Bon Marche (26 page)

Charles was anxious to catch up on the news. “I've been out of touch for a long time, Mr. Anderson. Tell me what's been happening.”

“Happening? Well, Mr. Dewey—May I call you Charles?” Using ‘mister' all the time is going to get tiresome.”

“Of course. I'd prefer that.”

“Well, Charles, the talk around here these days is of the presidential election. It's generally assumed that Adams will succeed Washington, although the preference here in the West is for Jefferson.”

“I'd certainly like Jefferson better.”

“Grand!” Anderson enthused. “It's good to know that we have another democrat among us.”

Dewey grinned. “Democrat, eh? I'm not so sure that my political feelings are that much party oriented. Coming from Virginia, though, I'm familiar with Mr. Jefferson's views and agree with most of them.”

“Good! Our own Andrew Jackson, as you'll discover, has views similar to those of Jefferson. They may be out of the same mold—politically, if not in life style. Certainly, they both believe in the rights of the people. It's expected that Jackson will be our first member of the House of Representatives come November.”

“I look forward to meeting him.”

“And you shall, very shortly. But, to continue with the news: While you were in the wilderness, Washington said his farewell to the country.” He laughed lightly. “He warned against the growth of party spirit. ‘Baneful,' I think he called it.”

Dewey nodded.

“The other principal point he made,” Anderson went on, “was that we should have peaceful commercial relations with all nations but no permanent alliances with any of them. If you'll pardon me, Charles, I think he was concerned about the French on that score. It seems that the French minister to our country publicly expressed his preference for Jefferson—which many considered undiplomatic.” He laughed again.

Charles shrugged. “You give me no offense. I'm not French, you see; I'm American.” A slight pause. “At least, I think I am.”

“Oh, how's that?”

“Well, it has occurred to me that I ought to do something to legalize my citizenship. But I'm not sure what that something is.”

“It's mighty simple here in Tennessee,” Anderson assured him. “Six months' residence in any county constitutes citizenship. You, however, won't even have to wait the six months. Once you're a freeholder, as I believe you intend to be, Tennessee citizenship will come with only one day's residence. Obviously, Tennessee citizenship is tantamount to U.S. citizenship.”

Dewey was pleased with that, and pleased, too, that the conversation had come around to the subject of land. “You mentioned in your last letter, Patton, a plot of land you thought might be to my liking.”

“Right. Some two hundred and fifty acres along the east bank of the Richland Creek. Hard by what we call the Natchez Trace—the main road, if you can call it that, leading northward from the river port of Natchez. That's the Mississippi River, of course.”

“Hmmm. Any buildings on it?”

“Only a log building. But rather substantial, Charles. Two rooms, both of good size. Its last use was as a trading post.”

“And available?”

“Immediately so.”

II

“W
ELL
, sir, that's it!”

Patton Anderson swept an arm to encompass a small clearing in the woods dominated by a log building. Not a two-room cabin, as Anderson had suggested at breakfast, but two separate cabins connected by a roofed walkway.

Charles groaned inwardly. He tried hard not to compare what he was inspecting to what he had left behind at Fortunata. But it was difficult. He might dream of what he could make of it—he was long experienced at dreaming—but this was just a crude scene to him. He felt disappointment.

With Anderson, he had ridden in bright sunshine and with good spirit some ten miles from the center of Nashville to see the property his newfound friend was recommending.

“How many acres?” Dewey asked, although he already knew the answer. He had to say something to relieve his depression.

“Two hundred and fifty. Approximately. I suggest you have a survey done immediately.”

“Hmmm. And no cleared land?”

“No, but it offers plenty of opportunities to open up some substantial meadows for grazing. The land here is very rich. Very rich, indeed!”

Charles slid out of the saddle, walking toward the cabins. Anderson followed.

“There's good water here,” Patton said. “From the Richland Creek and from numerous springs as well. There's a spring serving the building.” He pointed.

