Bon Marche (57 page)

“There's no need to be sarcastic.”

Her husband shrugged. “I'm left with little else.”

“You frightened me, Nathan,” she said. “I thought you meant to kill me.”

“I did.”

“What stopped you, then?”

“What do you want me to say? Because I love you? Because I was concerned about our baby-to-be?”

“You're horrid!”

“What stopped me, Princess, was my own well-being. My selfishness, to put the correct face on it. I want that theater, Alma May. God help me, but I want it enough to put up with you.”

“You never loved me!” Tears began.

“Don't play the tragedienne with me, Alma. Remember that I've seen the best in that role. We're stuck with each other. You because you're trapped with your silly little lie about being pregnant. And me because … well, because I haven't enough integrity to turn my back on the largess of the fine Deweys.”

The Princess was quiet for a moment. “So what do we do?”

“We play this scene out to the end. It's terribly unfortunate, of course, but your
accident,
darling, is going to bring on a miscarriage. I suggest that it happen when you have your next period; with all that blood, who's to know the difference.”

“The doctor will.”

“It will be too late to call the doctor.” A wry smile. “Nature will have taken over.”

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “You're really quite cold-blooded, aren't you?”

“Yes, when necessary,” he admitted. “We're a matched pair, you know. It took a cold-blooded woman to carry off that assignation with Gerald. I only hope, after all this, that he hasn't impregnated you.”

“He didn't.”

Nathan Ludlum guffawed. “I was Nathan-to-the-rescue, then, intruding before the moment of ecstasy.”

She tried not to at first, but she also laughed, seeing the black humor in their situation. “Yes, damn it, you did!”

“Poor Gerald! He's probably been ruined for life. He'll never be able to be with a woman again without remembering that door being opened.”

The laugh died in his throat.

“And neither, Princess, will I.”

39

E
VERYWHERE
the eye could see there were crowds along the banks of the Cumberland River. It was a chilly early March morning, a Thursday, in 1819.

For weeks the chief topic of conversation in Nashville had been the inauguration of steamboat service by the
General Jackson,
a luxury vessel built at the astounding cost of sixteen thousand dollars. And now the great day had arrived!

Several days before, Charles Dewey had staked out a vantage point near the principal dock at Nashville, at almost the exact spot where he had landed with his log rafts nearly twenty-one years earlier. He stood there, with five of his grandchildren, contemplating those years. Not dissatisfied, certainly, with what they had brought. But apprehensive.

His entire life had become his grandchildren, and while that pleased him, it left him feeling somehow unfulfilled. He had discussed that the night before with his son-in-law, August Schimmel.

“I have a feeling,” he had said to the publisher, “that life is passing me by. I've been put out to pasture, and I don't like it.”

Stoically German, Schimmel merely nodded. He had grown used to Dewey's monologues in their late-evening sessions in the drawing room. A ritual of sorts those meetings had become—an hour or two of conversation, always with sherry, or no conversation at all. Charles had laughingly dubbed the nightly chats “the Dewey-Schimmel confabs to solve the ills of the world.”

“Franklin and George are doing things with the horse business,” he had said with a complaining tone, “that I never dreamed possible. They like to maintain that I'm still in charge, but I'm not. And Lee? Well, he's off in the world, working for your newspaper, being a part of the history this country is making.”

Charles tapped his copy of the
Nashville Monitor.
“This dispatch he wrote from Pittsburgh, for example.” He started to read: “On the National Road in Pennsylvania these days a traveler is never out of sight of family groups, before and behind, in every imaginable conveyance, even some on bare feet, pressing toward the Ohio. The old America of the East seems to be breaking up and moving westward.'”

“Your son is a very perceptive observer,” Schimmel commented.

“That's just it! He's out there, with a role to play, while I”—he shrugged—“I just sit here and vegetate.”

“Nonsense. You're the mortar that holds this family together.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps.” Wryly: “There are days when the mortar shows a few cracks.”

