Bon Marche (10 page)

The conversation—was it inevitable?—turned to racehorses.

“I'm led to believe, Marshall,” the elder Lee was saying, “that this man Shackelford, at Charlottesville, has several young blooded horses he may be willing to part with. If you're going there anyway, to look at those carriage horses, it might be worth your while to check out Shackelford's animals.”

Statler's interest was obvious. “I'd hate to think there'll be racing again in the spring with Elkwood not represented. The way my situation is now, it'll be three or four years before I can develop my own runners once more.”

“Tell me about Milton's plans at Petersburg.”

“I know only that he's building a track—he and several partners—and the word is that it will be ready in the spring. June, I believe.” Statler grinned, childlike. “Lord, won't it be good to get to racing again?”

Lee agreed, asking, “Any word about racing at the Charleston track?”

“No, there's still some fighting in the Carolinas.”

“The damned war!” the elder Lee growled.

“The
necessary
war,” Statler countered.

“I doubt that. The Congress might have made some reasonable accommodations with the Crown if it hadn't been for the likes of the Adamses, stirring up matters in their Boston hotbed until blood was spilled!”

“I seem to recall,” Statler replied, “that our own representatives were reasonably vehement in calling for war.”

“Yes, and I venture that that firebrand Henry will live to regret his words. That ‘give me liberty, or give me death' nonsense! I know you accuse me of having latent Tory sentiments,” Lee continued, “but I'm deeply concerned about our future. There was some stability under the Crown, even though we might not have liked all of the machinations of George the Third. But, as Englishmen—and let's not forget, Marshall, that's what we are!—we had the protection of English common law. Now what? Can we survive this squabbling confederation of states? What will hold it together?”

“Our faith in our own abilities to govern.”

“Poppycock! You've been seduced by the honeyed words of the gentleman from Monticello. He's a dangerous man, I tell you! If what he proposes becomes reality, Statler, we'll have anarchy. Anarchy!

“The strength of this colony, of
our
Virginia, has always been its landholders. If we are shunted aside, if the government falls into the hands of the mechanics and the shopkeepers and the ne'er-do-wells who are without land and without substance of any kind, not only will
we
be destroyed but so will Virginia. Without Virginia a confederation of states is a straw house.”

After a pause for reflection, Statler answered him. “We cannot forever maintain our … uh … artificial dominance, John.
All
the people must be involved in our government if it is to prosper. I happen to believe what Jefferson wrote about the equality of men.”

“Equality! Good Christ! You may believe that a mechanic, who can't read or write, is your equal, but I don't. Such a man could never be my equal! I'm an aristocrat, and I make no apologies for it.”

Several of the other men in the room were moved to respond: “Hear, hear!”

“Let me ask you this,” Lee went on, “are your nigras equal to you?”

“No, but—”

“Well, Marshall, there are those—and some in this state, too—who will tell you that nigras
are
equal! How many blacks do you have?”

“One hundred and fifty three.” The figure came out with no pause for thought. Statler was certain of his holdings.

“And how many whites at Elkwood?”

“Eleven, not counting my daughters.”

“I have nearly two hundred nigras,” Lee continued, “and there are fourteen white men here. Now, what's going to happen to us if the slaves get it into their heads that they're
equal,
for God sake? We'll be murdered in our beds!”

John Lee's face was flushed. “In Virginia, there are enough nigras to take over, if we let them. And in the Carolinas, too.”

Statler groaned. “John, you're overwrought on this subject.”

“Maybe. But I have enough intelligence to feel some honest fear. There's no more reckless man than one without fear. I'll not sit by for a single moment, Marshall, if I hear talk of nigra equality on this property. No black at Marsh Run is going to say those words more than once, because he'll be a dead nigra!”

“You're a harsh man, John.”

“So should you be, my friend. So should you be.”

VI

D
EWEY
was already in bed, after the return to Elkwood, when there was a knock on his door.

“It's Andrew.”

“Come in.”

