Distant Dreams (20 page)

“What does she say on the matter?” James questioned.

“Yes, Joseph, have you told her or the elder Miss Adams of this plan?” Leland asked.

“No, certainly not. I wouldn’t want to get their hopes up. I know my daughters well enough to know they would both be pleased for entirely different reasons.”

James smiled to himself, remembering his encounter with Carolina the night of his mother’s party. He wondered if she would find it all that amusing or appealing to have him as her tutor. At first consideration, he had thought the idea of tutoring a girl rather demeaning. Yet, thinking of Carolina and the feisty ambition her father alluded to, James began to be intrigued at having a part in something so radical. The rebel in him rather liked the idea.

“I suppose we could give it a try,” James said, amazed that he was actually feeling an interest in something for the first time since the accident. “When would you like to get started?”

Joseph’s face fairly radiated his delight. “Immediately! The sooner the better! I have an appointment this evening for dinner and several appointments tomorrow, but I’ll be returning to Oakbridge the following day. I’ll make arrangements then and inform the family of my delightful news. I believe I could return to Washington City in a week to escort you to Oakbridge.”

“You need not make another trip here,” Leland jumped in. “I can have the boy brought out to you.”

James said nothing of the fact that his father hadn’t offered to see to the chore himself. Perhaps he would be glad to have him gone from the house. James hadn’t considered this before. He knew his mother was severely depressed, and perhaps his father saw this as the perfect opportunity to remove part of her despair.

“I’ll send you word then as soon as all preparations are made,” Joseph replied. He drained his cup and stood to leave. Extending his hand, he offered James a smile. “I think you’ll find Oakbridge and the quiet of the countryside very conducive to healing.”

“I suppose I just might, at that,” James answered, shaking the older man’s hand.

20

York’s Good Fortune

At exactly half past six that evening, dinner was served in the White House dining room. York stared in complete amazement, feeling rather like a country bumpkin in contrast to the French diplomat at his right. The man appeared in a heavily embellished frock coat of purple velvet and gold trim and stared at York’s plain black coat as though he thought the young man had somehow wandered to the table by mistake.

Joseph Adams sat several chairs closer to the head of the table, where Andrew Jackson was offering a choice of drinks to be served with the huge tureen of turtle soup. Dinner at the White House was not what he had expected when his father announced they were to dine out this evening.

An elderly Negro man poured York’s drink and moved on to the next patron without so much as a word. Behind him came another servant who ladled soup into a fine china bowl. No sooner was one course finished than another appeared at the table—wild turkey, fish, and other dishes York wasn’t in the least bit familiar with. Each dish was presented and placed upon the table for all to see, and after the oohs and aahs went up in chorus, the servant would remove it to the sideboard for carving. The process went on and on, and when finally dessert was offered upon a tray, York couldn’t believe himself capable of taking even one more bite.

York took in the brilliantly lighted room and counted over thirty candles burning in the chandelier overhead, with even more in candlestick holders and candelabrums on the sideboards and table. Gilt-rimmed paintings, accompanied by gold and silver bric-a-brac, reflected what seemed to be a thousand dancing flames in their luxurious wares. York had grown up knowing wealth and finery, but this was by far and away the most impressive setting he’d been privileged to experience.

Jackson’s loud boisterous laugh sounded from the far end of the table, causing all heads to turn in hopes of hearing the cause. At this encouragement, the President easily broke into one of his stories.

“Mr. Adams just reminded me of a fine day we enjoyed together back in thirty-four. It seems we both had chanced to be present at the National Jockey Club to watch the trial races of the White House horses. These were some of the very best examples of horseflesh I have yet to this day seen.” Murmurs arose around York to acknowledge the President’s expertise in the area of horses. “Mr. Van Buren had come along,” the President continued, “as well as my nephew Jack and several others. York, you’ll be interested to know that fine stallion your father purchased a short time back was none other than the horse I put up that day.” York nodded acknowledgment and waited for Jackson to continue. “Bolivia was a fine animal, but better still was Busirus, a stallion owned by a friend of mine.” Everyone at the table was captive to his story, and Jackson reveled in the attention. “Well, it seems old Busirus was too much horse for the White House jockey. Who was riding that day, Mr. Van Buren?”

