by Chet Hagan
Greene looked at his papers. “No specific reason is given. The entry in the will is very simple: ‘To Charles Dupree, now known as Charles Dewey, Elkwood, Goochland County, Virginia: ten thousand English pounds.’ That’s all it says.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Greene,” Charles said with a nervous laugh, “but I’m having difficulty believing this.”
“That’s understandable, sir, but it is true. My information is that de Grasse had some financial interests in London—with wealthy men, money knows no nationalities—and that, upon getting your signature on this document”—he handed Charles a legal paper—“I’m instructed to send it to his solicitors in London. Following receipt there of the signed document, arrangements will be made to transfer to you the sum of ten thousand pounds sterling. If you will sign that, please, both as Charles Dupree and as Charles Dewey.”
Dewey’s hands shook as he signed the paper. “Ten thousand pounds,” he said again. “My God, that’s a fortune!”
“It is, indeed, sir.” Greene smiled. “And you have my congratulations.”
Charles and Martha talked for several hours about their windfall after the lawyer left, alternately laughing and crying.
“Admiral de Grasse must have loved you a great deal,” Martha suggested.
“Hmmm.” He had given in to his private thoughts. Once again, he realized, he had been given a vivid demonstration of the power of his guardian spirit. It wasn’t any intimate association with de Grasse that had brought him the fortune; the spirit had simply used the proud admiral as a vehicle. Perhaps de Grasse himself would have been hard-pressed to give a reason for having made the bequest to his cabin boy. His deserting cabin boy.
A doubt struck Dewey. Could there be another explanation, he wondered, one not involving the spirit? Was de Grasse more to him than just the Admiral of the Fleet? Had de Grasse, by chance, known Charles’s mother? Or his father? Then the most audacious of thoughts: Was it possible that de Grasse was his father? Could his mother have been a mistress to the admiral? No! All of that was impossible nonsense. Absolutely impossible! It was the spirit. It had to be the spirit!
At least the inheritance provided a new topic of conversation at the Wednesday night dinner. Only Funston Lee sat sullenly, saying nothing. The dinner lasted longer than usual, and when it finally ended, and Charles and Martha made ready to take their leave in the entrance hall at Elkwood, Katherine gathered her sister into her arms.
“I’m so happy for you, Martha,” she said with a sincerity that surprised Charles. Then she looked at Lee. “Isn’t it marvelous, Funston? Such good fortune.”
“Marvelous? I suppose it is,” he replied, bitterness in his words. “Astounding, really. Ten thousand pounds for the bastard son of a promiscuous French sailor—and this one dressed in silks and bearing a title!”
A little cry came from Martha’s throat, and then, for just an instant, a dead silence.
Charles turned slowly to Funston. He was smiling. “Bastard? Ah! A subject well known to the Lee family, in light of your half-breed half sister. What’s her name again? Melody, isn’t it?”
Funston rushed at him, but Charles met him with a balled fist that smashed into Funston’s surly face, knocking him sprawling on the floor of the entrance hall, blood spurting freely from his nose.
Wiping a hand across his face, Lee looked at the blood on his fingers for a stunned moment. “Sir, I will, of course, demand satisfaction!” He spaced out the words, leaving no doubt as to their meaning.
Statler was quickly between them. “I’ll have no talk of dueling in this house! My God, brothers-in-law brawling like common field hands! I’ll have no more of this! Is that clear?”
Charles answered first. Forcefully. “Yes, sir. I regret that this has taken place in your home. And I apologize for that.”
The master of Elkwood reached out a hand to help Lee to his feet, but Funston refused his aid. “You have, sir,” he said churlishly, “my apologies to you.”
“I would much rather have the two of you exchange apologies,” Statler answered.
Lee merely scowled.
After a moment, Charles spoke again: “I’m sorry, Marshall, but that’s no longer possible.”
Statler sighed deeply, suddenly looking much older.
