Bon Marche (72 page)

“This is not the first time, of course, that men of goodwill have remained silent on a moral issue and have therefore become moral cowards. Unhappily, history is replete with such incidents. And, it seems clear, it is too late now to stop what has been put into being for the Cherokees. What we must promise ourselves now … what we must promise our God now—once and for all—is that we will never again allow silence to be our guilt. Our sin.

“What you have seen here today, in your streets, is only a small part of what is happening. There are other such columns, taking different routes to their new homes. I submit to you that the phrase ‘new homes' is the worst of misnomers. They are being driven like dumb cattle to lands they have never seen before. To a place without shelter. Without food. Without work. And, tragically, without hope.

“When the Cherokee migration was begun in October, from Georgia and east Tennessee, there were thirteen thousand Cherokees rounded up for the move west. Today, as best we can determine, that number has shrunk to eleven thousand.”

There were gasps in the audience.

“How many more must die before this trek is ended?”

Another heavy sigh. “I have seen so much in the nearly three months of this forced march that my heart is heavy with it. My mind won't let me remember all of the horrors. If it did I would certainly go mad. But just two days ago, as we approached Nashville, there was a Cherokee girl of not more than sixteen. She was called Flower of the Sun, and was as beautiful as that name would imply. And she was pregnant to nearly the end of her term. Her husband—the son of a chief, I learned—had been killed by white men. Where and under what circumstances I do not know. The time came for her to deliver her child. I stopped with her by the side of the road, as the soldiers prodded the rest of the column forward, in the hope that I might be able to assist her. No army doctor was made available. It was a breech birth, and—God help me—I was not competent.”

His voice broke. “That young mother and that unborn child both died, an incompetent white man their only companion.”

Many in the congregation were also crying.

The pastor slammed a hand down on the pulpit, the sound ricocheting into the consciences of the listeners.

“Those two—that young woman who shouldn't have had an enemy in the world and that innocent babe—were murdered by governmental indifference!” His eyes swept the audience. “And they were murdered by our silence!”

The speaker dropped his head and let several seconds go by before he started again.

“Several weeks ago, a colleague watching this sad march, said to me, ‘Those people are walking the trail of tears.'
The trail of tears?
How profound that is. How true.

“And what can you do now? Well, in realistic terms, you must do what the government cannot or will not do. You must feed these people. You must provide shelter for them when they get to where the soldiers are driving them. You must give them the tools with which to carve out a new and meaningful life—plows, hoes, shovels, harrows. For if they are to survive at all, they must certainly be able to till the soil.

“There is an informal group from the Christian ministry—pastors like myself—who are soliciting funds in every community we cross. I ask you now, as humbly and as sincerely as I can, to help these troubled people.

“Help them! HELP THEM! So that they might find hope at the end of their trail of tears. May God bless you in your charity.”

Pastor Robison left the pulpit.

Collection plates were quickly passed. Quickly filled. Charles emptied his pockets of money. He didn't stop to count it, but he knew there must have been more than three hundred dollars.

On their ride back to Bon Marché, Charles and Honey were silent for a long time.

Finally, Honey spoke: “The pastor said that something like this shouldn't happen again. Do you think he was talking about the slaves?”

Dewey looked over at her, surprised and pleased by the perceptiveness of the nine-year-old youngster.

“Yes, I imagine he was,” Charles answered.

“I'll remember, Pop-Pop.”

III

“W
HAT
do you think, Charles?” Able Jackson asked.

Dewey studied the firmly built bay stallion, circling him, breaking down the components of the animal in his mind, bringing the years of his experience into the answer.

“Outstanding!” he said.

The thoroughbred they had before them in the stallion barn at Bon Marché was Priam, the winner of the 1830 English Derby.

“I can't tell you how pleased I am by your approval,” Able said. “I had a few doubts, I'll tell you, about paying the asking price. But the London agent assured me that Priam was in top condition and—”

“How much?”