The tutor entered, still fully dressed, carrying a bottle and two glasses. “I thought I'd better not arrive at this late hour without the solace of some good sherry.” He held up the bottle. “This is an amenity of your employment. Good wine is one of the rewards of an ordered life.”

Charles smiled. “So I'm to be rewarded. For my good behavior at Marsh Run?”

“I watched you staying on the other side of the room from Funston. Very carefully and very wisely, I thought.”

Dewey continued grinning.

“That's not the reason for my visit, though. I've come with some interesting news,” MacCallum announced. “Mr. Statler is arranging to travel to Charlottesville at the end of the week. The three of us, with an eye to buying some horses.”

“He wants me to go along?”

“Yes,” Andrew said soberly. “I suspect that he doesn't want his young Frenchman left alone with his daughters.”

Charles showed concern. “You think that's the reason?”

“Of course not,” MacCallum chortled. “That was just my attempt at humor. A poor attempt, apparently.”

“I'm sorry, Andrew, if I seem humorless. It's just that I feel I might have behaved so badly today that—”

“Nonsense! Mr. Statler told me that he wants to begin to educate you about horses.” A hesitation. “This may be the start of his Charles-as-a-son phase.”

“More humor?”

“No, this time I'm serious.

“But, Andrew, I've been here less than a week—”

“And you've already made your mark. He heard, as everyone else did, of your incident with Funston. I believe he's proud of you for having stood up to that arrogant … uh … fop.”

Charles laughed. “You were going to say something else.”

“Yes, but he isn't worth the effort of a good, strong obscenity.”

“Then you don't think Mr. Statler is displeased with me?”

“Not at all. So rest easy.” He poured the sherry into the glasses and handed one to Dewey.

“Something has just now occurred to me,” Charles said. “We will be going to Charlottesville to buy horses to replace some of those stolen by Colonel Tarleton. Yet John Lee seems to have his horses intact?”

“Tarleton found something better at Marsh Run,” MacCallum explained. “Beef cattle. He ran off with Lee's entire herd. More than two hundred head, I understand. Colonel Tarleton didn't leave any of the plantations in this area unscathed, believe me.”

A brief silence as they sipped the wine. “Andrew,” Charles said finally, “how seriously should I take that conversation tonight—I mean Mr. Lee's vehemence about his Negroes?”

“I'm sure he meant it. But you shouldn't be overly concerned. It's not something we'll have to deal with. Both of us are outside the establishment, so to speak.”

The tutor poured them a second sherry. “Did you notice that mulatto girl, the one called Melody?”

“It would've been difficult not to notice her. She's a real beauty.”

“That's John Lee's daughter.”

“What?”

“Yes, and no one denies it. As I understand it, Mrs. Lee has been confined to her chair for some twenty years. She lost the use of her legs in an unfortunate fall from a horse. While fox hunting, as I hear it. After, when that happened, the elder Lee had to look elsewhere for his … uh … well, you understand.”

“He took a black mistress?”

‘He's not unique in that, you know.”

“Does Mr. Statler—?”

MacCallum tilted his head. “To my knowledge, no. It's possible, of course, but I doubt it. I would think that he would consider the feelings of his daughters first. Suppose they should learn of such a thing…” He shrugged. “But, I can't honestly tell you that he hasn't.”

Charles Dewey slumped down on the edge of the bed. “Will I ever understand all this, Andrew?”

“In time, you will. You may not agree with it all, but you'll understand it.”

6

U
NDERSTANDING
?

It came swiftly.

Less than two weeks after his arrival at Elkwood, Dewey was in Charlottesville, beginning his understanding of horses.

On the two-day journey—which the three men made in a farm wagon drawn by a team of oxen in lieu of draft horses—conversation, between bumps and jolts, was all about horses. As MacCallum had predicted, Marshall Statler began to sound like a father when addressing the young Frenchman. He used the word
son
frequently.

“Son, the first thing you have to understand about horses,” Statler was saying as they bounced along, “is that there are some who have the eye of a competitor. You can see it—
really see it
—in their eyes. A dull-eyed horse, believe me, will not be much good at the races. A clear, determined eye is the first thing I look for in a horse.”

