If they [slaves] were of our own complexion, much of the difficulty would be removed.
—James Madison
I first came across the name of “Billey” (no last name) in Lynne Cheney’s affectionate biography of James Madison, A Life Reconsidered.
Billey appears briefly as the slave who accompanied Madison to Philadelphia in 1787 (doing, no doubt, the sort of things slaves did for one’s master) during Madison’s four-month stay at the Constitutional Convention.
A couple of hundred pages later, I was to learn that Billey was educated, well read, and far more literate than you would expect of a slave at that time. How exactly Mrs. Cheney relayed that information I’ll withhold in the interests of good storytelling. Let me just say that my curiosity about Billey had been thoroughly piqued, and as I struggled to find a new way to describe the “writing” of the Constitution and Madison’s critical part in it,I I thought it might be interesting to imagine this: What if Billey, like Madison, had kept a journal of those days? And, even better, what if such a journal had not only been found but I was in sole possession of it?
Since, of course, that was impossible, I decided to write it myself. So here it is, for what it’s worth: “Notes from the Constitutional Convention as Recorded by Billey, Slave to James Madison, May 6 to September 17, 1787.”
May 6th, 1787
This is my first entry into my diary which I intend to keep as a record for posterity so that future generations—most especially my own—may learn of one slave’s views of the events now occurring at this most crucial time in the new nation’s history.
For the record: my name is Billey, and since there is no exact evidence of my birth, I think I am about 38 years old.
I was born at the seat of the Madison family home in the Piedmont region of Virginia, where my mother Jane (passed these many years) worked in their tobacco fields.
It was because of her sacrifice and encouragement that at an early age I began to show a capacity for learning. At about 16 years of age, I became personal servant to Mr. Madison, who was then a sickly boy and needed full-time observation and caring.
And it is he, Mr. Madison, who I must thank for allowing me attendance at his tutoring, access to his library and many books, and the opportunity to speak, read, and write far above my station.
It is, I assume, because of my level of literacy that Mr. Madison selected me to accompany him to Philadelphia, where he believed I could prove helpful, as it was his intention as a delegate from Virginia to keep a detailed record of the daily events at the Convention—given its historical significance.
While I would not have the ability to transcribe those notes personally, it was Mr. Madison’s thought that I had the necessary skills in their copying, filing, and organization.
That, of course, was in addition to my regular chores of washing and pressing his clothes, polishing his boots, of which he was most particular, running his errands, and the dispensing of the various remedies, tonics, elixirs, et cetera, that Mr. Madison took regularly to protect himself against his assortment of illnesses, real and imaginary, to which he was prone.
It is also my secret intention, if I may so admit, that at the conclusion of the Convention, whenever that may be, to ask Mr. Madison if he could see his way to granting me my freedom based on my enterprise, diligence, and devotion. A freedom, it is obvious to note, I most fervently desire.
May 7th, 1787
After many treacherous miles, Mr. Madison and I arrive, finally, in Philadelphia. Its streets, worse than country roads, are an irregular mix of gravel and unpaved stones. Mr. Madison, as short as he is, bumped his head thrice on the carriage ceiling within the last mile alone.
Mr. Madison has reserved rooms at the boardinghouse owned by Mrs. House, a widow, who lives there with her daughter Mrs. Trist—also a widow. The sheer number of widows per square foot in Philadelphia must give a married man pause, but as Mr. Madison and I are both unattached, the fact is of little consequence.
Mr. Madison first stayed with Mrs. House when he served here as a member of the Continental Congress, and he and Mrs. House, as well as her daughter, are old and good friends—not that that prevents Mrs. House from charging an arm and a leg for her rooms and three meals a day.
As there is but one hotel in the city, and Philadelphia has not much decent lodgings elsewhere, Mr. Madison is fortunate to have such spacious quarters: a bedroom and adjoining sitting room large enough for a good-sized desk. Many delegates—not expected to arrive in weeks—will be forced to sleep two to a bed. Which I suppose is the source for that quip that politics makes strange bedfellows.
May 8th, 1787
My first night in Philadelphia was spent accompanying Mr. Madison to dinner at the residence of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. He lives in a three-storey brick house, the first floor of which could fit easily into the entry hall of Mr. Madison’s plantation home at Montpelier.
The guests at this dinner, beside Mr. Madison and the host, included members of the Pennsylvania delegation, who I had the opportunity to identify and observe as I was requested during the evening to attend to the elderly Dr. Franklin. In partnership with one of Dr. Franklin’s own servants, an irritable octoroon named Will, I had the responsibility of taking the right side of Dr. Franklin while Will took the left as we would lift, keep steady, and transport Dr. Franklin from one location to the other.
As I would learn, it was a formidable guest list—each man more resplendent in his appearance than the “last.” There was one named Gouverneur Morris who they called “Guv.” Mr. Morris was distinguished by the fact that he had one good leg and one peg. I was not sure of the wood, but I guessed it was oak, as pine would be too ordinary for a gentleman of his stature. Rumor has it that the leg was shot off when an angry husband caught Mr. Morris running from his wife’s bedroom. In my opinion, a moment’s pleasure is hardly worth the lifetime loss of a limb. An hour and a half, perhaps, is another story.
