by Chet Hagan
He turned eventually to political matters.
Aaron Burr came to Nashville recently, the guest of Andy Jackson. I went to the reception in his honor only to please Mattie. As far as I’m concerned, he’s no better than a murderer (he certainly shows no remorse for having killed Hamilton), and yet, Jackson embraces him. I guess it’s the case of one duelist finding reason to applaud another. I don’t know who’s a worse renegade—Burr or Jackson!
25
CHARLES Dewey had not seen so many people at a race meeting since he left Virginia. Thousands jammed the Hartsville course, drawn by the appeal of the match race between Andrew Jackson’s Truxton and Lazarus Cotton’s Greyhound.
On the one hand, the master of Bon Marché was grateful for the crowds on hand for the rematch. It enabled him, in the days preceding the last big afternoon of the fall meeting, to meet a host of Tennessee and Kentucky breeders he had not known before and to arrange numerous matings for the Bon Marché stallions. He filled the books of three of them for the following season. But on the other hand, so many horsemen being at the course had made for greater competition than he had counted on.
Bon Marché horses won only three races. His sons, Franklin and George, did not win at all. Nevertheless, with judicious wagering, the Dewey coffers had benefited.
On the final day, Franklin said to his father, “I think all of Tennessee must be here.”
“And half of Kentucky as well.”
“How are you going to wager, Father?”
Charles challenged him. “What would you suggest?”
“Greyhound must be the favorite based on his past performances,” the young man replied seriously. “Yet, Truxton’s new owner will certainly have him in better condition than he was during the spring meeting.”
“You’re sure of that last point?”
Franklin’s doubt showed. “No, sir, I’m not. Mother’s Cousin Andy seems to have trained him … well, too harshly. Maybe he’s worn him out.”
Charles agreed with his son’s evaluation. “So what’s your conclusion?”
“I don’t know. Maybe this is one to sit out.”
“I’m beginning to think the same thing.” Dewey looked around him. “Have you seen your brother lately?”
“George is occupied with the girls.” The tone of his answer implied disapproval.
“He is, is he?” Charles smiled. “And you think there are better ways in which to occupy yourself?”
“Yes, sir, I do. Anyway, George isn’t very choosy. Anything in skirts suits him.”
Charles patted his sober son on the back. “The day will come for you, too, my lad. So don’t be too critical.”
“When it does, I’ll be more careful.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will be.”
The ubiquitous Patton Anderson came up to them, grinning broadly and not too soberly. “Dewey! I’ve been looking all over for you. This is the race to bet the plantation on.”
“It looks too close to call for me.”
“That’s absolute nonsense, Charles! Andy has this horse in top condition. Lean and hungry, as it were. Every penny I could get together is going on Truxton.”
“I admire your loyalty.”
“It’s not a matter of loyalty,” Anderson insisted, slurring his words. “Truxton is simply the better of the two. And since Greyhound is favored, you can get a price on Truxton. Why, I’m even betting fifteen horses on him.”
“I didn’t know you had fifteen horses, Patton.”
Jackson’s friend laughed uproariously. “I don’t, old friend, I don’t.” The laugh turned to a drunken giggle. “Some of the horses I’ve put up might have ladies’ saddles on them. I’m wagering them as an agent, so to speak.”
“An unknown agent, I’d imagine.”
Anderson grinned devilishly. “What difference does it make? Truxton will win easily, and I’ll have fifteen horses!”
As he stumbled away, Franklin frowned. “He’s really a reprehensible man, Father.”
“Hmmm. Patton’s a free spirit, son. Not my dish of tea, but a free spirit nevertheless. Come—let’s take a look at Truxton.”
The apparent condition of the horse shocked Dewey. Jackson’s rigorous training had taken weight off of him; ribs protruded prominently.
“I don’t imagine I have to give you advice on betting,” Andy said to him.
“No.”
“Good! You’re a wise man.” Once again, Jackson persisted in reading into Charles’s simple answer what he wanted to hear. It was one of the little things about Mattie’s cousin that sometimes annoyed him. This was one of those times.
They looked, too, at Greyhound, finding him fit, as usual. But the two Deweys stayed with their initial reaction. Father and son decided not to bet on the match.
Any type of wager was available on the course. In addition to the public pool, numerous side bets were being made. As Charles and Franklin strolled about, they overheard a conversation in which a six-hundred-forty-acre tract of land was being offered on Truxton. There was a ready taker; numerous land papers would change hands before the day was concluded.
At one point in their meandering, another of Jackson’s friends approached them. “Have you heard of Andy’s latest wager?”
“What’s that?”
“He’s bet fifteen hundred dollars against a like amount of clothing. With some tailor from Gallatin.”
They all laughed about that.
Ahead of them they spotted George, with a young lady on each arm.
Dewey went up behind him and playfully tapped his shoulder. His son whirled around. His face was flushed, but not with embarrassment.
“Father! I want you to meet Dolly.” She was a buxom girl on his left. “And this is … uh…”
“Emily,” the dark-haired girl on his right volunteered.
“Of course,” George said easily, “Emily.”
“Would you young ladies excuse us for a moment?” Charles asked. “A family matter.”
