Bon Marche (14 page)

Statler, laughing again at the tutor's aversion to gambling, strolled away.

In the first dash, in which Elkwood's White was ridden by one of the plantation's Negroes, a lad named Horace, the Statler horse won in a close finish, beating a Richmond entry by only a head. Statler's delighted whoops could he heard across the entire course as he dispatched MacCallum to collect his winnings. Andrew, still disapproving, hoped that he wouldn't be sent to pay off on the much larger wagers on the Petersburg Cup.

Statler, MacCallum, and Dewey had spent days discussing the strategy for the race against Lee's Falconry. While the slave, Horace, was an experienced jockey—he weighed only one hundred five pounds—it was decided that Charles would ride Rebirth for the cup event. Statler reasoned, and MacCallum agreed, that Charles was more familiar with the horse, having ridden him during the entire training period.

“You can best judge the stamina of Rebirth,” Statler told the young Frenchman. “Ask for speed when you can; save him when you should—and I'm not concerned about the added weight.” Charles would ride at one hundred sixty pounds.

The Elkwood strategists guessed that Falconry would be handled by Lee's black rider, Cassius, who would be at about one hundred thirty. He was a strong jockey, much experienced, but Statler was able to discount what might have seemed an advantage for the Lee runner: “Cassius is a straightaway rider, able to handle a powerful animal, but unable—or unwilling—to be adventurous. He follows instructions meticulously, and that makes him totally predictable. In a tight squeeze, Lee's boy cannot think for himself.”

Dewey's nervousness as the race approached left him scarcely able to say a civil word to anyone. When his first friend in Virginia, George Milton, came up to him to wish him well, Charles could only mumble an acknowledgment.

“Saddle up!” came the command from the steward.

A Negro groom led Rebirth forward. Statler supervised the saddling as Charles stood by, tense and tight-lipped.

“Remember now, Charles,” Statler said when he was satisfied with the saddle, “get an immediate lead. Not too far out, mind you, but a decisive lead. And ride steadily after that, well in hand. We want Falconry to have to catch us at the end.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward called for Statler and Lee to draw lots for starting positions, and Lee drew the inside spot. Statler shrugged; it meant little in a four-mile race.

As Charles stood waiting, trying to concentrate on what he had to do, Martha came up to him quietly, touching his arm.

“I thought perhaps you might want to carry this,” she said, pressing a delicate lace handkerchief into his hand. “For luck, you know.”

He was flustered. “Miss Martha, I—”

“Later.” She touched his lips with her fingers. “We can talk later. When we're alone.”

She smiled at him, brushed a kiss against his cheek, and skipped away.

II

“T
O
mount!” the steward cried.

Statler boosted Charles into the saddle, making certain he was comfortable with the stirrups. He patted his leg.

“Patience, son, patience. Remember that you've got another heat after this one, maybe two.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charles wheeled the horse and trotted him slowly to the start line. Falconry was already there, held firmly in hand by the strong Negro jockey. Charles took his position to the outside, some twenty feet to the left of his rival. He wanted to be well in the clear at the start.

There was no noise from the crowd now; it had been replaced by the silence of anticipation. Both Falconry and Rebirth walked up to the start evenly, and the starter's drum tapped.

They were away!

Dewey rapped his mount smartly with the whip, asking him for speed. By the time they had gone two hundred yards, and were into the first turn, Rebirth was in the lead with an advantage of three lengths. Charles took a steady hold on the reins and had his horse under control, running easily.

And that's the way it went for more than three clockwise miles, with Rebirth maintaining his three-length lead under a stout hold.

As they came into the final half-mile, Charles glanced over his shoulder to see his rival, Cassius, going to the whip. The Negro jockey had been patient, saving his horse for one final challenge at the end.

Rebirth felt a slight prod of the spur, and Charles gave him his head without further urging.

Into the stretch they came, with Falconry gaining ground. Dewey, however, sat coolly. Unconcerned. He could feel that the horse under him had a lot in reserve. And he knew that Falconry's bid had been started too late.

