Bon Marche (63 page)

Alma May grinned wickedly. “Oh, I intend to.” She was gone.

Charles turned back to the letter: “Tell Franklin that we'll be running several horses in Washington in November. The word is that we're going to get a look at that good New York champion, American Eclipse…”

IV

T
HERE
was the contention that American Eclipse, at eight, was the greatest American-bred racehorse of all time. By Duroc, out of Miller's Damsel, by Messenger, the New York horse had been brought to the 1822 Washington meeting carrying an undefeated record. And his owner, Cornelius Van Ranst, was not shy in proclaiming the superiority of his runner.

Charles stood watching the big chestnut stallion being jogged in front of a huge crowd at the Washington track, the bloom on his gleaming red coat attesting to his good health.

“He certainly is a marvelous animal,” Dewey said to a companion.

“Maybe, and maybe not. ‘Marvelous' covers a lot of ground.”

Charles's companion was a cocky little Irishman named William Ransom Johnson, a new generation of Virginia breeder whom Charles had met at the Petersburg meeting. Johnson was being called the Napoleon of the Turf, largely because, in the 1807–1808 season, he had started horses in sixty-three races and had won sixty. His ego allowed him to accept the title.

Charles had visited Johnson's fine stud farm, Oaklands, near the Petersburg track, and had admired a sign that stood at the entrance to the place: There Is Nothing So Good for the Inside of a Man as the Outside of a Horse.

“Were I you, Dewey,” Johnson said to him now, “I'd place a substantial wager on Mr. Harrison's Sir Charles. It seems the name alone would put you in his corner.”

Dewey laughed. “I've long since learned not to bet on a hunch.”

“Well, sir, this is no hunch. Sir Charles is one of the best I've ever seen, and today's match against that New York animal”—the sarcasm was heavy—“will be proof of that.”

As it turned out, the match race between American Eclipse and Sir Charles—four-mile heats at five thousand dollars a side—was never run. The Virginia horse rapped a tendon in the warm-up and James Harrison, his owner, withdrew the horse, paying a forfeit to Van Ranst.

Johnson was incensed. He railed at Harrison: “The honor of Virginia is at stake, sir!”

“But the horse—”

“Is better on three legs than that Eclipse is on four!”

Dewey was shocked when a substitute match was quickly arranged: a single four-mile heat at fifteen hundred dollars a side. But he wasn't shocked enough to refuse to place a wager. He bet a thousand dollars in the public pool. On American Eclipse.

He watched, without concern, as Sir Charles stayed with the New York thoroughbred for three of the four miles. Then, as Dewey had expected, the injured tendon gave way. American Eclipse just cantered to the finish line.

Johnson was not satisfied, nor were a lot of other proud Virginia breeders. Van Ranst was surrounded by southerners, with the Napoleon of the Turf as their spokesman.

“Sir,” Johnson said pompously, “all Virginia challenges you. We offer you a match, over the Union Course on Long Island. At twenty thousand a side!”

Van Ranst smiled tolerantly. “With what horse?”

“With whatever Virginia horse is fit.” Johnson goaded him. “If your Eclipse is as good as you say, does it matter which horse we bring?”

“No.”

“Then it's done, sir! Will the last Tuesday of May be convenient?”

“Suit yourself.”

“And the forfeit? Would three thousand be fair?”

“Agreed.”

Charles Dewey thought they were all mad, but he was glad that he was going to be in New York for the confrontation.

V

“W
E
leave Baltimore in the morning,” Charles reported to Mattie, “after having made our final start at the Baltimore spring meeting a successful one. Please inform Franklin and George that we have done well for the purple silks of Bon Marché and that our entourage is down to a single van, with only five runners remaining for the New York competition.

“Expect to be on Long Island by the end of the first week in May, having made arrangements to stay at the establishment of a Mr. William Niblo, and not knowing what really to expect there.”

He paused a moment in his writing.

“We all miss everyone at Bon Marché. I especially miss you. It will be a happy moment when we return.”

Charles sealed the letter. He sat in thought for a moment or two, then took another sheet of paper.

