Bon Marche (20 page)

“Would you join us here, Squire?” the preacher asked, gesturing to Charles, who rose and went to stand beside Broaddus. “Now, sir, you are acquainted with Brother Broaddus?”

“Yes, I've known him for several years,” Charles said forcefully, “as a gentleman of integrity.”

“You've done business with him?”

“Yes.”

“Bought horses from him, in other words?”

“That's correct.”

Brother Mason's words got harder. “Specifically, did you buy a blooded filly from him in November last?”

“Yes.”

“A racing animal?”

“I would hope so,” Charles answered. “But I want to say something now, Brother Mason.”

“Of course.”

“My affection for Mr. Broaddus, my respect for him, is such that I want to offer to return the filly to him—at a loss to me, if necessary—so that whatever
crime
may be imagined in his sale of the horse to me is … well, doesn't exist any longer.”

“You have a generous nature, Mr. Dewey.” Brother Mason glared at him. “But I detect an attitude of disapproval concerning these proceedings.”

“Yes, I disapprove. Mr. Broaddus is a good man. I hate to see him humiliated in this way.”

“I see. God help you, Mr. Dewey, if you imagine this as just a
humiliation.
We are in a battle, sir! As soldiers of God, we must fight sin wherever we find it!”

“And it's viewed as a sin to sell a horse?”

“To sell a horse for evil racing, yes! Yes! Yes!”

The congregation took up the chant: “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Charles knew that he wasn't helping Broaddus's cause, but he meant to speak out. “Brother Mason, I know of no place in the Bible where horse racing is in the catalogue of sins.”

“But gambling is!” the preacher roared. “A terrible sin! When Jesus hung dying on the cross, the soldiers parted his raiment, Saint Luke tells us, and cast lots for it! Imagine! They
gambled
for the robe of Jesus! And if a horse is sold to promote the sin of gambling, then the sale of the horse is a sin as well!”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the chant again.

As the chanting died away, Dewey shrugged. “So even if I return the filly to Mr. Broaddus, unraced, it won't make any difference.”

“The deed is done, Squire Dewey, the deed is done!”

Charles returned to his seat, dejected.

“Brothers and sisters,” Brother Mason intoned, “let us pray for the soul of our fallen brother.”

There was a pause as he gathered himself for the task.

“Oh, God, Brother Broaddus stands before you, the instrument of sin. He willingly defied you, O Lord, and he deserves your punishment! He faces the burning fires of hell, and yet we pray for your mercy. Brother Broaddus, though he has sinned, wishes to atone. He begs you, O Lord,
we
beg you, O Lord, to allow us to remember the Holy words of the sacred Bible: ‘Go ye, and sin no more!'”

He turned to Broaddus. “God, in His infinite mercy, says to you, ‘Go ye, and sin no more!' Will you accept His mercy? Will you accept it now?”

A stillness fell over the congregation.

Broaddus, his head bowed again, said quietly, “I will accept it.”

There were shouts of joy from the congregation. And Mrs. Broaddus, seated next to Charles, wept profusely.

When it was over and all had filed out of the church, Broaddus came up to Charles. “I want to thank you for your help.”

Dewey smiled wanly. “I'm afraid I wasn't much help.”

“No one else would have put himself on the line as you did. I thank you again.”

“I guess I really came,” Charles admitted, “because I wanted to see what this fundamentalism is all about … and because I'm concerned for the future of racing in Virginia. So perhaps I had a selfish motive.”

Broaddus didn't say anything.

“May I ask a question?”

Now it was Broaddus who smiled. “You want to know
why
?”

“Yes.”

“Because I
believe.
Because I think, as do all of these people, that gambling is a sin.”

Charles stared at him incredulously. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“But what of your business?”

“I'll still breed horses, but for other purposes. I made a mistake in selling you that filly. I've now accepted public chastisement for that mistake, and there'll be no more racehorses for me.”