At that moment, Dewey was seized with a desire to laugh, but he stifled it. Nevertheless he was struck by the humor of the situation. He had knocked Funston sprawling because he had said what Charles himself had thought earlier; that he might be the son of de Grasse. The bastard son.
VII
DEWEY moved quickly to take advantage of the money Admiral de Grasse had left him—for whatever reason.
A property on the James River adjacent to his “under farm,” and, therefore, adjacent to Elkwood, was purchased from an absentee owner in Williamsburg, increasing Charles’s land holdings to some fifteen hundred acres.
He began to cut a new road from the cottage to the public road so that he could get to his property without having to go through Statler’s estate.
Although he was still in charge of Elkwood’s racing interests, there were several race meetings at which he also ran a few horses in his own name. Statler allowed it because he needed Charles. More importantly, he wanted no final break with Martha’s husband—with the determined young man he thought of as a son and in whom he saw a strange new restlessness.
Charles brought an architect from New York City to design and supervise the building of his new house. It was to be a grand place, with wide spacious verandas, large airy rooms, and plenty of space for a growing family.
Joyously, Charles and Martha planned their home, talked of the furnishings they would buy, and spoke of the children they would have to populate it. The foundations of the mansion were already laid when they finally selected a name for it.
It seemed most appropriate that they should call it Fortunata.
12
THE name of George Washington Dewey, second son of Charles and Martha, was added to the family Bible on April 30, 1789, the day of the inauguration of the first President of the United States in New York City. A year later the birth of a daughter, Corrine, was noted. And as January 1792 came to a close, two more names went into the biblical record: Louise and Lee Dewey.
Naming of the twins—it was Martha’s idea—precipitated the first real quarrel in the Dewey household.
“I can’t stand the constant grief of this alienation from my sister’s family,” Martha said, tears in her eyes. “I must do something to end it.”
“That alienation is no fault of yours. Or mine,” Charles insisted.
“I know that. But it seems that every time we have a baby I grow apart just a little bit more from Katie.” She spoke softly, but there was determination in her voice. “It’s as if I’ve insulted her somehow by bearing another child, since it seems she can’t.”
Martha sighed. “Oh, Charles, there’s been too much hate. I want to demonstrate that I really love her—that I don’t hate Katie”—a slight hesitation—“or Funston. Naming the boy Lee would be that demonstration.”
“No, I won’t allow it!”
“Charles!” She wasn’t used to him speaking sharply to her.
His face was livid. “You speak of a demonstration. Well, Funston Lee has demonstrated nothing but contempt for me since we first met. And I can’t recall that he ever showed any real affection for you, either. There’ll be no naming a son for him!”
Nevertheless, Dewey finally gave in to Martha’s constant pleadings. He found it impossible to deny her anything she really wanted. He forced himself to submerge his own doubts, his own hate, and convinced himself that Martha was right: that naming his third son Lee would help to repair the shattered relationship with his brother-in-law.
They went to Elkwood—the first time they had been in the mansion for months—with the news. Katherine was delighted. Even Funston managed a smile. No one was happier, though, than Marshall Statler.
He set about
making the christening an important social event at Elkwood. Friends were invited from as far away as Charlottesville to the west and Alexandria to the east and north. As it had been for the double wedding, the entrance hall was turned into a lovely bower of flowers.
It was Katherine and Funston who held the babies—Katie carrying Louise, Funston gingerly balancing Lee—as the Reverend Mr. Smith officiated again.
“What shall be the name of this female child of Christ?” the minister asked.
Katherine, beaming, answered, “Louise Dewey.”
“And what shall be the name of this male child of Christ?”
Funston, his face sober, replied, “Lee Dewey.”
The guests, understanding the significance of that moment, applauded. Baby Lee, startled by the noise, howled.
Everyone laughed, Funston more gaily than all the rest.
