Distant Dreams

by Judith Pella

  The professor was continuing. “Today we find ourselves faced with an ever growing country and the problems that accompany such a state of affairs. As with any growing family, there needs to be addressed the issues of housing, clothing, feeding, and the general well-being of those involved. Jackson wears his grudges against Henry Clay as a cape of indifference towards his American System. The views of strengthening the West—albeit Jackson hails from Tennessee—appear to wane in the White House for fear of giving credit to his adversary.”

  “I hardly think that the reason, sir,” York protested without thought.

  The old man, with his thick mop of gray hair and matching gray muttonchop whiskers and bushy eyebrows, was of strict and severe temperament. He permitted debate in his class, even demanded it, but only at his bidding and never in the midst of his lectures, which he considered akin to the prophecies of God. He halted his lecture and stared long and hard at the source of interruption.

  “You have something to add to this lecture, Mr. Adams?”

  York glanced around him at the now silenced room. His classmates stared at him as though he’d gone mad. Richard Bedford was throwing York another smirking glare, which only had the effect of riling York further.

  “I . . . I simply feel if we are to address this particular subject fairly and impartially,” York began in a halting voice, “we should eliminate supposition and speak only on the facts at hand.”

  The professor’s eyes narrowed. “And you suppose I have not done this?” His tone was indignant.

  “When you make a statement such as you did, suggesting the President is opposed to Clay’s proposals because of purely personal conflict, I believe you are interjecting supposition for fact.”

  “And what might those facts be, Mr. Adams?”

  There was a steadily rising murmur from among the students, and York realized he’d opened his mouth in a way that would not allow him to simply bow out gracefully in apologetic retreat. Not that he desired to do so. Still, he’d not set out to disrupt the lecture, either.

  “Henry Clay’s proposed American System virtually ignores the southern states,” York stated, drawing a deep calming breath. “To pay homage to the plight of the western territories and their need to sell surplus crops and livestock to the eastern coastal states, while turning a deaf ear to the equally important needs of the southern states, is signing a death warrant to that population. Clay’s approach does not allow for the development of the South either through industrial incentive or through internal improvements such as railroads and highways. To ignore those states jeopardizes the very structure of southern living.”

  “You mean it threatens your peculiar little institution, don’t you?” Richard Bedford called out.

  “Slavery is not the only issue related to the South,” York said with a sigh. “Not every southerner, in fact, very few southerners actually own slaves, so even if you are in opposition to that institution, you can hardly condemn an entire population.”

  “I condemn anyone who stands by and allows for one man to own another. Henry Clay may not come out straightforth and speak it in his proposed plans for the development of this great nation, but I believe the underlying fact remains that perhaps the South, or at least its peculiarities, should die out.”

  “And what would you replace it with?” York questioned angrily. “Immigrant labor of the type found in northern factories? Are those people treated any better than slaves? Nay, I for one say they are treated worse. They live in squalor, bedding down in tiny dormitories owned by the factory. They are paid a wage and then that wage is stripped from them for their room and board, leaving little with which to do otherwise. They work sometimes as much as seven days a week in twelve- to sixteen-hour shifts. Is that northern freedom and compassion?”

  Richard was on his feet, as were several other students.

  “They come and go at will,” Richard protested, coming to stand directly before York. “They are not the property of another, and they are not bound to stay where they are oppressed!”

  “Oh?” York’s brows raised in question over steely blue eyes. He had inherited his father’s looks and temperament as well. His cool, calm disdain for the man he would have rather considered a friend was evident only in the undercurrent of his voice. “They are free to come and go, eh? They come to America with little or nothing. They are put to work in hideous conditions for long laborious hours with few or no breaks, often under the lock and key of the owner with guards standing watch to ensure production, and you call this freedom?”

  “They can leave anytime they choose.” Richard’s voice took on a menacing tone.

  “And how would they do this?” York questioned sharply.

  “Yes!” Another man, several seats away exclaimed. “How can the immigrant factory worker simply pick up and walk away? He has no hope of survival if he is blacklisted from one factory for walking out. News travels quickly, and among industry owners it travels faster still. If a man protests his surroundings at a textile mill in Boston and leaves in hopes of finding a better position in another factory, the owners of the mill will see to it that no one else will have him. He’ll be forced to come back to the first party and accept lower wages and longer hours as punishment for his actions. That is, if he is even accepted back. And this is freedom?”

  Richard was livid. “He can always move on. Take himself west or elsewhere. There is no man holding him on a leash, forbidding him to leave. There is no threat of the whip when he refuses his lot in life.”

  “We do not whip our slaves!” York interrupted in rage. “My father nor his father ever had cause to whip a slave. We treat our people well. They have good housing, clothes, food. They never need worry for fear of starving or that in illness they will not have the money to obtain help. In turn, we ask for their labor in the fields and the house. Our people are treated with dignity and concern.”

  “Our people! Our people!” Richard mocked. “They should be no man’s but their own.”

  “Hear! Hear!” A cheer went up from several men who’d come to take up Richard’s cause.

