Bon Marche (47 page)

Charles looked around for his fellow stewards, seeing them coming on the dead run. He walked to Jackson's side.

“Sir, this is not your track any longer. It's the property of the Nashville Jockey Club, and the stewards of the club will decide what is to be done. Not you!”

Andy kept his pistols leveled at the field of horses.

“Then I suggest, sir,” he snarled, “that you do your job! This is a fixed race.”

“So you say.” The two other stewards joined Dewey now. “Put up your pistols, sir!”

Jackson held his position.

Charles turned and shouted to all within earshot: “This race is suspended, pending an investigation by the stewards of the Nashville Jockey Club!”

The jockeys began to withdraw their horses. A relieved starter laid down his drum.

“The guns, General,” Dewey demanded.

Jackson uncocked them carefully, jamming them into his waistband.

“There was no excuse for that, Jackson.”

“There was all the excuse in the world!” Andy screamed at him. “I learned that One For All was to be the certain winner. The owners conspired to make him the winner at better than fifteen to one!”

By that time, the owners had gathered around Andy and the stewards, all shouting loudly, all denying Jackson's accusations.

One of them said: “I'll not stand for this insult! Jackson, you'd better be prepared to back up your charges or so help me, I'll demand satisfaction!”

Andy's hand went quickly to one of his pistols, but Dewey got his wrist in a viselike grip. “Damn you, Andy! There'll be no gunplay on this racecourse!”

Jackson shook his arm free. “Then you'd better get to the bottom of this!”

“And that's exactly what the stewards will do.”

Everyone was shouting again.

Charles tried to restore order. “Everyone will be heard—but one at a time.” He ordered that the nearby tavern be cleared out and that Jackson and the owners adjourn to that location for a hearing.

To the general crowd: “The fourth race is fully suspended! We'll make ready now for the fifth event. Post time for that will be in half an hour.”

The fifth race went off without the stewards. For more than an hour they heard the testimony on the fourth race—first from Andrew Jackson, and then from the five owners in turn.

It was Dewey's view that there may have been some merit in what Jackson charged, but solid proof was lacking.

In the end, the three stewards huddled privately, discussing the best way to handle the volatile situation. Their decision was a compromise: the fourth race would not be run, then or ever, and the owners would be suspended from competition at Clover Bottom for two days.

Jackson wasn't satisfied. “Damn you, Dewey, you've let those scoundrels get away with their dastardly plotting! Were it me, I would have—”

“Shot them down?”

“Yes, damm it, if necessary!”

“Let me tell you something, Andy.” Charles was forcing the angry words through his teeth. “If you ever again draw a weapon on this racecourse, I'll see that you're suspended from racing for life!”

“No man, sir, has that power!”

“I suggest,
General
”—he used the military title sarcastically—“that you don't test me.”

Within forty-eight hours, four of the five owners involved had left Clover Bottom. The fifth remained—he lived in Nashville—but withdrew his horses from competition. Rumors had it that they had been frightened off by threats from Andy Jackson, or from someone using his name.

There was no proof, but Charles Dewey didn't doubt it. Not for a minute.

V

“I can't look at that filly,” Dewey admitted, “and not feel some covetousness.”

“She
is
a nice filly.”

“Nice? She's more than that, Jesse, and you ought to know that better than anyone.”

Captain Jesse Haynie laughed. “I guess I do. It's just that I'm not much on bragging. As a matter of fact, Maria makes it unnecessary to brag.”

The two horsemen were standing by a stall at the Clover Bottom track, looking in at a chestnut filly of fine conformation.

“You got her in Virginia, didn't you?”

“Yes. She's by Diomed, out of a mare by Tayloe's Bellair.”

Charles groaned. “When I raced in Virginia, Squire Tayloe's horses certainly gave me the fits. And now, here in Tennessee, it seems that the Tayloe ghost is going to prevail again. When I first saw that filly at Hartsville in the spring, Captain, I swear to you that I thought: ‘There's nothing in the West that's going to beat her.'”

“What of Jackson's Truxton colt, Decatur?”