When they went inside the larger of the two cabins, Charles saw that it was incredibly dirty. Debris of the former trading-post business was scattered all about. Rats scampered away as they entered. Cobwebs covered everything. There was no glass in the few windows, and where the rain had come in on the wooden floor, the boards were warped.

“Of course,” Anderson said, “it'll need some cleaning up.”

Dewey laughed. “Indeed it will!” Somehow, his friend's inane remark had broken his depression.

They inspected the second cabin. It was no better than the first.

Outside again, Charles took a drink from the spring near the door. The water was sweet, cold, refreshing.

“Other parcels?” he asked. “Is it likely that land adjacent to this might also be available?”

“More than likely. Not too much of the land hereabouts has been improved by the owners. They're short of money, I guess.”

“And that brings us to a key point, doesn't it? How much for these two hundred and fifty acres?”

“Twelve hundred and fifty,” Patton answered.

Open-mouthed, Dewey stared at him. “Oh, come now, Patton, twelve hundred and fifty pounds … for this?”

Anderson laughed at him. “Not pounds, Charles—dollars! American dollars. You're not in Virginia any longer.”

“Hmmm. Five dollars an acre? That seems fair.”

“It's a damned good bargain, Charles, a damned good bargain!”

As they talked, a lone figure rode out of the woods on a large, decrepit mule. A white man. Tall and skinny. Dressed in somber black. A specter, it seemed.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” he called out to them cheerfully.

“Good afternoon,” Anderson answered.

The man stopped his mule in front of the larger cabin and sat staring at it. “Mr. Duncan? He's not in business any longer?

“Duncan's been dead for two years,” Anderson told him. “Indians killed him.”

“Is that a fact? Well, it's true that I haven't been through here for nearly three years. Duncan was a good friend—may God rest his soul.”

“Have you just come off the Trace?”

“That I have. I've been preaching the word of God to those wayward denizens of the Natchez Trace from before the days it was called the Natchez … when it was still known as the Chickasaw Trail. For what lasting good, I don't know. Two nights ago, three of those blackguards jumped me. Took every cent I owned.” He laughed. “Two whole dollars!”

He held up a well-worn Bible. “But they didn't get my sword!”

“It's lucky you weren't killed,” Anderson commented.

“The Lord, sir, was my Protector. I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Brother John … Brother John Farnsler.” Once more he laughed. “Well, if the truth be known, the name is Homer Farnsler, but Brother John has a better ring to it.”

Anderson and Dewey completed the introductions.

“We're about to return to Nashville…” Anderson looked to Dewey for confirmation; Charles nodded. “We'd be pleased to have you ride with us, Brother John. In light of your financial straits, perhaps I can stand you to a meal at Mr. Parker's.”

“I accept your kind offer”—the preacher grinned—“content in the knowledge that, once more, the good Lord has provided for His servant.”

III

“Y
ES
, from my earliest days, Mr. Dewey, I've appreciated a good racehorse.” He smiled. “And a good wager. My fondest hope is to build a track at Poplar Grove someday soon.” A slight groan. “If I can ever find the time.”

The speaker was a young man named Andrew Jackson.

Charles had been surprised when Jackson strode into the dining room of the Nashville Inn for the dinner arranged by Patton Anderson. From Anderson's tales of Jackson's exploits—service in the Revolutionary War, attorney general of the Western District of North Carolina, proposer of the name of “Tennessee” for the new state, Indian fighter with the state militia, soon to become a member of the U.S. House of Representatives—Dewey had expected an older man. But Jackson appeared to be about Charles's age, maybe even a year or two younger.

He was tall—six feet or so—and slender with intense blue eyes and dark red hair. His pleasant face was pockmarked. There was a white scar on his forehead suggesting a wound from … what? There was a special presence about the man.

“I recall that quite a few officers in my company rode blooded horses from Virginia when we were fighting Cornwallis in the Waxhaws,” Jackson was saying. “Those good horses gave them an advantage—they really did. Of course, that was some time before Yorktown. Patton tells me you were at Yorktown.”

