Bon Marche (74 page)

“So I understand,” Mattie said grudgingly.

“Go see them.”

“No, I can't.” She paused. “Have they named the child yet?”

“Yes,” Her husband grinned sheepishly, “they're calling him Charles Dewey the Third.”

“Charles! They haven't!”

“But they have.”

“That's the worst kind of insult to you! Isn't it bad enough that Two, behaving so irresponsibly with this girl, already carries your name? But now … to name a bastard—”

He patted her arm. “Mattie, dear Mattie, what possible difference does it make in my life? I've concluded, after seventy-six years of living, that I shouldn't waste energy on matters I can't change. There are so many things so desperately wrong in this world that a simple thing like naming a baby for me seems so insignificant.”

“But, Charles, a bastard!”

Dewey smiled wryly. “It's not the first, is it?”

III

T
RUE
Jackson's appearance belied his intelligence and his skills. Portly—some might have called him dumpy—with only a few strands of hair running in irregular patterns over his skull, True was not in any way handsome. And his sober demeanor—he was a man who never really laughed at a witticism—at times gave him the look of a dullard. And, while he may not have been witty or glib, he was the possessor of an extraordinary mind, one that led to innovation.

“I'm afraid I've overstepped myself this time, Charles,” he said soberly. “I've let my enthusiasm for an idea make me ignore reality.”

“The futurity, eh?”

“Yes.” The elder Jackson brother groaned. “I honestly thought that the prospect of a purse of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars would attract every horseman in the state.”

“I was of the same opinion. Every comment I heard on the idea of a futurity was one of great enthusiasm. I'd even say that your announcement caused a sensation.”

“Until the money came due,” True replied sarcastically.

The two men sat in the Bon Marché drawing room. It wasn't often that True came to Charles. As the nominal general manager of the plantation he had enough confidence to do his job without the need for frequent consultations. Thus, it had been without any participation by Dewey that Jackson had announced the establishment of a Tennessee Futurity—a race in 1843 for the yet unborn foals of 1839. Those foals nominated, for five thousand dollars each, would run as four-year-olds for the “guaranteed” large purse, the first six finishers sharing in the monies.

It hadn't worked out well at all. By the end of 1838, when the nominations were closed, only thirty horsemen had been sufficiently intrigued by the prospects of a futurity to pay nominating fees. Indeed, there were fewer than thirty individual horsemen—Bon Marché had nominated ten of its foals-to-be.

“Some of those who have nominated,” Jackson reported, “have now reneged on their payments. The way it looks now, we won't have enough horses left to have a decent field answer to the starter.”

“Two horses make a race.”

Another groan. “I'm afraid it will be only a little bit better than that.”

“It doesn't matter,” Charles assured him.

“What
does
matter, though,” True said firmly, “is that I was injudicious enough to guarantee the purse—”

“Hmmm.”

“—and not nearly enough money has come in to pay it.”

Dewey seemed unconcerned. “Then we must make it up, mustn't we, when the time comes?”

“Oh, that's not the reason I came to see you,” True interjected hurriedly. “I've already decided to make up the monies with my own funds. I simply came to you now to assure you that the good name of Bon Marché will not be harmed by my reckless and stupid act.”

“You proposed the futurity in the name of Bon Marché, didn't you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then Bon Marché will stand whatever loss there is.”

“Charles, I can't let you do that! You'd be paying for my error.”

The older man grinned at him. “When Mattie was busy talking up the attributes of the brothers Jackson—before you joined us—she never mentioned infallibility. If you only knew the mistakes I've made over the years—”

“No, I can't allow it!”

“The matter is closed,” Dewey growled. “Now, is there anything else you wish to discuss?”

True hesitated. “Yes, there is. Uh … it's Franklin. I'm worried about him. Since Albert married and left to take up his military duties, and with Carrie also married and preoccupied with the newspaper in St. Louis, Franklin is totally alone. I've asked Able to involve him in the breeding decisions, but Franklin seems not to care—about that or anything else.”