There was also a man named Mr. James Wilson, who I detected had been born in Scotland. His eyeglasses were as thick as his accent. Mr. Wilson’s spectacles were so thick, in fact, I am certain that at a distance greater than five feet, Mr. Wilson could not have identified me as negro.
The last of the attendees was a Mr. Robert Morris (no relation to Gouverneur Morris), who was thought by some to be the richest man in the country—with more acres to his name than God.
It was a relaxed and convivial evening, and when the gentlemen were not discussing their plans for the Convention, they were regaled by stories from Dr. Franklin, whose body may have grown old and heavy, but whose mind remained alert and lively.
Many of Dr. Franklin’s tales involved detailed escapades with sundry French women (many at the same time)—the images of which I feared would haunt my dreams for years.
Dr. Franklin also read from a mock proposal he had once written to the Royal Academy of Brussels,II suggesting they take up a serious inquiry as to the causes and cures of farting. As the men (with the exception of Mr. Madison) laughed themselves red in the face, Dr. Franklin continued with his solution to the problem: a drug added to one’s food in order to render such breaking of wind as agreeable as perfume. The laughter continued unabated.
I have often been amazed at the low level of humor among distinguished white men. Tonight was no exception.
On the walk home, I asked Mr. Madison if he thought the night had gone well for him. He replied that it had. I was much appreciative to be taken so into his confidence as he explained that the Pennsylvania delegation—along with Virginia’s—had arrived at an agenda to ensure the complete transformation of the present form of government.
As he put it: “If things go our way, the government we now have will be no longer.”
What import that may have had for me I did not ask, since I had no government. All I knew was that the government had me.
May 13th, 1787
Today, the sounds of cannon fire greeted the arrival into the city of General George Washington.
The General—who was to stay at the same lodgings with Mr. Madison—arrived here before noon with a caravan of carriages, one for the General and three for his servants and luggage.
After a quick tour given to him by Mr. Madison and our landlady Mrs. House, the General decided he would stay elsewhere.III
I was not surprised. Mrs. House’s lodgings are much too modest for a man as grand as the General. He would need one room just to hang up his uniforms.
I have seen the General on numerous occasions, and each time have come away impressed with his bearing, stature, and sense of authority. Even his slaves believe they are better than anyone else’s.
May 14th, 1787
Today was to be the first day of the start of the Constitutional Convention. Yet by 10:00 this morning, the only delegates to have arrived, besides Mr. Madison, were General Washington and Edmund Randolph, Governor of Virginia.
Nonetheless, Mr. Madison arranged to visit the site of the Convention—Independence Hall—and asked me to accompany him. There, we were admitted to the Assembly Room on the first floor, where the delegates were to meet. It was not as spacious as I had imagined, with one desk abutting the next. I tried to picture it crowded with men—large and beefy men at that—smoking their cigars, spitting out their excess tobacco juice, and passing their water—God knows where. I thought of Dr. Franklin’s drug to perfume farts, and if ever there was a need for such an invention, this would be the time.
Mr. Madison pointed to the desk where he intended to sit, front and center and adjacent to the platform where the presiding officer was to stand. I placed, as he had asked, fresh quills, ink, and sand for blotting inside the desk. It was his intention to take exact notes of everything that was said for the duration of the Convention—a feat I would have deemed impossible for any man other than Mr. Madison.
As we were about to leave, Mr. Madison stopped and with some pride told me that it was in this very room the Declaration of Independence had been signed. Mr. Madison keeps a copy of it framed in his office in Montpelier, and I have from time to time perused the document, especially struck by the phrase that “all men are created equal.” What, I wondered, did that mean?
Still, I could not help but admire the rhetoric of it and would happily frame a Declaration of Independence on my own wall as soon as I got myself a wall.
May 18th, 1787
This afternoon, after session, Alexander Hamilton, Mr. Madison’s colleague, arrived from New York. Mr. Hamilton, at least for the time, plans on staying here at Mrs. House’s in separate quarters down the hall from Mr. Madison.
After a brief get-together with Mr. Madison, Mr. Hamilton, who is to be a member of the important Rules Committee, hurried off to the City Tavern to meet with delegates who gather there regularly for drink and talk.
That Mr. Madison and Mr. Hamilton are so joined in purpose attests to their like-minded ideas, for in style, character, and personality they are complete opposites. Where Mr. Madison is quiet and soft-spoken, placid if not stoic, reserved if not shy, Mr. Hamilton is gregarious, worldly, and self-assured.
Where Mr. Madison is plain, Mr. Hamilton is most handsome with features a pretty woman might envy.
Where Mr. Madison wears only black coats and breeches day in and day out, Mr. Hamilton is debonair in dress even to the point of frilly.
And where Mr. Madison is modest, Mr. Hamilton is exceedingly vain. Commenting on that vanity once to Mr. Thomas Jefferson—in my presence—Mr. Madison said of Mr. Hamilton, “He is so vain, he carries a locket with a snippet of his own hair inside.”
May 28th, 1787
Before retiring for the night, Mr. Madison enjoys a simple refreshment—usually warm milk and two plain buttered crackers. Tonight as he chewed, swallowed, and digested his crackers, savoring each bite as if dining on an elaborate entrée prepared by one of Mr. Jefferson’s master chefs, Mr. Madison described Dr. Benjamin Franklin’s grand entrance today at the Convention.
