Bon Marche (65 page)

“Well, of course … I'll do what you want,” Charles stammered. “We'll get horses so that you can go back to Bon Marché overland, and I'll give you some money for food and—” He stopped, still not believing what was happening.

Margaret, the housemaid, came forward then.

“Mistah Charles,” she asked quietly, “kin Ah stay, too?”

That was another shock. He hadn't really wanted to set this woman free. She was Carrie's maid.

“Maggie, I'd appreciate it if you would come home with us. Miss Carrie counts on you.”

“Yas, suh.” Her jaw was set defiantly. “But Ah wants to be free!”

Disconcerted, Charles signed a paper for her and counted out a hundred dollars. Margaret took them, turned quickly, and hurried away.

But a majority—fifteen of the blacks—would be returning to Bon Marché. To slavery.

Dewey understood none of it.

45

I
N
its more than a quarter of a century of existence, the name of Bon Marché had not been thought of by its neighbors as French. Dewey's accent had long since disappeared, softened first by the drawl of Virginia and then further by the flat twang of the frontier.
Bon
was alway pronounced “bun” by the Tennesseans, and
Marche
was made to sound like the month or was pronounced “mark.” Indeed, the passage of time had virtually obliterated the stories of Charles's French beginnings as more and more new residents, unconcerned with the past history of the leading citizens, poured into the area.

Dewey, too, had stopped making references to his French heritage. As he had stopped nearly everything else since his return from New York. He seemed content, after his grand fling on the race circuits of the country, to turn full control of Bon Marché over to his two eldest sons and to his wife, Mattie. Carrie, his first grandchild, consumed all of his time, and what he once had been seemed of no importance to him.

But suddenly, early in 1825, Charles Dewey became French again. Nashville was enraptured by the news that Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, was going to visit the city. It had been in excess of forty years since Lafayette had almost single-handedly brought the French into the American Revolution against the British, and had been rewarded with a commission of major general in George Washington's beleaguered army. And now he was back, at the age of sixty-seven, for what would be a farewell tour of his second country. He was to be lavishly feted in New York, in Boston, and in Washington, where a grateful Congress had voted him a cash gift—to replace the fortune he had lost during the revolutionary war—of two hundred thousand dollars plus a township of land in Florida. The entire nation insisted on honoring him, and it was, without question, the influence of Andrew Jackson that was bringing him to Nashville.

“Certainly Andy can't presume to speak for all of Tennessee on this matter of honoring Lafayette,” Charles said one night in March during a late-hours discussion with his son-in-law, August Schimmel.

“I'm sure he doesn't intend to do that,” Schimmel replied. He took a sip of sherry. “The word is that Jackson will rely on a committee of prominent citizens to help him plan the welcome. And it seems clear to me that you'll be included, Charles.”

Dewey frowned. “You fail to understand Andy. I opposed him in last year's election, you'll recall, coming out publicly for Clay. He'll not forget that.”

“Nonsense! Your lack of public support was, if you'll pardon me, of little consequence in the final analysis. It was the Congress that denied him the Presidency and gave it to Adams.”

“Andy Jackson lives by one guiding principle,” Charles interrupted. “You're either his friend or his enemy. There's no gray area with him. And if he perceives you as the enemy, as he does me, well … enemies are not to be rewarded in any way.”

Dewey got to his feet and walked to the fireplace to stare into the dying embers. “I dearly want to be on that committee, August,” he said quietly. “Not for any personal honor, but because it was Lafayette's example that gave me the courage, so many years ago when I was just a boy, to become an American.”

“I'm certain you'll be asked to help plan the Lafayette celebration,” Schimmel assured him.

The editor was wrong. Less than a week later a representative of General Jackson came to see him at the newspaper office.

“Mr. Schimmel,” the emissary said, “I am charged by General Jackson to secure your help in the planning of the welcome for the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“That's a distinct honor. May I ask who else is on the committee?”

The man ticked off the names of the others.

“And Charles Dewey? What of him?”

“No, he's not included.”

“But surely you know that Dewey is a native of France, and fought on the French side during the American Revolution?”

“Hmmm.”

“I can't think of anyone more qualified to be on this committee to honor General Lafayette.”

The words were repeated. “He's not included.”

“May I suggest that you point out to General Jackson Squire Dewey's availability?”

“That would be futile.” The man shrugged. “You know as well as I do that Dewey declared himself against Andy in the presidential election.”

“But that has nothing to do—”

“It has everything to do with it. Andy doesn't want him. As far as I'm concerned, that's the final word.”

Schimmel grimaced. “Then I won't serve either.”

Another shrug. “That's a foolish decision. You risk offending General Jackson.”

“It's a risk I'll just have to take.”

II

B
Y
Wednesday, May 4, the day that Lafayette was due to arrive in Nashville, Dewey's anger at having been shunted aside by Andy Jackson had run its course. Even the embarrassment he had felt in having to ask Mattie to intercede with her cousin to make certain they'd be invited to the dinner in Lafayette's honor at the Nashville Inn had passed.

He stood now on the edge of a massive crowd at the public square—Schimmel would write that the crowd exceeded twenty thousand—granddaughter Carrie beside him, and cheered with everyone else as a grand carriage drawn by four white horses brought Lafayette from the docks to a special stand built in the square.

As the French nobleman mounted the stand, the cheers grew even louder.

“You're looking at a truly great man,” Charles told Carrie. “A man of unyielding principle and integrity, who risked position, wealth, and even life itself to fight for something he believed in: the independence of what was to become the United States of America.”

“Who's that younger man with him?” the girl sked.

“His son, George Washington Lafayette, named for the general, as is your uncle George.”

“Will you speak to General Lafayette, Grandfather?”

“I hope so—perhaps at the dinner tonight.”