“Dearest Mary Elizabeth,” he began. “It has been an eternity since…”

He stared at the words. A sigh. Then Dewey balled up the paper and hurled it into the fireplace.

44

T
HOUGH
he was used to the excitement generated by races, Charles wasn't prepared for the frenzy over the great North-South match featuring the undefeated American Eclipse in New York.

Thousands were pouring into the city from the South; he read one report in a New York newspaper that estimated the number of visitors to be as many as twenty thousand. The New York newspapers, notably the
Evening Post,
owned by one Michael Burnham, devoted many columns every day to the impending race, having sent correspondents to Virginia to follow the training of the potential Virginia challengers.

Burnham, as it turned out, was a member of the syndicate that had posted the side purse of twenty thousand dollars for the New York champion. So, too, was William Niblo, at whose establishment Charles, Alma May, and Carrie were staying. It wasn't so much an inn as a large tavern frequented by the sporting crowd. However, Niblo had a few rooms available and had rented two of them to Dewey.

It was from Niblo that Charles got his understanding of the fervor with which the New Yorkers approached the match race.

“It seems strange to me,” Dewey said to the tavern keeper at dinner on the night of his arrival, “that the North would put up only American Eclipse and allow the Johnson group to select any horse it wants, right up to the call to the post.”

Niblo shrugged. “Not strange, Mr. Dewey. Eclipse can beat anything thrown against him. Anything!”

“Perhaps. But it seems to me that you've given the Virginians a great advantage. In the
Evening Post
tonight I see that Johnson still has three solid competitors in training: Betsey Richards and Childers, which I know to be highly experienced four-milers, and the four-year-old Henry, a very good son of Sir Archie.”

The New Yorker seemed unconcerned. “Whatever the South has to offer, Eclipse will whip decisively.”

“If Johnson decides to start Henry, your horse will have to give away considerable weight—one hundred eight to one twenty-six. From what I know of horses, I'd have to give Henry the nod with an eighteen-pound pull in the weights.”

Niblo laughed. “Don't waste your money that way, sir. American Eclipse can carry any weight over any distance against any competitor. This country has never seen a horse like Eclipse.”

“So I've been hearing.” Dewey smiled at him. “But I'll decide my wagering strategy when it comes to race day. There's more I want to know before I bet.”

“After you've studied it, Mr. Dewey, you'll still bet on Eclipse.” He got to his feet. “You'll excuse me, sir. I have duties. Enjoy your dinner.”

Charles was at dinner with Carrie. The Princess had gone off with a gentleman she had met shortly after their arrival at Niblo's place. Grandfather and granddaughter chatted about the things they wanted to see before leaving New York.

A voice interrupted them. “Sir?”

Dewey looked up to find a light-skinned Negro boy standing stiffly by the table. He squinted at him, sensing a familiarity. “Yes?”

“I'm Marshall,” the young man said quietly. “Marshall Dewey.”

“Good Lord!” Charles was stunned. Springing to his feet, he pumped the boy's hand enthusiastically. “How you've grown!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit down, sit down.” He gestured to his granddaughter. “This is Carrie, Franklin's oldest child.”

The boy smiled for the first time. “Hello.”

Carrie just stared. The young man was a stranger, one not identified in any way by her grandfather.

“How did you know we were here?” Charles asked.

“Mercy … uh … Mrs. MacCallum wrote to Bon Marché and got a reply saying you'd be here.”

“I see.” Charles was ill at ease, pleased to see Marshall, but not sure what to say to him.

“I have some bad news, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. MacCallum died.”

Dewey's mouth fell open in shock. Tears filled his eyes.

“Nearly three weeks ago,” Marshall went on. “The doctor said it was a brain stroke.”

“Did he suffer?”

“No. It was quick.”

“I see.” Charles put his head in his hands and wept quietly. “We were the greatest of friends once.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I was a terrible fool.”

Marshall said nothing.

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Charles mopped his eyes. “Dear Andrew, dear Andrew.”

“Uh … you are invited,” the young man began hesitantly, “to visit the house in Princeton before you return home.”

“I will. Yes, of course, I will.”