Because walking Philadelphia’s irregular cobblestone streets disturbed his kidney stones, Dr. Franklin was carried in a sedan chair designed by Dr. Franklin himself. The chair, situated on a small platform with flexible rods, was held by four sturdy prisoners of the nearby Walnut Street Jail, apparently freed for the afternoon for just such purpose.
Since one of the prisoners was much taller than the other three, the chair, from time to time, tilted precariously to one side, and there were fears that Dr. Franklin might topple out. But to the huzzahs of the crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle, Dr. Franklin arrived in one piece, safe and sound.
May 29th, 1787
Today, the Convention busied itself with the adoption of the Rules. While 19 were passed, there were only two that Mr. Madison described as essential. The first was that the entire proceedings of the Convention—from debates to votes—would be held in complete secrecy. So, as Mr. Madison explained, there would be no outside political pressure brought to bear on the delegates. To that end, all windows and doors were to be sealed as well.
The second rule stated that the delegates could, at any point, insist on as many reconsiderations as they wished. To put it another way: nothing was ever to be finally agreed on, no matter the earlier voting, until the very end of the Convention.
Even to someone like myself—unfamiliar with the practices of such a Convention—this rule struck me as unusual as it protected, if not rewarded, backroom deals, collusion, inconsistency, and confusion.
Which is why, perhaps, the reason for the first rule.
May 29th, 1787
This day after supper, I was burnishing the silver for Mrs. House when a gentleman of great importance, Virginia Governor Edmund Randolph, came to call on Mr. Madison. Since neither of the gentlemen paid me no mind, I continued my work, remaining to overhear their conversation.
They discussed the various and sundry resolutions that the Governor was to introduce the following morning at the Convention.IV
These resolutions had been devised by Mr. Madison during the previous months and were already known to the delegates from Virginia.
It was decided between them—Mr. Madison and Governor Randolph—that it would be the Governor, not Mr. Madison, who would introduce these resolutions to the Convention.
Governor Randolph was a hearty bear of a man with great speaking powers. Mr. Madison, on the other hand, was an indifferent orator and given to an innate shyness—perhaps because Mr. Madison had always been sensitive to his lack of height. One of the smallest men in the Commonwealth, Mr. Madison had been referred to (behind his back) as His Littleness, a name that unfortunately followed him here to Philadelphia.
Those of us in servitude to him at Montpelier had our own private (most private) joke that Mr. Madison was so diminutive, he was always the last person on the plantation to know that it was raining.
The Resolutions that Governor Randolph was to introduce—in the hopes that they would serve as a blueprint for the rest of the Convention—were the following:
The government was to consist of three branches: Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary.
The Legislature would be made up of two houses: the lower to be elected by the people—which included white men with property—and a higher, second house, which would be selected by the lower one. They would make the laws. Which the Judiciary were to interpret and the Executive was to enforce.
It was Mr. Madison’s concept—influenced by his readings into the histories of republics from the Greeks and Romans to the present—that these three branches would provide the necessary checks and balances on each other so that one branch would not come to dominate or tyrannize the rest.
All in all, it seemed to me a most reasonable form of government allowing those like myself to sleep easy at night, knowing that the country was in the hands of a few eminent men who knew so much more than the rest of us.
While Mr. Madison’s plan was not in any way radical in its concept, what would come as a surprise to some of the delegates was the fact that they would be hearing for the first time that the true purpose of the Convention was not to amend the Articles of Confederation (as previously supposed) but to write a new and fundamentally different Constitution.
After Governor Randolph departed for home—fully rehearsed—Mr. Madison retired early in anticipation of the important day ahead. I then laid out Mr. Madison’s wardrobe for the morrow, one of my easier tasks, since Mr. Madison never varied in his choice of attire.
I then stepped outside to smoke my pipe—a pleasure I had developed since I was a boy, as had many negroes who grew up on tobacco plantations. To some, smoking tobacco is considered exceedingly vile and nasty. To them I say: not nearly so much as the picking of it.
It was a clear night. The sky filled with stars. And so quiet you could hear the distant howls of cats in heat. And men folk too.
June 8th, 1787
Over the years, Mr. Madison has made it a habit of keeping his feelings to himself. Never did I see any open displays of anger or joy, for that matter. Whatever Mr. Madison was thinking never made it to his face.
But having spent so many years in his company, I could sense that today things had not gone as he would have liked. My suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Madison told Mrs. House that he would not be dining that night and asked instead that I bring a tray to his rooms.
When I arrived with the tray—a pot of tea, two slices of bread, a wedge of cheese with olives—Mr. Madison was at his desk transcribing today’s notes. Afterwards, he went right to bed, even earlier than usual.
It was difficult then to resist the temptation not to read what Mr. Madison had set down on paper, if only to determine the cause of his discomfort. Within the span of two pages, I had found my answer:
Earlier in the Convention, as part of his original plan, Mr. Madison had introduced a clause that would give the national legislature the right to negate all and any laws passed by the states.
Now, as one who played no part in this government, I had not made it a practice to study its politics, figuring those laws which most affected me would make themselves known soon enough. But in this instance, I could tell that this clause of Mr. Madison’s was not likely to prove popular, especially among the states. Still, it was dear to his heart and one that Mr. Madison had pursued with some vigor.
