The ale at The Laughing Fox was the best in Philadelphia. Nat was so adamant about its quality that he was almost willing to fight any man who said otherwise. Here was a beverage to be savored rather than gulped. Even amidst the unpleasant mix of odors that hung in the air in the stuffy tavern, he found himself letting the cup sit in front of him for a moment, simply taking in its bread-like aroma.

“You aim to drink that beer or make love to it?” a gruff voice from down the bar asked.

Nat ignored the man, who let out a drunken guffaw as he slapped the counter, jostling every glass or plate all down the line. He picked up his cup and headed toward the back of the tavern. He intended to enjoy several of these ales before the day was done and his enjoyment would be greatly increased if he drank as far away as possible from men such as that one.

Settling in at a small table, he put glass to lips and enjoyed his first sip, holding it in his mouth briefly to experience the full flavor. A few swallows later a pair of men sat down somewhere off to his right. One of the peculiar things about The Laughing Fox--something that endeared it to a man in Nat’s particular line of work--was that sound did not carry at all as one might expect. There were dead spots where a man practically had to shout in order to make himself heard and other places where even the softest whisper would carry to the other side of a room. Seated where he was now, Nat could hear every word the two men were saying as if the three of them were touching elbows. He fancied himself not so much an eavesdropper and a gossip as a collector and purveyor of useful information. It could be a lucrative enterprise.

“‘Twasn’t hard at all really,” said the first man. He had a deep voice with just a hint of a London accent, something that was not all that uncommon even these days.

“But how did you manage not to get caught, doing it right out in public like that?” asked the second, apparently younger man. At least Nat would have sworn that the tenor of his voice placed him at no more than thirty years old.

“Well, there’s public and then there’s public, see. You can get away with most things if you choose the right time and know your mark.”

Here, thought Nat, was a possible fellow traveler. He never missed a good opportunity to hone the tools of his trade.

“Watch their routines, gather information, and think it through. Far too many men rush in before they really consider all the angles. This gent was as predictable as they come. So it took only three of us: one to deliver the message, one to keep eyes on him, and one to drive the horses. That doctor never knew what hit him and we must have been halfway back on the road north to Pennsylvania before anyone even passed by to alert the watch. Even then no one would have ever doubted that it was anything other than an unfortunate accident.”

The deep-voiced man let a chuckle slip. That seemed to amuse the second man who let out a laugh of his own.

“With all these gentlemen on their way here for their little convention, we can be sure that there will be more of the same sort of work. More than enough to go around for all of us. We just have to keep our heads down until then. If you get pinched for something stupid then you’ll be no good to anyone.”

“Quite right,” said the second man.

Nat just took all of this in. He had bits and pieces of a story, but not yet enough to know whether he had overheard something of much significance. Many men had enemies, so for one to have gotten himself killed by some ruffians was not at all unusual. Although Nat drew the line at using a bit of forceful persuasion to collect a debt, not everyone who engaged in the trade held the same scruples. Killing a debtor might foreclose any hope of securing full payment, but there were those who believed that such retribution certainly would deter future debtors from attempting to skip out on their responsibilities.

The two men moved on to topics of seemingly much less consequence and Nat finished the last of his ale. It was far too good to stop at just one and so he ordered another.

It was bound to be such a beautiful late spring day that Camden was sorry that so much of it would be spent in an enclosed coach. He was to meet Mr. Monroe at the coach’s departure point before the sun scarcely had time to crest the roofs of the surrounding buildings and houses. Upon arriving, he saw Mr. Monroe awaiting him in the coach and what must have been his trunk loaded on the back. Camden enlisted the help of one of the porters in securing his own trunk in place and then climbed inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Monroe. Mr. Randolph sends his regrets that he could not see us off this morning. He is to meet with a client early this morning and needed to look over a contract before doing so.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” replied Monroe, who was busy reading the previous day’s copy of the Virginia Independent Chronicle.

“Is there anything of note?” Camden asked before Mr. Monroe completely engrossed himself again.

