by Chet Hagan
“What of Jackson’s Truxton colt, Decatur?”
“He’ll be no match for your Maria.”
“The General has offered me five thousand a side.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You seem surprised.”
Dewey hesitated. “It’s just that I didn’t know that Andy could raise five thousand these days. He’s put so much of his own money into that volunteer army of his.”
“Well, that was the offer.”
“Take it,” the master of Bon Marché recommended. “We’ll put on the match on the closing day of the meeting: the best of three two-mile heats. As a matter of fact, if you want to make it fifty thousand, I’ll take whatever percentage you want to part with.”
Haynie studied his face. “You’re serious.”
“Oh, yes, Captain! Deadly serious. I like to think I know a great racehorse when I see one—filly or colt.”
Dewey, in his role as one of the managers of the Nashville Jockey Club, had invited Captain Haynie to bring his filly from Sumner County to the Clover Bottom fall meeting. However, word of the reputation of Haynie’s Maria (that was her full name, in that Maria seemed to be a common name for fillies) had preceded her. There had been no challengers … until now.
Haynie was not the trainer of the filly. He had a good stable of runners under the firm hand of Green Berry Williams, who had built a name for himself as the best trainer in the West. Completing the team was a hunchback, four-foot-six Negro jockey called “Monkey” Simon, a young man not only talented aboard a race horse but a gifted musician as well. Dewey was going to have a party at Bon Marché at the end of the meeting, and he had made arrangements with Captain Haynie to have “Monkey” entertain.
There was a widely disseminated story that “Monkey” Simon had been a prince in his native Africa, but Charles had his doubts. He remembered a similar story from back in Virginia, where George Milton had claimed princely qualities for his Albert. Somehow that kind of tale seemed to make a few slaveowners proud. Charles, though, thought the stories sad—even if true.
The match between Jackson’s Decatur and Haynie’s Maria was made, drawing the largest crowd to Clover Bottom since the infamous Truxton-Ploughboy match. Dewey wagered heavily, booking nearly ten thousand dollars in bets on the filly. August Schimmel followed his lead. Decatur money was to be had rather easily, in spite of Maria’s record of being unbeaten in six starts. Many backing Decatur believed that a good colt could always beat a good filly. Others remembered the exploits of Decatur’s sire, Truxton. And still others bet on Decatur simply because he was Andrew Jackson’s horse. Andy’s popularity was that great in the community, a fact that astounded and even appalled Dewey.
The coffers of Bon Marché were greatly enriched that day. Haynie’s Maria not only beat Decatur in two straight dash heats, but humbled him, winning easily.
Jackson, while reasonably gracious in defeat, let it be known that he’d try again against Haynie’s Maria.
It was reported to Dewey that Andy was going to put out the word to Virginia breeders to find him the best four-mile horse in the state, “without regard to price.”
Charles hoped that he would. He looked forward to letting Haynie’s Maria, although he did not own her, make him wealthier. Especially at Andrew Jackson’s expense.
VI
“BON Marché has had its most successful year ever,” Mattie wrote, “and we can now look forward to 1812 with real joy.”
She was writing to the MacCallums in New Jersey, as she did with regularity. Her husband knew she did, because Mattie insisted on reading their replies at the dinner table. Charles didn’t like it, but he permitted it. Mattie believed he wanted to hear news of his old friend. Yet there was no other sign that the breach could ever be healed.
“For one thing,” she continued, “the new year will be special because we will have the opportunity to see our first grandchild grow. Little Carrie is so dear, and Amantha seems a natural mother. Charles is almost beside himself with happiness. Can you believe that on Christmas Day, when Carrie was only two weeks old, Charles actually carried that baby aboard a horse? He takes her everywhere with him—everywhere, that is, that Franklin and Amantha will permit.”
Mattie paused. She was making light of her husband’s preoccupation with the baby in the letter, but it concerned her deeply. She was remembering what he had called his fantasy of total involvement with a new baby. She thought of his words then: “from the moment the child leaves the womb.”
She forced herself to concentrate once more on the letter: “But 1812 will also be special for Bon Marché because we are to have three—that’s correct, three—weddings! George is to marry a young lady named Mary Harrison in February. I guess you might call her an heiress. Her father, a tobacco broker, is extremely wealthy. The ceremony is to be at their estate on Stones River. There’s talk that they’ll move to England, but I hope it’s not true. Mary, however, keeps talking of the ‘proper society’ of London. George, who has more than sown his wild oats, as you know, is totally smitten with her and will do anything she asks. She’s several years his senior and absolutely dominates him.
“In June, both of the older daughters will be married. Corrine will finally exchange the vows with her Billy. It’s to be a simple ceremony in the Presbyterian church in Nashville, not at Bon Marché. Young Holder, you may recall, is a stuffy man who doesn’t want to be ‘corrupted’ by Bon Marché. He expresses that sentiment over and over again ad nauseam. I’m amazed at how well Charles tolerates him.”
She reread that paragraph and added a sentence: “In truth, I can’t imagine what Corrine sees in him.
