Bon Marche (34 page)

He had been invited to join the Jackson party for the race, and when he got to Jackson's carriage, where much drinking was under way, Andy asked him, “Did you take my advice on Truxton, Dewey?”

Charles smiled broadly. “I gave it my fullest consideration.”

“Good, good,” Jackson said, reading into the answer what he wanted to hear. “You won't be sorry.”

It was a no-contest race. Greyhound humiliated Truxton, winning in straight heats.

Andrew Jackson was furious. “That damned fool! Verell had the best horse, and he let him get beat. Some men just don't know how to condition horses!”

Dewey said nothing, slipping away to collect his winning bet. He certainly didn't want Jackson to know that he had wagered on Greyhound.

When he returned to the Jackson party, Patton Anderson, Andy's sycophant, was just arriving at the carriage with Major Verell in tow.

“Major,” Jackson said sternly, “news of adversity seems to travel more swiftly than news of a happy nature.”

“So I understand.”

“It has become common knowledge around the course since the race that you're in serious financial trouble.”

“Picked clean,” Verell admitted, with some grace.

“I'm prepared to offer you fifteen hundred dollars in cash for Truxton.”

“I'd take it, but it wouldn't get me out of difficulty.”

“What would?”

The Virginian sighed. “Well, let's see…” He consulted a slip of paper he withdrew from his pocket. “Over and above the fifteen hundred, I'd still be left with eleven hundred and … uh … seventy dollars to meet.”

“I'll pay those debts as well,” Jackson said immediately.

“But, sir,” Verell said smoothly, “if I sold you Truxton I'd have nothing left to race.”

“I have three geldings here of racing age, worth, oh”—he turned to Anderson—“what would you say, Patton?”

“Three-fifty, probably.”

“The geldings go into the pot, Major.”

In spite of his seemingly untenable position, Verell prolonged the bargaining. “Truxton, unless he suddenly falls dead, is certain to win some purses before the year is out. It seems that it might be valid that I share in those. Perhaps, sir, a percentage…?”

Jackson glared at him. When he spoke again, the words were delivered slowly and deliberately, making it clear that he would go no further. “
Should
we win a purse before the end of the fall season, Major, I'd consider a bonus of two other geldings of racing age, to be chosen by gentlemen's agreement.”

Verell stuck out a hand. “Judge Jackson, you are now the owner of Truxton.”

Andy pumped the hand vigorously. Turning quickly, he grasped Dewey by the arm. “Come with me. I have another chore to do.”

Jackson sought out the owner of Greyhound.

“Lazarus,” he said, “I've just acquired Truxton. I'm here to offer you a match race, on this same course in the fall meeting. Five thousand dollars a side.”

Cotton studied Jackson for a moment. “This is not a jest?”

“I'm deadly serious.”

“In that case, I must accept, mustn't I?”

As they walked away from Cotton, Jackson said sotto voce: “Indian Queen is going to be revenged.” He laughed. “It's said that revenge is sweet, but that's only true when the revenge promises to be profitable.”

V

B
ACK
at Bon Marché at the end of the spring racing meeting at Hartsville, Charles found time to write to MacCallum:

My two eldest sons are no longer maidens at the races! Both won at Hartsville with horses they trained, and I couldn't be more proud. I managed three wins myself, to prove to you that I haven't lost the touch. Racing in the West is most vigorous, although I must confess that, at times, the wagering patterns seem strange. You would be appalled at the betting that goes on here. To show disdain for money seems to be in fashion.

Everyone is talking now of the fall meetings, both at Hartsville and at the Nashville Clover Bottom track. And most of the talk is of a rematch of the Virginia-bred Truxton and the Tennessee horse, Greyhound. There's no telling how much money and other things of value will change hands on that one.…

He turned eventually to political matters.

Aaron Burr came to Nashville recently, the guest of Andy Jackson. I went to the reception in his honor only to please Mattie. As far as I'm concerned, he's no better than a murderer (he certainly shows no remorse for having killed Hamilton), and yet, Jackson embraces him. I guess it's the case of one duelist finding reason to applaud another. I don't know who's a worse renegade—Burr or Jackson!

