Bon Marche (39 page)

Mattie showed some concern. “You have been working hard all summer. Maybe too hard, dear.”

“Hmm, maybe. But it's been the best season we've ever had. Twenty-two … or is it twenty-three—”

“Twenty-three, dear.”

“Yes, of course. Twenty-three wins for the Bon Marché purple. And some mighty handsome side wagers besides.”

“Are you happy?”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned over in the bed to kiss her lightly. “I could only be happier if I could change the name of that filly and use your name on something more promising. I don't want you to be embarrassed by what happens on Sunday.”

“Is she so umpromising?”

He thought for a moment. Then he laughed. “She's a lot like you really: small and tough.”

“Then she'll be a winner!”

“That's female logic,” he said derisively.

“And that's not all bad,” Mattie insisted. “It was my female logic that caused me to throw in with you … and Bon Marché.”

“Then how can she lose?” He took her in his arms, kissing her eyes closed. They were content in each other.

“Charles?” It was a whisper.

“What?”

“I heard that you had an argument with Franklin over the use of Marshall at Gallatin.”

Dewey frowned. “From Angelica, I'll bet.”

“Yes. But I understand that Marshall has become quite a good young jockey.”

“He shows promise.”

She opened her eyes. “But you're not going to allow him to ride at Gallatin.”

Her husband sighed. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Dewey, he's going to be up on Matilda. It's a weight-for-age race, and he's the only one of the boys who can make ninety-eight pounds right now.”

“I'm glad Marshall is going to ride, Charles.”

He didn't reply.

“Aren't you?”

Dewey was annoyed. “If Franklin thinks he's ready, that's enough for me.”

Mattie decided that she had said enough.

III

F
IVE
horses went postward for the featured Gallatin Purse, the best of three four-mile heats. Matilda would be matched with another four-year-old filly named Lady's Choice, both carrying ninety-eight pounds, the low weight. A good five-year-old mare, Harpy, was assigned one hundred eight pounds. And two four-year-old colts, Blue Ridge and Rambler—the favorite in the event—were to carry an even hundred pounds.

Charles didn't make a bet with the public pool, as he usually did when a Bon Marché horse was running. Even though he had trained the filly, he turned the saddling and the handling of the jockey over to Franklin, and he acted only as a spectator—and one with seemingly little interest.

“This filly doesn't have a lot of speed,” Franklin said to Marshall, who had never ridden Matilda before. “So just keep her as close to the pace as you can, in case something collapses in front of her.”

Marshall nodded his understanding.

Franklin stole a glance at Charles, then moved close to the light-skinned boy in the saddle and whispered to him. “I want to win this race more than any I can think of. Don't run her legs off, brother.”

Again Marshall nodded to his half brother.

Mattie, who had been seeking a wager, came up to Charles. “Can you believe my luck?” she said enthusiastically. “The gentleman who owns Blue Ridge has given me six-to-one odds.”

“For how much?”

“His wife hesitated. “A thousand dollars.”

“
What?
Good God, woman, are you stupid?” He stalked away from her angrily. He was thinking of seeking out Raymond Cross, the owner of Blue Ridge, and thrashing him for taking advantage of his wife.

Just before the runners were called to the post, Mattie had patted Marshall on the leg.

“Win this one for me,” she said.

The boy smiled at her.

“And for your father.”

Marshall's face went sober. “Yes, ma'am, I'll try.”

When the drum tapped for the start, the two colts—as everyone had expected—went immediately to the lead. They traded the lead, back and forth, throughout most of the four miles. In the last fifty yards they surged toward the finish line as a team and crossed it that way.

The placing judges took a long time in discussion before it was announced: “A dead heat is declared, ladies and gentlemen, between Blue Ridge and Rambler!”

The crowd roared its approval.

The other four-year-old filly, Lady's Choice, had been third, ten lengths off the pace. Matilda, with Marshall riding easily, was two lengths farther back, in fourth. Surprisingly, the five-year-old mare, Harpy, was a poor last.