Marshall stood. “Well, now that I've delivered the message—”

“No! Stay!” Charles put his hand on his son's arm. “Please stay. Tell us what you've been doing.”

With seeming reluctance, the boy sat down again. “I've been riding here in New York, as you probably know, but I'm having trouble with weight. And now I'm assisting in the training of the horses of Mr. Henry Lynch.”

“I've heard of him. He has a big stable, doesn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you're happy there?”

“Yes, sir.”

The wooden conversation soon turned into a silence.

“Marshall … have you ever thought of returning to Bon Marché?”

“No.” The answer was firm.

“You know, Franklin and George and I have been talking about maintaining a racing string here in New York. Perhaps you could handle our horses for us.”

“I'm not really a trainer yet.”

“But I'm sure you'll be fine at it. Wouldn't you like to have a Bon Marché stable here?”

“I'm not sure, sir.” He was demonstrating no enthusiasm for the idea.

“Well, suppose I have Franklin write to you about it? He's really running Bon Marché now.”

“I'd be happy to hear from Franklin again.”

“Good! You can deal with Franklin, then.”

Once more Marshall stood. “I must go, sir.”

“Of course.” Dewey shook his hand again. “Will we see you at the Union Course?”

“I'll be there with several of the Lynch horses.”

“We'll look for you.”

The young man left hurriedly.

“Who is he, Grandfather?” Carrie asked.

“That was Marshall Dewey. He's my son.” Charles didn't want to lie to her.

“But, he's—”

“Yes,” Charles said softly, “he's half black. His mother is Angelica.”

“Oh!”

He smiled at his granddaughter. “It was a long time ago, Carrie. A very long time ago. Long before you were born.” Dewey summoned the waiter and paid for the dinner. “There will be time enough to tell you about it later.”

II

T
HE
Evening Post
reported that Daniel Tompkins, the Vice President of the United States, would attend the North-South match race, and so would Aaron Burr. Charles wondered how that was possible; he hadn't heard that Burr was back in the country. Andrew Jackson of Tennessee, the newly appointed governor of the Florida Territory, was also going to be on hand.

“It's all right if you want to pay your respects to your Cousin Andy,” Dewey had said to Alma May, “but please don't involve me in it.”

“Daddy, you can't go on hating him for the rest of your life.”

“
Hate
is too strong a word, Princess,” Charles insisted. “It's just that I prefer not to associate with him.”

“Bobby says that Andy is offering large wagers on the southern horse.”

“Bobby?”

Alma May smiled. “You haven't met him yet. Robert Stevens. His uncle has something to do with the Eclipse syndicate.”

“Is that a fact?” Charles grinned. “So a southern girl
is
welcome in New York, then?”

“Yes,” She wrinkled her nose. “I still prefer the southern men. These northerners are too brash for my taste. They give you the impression that they're doing you a favor when they ask you out.”

“So I don't have to worry that you'll make a permanent arrangement with one of them.” He was teasing her.

“No, Daddy. Or with any man for that matter. I've done all the marrying I intend to do.”

“You're too young to make that kind of declaration.”

“I mean it. I don't need the grief.”

Charles just shook his head. But there was no time to discuss it further. The hour had arrived for them to leave for the racecourse in a carriage he had rented for the occasion.

The Long Island roads leading to the Union Course were jammed with carriages, all manner of carts, individual riders, and thousands of pedestrians. All the predictions in the newspapers as to the size of the crowd seemed to be borne out. One of the mounted men, Dewey knew, was a horseman employed by William Niblo, assigned to carry the results of the race to Niblo's tavern. If the news he carried was of an Eclipse victory, a white flag would be raised over the tavern; if the southern horse won, the flag would be black.

It took them more than an hour to traverse a distance that shouldn't have consumed more than thirty minutes. As soon as they arrived, the Princess skipped off to join Bobby Stevens. Charles, with Carrie by the hand, leisurely looked over both rivals. American Eclipse had the same healthy bloom that Charles had observed in him earlier in Washington. Henry—for he had been announced as the southern choice for the match—was more slight than Eclipse, but well muscled and on his toes.