  “Gentlemen,” the professor interrupted as though he’d suddenly come into the room. “Enough. Take your seats.” For a moment no one moved. York was nose to nose with the red-faced Richard, his determination matching that of his classmate’s in unwavering resolve.

  “Another time,” Richard finally murmured.

  “Happily,” York answered the unspoken challenge.

  Hours later York was still uncertain what had sparked his anger and why he’d disrupted the entire lecture in his support of Jackson and plantation lifestyles. He’d never been called upon to truly defend his way of life before, and it bothered him greatly that those he’d thought to call friends were now indifferent to him.

  He made his way across the campus, sorting through the matter in his head, when Richard Bedford’s now familiar voice called out. “My father worked his own land. He cleared the ground tree by tree, and he plowed and planted without the assistance of slaves.”

  York looked up to find Richard directly in front of him. From the look on his face, it was clear Bedford was itching for a fight. “I refuse to apologize for a way of life that is perfectly acceptable and in no way is any of your affair,” York replied.

  “Are you telling me to mind my own business? Is that it?” Richard took another step forward.

  “I simply remain baffled that a virtual stranger could turn so quickly into an enemy.”

  Richard gave his trademark smirk. “Enmity is the only course I could choose with the likes of you. I wonder,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “do you defend your peculiar institution for the labor it provides you in the fields or in the bed?”

  York felt his face grow hot. He’d never once been accused of the hideous thing Richard was now suggesting. “Take it back, Bedford,” he stated between clenched teeth. His hands were already balled into fists.

  “Why? It’s no secret what’s imposed upon sl
ave women by heartless slave masters. Did you suppose we northerners couldn’t figure out where mulatto children originated?”

  York stared at Richard with a hard fixed look of disdain. He could form no ready words for those horrible remarks, and even if he could, Richard’s question did not merit an answer.

  Richard laughed at York’s struggle to maintain his composure. “Perhaps you handle it as a rite of passage. Father teaches son how to carry the tradition forward. Is that how it was, Adams? Did your father take you out back and teach you to—”

  Richard’s words fell silent as York’s fist made contact with his mouth. It was the fight York felt Bedford had desired since their fencing match. It was unfinished business as far as he was concerned. Bringing his fist back for another hit, York was blindsided by a fierce uppercut to his face. Bedford, it seemed, was blessed with the ability to project a solid left.

  Reeling from the blow, York staggered several paces and shook his head to clear away the clouded image of Bedford’s advancing form. Striking out with his right, York found his blow easily glanced off of Richard’s brown frock coat. Without waiting for another blow from his adversary, York gave a surprising followup blow with his left and then brought the right up again and took heavy toll on Richard’s midsection.

  Bedford gasped for air, and York paused to give his opponent a moment to recover—that was the gentlemanly way. But Bedford had not been as incapacitated as it had appeared, or he had recovered with amazing speed. For no sooner had York stepped back than Bedford charged. Like a battering ram, he knocked York to the ground, and before York could regain his wits from this unexpected attack, Bedford began raining down brutal blows from which York could find no cover. In another moment, dizziness marred York’s vision with images of two Richards, and then one of those two images made final contact with York’s temple, and after that, blackness was all he saw.

  13

  Business Proposition

  On Wednesday, following the Baldwin soiree, Joseph Adams hosted a group of investors from Baltimore and Washington. Meetings of this type weren’t all that unusual at Oakbridge because Joseph Adams had gained a reputation as a man who was more apt than many to lend an open-minded ear to a person’s dreams. This time was different, however. This time the discussion was about a rail line, and it involved Joseph’s dreams as much as those of the men he was entertaining.

  Carolina had been dying to observe the meeting, but even Joseph dared not offend his guests by having a female present for business discussions. Nevertheless, Carolina contrived that the door to the study be left open a crack. Josie, a male slave who was Carolina’s age, had agreed to do the deed for an extra piece of pie, which Carolina promised to bring him after supper.

  Carolina perched herself in front of the door, thankful not only that the study was out of the way from the more frequented parts of the house but also that her mother was busy supervising the midday meal for all the guests.

  “The problem we face on a daily basis is the ever increasing cost of laying track,” a man spoke authoritatively. Carolina recognized the voice as belonging to her father’s old friend Malcolm Norris.

  “Yes, Norris, I can certainly appreciate the indisputable truth of ledger sheets,” Joseph replied. “I see from the meticulous records your company keeps that the price of track is running roughly twenty thousand dollars per mile on the straightaways, and upwards of sixty thousand on the more difficult stretches. Does this take into account rises in cost for future track?”

  A new voice replied which Carolina didn’t recognize. “This is our most reasonable calculation. We’ve based it on the rising cost of supplies and labor, but we feel confident it’s a fair estimation.”

  “You have done your homework, Mr. Thomas,” said Joseph. “I see you’ve brought something along to show me.”

  “This is a rough design of the track we propose to lay in the spring,” said Thomas. “We’d like to seek your immediate help in this area. As you can see, the original track laid in this area will make the job of placing the second line much easier. The second, however, is quite urgent for a number of reasons. One is that the iron strap rail is grossly inefficient. There are ‘snakeheads’ all along the western route.”