“Franklin has his interests in the hunt club.”

“That's a time killer only, Charles.”

“And now you wish to assume the guilt for Franklin's loneliness, too?”

“No, but—”

“True, hear me out. Mattie, in her wisdom, saw fit to bring you and Able here to run Bon Marché. You've done it admirably. But in doing this job, you're not expected to assume any responsibilities for the idiosyncracies of the Deweys. You young men are the future of Bon Marché—you and several of my grandchildren, I hope. Franklin is a part of the past. So, too, is this old relic.” He sighed. “Care for the future, Squire Jackson, and leave the past to the dying.”

“Charles, don't say things like—”

“Enough! Get the hell out of here!”

IV

C
HARLES
and Honey sat in a small carriage on a knoll at the edge of a cluster of trees, well bundled against the chill of early October. The sun, just rising over the horizon, was an unappealing dull orange—it looked dirty, somehow—and it cast almost no heat on the partially overcast day. The grasses were browning and the spent leaves on the trees, while still offering some color, were ready to fall to the next stiff breeze. Only the green pines stayed constant.

“I think this is an ideal place,” Charles was saying, “to see the most exciting part of the hunt. I would think that the hounds will drive the fox across that pasture down below us”—he pointed—“and straight up the rise to that brush growing over the stone wall. He'll want to use that brush for cover, but the hounds will be too close on his tail for him to stay there. So he'll race across that small clearing just opposite us there and try to lose the dogs in the woods, weaving in and out among the trees, trying to confuse the pursuers.”

“But he won't succeed, will he, Pop-Pop?” Honey said sadly.

“No, he won't. Oh, some of the pack will be confused for a moment or two, veering off in odd directions. But the best of the dogs will stay hard on his trail.”

Dewey stood up in the carriage to continue his narrative. “He'll be driven out of those woods and down the grade across that small pasture bordered by the creek. At the water, the fox will hesitate. Deciding what his chances are if he plunges in and tries to swim across. Those few moments of indecision will cost him. The hounds will bring him to ground there—and the hunt will be over.”

“Must it be that way?”

“I could be wrong about
this
fox, of course,” her great-grandfather said. “He may not be concerned about the water, plunging right in and maintaining his advantage. If he does cross the stream, then his chances are very good. There are thick woods on the other side, with all manner of wild animals—deer and turkey among them—and the droppings from them will confuse the dogs. The fox will be able to find a hole in which to hide, and the hounds will have lost the day.”

“I hope this fox likes the water,” the young girl said. “I don't want to see it killed.”

Charles studied Honey's sober face. It was a beautiful one at fifteen. And behind it was a mind that he had come to greatly admire. He took pride in the fact that he had helped mold that mind. This girl, when she became a woman, would be a factor in the world, he believed. She was not only intelligent; Honey Mussmer—or Honey Dewey, as he liked to think of her—had a heart big enough to accommodate everyone she met, and every creature, even the fox, whose very minutes were now numbered.

“I'll join you in your concern for the fox,” the old man said. “Now, the most exciting part of a hunt, of course, is supposed to be the horsemanship. If the horses are sound, and the leadership of the hunt intelligent—and we must assume he is, with Franklin as the master—the riders will be hard on the heels of the hounds when they break out into that pasture below us.

“They'll slow a bit coming up the hill, of course, and the horsemen will have to edge to their left when the fox and the hounds take on that brush-covered stone wall. The mounts will have lost their momentum and won't be able to clear the wall. Instead, they'll have to be content to jump the nearby rail fence. But they'll make up the lost ground going down the hill, and will be close at hand when the decision time for the fox is reached at the creek.”

Charles shivered.

“Are you cold, Pop-Pop?”

“It is a bit more chilly than I had figured.”

Honey reached behind her in the carriage, picking up a blanket, unfolding it, and draping it over his shoulders.

“Thank you, dear, that's much better.”

Off in the distance they heard the shrill, clear sound of the hunting horn. And then the counterpoint of the deep baying of the hounds, swiftly coming closer.

