Bon Marche (70 page)

Alma May chided him for his complacency. “Daddy, those damned Jacksons are determined to wipe out any traces of Deweys at Bon Marché!”

He laughed at her. “Princess, you make it sound like a vendetta.”

“That's exactly what it is!”

“No. It's change, dear. It's the inexorable movement of time. It's a lot of us getting older. It's reality facing us.”

“Don't you care about the Dewey name anymore?”

“More than ever, I think. Perhaps if Mattie hadn't made her moves the Dewey name would have eventually been associated with failure. I wouldn't have liked that.”

The Princess looked in his eyes. “Do you still love her, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“I mean like before—with the passion and all?”

“You may be thirty-three years old, Princess, but you're not old enough to ask me that question.” But he was smiling when he said it.

“Do you still think of Mary Elizabeth Cheves?”

“Occasionally.”

“Would you still be passionate with her if you met again?”

He sighed. “Alma May, someday you will know that passion doesn't rule us forever. That we can make our way in life without passionate love. Believe me, you'll discover that.”

“God, I hope not!”

There was a small silence.

“But you know you've answered me, don't you?”

“What?”

“About Mother and passion and—”

His cheery laughter cut her off. “Princess, don't you have something better to do?”

“She's a damn fool, you know!”

II

A
LMA
May wasn't alone in her discontent with the Jackson regime at Bon Marché. Alvin Mussmer also resented it. He didn't like the way Able Jackson shunted his father-in-law aside in breeding decisions, not so much for Franklin's feelings, but because he saw his own future at Bon Marché in jeopardy.

He brought it up one evening at Franklin's dinner table. “Must you always do everything that Able tells you?”

“Able is a competent horseman,” Franklin replied quietly.

“But can't you see that he walks all over you! I mean, you're the eldest son—don't you have some rights around here?”

“Whatever rights I might have, Alvin,” Franklin said angrily, “I'll protect myself. I don't see where you have to concern yourself about it.”

“I'm the husband of your daughter. I'd think that I'd be able to express an opinion.”

“Your opinion is noted. I would like you to show more concern for your own welfare—and do a little work around here occasionally.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I'm aware of your taking advantage of being my son-in-law by sloughing off any task given you.”

“I'll bet that bastard Jackson has been—”

Franklin brought his fist down hard on the table. “There'll be no more talk like that at this table! Do you understand, Alvin?”

Sullenly. “Yeah.”

Later, alone in their bedroom, Carrie upbraided her husband. “What's the matter with you, Alvin? Insulting my father and then cursing at the table—”

“Shut up!”

“I won't shut up! You owe my father an apology, and I want you to do it tonight!”

“Apologize to a Dewey?” he replied sarcastically. “You don't apologize to Deweys around here anymore. You shit on them! If your name is Jackson, you can shit on Thomas Dewey, and you can shit on Franklin Dewey, and you can even shit on that old fool grandfather of yours!”

Screaming, Carrie attacked him, raking his face with her fingernails, drawing blood.

Alvin slapped her hard across the cheek, but she advanced on him again, her anger out of control.

Her husband smashed a fist into her cheek, slashing it with his knuckles. Blood ran down her smooth skin. She started to fall, but he hit her again, the fist catching her full in the mouth. Carrie felt teeth break.

Alvin stood over her, gasping for breath. “Well, let me tell you, Carrie Almightydewey, they're not going to shit on me!”

He stalked out of the room.

It was only later that it was learned that young Mussmer had raced to the gelding barn, saddled a horse—not his own—and rode away, making quick stops at the various pastures to open the gates and leave them open.

Several hours went by before the horses that had escaped could be rounded up by the slaves.

Overseer Elmer Mussmer presented himself to True Jackson.

“Mister Jackson, I don't know how to explain my son's actions, but I'll pay for the horse he took.” An afterthought: “And maybe you'd be more comfortable if me and my wife left now, too.”

True solemnly studied the distraught man, showing no emotion. “I don't want your money for the horse. The authorities have their own way of dealing with horse thieves.”

