Wagering was passionate and purses stupendous. Langston Butler’s Valentine was expected to repeat last season’s win.
That fall, Jack was drinking in the damp, unhappy clubhouse of the Knoxville racetrack. Despite pouring rain, the race had been run as scheduled and the horse Jack had optioned fell, crippling his black jockey. The horse was shot even before the jockey (who was blamed for the accident) was dragged off the track. Glum Jack Ravanel perched on a stool watching drizzle through a rain-speckled window whose broad sill held his cigar and tumbler. Rain lashed the clubhouse, and a smoky fire added that reek to the funk of wet wool clothing.
Jack owed so much, and this year’s rice crop was worse than the last. He swirled the dark liquid around as if wisdom might manifest herself in the fumes. Horses, horses, horses.
At a table inches behind his back, two locals were speaking confidentially. “I’ze told you about Red Stick.”
“Well, I guess you have.” A whisper was very faint. “Jesus Christ. Four miles in eight minutes ten.”
“Junior says Andy’s gonna sell him.”
“Oh yeah. You bet. Horse like that.”
“Ain’t I Junior’s cousin, ain’t I? Wasn’t we tads together down on Mutton Creek? Not many knows ’bout ol’ Red Stick. Andy plays his cards close to his vest.”
As if alerted by Jack’s stiffness, the other said, “Hush now, Henry. This ain’t neither time nor place.”
Two days later, Colonel Jack Ravanel trotted up a lane between blooming cotton fields and surmounted the rise above a two-story brick home, more farmhouse than the mansion of a Southern grandee. After the boy took his horse, Jack was welcomed in the entry hall by a buxom Negress. “I’ze Hannah, sir. Can you tell me your business or who you be?”
“Colonel Jack Ravanel. I served with the general.”
“Oh, he be glad see you, sir. Have a seat, sir. General Jackson always got time for he old soldiers.”
Jack didn’t wait long. Jackson was a short, wiry man whose head was too big for his body, which had—as he said—been “kicked about.” The general carried two bullets as duel mementos, and not two years before, he’d won election to the Presidency of the United States but been cheated out of it. He never once complained.
“Why, Colonel, Colonel Jack Ravanel. So good. So good. What brings you up from that Carolina den of iniquity?”
“I am a reformed man, General.”
“You haven’t taken ‘the pledge’?”
“I’m reformed, General, not dead.”
“Then you must try my whiskey. Come into my office.”
In that small room, Jackson introduced Jack to Mr. Harmon of New York and Mr. Fitzhugh of Virginia: his “advisers.” Jackson’s whiskey was as excellent as the conversation was restrained. The presentation gold sword on Jackson’s desk had been awarded by the Tennessee legislature to their major general of militia.
Jackson’s advisers yearned to be giving advice; their faces glowed with the need.
Jack said, “General, there are many very fine horses along the Cumberland. I believe you own most of them.”
“I keep a few that are no better than crowbait.” Jackson bared his teeth in a grin and turned to the New Yorker. “Do you know horses, Mr. Harmon?”
The Yankee pursed his lips impatiently.
“What a shame. Colonel Ravanel, if you’ve come to see horses, I’d prefer to show them myself, but these gentlemen won’t be put off. If you don’t mind . . .”
Hannah sent a boy to fetch Overseer Ira Walton, who arrived in a dust cloud of hurry. The overseer was annoyed at being plucked from the cotton harvest.
As they rode to the stables, Walton asked Jack how he could get a crop with coloreds who had no respect for the white man. “You cannot coddle niggers, sir,” he said. “General Jackson’s harvest must be shipped on time. No coddling, sir.” Walton’s eyes swiveled to every unfinished task and every scant deviation in what seemed to Jack to be one of the tidiest, busiest plantations he’d ever seen. At the stables, the overseer cried, “Dunwoodie! Get out here, you rascal! A Negro shoeing a horse didn’t look up, but a light-skinned colored stepped out, shading his eyes against the sun. “Master Walton, how can I serve you?”