“I believe it was Jesse.” Martin Van Buren spoke up from where he sat beside his son, Major Abraham Van Buren.

“That’s right, it was. Well, Jesse was put atop Busirus, and before any of us knew it, the horse was stompin’ and snortin’ like he intended to breathe fire and brimstone down upon us. I yelled up to him to hold the animal, but that horse had a mind of its own. Then I spotted Mr. Van Buren dead center in the middle of that ordeal. I yelled, ‘Get behind me, Mr. Van Buren! They will run over you, sir!’ ” He paused, giving Van Buren a wink. “Seems I’ve been telling old Van the same thing ever since.” Laughter erupted, both genuine and staged. None was louder than Jackson’s own guffaws, however.

York thought it admirable that the President managed to maintain a sense of humor when so many in the country were against him. Truth be told, Jackson couldn’t count many men among his close friends. He had endured a great deal of backstabbing and bickering among his ranks, and to find one as loyal as Vice President Van Buren seemed an oddity indeed.

“Ladies, you must forgive me for boring you,” Jackson said, suddenly standing. “I suggest you retire to share a bit of gossip and music while we gentlemen make our way to some serious cigars and brandy.”

There was no question of doing other than they were directed. York watched the elegantly dressed women make their way to one room, while still another set of doors was opened to admit the men. York had no interest in either cigars or brandy, but he found the flow of conversation around him to be a superb after-dinner delight. Joining his father, who was already in conversation with Jackson, York stood by, engrossed in the matters being discussed.

“I was just telling the President,” Joseph said, turning to his son, “that you hope to obtain employment here in Washington.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” York said, wondering what more he could possibly add. Thus far his search had not been very encouraging. Two or three businessmen were interested in him, but York could not get excited about any of these prospects.

Jackson sucked in a deep breath on the smoking cigar clenched between his teeth and blew out again before speaking. “I could use another loyal man at my side.” With a wry smile he added, “Should I acquire one, it would bring the number to three.” He laughed loud and hard, and even York couldn’t keep from chuckling.

Jackson leaned over to add in a hushed voice, “And I’m not too sure about that number. My mulatto, George, is quite loyal, but sometimes I believe Mr. Van Buren is just along for the ride.” He laughed again, slapping York on the back. “So what do you think, Mr. Adams? Would you be interested in becoming my aide?”

York was too astonished to speak. What could he possibly say at a moment like this? The President of the United States was offering him a position. Even if it had been a job mucking out the stables, York would have been honored.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” York finally managed to stammer. “You’re offering me a job, Mr. President? Just like that?”

Jackson sobered. “Good men are increasingly hard to find. I trust your father implicitly. With you at my side, I can keep close tabs on what he has to say. The pay is good, although not the best, but the job has its benefits beyond wage.”

“I’m honored, sir,” York said with a slight bow. “I would consider myself privileged to work and learn at your side.”

Jackson smiled and turned a knowing look on Joseph. “Shall we place bets on how long he’ll stick to those words?”

Joseph laughed. “Now, Mr. President, you know I’m not a betting man. York has a certain interest in the politics of our country. Perhaps this type of position will give birth to a new political genius.”

“Better yet, maybe he’ll be the death of those old ninnies who seek to be the death of me.” Jackson’s eyes twinkled above a mischievous smile. “Besides, you can live on here near the White House, where we have fresh milk every morning.”

“I beg your pardon?” York frowned, thinking he’d missed something.

Jackson flicked ashes onto a tray held by a nearby servant. “Frank Blair, editor of the
Globe
, once heard of my dietary need for milk. So one day, he shows up bright and early, pail in one hand, pad of paper in the other. And he’s continued to do so for over two years now. I think he just comes to make sure no one has killed me off in the night. Frank couldn’t stand it if some other newspaper cut him out of a first run on a big event like that!”