Once again Charles Dewey was frustrated. He and Mattie were assigned seats at the dinner as far away from the honored guest as was possible. When the meal ended and Charles tried to edge through the crowd, Lafayette was whisked out through a rear door and was off in the carriage to spend the night at The Hermitage.

There was almost no conversation as the Deweys drove back to Bon Marché in an open buggy.

“Are you angry, Charles?” Mattie asked.

“Yes.”

“I hope your anger isn't going to cause you to do anything foolish.”

Charles laughed. “No, no, Mattie. You can be at ease. I wouldn't give your vaunted
cousin
the satisfaction of knowing he has offended me. I can't believe that this nation thought him worthy to be its President! Thank God the Congress has frustrated him and Quincy Adams is now in the White House.”

“There's another election in three years,” Mattie reminded him.

“Yes, and isn't it obvious,” Dewey groaned, “that Andy's running already … on the coattails of the honored Lafayette.”

There was a long silence.

“You know,” Dewey said eventually, “I was just thinking about that morning in that grove of trees in Kentucky—my God, it was way back in 1806—when Charles Dickinson might have rid us of Andy Jackson had he been more deliberate with his shot.”

“Charles! That's dreadful!”

“Maybe. It's strange how history can turn on what seems at the time a minor event. If Dickinson had killed him in that duel we might now have a man of competence like Henry Clay in the presidency, instead of the prospect that Andy—”

“That's enough! I won't hear any more!”

Charles sighed. “My apologies, dear.” He reached over and patted her hand. And then he grinned at her. “I promise, no more such maudlin talk. Now … you have your new gown for the ball tomorrow night?”

“Yes. It's lovely.”

“And I'm sure you'll be the most beautiful woman there.”

Mattie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.”

III

M
ARQUIS
de Lafayette's age showed in his face. There were lines in it that told of his hard imprisonment in Prussian and Austrian jails after leading a French army against the Austrians. And there were lines, too, that mirrored his fight against the excesses of the French Revolution and, later, his political battle against Napoleon. His hair had thinned, the strands being combed forward on his forehead in an attempt to hide the loss.

But the old patriot stood ramrod straight in the receiving line at the ball in Nashville's new Masonic Hall. And smiles wreathed his face as he charmed each and every Tennessean presented to him.

Charles and Mattie, with Carrie in tow, arrived early for the ball. Dewey was determined to find the opportunity to talk to Lafayette. That came in mid-evening when, after a round of dances with some of the Nashville ladies, Lafayette was suddenly alone for a moment on the edge of the dance floor.

Dewey went up to him quickly. “General,” he said, bowing deeply. “My name is Charles Dewey. Actually, Charles Dupree, a native of France.”

Lafayette returned the bow.

“But now a citizen of America,” Charles continued, “thanks to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes, sir. You see I was in the crew of the
Ville de Paris
when you came aboard during the siege of Yorktown—”

“Ah! So we were comrades in arms?”

“That's putting too grand a face on it, sir. I was merely the cabin boy to Admiral de Grasse—”

Lafayette interrupted again. “Poor de Grasse. He's long been gone from us.”

“I know. In any event, it was your shining example, your enthusiasm for this country, that made me determined to be an American.

“Well, I'm pleased to have influenced you in that manner. And what do you do as an American?”

“I run a horse farm, General. Here at Nashville. It's called Bon Marché.”

The French nobleman grinned. “And is it a ‘good bargain,' Mr. Dewey?”

“Indeed it is.”

Lafayette took him by the arm and drew him away to a quiet corner. “As a fellow Frenchman, Mr. Dewey, may I presume to ask you a question about your farm?”

“Of course.”

“Do you use slaves to run it?”

“Yes.”

“Many?”

“Nearly two hundred, sir.”

“And are you … content with that?”

Charles frowned. “No, General, I'm not.”

“In the course of my tour of America, I have been … well, constantly distressed by the spectacle of slavery. It seems to me that it is so deeply engrained in the South that…” He shrugged.

“I, too, am distressed by it.”

“Yet you engage in it.”

“Yes.” Dewey hung his head.

“Why?”

“The intensive labor needed to run a big plantation—”

Lafayette stopped him with a raised hand. “That's an argument I have heard before, Mr. Dewey. I mean no offense to you, sir, but it seems a poor defense for slavery. And worse: I see this issue dividing your nation. Don't you?”

“I do, yes.”

“In that case, why continue with it?”

“Years ago, in Virginia, my father-in-law told me that men of greater minds than his—and he was an intelligent man—had struggled with the problem and had failed to find a solution. That problem still prevails, I'm afraid.”

The Frenchman shook his head sadly. “I certainly hope someone comes forward with a solution before it is too late.”

Dewey could only nod agreement. He changed the subject. “General, might I presume on you to present my granddaughter? She has been wanting to meet you.”

“I'd be delighted.”

Charles signaled to Carrie, who stood a few paces away, and she came to them.

“Your Grace, may I present my first granddaughter, Carrie Dewey?”

Carrie curtsied.

“Ah! Another American beauty!” Lafayette smiled at her. “May I ask,
mademoiselle,
how old you are?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“Then old enough, wouldn't you say, for a dance?”

He offered his arm, and they whirled onto the floor.

Hours later, when Charles and Mattie were in bed, Dewey asked: “Was the marquis a good dancer?”

“Extremely so. My God, what charm that man has! I think he danced with every woman present.”

“Carrie was captivated by him.”

Mattie sighed deeply.

“What?” Charles sensed disapproval in her.

“You have other grandchildren, you know. It seems to me that you ought to consider them at times. Joy and Hope might like to have danced with General Lafayette, too, you know.”

“Louise and August could have taken them to the ball if they had wished,” Dewey said defensively. “I give some special attention to Carrie because she is without a mother. I see nothing wrong in that.”