They shook hands warmly, and Charles began the long ride back to Fortunata. He admired Broaddus's courage, but he didn't really understand the reason for it. And he totally rejected the idea that horse racing, and the attendant gambling, was sinful. Surely God had more important matters with which to concern himself.

IV

T
HE
Virginia Gazette
continued to bring Dewey news of repressive acts being taken against racing in North Carolina, New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. Reformers, political and clerical, were making their mark.

Only in the new land to the west was racing flourishing. When, on June 1, 1792, Kentucky was carved out of the western reaches of Virginia's original territory and admitted to the Union as the fifteenth state, Charles began to think that the West held his future. Remaining forever in Virginia didn't seem possible. Not when racing was thought a sin. And not when he contemplated raising his children in a society that permitted the likes of Funston Lee to prosper.

Andrew MacCallum had counseled him not to hesitate when the time came to leave. Still, he hesitated. It would be a difficult journey to Kentucky. No roads. Or poor ones. Savages. Uncounted other dangers. He told himself that he couldn't ask Martha to undertake such rigorous travel with two small babies; the older children—Franklin, George, and Corrine—were little more than babies themselves.

With his family's welfare in mind, he put aside any idea of Kentucky.

But not of the West.

In his private thoughts he had no doubt that he would make the move. Someday.

13

C
HARLES
had never been more shocked.

Marshall Statler stood before him, before the stud barn at Fortunata, and said: “What place is this, young man? Are you in charge here?”

Dewey stared at him, thinking Statler might be pulling his leg. But something about his eyes—a vacant look he saw in them—convinced Charles that something was dreadfully wrong.

For some months he and Martha had been concerned about the gradually deteriorating health of her father. He had been losing weight, and he complained of not being able to sleep properly.

But this?

“This is Fortunata, sir,” Charles answered him, not knowing what to do except to humor him.

“A pleasant place.”

“We think so.”

“I noticed quite a few horses in the field as I came down the lane,” Statler said. “Are you engaged in racing?”

“Yes.” Dewey was disquieted.

“Hmmm. I had horses once. Not anything as fine as this, of course.” He swept an arm in a gesture encompassing the estate.

Charles stood dumbly.

“Yes, well…” Statler sighed, turned, and started to walk away.

His son-in-law took his arm. “May I offer you some tea, sir.”

“You're most kind.”

Statler permitted himself to be led into the mansion, where Martha, struggling to keep back the tears, served tea to the stranger who had come to visit them.

“You have children?” Statler asked.

Martha swallowed hard. “Yes, five children.”

“They must be a joy to you.” A pause. “When you get old, young lady, you'll appreciate them even more. I have none, and it's a most lonely…” He didn't finish the thought.

His daughter turned away from him. She didn't want him to see her crying.

Statler turned to Charles. “I thank you for the tea, young man. I must be going.”

“Perhaps you'd like to stay for dinner?” Charles suggested.

“No, no. I can't. I have much to do.”

“May I ask what that is, sir—what you have to do?”

“Much,” Statler mumbled. “Much indeed. Uh … much … yes, much, young sir—”

He slumped in the chair, seeming very tired, staring blankly at nothing at all.

They put him to bed, and Martha sat with him all night.

In the morning, when he awoke, he seemed normal. And he spent most of the day playing with his grandchildren, reveling in them.

II

I
N
July 1792, Dewey and Statler went together to Richmond for the race meeting there. The master of Elkwood was anxious to see Born Again, the first son of Rebirth, make his competitive debut in the Virginia Stallion Stakes.

He was a five-year-old, in appearance the exact image of his sire. Charles had told Statler that he had the distinct feeling that the young horse would be Rebirth all over again. “I haven't had a horse in years that I feel more sure about,” he'd said.

When it came time for the feature event, Dewey instructed one of the Negro handlers: “Find Mr. Marshall. I want him to saddle our entry.” It would be purely an honorary function for the older man, but Charles was trying to keep him interested in the horses.

After a few minutes, the Negro returned. “Ah caint fin' 'im, Mistah Charles. He ain't nowhere 'round.”