“Watch now!” Charles said. “At the edge of the pasture down there. We ought to be seeing the fox any moment now!”

There was a quick flash of red.

“There he is, Pop-Pop!”

“Yes!”

“Run! Run!” Honey screamed, jumping up and down in her excitement, causing the carriage to rock and making the horse nervous. “Oh, dear God, run!”

The hounds came on to the pasture, perhaps thirty yards behind the streaking fox. And just behind them, no more than fifteen yards back, the scarlet of the riders' coats. Now there was a cacophony: the voices of the hounds, now that they were closer, were no longer alike—some were bass, some soprano; the hooves of the horses beat the rhythm on the cold, hard pasture; and a discordant accompaniment to it all was Honey's constant shout: “Run, damn you, run!”

The fox reached the stone fence, diving into the snarl of brush that nearly covered it. The heavier dogs, trying to leap the fence, entangled themselves momentarily in the brush before scrambling to the ground on the other side. At that obstacle the fox had gained ground, maybe as much as five yards.

“He's going to get away, Pop-Pop!”

“He's certainly giving them a run for it.”

Dewey's attention turned to the riders nearing the top of the rise. Franklin, bent over the neck of his big gray thoroughbred gelding, was whipping and driving. Madly, it seemed. Charles held his breath. His son seemed to be heading straight for the half-hidden stone wall.

Leaping to his feet, Charles waved his arms wildly. “No! No!” he shouted. “Not there! The rails, Franklin, the rails!”

He was unseen. And unheard.

Franklin asked the gelding to jump. As he did, his front hooves cut into the brush and clipped the top stone. The horse tumbled crazily over the wall, hurling Franklin over his head, smashing him to the ground. Instinctively, the animal came to his feet, but the right foreleg hung crookedly, a jagged bone having torn through the skin. A few hobbling steps and the horse was down again, thrashing his legs in panicked pain, his great sides heaving.

Charles whipped his horse in action, careening the carriage across the uneven surface of the pasture. Honey held on tightly, sobbing.

No more than half a minute had gone by until Dewey halted the carriage by Franklin's still form. He leaped out, shoving away two of the riders who were trying to help the fallen master of the hunt. Franklin's unseeing eyes stared up at his father.

“Oh, God,” the old man wept. “Oh, dear God!”

He tried to gather his son in his arms. The head lolled. His neck had been broken.

“I tried to warn you, son,” Charles said softly.

There was a pistol shot. The injured horse was being dispatched.

Charles didn't look up. He rocked the body of his eldest son in his arms. Slowly. Tenderly. As he had done years earlier at Fortunata when Franklin was such a sober youngster.

All was confusion around them. Riders and horses milling about. And panting, winded dogs, recalled from the chase by the master of the hounds.

In the center of it was Honey, fighting back her tears, knowing that this was a moment that called for her strength. The dead rider was her grandfather. The grief-stricken man was her beloved great-grandfather. They needed her now.

She turned to several of the men standing next to her. “Help me get them into the carriage.” It was an order.

Several of the huntsmen guided Charles back to the carriage, helping him into it. Others carried the body of Franklin, putting it next to the elder Dewey so that his arms could cradle it. Honey gently put the blanket around them. And she picked up the reins.

“Let me drive, miss,” one of the men offered.

“No,” she replied sternly, “I'll do it.”

She whacked the reins hard on the back of the horse, turning the carriage toward Bon Marché.

“We're going home now, Pop-Pop.”

A strange thought crossed her mind. She struggled with it, trying to dismiss it. She knew it was wrong under these tragic circumstances, but it made her want to smile.

The fox had escaped.

51

“C
HARLES
, you're doing too much,” Mattie warned. But quietly, not wanting to nag. “Those nature walks, and the almost daily trips to the capital—”

“Now that Nashville is the state capital,” her husband said defensively, “there's a great opportunity for Honey to learn the workings of our government. She may play a role in it someday.”