As they neared the finish line, Charles could hear Funston Lee screaming at the Marsh Run jockey: “Whip him, damn you, whip him!”

They went across the finish line with Rebirth the winner by a single length, but the race wasn't really that close. Charles had done what he had wanted to do, what Statler had wanted him to do: he had won the race while saving the horse. Rebirth had not been extended at all; the blooded horse was barely drawing a deep breath as Charles dismounted to accept congratulations from the beaming master of Elkwood plantation.

Several yards away, Cassius, the Negro rider, had dismounted from Falconry to face the fury of Funston Lee.

“Damn you, boy, you let him steal the race from you! You could've won that heat, you ignorant bastard!”

Lee lashed out with his riding crop, striking the boy wickedly across the face. He was restrained by his father from doing more.

Charles turned away from the scene. It sickened him.

The time for the first heat was announced at 7:41½.

“My, my,” Statler commented, “I didn't realize the pace was that fast.” He grinned. “We seem to have got something really good from Shackelford for our gold.”

In the period between the Petersburg Cup heats, when the racing managers had scheduled another dash, it was announced that the Marsh Run horse would have a rider change for the second heat.

“Mr. Funston Lee will be up on Falconry,” the steward bellowed.

Statler was unperturbed by the news. “It doesn't change our plan,” he said. “We ought to be able to get our initial lead again, because Rebirth simply has more quickness away from the start. But I'm certain that young Lee is going to keep him closer to the pace this time.”

MacCallum added a caution: “Be careful of Funston, Charles. He's capable of doing almost anything to win.”

III

T
HE
second heat was called.

As Charles was boosted into the saddle again, Statler added his warning to MacCallum's.

“Andrew is right, son, you've got to be careful of Funston. Stay clear of him. Do you hear me, son? Stay clear of him!”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

Once more Rebirth was positioned some twenty feet to the left of Falconry, once more the starting drum tapped, and once more Charles shot his horse into the lead with a solid whack from his whip.

Into the first turn, however, Lee had Falconry up closer. Only one length separated them.

There was no relaxing in the ride this time. Rebirth maintained his slight lead, with Charles keeping his stout hold. But Falconry was right there, pressing the pace. Charles began to worry that perhaps the pace was too fast now, but he was determined to follow Statler's strategy to keep the lead as long as he could.

At the starting line, Statler was also worried. “Too swift! Too swift!” he complained to MacCallum.

They completed three rounds that way. Just a length apart.

As they swept by the stands to begin the final mile, Lee went to the whip. By the time they were into the turn, Falconry was breathing on Rebirth's flank.

In the run down the backstretch they were lapped on each other, Lee whipping all the way. Charles tried to sit quietly on his horse, knowing it wasn't time yet to make his move.

Falconry and Rebirth went into the last turn that way, stride for stride, running as a team. Lee was simultaneously spurring and whipping, before and behind the girth, raising his arm high in the air, his body thrown forward with every whipping exertion, punishing the horse.

Falconry threw his rail in the air, flagging it up and down in the manner of a tired runner. Or one in pain.

Into the homestretch now—still as one.

Suddenly, just as Charles raised his whip to ask Rebirth for his final effort, Falconry came over sharply.

They bumped heavily!

Rebirth bobbled momentarily in his stride, and Falconry shot into the lead, Lee whipping and driving almost insanely, screaming at the top of his lungs.

They crossed the finish line that way, Falconry the winner by half a length.

This time Rebirth was breathing heavily when Charles pulled him up, a white foam of sweat dripping from him. Statler ran to them, quickly examining the horse to see whether he had been injured in the collision. When he was satisfied that he hadn't been, Charles slid out of the saddle, and a Negro groom led Rebirth away, to walk him cool and prepare him for the final heat.

“He came over on me suddenly,” Charles tried to explain. “It happened so quickly I couldn't avoid him.”

