The second time John Hancock’s name was lifted to the top of Congress, it was less a summons to govern than a bet on the power of a signature. The war was over; the treaty had been ratified; the chair in the national chamber had begun to pass each year to a different steward who kept the papers moving and the façade intact. In that rotation, which felt at once ceremonial and necessary, the delegates reached for a figure whose autograph had become the emblem of independence. They chose him again, the man whose ink in 1776 had swelled like a flag across the page, hoping that prestige could do what statutes could not—pull far-flung men to a seat of government that had money in theory and authority mostly on paper. He accepted with the politeness of a gentleman who knew what his name could do and what his joints could not. He promised to arrange his  ...