25

C
HARLES
Dewey had not seen so many people at a race meeting since he left Virginia. Thousands jammed the Hartsville course, drawn by the appeal of the match race between Andrew Jackson's Truxton and Lazarus Cotton's Greyhound.

On the one hand, the master of Bon Marché was grateful for the crowds on hand for the rematch. It enabled him, in the days preceding the last big afternoon of the fall meeting, to meet a host of Tennessee and Kentucky breeders he had not known before and to arrange numerous matings for the Bon Marché stallions. He filled the books of three of them for the following season. But on the other hand, so many horsemen being at the course had made for greater competition than he had counted on.

Bon Marché horses won only three races. His sons, Franklin and George, did not win at all. Nevertheless, with judicious wagering, the Dewey coffers had benefited.

On the final day, Franklin said to his father, “I think all of Tennessee must be here.”

“And half of Kentucky as well.”

“How are you going to wager, Father?”

Charles challenged him. “What would you suggest?”

“Greyhound must be the favorite based on his past performances,” the young man replied seriously. “Yet, Truxton's new owner will certainly have him in better condition than he was during the spring meeting.”

“You're sure of that last point?”

Franklin's doubt showed. “No, sir, I'm not. Mother's Cousin Andy seems to have trained him … well, too harshly. Maybe he's worn him out.”

Charles agreed with his son's evaluation. “So what's your conclusion?”

“I don't know. Maybe this is one to sit out.”

“I'm beginning to think the same thing.” Dewey looked around him. “Have you seen your brother lately?”

“George is occupied with the girls.” The tone of his answer implied disapproval.

“He is, is he?” Charles smiled. “And you think there are better ways in which to occupy yourself?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Anyway, George isn't very choosy. Anything in skirts suits him.”

Charles patted his sober son on the back. “The day will come for you, too, my lad. So don't be too critical.”

“When it does, I'll be more careful.”

“Yes, I'm sure you will be.”

The ubiquitous Patton Anderson came up to them, grinning broadly and not too soberly. “Dewey! I've been looking all over for you. This is the race to bet the plantation on.”

“It looks too close to call for me.”

“That's absolute nonsense, Charles! Andy has this horse in top condition. Lean and hungry, as it were. Every penny I could get together is going on Truxton.”

“I admire your loyalty.”

“It's not a matter of loyalty,” Anderson insisted, slurring his words. “Truxton is simply the better of the two. And since Greyhound is favored, you can get a price on Truxton. Why, I'm even betting fifteen horses on him.”

“I didn't know you
had
fifteen horses, Patton.”

Jackson's friend laughed uproariously. “I don't, old friend, I don't.” The laugh turned to a drunken giggle. “Some of the horses I've put up might have ladies' saddles on them. I'm wagering them as an agent, so to speak.”

“An unknown agent, I'd imagine.”

Anderson grinned devilishly. “What difference does it make? Truxton will win easily, and I'll have fifteen horses!”

As he stumbled away, Franklin frowned. “He's really a reprehensible man, Father.”

“Hmmm. Patton's a free spirit, son. Not my dish of tea, but a free spirit nevertheless. Come—let's take a look at Truxton.”

The apparent condition of the horse shocked Dewey. Jackson's rigorous training had taken weight off of him; ribs protruded prominently.

“I don't imagine I have to give you advice on betting,” Andy said to him.

“No.”

“Good! You're a wise man.” Once again, Jackson persisted in reading into Charles's simple answer what he wanted to hear. It was one of the little things about Mattie's cousin that sometimes annoyed him. This was one of those times.

They looked, too, at Greyhound, finding him fit, as usual. But the two Deweys stayed with their initial reaction. Father and son decided not to bet on the match.

Any type of wager was available on the course. In addition to the public pool, numerous side bets were being made. As Charles and Franklin strolled about, they overheard a conversation in which a six-hundred-forty-acre tract of land was being offered on Truxton. There was a ready taker; numerous land papers would change hands before the day was concluded.

