Distant Dreams (6 page)

Margaret started walking toward the house again, and Carolina kept pace, hoping she would say more. For several minutes, only the noises of the life around them filled the vacant silence. Singing came from the wash house, and they could hear Naomi, Oakbridge’s mistress of the summer kitchen, instructing three small children on how to peel potatoes.

“Granny was right, you know,” Margaret finally said, pausing again and taking hold of Carolina’s hands. “There is a truth inside you that only you can know. You must be true to that or else you lose a very special part of yourself. I cannot say that I will always approve of where that truth might direct you, but it is the very core of what makes you the person you are. Seek God’s guidance on it, pray much, and remember that going your own way is more than
having
your own way. You might have to conform your dreams to meet social, physical, and spiritual limitations, but God will teach you best.”

Carolina nodded and felt as though her mother had bestowed a most wondrous gift upon her. The demands of society would cause her mother to once again become the prim and proper mistress of Oakbridge, but Carolina would forever have this small sliver of her mother that would always be hers alone.

“Never,” her mother said in parting, “never let fear keep you from living life. I fell victim to that as a young woman, and I have paid the price ever since.” Without warning, Margaret pulled Carolina into her arms and held her close.

Carolina thought she might cry. It had been ages since her mother had shown her any real affection. Perhaps somewhere in her concerns for Oakbridge and the appearance she had to maintain, her mother felt that such displays were unnecessary, but to Carolina they were sorely missed. She wrapped her arms around her mother and hugged her tightly. No matter what happened from this point on, she would always remember the tender love of this moment.

6

The Banker and His Son

Leland Baldwin squeezed his body into a stout leather chair behind his massive mahogany desk and considered the ledger before him. The opening of the Washington line was nearly a week past, and the glory he’d relished for his part in organizing it was fading. He had to return to the mundane demands of business. But he didn’t expect to enjoy his work; it was simply a fact of life, a man’s duty.

There were, however, enough aspects of his work to keep him duly challenged and interested. The banking business was a complex one and often irrational. There were too many variables to count at once, and frequently something remained overlooked until it was too late and the damage was done. Wasn’t Nicholas Biddle a good example of this? Biddle had run the Bank of the United States as though it had been his own private game. Of course, given the background of Biddle’s power, for all intents and purposes, it
was
his game.

Nicholas Biddle and banking were one and the same. Having been drawn into the system as savior to the country after the final war with England earlier in the century, Biddle had been almost single-handedly responsible for keeping the government functioning financially. Called upon by then Secretary of War James Monroe, Biddle was advised of the gravity of the situation and enticed to offer his help.

Leland still found it hard to believe that a mere twenty-one years ago, Washington City had been sacked by British Admiral Cockburn. This struck a tremendous blow to the spirit of the American people. And though America rallied and soundly defeated her enemy, the War of 1812 had emptied the Treasury and paralyzed the government. Someone had to do something, and that someone became Nicholas Biddle.

Biddle went among his rich friends and found funds for the government to borrow. He fought, even against his father wishes, to re-establish the Bank of the United States as a means of bringing the country out of financial ruin. The central bank would stabilize the country’s economy, but it would also place a tremendous amount of power in the hands of one man, namely Nicholas Biddle, who would come to be known as “Tsar Nicholas.”

With the war over and the bank reestablished, Biddle at first declined the position to become director to the major stockholders. He had done what was necessary out of loyalty to his country. But Monroe wouldn’t hear of it and insisted that Biddle accept one of the five government directorships. Again feeling a patriotic sense of duty, Biddle accepted.

What came next, however, was not all that unusual. Biddle, tasting fame, power, and fortune, was very soon corrupted by the same. He became more powerful than anyone could have foreseen, and soon he was the president of the Bank of the United States. But for all those who hailed and loved him, there stood an opposing force who despised him. Tsar Nicholas soon made enemies, and among them was Andrew Jackson.

