by Chet Hagan
Remember when we studied the Greek philosophers? I commend to you now what Plutarch said: “A man should not allow himself to hate even his enemies, because if you indulge this passion on some occasions, it will rise of itself in others: if you hate your enemies, you will contact such a vicious habit of mind, as by degrees will break out upon those who are your friends.”
Hate will debilitate you, Charles. It may well bring alienation from your fine family. Do not allow it to happen!
Dewey re-read the last paragraph again. He knew that Andrew was correct.
Finally, I appreciate your fine offer to join you in Tennessee. As before, I must decline, Charles, my friend, I am a hidebound academician, content here in Princeton. No matter how small “my price,” as you put it, I would not be worth it. I send my love to your wife—perhaps someday I will meet her—and to the children. And, of course, my greatest affection to you.
Charles Dewey held the letter in his hand, staring at it. Did anyone ever have a wiser friend? For the first time in many months he thought of his guardian spirit and how it must have conspired to bring him together with Andrew MacCallum.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
28
MORE than three hundred had been invited.
On May 28, 1808, Bon Marché overflowed with guests, summoned to celebrate the twenty-first birthday anniversary of Franklin Dewey, firstborn son of a one-time deserter from the French navy.
In a sense, the party also celebrated the majority of Charles Dewey’s entire life. It symbolized the success he had achieved in his adopted country: at forty-three he had everything he had ever dreamed of, everything his guardian spirit had ever promised him.
Mattie Dewey, although she was in the role of a stepmother, had cheerfully undertaken the task of making the party the most lavish social event on the western frontier to that date. Huge tables had been set up in the oak grove on the broad front lawn of Bon Marché and spread with gleaming linen that her father had imported from Ireland. More than fifty of the blacks, carefully chosen for their skill as waiters and waitresses, were dressed in white linen, each wearing a wide silk sash of royal purple—the racing colors of Bon Marché.
Four Bon Marché beeves were turning on spits over fragrant hickory-wood fires. Dozens of large hams from Bon Marché’s own smokehouse were distributed among the tables. Giant crystal bowls were filled to overflowing with fruits from the Bon Marché orchards: apples, peaches, pears, nuts of a half-dozen varieties. There was bourbon from the Bon Marché distillery. And hard apple cider. And pastries from the Bon Marché bakery.
Sweet-smelling bales of hay were scattered across the lawn, covered with more white linen, so that the guests would have a place to sit when they pleased. But the visitors, many of them seeing Bon Marché for the first time, preferred to stroll about, astounded by what Charles and Mattie Dewey had accomplished there: the well-built barns for the horses, the grain mill, the blacksmith shop, the tannery, the tobacco sheds, the training track, the smokehouse, the bakery, the summer kitchen (busier on this day than it had ever been), the miles of stone fences, the greenhouse for exotic flowers (each table featured a bouquet of flowers many of the guests didn’t recognize), the fine brick carriage house, and the magnificent mansion.
There was curiosity, too, about the crude double-cabin on the edge of the grove, kept there by Mattie and Charles as a reminder of what Bon Marché had been at the beginning.
As the notes of an orchestra hired for the occasion drifted across the lawn, husband and wife found themselves together for a rare moment.
Charles took Mattie’s hands. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s just wonderful. I was thinking a moment or two ago of how proud Martha would have been, seeing her first child reach twenty-one.” A pause. “For Martha, then, another thank-you, Mattie.”
She smiled. “I gratefully accept the thanks of both of you.”
“Lord, how fortunate we are! Not just for Franklin, you know, but for all the children.” His eyes swept the lawn, seeking them out. “Corrine—a beautiful woman at eighteen. And the twins? Can you believe it: sixteen on their next birthday? And the Princess…”
They watched as little Alma May, already eight years old, skipped across the lawn, charming everyone, stopping to curtsy now and then.