The man’s words were deferential, but something in the tone . . . “Show Colonel Ravanel our horses,” the overseer snapped. “I am presently occupied.”
“Why sure you am, Overseer. Don’t know how no crop get made ’thout you.”
Unsmiling white face, smiling black face; the white man cursed, jerked his horse’s bit, and spurred toward the work.
“Ol’ harvest needin’ plenty ’tention,” Dunwoodie said solemnly.
“The prudent overseer is a pearl without price,” Jack said as solemnly.
“Well then, Master Colonel Ravanel, whyfor you here? What can I show you?”
“I wish to see Red Stick.”
Dunwoodie whistled soft and low. “That one.”
“I believe he’s fast.”
“Oh, yes, sir. He fast.”
“But . . .”
“Ain’t no buts ’bout it. Red Stick fastest Thoroughbred I ever seed, and the general don’t keep no slow horses.”
“But . . .” Jack invited.
Slow smile. “Might be you see for yourself. Might be you don’t. He in back pasture with our geldings.”
Chanting field hands scythed and shocked hay in the field beside a meadow of beautiful horses.
“How happy they are,” Jack said.
“Red Stick he aggravate Bertrand and Bertrand chase after him and Red Stick let him almost catch up, almost. Bertrand fall for trick every time.”
Some horses are so beautiful they are profound. The sun glistened on Red Stick’s back.
Swallows swooped and dipped for insects the hay cutters dislodged. A field hand started a call, and others responded, a duet as sorrowful and ancient as their work.
Then the horse turned his head, snorted, and charged the men at the fence. He came with hurricane force, all thudding hooves and fluttering mane until Jack understood he wasn’t going to stop and cocked to jump for his life when Red Stick dropped onto his haunches and did stop. Dust, manure, and grass clumps in Jack’s face. Jack sneezed and found himself staring into two limpid brown eyes inches from his own: “Who you?”
Red Stick was a roan with black mane, tail, and fetlocks. Slender neck, perfect balance, high-set tail, gentle croup, stout cannon bones, flaring nostrils, and wary intelligent eyes.
“He sayin’ hello,” Dunwoodie said.
“Hello.” Jack rubbed the great brownish red nose, and the horse snorted, tossed his head, shook himself, and ran to the others, kicking his heels. Jack was smitten. His heart beat like a young man’s, and it was hard swallowing. “Four miles in eight minutes ten.”
“Clocked him myself.”
“Out of Bertrand.”
“By Trifle.”
“Why in God’s name does the general wish to sell him?”
The colored man made a face. “He don’t hardly.”
“Then?”
“General Jackson busy right now ’count he means to be President. He ain’t havin’ no time for no horses.” Dunwoodie smiled. Colonel Jack swallowed. Sweat started under his arms.
“Red Stick broke to rider or chaise.” Dunwoodie snorted. “Chaise! Might as well hitch Mr. Congreve rockets to it.”
Colonel Jack Ravanel whispered, “He’ll fetch a pretty penny.”
Dunwoodie grinned a hard grin. “Oh, yes, sir. For sure he will.”
* * *
Alone after the political men had departed, General Jackson poured Jack more of his “very pleasant” whiskey but neglected his own glass. “Ah, Colonel. So you’ve seen him. I am the most reluctant seller in Tennessee. That h
orse will make a man’s reputation. But, if I’m to make my home in Washington, my dear Rachel believes our Chief Executive cannot be connected to horse racing. I mean that as no aspersion, sir. I have loved the sport of kings since I was a young lawyer starting out. To please Rachel, I will sell Red Stick. But not to just anyone. That horse must go to a man I call friend.”
When Jackson named his price, Jack flinched.
“Colonel, Red Stick will, not can, will win races. He is the fastest animal in the South.”
“You’ve priced him as such. Where I’m from, some plantations would fetch as much.”
“Well, sir. If you’re not interested . . . I do hope you will honor us with your presence at dinner. We have an excellent cook.” Jackson rose to offer his hand.
“You will take my note? I will have your cash before the end of the month.”
