by Judith Pella
Joseph smiled.
Being a man hadn’t helped him much; perhaps being a woman wouldn’t hurt his daughter.
“Father? Did I miss something?”
Joseph had almost forgotten his son’s presence. “Forgive me,
York. I’m afraid I got carried away with my thoughts. What were we talking about?”
“Carolina.”
“Yes, of course . . . and she was the cause of my wandering mind.” He paused and glanced at his son. At twenty-one, York was a levelheaded, mature young man, and with his younger son, Maine, having already returned to his seminary studies in England, Joseph found himself grateful for a few lingering moments of father-son companionship. “You know, York, I see no reason why your sister’s obvious intelligence shouldn’t be indulged a bit.”
“Mother would say you already do that, Father.”
“Ah yes, Mother . . .” What would Mrs. Adams think of the idea that was this minute taking root in her husband’s mind? Well, he was the man of the house, wasn’t he? And Carolina was his daughter, too. “I’ve been thinking of hiring a tutor for Carolina.”
York cocked an eyebrow at the unconventional idea. “Many people we know would think you are wasting time and money doing such a thing. What of feminine delicacy and all that?”
“I’ve never thought much of such notions. Didn’t God create all men equal?”
“And women?”
“Come now, York, I’ve taught you better than that. Just as there are strong men and weak men, there are strong women along with the weaker. I believe your sister is one of the strong ones. Nevertheless, if she has a desire to broaden her mind, why should her gender stop her? I doubt it will cause insanity as some might claim.”
“Do you think you could find a tutor? It would have to be a man.”
“It won’t be easy. Pity you and Maine chose schools so far from home. Still, there must be a man around who would overlook gender for the weight of coins in his hand—a man of honor and a gentleman, of course. Is there anyone you can think of?”
“Not readily, Father, but I will put my mind to it. Carolina is bright, and it would be a shame to waste her abilities.”
“It would be different if she didn’t want to improve her mind, but
I know she does. Do you know the other day I found her actually reading over some papers left me by the President’s cabinet?”
“She is amazing,” York agreed. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be impossible to find a teacher. But are you going to tell Mother of your plans?”
“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing her delicate sensibilities over such a trivial matter.” Joseph ended his statement with a sly grin.
Mrs. Adams would oppose him mightily over this. There was probably no lady in all the Americas more caught up in social etiquette than she, and probably no one more ambitious of social position. To her, propriety was practically a religion in itself. Yet Margaret Adams was no cold, insensitive fish, either. Joseph could not love her as he did if that were so. Yes, she was demanding and a bit overbearing at times, and she believed it her God-given duty to present a stern front to her children. And Joseph probably only made matters worse in his tendency to overindulge his children. Yet beneath her very proper nature, Margaret was a woman who, above all else, loved her family. Showing tenderness wasn’t easy for her, but when alone with her husband she often expressed her tender maternal love. And for this reason, Joseph knew that when she was made aware of Carolina’s deepest wishes, she would capitulate in even her social awareness.
4
At the White House
Thoughts of Carolina followed Joseph throughout the evening. Even at the White House, his mind kept drifting to his daughter and her love of learning.
When the dozen men who were dining with the President retired to a sitting room, apart from the ladies, for brandy and cigars, Joseph took a moment to study them with a new perspective, wondering what they would say to tutoring his daughter. Of course, these were powerful politicians who would hardly have the time or inclination for such a task. But did they have eligible sons?
He almost chuckled out loud. While most fathers were looking for husbands for their daughters, he was looking for a teacher. It felt rather good to be a bit unconventional.
“And what is your take on the matter, Mr. Adams?”
Joseph looked up. He hadn’t realized how far his thoughts had traveled. “I’m afraid I missed the question.”
The man, obviously irritated at Joseph’s lack of interest, drew up haughtily and repeated the question. “I asked of your opinion on the issue of our country’s great expansion.”
