Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  “Yes, but just a dash, you know.”

  Dewey and Schimmel had been brought together by the horse, and they had found early on that they were compatible. Schimmel, whose German accent got heavier when he became excited, was a man of universal interests. A natural newspaperman, apparently, he had come to the United States with a fortune inherited from his father, a pottery manufacturer in Karlsruhe. He might have settled in one of the larger cities along the East Coast, and prospered there. Instead, he took the gamble of moving to the frontier of his new country, coming eventually to Nashville.

  He was a tall, blond, square-cut man with a sober demeanor that complemented the moody sobriety Dewey had acquired after the departure of Andrew MacCallum. Mattie liked the German because he seemed to fill a gap in her husband’s life.

  As they walked away from the training track, Charles asked: “A Bon Marché whiskey, August?”

  “That’s always welcome.”

  “What are your views on developments in Washington?”

  “The young warhawks?”

  “Yes.”

  Schimmel scratched his chin contemplatively. “They seem to be in firm control of Congress, don’t they? Henry Clay’s election as Speaker proves that.”

  “Will they get war?”

  “I believe they will.”

  “Lord!”

  “But we must recognize that England is provoking a confrontation, with its continual harassment of our shipping.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “Just this morning I received a letter from our Representative.”

  “Ah, yes, the Jackson handmaiden, Felix Grundy.”

  “He may be that,” the editor admitted, “but he points out, quite legitimately, I think, that the English are arming the Indians here in the West. Grundy feels strongly about that; he’s had three brothers killed by Indians.

  “He says”—Schimmel glanced at the letter—”that the English are urging ‘the ruthless savages to tomahawk our women and children.’ Several incidents of that type have been reported, you know. And Grundy adds: ‘War is not to commence by sea or land, it is already begun, and some of the richest blood of our country has been shed.’”

  Schimmel folded the letter, returning it to his pocket.

  Charles groaned. “Well, be that as it may, I hope that my sons don’t get drawn into war.” He changed the subject. “You’ll stay for dinner, of course.”

  “I’m afraid not, Charles. You see … uh … I have an engagement to take your daughter to dinner in Nashville.”

  “Louise?”

  “Yes.”

  Dewey slapped him on the back. “Why, you sly devil! ‘I want to see the horse,’ you say. And all along you and Louise were—”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Schimmel protested, embarrassed by Charles’s roguish innuendo. “It’s just that this new establishment is opening up, and it seems that there’s something new in Nashville every week—and … well, Miss Louise has consented to accompany me.”

  “Louise is a very pretty girl,” Charles said proudly.

  “Yes, she is.”

  An elbow dug into the German’s ribs. “I’m going to have to keep an eye on you, August.” He was laughing.

  The editor was not. “Charles, I assure you that I have nothing but the most honorable of intentions.”

  Dewey laughed even harder. “I recall using that line myself, Herr Schimmel. And finding myself married shortly thereafter.”

  II

  CHARLES had changed. Not metamorphically—not from worm to butterfly, nor lamb to beast either. Nor in ways that were evident to casual observers of Bon Marché. But MacCallum’s leaving—and Marshall’s—had changed him.

  Mattie found him less ebullient now; more sober, more restrained in his enthusiasms. He continued to work long hours with the horses; he gambled just as much. But success seemed to be of less consequence to him; failure less devastating.

  At times, his new even-tempered approach to just about everything was irritating to Mattie. More than once she wished for the old Charles; the new one was so monotonously predictable. So lackluster.

  Except for two things, totally unrelated.

  One was his decision, announced without any other preliminary, that he was setting aside four hundred acres of the plantation for what he called a deer park.

  “That outlying piece of land,” he told Mattie, “on the other side of the number two wheat field, is still pretty much virgin territory. Why disturb it? We ought to preserve something of the wilderness for our grandchildren and their children and all of the generations to come. Keep it safe for the future.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I’m going to stock it with native animals—deer, buffalo, antelope—before they are all killed off.” He clapped his hands together for emphasis. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ll have the blacks start building a secure fence around that area.”

  “What blacks?” Mattie interrupted. “They’re all fully employed now.”

  Dewey shrugged. “Well, get some more.”

  The reply was so uncharacteristic of her husband that Mattie gasped. She found the entire conversation a bit strange.

  “In the past, Charles, you’ve always resisted my suggestions that we get more help.”

  “This, though,” he said with determination, “is important.”

  “Are you implying that other things were not—” She stopped, changing her mind. “Very well. How many hands will you need?”

  “Oh, a dozen. Fifteen might be better.”

  “That will be rather costly.”

  He smiled at her tolerantly. “You must understand that this is an investment in the future. We ought to serve the future while struggling through the morass of the present. Don’t you agree?”

  The next day she had an agent acquire twelve more slaves for Bon Marché.

  The second thing that stirred enthusiasm in the “new Charles” was Mattie herself. Their physical relationship had always been important to them, but now Charles seemed to believe it the top priority in their life together.

  He made love to her with renewed intensity, never seeming to be content with what had been pleasurable the night before. He experimented, finding new ways to satisfy her. But always gently; stroking her and cooing to her and assuring her again and again of his love for her.

  Mattie bloomed under the new attention, looking forward to her nighttime hours with him. Yet she was disquieted. She thought he was being driven to prove something to her, when that had never been necessary between them before. She wanted to talk to him about it, but could never find the opening words.

  “I was reading the Bible this morning,” he told her one night in bed.

  She couldn’t have been more surprised. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes,” Charles said soberly. “It’s been said that the Bible is the repository of all wisdom, and I’ve come to believe that.”

  Mattie kept silent. She feared that whatever she said at that moment would be wrong.

