Signing Their Rights Away (22 page)

BORN
: November 16, 1753

DIED
: May 3, 1816

AGE AT SIGNING
: 33

PROFESSION
: Merchant, doctor

BURIED
: Westminster Hall Burying Ground, Baltimore, Maryland

Many Americans know the story of the Star-Spangled Banner, the flag that flew high over Fort McHenry, in the Chesapeake Bay, during the War of 1812. The bombs burst, the rockets glared, and in the end the flag was still there. Although it’s a powerful tale, few people can identify the namesake of that famous fort. He is James McHenry, an Irish immigrant signer of the Constitution who reached the upper echelons of the new American government—only to be booted out of office by a jealous and paranoid president.

McHenry was born in what is now Northern Ireland. In 1771, his wealthy merchant parents sent him to America, where he studied medicine with Benjamin Rush, the famous physician and signer
of the Declaration of Independence. McHenry’s flowery descriptions of his new homeland persuaded his parents to send his brother to the colonies as well. Later, the whole family joined them and opened a prosperous store in Baltimore. While in his early twenties, McHenry took part in the fighting during the Revolutionary War, serving as an army sawbones. He was captured by the British in New York, ministered to American troops while in confinement, and was later released on parole; he was allowed to return home to his parents’ store under the condition that he take no further action on the American side. He obeyed this regulation until 1778, when he was “freed” in a prisoner exchange. He immediately went back to war, ministering to troops at Valley Forge and performing the duties of an aide-de-camp under Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette. During this time he became bosom buddies with Alexander Hamilton, who led troops under Lafayette’s command.

Chosen by Maryland to serve in the state legislature, McHenry waited until the British surrendered at Yorktown before resigning his post and heading to Annapolis. He served there and in Congress for a few years. He also gave up medicine forever, thanks to a healthy inheritance from his father, who died in 1782. Now financially independent, McHenry took up poetry and sent his work to friends and loved ones, including a woman named Peggy Caldwell, whom he married in 1784.

Sent by his state to the Constitutional Convention, McHenry intended to be present for all the sessions, but in fact he was absent between June 1 and August 4 to tend to his sick brother in Baltimore. When he was in attendance at the debates, he took copious personal notes, which have provided historians with insight into the process and worldview of this earnest but lightweight politician. In his own notes William Pierce, the Georgia delegate, took jabs at McHenry: “He is a Man of specious [talents], with nothing of genius to improve them. As a politician there is nothing remarkable in him, nor has he any of the graces of the Orator.”

Now, admittedly, McHenry tried to sit on the fence during the debates, which was problematic because the five delegates from
Maryland were often split philosophically. (Only three would ultimately sign the document.) When McHenry was in attendance and voting, he was usually able to throw this swing state into the nationalist—that is, big government—camp. After signing the Constitution in September, McHenry tried to justify his actions in his journal, in which he comes off like a bewildered, nervous little man who knows he’s out of his league. “I distrust my own judgment,” he confessed, “especially as it is opposite to the opinion of a majority of gentlemen whose abilities and patriotism are of first cast; and as I have already frequent occasions to be convinced that I have not always judged right.” Determined to give the Constitution the push it needed, he returned to Maryland and persuaded his fellow citizens to accept it. They did, and Maryland became the seventh state to ratify.

McHenry worked another eight years in state politics and no doubt would have lapsed into obscurity if not for his old commander, George Washington. Now president for a second term, Washington was casting about for a secretary of war. Three men turned him down before he hit upon asking his old administrative officer, McHenry. The Baltimore sawbones-turned-shopkeeper-turned-statesman took the job in 1796. He presided over many important new tasks, including, among others, enlarging the army and navy under the new Constitution, ordering construction of warships, and raising money to construct the star-shaped fort in Baltimore’s port that would be named in his honor.

But McHenry often seemed to be floundering under a morass of paperwork. He relied on his old friend Hamilton for advice and sometimes parroted Hamilton’s ideas directly in reports. His leadership was so incompetent that eventually even Hamilton—who never shied away from giving offense—complained to Washington: “My friend McHenry is wholly inefficient for his place, with the additional misfortune of not having the least suspicion of the fact.” The old general’s response must have shocked Hamilton: “I early discovered, after he entered upon the duties of his office, that his talents were unequal to great exertions, or deep resources. In truth, they
were not expected, for the fact is, it was a Hobson’s choice.”