“Well, Mr. Cooper, I think we are witnessing a great manifestation of our dreams. With the West opening up to settlement and trade, it won’t be long before we add many more new states to the Union. As we add states, we strengthen our Union.”
“Well said, Mr. Adams!” said Andrew Jackson, exhaling a smoky puff of his cigar. “And I suppose we’ll need plenty more if your sons carry on your tradition of naming children after states.”
The President let out a loud guffaw to accompany his jest, and Joseph laughed easily with him. Whatever else might be said of Jackson, he was an enjoyable character, and for all his sometimes coarse mannerisms, he was a gentleman at heart.
In spite of Joseph’s familial ties to the Adams dynasty, Joseph had never been a strong supporter of John Quincy Adams, Jackson’s predecessor. The man was unquestionably brilliant, having proven himself invaluable in the foreign ministry. But he was a hard man, a terror to his enemies, and demanding and critical of his friends. Joseph had fallen under Adams’ criticism when he had declined a seat in Congress a few years back. But at the time Joseph’s children were young, and his wife was expecting their sixth child. He simply felt the demands of political office would have taken him from where he was needed most. Adams never forgave him.
When Adams won the presidency in 1824, he had done so without Joseph’s vote. At that time Joseph had begun to be drawn to the man who had gained a reputation as “the hero of New Orleans,” the westerner, Andrew Jackson. Not many of the plantation gentry supported the candidate who was quickly becoming known as a man of the people—the common people, that is. The flamboyant, quick-tempered military hero hardly exuded a gentlemanly refinement. But he epitomized the kind of ideals that were truly American— an independent spirit, a drive for honest hard work, tough aggressiveness, ingenuity, and, most of all, character and honor.
Joseph had to admit that Jackson’s western ties had also made the President appealing to one whose gaze was often focused in the direction of that compass point. And Jackson was magnanimous enough not to hold Joseph’s surname and distant family ties against him. John Quincy Adams might be one of Jackson’s most hated political adversaries, but he detected in Joseph loyalty and vision, and that was almost everything to him. Thus, Joseph was often called upon to advise the President and was even considered a part of that informal, and to some, infamous body known as the “kitchen cabinet.”
But now the conversation was continuing, and Joseph, freshly aware of his esteemed position, brought his mind back to the matters at hand.
The fellow named Cooper was saying, “I couldn’t agree more— with the importance of new states, that is. Land sales have surpassed expectations. We believe sales this year will exceed the record of 1819’s five million acres.”
“We can credit the President with this rush,” said Joseph. “I personally must thank him, as my coffers are much fuller due to some wisely made land purchases.”
“And no doubt sales of the same. I heard there was good money to be made in land speculation.”
“It had to happen,” said Jackson. “If I had not freed up the economy by putting an end to the tyrannical hold of the Bank of the United States, thus encouraging the development of private banking institutes, many of those good men and women would be forever trapped in the cities of the East. Not that I favor everyone going west. The West is a harsh
taskmaster and not for the weak of heart. But now, with loans more readily available, a poor man who is willing to work hard can purchase his own tract of land. Bank credit is definitely an American heritage.”
“Not only that, Mr. President,” a new speaker chimed into the conversation, “but without the new lines of credit, the growing prosperity of the railroad would never have been realized.”
Jackson grinned. “Gentlemen, some of you may not yet have met Mr. Philip Thomas, but I expect you will hear much of him in the future. He’s the president of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.”
Joseph was the first to shake Thomas’s hand. “I, for one, am fascinated with the railroad’s development.”
“The railroad is the key to our future,” said Thomas.
“I recall hearing those very words from a fellow at the fair today. Seems to me he looked a great deal like you.”
“Indeed, I take the credit. I believe the truth of those words to go beyond mere jingoism, Mr.—”
“Joseph Adams.”
“Well, sir, I am convinced America must have the railroad if it seriously intends to open up the West to true settlement. With the growing number of people moving west, there has to be a means by which they can support themselves. Agricultural and livestock interests are promoted with the promise of cheap, and in some cases, free land. But there must be an adequate and profitable way to move those crops and animals.”
