

“I think you are very nice, but very foolish.” She shifted and shuddered. “I’m still cold.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” he said sadly.

“No. It’s all right. Make some more space in the pile and sit down.”

Owen did as he was told and, to his astonishment, Faith sat on his lap with her legs curled up and the blanket wrapped around both of them. “I am shameless, aren’t I?” she asked.

“Hardly.”

“Well, you know I’m not an innocent little child, don’t you?”

“And I am?” he said as he shifted her closer to him. She was referring to the horrors of the jail in Pendleton and the abuse by the deputies. His response was an opening to show that he understood, and that there would be no secrets, no taboos, between them.

“Do you know what terrible things happen to young boys in the hold of a ship when no one is around and someone has stuffed a rag into your mouth so you can’t scream? And then, of course, everyone denies it, so everyone can claim it never happened? The Royal Navy has some nasty little secrets. I thank God I first made some true friends and then grew up strong enough to protect myself and others.”

She shuddered at the picture that appeared in her mind. “But you had no choice. They forced you.”

He squeezed her to him. “And did you have a choice? You told me enough so that I have a good idea what happened back in Pendleton and you didn’t have much of a choice either based on what later happened to your cousin.”

“So what do we do with ourselves?” she asked as she rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed her forehead and she snuggled closer. “We start from the beginning, and without any baggage or remorse from a past over which we had no control. May I introduce myself, lovely young miss? My name is Owen and I am in love with you.”

She giggled and kissed him on the cheek. “And my name is Faith and don’t say love just yet, although you Welsh have a marvelous way with words.”

“When can I say it?”

“When I tell you that you may,” she said and they kissed deeply and passionately. “In the meantime, we enjoy each other’s company.”

They struggled within the confines of the clothing pile, embracing and kissing. “We are not consummating this tonight,” she said, removing his hand from her breast. Despite everything, she still considered herself a virgin. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because I’m not ready, that’s why. Because there’ll be a battle in the summer and I don’t want to be either a widow or a woman with a child on the way and her man dead on the battlefield, or worse, maimed. And I’m not alone in thinking like that. Many women are afraid of being abandoned. Lord, what if you were a prisoner like Will Drake had been, rotting away for years?”

“You’re right. I do not wish to lose you so I will not push you. Do you want to go back to Franklin’s party?”

She giggled again. He was so sweet. Other young boys in Pendleton would not have been as understanding. A couple of them had tried to seduce her, but none had succeeded, at least not fully.

“No, silly. I only said we wouldn’t consummate tonight. There’s still plenty we can do to make this night a pleasant one.”

He smiled and kissed her again and again and this time she let his hands roam where they wished. She slipped her dress down to her waist so he could kiss her glorious breasts while he ran his hands up her thighs to where she was already moist. A second or two later, she had his manhood in his hand and stroked him while he continued to caress her. Lord, he thought as his mind reeled, whoever said New England girls were frigid Puritans didn’t know what they were talking about.

They scarcely noticed that it was no longer so cold in the storeroom.

* * *

Fitzroy was nearly frozen with terror as the sled he was on was dragged across the ice-choked river. Frozen with terror, he thought. That’s a good one. He was frozen on the frozen river. He’d never seen an iceberg, but he thought some of the chunks of ice floating by qualified.

Beneath a veneer of ice that sometimes buckled and shifted, the wide and deep Detroit River flowed at its usual strong rate. Somebody said nearly four miles an hour, which was a goodly walking pace for a strong man. If he looked down he could see bubbles of air moving beneath the ice as the river continued to flow. He thought that he could see fish staring up at him and laughing at him. He decided not to look down anymore.

“Tell them to hurry,” pleaded Danforth from behind him.

“If they pull too hard they might spill you into the river and everyone says your balls will turn blue and freeze solid before they can get you out of the water.”

Danforth shuddered. “Right. Then tell them to slow down. I prefer my balls warm and dry.” They were wearing heavy wool coats over their uniforms and were still shivering from the cold.

