Bon Marche (35 page)

As the brothers walked to the carriage, Franklin asked in disgust, “
Where
do you find them?”

“They're everywhere, Franklin. You ought to look sometime.”

Franklin didn't reply.

“I suppose you're going to report all this to Father.”

Silence.

At the carriage again, the eldest son told Dewey, “He was collecting his bet. At least George had the right idea on the race.”

George Washington Dewey flashed him a big grin.

II

C
HARLES
was in a mood to talk. About anything. Mattie had other inclinations.

Propped up in bed, he said, “Your Cousin Andy's Clover Bottom track promises to offer the best race meeting the West has ever seen.”

“Yes, dear.” She leaned over and kissed him.

“Captain Joseph Erwin has posted a challenge against all comers for his Tanner at five thousand a side. I wonder whether I have anything good enough to risk that?”

Another kiss. “You'd be the best judge of that, dear.”

“I imagine that Jackson will take him up on it, now that he has Greyhound as well as Truxton.”

“He probably will.” She began to run a hand lightly down his bare chest. Slowly. Lower and lower.

“Oh,” Charles went on, “I want to talk to you about George. It seems that young man is turning into quite a roue. Would it be possible, perhaps, for you to … discuss those things with him?”

“What things, dear?” The hand had reached his belly.

“Well, about women and the dangers of … uh … pregnancies and the like. Sometimes a mother can—”

“You think he's not a virgin, then?”

Charles laughed. “I'd bet on it.”

Mattie's hand now rested on his penis, the fingers tickling him. “I was going to suggest,” she said with some sarcasm, “that it's best for the father to have those talks with young men. But maybe you're right—I'd be the best one for such a discussion. At least I'm still alive.”

“What?”

“Charles! What are we talking about?”

“George and his … dalliances.”

Mattie sighed in exasperation. “Mr. Dewey, that's sex, isn't it?”

“It may be, but—”

“You've been in Hartsville with your damned horses for two whole weeks while I've been here alone. I'm beginning to wonder whether you found something there other than racing!”

“Don't be silly. It's just that—”

She took her hand away. “All right, let's settle this. One—I'll speak to George. Two—yes, I think Cousin Andy will have a simply marvelous race meeting at Clover Bottom. Three—no, I don't think you have a horse that's worth risking five thousand dollars against Tanner. Now, is there anything else on your mind?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I don't think so.”

“Then, for God's sake, Charles, make love to me!”

“Oh … is that what you've been hinting at?”

“Charles! Damn you!”

He laughed loudly. “I wondered what all that hand manipulation was about.”

Mattie struck out at him. But playfully. He caught her hand, pulling her to him. They made love as they had when they were under a canopy of red cedars on their wilderness honeymoon.

Both were half dozing when Charles whispered, “Mattie?”

“Hmmm?”

“You really don't think I have anything to challenge Tanner?”

“One of these days, Charles Dewey,” she murmured, “I'm going to murder you right here in this bed.”

III

C
LOVER
Bottom was the largest commercial establishment in western Tennessee. The one-mile race track, set on a beautiful oval meadow, dominated it, but Andrew Jackson and his partners had also built a vast mercantile complex on the banks of the Stones River, some eight miles from Nashville.

A huge store offered firearms and skillets and grindstones and calico. And broadcloth from Philadelphia, which sold at fifteen dollars a yard; Jackson had bought it for five. The store also sold coffee and salt and allspice. Anything that was needed. Because cash money was scarce in the West, much of the merchandise was traded for cotton, tobacco, pelts, and slaves—all of which were taken to New Orleans on flatboats for resale.

Clover Bottom also boasted a comfortable tavern, booths for hucksters, and a keelboat yard on the Stones. It was highly profitable. At times. But Jackson had a propensity for overextending himself, and the enterprise often lost money.

Whatever the state of his purse, however, Andy always seemed to have money for horse racing. As Dewey had anticipated, Jackson posted the five thousand dollars to have his Greyhound meet Captain Erwin's Tanner in the fall meeting of 1805.

Thousands were on hand on opening day for the match race, which Greyhound won in three difficult heats.