Only the other day, he explained his reasoning in a lengthy conversation with Mr. Hamilton: such a clause was necessary in a new government, he argued, to control the excessive power of the states. Mr. Madison had seen the ignorant brutality of a local state legislature led by one rabble-rousing orator,V selfish in his own interests and not the people’s.
In defense of that clause, Mr. Madison rose today to address the delegates, and I copy now his remarks that he himself transcribed from his own speech: “The order and harmony of the political system will be destroyed unless the national legislature can negateVI the laws of each individual state.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Madison did not prove persuasive, and the clause was defeated by a vote of 7 states against and only 3 for.
After tidying up, I looked in on Mr. Madison—fast asleep. Rather than calm and at peace, his face showed a grim determination as if, even in his dreams, he were working on some way to resurrect his most cherished law.
For supper, Mrs. House gave me the meal that Mr. Madison had no appetite for: a mutton roast with French beans.
Later, while digesting that meal, I came to better sympathize with the nature of Mr. Madison’s internal complexities. Fortunately, by morning, my grief had dissipated.
June 11th, 1787
It has grown suffocating hot. When Mr. Madison returned from the Convention today, I could see on his forehead where beads of sweat had crystalized the white powder he used to color his hair.
Later, as I prepared his bath, adding salt and vinegar to the cool water to reduce the bites from the ever-present Philadelphia flies—bites, I may add, that were in places Mr. Madison could not reach to scratch himself—I asked about this day’s proceedings.
Mr. Madison informed me that there had been debates and votes taken on the issue of representation in the lower house of Congress. Otherwise, he seemed hesitant to explain further.
I suppose it is for that reason I decided, as I organized his papers, to read Mr. Madison’s notes for myself. As I understood the situation: the problem facing the delegates was how to determine the number of representatives proportioned to each state. After discarding the idea that representatives would be decided by revenue (or taxes) as impractical, there emerged a compromise between the Northern and Southern states by which the allocation of seats in the House of Representatives (as they were calling it) was to be based on population. Then came this part that quickly caught my attention: “other persons” were each to be counted as three-fifths of one person. This resolution passed by a vote of 9 to 2 with only New Jersey and Delaware objecting.
Clearly, the mention of “other persons,” in contrast to those who were “white and free,” referred to slaves. Why they couldn’t call us by our real name I have no idea. And, while not discounting the honor to be mentioned by such distinguished people in such an historic document, I was not certain one way or the other if it did me good or harm.
As for the mathematics of the thing—it never being my best subject—I was left more confused than clarified.
If I was three-fifths of a person and my sister Stucky was also three-fifths of a person, did we together add up to one whole person with a fifth left over? And what about my second cousin, Anthony, who was missing one leg and one arm—the result of a mill accident? Did the absence of 50 percent of his extremities reduce his three-fifths by that amount? It was a great puzzlement all around.
Reading further, I noticed that Mr. Madison did not participate in the debates. Which came as no surprise. Mr. Madison has always been most quiet on the subject of slavery, except when practicing it himself.
Later when I looked in on Mr. Madison, he was in his bed, tossing and turning, fighting a losing battle against the terrible heat that came blasting through his open window like a furnace.
Lucky for me I got to sleep in the basement.
Since childhood, Mr. Madison has been afflicted with an illness that is difficult to diagnose but has in common many of the symptoms of epileptic seizures: loss of consciousness, trembling of the extremities, et cetera. This comes unexpectedly and then is gone again within minutes. It is an illness, name unknown, that has been a cause of alarm for both Mr. Madison and his family.
One such episode occurred a few years ago, one morning, as Mr. Madison was about to commence shaving himself, as was his practice every third day, not being especially hairy. For obvious reasons, since that day, Mr. Madison had entrusted that task to me.
I cannot help but feel flattered that Mr. Madison places such trust in me that I have been assigned this delicate responsibility. It is not every slave owner that will trust a colored man with a straight razor.
This is especially significant when you consider that Mr. Madison’s grandfather, Mr. Ambrose Madison, was poisoned to death by one of his slaves, no relation to me. Thank God.
I mention all this as a way of explaining how this morning I came to stand behind Mr. Madison, putting hot towels to his face. After which I applied my special shaving cream—a mixture of soap cake, butter, and warm water—brushing his whiskers, though few and far between, in a swirling motion until each individual hair was properly moisturized by the rich and foaming lather.
After a few hones of the steel razor—of English design, a gift from Mr. Madison’s father—I began to shave, keeping my first three fingers on the back of the blade, though I often changed my grip, adjusting to each new area as I proceeded.
I always start on the right side of Mr. Madison’s face, drawing his tender skin upward to make a smooth shaving surface.
To take Mr. Madison’s mind off the procedure, I asked, quite casually, about the Convention and its progress.
As I skillfully moved the razor from his cheek to under his right jaw, Mr. Madison informed me of the disagreements between the small and large states. He was not at all pleased with a resolutionVII from the New Jersey delegation with a plan to counter his own.
“Imagine,” he said, barely moving his mouth as I drew down his upper lip, “that after all this time, there are delegates who still think we are here merely to redo the Articles of Confederation.”
“Hard to believe,” I responded, concentrating on the crevice below his nose.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Madison, “the thought of leaving the provision of ‘one State, one vote’ unaltered and denying Congress the power to tax exceeds all foolishness.”