York found it amazing Jackson could joke about such a thing, considering the attempt on his life earlier in the year. A deranged house painter had accosted him inside the Capitol rotunda, firing not one, but two pistols at point-blank range. Both weapons had misfired, an event calculated at one chance in one hundred and twenty-five thousand. Jackson escaped unharmed and had gone after the scalawag with his walking stick raised high in the air, but a young army officer reached the man first.

York admired the President’s bravado and suddenly realized he was going to enjoy working with this man. He’d heard a lot of controversial things about Andrew Jackson and criticism from his classmates up north. Jackson’s volatile temper was well documented. But, from his father, York also had been appraised of the man’s finer qualities, such as his generosity and loyalty to his friends. And now the great man was standing right in front him, and York had the opportunity to form his own opinion completely independent of those he’d held previously.

“When would you like me to start?” York asked without reservation.

“The sooner the better. There’s a great deal to be done. The next election is a year away, and we must mount our efforts now to ensure that Mr. Van Buren takes my place. And of course there’s the Texas matter.”

“What of the Texas matter?” eagerly asked a man unknown to York, who had just joined them.

“Ah yes,” Jackson said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Texas.”

Everyone in the room paused in their individual conversations to openly eavesdrop on this conversation. York, himself, wondered how things stood in that strange state of affairs.

“Texas is a problem I’ve long ignored,” Jackson replied. “I must admit, I spent so much energy trying to get back money from the French—no offense,” Jackson said, nodding to the Frenchman who’d dined at York’s side. “The matter took a great deal of my attention, and while I managed to recover those funds, I’m afraid Texas has had to wait.”

“But what of it now?” The same man who’d first broached the subject pressed the issue forward.

“Mr. Turner, that is a good question, but one that I fear I’m not yet ready to openly discuss. Let’s just say the matter is under consideration. I favor adding Texas to the United States but would prefer it be done by means of purchase and not by act of war.”

“Still, sir . . .”

Jackson held up his hand. “I believe I hear the ladies serving coffee. I suggest we join them.”

York watched the man effectively put in his place, but the issue was an intriguing one. Texas was an entire world away. Separated not only by the eastern mountains and hundreds of miles of open land, but by the mighty Mississippi River itself and, beyond that, yet more land. If there was war with Mexico over the issue, York might well be expected to take up arms in support of his country. He might actually find himself fighting in a battle for a place he’d never even seen before.

Thinking on this and the prospects of his new job, York was content to find the evening draw to a close. There were many questions he wanted to ask his father, and the ride back to the hotel in their hired carriage would provide a perfect opportunity.

“Mr. Adams, I’ll expect you at your earliest convenience,” Jackson stated in bidding farewell to York.

Joseph looked first to York and then to his friend. “We depart for Oakbridge in the morning. York can arrange his affairs and return to the city on the day after, if that meets with your approval.”

“It does indeed,” Jackson replied. “I’ll have arrangements made here for your lodging.”

It was pouring down a cold rain when they emerged from the White House. The ride back to the hotel was cold and damp, but York hardly noticed as he and his father discussed the events of the evening. The trip was far too short, and York’s curiosity was not even close to being satisfied. He would have kept his father up for hours longer that night, but Joseph was tired and begged to be excused.

There would be another chance to quiz his father. In the meantime, nothing could quench his elation over his astounding good fortune. This is what he had always wanted, though he’d never dreamed he’d reach such heights so soon. And to think he had done it without a college degree!

Well, he thought wryly, as he retired to his bed, having a father in the right place had helped. But he was determined to prove his own worth, his personal merit beyond his father’s influence.

21

Touching a Dream

News of York’s impending departure was hailed as blessed good fortune by all but Carolina. Watching her mother and father chatter on in rambling delight, Carolina saw her chances for furthering her education slipping right through her fingers. A sort of
coup de
grace
to her dreams.