Marshall slid out of the saddle. “I did what you said,” he told Franklin. “I didn't run her legs off. I could have passed Lady's Choice, but I didn't see any reason to do that.”

“You did absolutely the right thing, Marshall. Let's get her ready for the second heat.”

Mattie hadn't seen Charles since she had told him of her big wager. But it didn't matter; she wanted no more of his anger.

The field was called for the second heat.

“Same instructions,” Franklin said to the jockey. “Just handle her easily. Don't use her up.”

The second heat was almost an exact copy of the first. Blue Ridge and Rambler went quickly to the front and stayed there. The race ended the same way—astoundingly! The two colts were declared, once more, to have run a dead heat!

This time, however, it was Matilda who trailed them to the finish line, only six lengths off the winning pace. The mare, Harpy, was also closer up in fourth. And Lady's Choice, having run all of her race in the first heat, was distanced and was declared out of the third heat.

Charles had watched the first two heats from the refreshment pavilion along the home stretch, drinking bourbon all the while. After the second heat, he spoke to a stranger standing next to him.

“Are you a betting man, sir?”

“Sure thing.”

“Would you consider taking some money on that filly, Matilda?”

“Anything you name, mister.”

Charles emptied his glass. “For the whole race, sir, five hundred dollars!”

“Are you sober, mister?”

“No, but I'm not so drunk that I don't see what's been happening out there.”

“You're a fool,” the stranger said, “but you have a bet.”

“Will you give me three to one?”

The man shrugged confidently. “Sure, why not?”

“Agreed,” said Dewey, pumping the stranger's hand vigorously. He ordered another whiskey.

At the judges' stand on the course, a bitter verbal battle was being waged. Rambler had come out of the second heat with his hind legs bleeding, and his owner, one Wade Masters, was loudly complaining to the officials that his runner had been fouled—that he had been “jumped on” by Blue Ridge.

“They bumped, Mr. Masters. That was obvious,” the steward was saying. “But we are convinced that it was accidental.”

“Accidental be damned!” Masters screamed. “It was a deliberate foul and I want Blue Ridge disqualified.”

The steward shook his head. “No, sir, it was accidental. It's a dead heat!”

“Then you'll run the rest of it without my horse,” the owner yelled. “Rambler is drawn!”

“That's your choice, of course, Mr. Masters.”

When the announcement was made to the crowd, a mad flurry of additional betting went on for the remaining colt, Blue Ridge.

Thus, only three horses were called to the start line for the third heat.

“Don't try to run with that colt,” Franklin instructed Marshall. “Just be content to finish.”

“I will.”

The completion of the four miles was just as Franklin had wanted it. Blue Ridge shot to the front with early speed, and only in the last mile did the mare, Harpy, challenge him, falling short by a length at the end. Matilda was last.

Everyone on the course now seemed convinced that Blue Ridge would finally end the marathon race with another first in the fourth heat. Everyone but Franklin.

And Charles Dewey.

In the refreshment pavilion, Dewey was accepting all the bets on the outcome of the race.

“I have money for Matilda,” he roared, quite drunk. “Either on the heat or the entire race.”

He took any bet offered, at whatever odds, and some of it for even money. He seemed to have just enough sobriety to mark down the wagers in his small notebook. His risk exceeded three thousand dollars.

As he boosted Marshall aboard for the fourth heat, Franklin was very specific about his orders. “First, stay within striking distance of the colt. Don't worry about the mare, just keep the colt in sight. Two, no more than three, lengths off the pace.”

Marshall listened to him intently. Soberly.

“Then, at the beginning of the fourth mile, make your move. But not suddenly. Increase the pressure slowly, but be sure, when you have a hundred yards to go, that you're abreast of him. That's the time to go to the whip.”

Franklin smiled. “I don't think the colt will have enough left to hold you off.”

The drum tapped for the fourth time. The crowd, having seen some of the finest racing in Tennessee, now seemed emotionally spent. They watched the early part of the heat in comparative silence.

