Bon Marche (46 page)

“He has a bit of speed, August.”

“He looks fine to me.”

“I just wish he had more size. I'm concerned about his stamina. But we'll know soon enough how good he is.”

“He's ready to start?”

“Yes, but just a dash, you know.”

Dewey and Schimmel had been brought together by the horse, and they had found early on that they were compatible. Schimmel, whose German accent got heavier when he became excited, was a man of universal interests. A natural newspaperman, apparently, he had come to the United States with a fortune inherited from his father, a pottery manufacturer in Karlsruhe. He might have settled in one of the larger cities along the East Coast, and prospered there. Instead, he took the gamble of moving to the frontier of his new country, coming eventually to Nashville.

He was a tall, blond, square-cut man with a sober demeanor that complemented the moody sobriety Dewey had acquired after the departure of Andrew MacCallum. Mattie liked the German because he seemed to fill a gap in her husband's life.

As they walked away from the training track, Charles asked: “A Bon Marché whiskey, August?”

“That's always welcome.”

“What are your views on developments in Washington?”

“The young warhawks?”

“Yes.”

Schimmel scratched his chin contemplatively. “They seem to be in firm control of Congress, don't they? Henry Clay's election as Speaker proves that.”

“Will they get war?”

“I believe they will.”

“Lord!”

“But we must recognize that England is provoking a confrontation, with its continual harassment of our shipping.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper. “Just this morning I received a letter from our Representative.”

“Ah, yes, the Jackson handmaiden, Felix Grundy.”

“He may be that,” the editor admitted, “but he points out, quite legitimately, I think, that the English are arming the Indians here in the West. Grundy feels strongly about that; he's had three brothers killed by Indians.

“He says”—Schimmel glanced at the letter—”that the English are urging ‘the ruthless savages to tomahawk our women and children.' Several incidents of that type have been reported, you know. And Grundy adds: ‘War is not to commence by sea or land, it is already begun, and some of the richest blood of our country has been shed.'”

Schimmel folded the letter, returning it to his pocket.

Charles groaned. “Well, be that as it may, I hope that
my
sons don't get drawn into war.” He changed the subject. “You'll stay for dinner, of course.”

“I'm afraid not, Charles. You see … uh … I have an engagement to take your daughter to dinner in Nashville.”

“Louise?”

“Yes.”

Dewey slapped him on the back. “Why, you sly devil! ‘I want to see the horse,' you say. And all along you and Louise were—”

“Oh, it's nothing like that,” Schimmel protested, embarrassed by Charles's roguish innuendo. “It's just that this new establishment is opening up, and it seems that there's something new in Nashville every week—and … well, Miss Louise has consented to accompany me.”

“Louise is a very pretty girl,” Charles said proudly.

“Yes, she is.”

An elbow dug into the German's ribs. “I'm going to have to keep an eye on you, August.” He was laughing.

The editor was not. “Charles, I assure you that I have nothing but the most honorable of intentions.”

Dewey laughed even harder. “I recall using that line myself, Herr Schimmel. And finding myself married shortly thereafter.”

II

C
HARLES
had changed. Not metamorphically—not from worm to butterfly, nor lamb to beast either. Nor in ways that were evident to casual observers of Bon Marché. But MacCallum's leaving—and Marshall's—had changed him.

Mattie found him less ebullient now; more sober, more restrained in his enthusiasms. He continued to work long hours with the horses; he gambled just as much. But success seemed to be of less consequence to him; failure less devastating.

At times, his new even-tempered approach to just about everything was irritating to Mattie. More than once she wished for the old Charles; the new one was so monotonously predictable. So lackluster.

Except for two things, totally unrelated.

One was his decision, announced without any other preliminary, that he was setting aside four hundred acres of the plantation for what he called a deer park.

“That outlying piece of land,” he told Mattie, “on the other side of the number two wheat field, is still pretty much virgin territory. Why disturb it? We ought to preserve something of the wilderness for our grandchildren and their children and all of the generations to come. Keep it safe for the future.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I'm going to stock it with native animals—deer, buffalo, antelope—before they are all killed off.” He clapped his hands together for emphasis. “As a matter of fact, I think I'll have the blacks start building a secure fence around that area.”

“What blacks?” Mattie interrupted. “They're all fully employed now.”

Dewey shrugged. “Well, get some more.”

The reply was so uncharacteristic of her husband that Mattie gasped. She found the entire conversation a bit strange.

“In the past, Charles, you've always resisted my suggestions that we get more help.”

“This, though,” he said with determination, “is
important.
”

“Are you implying that other things were not—” She stopped, changing her mind. “Very well. How many hands will you need?”

“Oh, a dozen. Fifteen might be better.”

“That will be rather costly.”

He smiled at her tolerantly. “You must understand that this is an investment in the future. We ought to serve the future while struggling through the morass of the present. Don't you agree?”

The next day she had an agent acquire twelve more slaves for Bon Marché.

The second thing that stirred enthusiasm in the “new Charles” was Mattie herself. Their physical relationship had always been important to them, but now Charles seemed to believe it the top priority in their life together.

He made love to her with renewed intensity, never seeming to be content with what had been pleasurable the night before. He experimented, finding new ways to satisfy her. But always gently; stroking her and cooing to her and assuring her again and again of his love for her.

Mattie bloomed under the new attention, looking forward to her nighttime hours with him. Yet she was disquieted. She thought he was being driven to prove something to her, when that had never been necessary between them before. She wanted to talk to him about it, but could never find the opening words.

“I was reading the Bible this morning,” he told her one night in bed.

She couldn't have been more surprised. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Charles said soberly. “It's been said that the Bible is the repository of all wisdom, and I've come to believe that.”