Mr. Monroe flipped a page or two, folded the paper in half and passed it to Camden, directing his attention to short story at the bottom of the page.

“It seems that the publisher, Mr. Davis, is not altogether fond of the idea that I shall be present at proceedings in Philadelphia.”

Camden began to read and realized that Mr. Monroe had made a very charitable understatement. The story ran under the line “Henry’s Mercenary Sent to Philadelphia to Stifle Convention.” The story was not attributed to any author, but that was a fairly common practice, Camden had come to learn, especially when the owner of the publication was involved.

“Having passed the point at which it is too late for the General Assembly to correct the grievous error of appointing Mr. James Monroe as a delegate to the Philadelphia convention,” the article stated, “Virginia can now only hope that the more qualified voices such as those of Mr. James Madison will represent us well to the rest of the United States. Too much is now at stake for our union than for its fate to be entrusted to novices and those held under the sway of others who would rather burn down our own house than raise a finger to repair its obvious faults.”

Camden could hardly believe what he was reading. He had known that Mr. Henry and Mr. Monroe were not universally well-liked, but this sort of vitriol caught him off guard. He paused to look up and saw that Mr. Monroe had been watching, likely hoping to gauge his reaction.

“Mr. Monroe, this is--”

“Yes, it is. Do you now better understand that which you have undertaken? This is only the beginning. I will likely absorb most of the blows, of course, but there is no guarantee that your reputation will remain untarnished due to your association with me, and by extension with Mr. Henry.”

“I understand. I am prepared for these sorts of attacks. I only suppose that I did not expect them to be launched against you before you had even left the city.”

“Good morning!” came an approaching voice. They both turned to look and saw that it was Mr. Randolph.

“Good morning, Mr. Randolph,” said Monroe, stepping down out of the coach to meet their visitor. “Mr. Page had told me that you would not be able to see us off. This is a pleasant surprise indeed.”

“Thank you for saying so, Mr. Monroe. I came to wish a good journey as well as good fortune in pursuing your important work.”

Turning to Camden, Mr. Randolph showed a small stack of books. “These are for you,” he said. Camden took them and set them on the seat next to him. He saw no need to bother the porters to dig up his trunk for something so trivial. Noticing the titles of the books, his attention was drawn to one in particular, a novel by Henry Fielding titled Amelia. The others were clearly books that Mr. Randolph expected him to read and be tested on when he returned.

“Mr. Randolph, there seems to be one book here by mistake.”

“No, that’s no mistake, Mr. Page. You must exercise every bit of your mind to become a good attorney. We must not only know the law, but also the human condition, and there are few better ways to do that than to read well-written works of fiction. I only ask that you do not open that particular book until you have left Richmond.”

Camden thought that to be a somewhat queer request, but he had no reason to do anything other than comply with it. “Certainly, sir, and I thank you. I will write often, as you have instructed.”

“I look forward to it and be sure to help Mr. Monroe in whatever manner he might choose to employ you. I’ve already sent word to my former partner, Mr. Johnson, who will be supervising your apprenticeship in my absence. Be sure to introduce yourself as soon as possible after you arrive.”

“I’ll be sure that he does exactly that, Mr. Randolph,” Monroe offered. He climbed back into the coach and situated himself for the journey ahead.

“I’ll be on my way then,” said Mr. Randolph. “Take care, Mr. Page.”

“Thank you, Mr. Randolph.” Camden too climbed into the coach again and set the books on his lap, awaiting the arrival of the other passengers.

Camden and Mr. Monroe were joined--mercifully, Camden thought--by only two other passengers. The coach would have seated six if necessary, but with a consequent diminishing of comfort. Although the largest city he had ever seen, Camden found that the time required for them to actually leave Richmond was not very long at all.