Charles shrugged. Statler was probably in the refreshments pavilion, swapping stories with old cronies. The black man wouldn't have looked in that all-white sanctuary.

When the race was over and Born Again had finished a disappointing third in the three-mile dash, Dewey himself went to look for Statler. He hoped his father-in-law hadn't put a large wager on the Elkwood horse.

No one had seen Statler in the refreshments pavilion. Nor did any of Statler's friends recall having talked to him. Dewey panicked. Leaving only one handler with the horses, Charles and the plantation's Negroes spread out across the town in full search.

It was Charles who found him sitting contentedly on the grass under a tree near the capitol building.

Statler smiled at him. “Well, son, what are you doing in Richmond?”

It had happened again!

Dewey tried to keep the look of shock off his face. “Running a few horses,” he said as nonchalantly as he could.

“Any luck?”

“Some.” He reached down a hand. “Come, I'd be honored to escort you home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, Elkwood.”

“That would be most pleasant,” Statler said, taking Charles's hand and getting to his feet. “I haven't been to Elkwood for some time, and I know it's beautiful at this time of the year.”

“It is,” his son-in-law agreed. “Very beautiful.”

On that occasion it was two days before Statler's mental capacity returned.

For weeks at a time there were no problems and then he would just drift away, having no concept of time or place. For an hour, for several hours, once for a period of five days.

Even Funston Lee was solicitous of his father-in-law, assigning the old slave named Malachi to stay within sight of Statler at all times when he was out of the mansion.

September was a particularly bad month. On one cold night, Statler rose from his bed and just walked away. In the morning, a field hand found him, his back resting against one of the stone fences, shivering in his nightclothes. A doctor was called, but he reported that Statler was not physically harmed by his ordeal.

The diagnosis? “It's probably a condition known as early senility,” the physician said. “It's rare, but not unknown. Unhappily, there's little or nothing we can do about it.”

It was then that the butler, Samuel, began to sleep in Statler's room, following an explanation that it was because Samuel was “getting a bit old” and finding it difficult to climb the stairs to care for his employer. There was no argument from Statler about the move.

In the early days of November, Statler began to talk enthusiastically about Christmas, in rational, normal terms: what he wanted to buy for his grandchildren, what he planned for the Christmas entertainment—he began to practice his guitar again—when he would go turkey shooting for the holiday dinner.

The closer Christmas came the more he seemed to improve. A vitality returned to his stride, he began to give orders to the field hands and house servants, he consulted with Charles about the breeding assignments for the spring. His family began to hope that his affliction had passed.

III

F
IVE
days before Christmas, Marshall Statler strode along the row of slave cabins, happily calling out the names of half a dozen of the older black men.

“Boys,” he shouted, “we're going into the woods to find a yule log—the finest we've ever had at Elkwood!”

Off they tramped, Statler leading the way, joshing with the blacks as they walked along.

Less than an hour later, the Negroes came back down the road, tears coursing down their ebony faces, carrying the body of their master.

“Ah don' know wha' happen, Mistah Funston,” Malachi reported. “We dun fin' the tree Mistah Marshall wanna cut down fer the yule log, an' us niggers start a 'hackin' at it. An' Mistah Marshall jest happy laik he kin be, a' singin' an' all. An'… Lawd, Mistah Funston … he jest kinda fell over. An' Ah talks t' 'im—Ah say, ‘Mistah Marshall, talk t' me.' An' he don' say nothin'.”

The elderly slave wailed. “Oh, Lawd, Mistah Funston, Ah fears he daid!”

“Yes, Malachi,” Funston said quietly, “he's dead. Send someone to fetch Mister Charles and Miss Martha.”

When night came and the body of Marshall Statler was laid out on his bed, the dirgelike songs of the Negroes could be heard for many hours echoing over the acres of Elkwood. There was love reflected in the hymns. And respect. Charles Dewey pondered the irony of the situation—the man who had held them in bondage would be genuinely missed by the slaves.