“Certainly I will take your note, Colonel. We have served together.”
* * *
One week and two days later, Jack Ravanel alighted from a chaise in his farmyard.
“He’s skittish, Ham.” Jack snubbed the traces to the hitching post. “Start getting to know him by rubbing him down. Right here. Take him to his stall after he’s used to you.”
Jack stretched. What a fine day! Jack Ravanel was no damn rice planter making his livelihood driving slaves through the mud. How could a man be good at work he despised? Horses—there was nothing small or petty or mean-spirited about horses. When a fine horse came thundering down the track, it was as if he himself, Jack Ravanel, was in that horse’s body, straining, gladsome, and magnificent!
His homecoming had been delayed by negotiations with Langston Butler, who was, Jack thought, the only man he knew who was already damned.
“Bucket of water and just a taste of oats. Just a taste, mind. Let him get used to you. No sudden moves.”
Frances stepped onto the porch. “Hello, Jack. I expected you yesterday.”
“Business in town.” He bounded up the stairs. His kiss tasted her reserve.
“Have I seen that horse before?”
“He was General Jackson’s. The general wouldn’t have sold him but . . .”
“I see. Penelope was ill again, but her fever broke yesterday and her appetite returned. Mammy doses her with Jesuits’ bark. A bitter necessity, I suppose.”
“Andrew?”
“Is troublesome. Very much your son, Jack.”
“With none of your sweet nature.”
“Very little”—she avoided his embrace—“but he is lovable.”
“Like his Poppa.” Jack preened extravagantly.
She laughed. “Yes. I’m afraid so.” She shaded her eyes and sighed. “Your new horse is magnificent.”
“Come race season, he’ll earn back his price.”
Frances raised an inquiring eyebrow he feigned to not see. In the family room, Mammy was helping build Andrew’s alphabet-block castle. Penny rushed into her father’s arms, and Andrew, not to be outdone, toppled his construction to hug his father’s legs.
Frances eyed Jack strangely. “They are beautiful too, you know.”
“I know they are. Believe me, I do.” Jack squeezed Penny until she giggled. “Mammy, how are you faring?”
“Master Jack, when you gonna stay home, take care of business?”
“My business is where I lay my hat. I have been doing business.”
“Humph. Come on, children. Time for you nap.”
“Oh, Mammy, please!” Penny cried.
“Put Andrew to bed, Mammy,” Frances said. “Penny can stay for a while.” She waggled a finger. “Just this once!”
Although clearly she believed herself too old for such a task, Penny picked through tumbled blocks to lay out H-O-R-S-E. “She didn’t fall far from the tree.” Jack chuckled.
“While you were gone, dear, Mr. Bell, our rice factor, delivered his reckoning.”
“Which we’ll pay as soon as the crop is sold.”
“Bell said he had considered our crop in his reckoning and that our balance is overdue.”
“Dear Frances. I’ve been talking business with Langston Butler for two days, and, I confess, I haven’t stomach for more.”
“Jack, I’m afraid it may be time to sell Langston his wife’s picnic spot. Our debts—”
“What a prize you are!” Jack cried. “You anticipate my every move!”
Half smile. “Langston?”
“We are signed, sealed, and attested.”
“So you will deal with Mr. Bell?”
He waved negligently. “After race season I will be pleased to satisfy Mr. Bell.”
“But, Jack, if you already sold . . .” Frances’s mouth formed a silent O. “Jack, you didn’t! That parcel is our best land. Where will you pasture our horses?”
“Red Stick’s grandsire, Sir Archy, earned seventy thousand dollars in stud fees. He’ll buy our pastureland back.”
Choked voice. “How . . . how much . . .”
“Dear, our home is your responsibility. In business, I must be free to act as I see best.”
“Jack, you didn’t . . .”
Jack Ravanel fled his distraught wife for the library, where he pushed a stack of bills aside to reach the decanter. The whiskey went down smoothly but struck his gullet like a bomb. Jack’s hand shook.