Too curious to wait, Camden took the copy of Amelia from the bottom of the stack and opened to the title page. Rather than the front matter of the book, however, he found a letter which had been inserted in the book’s pages. On the outside, it was addressed to him in what appeared to be Mr. Randolph’s handwriting. He opened it, seeing that the letter itself was not written in Mr. Randolph’s hand, and read:

Dear Mr. Page,

I regret that our correspondence must begin in this manner, done in secret rather than in the full light of day. Circumstances, however, dictate that it must be so, at least for now. I can only imagine how you were affected by the letter you received stating my father’s insistence that you not be allowed to see me. Despite the very brief nature of our first meeting at my uncle’s house, I hope I am correct in my conclusion that my desire to make a closer acquaintance of you is one that you share.

If so, and if you would not dismiss the idea as too forward on my part, my uncle has agreed to assist us in corresponding with one another. I have no intention of violating the instruction that I not see you in person, but I see no reason why we may not correspond in writing. To facilitate this arrangement, my uncle will accept your letters and deposit them in books that I borrow. He will do the same with my letters to you and in this way we may write to one another in confidence.

I pray you will have as pleasant a journey as possible and await eagerly the arrival of your reply.

Georgiana Burwell

Richmond, Virginia

May 4, 1787

By the time he reached the end, Camden was sure that he must have been beaming from ear to ear. As he boarded the coach earlier that morning, it was not lost on him that not only was he far away from any meaningful interaction with the beautiful young woman over whose handwriting he now pored, but his journey would take him physically far away from her as well. Even the thought of a chance encounter would have been lost to him. Now, however, his heart soared. True, he was left with no way to even merely be in her presence, but the prospect of interacting with the mind of the woman who had so impressed him upon that first encounter was more than adequate consolation. Indeed, it was no mere consolation at all, but a surpassing joy.

That he could not keep his joy inside was made clear to him when Mr. Monroe broke him out of his thoughts.

“I take it you have received some very good news in that letter, Mr. Page? Not meaning to pry, of course.”

“Yes, Mr. Monroe, I most certainly have.” Camden folded the letter and put it back in the book, resolving not to read it again just yet.

Seeing this, Mr. Monroe gave a knowing nod of the head and went back to his newspaper.

They had stopped for the evening just outside of Baltimore. More of their journey was behind them than now lay ahead, but Camden was still weary from the long days in the uncomfortable coach. Even with his books, the company of Mr. Monroe, and the letter from Georgiana (which he had practically memorized by now), the journey was testing his endurance. The other two passengers from Richmond had been going only as far as Alexandria, but at least two new travelers would be joining the coach tomorrow bound for points further north.

In the meantime, Camden had resolved to try to get as restful a night as possible tonight, the better to be prepared for the possibility of an overcrowded coach tomorrow. At Mr. Monroe’s insistence, the two of them shared a room with two small beds. Upon entering, Camden had not been quite sure how either of them--both being rather tall--could expect to get much good sleep with their legs hanging off the ends of their too short beds.

As he was pondering that dilemma, Mr. Monroe spoke up. “Mr. Page, we have been together now for quite some time, and yet I feel I do not know you nearly as well as I should. Might I ask you to tell me something of your life before you came to be apprenticed to Mr. Randolph?”

“Certainly, although I doubt it is a very interesting story.”

“Why not let me be the judge of that?” Mr. Monroe smiled.

Camden was not entirely sure where to begin. “Well, you see, before I came in with Mr. Randolph, I lived in New Kent County with my aunt and uncle. I was actually born in Richmond, but my mother died in childbirth and my father succumbed to illness shortly thereafter. My mother’s sister and her husband agreed to take me in and I have lived with them on their farm ever since.”

“Ah, but I know there must be more than that. You have shown yourself to be too well-read for me to believe that you lived merely the same existence as any other country boy in the Commonwealth. I do not doubt but that you must have had some education beyond what one might expect for someone from your home.”

Camden cocked his head slightly. “Oh, why yes, in fact, I suppose I did.” He slid his boots under the bed and continued. “At the time I did not think of it that way, however. I had been taught to read and write and do basic arithmetic--the most that anyone in our area ever really learned. But after that--perhaps when I was 12 or 13, I don’t remember precisely--books began to arrive from a benefactor in Richmond. I believe that my aunt and uncle knew all along that it was Mr. Randolph, but they never said so until much later. In any event, after the books started coming I was never in want of fresh reading material. Reading gave me a satisfaction so much greater than working the farm that I never thought of it as an education, only as my doing the thing I loved to do best.”

