Bon Marche (64 page)

The public betting pool was doing big business. But Charles got the impression that the side bets being made all around the track were of greater volume than the money being dumped into the pool. As for himself, he was having a difficult time making up his mind, until a chance meeting on the course with a New Yorker he had met earlier at Niblo's, a man named Oscar Farrington. A “sport”—one who called himself a professional gambler.

“Who do you like, Mr. Farrington?”

“Henry is being held the favorite—based on his low weight assignment and the fact that he's been carefully trained up to this start, while Eclipse hasn't campaigned since last November in Washington.”

“But which horse do
you
like, Farrington?”

The gambler grinned. “One heat at a time, sir. That's the way I'm going to bet it.” He leaned closer to Charles and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Rumor has it that the southerners have set up a betting coup. Henry is to be sacrificed in the first heat—fully extended to win that heat and the devil with the rest of the race.”

“That's very hard to believe.”

“Not if you consider that the southerners are making a great deal of noise about the first heat. They're offering any kind of wager. But very little is being said about the best of three heats. It's my understanding that vast sums of southern money are being bet on Eclipse to win the best of three. Not openly, of course. They're using agents to spread that money around. But everything I can learn tells me that there might be as much as a hundred thousand wagered on Eclipse to win the whole thing. And much of it from the South.”

“Hmmm. Of course, what you say isn't impossible, but…”

Farrington shrugged. “Ask around yourself, Mr. Dewey. You'll see that I'm correct.”

Charles did ask. And the volume of money being wagered on Henry to win the first heat did seem exorbitant to him, even allowing for the large number of southerners in the crowd. In the public pool, the odds on Henry to win the first heat had gone to even money, and Dewey quickly bet ten thousand dollars on him before the odds went lower. Maybe Farrington was right about the betting coup.

As the hour of the first heat approached, Charles and Carrie tried to find a vantage point from which to see it all. They finally crowded onto the top of a small knoll, and the grandfather hoisted the girl to his shoulders.

“How's that, dear?”

“Great, grandfather! I can see whole track.”

Dewey laughed. “You may have to be my eyes.”

A bugle sounded the call to the post, and a great roar went up from the crowd. Charles noticed that a third horseman, dressed in riding clothes, was positioning himself next to the two runners.

“Who's that?” he asked a man next to him.

“That,” the other spectator said with a chuckle, “is the one and only Cadwallader Colden, the writer for the
American Turf Register.
He gallops along with the horses in the front stretch so that he can get a close-up view of the race.”

“Each time around?” Charles asked in astonishment.

“Yep, he sure does. I've seen some races here when it would have been best to bet on Caldwallader's nag.” He laughed heartily.

Off in the distance a voice was announcing the names of the jockeys. Dewey couldn't make out the words, but he already knew that William Crafts, a slender lad weighing only one hundred pounds, was up on American Eclipse and that an experienced Virginia rider, John Walden, had drawn the assignment on Henry.

The announcement ended, a hush fell on the crowd, the starter's drum tapped, and the hush turned to a massive scream. Charles had never heard anything louder.

Henry was away fast. Too fast, Dewey thought. Then he lost sight of them. “Where are they?” he called to Carrie.

“Henry's three lengths up, Grandfather. Under a tight hold.”

Dewey smiled to himself. The youngster had learned well.

At the end of the first mile, with the newspaperman running the stretch alongside the competitors, young Crafts was whipping and driving American Eclipse, trying without success to close the gap. Charles would read later that Cadwallader Colden, from his unique mounted vantage point, thought that Henry's pace was “a killing one.”

Henry was never fronted by the older horse. He won safely, crossing the finish line after four miles a solid length in front.

Charles went to look at the two horses. Henry seemed not used up at all. But then the time was announced: 7:37½—the fastest four miles ever run in America! The rumor of the betting coup may have had some merit. That kind of speed could not be duplicated in a second heat. Yet there was something strange. While the Virginia horse did not seem distressed, American Eclipse was heavily lathered, and there were cuts on his flank from the almost constant whipping.