At his desk he pawed papers as a dog scuffs dirt. Red Stick would earn thousands! He was a horseman, he’d never pretended to be a planter. Mud. Negroes. Heat. Mosquitoes. Unenlightening, ugly, tedious mortality.
He drained his glass in four hard swallows and poured a second. He heard the jingle of traces and Frances’s distracted “Hold tight, dear.” His wife’s alarmed “Hey!” followed by the skitter of iron horseshoes jerked him to the window with his heart in his boots.
* * *
Some said Jack was drunk when he reached the wreck. Certainly he was very drunk soon afterward and remained in that condition through Frances’s funeral. Nobody could get near him, and Cathecarte Puryear, who rode out to the Ravanels’ to take matters in hand, suffered bruising when he was thrown down the stairs. When Penny expired three weeks later (and, given the severity of her injuries, expiration was a mercy), Penny’s very young brother and his Mammy represented the Ravanel family at the funeral. “Perhaps Jack is sick,” Mrs. Puryear suggested.
“He is as sick of life as life is sick of him,” Cathecarte (whose bruises had purpled magnificently) pronounced. “The man was a fool to buy that damn beast and more fool to let his wife drive it.”
“I shouldn’t have cared so much if Jack had been killed,” Eleanor averred. “Jack would have brought it on himself.”
Cathecarte said, “He should shoot that damn horse.”
Many of Charleston’s better sort held the same opinion, and a certain tale—which may have been apocryphal—caused more than one well-dressed shoulder to shudder.
It seemed William Bee was in the deed room of the Exchange House when Jack appeared asking for Ravanel deeds, including the deed for the indigo land he’d recently pledged to Langston Butler.
Conversationally, Jack wondered if William had plans for Race Week.
As politely as possible, William Bee noted that some might think three months a curiously brief mourning period.
Jack’s eyes were bloodshot as bullet wounds. “Mourning?” he puzzled. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what, pray?”
“Red Stick didn’t have a scratch on him.”
Which anecdote cemented respectable Charleston’s disavowal of Jack but amused the racing crowd.
Some said Jack should have shot that horse. Mammy knew Jack couldn’t bear one more loss.
* * *
Cathecarte Puryear called Red Stick “the devil’s horse,” but his nickna
me didn’t stick.
Eleanor Puryear observed that the Ravanel household was now Jack, his infant son, Andrew, and a comely, young colored Mammy.
Although some found Eleanor’s suggestion distasteful, others imagined all sorts of goings-on, which would be revealed, “my dears,” in good time. “All in good time!”
Flash sports and dubious gentlemen gravitated to Colonel Jack’s town house, where they’d drink, talk horses, and be bawdier than at home. Once, only the once, a young man bawled, “Nigger, fetch me a glass!” and Mammy informed him, “I little Andrew’s Mammy. You want some low-natured slattern do your biddin’, I reckon you best brings one.”
No slatterns appeared. Although sports drank at Colonel Jack’s and wagered and swore great oaths, they entertained their slatterns elsewhere. Some joked about Mammy, and others winked or glanced knowingly, though never when or where Jack might see them.
Two days after Frances Ravanel was buried, Langston Butler moved his rice hands onto the indigo land. He waited a month after Penelope was buried to ask Jack his price for what else he owned on the west bank of the river.
Jack said, “You ain’t satisfied, Langston?”
“Colonel, I didn’t ask you to buy that brute. Nor did I quarrel with Mrs. Ravanel. I admired Frances and certainly didn’t suggest she chance herself and her daughter to a horse she couldn’t hold. I am told your creditors are impatient, and I am willing to buy certain of your properties. I will also make an offer for your horse. Red Stick can’t hold a candle to Valentine, but I have no unfortunate history with the”—Langston paused to savor Cathecarte’s phrase—“devil horse.”
Jack’s tired eyes narrowed. He took out his flask, unstoppered it, and drank. Without offering it to Langston, he tumped the stopper home. Jack said, “The Washington track, four miles. Three thousand says Red Stick beats your damn cart horse.”
Ruth's Journey: The Authorized Novel of Mammy From Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind Page 19