It was said of Biddle that he alone destroyed the bank when he deliberately chose to unite with Senator Henry Clay, Jackson’s sworn enemy. When Jackson sought to bring Biddle down once and for all, private banking was issued a tremendous boost. The government discontinued making deposits to the corrupt and hopelessly misguided Bank of the United States. Instead, Jackson saw to it that banks more friendly to his own political goals were given these deposits. Leland Baldwin was in the right place at the right time and stood with the right side.

Baldwin often wondered if it had been entirely prudent to tear apart the Bank of the United States. Not that he wasn’t honored when Amos Kendall, fiscal agent for the President, approached him to include his bank in the historic transfer of public monies to private banks. But the entire matter was far from over.

Biddle’s Portsmouth bank had shown undue favoritism to anti-Jackson men, and the President saw clear lines being drawn. Leland could still recall Jackson voicing doubts regarding the need for a national bank in his annual presidential messages. Thus, the fight was on. Now there were rumors that Biddle’s bank would be refused a renewed charter next year. If that happened, it was anyone’s guess as to where things would go from there.

Leland had tried to make the most of the new banking freedom. With taxation funds, custom house collections, and land office deposits being shared among a variety of private banks, Leland’s Democratic standing had caused him to prosper. But perhaps he had gone too far. In studying Biddle’s methods and mistakes, Baldwin had been lured by the possibilities of personal gain.

He had offered easy credit at low interest to his closest and most beneficial friends. He extended loan notes in return for favors, and he hoarded with a passion as many of Jackson’s “yellow-boys”— newly minted gold pieces—as he could. Gold could be spent any day, but the value of paper bank notes was questionable. Maybe he had already put too many bank notes into circulation.

By the look of the accounts Leland now studied, he immediately realized a major problem. Too many assets were frozen in long-term loans. The preferred loan form was short term at high interest. Thirty or sixty days at most and certainly no longer than ninety. But here, in the black and red of his ledgers, Leland saw how many low-interest notes he had issued to friends and business interests that would not pay back for one or more years. And though the notes were payable upon demand, Baldwin knew he would forever ruin his social standing to force money from his friends.

“Pure stupidity on my part,” he mumbled in disgust. He was simply too generous for a banker. However, generosity was probably not his major motive. He had an aversion against turning away business—any business—when it came his way.

He hated to think what might happen if a run on the bank occurred in the near future. Clearly he had more bank notes on the street than solid reserves to back them. It would take only one person issuing a panic, and the entire bank would collapse. There was also the fear that once Jackson’s administration came to an end, the Bank of the United States might once again find favor in the eyes of the government. If that happened, Leland’s bank might be required to turn over the government deposits in full, and that clearly wasn’t possible.

Taking out a handkerchief, Leland mopped great drops of sweat from his forehead. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. Jackson wanted the common man to have available cash and the benefits of bank loans. Westward expansion depended on it, and even Henry Clay wanted to see the West settled. Only people with money could accomplish such a feat, and Leland knew that land speculation demanded a ready supply of cash. He drew a deep breath. By the time Jackson was gone, it would be too late to change things. The banks would be committed to the brave souls who went west. The West would collapse without the common man’s bank, and the bank would collapse only if the government cashed in on their deposits.

“I simply mustn’t worry so,” Baldwin chided himself.

But he did worry.

The country was in the middle of questionable, but very enjoyable, prosperity. Still, Baldwin was no fool. There was bound to come a reckoning, and he was certain it would have Jackson’s name on it.

A knock at the door came as a welcome relief from his troubles.

“Come in,” he said, quickly closing the ledger.

“Hello, Father!”

A young man strode into the office. His long legs carried his lanky well-built frame with an easy confidence. At twenty-two, Leland Baldwin’s son appeared to have inherited none of his father’s portly expanse, nor the elder’s homely, nondescript features. Young James Baldwin’s thick wavy dark hair, bushy eyebrows, tanned ruddy complexion, and strong facial lines must surely have derived from his mother’s side. He was dressed in the highest fashion, gray frock coat, silk waistcoat and ascot, and in his hand he carried an elegant beaver top hat.