“I'm almost embarrassed to tell you—ten thousand. Plus the cost of bringing him over, and that seems to get more expensive all the time.”

“Seems fair enough,” Charles commented. He turned to Franklin, who stood with them. “What do you think, son?”

“Good. Yes—good.” He seemed almost uninterested.

Dewey laughed loudly. “Come on now, Franklin, it's not you who's getting married tomorrow. It is just your son.”

Franklin nodded. “I guess I have been preoccupied with the plans for the wedding.” He patted the stallion's neck. “I'm really glad to see a horse like Priam here. He might be the finest import ever brought to this area.”

“That was the intent,” Able said confidently. “There's no reason that we can't make Bon Marché the center of quality breeding.”

“I always thought it was,” Charles said.

“Oh, of course, it
has
been,” the younger Jackson brother replied quickly, fearing he had offended the founder. “It's just that I get carried away with the opportunities available here.”

“I think this is perhaps a good time to tell you something I've been meaning to say.” Charles was sober-faced. “We—Franklin and I, as survivors of the beginning, you might say—are most appreciative of the energy you and True are putting into Bon Marché. It gives us old war-horses time to indulge other pursuits.”

“That's a most welcome comment, sir.”

“Yes, indeed. Time to indulge other pursuits. I've just accepted the presidency of the Davidson County Agricultural Society, and Franklin, I know…” He patted his son on the back. “… is busy with the organization of his new hunt. How goes that, son?”

“Fine, fine. And you're right, Father, I never had the time before for things of that nature.”

Franklin didn't want to tell his father that he had organized the hunt only because he had nothing else to do—because the Jacksons continued to ignore his advice on breeding matters.

IV

H
E
was twenty-six and handsome in his lieutenant's uniform. A graduate of the military academy at West Point, Albert Dewey, youngest child of Franklin and the late Amantha Dewey, was back at Bon Marché for his marriage to Virginia Stoker, a beauty from the most prominent banking family in Nashville.

His best man was to be his cousin, Charles Dewey II, who had come all the way from New Orleans for the wedding. He had brought with him a letter to Mattie from his mother.

Charles Two will have to represent all of us from this branch of the family at Albert's wedding. Statler, I hasten to tell you, is himself going to be married before June is out to a girl named Harriet Walston, of one of “the” families of New Orleans, and I have so many duties.

Mattie groaned aloud as she read that news. She could just hear Mary gushing.

We all just love New Orleans. Just love it! Georgie's duties with Monsieur Pujol's racing stable have been going marvelously well, to the point where Monsieur Pujol has offered him a partnership. Perhaps he heard that Georgie was planning to start his own stable after finishing the latest Metairie Course meeting as the leading trainer.

I must run now—have a tea this afternoon for the ladies of the drama society. Make certain that Charles Two behaves himself. Georgie said just the other day that Two reminds him of himself at an earlier age. We all send our love to dear Albert and his bride.

Charles roared when he read the letter. “Listen, Mattie, if my namesake is anything like his father, we ought to send out letters of warning to the parents of maiden young ladies in this county.”

One of those letters might well have gone to Brian Stoker, the stuffy father of the bride. He and his equally snobbish wife, Maybelle, were deeply concerned about Virginia's marriage to Lieutenant Dewey. While they appreciated the wealth of the Deweys, and indeed they felt a certain pride in the community gossip that spoke of the merger of two great fortunes. But the Stokers were not happy about being associated with the horse racing gentry, nor were they delighted with the prospect of having their daughter traveling across the country to be with her soldier husband at unknown, and probably unworthy, military installations.

Maybe it was their preoccupation with their concern for Virginia that caused them to take lightly the extroverted, self-assured Charles Dewey II, who
was,
in truth, the mirror of his father's youth. He played the role assiduously. And the stage was set for him when he met the younger sister of the bride-to-be.