Charles was embarrassed. “I was in the French navy then, which was blockading the town. I can't honestly say I fought there, in the sense of seeing dangerous action.”

“Well, it was rough in the Carolinas in those days, let me tell you.” The good dinner, with several glasses of wine, had put Jackson in an expansive mood.

“Excuse me, sir, how old were you then?” Charles asked.

“Thirteen … fourteen.” A hand went to the scar on his head. “I got this from the sword of an English dragoon officer who demanded that I clean his boots. I refused, and he did this.”

Charles wondered how a man could tell that story without seeming to brag. But Jackson carried it off.

“But … I'd rather talk about horses, wouldn't you?”

Dewey nodded.

“I remember vividly the races at Charleston after the war. Charleston was a gay town then—I believe it still offers the best racing in America—and the courts and schools and businesses were all closed during the race meeting. I was fifteen and had just had the good fortune to inherit three or four hundred pounds sterling from an Irish uncle. A considerable fortune, as you can appreciate. But my selections at the track were faulty. Damned if I didn't lose it all!”

His laughter filled the dining room.

“I had an unhappy landlord in Charleston at that time,” Jackson went on, “who wanted to know when I was going to pay my rent. Well, the money was gone. So I went to a tavern where I knew there was a high-stakes rattle-and-snap game. I put up my horse against two hundred dollars and rolled the dice. I won, too! And the landlord got paid.”

There was more laughter.

“Mr. Dewey plans to establish a breeding farm here,” Anderson interjected, “with blooded horses. Just today he made arrangements to purchase the old Duncan trading-post property on the Richland.”

“Nice piece of land,” Jackson commented. “May I ask what you paid for it?”

“Five dollars an acre,” Charles answered.

Jackson cocked his head, looking hard at Anderson.

“That includes your commission, I imagine?”

“Including my commission,” Patton said, grinning.

“In that case, a fair price.” Jackson jerked a thumb toward Anderson. “You've got to watch this fellow, you know.” He smiled broadly. “Last year at the Gallatin races, our friend here got … well, overextended a bit in his wagering—”

“That's an accurate description,” Patton agreed lightheartedly.

“And his creditors got a bit obstreperous. They wanted to take it out of his hide, I imagine.”

“They did! They did!” Anderson was already laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks.

“Well, Patton came running toward me, as the last friend he had in the world, with three or four of those fellows on his heels. It was dusk, you see, and while they recognized me, they had no way to know whether I was armed or not. I wasn't. But I had a tin tobacco box in my pocket, and I took it out and clicked the lid. In truth, it sounded for all the world like a pistol being cocked. The unhappy creditors scattered like sheep!”

Now there was general laughter at the table, turning the heads of all the other diners.

“Were the wagers every paid?” Dewey wanted to know.

“What? And ruin yet another tale of Andy Jackson coming to the aid of the oppressed?” Patton started to roar all over again.

Jackson sobered. “Mr. Dewey, I was bound to make common cause with Patton in that incident. He's my friend.”

The conversation turned to the horses Charles planned to bring to Tennessee. He described the stallions he was going to move from Virginia in the spring, with full pedigree particulars.

Jackson seemed impressed. “You're making a wise move, Mr. Dewey. The opportunities for a horseman of your stripe will be boundless here in Tennessee. I look forward to competing against you.”

IV

L
ATER
, in his room, Charles started a letter to Andrew MacCallum, telling him of the land he had bought and of the dinner with Andy Jackson.

“I don't believe I would want to be counted among his enemies,” he wrote. “He's obviously an important man here in Tennessee. Also a very knowledgeable horseman. Jackson is talking of soon building a track in Nashville; one already exists in nearby Gallatin. So there will be plenty of opportunities for racing next year.

“Patton Anderson, my correspondent, turns out to be something of a scoundrel, although a likable one. Inadvertently, he has given me the name for the new estate. He said the land I acquired was a good bargain, and so I shall call the farm Bon Marché—good bargain.