A jockey change on the New York horse was made known to the crowd by a bull-voiced steward. An important one, Charles thought. The top jockey in America, thirty-eight-year-old Sam Purdy, would ride American Eclipse. He was closer to the weight assigned to the horse, making it unnecessary for Eclipse to carry the dead weight of lead slabs in his saddlecloth. That kind of change could have a salutary effect on Eclipse.

Dewey went to collect his even-money bet on Henry at the public pool. And while the twenty thousand dollars was being counted out to him, he asked about the prevailing odds on American Eclipse to win it all.

“Even money only, sir.”

Charles frowned. So a lot of money had been bet on Eclipse. But why? he wondered. Henry ought to have been favored now. By damned, perhaps there had been a betting coup!

“Another bet, sir?” the pool clerk asked.

“Huh. Oh, no, not right now, thank you.” Charles jammed the wad of money into his pocket and, with Carrie, began to stroll about the course. His horse sense told him that Henry, even though it was not evident to the eye, had a lot taken out of him by the swift first heat. And it told him, too, that Eclipse had never been beaten in a best-of-three match. Therefore, he ought to wager on American Eclipse, but he was no longer willing to risk a large bet for even money.

A piping, high voice stopped him in his tracks. It was saying: “I'll bet a year's crop of slaves on Henry!” He recognized the voice as that of Virginia Congressman John Randolph of Roanoke, whom he had known as a young man. A flamboyant horseman, Randolph was still betting heavily on Henry. If there had been a Virginia betting coup, wouldn't Randolph have known of it?

Charles sought out the congressman and found him in a knot of happy, celebrating Virginians, still exuberant about Henry's first-heat victory.

“Excuse me, sir,” Dewey said, pushing through to Randolph. “I'm Charles Dewey. We met many years ago.”

Randolph looked at him without recognition.

“I was with Marshall Statler.”

“Of course, of course.” The Virginia gentleman stuck out his hand. “I remember Mr. Statler quite well.”

“I couldn't help overhearing your offer to bet a year's crop of slaves on Henry.” Dewey grinned. “I'm not in the market for that kind of wager, but are you also offering hard money?”

“Absolutely! My friends and I have been offering six to four on Henry”—he gestured around the circle of gentlemen—“with no takers, I might add.”

“I'll take it, sir.” Charles felt the money in his pocket. “For fifteen thousand?”

“My God,” Randolph piped, “a stranger in the wilderness! Shall we accommodate him, gentlemen?”

Quickly, the fifteen thousand dollars was apportioned among the Virginians, and Dewey had the wager he had been seeking. He had already won ten thousand on Henry's record-setting heat, and now, he was convinced he was going to win even more when Eclipse won the next two heats. He was as sure of that as he was certain his name was Charles Dewey.

He laughed to himself.
But your name isn't Charles Dewey, you fool—it's Charles Dupree!

He and Carrie found a spot from which to view the second heat, closer this time. He watched Sam Purdy striding about nervously, smacking his whip—a thin, cruel-looking cattail affair—against his boot. A measure of arrogance showed in Purdy's face, and Charles liked that.

As the second heat was called, and Purdy brought American Eclipse to the line, Congressman Randolph could be heard screaming: “You can't do it, Mr. Purdy! You can't do it!”

He was wrong. Purdy's superior horsemanship became apparent early. He pressed the pace, keeping Henry within striking distance. On the last of the four miles, Purdy urged Eclipse abreast of Henry, cut in on the rail on the first turn to save ground, and on the backstretch began to pull away. American Eclipse won the second heat by two comfortable lengths.

For the third heat, there was a jockey change on the southern side. Trainer Arthur Taylor, who had been a noted jockey some years earlier, was pressed into service astride Henry. It made no difference. American Eclipse and Sam Purdy won by three easy lengths.

Had there been a betting coup? Had Henry been sacrificed in the first heat? Charles thought not, but he really didn't care. He—and Bon Marché—were now thirty-two thousand five hundred dollars richer! And he could turn his attention again to his own horses.