Their first move at Charlottesville was to visit a horse trader named Amos Darnell, a dour-faced man, a bit paunchy, who smelled of horses.

“Your letter, Squire Statler, spoke of the need for carriage horses.” Darnell winced. “The war, sir, hasn't been kind to the horse trade. But”—he smiled slightly—“I
am
in possession of a matched pair of light draft horses—crossbred, actually—that might suit you.”

He led the way into a large barn and signaled to his black servants, who led two well-muscled bay horses, with neat white blazes on their faces, out of their stalls. To Charles they were so nearly alike in appearance as to be twins.

“A gelding and a mare,” Darnell explained, “the progeny of identical breeding, of course. The dam was a blooded horse.”

Statler nodded, examining the animals closely, running his hands firmly down their legs and staring into their eyes. He made a gesture, and the Negro handler walked the horses down the barn aisle and back again as the master of Elkwood watched every move.

He silently studied the horses for several minutes. “Five … six years old?” he asked.

“You know your horses, Squire Statler,” Darnell answered him. “The mare's seven, the gelding six.”

“Hmmm.” Statler scratched his chin.

Darnell knew it was time to talk money. “The owner, for whom I'm the agent, requests that I ask five hundred pounds.”

A startled look came to Statler's face, followed by a hearty laugh. “Five hundred pounds! I'm aware of the inflated prices of these days, Mr. Darnell, but I suspect that your client has lost his senses.”

Darnell shrugged. “These are difficult days, sir. Continental paper money, and the Virginia paper … well, it jumps around in value so much—”

“What if I were to pay for the horses in English pounds?”

Another shrug. “Perhaps, then—”

“In gold?”

Now it was the horse trader's turn to express surprise. “You have gold?”

“I might,” Statler replied cautiously. “If we deal in gold, what then would you ask?”

“Oh, two hundred sovereigns.”

Statler laughed once more. “One hundred, Mr. Darnell.”

“Squire, there must be something in it for me. At one hundred, I see no profit.”

“One-ten, then.”

Darnell pondered the offer for a moment. “Done! One-ten the pair.”

“What else have you, Mr. Darnell?”

“Very little, sir.”

“A serviceable riding nag, perhaps? Not necessarily blooded, but … well made. And kind.”

“Age?”

“Not doddering,” Statler insisted.

“Bring out the gray,” Darnell instructed his handlers.

This time a dark gray horse, smaller than the matched pair, was brought out of the stall. His ears came erect at the sight of the strangers, and he jigged at the end of the lead rope.

“Gelded,” the horse trader reported. “Nine years old.”

Again Statler made his study of the horse. As he ran his hands down the legs, he turned to Charles. “I'm looking for heat,” he explained, “and for tenderness that might suggest some problems with the legs. There's an axiom, son: no leg, no horse.”

When he straightened up from his inspection, Statler said to Darnell, “Fifteen pounds, sir.”

“Oh, come now, Squire—”

“That's my offer, Mr. Darnell.”

“Gold?”

“As before.”

The trader sighed as if making a great sacrifice. “Very well, fifteen sovereigns.”

Smiling, Statler asked: “What do you think of this fellow, Charles?” He pointed to the gray gelding.

“He's very handsome.”

“You've noted his clearness of eye?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You approve of him, then?”

Charles didn't know how to answer. “Well, I—”

Statler grinned. “I hope you do approve of him, son, because he's yours.”

“Mine?” Charles gulped.

“As Mr. MacCallum told you, your employment at Elkwood would include the amenities, and a decent riding horse is one of them.”

“Thank you, sir. He's grand.”

Statler brushed aside the thanks, going to the small strongbox that had made the trip in the bed of the wagon, opening it, and counting out what he owed Darnell. That was as much a surprise, an
astonishment,
to Dewey as was the gift of the horse. The strongbox had been in the wagon the whole time, overnight in control of the slaves who had come along, and it had no padlock.