He drew George out of earshot of the girls. “Have you been drinking, George?”
“Just a bit of hard cider, Father. Nothing to worry about.”
“I do worry about it. I don’t like to see my son drunk, especially when he’s only sixteen years old.”
“Not drunk, sir, just a tad happy.” He grinned.
Charles sighed deeply, deciding to change the subject. “I’ve looked over the horses, George, and have decided to pass on the match. I suggest that you do the same. That is, if you’ve had time to think about betting in the midst of your … uh … female distractions.”
“Too late, Father,” George answered airily. “One of those mad Greyhound backers insisted on offering me odds of three to one. I took it for a hundred.”
The master of Bon Marché groaned.
“But at three-to-one, sir!”
“I guess it’s too late to say anything but good luck. One final thing before you rejoin the ladies—everything is packed and ready to go. We leave for Bon Marché immediately after the race.”
“Yes, sir.” George sauntered back to the girls, kissing both of them to signal his return.
Dewey couldn’t help smiling at the self-assured young man.
In the race itself, Jackson’s rigorous training of Truxton proved out. Greyhound was beaten soundly in straight heats. Routed actually, to a great roar of approval from the Jackson supporters.
As Charles and Franklin walked toward their carriage, they came upon Patton Anderson doling out cups of hard cider from a large cask. The agent was even drunker than he had been earlier.
“Dewey!” he called, holding out a cup.
“I’ll pass, Patton.”
Anderson pointed to a large basket of baked goods on the ground in front of him. “Some ginger cakes, then. Won them from a nice old lady from Kentucky.”
“No, thank you.”
“Have you heard the latest news, Dewey?”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what it is.”
&
nbsp; “Andy has bought Greyhound. He goes to Clover Bottom now.”
At his carriage, Charles gave the final orders to the Negroes for the return of the racehorses to Bon Marché.
When they were ready to leave, George was absent.
“Go find your brother,” Dewey told Franklin.
Harboring a resentment, which he hid from his father, Franklin began his search, without immediate success. Only when he happened to come across one of George’s former companions did it end.
“Emily, do you have an idea where George is?”
The girl, smiling knowingly, pointed to a large barn where the managers of the Hartsville racecourse stored hay.
Outside the barn, Franklin shouted: “George, are you in there?!”
There was no answer.
He entered the barn. The interior was nearly dark now in the late afternoon. “George!”
Again no answer.
“George!”
This time there was a feminine giggle from behind some bales of hay. Franklin followed the sound. When he poked his head over the bales, he saw in the half light that the girl called Dolly had her bodice open, her breasts bared. George’s trousers were down around his ankles.
“George, for God’s sake!”
Slowly, his brother turned his head to look up at Franklin. “Well, if it isn’t my older sibling. Say hello to Franklin, Dolly.”
“Hello.” The girl giggled, as unconcerned as George at being discovered in that delicate situation.
“We’re ready to leave,” Franklin told his brother. “Father’s waiting!”
George shrugged. To the girl: “Family duty calls me, Dolly, sweet. This will have to wait until next time.”
Dolly giggled again.
Nonchalantly, he got to his feet, pulled up his pants, fastened his belt, and left Dolly alone in the hay.
As the brothers walked to the carriage, Franklin asked in disgust, “Where do you find them?”
“They’re everywhere, Franklin. You ought to look sometime.”
Franklin didn’t reply.
“I suppose you’re going to report all this to Father.”
Silence.
At the carriage again, the eldest son told Dewey, “He was collecting his bet. At least George had the right idea on the race.”
George Washington Dewey flashed him a big grin.
II
CHARLES was in a mood to talk. About anything. Mattie had other inclinations.
Propped up in bed, he said, “Your Cousin Andy’s Clover Bottom track promises to offer the best race meeting the West has ever seen.”
“Yes, dear.” She leaned over and kissed him.
“Captain Joseph Erwin has posted a challenge against all comers for his Tanner at five thousand a side. I wonder whether I have anything good enough to risk that?”
Another kiss. “You’d be the best judge of that, dear.”
“I imagine that Jackson will take him up on it, now that he has Greyhound as well as Truxton.”
“He probably will.” She began to run a hand lightly down his bare chest. Slowly. Lower and lower.
“Oh,” Charles went on, “I want to talk to you about George. It seems that young man is turning into quite a roue. Would it be possible, perhaps, for you to … discuss those things with him?”
“What things, dear?” The hand had reached his belly.
“Well, about women and the dangers of … uh … pregnancies and the like. Sometimes a mother can—”
“You think he’s not a virgin, then?”
Charles laughed. “I’d bet on it.”
Mattie’s hand now rested on his penis, the fingers tickling him. “I was going to suggest,” she said with some sarcasm, “that it’s best for the father to have those talks with young men. But maybe you’re right—I’d be the best one for such a discussion. At least I’m still alive.”
“What?”
“Charles! What are we talking about?”
“George and his … dalliances.”
Mattie sighed in exasperation. “Mr. Dewey, that’s sex, isn’t it?”