I assented as if I understood exactly what he meant while I moved dexterously to the left side of his face, holding my one hand just above his ear.
“Imbecility,” Mr. Madison muttered.
“I trust you will set them straight,” I said congenially.
“I will dismember this New Jersey plan of theirs piece by piece. And when I am done,” he continued, “New Jersey will not know what hit them.”
That Mr. Madison was now confiding in me as he would almost an equal filled me with no end of satisfaction.
I was now coming to the most difficult part of my endeavor: Mr. Madison’s neck. My fierce concentration was essential when approaching the aforesaid surface. One nick and I could find myself back at Montpelier storing horse manure for the winter.
I now raised Mr. Madison’s head, elevated his chin, and made one final pass over his Adam’s apple, against the grain, and I was done.
To conclude, I wiped his face with a wet towel, then dabbed his cheeks with an eau de cologne that Mr. Jefferson had sent him from Paris. His skin felt as smooth as a baby’s behind.
Mr. Madison stepped out from the chair. “Thank you, Billey,” he said.
Whenever Mr. Madison called me by my name, I knew he was pleased with my work and, smiling widely, I responded, “You are most welcome, Mr. Madison.”
Within the hour, Mr. Madison was on his way to Independence Hall and the business of the Convention. And from the look on his face as he left, I could foretell when he got there that New Jersey would wish it had never been born.
July 4th, 1787
The Convention is in recess for the holiday. Mr. Madison has given me the day off—well, not the whole day, but a goodly portion of it.
Today, Philadelphia is loud in celebration. Fireworks. Speechifying. Church bells that won’t shut up.
There was a parade this morning. A marching band. Militia on horseback. Butchers in white aprons leading oxen to their slaughter. And up front—city politicians smiled and waved at people in the crowd, pretending they knew who they were.
By night, the taverns filled to overflowing. Men drunk like nobody’s business.
I miss the quiet 4ths back home. I miss my sister Stucky. Also Lucy, George, Hannah, and Bob.
I miss the supper. The biscuits and the gravy and the parts of the pig that people up here never heard of.
Independence Day. Too bad it comes but once a year.
Today, the New Hampshire delegation finally arrives. About which Mr. Madison says, “I am not altogether certain that anyone knew they were missing.”
July 26th to August 3rd, 1787
After turning all the business of the Convention to a committee called the Committee of Detail,VIII the Convention adjourned for 10 days.
The adjournment could not have come at a better time as the heat grew stifling, and the Philadelphia flies bigger, more numerous, and more persistent. Of all the living things in the world God did not need to take onto Noah’s Ark, these flies head the list.
Many delegates, who were too far to go home, left for cooler climates. However, Mr. Madison stayed at the boardinghouse, working at his desk every day—reading, writing, and planning for the weeks ahead, always concentrating on the business of the Constitution. Despite the flies, the heat, and his vulnerability to sickness, Mr. Madison’s determination never flagged.
I only hope that this Constitution he is giving birth to—so to speak—will not be so dependent in the future on men like him. For there I see is the danger: the politicians who will come after Mr. Madison will not have half his wit and none of his conviction. And when that day comes, as I am sure it will, the nation will end up in as big a shambles as it is now.
Tonight, Mr. Madison hosted a small dinner party at his lodgings for Mr. John Rutledge of South Carolina and Governor Edmund Randolph, two of the members of the Committee of Detail who have been working through the recess, trying to stitch together the various resolutions and articles—finished and unfinished—into a first draft of the Constitution.
For Mr. Madison, the dinner was all business as he sought to learn, in advance, what the Committee might propose the following day to the Convention as a whole.
As I was engaged in clearing dishes, refilling wineglasses, and swatting the Philadelphia flies that would swoop and settle onto heads of the participants, I was able to glean most of what the Committee of Detail had accomplished through the conversation of its chairman, Mr. Rutledge.
In an effort to end the impasse that the Convention had found itself in, the Committee had reached several compromises: (1) It had granted states certain rights previously denied under Mr. Madison’s original plan, and (2) It specifically enumerated Congressional powers, thereby preventing Congress from enacting any laws beyond those named.
Throughout the presentation, Mr. Madison remained stoic. But knowing him as I did, I could tell by his most minuscule gestures that he was not pleased: arranging spoons, forks, and knives equidistant from each other, dabbing his napkin to his lips unnecessarily, and smoothing the little hair on his head to a point above his forehead.
Immediately after Mr. Rutledge and Governor Randolph left, Mr. Madison was at his desk working to draft what I would learn was a new resolution to counter what had just been proposed.
After Mr. Madison retired for the evening, I read Mr. Madison’s addition to the enumeration of powers: Congress shall have the power “to make all laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the Foregoing Powers vested in this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any Department or Officer thereof.”
Even someone as uninformed as myself understood that with that one clause, Mr. Madison had given Congress all the “necessary” powers it would need.
Later that night, I looked in on Mr. Madison before retiring. He was peacefully asleep, the faint trace of a self-congratulatory smile on his little lips.
August 12th, 1787
Today is Sunday. It is a day that Mr. Madison usually spends quietly letter writing, reading, and taking long walks. Not that there is that much else to do in Philadelphia on Sunday. Nor the rest of the week, for that matter. Philadelphia is so boring a city that many delegates have begun sending for their wives.