“He'll be no match for your Maria.”

“The General has offered me five thousand a side.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You seem surprised.”

Dewey hesitated. “It's just that I didn't know that Andy could raise five thousand these days. He's put so much of his own money into that volunteer army of his.”

“Well, that was the offer.”

“Take it,” the master of Bon Marché recommended. “We'll put on the match on the closing day of the meeting: the best of three two-mile heats. As a matter of fact, if you want to make it fifty thousand, I'll take whatever percentage you want to part with.”

Haynie studied his face. “You're serious.”

“Oh, yes, Captain! Deadly serious. I like to think I know a great racehorse when I see one—filly or colt.”

Dewey, in his role as one of the managers of the Nashville Jockey Club, had invited Captain Haynie to bring his filly from Sumner County to the Clover Bottom fall meeting. However, word of the reputation of Haynie's Maria (that was her full name, in that Maria seemed to be a common name for fillies) had preceded her. There had been no challengers … until now.

Haynie was not the trainer of the filly. He had a good stable of runners under the firm hand of Green Berry Williams, who had built a name for himself as the best trainer in the West. Completing the team was a hunchback, four-foot-six Negro jockey called “Monkey” Simon, a young man not only talented aboard a race horse but a gifted musician as well. Dewey was going to have a party at Bon Marché at the end of the meeting, and he had made arrangements with Captain Haynie to have “Monkey” entertain.

There was a widely disseminated story that “Monkey” Simon had been a prince in his native Africa, but Charles had his doubts. He remembered a similar story from back in Virginia, where George Milton had claimed princely qualities for his Albert. Somehow that kind of tale seemed to make a few slaveowners proud. Charles, though, thought the stories sad—even if true.

The match between Jackson's Decatur and Haynie's Maria was made, drawing the largest crowd to Clover Bottom since the infamous Truxton-Ploughboy match. Dewey wagered heavily, booking nearly ten thousand dollars in bets on the filly. August Schimmel followed his lead. Decatur money was to be had rather easily, in spite of Maria's record of being unbeaten in six starts. Many backing Decatur believed that a good colt could always beat a good filly. Others remembered the exploits of Decatur's sire, Truxton. And still others bet on Decatur simply because he was Andrew Jackson's horse. Andy's popularity was that great in the community, a fact that astounded and even appalled Dewey.

The coffers of Bon Marché were greatly enriched that day. Haynie's Maria not only beat Decatur in two straight dash heats, but humbled him, winning easily.

Jackson, while reasonably gracious in defeat, let it be known that he'd try again against Haynie's Maria.

It was reported to Dewey that Andy was going to put out the word to Virginia breeders to find him the best four-mile horse in the state, “without regard to price.”

Charles hoped that he would. He looked forward to letting Haynie's Maria, although he did not own her, make him wealthier. Especially at Andrew Jackson's expense.

VI

“B
ON
Marché has had its most successful year ever,” Mattie wrote, “and we can now look forward to 1812 with real joy.”

She was writing to the MacCallums in New Jersey, as she did with regularity. Her husband knew she did, because Mattie insisted on reading their replies at the dinner table. Charles didn't like it, but he permitted it. Mattie believed he wanted to hear news of his old friend. Yet there was no other sign that the breach could ever be healed.

“For one thing,” she continued, “the new year will be special because we will have the opportunity to see our first grandchild grow. Little Carrie is so dear, and Amantha seems a natural mother. Charles is almost beside himself with happiness. Can you believe that on Christmas Day, when Carrie was only two weeks old, Charles actually carried that baby aboard a horse? He takes her everywhere with him—everywhere, that is, that Franklin and Amantha will permit.”

Mattie paused. She was making light of her husband's preoccupation with the baby in the letter, but it concerned her deeply. She was remembering what he had called his fantasy of total involvement with a new baby. She thought of his words then: “from the moment the child leaves the womb.”