“And I suppose your reading led to your wanting to pursue the law?”

“No, not really. My reading certainly has prepared me, I think, for being apprenticed to Mr. Randolph. However, before I came to learn that he was supplying the books, I harbored no more than a passing interest in the law.”

“I see. Then it was Mr. Randolph’s suggestion that you be his apprentice.”

“Indeed. He and my father were friends and partners. Just before my father’s death, although he was not able to take me into his care directly, he promised my father that he would see to my education and that I had the chance to follow him into the legal profession.”

“And now here you are.”

Camden nodded. “And what about you, Mr. Monroe? Your reputation as a hero of the war precedes you. I’m very interested to hear about the Battle of Trenton. What was it like to fight with General Washington?”

Monroe looked out the window. “I cannot say that I know much of what it was like to fight with Washington. But I did serve for a time in a regiment under his command and I can say that he is no doubt worthy of the high regard in which he seems to be universally held.” He looked back at Camden, his eyes refocusing as if he had just come back from some far away place. “As for the Battle of Trenton, well, that is surely something I will never forget. War is often made to sound glorious by the men who write the histories, but experiencing it for oneself is something that changes a man.”

Camden sat near the edge of his seat, now hanging on Monroe’s every word.

“It was still very early in the war and events were not turning in our favor. That winter was, perhaps, the lowest ebb of the fight for independence. General Washington determined to attack the Hessian garrison the day after Christmas, calculating that such an attack would not be expected, catching the mercenaries after a night of revelry. That calculation proved to be correct, of course, although I was only eighteen at the time and had only the most cursory understanding of the larger strategic picture.

The battle was under our control, having attacked both from the south and from the north. The critical moment came, however, when the Hessians attempted to move their artillery into position. Were they to fire upon us, our advance would have been halted if not turned into a rout. Captain Washington--a cousin of General Washington’s--ordered a charge and we plunged ahead, determined to capture the German guns. Tragically, Captain Washington was wounded and fell, at which time, command of the regiment fell to me. We continued forward and captured the guns and their crews, allowing General Washington to complete the attack. It was a small victory, but one that the Continental Army needed desperately.”

“It was there that you were wounded?” asked Camden, although he already knew the answer.

“Yes, it was there. I was grazed in the chest by a ball. Providentially, one of my men--his name escapes me at the moment, but I remember that he had been badly burned on the left side of his face during the battle--found a doctor by the name of Riker. Sadly, I never learned Dr. Riker’s full name or else I should have thanked him long ago for his service to me that day.”

Monroe gazed out the window again, but Camden dared not disturb him. He appeared to be deep in thought, thoughts to which Camden was sure he could not hope to relate. If Mr. Monroe said that experiencing war firsthand changed a man, then the man seated across from him at the moment was all the confirmation of that truth that Camden needed.

Upon arriving in Philadelphia a few days later, Camden remarked that the evening was rather cool for May, but the proprietor of their boarding house on Seventh Street assured him that it was not really that unusual for this time of year in Pennsylvania. The late spring days of Camden’s youth in New Kent County could be oppressively hot and humid. In addition to the pleasant novelty of the weather, Camden was preparing for what he hoped would be another enjoyable new experience. Mr. Peter Tobin, a prominent Philadelphia businessman, was hosting a reception for the delegates and Camden was invited as well.

Because he had never attended such a function--he had never had the opportunity--Mr. Monroe spent a good portion of the afternoon giving Camden a rudimentary course of instruction in the etiquette of such gatherings. Not having forgotten the disastrous results of his earlier social ignorance in Richmond, Camden was a willing and eager student, immersing himself in the older man’s instruction.

It was the cool evening air, Camden supposed, that prompted Mr. Monroe to suggest that they walk to the reception, rather than take a carriage. They dressed and left in plenty of time, allowing them to stroll at a leisurely pace. This also gave Camden one last chance to review his etiquette.

