Bon Marche (27 page)

“How does that strike you?”

BOOK TWO

This would be an impossible world in which to live if some of us were infallible.

—Andrew MacCallum, 1808

20

“Y
A SONOFABITCH
! The goddamned bet were twenty dollars!”

“Yer a pig-faced, lyin' bastard! It warn't but ten!”

Lunging drunkenly at each other, the two buckskin-clad young men grappled, tumbling heavily into the dust of the street, kicking and punching and gouging and biting.

Their fight was largely ignored by perhaps a dozen other men whose attention was on another battle: two fighting cocks slashing at each other with razor-sharp metal spurs, doing horrible damage. The birds were evenly matched in weight and frenzy, and the gamblers gathered around the cockpit at the Nashville Inn rent the late-afternoon air with obscene shouts.

Dewey watched them for a minute or two, shook his head in disgust, and entered the inn to have dinner with his children.

Nashville wasn't much.

Charles found it dishearteningly crude.

The hard-drinking nature of the frontiersmen who peopled the village was evident in the fact that there were three taverns plus a convenient distillery among the fewer than fifty buildings that made up the community. One of the taverns was operated by Captain Timothée de Monbreun, a French adventurer and Indian trader from Quebec who had been the first white man to settle on the Nashville site. His place of business was built of stone, suggesting the permanency of the liquor trade.

The town was an odd mixture of what Nashville had been and what it might become. Most of the buildings were of simple log construction. But the courthouse was of stone, the jail was surrounded by an attractive, if incongruous, white picket fence, and Mr. Parker's Nashville Inn offered amenities not expected on the frontier.

Then, too, there were signs of increasing commerce: J. B. Craighead's merchandise store was a two-story brick affair; one James Jackson also ran a store in a new two-story frame building, offering items from as far away as Philadelphia and St. Louis.

There was even a doctor, a man named Hennings, in residence.

In contrast to those minimal suggestions of civilization, Nashville also boasted a set of stocks in the public square, where law-breakers—most often just roistering drunks—were frequently on display. There was a whipping post, too. And that cockpit by Mr. Parker's inn.

The proximity of cockfighting to the inn was reason enough for Charles to move immediately to make the log buildings on the Richland Creek habitable. He didn't want his children exposed to the cockfights, and to the rough men who conducted them, for any longer than was necessary.

At Jackson's store he ordered glass to replace the missing windows at the former trading post. He bought beds and chairs and other furnishings as well—thinking then of the pile of fine furniture he had abandoned on the Wilderness Road. And he dispatched the six male slaves to his new property to clean and repair the buildings.

Within a week, although all of the furniture wasn't in place, the Dewey family left the comfortable accommodations of the Nashville Inn to begin a new life at Bon Marché.

II

A
NDREW
MacCallum's letter, addressed to Dewey in care of Patton Anderson, brought some solace to Charles, and some bad news, too.

“You should feel no guilt, my friend,” Andrew wrote, “about dear Martha's death. I suggest to you that it was God's will and that you take heart in that. I suggest, too, that you not read too much into your dreaming, your subconscious contemplations, about seeing another woman by your side on the frontier. Do not allow the fact of Martha's death to twist your reasoning. It has happened. It's a tragedy, but it has happened. You need only remember her loving nature, the joys she brought to you as your wife, and then move on—looking ahead to what your young life still offers you. Be not melancholy, my friend. But revel in the enjoyment you find in the children Martha gave you. They are your future, not recriminations about what might have been.”

Andrew's words brought some peace to Dewey. But not his other news: “Fortunata is not yet sold at this writing. Lee has made two offers for the property through agents, both below the announced price. I suspect he believes that if the estate remains unsold for a time, you will lose your resolve not to sell it to him. Be assured, however, that Lee will not get it—under any circumstances! Hard money is scarce, though, and a proper sale may be long in coming…”

Charles tried to put that out of his mind; he did so successfully for many hours at a time as he and the slaves readied Bon Marché for the winter. A third log building was erected as a sleeping quarters for the slaves. Charles purchased two sturdy mules to help pull stumps from the ground as work began on clearing the first of the pastures designed to keep horses.