“It may be, but—”
“You’ve been in Hartsville with your damned horses for two whole weeks while I’ve been here alone. I’m beginning to wonder whether you found something there other than racing!”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just that—”
She took her hand away. “All right, let’s settle this. One—I’ll speak to George. Two—yes, I think Cousin Andy will have a simply marvelous race meeting at Clover Bottom. Three—no, I don’t think you have a horse that’s worth risking five thousand dollars against Tanner. Now, is there anything else on your mind?”
He thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Then, for God’s sake, Charles, make love to me!”
“Oh … is that what you’ve been hinting at?”
“Charles! Damn you!”
He laughed loudly. “I wondered what all that hand manipulation was about.”
Mattie struck out at him. But playfully. He caught her hand, pulling her to him. They made love as they had when they were under a canopy of red cedars on their wilderness honeymoon.
Both were half dozing when Charles whispered, “Mattie?”
“Hmmm?”
“You really don’t think I have anything to challenge Tanner?”
“One of these days, Charles Dewey,” she murmured, “I’m going to murder you right here in this bed.”
III
CLOVER Bottom was the largest commercial establishment in western Tennessee. The one-mile race track, set on a beautiful oval meadow, dominated it, but Andrew Jackson and his partners had also built a vast mercantile complex on the banks of the Stones River, some eight miles from Nashville.
A huge store offered firearms and skillets and grindstones and calico. And broadcloth from Philadelphia, which sold at fifteen dollars a yard; Jackson had bought it for five. The store also sold coffee and salt and allspice. Anything that was needed. Because cash money was scarce in the West, much of the merchandise was traded for cotton, tobacco, pelts, and slaves—all of which were taken to New Orleans on flatboats for resale.
Clover Bottom also boasted a comfortable tavern, booths for hucksters, and a keelboat yard on the Stones. It was highly profitable. At times. But Jackson had a propensity for overextending himself, and the enterprise often lost money.
Whatever the state of his purse, however, Andy always seemed to have money for horse racing. As Dewey had anticipated, Jackson posted the five thousand dollars to have his Greyhound meet Captain Erwin’s Tanner in the fall meeting of 1805.
Thousands were on hand on opening day for the match race, which Greyhound won in three difficult heats.
In the crowded and noisy tavern afterward, Erwin wasn’t satisfied.
“Sir,” the captain said loudly to Jackson, “perhaps we ought to match our stallions—your Truxton against my Ploughboy. I believe Ploughboy to be the best stud horse in these parts.”
Jackson laughed. “It has always been the rule, hasn’t it, that differences of opinions make horse races. Truxton is ready, of course. What say you to the best of three two-mile heats?”
“It’s to be a speed race, then?” Erwin commented.
“Two thousand a side?”
“Agreed. And the forfeit?”
“Shall we make it eight hundred?” Jackson countered.
“Agreed, sir.”
They shook hands. It was a contract.
Andy sat down at Dewey’s table, where Charles was drinking with Patton Anderson, who was talking animatedly about the impending match race. “I swear to you, Charles, that there’s nothing more invigorating than match racing.”
“My father-in-law in Virginia,” Dewey observed, “used to say that matching horses with money was as satisfying as being with an accommodating woman.”
“By God, the man was right!” Jackson roared. “Absolutely right!”
Patton spoke. “Andy, have you ta
lked to Captain Erwin about that matter with his son-in-law?”
A dark cloud came over Jackson’s face. He turned in his chair, his eyes searching the room. When he saw Erwin in the crowd, he gestured to him. Erwin came to the table and sat down with them.
“Captain, it has come to my ears,” Jackson said, “that your son-in-law, Charles Dickinson, has made some injudicious remarks about my wife’s first marriage.”
“Indeed?” Erwin seemed surprised.
“Yes, sir, and I respectfully suggest that you caution him against such indiscretions. He’s a young man, not blessed yet with maturity, and I wish no quarrel with him. In truth, I suspect that he’s being used by my enemies—that damned Governor Sevier and his cronies!”
The captain was apologetic. He understood how sensitive Jackson was about the controversy that surrounded his marriage to the former Rachel Donelson. There had been charges that Andy had wed her when he knew that she was still the wife of her first husband, charges using the ugly word adultery.
“I’ll speak to Dickinson about it.”
“I wish you would,” Jackson said coldly. “In time, I would hope, to avoid further unpleasantries.”
Captain Erwin got to his feet, bowed formally, and left the table.
Within minutes, Charles Dickinson presented himself to Jackson. He was not yet thirty, Dewey guessed, and he was dressed in the highest fashion. A dandy, with a ready arrogance. Andy didn’t suggest that he sit down.
“Judge Jackson,” the young man said, obviously choosing his words with care, “I understand that certain remarks attributed to me have brought you offense. I never intended that, of course. If I said anything at all that may have pained you, it might have come in moments when I was … well, to be candid, when I was drunk. Nevertheless, I offer my apologies.”
Jackson scowled at him, nodded once to acknowledge the apology, and turned away. Dickinson stood there uneasily for a moment, then left.
“Damned puppy!” Andy growled.
26
CHARLES slammed a copy of the newspaper down on the table.
“I tell you, Mattie, there’s grave mischief afoot with Andy!”