  “Snakeheads?” Joseph questioned.

  “Our term for protruding pieces of strap that have pulled away from the track,” offered Thomas. “These are the cause of many derailments. The early sections of the line were laid using this method. Now, however, we find that the T-rail is much more efficient. This is a solid rail of iron, shaped in a ‘T.’ It’s used all along the Washington Branch of the B&O.”

  “I see,” Joseph replied, “and this prevents the derailment problem?”

  “Well, it certainly reduces the risk. The rail can still pull away, but it is much more efficient.”

  Carolina heard things being moved about, the crackle of paper, and the shuffle of feet as the men no doubt gathered about the plans. How Carolina wished she could look at them, too.

  “What are you doing?”

  Carolina started at the intrusive voice over her shoulder. It was Georgia.

  “Shhh!” Carolina hissed with her finger to her lips. “Don’t want them to hear.”

  “Mother will skin your hide for eavesdropping.”

  “Don’t you dare say anything!”

  Georgia shrugged and moved closer to the door, her curiosity aroused, too. “What are they talking about?”

  “They’re asking Father to invest in the railroad,” Carolina whispered. “I hope he says yes.”

  “What do you care?”

  Afraid they would surely be discovered with Georgia’s undaunted questions, Carolina tugged her sister down the hall. The rustling of their petticoats was disturbingly loud.

  “Georgy, don’t you see what opportunities for excitement and adventure the railroad holds? Just think if our family could be part of it. If Father invests, I want to know everything about it.”

  Georgia sighed. “Virginia says a proper gentlewoman shouldn’t trouble herself with such things. She says it puts an undue burden on our delicate constitutions.”

  Carolina almost laughed that someone as spunky and irrepressible as Georgia should listen to such rubbish.

  “I’m sure Virginia would say tree climbing puts an undue burden on our delicate constitutions as well,” said Carolina, “but I don’t see you eliminating it from your life. If she wants to choose that way, fine, but she doesn’t have to choose your way and mine as well.”

  Georgia frowned as if her older sister had lost her senses.

  “Georgy,” said Carolina earnestly, “don’t you have any dreams?”

  “I just want to be married before I’m an old maid like Virginia. If I’m not married at sixteen, I will positively die.”

  With as much dignity as a thirteen-year-old could muster, Georgia flounced out of the room, leaving Carolina to dream alone.

  Joseph’s hand trembled with rising excitement as he studied the drawings spread out before him. Here it is, he thought to himself. A way to touch those distant lands I’ve only dared to dream of.

  “Gentlemen, I am most intrigued and quite willing to consider your proposal. I would, however, appreciate a period of time in which to pray and seek other counsel.”

  “When can we expect your answer?” asked Philip Thomas.

  At the White House he had impressed Joseph as a visionary who also had the drive to see his visions to their conclusions. Joseph found him compelling without being pushy.

  Joseph peered thoughtfully into the faces of the half dozen other men. They were all board members of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. Some were longtime friends of his, such as Malcolm Norris; others were well-known and respected businessmen. They all impressed him as worthy of his support.

  “I will have an answer for you before the month is out,” he said.

  “Good enough,” Malcolm Norris replied. “You’ve been most gracious to entertain us this morning, Joseph.”


  “Yes, indeed,” Philip Thomas said, extending his hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

  As the men exited the room, making their way to the dining room where luncheon was waiting, Joseph drew Norris aside. He put aside the more formal restrictions of their earlier meeting

  “Malcolm?”

  “What is it, Joseph?”

  “Might I speak with you of a personal matter?”

  “Of course. There’s nothing wrong—?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” said Joseph, only imagining what his friend might be thinking. “I was wondering if you had any suggestions regarding a suitable tutor I could hire? I’m interested in someone with a broad knowledge, but specifically strong in mathematics and the sciences. And it would be an added boon if he were knowledgeable of railroads.”

  “Is this for your son Maine? Does he desire to become involved in the railroad?”

  “No, in fact he’s already off to seminary in England. It seems his thoughts lead him toward the study of theology. This is rather for . . . ah . . . well, for my daughter Carolina.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I’m hoping the right tutor could be persuaded to overlook her youthfulness and her gender.”

  “You actually want your daughter to tax her mind with such things? I mean, how could it possibly benefit her?” Norris looked genuinely concerned. “She certainly wouldn’t be able to use it for any purpose.”

  “No doubt that’s true, but she has a love of things scientific and a keen, intelligent mind. And I must admit, I have a soft father’s heart toward her. It surely couldn’t hurt to give her a simple education.” He paused, wondering if even to his friend he appeared to have lost his senses. Maybe he was crazy. But he was determined to pursue his designs. “Carolina isn’t like her sisters,” Joseph went on in his most convincing tone. “Don’t get me wrong—she’s a polished young woman, accomplished in French, sewing, elocution, and the Bible— but she has a mind that seeks out for more, a mind she wants to use. How can I ignore that?”