She forced herself to concentrate once more on the letter: “But 1812 will also be special for Bon Marché because we are to have three—that's correct,
three
—weddings! George is to marry a young lady named Mary Harrison in February. I guess you might call her an heiress. Her father, a tobacco broker, is extremely wealthy. The ceremony is to be at their estate on Stones River. There's talk that they'll move to England, but I hope it's not true. Mary, however, keeps talking of the ‘proper society' of London. George, who has more than sown his wild oats, as you know, is totally smitten with her and will do anything she asks. She's several years his senior and absolutely dominates him.

“In June, both of the older daughters will be married. Corrine will finally exchange the vows with her Billy. It's to be a simple ceremony in the Presbyterian church in Nashville, not at Bon Marché. Young Holder, you may recall, is a stuffy man who doesn't want to be ‘corrupted' by Bon Marché. He expresses that sentiment over and over again ad nauseam. I'm amazed at how well Charles tolerates him.”

She reread that paragraph and added a sentence: “In truth, I can't imagine what Corrine sees in him.

“Louise is going to marry August Schimmel, the owner of the newspaper, on the last day in June,” Mattie continued. “He's ten years older than she, but a perfect gentleman. And rich enough to be involved with Charles in the ownership of several horses, the Clover Bottom track, and other enterprises that require considerable money. Charles admires him very much, as do I, and we will have a big, social wedding here. Charles and I have offered them quarters here at Bon Marché, possibly adding a wing, and we are hoping they will accept.”

Mattie sighed to herself. Several times she had thought about asking Charles to append just a few lines to one of the letters. She thought about it again now, but once more she pushed the idea aside, not willing to risk a bitter scene.

“All are well here,” she added, “and all send their love.”

“All, that is,” she said aloud, “except Charles Dewey.”

33

L
EE
Dewey approached the subject gingerly. “Father, have you seen the announcement in the
Monitor
from Andy?” he asked of Charles at the dinner table.

“No, but I can tell you what it's about: another proclamation of impending war with England.”

“Yes, it is,” his son admitted, speaking slowly. “But this is a bit more than that.”

Dewey looked up from his plate. “I suggest, Lee, that Jackson's warlike pronouncements are not a fit subject for discussion at this table.”

“But, Father—”

“Certainly you can find something more pleasant to talk about!”

The young man was silenced.

“Charles?” Mattie pleaded.

“Oh, very well,” her husband said, “what is it, Lee, that you find so fascinating?”

Lee picked up the newspaper. “It's dated the Hermitage, March 7, 1812, and he says: ‘VOLUNTEERS TO ARMS!' That's in bold type. ‘Citizens! Your government has yielded to the impulse of the nation. War is on the point of breaking out between the United States and Great Britain! and the martial hosts are summoned to the Tented Fields!'”

Charles snorted derisively.

“‘A simple invitation is given for fifty thousand volunteers. Shall we, who have clamored for war, now skulk in the corner? Are we the titled Slaves of George the third? the military conscripts of Napoleon? or the frozen peasants of the Russian Czar? No—we are the free-born sons of the only Republic now existing in the world.'”

Lee stopped reading.

“Is that all?”

“No, sir, there's more.”

“All in the same purple prose, I assume?”

His son smiled slightly. “Yes, sir, it is.” He glanced again at the newspaper. “He says: ‘The period of youth is the season for martial exploits.'”

“Enough!” Charles raised a hand. “Spare us, please Lee, further details of General Jackson's rabble-rousing.”

“Yes, sir.” He laid the newspaper aside. “Uh, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I want to volunteer.”

“No!” A fist smashed down on the table. Dishes and silverware jumped noisily. “Absolutely not!”

“But, Father—”

“Damn it! Enough! I said no and no it shall be!” He was screaming, his face livid.

“Charles, control your temper!” Mattie said sharply.

Dewey sighed. His voice calmed. “You're right, dear. I apologize.” To Lee: “I didn't mean to shout at you, son. But let's look at this thing for the facts in it.”

Lee nodded, disappointment on his young face.

“In the first place,” Charles started, “the call for fifty thousand volunteers is for
all
of the country, not for Tennessee alone, as Jackson implies. Right?”