But today is different. And I accompany Mr. Madison on the five-mile carriage ride to “The Hills”—Mr. Robert Morris’s mansion in the country outside Philadelphia. It is a sprawling estate with separate housing for at least a half dozen slaves in Mr. Morris’s employment. Not a large number in comparison to Mr. Madison, but for me a surprising amount for a businessman from the North.
Mr. Madison is there to attend a supper hosted by Mr. Morris for several delegates to the Convention. These include General George Washington, James Wilson of Pennsylvania, a Mr. William Blount of North Carolina, Rufus King of Massachusetts, and Charles Pinckney of South Carolina, all of whom were present when we arrived.
While the event seemed on the surface to be a social occasion, it would later be made clear that it was strictly political, having to do with critical votes in the upcoming sessions.
Mr. Morris and his staff had prepared a feast for his guests. A sit-down dinner with three courses but many dishes: Besides the nuts, dried fruits, and pickles, there was fresh-caught perch, fried rabbit, kidney pie, fricassée of chicken, and seared loins of boar meat. All accompanied by flagons of red wine, ale, hard cider, and beer. For dessert there was a huge whiskey cake made from one of George Washington’s family recipes.
Mr. Madison, who is moderate in his appetite, ate well but not—like the others—overly well.
As I was quickly put to work (for no reason that I could see, Mr. Morris having ample slaves on hand) clearing, washing, and stocking the endless supply of dishes that streamed from the kitchen to the dining table and back again, I was privy to portions of the gentlemen’s conversations.
Much of it in the beginning centered on a tour taken the previous day to the iron foundry in New Jersey owned by the host, Mr. Morris. Mr. Blount, delegate from North Carolina, had been especially impressed by the amount of nails produced there and the efficiency of the negro laborers, as well as the boys, as young as 12, who were able to turn out as many as 15 pounds per day.
Mr. Morris was humorously questioned as to his profits from such an enterprise, which he in turn playfully refused to divulge.
After supper, the men adjourned to the outside porch for cigars, brandies, and Spanish ports. And it was then that the true purpose of the festivities was revealed.
Apparently, a critical point had been reached at the Convention—an impasse between the large and small states over representation in Congress. (Whatever Mr. Madison had done to dismantle the New Jersey Plan had only angered the small states, which now threatened to quit the Convention entirely.)
To head off this revolt, a committee had been formed, with Elbridge Gerry of Massachusetts as its chairman, that was soon to announce its recommendation—a compromise suggested by the Connecticut delegation.IX
This compromise, as I understood it, was this: there would be two bodies of Congress. A lower house, based on representation, and an upper house (called the Senate after the old one in Rome), with an equal number of representatives per state with its members elected by the state legislatures. A solution favored by the small states but that had been objectionable to Mr. Madison.
It soon became apparent that the men lounging there with their cigars and liquor favored the compromise and were now urging Mr. Madison—the most prominent resister—to go along with them.
Mr. Madison tried to stand his ground until General Washington—who had been silent most of the day—said that the Convention was at serious risk should Delaware and New Jersey, among others, carry out their threats to abandon the Convention. Faced with the choice between an unsatisfactory compromise and the termination of the Convention itself, Mr. Madison reluctantly agreed to support the measure.
It was a long carriage ride back to Philadelphia, made longer by Mr. Madison’s complete and utter silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him staring straight ahead, unblinking and deeply troubled, as if envisioning some future crisis that might befall this new nation he was working so hard to construct.
Then again, it could have been the fried rabbit, as yet unsettled in his stomach.
The terrible heat continues. Tempers are on edge. Debates grow contentious. Personalities displace the issues. There is a rumor that one delegate from Georgia will need to sell a slave to pay his hotel bill. General Washington grinds his gums.
And amid the resolutions regarding a Standing Army, control of State Militias, and the salaries Congressmen are to pay themselves (some suggesting as high as $4.00 a day), there is still talk from delegates to disband the Convention and admit to failure.
Meanwhile, the buzzing swarms of Philadelphia flies that have plagued us all—coloreds and whites equally—multiply in size and number. Now, these are no ordinary houseflies, or horseflies, either. No sir, these are flies that are an entire breed unto themselves. Old Testament flies right up there with such vindictive pestilence as locusts and lice.X
Their size alone distinguishes them. Seeing one, you are not sure to swat at it or pull a knife.
Worst of all, these creatures are as common at night as they are in the daytime. A man asleep is as good a place for them to rest as a rotten orange.
So—to ensure Mr. Madison’s much-needed, uninterrupted sleep, I have today fashioned a tent-like apparatus of lace netting that fits over Mr. Madison’s bed and for which he is most appreciative.
I only wonder if by making myself indispensable in this way, I hurt my case later when I request my freedom.
It is a thought that keeps me awake this night while Mr. Madison snores away in peace.
It was late at night, long after Mr. Madison had gone to sleep, when assembling his day’s notes I discovered that the session had been spent on the slave trade. Or as the delegates preferred to call it, “the importation of such persons.”
There were those delegates who wished to end it immediately and those, mostly from the South, who insisted they needed to enjoy another 20 years to import slaves from Africa, tax free. After which, they would agree to shut down the trade once and for all.