In the crowded and noisy tavern afterward, Erwin wasn't satisfied.

“Sir,” the captain said loudly to Jackson, “perhaps we ought to match our stallions—your Truxton against my Ploughboy. I believe Ploughboy to be the best stud horse in these parts.”

Jackson laughed. “It has always been the rule, hasn't it, that differences of opinions make horse races. Truxton is ready, of course. What say you to the best of three two-mile heats?”

“It's to be a speed race, then?” Erwin commented.

“Two thousand a side?”

“Agreed. And the forfeit?”

“Shall we make it eight hundred?” Jackson countered.

“Agreed, sir.”

They shook hands. It was a contract.

Andy sat down at Dewey's table, where Charles was drinking with Patton Anderson, who was talking animatedly about the impending match race. “I swear to you, Charles, that there's nothing more invigorating than match racing.”

“My father-in-law in Virginia,” Dewey observed, “used to say that matching horses with money was as satisfying as being with an accommodating woman.”

“By God, the man was right!” Jackson roared. “Absolutely right!”

Patton spoke. “Andy, have you talked to Captain Erwin about that matter with his son-in-law?”

A dark cloud came over Jackson's face. He turned in his chair, his eyes searching the room. When he saw Erwin in the crowd, he gestured to him. Erwin came to the table and sat down with them.

“Captain, it has come to my ears,” Jackson said, “that your son-in-law, Charles Dickinson, has made some injudicious remarks about my wife's first marriage.”

“Indeed?” Erwin seemed surprised.

“Yes, sir, and I respectfully suggest that you caution him against such indiscretions. He's a young man, not blessed yet with maturity, and I wish no quarrel with him. In truth, I suspect that he's being used by my enemies—that damned Governor Sevier and his cronies!”

The captain was apologetic. He understood how sensitive Jackson was about the controversy that surrounded his marriage to the former Rachel Donelson. There had been charges that Andy had wed her when he knew that she was still the wife of her first husband, charges using the ugly word
adultery.

“I'll speak to Dickinson about it.”

“I wish you would,” Jackson said coldly. “In time, I would hope, to avoid further unpleasantries.”

Captain Erwin got to his feet, bowed formally, and left the table.

Within minutes, Charles Dickinson presented himself to Jackson. He was not yet thirty, Dewey guessed, and he was dressed in the highest fashion. A dandy, with a ready arrogance. Andy didn't suggest that he sit down.

“Judge Jackson,” the young man said, obviously choosing his words with care, “I understand that certain remarks attributed to me have brought you offense. I never intended that, of course. If I said anything at all that may have pained you, it might have come in moments when I was … well, to be candid, when I was drunk. Nevertheless, I offer my apologies.”

Jackson scowled at him, nodded once to acknowledge the apology, and turned away. Dickinson stood there uneasily for a moment, then left.

“Damned puppy!” Andy growled.

26

C
HARLES
slammed a copy of the newspaper down on the table.

“I tell you, Mattie, there's grave mischief afoot with Andy!”

He picked up the
Impartial Review and Cumberland Repository
again, glaring at the front page.

“Your cousin has written a two-column letter in which he castigates that young lawyer, Tom Swann, calling him ‘the puppet and lying valet for a worthless drunken blackguard scoundrel, Charles Dickinson.' My God, Mattie, everyone in Nashville expects a duel. Andy wants it, it seems!”

His wife shook her head sadly. “I know. When I went to see Rachel yesterday, she was deeply worried.”

“Then why doesn't she talk to Andy?”

“No one can talk to Andrew Jackson when he thinks he's been offended.”

Charles shrugged. “It's all so stupid! That damned Patton Anderson, continually goading Andy under the guise of being his friend. And young Swann, apparently enjoying his sudden notoriety as Dickinson's champion, unable to keep his mouth shut. Good Lord, Andy has already given Swann a severe caning. Isn't that enough!”

“Andy feels that Dickinson has insulted Rachel.”

“But the young man apologized for that last fall at the race meeting. I was there in the Clover Bottom tavern when he came to our table and made the apology.”