“Of course you couldn't, son.” Statler patted him on the shoulder. “I'm just thankful you didn't fall.”

“I thought for a moment we would.”

“Now you know why Andrew and I cautioned you about Funston.”

MacCallum, who had gone to check on the conditon of Falconry, joined them.

“Lee's horse is badly distressed,” the tutor reported. “He's been scoured at the girth—several spur cuts, I'd say—and in that wild whipping, Lee struck him too far back and has not only cut him on the sheath but has made a deep incision on the testicles.” The Scotsman shook his head sadly. “The blood's flowing rather profusely from those cuts.”

“Will he be able to start for the third heat?” Statler wanted to know.

“Were he my horse he wouldn't. But—” MacCallum shrugged.

The time for the second heat was announced at 7:44 flat. Statler groaned. “Oh, my, too fast! I hope Rebirth has something left.”

IV

F
ALCONRY
appeared at the starting line when the third heat was called. Statler shook his head sadly. “The damned fools!”

To Charles: “We have a fine horse here,” he said soberly, “and I see no need to damage him to win this single race. You have only one duty, Charles, and that's to bring him back in one piece.”

The master of Elkwood put his hands on Dewey's shoulders, holding him firmly, looking into his eyes. “One duty only, son. If you can win this race cleanly, I would prefer that. But if the horse becomes distressed, if there is
any danger at all
to his well-being, stop him and pull him up. No one race, no wager, is worth the life of a horse this gallant! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One other thing: Whatever the conclusion today, I want you to know that I'm proud of how you prepared Rebirth for this race and of how you've ridden this afternoon. You have the makings of a fine horseman, son.”

Charles thought he saw tears glistening in Statler's eyes. He had a lump of emotion in his own throat. He decided it was best if he didn't try to speak.

As the call of “To mount!” came again, MacCallum said, “Caution, Mr. Dewey, caution.”

Charles smiled at him.

At drum tap for the third heat it was Falconry, with Funston Lee whipping and spurring, going into the lead. A mighty roar went up from the crowd.

Dewey was content to be two lengths off the pace, saving his horse as best he could. He could feel Rebirth's weariness under him, and he let him run without special urging. The pace was slow, but reasonably steady.

Falconry labored in front, his tail flagging all the while. Even the impetuous Lee realized the distress of his animal, merely holding the reins, satisfied to be in the lead.

They covered three torturous miles in that manner, Rebirth two lengths back, seeming to be running easily.

As they went into the first turn of the final mile, Dewey needed to know whether his horse had anything left. He reached back to tap Rebirth with the whip to test his response. It was instantaneous, surprising Charles a bit. The competitive courage of the bay horse carried him abreast of Falconry as screams came up from the spectators.

On the backstretch, they were running as a team again, both riders sitting still.

Into the final turn now in that same manner. Lee looked over at Dewey momentarily, his face showing his anxiety.

Through the turn they went, matching strides, and the homestretch loomed in front of them.

Funston cracked Falconry hard with his whip. It seemed that the sound of it echoed. And he dug a spur deep into his horse's flank. There was an instinctive forward burst, and then Falconry bobbled, weaving erratically, drunkenly, as his legs failed to do what his heart instructed.

Charles guided Rebirth around the stricken rival, not needing the whip to do it, simply trotting to the finish line the winner.

Somehow Charles felt none of the exhilaration he had anticipated. He looked back to see Funston coming out of the saddle as Falconry went to his knees, his great body heaving convulsively.

Once across the finish line, and ignoring the cheers of the crowd, Charles dismounted, tossed the reins to an Elkwood groom, and ran back to where Falconry was down on the track.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked Lee.

“Do? What the hell can you do?” Funston growled. “It seems to me you've done enough already.”

John Lee came up to the distressed horse with two of his grooms, giving the blacks instructions on what to do for the animal, completely ignoring his son.

Charles watched the ministrations to Falconry for a moment or two. Then he addressed Funston again. “Don't we have some unfinished business?”