The conversation took a turn and Mr. Monroe said, “Should you wish it I can arrange for you to be introduced to General Washington. Did you know that he will be a guest there this evening?”

Camden had not known and now he did not quite know how to respond. “Yes . . . yes, of course. That would be an honor.”

Monroe responded with only, “Very well. I shall see to it,” and then dropped the matter entirely.

They arrived at their destination amidst a terrible confusion of carriages, horses, servants, delegates, and a general mass of humanity. The house, Camden thought, was surely large enough to host three or four such gatherings simultaneously. Independence Hall itself must look almost plain and unimportant by comparison. They were greeted at the door and shown into the ballroom where dozens of people stood in circles of conversation while a chamber orchestra played in the far corner.

One circle in particular was larger than all the others. Mr. Monroe said “Follow me,” and headed directly for it. The pair navigated the rolling sea of flowing dresses and powdered wigs (worn by more of the men than Camden had expected) without incident and arrived on the edge of the circle. Being head and shoulders taller than most everyone in the room, Camden could clearly see why this circle was the largest. Standing at one edge, barely more than an arm’s length from him was another man who stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. It could be none other than General Washington himself.

Monroe waited patiently for a break in the conversation in order to make himself noticed. Washington turned to deposit the glass from which he had been drinking on one of the many silver trays that servants carried about the room. “Colonel Monroe. How very pleasant it is to see you here this evening.”

“Thank you, sir. It is indeed my pleasure to be amongst such fine company.”

Given their service together during the war, Camden had supposed that their greeting would have been much less formal than this, but the thought quickly evaporated in the presence of a man so universally revered as Washington. He did not think that he had been staring, but he was still jarred a bit when Washington asked “And of course I must ask you to introduce the strapping young man you appear to have brought with you.”

“General Washington, may I present Mr. Camden Page. He is apprenticed to Mr. Joseph Randolph, Esquire, of Richmond, Virginia and has accompanied me here to Philadelphia as an aide.”

Washington took a step forward and shook Camden’s hand, clasping the back of his upper arm as well, and quickly sizing him up and down. Camden knew what it felt like to only very rarely be able to look someone of his same height directly in the face.

“Colonel Monroe was a fine soldier in his day and I have no doubt he will make many important contributions to this convention. Assist him well now and it will be very beneficial for you, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you, General. I will do my best.”

With that, Washington turned back to the circle and the conversation that he had briefly left. Camden was still somewhat in awe. Here was a man whose exploits and bravery he had only read about; he had never dreamed of meeting the man in person. The descriptions he had read over and over again did Washington justice. Writers could be prone to hyperbole, but in Washington’s case, Camden supposed that overstating his qualities would be difficult. Meeting Washington was an occasion in itself, but Camden marveled still when he thought about his own close connection to a man who was closely connected to General Washington. The thought filled him with no small amount of pride.

After that, the rest of the party proved to be rather uneventful for Camden, with one exception. At one point, he and Monroe were seated at the edge of the room, merely enjoying the entire visual spectacle. On the other side of the room, almost as if he were trying to remain in the shadows, stood a man dressed in a plain, black suit. He too seemed to be taking a moment to observe the scene, but something about his expression signalled something deeper was going on in his mind. He appeared not gloomy or dour, but rather intensely thoughtful

Camden tapped Mr. Monroe on the forearm. “Do you know who that is over there in the black suit?”

“I’m given to understand that he is a business associate of Mr. Tobin’s. Benjamin Doane is his name, I believe.”

“He doesn’t seem to be enjoying the party,” Camden observed.

“No, he certainly does not.” Monroe chuckled and Camden, despite himself, let out a little chuckle too.

“He has had ample reason to be less than content these past years,” said a voice from over Camden’s left shoulder. He turned to see none other than Mr. Tobin. Their host raised a hand briefly to say “I begrudge no man a bit of information--or even idle gossip--every now and then, even if it does involve one of my guests. In his case, however, most everything about him is already known to most of Philadelphia. He was closely tied to the Penn family before the war; it is not hard to see how independence has damaged his financial prospects. He survives, but his status has been much diminished.”