“No! I don't want them to—”

“As for the second part of your offer,” he continued coldly, “I believe I
will
accept that. It might be best all around if you didn't stay.”

III

C
HARLES
had just written the date—April 9, 1834—in the family Bible. He sat, pen poised over the big volume, contemplating what he had to write next.

“I don't see why,” he growled to Mattie, “they have to name the baby ‘Andrew.'”

“Because they want him to carry the name of the President,” Mattie explained. She didn't want to argue with him, but her husband's continuing complaints about her Cousin Andy annoyed her more than usual. “Just as you named one of your sons for George Washington and we named our son Thomas Jefferson.”

“Yes, well…” He wrote, “Andrew Jackson, son of True and Joy (Schimmel) Jackson.” “At least,” he muttered, “we've got that name out of the way now.”

Carrie entered the drawing room, four-year-old Honey Mussmer toddling in her wake, chattering gaily. The little girl rushed to her great-grandfather and Charles swept her up into his lap.

“Pop-pop, read me a story,” Honey demanded.

“You, young lady,” Charles chuckled, “are a demanding little wench.”

Carrie sank into a chair, her face in a frown.

“Trouble, dear?” Mattie asked.

“No, not really. It's just that Able has told me that the divorce has now been approved and—”

“Well, now that that's settled,” her grandmother said, “perhaps you can go about putting your life in order again.”

“Yes.” Carrie sighed. “When Able gave me the news, I wondered about Alvin again. I mean, what is he doing now? Is he well? I
did
love him once.”

“There's no point mooning your life away over that bastard!” Dewey exclaimed.

“Charles! The baby!”

“Oh, yeah, I'm sorry.” He picked up a book of fairy tales, searching it for a story he would read for Honey.

“Have you any plans, Carrie?” Mattie wanted to know.

The young woman just shrugged.

“You're only twenty-three. Your life hasn't exactly come to an end.”

“Some days it seems so.”

Charles spoke up. “You might take up your duties as a newspaper publisher.”

“What?”

“A newspaper publisher. You are the half owner of the
St. Louis Challenger,
you know.”

“What are you talking about, Grandfather?”

“The
St. Louis Challenger
is owned fifty percent by one Carrie Dewey. It was back when you were … nine, wasn't it Mattie?”

His wife nodded.

“Yes, nine. A trust fund was set up in your behalf and invested in a new newspaper August was starting in St. Louis. One hundred thousand dollars of the trust fund monies bought you half interest in it.”

Carrie was astounded. “You mean I'm
really
the half owner of a newspaper?”

“And a very prosperous one.”

“But … I never heard of this before.”

“Well, it was a long time ago,” Dewey said lightly, “and the whole thing just sort of … slipped through the cracks, you might say.”

Carrie laughed gaily. “That's a lot of money to slip through the cracks!”

“Just a figure of speech.”

“I don't know what to say. Tell me again—what's the name of the newspaper?”

“The
St. Louis Challenger.
”

“Do you think I could work there?”

“That's for August to say, of course. But if you're interested, I'm sure he'll make arrangements for you in St. Louis.”

Carrie sobered. “Oh … but I can't possibly do it. I mean, Honey and all…”

“If you want to give it a try, dear, I'm sure your grandmother and I could arrange to have Honey as a guest for a while. Couldn't we, Mattie?”

“Ah, yes…” She wished Charles hadn't made such a snap decision. “Yes … yes … of course.”

“That's settled, then.” He flipped open the book. “Now, young Miss Honey, how about the story of a gentleman named Rumpelstiltskin? That's one we haven't read yet.”

The child clapped her hands in delight.

IV

M
ATTIE
was worried. She saw it happening all over again: Charles's preoccupation with little Honey, a delightful blonde-haired child, was a mirror repeat of the love and attention he had lavished on Honey's mother. Everything was the same—the riding lessons, the special tutoring to teach her to read, the walks in the woods to study the wonders of nature.

At first, Mattie believed that Carrie would quickly tire of the newspaper chores in St. Louis, but those hopes were quickly dashed.

In her first letter home, Carrie wrote: “What an exciting time this is! And St. Louis is such a vital town. Mr. Bonsai says I have some natural talent for the newspaper business, and in my ego I'm beginning to believe him.”