The stilted language of the eighteenth century might blunt the impact of this statement, so allow us to paraphrase: the man running the defense of these young United States, hand-picked by George Washington, was, by the general’s own admission, an inept Hobson’s choice, or a free choice in which only one option is offered.

Of course, then as now, political posts were sometimes rewards for loyalty, and Washington did display a tendency to repay his friends and former aides with high-paying jobs—but this kind of cronyism seems extreme. Incredibly, McHenry continued to serve in the same position under the next president, John Adams (most likely because there was no precedent for changing cabinets; Adams may have disliked Washington’s staff, but he was stuck with them).

But when Adams lost the election of 1800 to Thomas Jefferson, the chief executive summoned McHenry to his office and asked for his resignation. McHenry was bowled over by the verbal insults; he would later write that Adams often spoke as if he were “actually insane.” His dismissal is usually portrayed as unjustified, but some historians argue that McHenry truly was disloyal to Adams and had worked to sabotage his campaign.

No matter. McHenry had his life—and his writing—to return to. Now forty-six, he slunk back into private life at his country estate outside Baltimore, wrote poetry, socialized with friends, worked for his local Bible society, and in general stayed out of the limelight. Despite his association with the War of 1812, he bitterly opposed it, as did most Federalists. In a remarkable coincidence, his son fought at Fort McHenry during the same battle at which the national anthem was written. In the last years of his life, McHenry was struck with paralysis and could no longer walk. He died in 1816, at age sixty-two, and is buried in the same cemetery as Edgar Allan Poe.

The Signer with the Mysterious Middle Name

BORN
: 1723

DIED
: November 16, 1790

AGE AT SIGNING
: About 64

PROFESSION
: Landowner, administrator

BURIED
: Location unknown; somewhere near Port Tobacco, Maryland

In an era before driver’s licenses and social security numbers, the only way for people to establish their identity was to use their name and the place in which they were born or lived. For example, when one wealthy signer of the Declaration of Independence put his pen to that document, he used his name and the name of his estate: “Charles Carroll of Carrollton.” It was his way of distinguishing himself from all the other Charleses in his family.

The remarkable thing about Daniel of St. Thomas Jenifer is that no one really knows why his parents, Daniel and Elizabeth Jenifer, decided to use the name St. Thomas. The family was living near Port Tobacco, Maryland, when their son was born, and they seemed intent on distinguishing him from current and future Daniels in the family
(though they named a later son plain-old Daniel, causing untold grief and frustration for scores of genealogists and historians). Back then, people couldn’t be certain that an infant would survive to adulthood, so they sometimes hedged their bets by giving babies in the same family the same name. This was especially important if a wealthy male child needed to have a specific name in order to come into his inheritance.

But why St. Thomas? Some historians believe this founding father was named after a local church. That’s a nice thought, but the church in question was run by Catholic Jesuits, and the Jenifers raised their son in the Episcopalian faith. Others claim a Jenifer ancestor traveled through St. Thomas, in the West Indies, on his way to Maryland. Another theory holds that the Jenifer family originated on St. Thomas Island, off the coast of Cornwall, England. Nobody knows for sure.

Moreover, details of Jenifer’s early years and training are sparse. As a young man, he spent his time managing his father’s plantations in Charles County, Maryland. An able administrator, he branched out to work as a top “receiver general,” or tax and bill collector, for the last two proprietors in Maryland. The colony had been settled by wealthy landowners who ran it like a commercial enterprise; there were no towns, cities, or local government. Basically, the proprietors (who often never set foot in America) ran their own private kingdoms and promised a cut to the English king. For these last few holdouts, Jenifer settled boundary disputes, collected rents, and paid taxes on their behalf. He did a good job, and the colonists liked him enough to give him a number of important posts. He was a justice of the peace, worked on the committee that established the Mason-Dixon Line, and became a top advisor to the last royal governor of Maryland, Sir Robert Eden.