Monroe nodded politely. “You would seem to be right that he has reason to wear a somber countenance, Mr. Tobin.” The man of the house returned the nod and then moved on to talk with other guests.

“Much of that I already knew. But let’s not let that any of that spoil things for us, shall we?” said Monroe. “I believe they are going to play another dance in a few minutes, but I don’t suppose you would care to entertain one of the young ladies here by accompanying one of them onto the floor?”

Camden blushed in spite of himself. “I think I’ll save my dances, please, Mr. Monroe.” Camden wondered whether Mr. Monroe was simply that perceptive or whether it was he who was just that obvious.

They ate and drank and mingled and enjoyed the festivities into the early hours of the next day. When the gathering showed few signs of winding down, they thanked their host and took their leave.

Stepping out into the brisk early morning air, Monroe once again suggested that they walk the short distance back to their lodgings. Camden agreed and, still somewhat in awe of his direct encounter with Washington, ventured to ask Monroe about what it had been like for him to have been so close to a man of such prominence.

“Regrettably, the relationship between the two of us is not now nearly so cordial as it once was. At one time, Washington most certainly held me in rather high regard. For better or worse, that is no longer the case.”

Camden was amazed by this. “But the General immediately acknowledged you and was nothing but polite.”

“Indeed, Mr. Page, he was nothing but polite. That is precisely my point. His station in life and mine dictate that the both of us must observe certain minimum standards of conduct. With friends, however, one might expect to receive better than the bare minimum of social decency. I fear that this convention may sow the seeds of separation in many such warm friendships before it is done.”

For Camden, this provided far more new questions than answers. Surely there were differing opinions about what to do about the present constitution of the nation, but did it really have to seep into personal relationships as well? As Monroe seemed content to walk the rest of the way in silence, Camden obliged and tucked his questions away for later.

The shadows that covered the side of the street opposite the Tobin residence suited Nat’s needs perfectly. Some of Mr. Tobin’s servants had been in their cups two nights before and had let slip that he was hosting a gathering for delegates to the convention. If the sort of work that Nat preferred--the sort of work at which he excelled--was available, this would be the most likely place to find it. However, when very few people had trickled out of the residence by midnight, he wondered whether he would be able to stay awake long enough to take advantage of any opportunities.

Shortly after what he judged to be one o’clock, two men left the house together, one of them so tall and broad that he seemed on the verge of bulging right out of his nice clothes and the other carrying himself with a familiar air that Nat could not quite pin down. From his vantage point, however, he could not make out faces. In any event, they headed off at a brisk pace and he had no desire to catch up with them.

A few minutes later another man emerged. Nat noticed nothing remarkable about his appearance from that distance, but he did notice that this man did his best to keep to the shadows. Here, perhaps, was the chance for which he had been waiting. Taking a path parallel to the man’s, Nat moved along the other side of the street, escaping the man’s notice. The man stopped after no more than two minutes of walking and Nat could see that a group of men had been waiting to meet him. Concealed by darkness, Nat could not number them with any certainty. He crept as closely as possible, but managed to make out only bits and pieces of the conversation from his place of concealment.

“Many of them were there, yes, but others have yet to arrive” the man from the party said. There was something about a “plan” and awaiting further “instructions,” but nothing terribly specific, nothing that Nat could use without more information. The meeting broke up within minutes and each of the men went in separate directions. The man from the party went back to the Tobin residence and disappeared inside.

Unless he sat outside the house all night, Nat could think of no way to be able to discover anything more about the man or his business that required a secret meeting in the earliest hours of the morning. Given that this party was being hosted for delegates to the convention, Nat could only conclude that the convention itself or one, perhaps more, of the delegates was the subject of the meeting. Waiting the rest of the night did not seem terribly likely to yield any more useful information. He stole away from the party to return to his boarding house, confident that information could be found through his usual channels: talkative drinkers at the local taverns.