Several weeks later, August Schimmel confirmed Carrie's quick adaptation to newspapering at the crowded family dinner table at Bon Marché.

“I had a letter from Wilson Bonsal today,” he reported. “He's much pleased with Carrie's work. He says she'll soon be completing the apprenticeship he set up for her and will be assigned to a regular staff position.”

“This Mr. Bonsai,” Mattie asked, “what sort of man is he?”

“A veteran newspaperman. From Boston. I was very lucky to lure him to St. Louis.”

“Young man? Old man? Married? Single?”

Schimmel laughed. “Mattie, you sound like a worried mother, but don't be. Will Bonsai is a man of fifty or fifty-one. And while single, he's married to the newspaper. I imagine that Carrie sees him as a father figure.”

August was wrong. Very wrong. Early in December, Charles and Mattie received another letter from their granddaughter.

I have marvelous news! Wilson Bonsai and I were married on Thanksgiving Day, and I can't remember when I've ever been happier. He's a bit older than I am, but a young man, really, in spirit. And we work together—really work together! And that, too, is part of the magic, I guess.

I suppose I should say that I miss Bon Marché, but that would be a lie. I do miss Honey, of course, but I know you're spoiling her outrageously, and that she doesn't miss me. I want her here eventually, but for now, while Will and I are so busy together, I think it's wiser for her to stay at Bon Marché. I hope, Grandfather and Grandmother, that I'm not imposing too much on you if I ask you to care for Honey just a little longer.

I know I have your love and best wishes in my new and wonderful and exciting life.

“Well,” Charles said with a little laugh, “who could have anticipated this when I agreed to finance half of August's newspaper in St. Louis?”

“I don't like it,” Mattie snapped.

“Oh … why not?”

“That man is twice her age. It won't work, Charles.”

“I believe she needs a mature man.”

“That's nonsense, and you know it! And now we're responsible for Honey, and—”

“We're responsible for all of the members of the Dewey family.”

Mattie was angry now. “You know exactly what I'm talking about, Charles. I don't want a repeat of what happened with you and Carrie.”

“Honey has Dewey blood in her veins, and I'm only doing what I know is best for her.”

Mattie just sighed.

V

T
HOMAS
Jefferson Dewey rode slowly, heading south and east, content in leaving Bon Marché behind. His destination was the Cherokee Indian lands of northern Georgia, and he feared he might be too late. Indeed, he had vacillated for several years in making his decision.

Young Dewey was convinced that he wasn't much of a man—a melancholy attitude brought on by being virtually ignored by his father for so many years, and reinforced by his seeming failure when Charles finally recognized him and made him assistant trainer of the Bon Marché horses. Yet, he might have had some modest success in that job if the Jacksons hadn't taken control of Bon Marché and set him back where he had been before: tolerated because he was Charles Dewey's son, but ignored.

Thomas had been thinking about leaving Bon Marché before his mother brought True and Able Jackson to the plantation. The first such stirrings came in 1828 when gold was discovered in the Cherokee country. But he hesitated, hesitated, hesitated …

And he listened at the family dinner table to his father's tirades about President Jackson's “damnable policies on the Indians. He means to wipe them all out. All of them! This Indian Removal Act”—that was in 1830—“is only Andy's first step in destroying every Indian east of the Mississippi. It's an evil act, I tell you!”

Characteristically, Thomas made no comment at the dinner table. But he'd devoured every story in the newspapers about the Indian situation: the forced emigration of the Choctaws in the dead of the bitter winter of 1831, driven into the icy Great Arkansas Swamp barefoot and nearly naked, decimated by disease. And he'd learned how the Creeks had been separated from their crops, their homes, and their lands in 1832, reduced to what one newspaper report said was destitution: “the incessant cry of the emaciated creatures being bread! bread! is beyond description distressing.” Thomas had also heard the tales of the Black Hawk War in the spring of 1832, in which the Sauk and Fox followers of Chief Black Hawk were pursued by the Illinois militia into the Wisconsin wilderness and massacred—men, women and children.