“Lee's drawing of the
General Jackson,
” the publisher said, trying to make the conversation less somber, “has certainly excited the people of this community.”

“It has. I suspect it was worth the money it cost you to send him to Pittsburgh, where the vessel was being built.”

“Absolutely. And I expect the trip to pay other dividends, too. Lee will be bringing with him on the steamboat information he gathered in Ohio on several newspaper properties that have become available. I hope we'll be able to acquire newspapers in Cincinnati, Columbia, and Marietta.”

“That's rather ambitious, isn't it?”

“Yes, but I see it as only the beginning. Just as soon as I can, I'll send Lee to St. Louis to investigate the possibilities there. And I hope to visit Chicago for the same reason.”

“A lot of money will be involved, August.”

“Yes.”

Dewey went to the sideboard to pour them another sherry.

“I've been thinking for some time that I ought to have another interest,” he said. “Now, I know that you probably don't need my money, but … hell, August, you could halve your risk if you'd let me come in with you.”

The publisher was surprised. “You'd really want to do that?”

“More than anything. Maybe slowly at first … Let me help you finance the St. Louis project, if there is to be one. Or Chicago.”

“I can't think of anyone I'd rather have as a partner, Charles.”

“Great!” He paused. “Until we get this thing under way it might be best to keep Mattie … uh … uninformed, shall we say? She seems to think that I gamble too much, anyway.”

Schimmel smiled for the first time. “Whatever you wish, Charles.”

“Well…” Charles clapped his hands together. “I think I ought to get to bed so that I can be up bright and early to take those youngsters to see the steamboat tomorrow.”

From the distance came the full-throated bass call of the steamboat whistle, bringing Dewey's thoughts to the moment at hand. Everyone on the landing was cheering, although the
General Jackson
couldn't be seen as yet.

“Look down that way,” Charles shouted over the noise to his grandchildren, pointing his finger. “It'll be coming around that bend, so keep your eyes glued there!”

Franklin's three children were with him: Carrie, Richard, and Albert. And the Schimmels' twin daughters, Joy and Hope. Charles held eight-year-old Carrie and six-year-old Richard by the hand. The others, all close to five years old, were being shepherded by two of the Negro housemaids. Horace was there, too, with baskets of food and hot drinks.

Once again the steamboat whistle sounded, closer this time. A band on the dock struck up the popular tune, “The Eighth of January,” commemorating Jackson's victory at New Orleans. Managers of the welcome celebration for Nashville's first steamboat had hoped that Old Hickory would be there personally to see the
General Jackson
arrive at Nashville, but the soldier was in Washington defending his unauthorized military invasion of Florida in pursuit of the Seminoles. A successful defense, as it turned out. Just two weeks earlier the public had learned that a treaty had been concluded with Spain, ceding the vast Florida Territory to the United States for a payment of five million dollars. Thus, Andy Jackson was an even bigger hero than had been anticipated when plans were made for the building of a steamboat in his honor.

“Grandfather, look!” little Carrie shrieked. “There it is! There it is!”

The splendid new boat came into view, the cord on its whistle held down so that its greeting was constant. It seemed that the band tried to play louder, and there was no question that the human roar increased in volume.

Carrie and Richard danced excitedly, tugging hard at Dewey's firm grasp. The five-year-olds, less impressed, were playing their own game of tag around the full skirts of the black housemaids.

“Look, Grandfather!” Richard shouted. “There's Uncle Lee! There's Uncle Lee!”

In his excitement he broke away from Dewey's grip and ran toward the edge of the bank, waving wildly to his uncle aboard the steamboat.

A foot caught on a rock. He was in the icy waters!

Charles pushed Carrie toward the housemaids, leaping into the water. One-armed Horace, after hesitating just an instant, followed him.

They couldn't find the boy! They couldn't find him!

Dewey plunged beneath the surface, but the sediment stirred up by the giant paddle wheels of the steamboat had made the waters opaque. He was as ineffective as a blind man!

He came up, gasping for air. So did Horace, thrashing wildly with one arm.