Mattie kept silent. She feared that whatever she said at that moment would be wrong.

“And, you know, one of the first orders that God gave—recorded in the first chapter of Genesis—was ‘be fruitful and multiply.'”

She tried for a light tone. “Darling, I have the distinct feeling that you're leading up to something.”

“I am.” Still soberly. “I want to have another child.”

“Charles!”

“I don't shock you, I hope.”

“But you
do,
dear.”

“Oh … why?”

“Charles Dewey, you're forty-six years old.”

“That's not decrepit.”

“And I'm past thirty now.”

“Thirty-two, to be exact. Biologically a very good age to be a mother.”

“And we're about to be grandparents, now that Amantha has made her announcement.”

“I'll be the grandparent.” He smiled for the first time in the conversation. “You're too young for that.”

“Well, anyway, I really think we've done our bit in the fruitful-and-multiply business.”

“Hmmm. I
really
want another baby from you. Perhaps more than one more.”

“More than one!”

Dewey let out a long sigh. “I have realized, Mattie, that I've been a failure as a father. That I've been so preoccupied with other things that I haven't once turned my total attention to a child. I owe that kind of dedication to at least one of my children.”

“Don't be silly! You've been a wonderful father. You
are
a wonderful father. And you have plenty of time yet to turn your greater attention to Alma May and to little Tom. My God, Alma's only ten, and Tom just nine.”

Another sigh. “What I've been thinking of is
total
involvement from the moment the child leaves the womb.”

“Charles, that's—”

“Crazy?”

“Don't put words in my mouth! I was going to say that such a thing is just not practical.”

He laughed now. “You're right, of course. It's just that I love you so, and when I'm with you I have these … well, fantasies.”

She kissed him.

“I love you for your fantasies, Mr. Dewey.”

III

“T
AKE
him out easy and let him run freely.”

Charles was giving instructions to one of the Bon Marché jockeys, a young fellow named Billy, for the handling of Monitor's debut. The Schimmel-Dewey horse had been entered in one of the dashes on the Clover Bottom fall card—a single heat at two miles.

“If he's in it as you start the last half-mile,” the orders continued, “go to the whip and let's see what he has. If you're out of it, though, save him.”

“Yas, suh.”

“Billy, I just want to see how he fares in competition. We have a long way to go with him yet, so don't punish him.”

Monitor was to be the only Bon Marché horse to be saddled by Charles during the meeting. The other horses carrying the purple silks of the plantation—twenty in all—would be under the guidance of his sons, Franklin and George.

Charles had other duties at the meeting; he was one of its stewards. Andy Jackson and his associates— it had been rumored that Jackson was desperately short of cash—had sold the Clover Bottom track to the new Nashville Jockey Club, financed largely by Dewey, Schimmel, and Joseph Coleman, the former mayor of Nashville and the horseman who had arranged for the importation of the English stallion, Royalist.

August Schimmel stood with Charles as he saddled their colt. “Are you betting on him?” the newspaper editor wanted to know.

“I wager on every Bon Marché runner.”

“Not equally, though.”

“No, that's true. I haven't decided yet how I feel about Monitor's chances. There will be eight maidens going to the post for this one, and I imagine he has as good a chance as the others.”

“The public pool is offering three-to-one odds on him,” Schimmel reported, “and I've been thinking of betting a thousand dollars on him.”

Dewey's eyebrows rose, but he made no comment.

“Too much, do you think?”

“August, I've made it somewhat of a rule not to tout horses to my friends—even their own horses, as in this case. I can tell you only that he has a chance.”

The editor seemed disappointed. “But not much of one?”

“If a thousand dollars isn't important to you…”

“I can afford it.”

“Then follow your belief.”

“How much are you going to bet?”

Charles thought for a moment. “A hundred, I think.”

Schimmel scowled. “I'm going to stick with a thousand.”

“Good for you.” Dewey laughed, clapping him on the back. “I like a man who's willing to risk money on his convictions.”

When it came time for the race and the starting drum tapped, Monitor was left in the shuffle at the start and was sixth coming away from the line, getting turf thrown in his face. He didn't improve his position, and Billy, following instructions, just permitted the horse to finish as he would in the last half-mile. Monitor was seventh at the end.

Schimmel tried to hide his disappointment with a shrug. “Well, that was an expensive lesson, wasn't it?”

“Yes, but we did get a lesson,” Charles replied. “You can put it down to paying for experience. We learned a great deal in that race.”

“We did?”

“Uh-huh.”

Billy brought Monitor to where Charles and August were standing. “He don't laik dirt in his face, Mistah Charles.”

“That's what we learned,” Dewey said to his partner. “The next time out we'll race him into the lead and try to keep him there. August, we have a natural frontrunner.”

“Is that good?”

“The one big secret of training, my friend, is to learn what the horse wants to do—what he's most comfortable with—and then you run him that way. Every time. Monitor stops when he gets dirt in his face, so we run him on the front.”

“Can he win on the front?”

“I think he might. He didn't get used up too much today, so we'll try him again before the week is out.”

IV

G
EORGE
Dewey rushed up excitedly.

“Father, I think you'd better come at once! Cousin Andy has—”

Charles ran after his son to the starting line, where Andrew Jackson, two pistols drawn and cocked, his legs spread wide apart, was preventing the start of the fourth race. Five horses were positioned along the line, their nervous jockeys trying to hold them in check. The starter's hand, grasping the stick, was frozen above the drum.

“General Jackson,” Dewey bellowed, “put up your weapons!”

“Those damned scoundrels have fixed this race! And I'll not have a crooked race at my track!”