Fitzroy stared at the farther shore, willing it to be closer. Finally it was and he stepped shakily off the sled and onto firm frozen ground. Three of his men had preceded him and three more followed in a sled behind his. A corporal, five privates, and two officers would be enough to raid a small tavern, he hoped.

One of the soldiers led a string of eight horses acquired earlier from local farmers. To Fitzroy’s eye, they looked old and decrepit and he was sure he’d overpaid for their rental. Whoever said the Canadians loved the British had never tried to deal with the financial aspects of that love. Damned Canadians, he thought, and especially damn the French ones, who loved money and loved even more taking it from the British.

But at least they had horses, which meant they wouldn’t have to walk through the knee-deep snow and mush. His six troopers were all part of Tarleton’s cavalry and could ride anything, they said proudly. Still, it would be hell if they had to launch a cavalry charge or even a short chase with these miserable beasts and in the awful weather.

They mounted up and proceeded down the trail at a sedate pace. There was no reason to even pretend to keep their existence a secret. He was certain that their presence had already been spread for quite some distance, and he wondered if their cover story, a food-buying expedition, fooled anyone.

A short while later they came upon their target. The sign said it was the King’s Inn, but no self-respecting king would ever stay at such a decrepit place, although he wondered if the current refugee king of France might consider it. As they approached, a cloud of pigeons left the roof of the adjacent barn, circled, and flew away.

“Danforth, did you do that, scare those silly birds away?”

Danforth held on to his steed’s mane. He was not a good rider. “Not that I’m aware of. I rather thought my boyish good looks would have charmed them, not frightened them.”

They pulled up in front of the inn. Their weapons were in their arms and half-cocked, ready to be quickly fully cocked and fired. Fitzroy signaled for two of the soldiers to go around back and for two more to check out the barn. He dismounted and, along with Fitzroy and the other two soldiers, entered the tavern. Two local men were supposed to own the place and they might have hired hands to help them.

Of course the place was empty. Fitzroy cursed roundly. There was evidence that the owner’s departure had been hasty as a small fire still burned in the fireplace and a pot of stew was simmering above it.

“Barn’s empty, sir,” the corporal reported. “And no one’s come out the back. There are tracks. They left on horseback. Do you want us to follow them?”

Fitzroy considered it briefly and discarded the idea. His men were not woodsmen or trackers and didn’t even know who they were looking for. Worse, even though they were cavalrymen they were riding horses that couldn’t catch a dead man. It had begun to snow again, and the tracks they saw would disappear shortly, and they couldn’t go arresting just anyone they might catch up with. Bloody Tarleton might do that, but Fitzroy felt he had to have at least have some suspicions before acting. Of course, the tavern’s owners’ flight was highly suspicious behavior, which meant their adventure had paid off at least a little bit by scaring off suspicious characters.

“Thank you, no, Corporal. Bring your men in and warm and feed yourselves. You’ve done a good day’s work.”

The soldiers grinned and began to help themselves to the abandoned food.

Danforth emerged from a back room. His expression was grim. “I think you should look at this.”

Fitzroy followed him into what was obviously an office. There was a desk made out of planking and papers were scattered all about. It was as if the owner had been thinking of discarding them, but interrupted before he could do it.

Fitzroy sat down and began to rummage through them. Some were irrelevant, the usual mundane bills and notes of a tavern keeper. He’d bought beer from one local farmer and stronger stuff from another. He’d bought meat and bread from others, and chickens from still another.

“I see nothing remotely interesting,” Fitzroy said. He was beginning to feel tired. Their day had been a long one.

“You’re looking at the wrong pile,” Danforth said, and handed another stack of papers to him.

Fitzroy sniffed, annoyed at his mistake, and began to read. Danforth was right. This was far more intriguing. First were lists of British regiments as they’d arrived, along with estimates of their strengths. Then there was information about supplies and equipment, and information about the army’s commanders and the existence of the now damaged barges. It was a detailed compilation of the British Army’s presence at Detroit.

While some of it could have been the result of simple observation, much required someone with an intimate knowledge of the British Army, and the sheer volume implied a nest of spies.