I could only marvel at the optimism of these men who trusted the slave trader—who made his fortune in the buying and selling of human souls—to suddenly shut down his business because of this paper law they were now enacting.
After what seemed a dispassionate debate (which also involved much talk about navigation), three New England states joined the Southern ones to extend the slave trade (by a vote of 7 to 4) until 1808.
Virginia and Mr. Madison voted against. Speaking to the delegates in opposition, Mr. Madison said this, as he himself recorded:
. . . that 20 years will produce all the mischief that can be apprehended from the liberty to import slaves. So long a term will be more dishonorable to the national character than to say nothing about it in the Constitution.
Reading that, I must admit, I was proud to be owned by such a wise and foresightful man.
August 29th, 1787
This night, after finishing transcribing his notes, Mr. Madison bathed and dressed to attend a supper at the house of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. What other delegates would be attending and the business to be discussed I did not learn.
From my last experience at Dr. Franklin’s residence, I was relieved that I was not asked to go, thankful that there would be others to lift the great man (in more ways than one) from chair to chair.
While as a rule Mr. Madison enjoys the company of Dr. Franklin, he is also made somewhat uncomfortable by the ribald stories Dr. Franklin tells of his conquests of various women the globe over, often in details better left to the imagination.
When it comes to the matter of women generally, Mr. Madison has always been conservative to the point of prudishness. And he is as uneasy about the topic of sex as he is about slavery. Two subjects he has never considered ripe for frank and open discussion.
I mention the latter not only because it is one I retain some personal interest in, but because it has, once again, become a matter of debate at today’s session.
Apparently, General Pinckney from South Carolina and Mr. Gorham from Massachusetts have introduced a law that would require fugitive slaves who had run off from their masters to be returned like common criminals.
Some delegates from the North objected to this, primarily on the grounds of the cost they would incur in retrieving said slaves. And who cannot see the fairness of their argument?
After all, why should one party in a free state bear all the expense when it is the party in the slave state that reaps the benefit? Surely, if it were a runaway horse that was being brought back, you can be assured a portion of the costs would be assumed by the grateful owner.
The debates that ensued from this quarrel made me realize for the first time how valuable—in hard currency—we slaves really were; and it bore no resemblance to the discounted prices we were now going for at auction.
For example, at auction a strong, young, childbearing girl could be had for as low as 25 dollars. But if she ran off, the cost of getting her back would run to more than a hundred. What with the tracking, the capture, the housing, and the feeding—not to mention transportation.
So by my reckoning, such as it is, that would mean a slave is worth at least a hundred dollars apiece, and then when you think that there are near a million of us,XI that would mean, being charitable, that together we are worth more than 100 million dollars!
I cannot wait to write my sister Stucky back in Virginia and tell her that we’re rich!
September 5th, 1787
Why Mr. Madison chose to bring with him five pairs of boots, each one identical in style, quality, size, and color, is a question a man in my position cannot openly ask. That he wants each pair regularly polished—whether worn or not—is also beyond my comprehension.
Nonetheless, it is a chore that I am performing with my customary artistry when Mr. Madison returns from the Convention, quietly vexed, and hurries to his desk to transcribe his notes.
As he did so, he expressed his disdain at the day’s results. I am complimented that he takes me into his confidence and, while continuing to shine away with rag and brush, listen attentively.
The matter of the day was the method of choosing the Executive or President. The Convention had rejected Mr. Madison’s plan that he be chosen by Congress, and instead had come up with a complicated process in which each state would choose individual electors whose votes would then elect the President. Each elector, Mr. Madison went on, would get two votes—one for President and one for Vice President.
“Would that not mean,” I asked, “that a President could end up with a Vice President whose political views were totally opposed to his?”XII
Mr. Madison gave me a long look and said, “Exactly. You have discerned that which supposedly more learned heads than yours could not.” After a pause, he added, “Well done, Billey.”
It took me a minute to realize that Mr. Madison was talking about his boots.
September 10th, 1787
As it now seems likely that the Convention will conclude within the week, there is a flurry of activity on my part and Mr. Madison’s.
General Washington has already sent out invitations for a farewell party in celebration for the 17th of this month, and knowing that the General would never wish to lose his deposit for the private room at the City Tavern, I am assured that day will be the Convention’s last.
It is in that belief that I have begun preparations for Mr. Madison’s return to Montpelier: refitting his carriage, shoeing the horses, et cetera. Meanwhile, Mr. Madison has been working days and nights (while the Convention is in brief recess) with the Committee of Style (as it is called), which is comprised of Mr. William Samuel Johnson of Connecticut, Mr. Gouverneur Morris of Pennsylvania, Mr. Rufus King of Massachusetts, and of course Mr. Madison.
These men have been entrusted with the arranging and ordering of all the Articles, Clauses, et cetera, previously proposed into what will hopefully be the final draft of the new United States Constitution. Given the makeup of that Committee, I have every reason to believe that Mr. Madison’s influence—which had seemed to wane in recent weeks—will be evident in the final outcome.
Copies of the draft, which compresses the previous 22 Articles into 9 and states them in clear, concise, crisp language (according to Mr. Madison), will be printed and presented to the entire Convention on the 12th of this week.