“And Thomas,” Charles went on. “He’s such a shy one. I wonder where he’s hiding out now?” He grinned. “And can we forget George?” His second son stood fifteen yards removed from them, surrounded by a small crowd of gaily chattering girls.
Dewey bent to kiss his petite wife on the lips.
She laughed. “I was thinking,” she said, “about how we’ve enriched the merchants of Nashville by having this party. I believe that every dress, every hat, every coat, every piece of satin, silk, and lace, every fragrance must have been cleaned out of the stores.”
He guffawed. “And every dollar out of the purses of a lot of gentlemen.” A grimace. “Including this one.”
“Don’t complain, dear. You know you’re enjoying this as much as Franklin is.”
“More, I think. Oh … have you met the Bolling girl?”
“Amantha? She’s a plain young lady, isn’t she?”
“Hmmm. Mr. Shakespeare said that ‘beauty is but a vain and doubtful good.’ I suspect that Franklin must believe that. He seems smitten by her.”
“Completely,” Mattie agreed. “Now I think we’ve indulged ourselves enough with this tête-à-tête. Back to our guests.”
The governor of Tennessee was there, and the mayor of Nashville, and most of the prominent families of western Tennessee, including the cream of the horse-racing fraternity. But not Andrew Jackson. He and Rachel had been invited—Mattie had insisted on that—but Andy had sent a brief, though proper, note of apology, saying that Rachel was not feeling well enough to “face the rigors of a social engagement at this time.” Dewey didn’t believe the excuse for a moment, but he welcomed it.
The party had started at noon; it was due to continue through dinner. At about five o’clock, as long shadows began to fall across the lawn, Charles stood on a hay bale in the center of the melee, and called for attention.
“Friends,” he shouted, so that all might hear him, “Mrs. Dewey and I are pleased that you could all find time to do us the honor of being here. And to do our son, Franklin, the honor of celebrating the important twenty-first anniversary of his birth. Now, if the guest of honor would come forward…”
Franklin moved to where his father was perched on the hay bale, somewhat shyly holding the hand of Amantha Bolling.
“Franklin,” his father said, “we—meaning the entire family—sought the perfect gift to mark this occasion. And we believe we have. George!”
Smiling broadly, George Washington Dewey led a well-muscled chestnut colt to the center of the lawn. He had to keep a strong hold on the animal, because it pranced about nervously, upset by being in the middle of so much humanity.
“Franklin, my son,” Charles continued, “this is a yearling colt by the great Diomed, winner of the inaugural Epsom Derby in England.”
Horsemen on the grounds applauded appreciatively, sending the yearling off on another dance.
“Diomed is the son of Florizel, out of Sister of Juno, by Spectator. And this colt is out of Mr. John Tayloe’s mare, Castianira, also imported from England. Fine breeding for a fine young man!”
More applause.
“And we have already named this handsome young fellow, Franklin. We have called him Majority, so that he will always remind you of this happy occasion!”
George led the yearling to his brother and handed him the rope. Franklin beamed, running a hand over the smooth red coat of the colt, clucking to him. Still holding the lead rope, he climbed up on the bay bale to stand by his father.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. Then, louder: “Thank you, all the members of my family, for this superb gift. I promise you that I will train him to live up to his royal blood.”
Fr
anklin turned to Dewey. “May I say more, Father?”
“It’s your day, lad.”
“I would also like to take advantage of this moment to make an announcement.” He paused to hand the horse back to George. “I am proud to tell you all that Mr. Malcolm Bolling has given his permission for me to take his daughter in marriage.”
The applause was universal.
Franklin reached down to pull Amantha up beside him. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot … her name is Amantha.”
Laughter.
“We plan to be married on January first next, 1809.” He turned to Charles. “That is, if you approve, sir.”
Charles took an embarrassed Amantha in his arms, kissing her on the cheek. She blushed red. “I approve, son, most heartily. Now,” he shouted, “a toast! To Franklin and Amantha—to their long happiness!”