“Interesting reading, eh?” asked Danforth.

“The bloody bastards. I wonder how many spies there were and how they got the information to Fort Washington.”

“Does it matter?” Danforth said happily. “We’ve stopped it at the source, although I’m certain they’ll try to set up another spy center. At least finding this will keep Bloody Banastre Tarleton off our backs.”

That thought cheered Fitzroy as he continued to look through the papers. Now he was finding observations on the Great Fire as those who had survived it were now calling it. Of course, some of the comments on the fire could have been made by simply looking across the river, but some of them contained detail about military losses that could only have been gotten first hand.

Fitzroy recognized a name and cursed. “Damned Jews.”

“What?” asked Danforth as he looked up from some additional papers.

“It looks like Abraham Goldman, the Jewish merchant, is one of the spies. Damn. He’s getting rich on us and betraying us at the same time.”

Danforth yawned. “No surprise. The stinking Jews are capable of almost anything. We’ll arrest the Shylock when we return.”

Then a phrase on a sheet of paper caught his attention and he felt a chill go down his spine. “Dear God,” he muttered, causing Danforth to start and stare at him.

Fitzroy put down that paper and picked up another. This one referenced Braxton and his orders from Tarleton to attack the newly found settlement. He had argued with both Tarleton and Burgoyne against turning Braxton loose, but Burgoyne had been distracted and Tarleton wanted the raid to go forward. Someone had betrayed Braxton, taken over the buildings, and baited what Fitzroy later realized was a trap. Worse, the phraseology of the document he was reading was familiar. It ought to be, he realized with a sickening feeling-the words were his.

He felt staggered and his head spun. He took a closer look at the handwriting and recognized it. He felt like weeping.

Danforth grabbed his arm. “James, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said and shook his head violently. “I mean no. I’m not all right at all. I’ve been betrayed. Damn it, I’ve been betrayed and played for a fool.”

Danforth closed the office door so the enlisted men couldn’t hear. They were busy feeding themselves, but could easily become curious.

“What is it, James?”

Fitzroy handed him a sheet of paper. “Recognize the words, the writing?”

“Can’t say as I do,” Danforth said, puzzled.

“The words are mine, they come from my journal.”

“Somebody’s been reading it?”

“Of course, and I’ve been sleeping with that somebody. The handwriting is Hannah’s. She’s been copying my notes and forwarding them to the rebels.” He shook his head. “This could not get any worse.”

There was a tap on the door and the corporal opened it tentatively. “Sir, there’s a man here from the sled pulley. He says someone cut the rope on the Detroit side and we can’t get back tonight, maybe tomorrow at the earliest. Could be even longer if the weather turns bad.”

* * *

Will and Sarah were aware that they were watching history unfold. They only hoped that they would be around years from now to tell the tale to their grandchildren. The very small gallery that the general public could use to watch Congress in action was jammed. This in itself was unusual as popular opinion said that Congress never actually did anything except talk a topic to death.

But this time it was different. The Continental Congress was actually going to do something. The distinguished members were going to vote on and, if approved, sign a draft constitution, and it contained a fundamental bill of rights. Franklin had insisted on the bill of rights. He’d argued that it was all well and good to decide the mechanics of a republican form of government, which was based on the writings of a Frenchman named Montesquieu. But what, he’d insisted, would that government stand for? It had to go beyond mere words. The words had to inspire.

Franklin had enlisted Sarah as a counterpoint for his arguments as he rehearsed them, and she was flattered that he respected her mind and her judgment.

For instance, he’d drawn himself up and asked if she wished to be forced to provide financial support for the Anglican faith, the established church of England? No, she’d answered. Did she agree that only members of an established church could hold political office as was the case in Virginia as well as England? Of course not, she’d responded.

Did she wish the newspapers censored and restricted by the government? No. How could you trust what you were reading if the press was restricted? You couldn’t, she replied.

What about quartering soldiers in her house without her permission? She’d shuddered at the thought of a squad of dirty, muddy Redcoats traipsing through her home and again answered with an emphatic no.