“This is a surprise,” said Leland without further greeting. “Didn’t expect you until tomorrow.”

“I took the locomotive. Very impressive, by the way. This is for you.” In his other hand James had been holding a leather satchel, which he now laid on his father’s desk. Then he dropped his lanky frame into one of the leather chairs facing the desk, and like an ill-bred ruffian, he threw a leg casually over the arm of the chair, absently toying with his hat.

With a disapproving shake of his head, Leland momentarily gave his attention to the satchel, opening it and looking inside without removing the contents. A smile broke the tension of his heavily jowled face, but it faded as he glanced up again at his son. “Did your uncle Samuel tell you anything about this?”

“Nothing, except that it was urgent bank business. And I certainly didn’t presume to open it myself.” James’ tone betrayed his defensiveness.

Leland carried the satchel to his private safe, opened the lock, and placed it inside, firmly closing the door afterward.

“I was about to have lunch,” said Leland. “You are welcome to join me.”

“I wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“Of course not. You’ve been away for weeks.” Leland studied his son again, trying not to be disturbed by the tension in the young man’s voice. He hardly realized his own tone equally mirrored his son’s. “Besides, your mother will be joining us, and she’ll be inconsolable if you decline.”

“Then, by all means, I will come.” James paused, as if searching for something more to say. “How is Mother?”

“You know your mother.” Leland relaxed a bit with this topic he knew would be safe from conflict with his son. “She is constantly involved in one good cause or another. Last week she was gathering up food items for the orphan home. This week I believe she is raising funds to decorate the graves of Revolutionary War heroes. At the pace she goes, no doubt she will have all Washington fed, clothed, or put to rest before the end of the week.”

James chuckled, relaxing too. “Then perhaps my absence wasn’t even noticed.”

“Oh, it was noticed. You
are
her only child.” Leland said nothing about whether
he
had noticed. He was not a man to express his feelings; in fact, he hardly even acknowledged them himself. He felt it was the man’s proper role to treat all aspects of his life in a businesslike manner.

Just then another knock signaled the arrival of Leland’s wife. Richly adorned in a green organdy summer dress, heavily beruffled, with a matching feathered bonnet and parasol, Edith Baldwin entered the room with all the grace and elegance of a practiced lady.

“I do declare! James!” She started toward her son.

James, already on his feet, flowed easily into her motherly embrace. She held nothing back in showing her delight at her son’s presence.

“How I have missed you, James! And I do believe you have grown.”

“I think I’m past all that, Mother.”

“He’s too tall already,” put in Leland.

“You are still a sight for a mother’s eyes,” Edith said, ignoring her husband’s critical comment and turning to James. “When did you get back?”

“Only a few minutes ago.”

“I do wish I would have known about the change in your plans,” she said with a petulant, almost childish pout. “I have next to nothing planned for dinner.”

“I will be happy with anything you have.”

“It’s all for the best, I suppose.” Edith took a seat in the chair adjacent to her son’s, and both men also resumed their seats as Edith arranged the flounces of her dress. “Now that you’re here, James, there is a matter—”

“Mrs. Baldwin,” put in Leland impatiently, “can’t this wait? I was expecting to be at the restaurant. I do have to get back to work today.”

“What about your fitting at the tailor’s, dear?” she asked, absently smoothing out her voluminous gigot sleeves.

“Oh yes, that. I think I’ll cancel it. I’m perfectly content with my old formal suit.”

“But, dear,” cooed Edith in a sweet diminutive tone that nonetheless hinted at inflexibility, “you did promise you would get a new suit. And it is a special occasion.”

“What occasion is this?” asked James. “I don’t believe there are any birthdays or anniversaries coming up.”

“I wrote you about it. Don’t you remember?” She looked positively deflated, almost as if she would cry. “The dinner party we are giving in honor of your return. Goodness! If it’s not important to anyone but me—”