  “And, you know, one of the first orders that God gave—recorded in the first chapter of Genesis—was ‘be fruitful and multiply.’”

  She tried for a light tone. “Darling, I have the distinct feeling that you’re leading up to something.”

  “I am.” Still soberly. “I want to have another child.”

  “Charles!”

  “I don’t shock you, I hope.”

  “But you do, dear.”

  “Oh … why?”

  “Charles Dewey, you’re forty-six years old.”

  “That’s not decrepit.”

  “And I’m past thirty now.”

  “Thirty-two, to be exact. Biologically a very good age to be a mother.”

  “And we’re about to be grandparents, now that Amantha has made her announcement.”

  “I’ll be the grandparent.” He smiled for the first time in the conversation. “You’re too young for that.”

  “Well, anyway, I really thin
k we’ve done our bit in the fruitful-and-multiply business.”

  “Hmmm. I really want another baby from you. Perhaps more than one more.”

  “More than one!”

  Dewey let out a long sigh. “I have realized, Mattie, that I’ve been a failure as a father. That I’ve been so preoccupied with other things that I haven’t once turned my total attention to a child. I owe that kind of dedication to at least one of my children.”

  “Don’t be silly! You’ve been a wonderful father. You are a wonderful father. And you have plenty of time yet to turn your greater attention to Alma May and to little Tom. My God, Alma’s only ten, and Tom just nine.”

  Another sigh. “What I’ve been thinking of is total involvement from the moment the child leaves the womb.”

  “Charles, that’s—”

  “Crazy?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth! I was going to say that such a thing is just not practical.”

  He laughed now. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I love you so, and when I’m with you I have these … well, fantasies.”

  She kissed him.

  “I love you for your fantasies, Mr. Dewey.”

  III

  “TAKE him out easy and let him run freely.”

  Charles was giving instructions to one of the Bon Marché jockeys, a young fellow named Billy, for the handling of Monitor’s debut. The Schimmel-Dewey horse had been entered in one of the dashes on the Clover Bottom fall card—a single heat at two miles.

  “If he’s in it as you start the last half-mile,” the orders continued, “go to the whip and let’s see what he has. If you’re out of it, though, save him.”

  “Yas, suh.”

  “Billy, I just want to see how he fares in competition. We have a long way to go with him yet, so don’t punish him.”

  Monitor was to be the only Bon Marché horse to be saddled by Charles during the meeting. The other horses carrying the purple silks of the plantation—twenty in all—would be under the guidance of his sons, Franklin and George.

  Charles had other duties at the meeting; he was one of its stewards. Andy Jackson and his associates— it had been rumored that Jackson was desperately short of cash—had sold the Clover Bottom track to the new Nashville Jockey Club, financed largely by Dewey, Schimmel, and Joseph Coleman, the former mayor of Nashville and the horseman who had arranged for the importation of the English stallion, Royalist.

  August Schimmel stood with Charles as he saddled their colt. “Are you betting on him?” the newspaper editor wanted to know.

  “I wager on every Bon Marché runner.”

  “Not equally, though.”

  “No, that’s true. I haven’t decided yet how I feel about Monitor’s chances. There will be eight maidens going to the post for this one, and I imagine he has as good a chance as the others.”

  “The public pool is offering three-to-one odds on him,” Schimmel reported, “and I’ve been thinking of betting a thousand dollars on him.”

  Dewey’s eyebrows rose, but he made no comment.

  “Too much, do you think?”

  “August, I’ve made it somewhat of a rule not to tout horses to my friends—even their own horses, as in this case. I can tell you only that he has a chance.”

  The editor seemed disappointed. “But not much of one?”

  “If a thousand dollars isn’t important to you…”

  “I can afford it.”

  “Then follow your belief.”

  “How much are you going to bet?”

  Charles thought for a moment. “A hundred, I think.”

  Schimmel scowled. “I’m going to stick with a thousand.”

  “Good for you.” Dewey laughed, clapping him on the back. “I like a man who’s willing to risk money on his convictions.”

  When it came time for the race and the starting drum tapped, Monitor was left in the shuffle at the start and was sixth coming away from the line, getting turf thrown in his face. He didn’t improve his position, and Billy, following instructions, just permitted the horse to finish as he would in the last half-mile. Monitor was seventh at the end.

  Schimmel tried to hide his disappointment with a shrug. “Well, that was an expensive lesson, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but we did get a lesson,” Charles replied. “You can put it down to paying for experience. We learned a great deal in that race.”

  “We did?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Billy brought Monitor to where Charles and August were standing. “He don’t laik dirt in his face, Mistah Charles.”

  “That’s what we learned,” Dewey said to his partner. “The next time out we’ll race him into the lead and try to keep him there. August, we have a natural frontrunner.”

  “Is that good?”

  “The one big secret of training, my friend, is to learn what the horse wants to do—what he’s most comfortable with—and then you run him that way. Every time. Monitor stops when he gets dirt in his face, so we run him on the front.”

  “Can he win on the front?”

  “I think he might. He didn’t get used up too much today, so we’ll try him again before the week is out.”

  IV

  GEORGE Dewey rushed up excitedly.

  “Father, I think you’d better come at once! Cousin Andy has—”

  Charles ran after his son to the starting line, where Andrew Jackson, two pistols drawn and cocked, his legs spread wide apart, was preventing the start of the fourth race. Five horses were positioned along the line, their nervous jockeys trying to hold them in check. The starter’s hand, grasping the stick, was frozen above the drum.

  “General Jackson,” Dewey bellowed, “put up your weapons!”

  “Those damned scoundrels have fixed this race! And I’ll not have a crooked race at my track!”

  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.’”