II
TIRED but happy after the reception that had followed the christenings, Katie was pulling on her nightdress. She let out a long sigh. “Wasn’t it lovely?”
“It was a damned disaster!” Funston shouted at her. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!”
His wife’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Funston, what are you saying? You were so exuberant about it.”
“Good Christ, woman, you’re stupid!”
Lee stumbled drunkenly to the bed; there had been a great many toasts at the reception. “Don’t you realize what all those people—those smiling, smug hypocrites—were saying behind their hands? That Funston Lee had to stand up with Dewey’s son because he hasn’t any of his own!”
“Funston, don’t be silly—”
He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace unsteadily about the bedroom. “Silly, am I? I saw through Dewey’s plot to embarrass me in front of those I thought were my friends. That bastard will go to any length to belittle me—any length at all—including this charade of naming a son for me. And why shouldn’t he? That sainted sister of yours can spit out babies like a stray bitch!”
Katherine went to him, laying a hand tenderly on his cheek. “Dear, don’t spoil such a lovely day just because you’ve had too much wine.”
He struck her in the face with his fist, sending her sprawling. A small rivulet of blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth.
“I wouldn’t be a victim of this humiliation if my wife was half a woman instead of a cold, barren…” The sentence trailed off.
Katie, still on the floor, looked up at him, disgust evident in her eyes. “Perhaps I’m not the one who’s at fault.”
“Is that what you think?” he screamed at her. “You think I’m not man enough? I’ll show you!”
He rushed at her, grasping her roughly by the wrists, pulling her to her feet, dragging her through the doorway and out of the room. “I’ll show you!” He propelled her along the hallway and down the wide staircase.
“Funston, let go of me!”
“Shut up!” He cuffed her across the mouth with an open hand.
Katherine was whimpering as they left the mansion, with Funston half pushing and half pulling her in his uncontrolled rage. “I’ll show you,” he kept muttering. When she lost her footing and fell, he dragged her over the ground until she regained her feet and stumbled along.
Funston made for the cluster of slave cabins some two hundred yards from the main house. At the third cabin in the long row, he kicked open the door and pulled her inside. A black woman screamed.
“Shut up, Sarah, and make a light!” he ordered.
Trembling, Sarah lit a candle.
“Where’s your son?”
The woman pointed to a box in the corner of the crude shack.
“Bring him here!”
Sarah obeyed, holding a nearly naked baby up to the light so that Funston and Katherine could see it.
“Is that your baby?”
“Yas, suh.”
“Who’s the father?” Funston demanded.
Sarah, her eyes wide with fright, just stared at him.
“Answer me, you nigger bitch! Who made that baby with you?”
The reply was almost inaudible: “Yawl did, mastah.”
Katherine gasped.
“There!” Funston sneered, putting his face close to Katie’s. “You think I’m not man enough, do you?”
His wife shuddered.
“You want to see how it’s done? You want a lesson?”
Katie said nothing.
“Lie down there!” he screamed at the slave.
Sarah, in panic, returned the baby to the makeshift crib and hurried to her small cot where she lay down and pulled her dress up to her hips. Katherine turned her face away.
Lee, still holding his wife’s wrist in a viselike grip, struggled to undo his belt with his other hand.
“Funston, stop it,” Katie pleaded, weeping. “Oh, dear God, please make him stop!”
Unable to loosen his belt with one hand, he let go of Katherine and in one quick move loosened the belt and dropped his breeches. Katherine bolted from the shack, running madly along the road toward Fortunata.
For just an instant Lee seemed unsure what he should do. Then he pulled up his breeches and raced after his wife, catching her easily and knocking her to the ground face down. He jerked her around so that she faced him, then struck her with his fist. Once more. And again, knocking her unconscious. Blood flowed from her lips and nose and from an ugly cut above her eye.
Lee stared at her, smiled, and stood up. “So you thought I wasn’t man enough,” he mumbled. “Well, now you know.”