“Louise is going to marry August Schimmel, the owner of the newspaper, on the last day in June,” Mattie continued. “He’s ten years older than she, but a perfect gentleman. And rich enough to be involved with Charles in the ownership of several horses, the Clover Bottom track, and other enterprises that require considerable money. Charles admires him very much, as do I, and we will have a big, social wedding here. Charles and I have offered them quarters here at Bon Marché, possibly adding a wing, and we are hoping they will accept.”
Mattie sighed to herself. Several times she had thought about asking Charles to append just a few lines to one of the letters. She thought about it again now, but once more she pushed the idea aside, not willing to risk a bitter scene.
“All are well here,” she added, “and all send their love.”
“All, that is,” she said aloud, “except Charles Dewey.”
33
LEE Dewey approached the subject gingerly. “Father, have you seen the announcement in the Monitor from Andy?” he asked of Charles at the dinner table.
“No, but I can tell you what it’s about: another proclamation of impending war with England.”
“Yes, it is,” his son admitted, speaking slowly. “But this is a bit more than that.”
Dewey looked up from his plate. “I suggest, Lee, that Jackson’s warlike pronouncements are not a fit subject for discussion at this table.”
“But, Father—”
“Certainly you can find something more pleasant to talk about!”
The young man was silenced.
“Charles?” Mattie pleaded.
“Oh, very well,” her husband said, “what is it, Lee, that you find so fascinating?”
Lee picked up the newspaper. “It’s dated the Hermitage, March 7, 1812, and he says: ‘VOLUNTEERS TO ARMS!’ That’s in bold type. ‘Citizens! Your government has yielded to the impulse of the nation. War is on the point of breaking out between the United States and Great Britain! and the martial hosts are summoned to the Tented Fields!’”
Charles snorted derisively.
“‘A simple invitation is given for fifty thousand volunteers. Shall we, who have clamored for war, now skulk in the corner? Are we the titled Slaves of George the third? the military conscripts of Napoleon? or the frozen peasants of the Russian Czar? No—we are the free-born sons of the
only Republic now existing in the world.’”
Lee stopped reading.
“Is that all?”
“No, sir, there’s more.”
“All in the same purple prose, I assume?”
His son smiled slightly. “Yes, sir, it is.” He glanced again at the newspaper. “He says: ‘The period of youth is the season for martial exploits.’”
“Enough!” Charles raised a hand. “Spare us, please Lee, further details of General Jackson’s rabble-rousing.”
“Yes, sir.” He laid the newspaper aside. “Uh, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I want to volunteer.”
“No!” A fist smashed down on the table. Dishes and silverware jumped noisily. “Absolutely not!”
“But, Father—”
“Damn it! Enough! I said no and no it shall be!” He was screaming, his face livid.
“Charles, control your temper!” Mattie said sharply.
Dewey sighed. His voice calmed. “You’re right, dear. I apologize.” To Lee: “I didn’t mean to shout at you, son. But let’s look at this thing for the facts in it.”
Lee nodded, disappointment on his young face.
“In the first place,” Charles started, “the call for fifty thousand volunteers is for all of the country, not for Tennessee alone, as Jackson implies. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Secondly, does Jackson say there”—he stabbed a finger toward the newspaper—“that he has a commission from the United States government to raise an army?”
“No, sir.”
“Of course he doesn’t. The government in Washington, in its great wisdom, I think, has been reluctant to give a command to Andrew Jackson, distrusting—as do I—his ability to command in concert with a coordinated military plan that would be necessary were we at war.
“And that brings me to my third point: War has not been declared, has it?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmmm. And finally, Lee, a most important point. You’re needed here at Bon Marché. George has now gone off to England with his bride—we don’t know when he might return, if ever—and Franklin and I need you here now more than ever. You can appreciate that, can’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Lee was now thoroughly cowed by Dewey’s arguments. He hung his head, staring at his plate.
“Very well. I said I had made my final point, but I do have one more.” He looked around the table, setting his gaze on Mattie. “If the time comes when the country needs my sons in its defense, I will be the first to agree to their going.”
He slapped a hand on the table, making the dishes dance again. “But never—I repeat, NEVER!—will I allow them to bear arms under the command of Major General Andrew Jackson!”
There was dead silence at the table.
Dewey’s eyes stayed fixed on Mattie’s. “Is that understood?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, dear,” she answered.
II
THE baby giggled with delight, gaily waving her arms and legs, cooing at the mare chewing hay next to her.
Charles had placed little Carrie in the hayrack while he ministered to a sick foal in the stall.
“I think if we dose him tonight,” he was saying to a black groom, “and again in the morning, he’s going to come around.”
“Yas, suh, Ah hopes so.”
“So do I, Ephraim, so do I. I’d hate to lose another foal to whatever this is that’s going around.”
A scream rent the air!
Amantha rushed into the stall and snatched Carrie from the hayrack, cradling her protectively against her breast. “My baby, oh, my baby!”
She whirled on Charles, anger sparking from her eyes. “Are you crazy?” she shouted at him. “That horse could have—could have—”
Dewey tried to calm her. “That mare wouldn’t hurt a fly. Carrie was in no danger.” He laughed. “She was rather enjoying it, as a matter of fact.”