Marshall did precisely what he had been told. In the last mile of four, he began urging Matilda forward. Gaining, gaining, ever gaining.

With one hundred yards still to go, and looking the Blue Ridge jockey squarely in the eye, Marshall cracked Matilda hard with the whip. She shot ahead, as a roar like thunder bounced off the surrounding hills. Blue Ridge bobbled momentarily—and was beaten a length. The mare, Harpy, finished four lengths back.

Raymond Cross, after inspecting his exhausted colt, approached the course officials: “Gentlemen, Blue Ridge is drawn. I have no desire to kill him.” He sought out Mattie. “Ma'am, it seems I may owe you six thousand.”

The mistress of Bon Marché was very calm, outwardly. “You think, then, that Matilda can win two heats?”

“I think so—yes.” He laughed. “But you'll excuse me, I'm sure, if I cheer for the mare.”

“Of course.”

“If the mare wins, you know,” Cross continued, “my horse and your horse will each have won once, but the bet is null and void without two wins.”

“I understand the rules, sir.”

Cross bowed clumsily. “I'm still enough of a gentleman, in my defeat, to wish you well, ma'am.”

Franklin Dewey was speaking to his jockey: “She's tired, Marshall, but I think she has enough left to put away the mare. We had to go eight and thirty-seven to win the fourth heat. I'm certain that we'll not have to go nearly as fast to win this time.”

“All right.”

“Don't concern yourself at all with time. If the boy on Harpy wants the lead, let him have it. But stay close. Not more than a length out of it, please. If the mare walks, you walk. Save it all again for that last hundred yards. If you do, Marshall, we will have won the most amazing race ever run in Tennessee.”

“Just as you say,” Marshall assured him.

Franklin clapped him on the back and helped him into the saddle for the fifth time.

When Franklin turned around, his father was standing there. Weaving.

“I don't imagine,” he said, the words slurred, “that you need my advice.”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good.” He hung his head contritely. “May I speak to your jockey before he goes off?”

Franklin hesitated.

“Please…”

“Very well.”

Charles staggered to the side of the filly and laid a hand on Marshall's thigh.

“I know I have acted the fool, Marshall, and I hope you'll be able to forgive me someday.” He drew a deep breath, fighting the nausea he felt. “No matter how this turns out, I want you to know that I'm proud of you”—a long pause—“son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“To the post!” the steward shouted.

The two remaining runners walked to the start line.

A tap of the drum.

Before the race had gone a half-mile, everyone at the track was aware of what the outcome would be. Harpy took the lead, setting a slow pace, flagging her tail. Matilda, under restraint, was just behind her.

They went that way, two tired horses on a dead-slow pace, for three and a half miles. On the final half mile, Marshall, hand-riding only, came abreast of Harpy. At the hundred-yard mark, he just clucked to his filly, and she took off, winning by four lengths.

Mattie's delighted scream could be heard all over the course.

Charles stood back and watched her collect the six thousand dollars from Raymond Cross.

George ran up to him, throwing his arms around his father, whirling him about. “Wasn't it grand, Father? Just grand!”

“Marvelous,” Charles grunted, hoping he wouldn't throw up.

“Do you realize,” George said, “that that wonderful filly has run
twenty miles
to win today?”

Dewey could barely stand straight. He handed his wagering book to George. “If you can decipher this mess, I wish you'd collect my bets.”

George studied the book, his eyes opening wide. “My God, Father, you've won more than ten thousand dollars!”

Charles just stood there, weaving, his eyes hooded in drunkenness. “I'd give it all, George, to have back some angry words I said to your mother earlier.”

“She'll forgive you, Father.”

“I don't deserve forgiveness.”

“Nonsense.”

Dewey sank slowly to the ground, unable to stay on his feet any longer. “Damned fool, that's what I am!”

“Drunken fool, too,” a voice said, “but I love you.”

Charles looked up into Mattie's glowing face.

“Oh, Charles, Matilda did it!”

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Just like you … small and tough.”

He passed out.