With these and other points that represented a counter to British tyranny, she’d found herself in complete agreement and had discussed them with Will who also agreed. “It defines what we have been fighting for,” he’d said, and she’d laughingly asked what took him so long to figure it out.

John Hancock, in his role as President of the Continental Congress read the proposed document in its entirety while the participants and spectators sat, transfixed. If and when approved, copies of it would be sent to the British-occupied colonies so they could see the difference between a corrupt, distant, and unfeeling British monarchy and a truly American form of government.

According to the new constitution, there would be freedom of speech and freedom of assembly. There would be freedom of religion and minimal restrictions on a man’s right to vote. The press could not be censored.

And slavery was forbidden.

That latter point was finally resolved as Franklin had foreseen. The genie was out of the bottle and could not be returned; nor could the broken egg be made whole no matter how hard one might try. Slaves were free and that was that. England had solved the problem of slavery within the colonies. Rumors had the British backtracking on their promises when faced with economic realities, but that was another matter.

Freedom of religion meant that Jews, Catholics, Quakers, and all other denominations and sects would be permitted to exist, and did not have to either belong to or support the Church of England in Virginia, or the Puritan faith of Massachusetts. Nor did anyone have to declare for any religion. It also meant that the near theocracies that had existed in New England were even less likely to occur again. Some congressmen were uncomfortable with the thought of coexisting alongside Papists, Quakers, Jews, and even atheists, but the diversity of faiths already existing in the colonies made defining these freedoms necessary. It was joked that some Anglican ministers who had been supported by government funds would actually have to go out and work for a living.

The right to vote was another sore point. While most of the congressmen favored some kind of a republic, there was concern that too much democracy wasn’t a good thing. There were strong feelings that only those who owned property and who were educated should vote. It was feared that chaos might ensue if the uneducated and the poor could vote and have their vote count as much as their betters did. While there were still vestiges of this in the new constitution, the result was that most men would be allowed to vote. Education and property requirements would be minimal although voters would, of course have to be able to read the ballot and sign their name.

All of this had deeply upset the handful who had supported the idea of a constitutional monarchy in the colonies. Benjamin Franklin had snorted that perhaps they’d like to borrow some of George III’s unemployed relatives, or even find a home for the luckless king of France here in America. When the laughter subsided, it was determined that there would be no king in the colonies. Had he still lived, George Washington might have worn a crown, but King George’s ax had ended those ideas.

Since one provision of the proposed constitution prohibited slavery and another said that almost all men could vote, did that mean that Negroes could vote? Probably, was the consensus, but not just yet. Will found himself wondering whether his Negro savior, Homer, would have the right to vote. He hoped so. Of course he was biased, but Homer deserved it more than many white men he knew.

The reading of the bill of rights was over and then the structure of government was outlined. There would be a two-house legislature, with an upper house where each colony had one delegate and one vote. There would be a lower house with a limit of a hundred representatives and they would be divided by colony according to each colony’s population. A president would be elected by the two houses and serve a single six-year term.

Hancock droned on, talking about judges and ambassadors and such and, finally, mercifully, was finished. The document was incomplete and everyone knew it. But it was a start. And in the bill of rights, a dramatic statement was made that was so totally different from England’s way of life and rule.

A roll-call vote was taken and the motion passed, and by a considerable margin. The delegates, under the prodding of Franklin and Hancock, realized that they had to do something significant.

One by one, the congressmen from the colonies stepped to a cloth-covered table and signed their names. Will wondered if Franklin and Hancock, the only signers of the Declaration of Independence present, were comparing this signing to that fateful summer in Philadelphia. There were serious doubts about the legitimacy of the Continental Congress back then and there were even more doubts about the current one.

When it was over, there was no applause. Participants and spectators strolled outside. Will shivered. It had been overheated in Congress Hall and the change was too abrupt.

“What did we just witness?” he asked. “And will it last?”

Sarah took his arm and squeezed it. “Ask again in a year.”