There is also (again according to Mr. Madison) a Preamble to be written by Mr. Gouverneur Morris, and if it is composed with the same enthusiasm with which Mr. Morris hops after married women on his one good leg, I am certain it will catch the attention of this new nation.
September 12th, 1787
While I was preparing Mr. Madison’s bath this evening, he informed me of a particular in the newly written Constitution of which he was most proud: there would be no religious test for office. Which meant, as I understood it, that any white man in the country with sufficient property, with or without religious affiliation, could hold national office, even President.
As this was a matter that I take no concern in, I feigned my enthusiasm.
I have always found it curious that Mr. Madison never shared his family’s Christianity. And once when I expressed my own faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior, Mr. Madison gave me this book to read by a Scottish philosopherXIII who said, as best as I can remember, that the human mind goes only so far. The rest is a mystery, so don’t believe anything that cannot be double-checked by reason.
Anyway, it went something like that. Only for around 600 pages.
While I have since come to acknowledge that Mr. Madison is sincere in his indifference to the Christian faith, I could not help but think at the time that this was just his way of discouraging a black man from getting into Heaven.
September 15th, 1787
My day has been spent in packing, a chore complicated by Mr. Madison’s considerable accumulations since we first arrived in Philadelphia five months ago—though I must admit it seems like years.
Over that span, Mr. Madison has acquired books, buckles (15 exactly and why I have no idea), new boots, pairs of silk hose, undergarments, political pamphlets of all stripes, and a plentitude of jars, ointments, tinctures, elixirs, et cetera—many devoted to his gastrointestinal ailments.
It was in the midst of my duties that I heard from the adjoining room Mr. Madison engaged in conversation with an unannounced guest, Mr. George Mason, delegate from Virginia.
Mr. Mason had come to ask Mr. Madison to support a resolution he planned to introduce the following day, calling for what he described as a Declaration of Rights to be added to the Constitution.
For my part, as this might add days if not weeks to the Convention, it came with some relief when I heard Mr. Madison politely decline. As Mr. Madison pointed out, there was no need for a Declaration of Rights since the Constitution took no rights away.
Mr. Mason, however, was not persuaded, and from the tone of their exchange, it was evident that the relationship between the two men was not as cordial as it once had been.
In addition, Mr. Madison noted that the Constitution was now in its final draft, the delegates were in a rush to return to their homes, and there was no appetite among them for further and lengthy debates.
Mr. Mason then departed in a mood more sour than when he first arrived.
As for those Declarations of Rights, as Mr. Mason had proposed—that is, freedom of speech, of religion, and of the press, along with the Right of Persons to be secure in their own homes, among others—as glorious as they may have sounded to those entitled to them, I sided with Mr. Madison in that there was nothing that important it was worth staying in Philadelphia for an extra week.
Later that night, as I smoked my pipe in the alleyway behind the boardinghouse (perhaps for the last time), I imagined what my own Declaration of Rights would be if I could write them myself:
The Right to live where I liked.
The Right to choose my work and who I worked for.
The Right to marry without permission.
The Right to say what I was thinking.
And the Right to look any man in the eye when I said it.
Whether a Declaration of Rights or pipe dreams, that was another story.
Mr. Madison returned from the Convention to announce that the Constitution had been signed. In the parlor, he told Mrs. House and her daughter Mrs. Trist of the special events of the day.
The women—both of whom had been kept in the dark about the Convention because of the rule of secrecy—listened raptly as Mr. Madison described Dr. Franklin’s urging for a unanimous vote in favor of the new Constitution. And although three delegates—Mr. Mason, Governor Randolph, and Mr. Gerry—declined to sign their names, the other 39, including General Washington, did so happily.
Mr. Madison said that Dr. Franklin even cried when he fixed his name to it. Though I could not help but wonder if out of patriotism or kidney stones?
In his chambers, Mr. Madison prepared for the gala party that General Washington was giving in celebration that night at the City Tavern. After I helped Mr. Madison repowder his hair—as was his wont on these special occasions—I thought, given his genial mood, that this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of my freedom.
As I asked Mr. Madison to consider the possibility of letting me go, I also made it clear that I was more than willing to work out any financial arrangement necessary to pay him back. I then suggested the terms of paying him $20 per year for a period of five years.
If Mr. Madison had been surprised by my request, I could not tell from his face, which remained neutral. “I will think about it,” he said, walking off.
But knowing Mr. Madison as well as I did, I feared from his tone that my freedom was not as close at hand as I had hoped.
Maybe I had sold myself too cheap.
The day the Constitution was signed—September 17, 1787—seems as good a day as any to end Billey’s imaginary journal. And now, as the saying goes, for the rest of the story as related by Lynne Cheney in her biography of Madison:
James Madison stayed in Philadelphia for another week, during which time he sold Billey to a local resident (name unknown) under the conditions that after seven years Billey would be granted his freedom.
Madison later wrote to his father (Madison Sr.) that he did so rather than bring Billey back with him to Virginia on the grounds that Billey might have been “tainted” by the liberties he experienced while in Philadelphia.
After Billey’s period of servitude, he was freed (adding the last name of Gardner) and, surprisingly, went to work for James Madison as his business agent.
It was on assignment for Madison that Billey’s ship went down in the Atlantic. Billey’s body was never found. And it was James Madison who notified Mr. Gardner’s family of his death.