At one point in their meandering, another of Jackson's friends approached them. “Have you heard of Andy's latest wager?”

“What's that?”

“He's bet fifteen hundred dollars against a like amount of clothing. With some tailor from Gallatin.”

They all laughed about that.

Ahead of them they spotted George, with a young lady on each arm.

Dewey went up behind him and playfully tapped his shoulder. His son whirled around. His face was flushed, but not with embarrassment.

“Father! I want you to meet Dolly.” She was a buxom girl on his left. “And this is … uh…”

“Emily,” the dark-haired girl on his right volunteered.

“Of course,” George said easily, “Emily.”

“Would you young ladies excuse us for a moment?” Charles asked. “A family matter.”

He drew George out of earshot of the girls. “Have you been drinking, George?”

“Just a bit of hard cider, Father. Nothing to worry about.”

“I do worry about it. I don't like to see my son drunk, especially when he's only sixteen years old.”

“Not drunk, sir, just a tad happy.” He grinned.

Charles sighed deeply, deciding to change the subject. “I've looked over the horses, George, and have decided to pass on the match. I suggest that you do the same. That is, if you've had time to think about betting in the midst of your … uh … female distractions.”

“Too late, Father,” George answered airily. “One of those mad Greyhound backers insisted on offering me odds of three to one. I took it for a hundred.”

The master of Bon Marché groaned.

“But at three-to-one, sir!”

“I guess it's too late to say anything but good luck. One final thing before you rejoin the ladies—everything is packed and ready to go. We leave for Bon Marché immediately after the race.”

“Yes, sir.” George sauntered back to the girls, kissing both of them to signal his return.

Dewey couldn't help smiling at the self-assured young man.

In the race itself, Jackson's rigorous training of Truxton proved out. Greyhound was beaten soundly in straight heats. Routed actually, to a great roar of approval from the Jackson supporters.

As Charles and Franklin walked toward their carriage, they came upon Patton Anderson doling out cups of hard cider from a large cask. The agent was even drunker than he had been earlier.

“Dewey!” he called, holding out a cup.

“I'll pass, Patton.”

Anderson pointed to a large basket of baked goods on the ground in front of him. “Some ginger cakes, then. Won them from a nice old lady from Kentucky.”

“No, thank you.”

“Have you heard the latest news, Dewey?”

“I'm almost afraid to ask what it is.”

“Andy has bought Greyhound. He goes to Clover Bottom now.”

At his carriage, Charles gave the final orders to the Negroes for the return of the racehorses to Bon Marché.

When they were ready to leave, George was absent.

“Go find your brother,” Dewey told Franklin.

Harboring a resentment, which he hid from his father, Franklin began his search, without immediate success. Only when he happened to come across one of George's former companions did it end.

“Emily, do you have an idea where George is?”

The girl, smiling knowingly, pointed to a large barn where the managers of the Hartsville racecourse stored hay.

Outside the barn, Franklin shouted: “George, are you in there?!”

There was no answer.

He entered the barn. The interior was nearly dark now in the late afternoon. “George!”

Again no answer.

“George!”

This time there was a feminine giggle from behind some bales of hay. Franklin followed the sound. When he poked his head over the bales, he saw in the half light that the girl called Dolly had her bodice open, her breasts bared. George's trousers were down around his ankles.

“George, for God's sake!”

Slowly, his brother turned his head to look up at Franklin. “Well, if it isn't my older sibling. Say hello to Franklin, Dolly.”

“Hello.” The girl giggled, as unconcerned as George at being discovered in that delicate situation.

“We're ready to leave,” Franklin told his brother. “Father's waiting!”

George shrugged. To the girl: “Family duty calls me, Dolly, sweet. This will have to wait until next time.”

Dolly giggled again.

Nonchalantly, he got to his feet, pulled up his pants, fastened his belt, and left Dolly alone in the hay.