The toast was drunk.
The young girls in the crowd quickly gathered around Amantha, giggling and chattering.
George, who had instructed one of the Negroes to take the yearling back to the barn, drew his brother aside.
“Franklin, you sly dog! I had no idea it had gone this far.”
“Yes, well…” The older brother seemed embarrassed.
“The picnic ploy must have worked, eh?”
“I guess it did.”
“You guess it did? What the hell does that mean?”
“Well,” Franklin started hesitantly, “I did take your advice … but, it wasn’t at all the way you described it.”
“No?”
“No … You see, George, you must be more self-assured than I am. We … uh … well, we kissed, of course.”
“Of course.” His brother grinned wickedly.
“But … I don’t know about nature taking its course.”
“You mean, that’s it?! Nothing else happened?”
“No.”
George was incredulous. “You’re still a virgin?”
Franklin nodded sadly. “You see, George … uh … Amantha wants to wait until the wedding night, and I—”
George cut him off with a raucous laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned! I didn’t know such things still happened in the enlightened nineteenth century!”
II
CHARLES yawned.
“I plan to start Matilda in the Gallatin Purse on Sunday.”
“Finally!” Mattie teased him. “And I must say that you’re not giving me this news with any great enthusiasm. How dare you, Charles Dewey, yawn when you speak of my namesake?”
He grinned at her. “In truth, she hasn’t shown me much in training. No speed, certainly. Frankly, I’m disappointed with New York’s produce. I guess it’s the Messenger blood, but all of them are small, you know.”
Another yawn. “God, I’m tired,” he said. “I think I’ll lay up the racing string after the Gallatin meeting. Or just let Franklin and George carry on with it.”
Mattie showed some concern. “You have been working hard all summer. Maybe too hard, dear.”
“Hmm, maybe. But it’s been the best season we’ve ever had. Twenty-two … or is it twenty-three—”
“Twenty-three, dear.”
“Yes, of course. Twenty-three wins for the Bon Marché purple. And some mighty handsome side wagers besides.”
“Are you happy?”
“Uh-huh.” He leaned over in the bed to kiss her lightly. “I could only be happier if I could change the name of that filly and use your name on something more promising. I don’t want you to be embarrassed by what happens on Sunday.”
“Is she so umpromising?”
He thought for a moment. Then he laughed. “She’s a lot like you really: small and tough.”
“Then she’ll be a winner!”
“That’s female logic,” he said derisively.
“And that’s not all bad,” Mattie insisted. “It was my female logic that caused me to throw in with you … and Bon Marché.”
“Then how can she lose?” He took her in his arms, kissing her eyes closed. They were content in each other.
“Charles?” It was a whisper.
“What?”
“I heard that you had an argument with Franklin over the use of Marshall at Gallatin.”
Dewey frowned. “From Angelica, I’ll bet.”
“Yes. But I understand that Marshall has become quite a good young jockey.”
“He shows promise.”
She opened her eyes. “But you’re not going to allow him to ride at Gallatin.”
Her husband sighed. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Dewey, he’s going to be up on Matilda. It’s a weight-for-age race, and he’s the only one of the boys who can make ninety-eight pounds right now.”
“I’m glad Marshall is going to ride, Charles.”
He didn’t reply.
“Aren’t you?”
Dewey was annoyed. “If Franklin thinks he’s ready, that’s enough for me.”
Mattie decided that she had said enough.
III
FIVE horses went postward for the featured Gallatin Purse, the best of three four-mile heats. Matilda would be matched with another four-year-old filly named Lady’s Choice, both carrying ninety-eight pounds, the low weight. A good five-year-old mare, Harpy, was assigned one hundred eight pounds. And two four-year-old colts, Blue Ridge and Rambler—the favorite in the event—were to carry an even hundred pounds.
Charles didn’t make a bet with the public pool, as he usually did when a Bon Marché horse was running. Even though he had trained the filly, he turned the saddling and the handling of the jockey over to Franklin, and he acted only as a spectator—and one with seemingly little interest.