Their eyes met, companions in terror.

Several other men were in the water now, joining the search. Charles dove again, sweeping his arms in wide circles, hoping that his hands would touch something. They didn't.

With his lungs seeming ready to burst, he surfaced again.

And Horace was there, his strong arm holding little Richard by the collar, the tiny head lolling to the side, the eyes open. Glassy.

Dewey grabbed the boy, thrusting him upward to waiting hands on the riverbank, then scrambling ashore himself.

Someone had already summoned a doctor, and he was working on the youngster, trying to force air into him. Feverishly. Trying. Trying.

The doctor sighed. His head was raised from his task and he shook it sadly.

“I'm sorry, Squire Dewey.”

And on the dock the voices were raised in a cheer for the
General Jackson.

And the band played a gay tune.

II

A
NNOYED
, Charles adjusted his new spectacles.

“Damn!”
Those fellows had a lot to learn about making eyeglasses.

He sat at his desk, the family Bible open in front of him, a pen in his hand. He stared at the names written there: a simple chronicle of the Dewey family. Inadequate, really, telling nothing of the joys. Or the heartaches.

The spectacles were jerked off; placed down roughly.

He ran a hand over his eyes.
Incompetent fools! The only thing those glasses did was make my eyes water!

The pen was dipped into the inkwell. He wrote the new words carefully: “Daughter, Martha Dewey, to George and Mary (Harrison) Dewey, May 4, 1819.”

Although he tried not to see it, the name of Richard Dewey was there. The Bible hadn't been opened since that day …

He'd have to do it sooner or later. Once more he wrote, next to Richard's name this time: “Gone to meet His Maker, March 11, 1819.”

Charles studied that for a moment. He added one more word: “Drowned.”

Mattie entered the drawing room. “Well, the doctor has just left.”

“And what does he say?”

His wife shook her head. “Amantha's just not fighting. The pneumonia has gotten worse. I'm so afraid, Charles.”

“And Franklin?”

“He's strong.” A pause. “Like you.”

He contemplated her words. “Like me? No, I don't think so, dear. He's much more level-headed. You know, I actually believe that he doesn't hate me, even though I killed his son.”

“Charles, you've got to stop saying things like that!”

“Why? It's true, isn't it?”

“It's
not
true!” She was quivering with anger.

“Well…” He shrugged.

There was a long silence.

“Charles, you ought to go see Amantha,” Mattie said.

“I can't face her.”

“This false guilt is going to drive you mad. You've got to face the reality that it was an accident and nothing more!”

“If I had had a proper hold on his hand—”

“Damn you, Charles, stop it! You're going to drive me mad as well.”

Dewey didn't comment. Instead, he picked up the spectacles and put them on again, squinting through them, going through a charade of seeming to test their effectiveness.

“You know, Mattie, I don't believe I need these things at all.”

He opened the drawer of the desk, shoved the glasses into it, slamming it shut.

III

I
T
was just a small cemetery, set in a grove of tulip poplars some three hundred yards removed from the main house surrounded by a neat stone wall erected by the slaves. For all the careful planning that had gone into Bon Marché, no provision had been made for a burial place. Perhaps no one wanted to face the reality of that need.

When six-year-old Richard drowned, the need became paramount. It was Louise who suggested the quiet little grove for the final resting place of her nephew. And a tiny grave was dug there and a tiny oak coffin was lowered into the ground there.

Only then did the slaves begin the wall—strangely, without orders. Indeed, without even seeking permission. No one knew which of the blacks had initiated the project. It seemed to just begin one day, growing a few feet on every passage of the sun, when time could be taken from other duties.

They began to call it “Richie's Place.”

It was to become more than that.

Quiet, introverted Amantha Dewey, the shock of the sudden death of her firstborn son not even allowing her to weep, became ill. “Pneumonia,” the doctor had said. Maybe, medically, it was. But there are many mysteries that make up the human form. If it can be said that one has a will to live, the reverse can also be true. Amantha chose the latter.