Elizabeth Stoker was a stunning brunette with sensuous violet eyes, clear, white skin, and a figure that rivaled her sister's and, as Charles saw it, even excelled Virginia's in certain key points. He was drawn to her like a bee to a fragrant flower.

Young Charles didn't wait for a formal introduction. At a pre-wedding dinner for the two families, the visitor from New Orleans went to Elizabeth immediately, bowed to her formally, and grinned impishly.

“Hello,” he said. “I wish to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman in the room.”

He was pleased when she didn't giggle or make coy objections to his compliment.

“I'm Charles Dewey the Second, a cousin of the bridegroom and the best man. And you are the sister of the bride. Elizabeth, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mr. Dewey.”

His grin grew larger. “There are a lot of Mr. Deweys around here, but I'm not one of them. My name is Charles. Family and friends call me Two.”

“Two?” She laughed.

“Yes. My mother's invention. She has a … well, a
cute
sense of humor. It was confusing to call me Charles when I was growing up, because when anyone referred to ‘Charles' they meant my grandfather. So, Two was convenient.”

“I like it.”

“And you? What do they call you? Liz? Beth? Betty? What?”

“Beth.”

“Very well. That takes care of the introductions. Now, let me show you around Bon Marché, Beth.” He took her arm and began to guide her out of the room.

She held back. “Isn't dinner about to be served?”

“We have plenty of time. My grandfather likes to have everyone well fortified with spirits before a family dinner. It makes his stories more palatable.”

Beth laughed again, and they left the mansion. Charles had already decided to show her the mares and foals first. Women always loved the foals.

As they walked, he gave her a brief autobiography. “I live in New Orleans,” he said. “I'm twenty-three years old and unmarried. My father is a very good horse trainer. My mother, bless her, is a social climber. My grandfather, who started Bon Marché, is a legend. And my stepgrandmother runs the legend. There! Now you know all about me and we're done with those boring matters.”

“What do
you
do … uh … Two?” She seemed uncomfortable with the nickname.

“Me?” He laughed. “I live, Beth.”

“Is that all?”

“Ah, that's everything! Don't you realize that most people don't live; they just exist. I, on the other hand, live to the fullest. I'm a connoisseur of living. I appreciate and savor the finest aspects of living: excellent wines, succulent food, beautiful paintings, good music”—he smiled—“and fascinating women.”

She seemed perplexed. “But how do you support yourself?”

“My father has money. My mother, too. And my grandfather is one of the wealthiest men in Tennessee. I use their money. They permit that graciously. Perhaps that's because I don't use their money in any
mean
way.”

Beth shook her head disapprovingly. “That seems so … uh…”

“Profligate?”

“Yes.”

Charles shrugged. “It's not. Living is an art, Beth. And I practice the art better than anyone I know.”

They had reached the pasture, and he boosted Elizabeth up onto the fence, then perched beside her.

“You see before you,” he said, “the results of years of careful breeding of one strain of equines—the thoroughbred. An animal bred, in this case, for its speed and stamina. Bred as a competitor. There are perhaps fifty mares in that field, with their most recent progeny. Cash value? Oh … who knows? Maybe a million dollars. Maybe more. But it's an example of how man can manipulate an animal. It proves that man is very adept at manipulation, because man has a brain to think. Am I boring you?”

“Not at all.” She was sincere.

“For example, most of those mares are already back in foal, carrying the babies they will drop next year. A mare, you see, is a life-giving machine under our manipulation. She comes into heat somewhere around nine days after she has given birth, and if everything is physically correct, she is bred then. She doesn't have to think about it at all. A man leads a stallion to her, who is aroused by her menstrual odors, the stallion mounts her, and, in one swift ejaculation, she is bred once more. Efficient. Natural. And rewarding to the man, because that foal, which may have been conceived in those few seconds, may grow up to be the winner of many races, and much money.”

Beth grimaced. “You make it sound so cold.”