He stumbled off in the direction of the mansion, stopped momentarily at the door of Sarah’s cabin, laughed loudly, and continued on. Leaving Katherine in the dirt of the road.
Fifteen minutes later, two black men carried Katie to the door of Fortunata, pounded on it, then left her there and ran away, not wanting Lee—or any white person—to know who had come to the aid of the mistress of the main house.
Martha cried as she bathed her sister’s battered face and heard the horrible story told through swollen lips.
Charles’s concern was not for Katherine, but for Martha. She had lost much. Her loving, good-hearted, efforts to bring the two families together had been cruelly destroyed.
Her tears, he thought, were washing away the last of her innocence.
Elkwood, too, had lost. If not innocence, honor.
III
DEWEY’S problems weren’t confined to Elkwood or Fortunata. Family concerns were not what worried him most.
To him, a greater concern was what was happening to racing.
An insidious reform movement was growing in the Virginia Assembly, fueled by ministers of the new evangelical sects that were replacing the toppled Church of England in the state. Those churchmen were quick to view all sports as frivolous, and they forced through the Assembly a bill prohibiting all wagers of more than seven dollars on “any horse race, cockfighting, or any other sport or pastime.”
It was a law almost impossible to enforce, and, in truth there was only token enforcement. Charles and his racing fellows still made their large side bets, although they had to be kept secret now. And Dewey, thinking himself a proper American, felt some guilt about breaking the law, even one he viewed as nonsensical.
One contention of the reformers concerned him deeply: the charge that racing itself was somehow sinful.
In the latter part of March 1792 he rode to Richmond to appear at a church “trial” in behalf of a horse breeder named John Broaddus, a decent and honest man from whom he had bought several horses in the past. The last one—in November—had been a filly, which Charles had named Broad Hope. She was a three-year-old, and Dewey planned to campaign her for the first time—lightly, because of her age—in the summer meetings.
Broaddus and his wife had affiliated themselves with one of the new fundamentalist sects, and now the congregation was calling him to task for selling a horse he knew would be used for racing. Sinful racing! The breeder had written to Charles
, begging him to appear before the congregation to attest to his good character.
It was a hostile audience of perhaps sixty of the faithful who greeted the master of Fortunata in the tiny wooden church just outside the capital city. An unrelentingly sober group, led by a citizen preacher who called himself Brother Mason.
Charles was ushered to a bench in the front of the church, where he sat through a series of interminable prayers, all promising the damnation of hell for those who wavered in their journey through life. Then Broaddus was called to stand before the congregation as Brother Mason castigated him for his “sin.”
“Were you not aware, Brother Broaddus,” the preacher shouted at him, “that a tenet of our faith is that gambling is a sin?”
“Yes,” Broaddus said weakly, hanging his head.
“And were you not aware that gambling is the foundation of the sporting fraternity of horse racers?”
“Well, you see, Brother Mason,” Broaddus tried to explain, “I don’t gamble myself, and—”
“Then you don’t know that certain horses are used for gambling?” the preacher asked sarcastically.
“Yes, I did. But not being a gambler myself—”
Again he wasn’t permitted to finish his explanation. “Yet, Brother Broaddus, you sell horses to those who do gamble, those who do sin in that manner! You abet them!” The accusation was boomed out.
“I’m in the business of breeding and selling horses.” Somehow that innocent admission seemed a weak defense.
“If you sold women to bawdy houses, would you not consider that a sin?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you’d have us believe that the sale of horses to gamblers who violate the Sabbath with their races is not a similar sin!” Brother Mason swept his arm to encompass the whole congregation. “Is that what you’d like these good people to believe?”
“I don’t believe selling a horse is a sin, no.”
“Ah, Brother, but for what purpose? That’s the question.” The preacher looked down at Charles. “Brother Broaddus, did you sell a female horse to that man sitting there on the first bench?” He pointed an accusing finger at Charles.
“Yes.”