“You damned old fool!” His son’s wife stalked out of the stall, clutching her child tightly.
Chuckling, Charles watched her go. “There’s no more vicious animal than a mother who believes her baby is threatened.”
“Yas, suh.” The slave was chuckling as well.
Later, though, at the Bon Marché mansion, Charles found no such amiable agreement.
“Damn you, Charles Dewey,” Mattie shrieked at him, “have you lost all your senses?”
“If you’re talking about the baby—”
“Of course I’m talking about the baby! Amantha came back here in absolute hysterics. And I can’t say that I blame her!”
“The woman was overreacting. There was no danger at all.”
“So you say! Well, there are new rules now, Charles. Hereafter, if you want to take little Carrie anywhere, you ask Amantha first. No more of this just snatching her away and taking her wherever you want!”
Charles sank wearily into a chair. “Mattie, listen to—”
“Carrie is not your child!”
He ran a hand across his eyes. “Mattie, do you believe that I would, for one single moment, place that baby in jeopardy?”
“No, of course not.”
“And I didn’t this time.”
His wife sat down opposite him, calmer now. “Charles, you simply have to recognize that you can’t continue to dominate that baby’s life. Carrie is Amantha’s child, and Franklin’s. I appreciate how much you love her, but—”
“You’re right. Once more.” He sighed.
After a moment of silence: “I was going to tell you this at what I thought was a more appropriate moment. But maybe this is the appropriate moment. I’m pregnant, Charles.”
His eyes opened wide in astonishment and delight. “Mattie, dear Mattie!” He rushed to her, pulling her to her feet, crushing her in his arms. “Oh, God, this is wonderful!”
“I have to tell you,” she said softly, “that I would prefer that it weren’t true.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve watched you with Carrie. And your … your possessiveness … well, it frightens me, Charles.”
He held her at arm’s length, staring at her. “Frightens you? How can you be frightened by love?”
“Ask yourself this: Is the way you’ve been behaving with Carrie rational?”
He looked into her eyes, then kissed her. “Perhaps I have been too possessive, as you suggest. I’ll apologize to Amantha. And I promise you, dear, I’ll be rational when our … when’s it to be?”
“I think it’s been two months. Or nearly so.”
Dewey thought for a moment. “October, maybe. During the fall meeting at Clover Bottom.”
Mattie’s laughter echoed through the big house. “Charles, I believe even your funeral is going to be related to the dates of a racing meeting.”
“I couldn’t wish for anything more.”
III
CHARLES lounged in an armed wooden chair in the print shop, his feet propped on a railing, scanning a freshly produced copy of the Nashville Monitor.
“Well, those young hotheads have their declaration of war now,” he complained. “And I wonder what good it’s going to do them? My God, a militia army and a navy of only twenty ships with a mere five hundred guns!”
Editor August Schimmel smiled wryly. “I’ve suggested in my editorial that the English may not even recognize that act of our Congress. That they’re too busy with France to care what the United States does.”
“When Andy Jackson reads that, he’s going to come storming in here with another one of his rousing perorations.”
“Probably. But it seems clear now that Madison isn’t going to give him a commission for a command.”
“Thank the Lord for that!”
Schimmel shrugged. “For the life of me I can’t get stirred up over this war news. Do you realize that it will be only a week before I’ll be married?”
“Uh-huh. And that’s the reason I’ve come to Nashville—to pick up my new wedding suit at Jackson’s store.”
“I’ll admit to you, Charles, that I’m a bit nervous about all this.”
“A perfectly natural reaction.” Dewey grinned at him.
“No, it’s not just the thought of being married that makes me somewhat uneasy: it’s the … well, the imposition we’ll be placing on you and Mattie by moving into Bon Marche.”
“Nonsense! We want you there. Work has already started on the new wing.”
“And that’s another thing. I’ll not have you paying for the whole construction!”
“I’m so delighted to have you as my son-in-law, August,” Charles said easily, “that I’ll even agree with you on that. You’ll pay for half. Is that satisfactory?”
“I’d feel much better about that kind of arrangement.”
“Then that’s the way it shall be.”
Charles turned to watch Schimmel’s assistants operating the small flatbed press, turning out copies of the Monitor.
“That’s fascinating,” he said idly, “the constant repetition of words being turned out there, to be read by God knows how many thousands of people. People you don’t even know, August, and yet your words will influence them in some manner.”
Schimmel nodded soberly. “It’s a grave responsibility.”
“Not all newspaper owners feel as you do. Some of them are nothing but scoundrels, using the printing press for their own narrow interests.”
“Unhappily, that’s true. But they don’t last. The Monitor is … what?… the third newspaper to start in this community.”
“Yes.”
The editor set his square jaw firmly. “I intend to last, Charles, not only here but in other cities, too. There is a kind of power inherent in a newspaper, and I mean to use it for good. The country is growing, and my business is going to grow with it.”
“A large ambition, August.”
“So? Didn’t I come to this country because such ambition could be realized? Didn’t you?”
“I did, yes.” He got to his feet. “I must get back.”
“Could you spare me another moment?”