III

“O
UR
New York stay has seen nothing but profit,” Charles wrote home. “We have taken our silks into seven races, winning four. And everything has been sold, including the last of the vans. The packet for New Orleans sails on April 20.”

But Dewey had another chore to perform before he could leave New York. Putting Carrie in the charge of Alma May, he rode to Princeton, New Jersey, to see Mercy Callison MacCallum. He dreaded facing Andrew's widow; the guilt he felt about having destroyed the friendship so petulantly, so insanely, rode with him.

It was well past noon when he got to the MacCallum house on the college campus. The distance had been greater than he had anticipated. Mercy was heavier than Charles had remembered her. Her hair had grayed. And when she saw him at the door, she wept.

“Oh, Charles, it's so good to see you.”

He embraced her. “The visit is too late, I'm afraid.”

Mercy took his hand and led him into the house. The black servant, Delilah, who was still with her, served them tea in the small living room.

“There are times, Mercy, when words don't mean anything at all.” Charles found it difficult to look directly at her. “And I won't bore you with platitudes. Andrew was once my dearest friend. I killed that friendship. I'll carry the blame for that to my grave. I just want you to know that if there is anything you need, you need only to make it known to me.”

“I know,” she replied softly. “But I'm content here. I do some tutoring, and that makes me feel of some use.” She sighed. “We had nearly thirteen years together, Charles. It was a lifetime of love. I couldn't have asked for more.”

Dewey was silent.

“We spoke of you just about a week before—” Mercy fought back the tears. “And Andrew said that when his time came … he wanted you to have something of his.” She rose and went to a small desk in the corner and picked up a large book. “Andrew said that this was the most meaningful thing he could leave for you.”

It was the large and very old English dictionary that MacCallum had used in the early years, when he was tutoring Dewey.

He took the book from her, hefting it. And he smiled slightly. “It wasn't the size of this book that gave me an education, it was the loving heart of the man who used it.”

Dewey stayed for dinner at Mercy's insistence. And she plied him with questions about Bon Marché and its people. He gave her a rundown on all of the children and grandchildren. After several sherrys at the end of the meal, Charles came to his feet and bade her farewell.

“You can't make that long ride tonight,” she protested. “You're welcome to stay here.”

“No, I must get back to New York. We sail in just two days, and I have some business to attend to before I leave.”

“But, Charles, it's nearly ten!”

He frowned. “The night holds no terror for me. Night or day, it seems, the specters of my mistakes haunt me. God, Mercy, I wish I could have talked to him just one more time.”

“Please believe that that silly episode at Bon Marché didn't mean a damned thing to Andrew. He remembered you with great affection.”

“As I did him.”

They embraced again. He mounted his horse and rode away. It was almost dawn when he got back to the city. In the hours that had separated Princeton and New York he had devised a plan he saw as a final tribute to Andrew MacCallum.

IV

C
HARLES
Dewey had left Bon Marché with twenty slaves. Now, the horses and vans dispersed, their duties were ended. On the morning before his departure from New York, he called them all together. In his mind, Andrew stood there with him.

“I want you to know,” he told the blacks, “that I appreciate how well you all worked on this trip. It's time now for Miss Alma May, Miss Carrie, and myself to return to Bon Marché. But you”—he spread his arms—“you are now free! Each one of you will have the proper papers to tell everyone that you are freemen. And one hundred dollars each to start a new life here in New York or wherever you choose to go.”

The slaves stared at him unbelieving, saying nothing.

Charles drew the manumission documents from his coat pocket. “If you'll come to me, one by one, I'll give you your papers, and your money.”

One of the older men, called Hezekiah, finally spoke. “Mistah Charles, Ah wants to go back to Bon Marché. Ah don' wanna stay here an'—”

He seemed genuinely frightened by the prospect of being a freeman. And that shocked Charles. He couldn't believe that such a thing was possible.

Hezekiah's bold words loosened the tongues of the others. And in just a few moments, Dewey's well-meaning plan was destroyed. Only four of the men chose freedom. All the others wanted to go home.