“And you believe the railroad will resolve this issue?” Joseph already knew what he felt the answer to his question was; however, he wished to see if this man, who was obviously “in the know,” supported his beliefs.
“I know it will.” Thomas spoke with an easy confidence, which Joseph took to be as much a confidence in his so-called product as in himself. “Canals certainly can’t be expected to meet the need. Digging them is ten times the work, and the water sources have to be consistent. Where will they find enough water in the ‘Great American Desert’? The railroad, on the other hand, can meet the needs of the settler and come nearly to his front door. Why, there may well come the time, Mr. Adams, when you could expect track to be laid right up to your plantation.”
Joseph replied with an ironic smile. If only there had been such a thing when he was fifteen. He said more practically, “Though I heartily support the railroad, I don’t know if I’d like the tranquility of Oakbridge so compromised. Nevertheless, I understand what you’re saying. You truly think such accessibility possible?”
“Possible and reasonable.”
Joseph wanted to hear more, but it was time to rejoin the ladies. As the men filed from the sitting room, he sidled up to Thomas and said, “Perhaps we can discuss this at a later date?”
“It would truly be my honor,” said Thomas. “I would very much like to show you our plans. Might I call upon you at your hotel?”
“We are leaving in the morning,” Joseph replied. “But I would welcome you anytime to my home. Are you familiar with Oakbridge?”
“I am, sir.”
“Then I shall look forward to a visit from you soon.”
On the drive back to the hotel Margaret wore a curious expression, one filled with wonder mixed with a bit of perplexity.
“I trust you had an enjoyable evening, Mrs. Adams?” he asked, hoping to learn the cause of her unusual look.
“I did indeed.” She paused and shook her head. “Do you know, Mr. Adams, that these women actually thought it wonderful that our Carolina was chosen to ride the train?”
“Do say!”
“It’s true enough,” Margaret said with such a look of astonishment that Joseph nearly burst out laughing. “I can hardly believe it. I fretted that I would never be able to hold my head up in society again, that I’d be censured, even ridiculed by my friends. Instead I find that they are quite—how shall I say it?—quite delighted by the circumstance.”
“You didn’t tell them about her ruined gloves, did you?” Joseph asked with good-natured mockery.
Margaret couldn’t restrain her smile. “I suppose I owe Carolina an apology for reacting so harshly.”
“I suppose you might be right, Mrs. Adams.”
Margaret glanced up and said with affection, “She is your daughter, through and through.”
“Ah, the wanderlust . . . ?”
“That and more. I would swear there runs gypsy in the blood of both of you.”
“Mrs. Adams!” Joseph exclaimed with a laugh. “Please do not seek to ruin our good name even in the privacy of a hired coach.”
They chuckled together and Margaret snuggled closer to her husband, saying no more. She didn’t need to. Joseph easily realized how very accurate her observations were. Too often he’d seen that same distant look in his daughter’s eyes that reflected his own desires, that same eagerness to learn and the drive to be constantly at one new thing or another.
“She should have been a son,” he muttered.
“What did you say, dear?” Margaret asked.
“Nothing,” Joseph replied. “Nothing at all.”
5
Granny
Carolina tiptoed into the darkened room and held her breath at the smell. The slave quarters of Oakbridge were hardly different than slave quarters anywhere else—thin plank-board structures with a single room to house several people. They were whitewashed once a year, which was probably the only thing that kept some of them standing. Carolina tried not to notice the contrast between the grand white Georgian mansion and the shanty-style huts, but it was like trying to ignore the difference between night and day. She could not understand how it could be this way. Her papa was a kindhearted man who treated his “people” with respect. She supposed it was just so much the way things were that it was easy for them to go ignored.
And Carolina now ignored the squalor for entirely different reasons. Since returning from the capital yesterday, she had been anxious to share her experiences with one she knew would truly understand.