“Rachel says he's repeated the remarks since that time.”

Dewey groaned. “The way things are going the Truxton-Ploughboy rematch in April could be a bloodbath.”

II

C
HARLES
and Mattie stepped down from their carriage into a vast mob of people at the Clover Bottom racecourse.

Andy Jackson, animated and smiling broadly, greeted them. “This is the largest concourse of people I ever saw assembled,” he commented, “unless in an army.”

Dewey looked up at the low, dark clouds. “It may rain on the entire assemblage.”

“It'll make no difference to Truxton. Dry or wet, he's going to win.”

“The story is, Andy, that Truxton is injured, that he may have to forfeit.”

Jackson seemed unconcerned. “It's true that he wrenched a muscle in his thigh two days ago, but—”

“I gather that you're not recommending a wager on Ploughboy.” Charles laughed.

“In no way! Truxton is tough, like his owner.”

Charles had heard, though, that the injury was serious. He got that from Sam Pryor, who had been retained by Jackson to prepare the horse for the special race. And he knew that Pryor had recommended twenty-four hours earlier that Andy pay the half forfeit on the three thousand dollar purse.

As a breeder, however, Dewey recognized the importance of this race. A win by either of the stallions would immediately increase the horse's worth at stud immeasurably.

The latest issue of the
Impartial Review
had made that clear. The fact that it was published by one of Rachel Jackson's nephews probably accounted for the Truxton bias:

On Thursday the 3rd of April next, 1806, will be run the greatest and most important race ever run in the Western country, between Gen. Jackson's horse, Truxton, 6 years old carrying 124 pounds, and Capt. Joseph Erwin's horse, Ploughboy, 8 years old carrying 130 pounds, for the sum of 3,000 dollars.

The present engagement with Ploughboy is such that he cannot be put to mares any sooner than the above stated time.… Gentlemen who wish to breed fine horses would do well not to put their mares to horses until after the race, as at that time it will be seen (barring accidents) whether or not he be the true bred racer.

Bon Marché had no horses running that day. Dewey wanted to be free to savor the excitement of the event. As he and Mattie strolled about the course, they came upon a temporary fenced-in corral, in which numerous blacks were milling about, chuckling, seeming to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

“What's that?” Mattie asked.

Those are slaves who have been offered as wagers.”

“Charles! No!”

“Yes, I'm afraid it's true,” he answered sadly. He pointed to another corral nearby. “And those are horses being offered as bets. I'm never going to be able to get used to the fact that some people equate their blacks with beasts of burden.” He thought that Funston Lee would be right at home here.

A finely dressed gentleman came up to them, bowing deeply.

“Major,” Dewey said, acknowledging the bow with a slight one of his own. “May I present my wife, Matilda? Dear, this grinning oaf is Major William Terrell Lewis, who is, if I'm not mistaken, about to offer me some money on Ploughboy.”

“Ma'am,” Lewis said to Mattie. “It's true about the money. Captain Erwin has authorized me to accept two thousand dollars more on Ploughboy. You can have it all, Dewey, or any portion of it.”

“Your largess wouldn't have anything to do with the rumors about Truxton's injury, would it?”

“They are not rumors, sir. We expect that Jackson will forfeit.”

“Then why the rush for more bets?”

Major Lewis laughed. “Andy Jackson has been known to make foolish decisions on horse races. If he does so on this one, we are determined to capitalize on it.”

“I'll pass for the moment, Major.”

“Understandable.” He started to move off.

“Excuse me, Major, one moment more. I'd like you to satisfy my curiosity about Charles Dickinson. Is he on the grounds?”

“No, he's in New Orleans on business.” A wide grin. “His money's here, however.”

“I can imagine it is.”

Another bow to Mattie, and Lewis was gone.

“Is Truxton badly hurt, Charles?” Mattie wanted to know.

“Let's find out.”

At the stall where Truxton was quartered, an anxious group was gathered around the thoroughbred stallion. Jackson, of course, was there. And John Coffee, and trainer Sam Pryor, and the former owner of Truxton, Virginian John Verell.