Over the next few days, visitors and phone calls to Francis’s apartment never seemed to stop.
They were all the original Francis’s drinking buddies, sharp-nosed speculators, or people hoping to use him as a stepping stone into the White House.
Francis had no interest in any of them.
The call he was truly waiting for—from Hyde Park or some temporary office in Washington—never came.
Day after day slipped by.
Winter had settled over New York, and the bitter wind cut through the streets.
Newspapers began carrying scattered reports about banks in the Midwest coming under pressure, but the stories were buried beneath political gossip about Roosevelt’s Cabinet appointments and the Hoover administration’s final days, attracting little attention…
Then came February 1933.
Detroit.
During the first three decades of the twentieth century, the city had stood as the proudest symbol of America’s industrial might.
Its assembly lines poured out automobiles, while Henry Ford’s famous declaration—”Customers can have a Model T painted any color they want, so long as it’s black.”—had come to define the golden age of mass production.
But now, inside the headquarters of Union Guardian Trust Company, the city’s financial heart was nurturing a storm that would shake the entire nation.
“Gentlemen, our business is far too heavily tied to the local automobile industry—Ford in particular.
Now that car sales have collapsed off a cliff, the default rate on those loans has exceeded forty percent.” “The quality of our assets has deteriorated dramatically.
If…
if we don’t receive immediate assistance, then once a bank run begins, it won’t just destroy us.
Michigan’s entire financial system could collapse with us.
That’s the situation.” Several groups sat around the long mahogany conference table.
At the head sat President Algernon Crawford, a man with thinning hair and heavy bags under his eyes, delivering what was almost a desperate final plea.
Lieutenant Governor Richard Osborne wore a grim expression.
Across from him, Charles Whitney, a special representative from the Reconstruction Finance Corporation, frowned deeply.
“Mr.
Crawford, RFC assistance is subject to strict requirements.
We need a far more detailed plan for asset divestiture and restructuring—one that proves this rescue is viable, not simply throwing money into a bottomless pit.” The Reconstruction Finance Corporation had been created by the Hoover administration as the nation’s lender of last resort during the crisis.
But its funds were limited, its procedures cumbersome, and amid the Great Depression, every interest group was competing fiercely for its assistance.
Everyone’s eyes turned toward the other end of the table.
Representing the Ford Motor Company was Edsel Ford, Henry Ford’s only son.
“Crawford, how did things get this bad?!” Edsel’s voice carried restrained anger.
Sweating profusely, Crawford immediately launched into an explanation about the sudden deterioration of the economy, the unpredictable chain reaction it had triggered, and everything that had followed.
“Enough.” Osborne cut him off sharply.
“Tell me the truth.
How much longer can your bank hold out?” Crawford’s face turned deathly pale.
“Sir…
given the current financial situation…
it could collapse at any moment…” Osborne leaned back abruptly in his chair, as though the words themselves had burned him.
He turned to Charles.
“Charles, the RFC has to act.
We can’t wait for the paperwork anymore.
This is our last chance to stop the disaster from spreading!” Charles knitted his brows but didn’t answer immediately.
Osborne then turned to Edsel, his tone bordering on pleading.
“Edsel, you know how deeply your company is tied to this bank.
If it goes under, your deposits, your commercial paper, and even many of the smaller suppliers in your supply chain will be thrown into chaos overnight.” “Right now, you’re the only ones with enough liquidity to provide an immediate guarantee and restore public confidence.
Help them, and you’ll be helping the entire state of Michigan.” Edsel clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
He knew exactly what his father thought of bankers.
And he knew his father’s temperament even better.
But he could also see the abyss opening before them.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “I’ll need to speak with my father.” The meeting adjourned with nothing resolved, leaving behind an atmosphere of despair and uncertainty.
That very night, Edsel rushed back to the Ford estate in Dearborn.
“A bailout?
With my money?
To fill the hole dug by those bloodsucking parasites?” Seventy-one-year-old Henry Ford stood before the fireplace, the muscles in his cheeks twitching.
“Union Guardian Trust—a bunch of idiots in suits who do nothing but shuffle numbers around.
They don’t create a single ounce of real value.
My workers build automobiles on the assembly line—that’s real value.
I must’ve been out of my mind to let the company get tangled up with those parasites in the first place!” “Father, this isn’t just about saving them.
It’s about protecting our own business—protecting Detroit.” “And what did Darwin say?
Survival of the fittest!” “A poorly run bank is no different from a car with a flawed design—it deserves to be eliminated.
If we bail them out now, we’re telling everyone that failure carries no consequences!” “Edsel, tell them to let the bank fail and be liquidated.
That’s the natural order of things.” Looking at his father’s flushed face, Edsel knew there was no point arguing any further.
In Henry Ford’s world, his beliefs were unquestionable truth, and his decisions were laws that could not be challenged.
…
February 14.
Valentine’s Day.
Detroit awoke to a cold, gray morning.
Rumors spread through the city overnight like a plague: Ford had refused to inject capital, and Union Guardian Trust Company was finished.
At seven in the morning, the first depositors appeared outside the bank.
By eight, the line stretched across two city blocks.
“My money!
Give me back my money!” “The bank’s going under!” “Even Ford won’t save them!” Panic was contagious.
People began shoving one another and pounding on the bank’s doors and windows.
The police tried to maintain order, but against the human tide flooding in, their efforts were hopeless.
The news spread by telephone and telegraph like wildfire across the entire state of Michigan, triggering an unprecedented wave of bank runs at financial institutions statewide.
That afternoon, under immense political and social pressure, Michigan Governor William Comstock made what was, for any U.S.
state, an unprecedented—and perhaps desperate—decision.
Invoking emergency powers, he ordered every bank, trust company, savings institution, and loan association in Michigan to close immediately for eight days.
The phrase “bank holiday”, calm as it sounded, landed on the already fragile financial markets like a bomb.
…
New York.
“So it happened after all…” Francis tossed the New York Times onto the table.
He walked to the window and looked down at the streets below.
New York was still mired in depression, but panic had not yet taken hold.
Lost in thought, he gazed outside.
It seemed his uncle hadn’t taken his words at the dinner party seriously.
As for the contingency plan, it had probably already been forgotten in some corner of a desk buried beneath mountains of paperwork.
Then again, his uncle sat at the very center of power.
Between assembling a Cabinet, dealing with Hoover, and balancing competing political factions, how could he possibly spare any attention for the doomsday warning of an illegitimate nephew?