It was hard work, but spirits were high.

III

“M
ISTAH
Charles,” Angelica said quietly, “Ah needs t' talk t' ya.”

It was a bitter cold day in early December, and Charles was sitting alone on a pile of rocks that had been cleared from the number one pasture, surveying the work accomplished.

“Yes?”

The slave woman's eyes were downcast. “Ah'm gonna have a baby, Mistah Charles.”

Dewey seemed unperturbed. Outwardly. “Mine?” he asked.

Sudden hurt showed in Angelica's face. She waited for a moment before she answered calmly, “Yas, suh.”

“I see.”

The nerves in Dewey's stomach were knotting, but he tried not to show his anxiety. “Yes, I see,” he repeated, sucking in a long breath. “You're sure?”

“Yas, Mistah Charles.”

His words came slowly. “Angelica, I'm certain you can appreciate that this news comes at a most inopportune time. I mean, just when I'm beginning to play a role in this community—”

She stared at him.

“Of course, I intend to have you receive the best of care, and for the baby to be supported—” He swallowed hard. “But I cannot acknowledge this child. It would be … well, most awkward. You understand that, don't you?”

“Yas, suh.”

“What do you suppose would be the best way to handle this?”

Angelica had no words.

“I don't want you to have a bastard child. You're too dear to me to allow that.”

Silence.

He had made his decision. “You must marry, of course.”

The black woman's eyes opened wide.

“Yes, yes, that's the answer,” Dewey went on. “You'll marry. I know that you're partial to Horace—”

“Oh, no, Mistah Charles!”

“I thought you admired Horace?”

“Oh, he a nice man, Mistah Charles, but he only got one han'!” She shuddered.

“That's hardly a reason to reject him,” Dewey insisted coldly. “He's a hard worker, and he's kind. He'd look after you and your child.”

Angelica was bold now. “It
yer
baby, Mistah Charles.”

The knot in his stomach tightened. This wasn't going well at all. “Yes, I understand that, but I've already explained to you, Angelica, that my position in this new community—”

With defiance: “Ah'll have mah baby alone!”

“No, I can't permit that.” He made his voice hard. “You'll marry Horace and that will settle it!”

“Yas, suh.” She was still a slave. She recognized that fact.

Charles nodded. “I'll arrange it with Horace.”

“Yas, suh.” Tears began.

“Angelica, don't carry on so. You'll have a fine baby and a fine husband, and all of you will be taken care of.”

She began to walk away.

“I'll see if I can find that itinerant preachers. Brother John, and we'll take care of this as soon as possible.”

Angelica left him.

Dewey felt nauseated.

He knew that what he was doing was hurting Angelica deeply: a woman who had been kind to him, who had probably saved his sanity during the difficult wilderness journey. But she
was
a black woman!

Horace would do as he asked; the one-handed slave, he reasoned, would do anything he asked. The nausea grew. Those two gentle black people, Angelica and Horace, loved him. And, he was—

Charles shook his head to clear it. He needed a clear head now. Brother John would be a good choice to perform the wedding ceremony, because he probably wouldn't be around too much to serve as a reminder to Charles of what he had done. Was he really a minister? Did it matter?

His decision was firmly made. His plans for Bon Marché and for himself were too important to toss aside because of a half-breed baby.

He was, after all, the master of Bon Marché!

IV

T
HE
slim young man with the aquiline nose and the thin lips wore a white satin ruffled suit. It was in the highest style, but badly wrinkled, suggesting that it had been packed away in a saddlebag for many days.

“Your Royal Highness,” Charles said, bowing formally, not sure that he had used the proper form of address.
“Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.”

“Please, please,” the Duke of Orleans said, “speak English. I'm quite proud of my English.” He smiled broadly. “You must be the Monsieur Dewey whom Captain Maxwell told me about. Of the French navy, eh?”