“This filly doesn’t have a lot of speed,” Franklin said to Marshall, who had never ridden Matilda before. “So just keep her as close to the pace as you can, in case something collapses in front of her.”
Marshall nodded his understanding.
Franklin stole a glance at Charles, then moved close to the light-skinned boy in the saddle and whispered to him. “I want to win this race more than any I can think of. Don’t run her legs off, brother.”
Again Marshall nodded to his half brother.
Mattie, who had been seeking a wager, came up to Charles. “Can you believe my luck?” she said enthusiastically. “The gentleman who owns Blue Ridge has given me six-to-one odds.”
“For how much?”
“His wife hesitated. “A thousand dollars.”
“What? Good God, woman, are you stupid?” He stalked away from her angrily. He was thinking of seeking out Raymond Cross, the owner of Blue Ridge, and thrashing him for taking advantage of his wife.
Just before the runners were called to the post, Mattie had patted Marshall on the leg.
“Win this one for me,” she said.
The boy smiled at her.
“And for your father.”
Marshall’s face went sober. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll try.”
When the drum tapped for the start, the two colts—as everyone had expected—went immediately to the lead. They traded the lead, back and forth, throughout most of the four miles. In the last fifty yards they surged toward the finish line as a team and crossed it that way.
The placing judges took a long time in discussion before it was announced: “A dead heat is declared, ladies and gentlemen, between Blue Ridge and Rambler!”
The crowd roared its approval.
The other four-year-old filly, Lady’s Choice, had been third, ten lengths off the pace. Matilda, with Marshall riding easily, was two lengths farther back, in fourth. Surprisingly, the five-year-old mare, Harpy, was a poor last.
Marshall slid out of the saddle. “I did what you said,” he told Franklin. “I didn’t run her legs off. I could have passed Lady’s Choice, but I didn’t see any reason to do that.”
“You did absolutely the right thing, Marshall. Let’s get her ready for the second heat.”
Mattie hadn’t seen Charles since she had told him of her big wager. But it didn’t matt
er; she wanted no more of his anger.
The field was called for the second heat.
“Same instructions,” Franklin said to the jockey. “Just handle her easily. Don’t use her up.”
The second heat was almost an exact copy of the first. Blue Ridge and Rambler went quickly to the front and stayed there. The race ended the same way—astoundingly! The two colts were declared, once more, to have run a dead heat!
This time, however, it was Matilda who trailed them to the finish line, only six lengths off the winning pace. The mare, Harpy, was also closer up in fourth. And Lady’s Choice, having run all of her race in the first heat, was distanced and was declared out of the third heat.
Charles had watched the first two heats from the refreshment pavilion along the home stretch, drinking bourbon all the while. After the second heat, he spoke to a stranger standing next to him.
“Are you a betting man, sir?”
“Sure thing.”
“Would you consider taking some money on that filly, Matilda?”
“Anything you name, mister.”
Charles emptied his glass. “For the whole race, sir, five hundred dollars!”
“Are you sober, mister?”
“No, but I’m not so drunk that I don’t see what’s been happening out there.”
“You’re a fool,” the stranger said, “but you have a bet.”
“Will you give me three to one?”
The man shrugged confidently. “Sure, why not?”
“Agreed,” said Dewey, pumping the stranger’s hand vigorously. He ordered another whiskey.
At the judges’ stand on the course, a bitter verbal battle was being waged. Rambler had come out of the second heat with his hind legs bleeding, and his owner, one Wade Masters, was loudly complaining to the officials that his runner had been fouled—that he had been “jumped on” by Blue Ridge.
“They bumped, Mr. Masters. That was obvious,” the steward was saying. “But we are convinced that it was accidental.”
“Accidental be damned!” Masters screamed. “It was a deliberate foul and I want Blue Ridge disqualified.”