“Granny, are you here?” It took a moment for Carolina’s eyes to adjust to the dark, but she heard a soft rustling in a corner of the room.
Buried beneath the covers of a handmade rope bed, an ancient black face peered up at her. “That be yo lil’ missy?” the old woman asked.
“It’s me, Granny,” Carolina replied with a loud exhale. “Granny, wouldn’t you like me to open the window a bit and maybe leave the door open for some fresh air?” The smell of unwashed bodies, urine, and smudge pots assailed Carolina’s more delicate constitution.
“Sakes no, child!” Granny croaked in a rough old voice. She then pulled her withered arm from under the patchwork quilt and motioned Carolina forward. “Ain’t takin’ no chances on catchin’ de fever. Come sit and tell Granny what yo saw in de big city.” The woman’s West Indies accent mingled a combination of British reserve and island warmth.
“It was truly wonderful,” Carolina said as she sat on a three-legged stool that had been left at the bedside for just such talks. “I wish you could have seen it.”
As Carolina’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the old woman smile broadly, revealing a set of crooked yellow teeth with a couple of gaps where teeth should have been. As nearly as anyone could calculate or remember, Granny was at least one hundred years old, though some claimed her to be more. Time had taken its toll in those years, and the old woman, once a hard worker and faithful slave, was confined to her bed, nearly blind, but fully conscious of the world around her.
Carolina took her hand and rubbed it gently. “You aren’t going to believe me,” she said with a lilting voice, “but I did something quite daring. Quite risqué!”
“Yor right, child,” Granny chuckled with a deep chesty laugh. “I don’ believe it. Yo never done nuthin’ darin’ in yor life.”
Carolina laughed. “Well, I did just that. Remember I told you about the new locomotive coming to Washington City? Well, I rode on it!”
“No!” Granny said in complete amazement.
“It’s true. You must
let me tell you about it.” Carolina closed her eyes so she could conjure up every detail from that momentous day. “The engine was a huge black machine,” she began. “Bigger than the old work wagon that used to take the men to the far fields. In the center was a huge caldron—they called it a boiler. It was full of water and pipes, and when the fire was lit underneath it, steam would build up inside.” If Granny couldn’t see Carolina’s eyes glint with excitement, she surely must have heard it in her voice. “Two men, an engineer and a fireman, rode on the engine, and they kept the fire going and guided the engine down the tracks. Behind this was a place called the tender. This is where I rode. Usually passengers ride in cars that look rather like the stagecoach, only the engine pulls it instead of horses. It made a noise like thunder, Granny, and spit fire like a dragon in fairy tales!”
“My, my,” Granny breathed, shaking her head from side to side. “The man what has to drive dat beast must surely be brave.”
“Oh, he would have to be,” Carolina replied, giving the old woman’s hand a tiny, careful squeeze. Carolina feared the paperlike skin would tear under any undue pressure. “The men there told me it was very dangerous to ride on the tender, but that the man who owned the locomotive wanted to let just a few people see what it felt like to be right there in the middle of everything.”
“How come dey put a child like yo on de thing?”
“I was just standing there,” Carolina replied and leaned down to whisper, “right where I wasn’t supposed to be, of course.” Granny laughed and so did Carolina. “Mama had already scolded me for having an unnatural interest in the locomotive.” The heavy stale air was beginning to get to Carolina, and she got up to open the door.
“Granny, there isn’t a single case of fever in the whole of Oakbridge. I’m going to open this door just a bit or else I might pass out from the heat.” Better the old woman think her hot than offended by the smell of the room.
“Suit yo’self, but when old Granny catches de fever—”
Carolina interrupted. “You won’t catch the fever.” Taking her seat again, Carolina continued. “I didn’t tell you about the tracks. These are long metal strips—rails, in fact—that’s why they call it a rail road. They run in twos, side by side, about as wide as you can stretch your arms out from tip to tip, maybe wider. The locomotive and the rest of the cars ride on top of these rails.”