“A very minor cog. It was a long time ago.”

“Hmm. And what are you doing in this wilderness?”

“Breeding horses, Your Excellency—racehorses.”

The duke's eyebrows rose expressively. “Ah!
C'est trop cher!
”

“Expensive? Yes, at times. But I've been most fortunate.”

“You don't miss France, then?”

“I have few fond memories of France,” Charles said quickly. “Oh, I'm sorry if I've offended—”

The French nobleman laughed. “Don't apologize to me for that. I don't look fondly upon the France of today, either.”

Dewey was aware that Louis Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, had, as a Bourbon prince, been imprisoned by the French Revolutionary Directory and then exiled to the United States. He was taking advantage of that exile by touring the new nation with his two younger brothers, the Duc de Montpensier and the Duc de Beaujolais, also exiles.

It was mid-May of 1797, and the entire white population of Nashville had been invited by Captain Jesse Maxwell, at whose new hostelry the Frenchmen were staying, to a reception in honor of the royal trio.

Charles had thought about not accepting the invitation; he wasn't much interested in Bourbon princes. But it had been a long, hard winter at Bon Marché. And two days earlier a letter from MacCallum had put him in a celebrating mood.

“Good news finally!” his friend had written. “A Cornell Monkton of Richmond has met your price for Fortunata. I delayed giving him an answer until Lawyer Exner could prove to me that Mr. Monkton was not acting as an agent for Funston. Once I was convinced that he was not, the legal papers were drawn up. I expect him to sign them within the week.”

MacCallum added a second bit of welcome news:

“That long-hunter, Abner Lower, whom you recommended as a guide to bring the horses to Tennessee, has accepted the assignment. As a matter of fact, he left two days ago with the horses you want and eight of the blacks. Lower has agreed to guide the remainder of the household on another trip as soon as I can wind up the business here. He seems a competent man. I like him. He says that he ought to be seeing you at the beginning of August, with luck, perhaps as early as late July.”

Dewey tore his mind away from the memory of Andrew's letter and directed his attention once again to the royal guest. “How are you finding America?” Dewey asked the Duke of Orleans.

“Rugged! Most rugged, indeed. But invigorating, for the most part.” He smiled. “We seem to have come to Nashville at the wrong time, though. What with the court being in session, the accommodations here are extremely limited. Captain Maxwell is a gracious host, but my brothers and I are forced to sleep three to a bed.”

Charles laughed. “You're fortunate, Your Excellency, that your bedfellows are related. You might have been quartered with two strangers.”

Orleans joined in the laughter. After another moment or two of polite conversation, Charles drifted away to Maxwell's well-stocked bar and asked for a bourbon. He was becoming quite fond of the local whiskey.

He stood nearly alone at the end of the bar, watching the gentry of Nashville being introduced to the Duke of Orleans, enjoying the scene.

Tim de Monbreun came in, the Quebec Frenchman all flustered at the thought of meeting French royalty. He shook visibly when he was introduced and let loose with a string of frontier Pidgin French expletives that brought a guffaw from the duke.

As Charles continued to look on, a petite young lady was presented. She had flowing auburn hair—Charles suddenly recalled his Parisian friend, Marie—wide, knowing eyes, and full rouged lips. Despite her small stature, she was full breasted, and her self-assurance was immediately evident; she seemed not awed at all at meeting a Bourbon prince of France. She curtsied politely, exchanged a few words with the duke, and joined the other guests in the crowded room.

“Who is that young lady?” Charles asked another man at the bar.

“The redhead?”

“Yes.”

“James Jackson's daughter. The storekeeper, you know.”

Nodding his thanks for the information, Dewey drained his glass, and made straight for her.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, “my name is Dewey—Charles Dewey. I'm told that you're James Jackson's daughter.”

“Yes, I am.” She studied him frankly.

“I trade at your father's store, but I've never seen you there.”

“I've been away at school. In Boston.” Before he could comment, she asked: “And what do you do, Mr. Dewey?”