Bon Marche (75 page)

“Charles, be realistic. She's a woman. What role could she play?”

“Who can tell? This country is heading toward a great upheaval. It may need her someday.”

“Yes, Charles.” Mattie sighed. She wanted to object—again—to his preoccupation with the young girl, but didn't dare. Honey was all he had left in life. Franklin and Thomas were dead, George was in New Orleans, Corrine's marriage to Billy Holder had almost completely alienated her from her father, Louise was constantly busy with the newspaper, Lee always seemed to be away on his correspondent duties, and Alma May … well, the Princess had her own way of life. That life appalled Mattie, but she couldn't do anything about it. She felt that Alma May's scandalous social activities with numerous Nashville “gentlemen” were best left alone. Her mother didn't want to know the details.

Even Bon Marché was no longer a concern of Charles Dewey. Nor was she, Mattie admitted sadly. They still slept in the same room, but what they once had together had evaporated. There were times when she wondered whether they were even friends any longer.

In sum, Charles had his great-granddaughter. And Mattie didn't want to do anything that would take Honey from him.

“I'll want to send Honey to the Nashville Female Academy next year,” Dewey said.

“Yes, dear.”

“She's very special, you know. And I need to give her all the help I can.”

“Of course. But I
am
worried about your health.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled. “I have the stamina of a thoroughbred.”

Charles clapped his hands together. The subject was closed.

II

J
ANUARY
31 was always observed at Bon Marché as Dewey's birthday. He had no idea when his birthday really was, but back in Virginia he and Martha had selected that date as a convenient one to celebrate. January 31 was before the foaling season, and there were no race meetings to intrude.

Now, as that date approached in 1845, Honey Mussmer scurried around planning the party for her great-grandfather's eightieth birthday anniversary. Mattie, because she wanted it to be a special day as well, gave the young girl her head. It was agreed, after numerous discussions with others in the family, that there would be only one gift for Charles, to be presented following a special family dinner.

After the last toast had been drunk, Honey brought Charles's warm outer clothing to him at the table.

“Put these on, Pop-Pop,” she said, smiling sweetly, “because we have to go outside for what happens next.”

“If we're going out in the cold,” Dewey chortled, “perhaps I ought to have another bourbon.” He held out his empty glass, to have it filled by his son-in-law, August Schimmel. He drank it down. “Now, young lady, I'm well fortified, so let's proceed.”

With Honey proudly leading the way into the night, followed by a large entourage of Deweys and Jacksons, laughing and chattering, they left the house to proceed to the exercise ring nearest the mansion.

After the family had positioned itself along the fence, Honey called out: “We're ready to start!”

On that signal, a dozen slaves, carrying large torches, filed into the ring, lighting it. Following them came the sober True Jackson, leading a muscular bay horse outfitted with a distinctive white halter.

“Pop-Pop, this is for you,” Honey announced loudly. “The first foal by Priam, out of a Bagdad mare. He's four years old, and he'll be ready to race this spring.”

“Oh, my—” Dewey's eyes filled with tears.

“But that's not all, Pop-Pop,” the young girl continued. “He's been named in your honor. From all of us, Pop-Pop, this is
Charles Dewey!
”

Applause broke out, and the horse tugged excitedly at the lead rope.

Honey took her great-grandfather's hand and led him through the gate and into the ring, where True turned the lead rope over to him. Charles marched around the ring, proudly showing off his birthday present, the tears streaming down his face.

“There's one other thing,” said True Jackson. “As the trainer of his magnificent animal, Miss Honey has allowed me to announce that Charles Dewey has been nominated for a special race at Clover Bottom's spring meeting in April—the first running of the Bon Marché Cup!”

More applause.

“And as the trainer, I have acquired the services of an outstanding jockey from New York. His name is Marshall Dewey!”

The old man's mouth gaped open. There were no words. He groped to hand the lead rope to True and then he sank to his knees, overcome with emotion. Honey knelt beside him, putting her arms around him, rocking him.

“We love you, Pop-Pop. We love you very much.”

III

I
T
was cool and rainy on the last Saturday in April of 1845 when the Bon Marché Cup was to be contested. True Jackson, as a steward of the Nashville Jockey Club, had used his influence to put together an outstanding field of runners for the premier event. He understood that Charles Dewey the man would not have tolerated seeing Charles Dewey the thoroughbred matched against inferior opponents.

In the days between the birthday celebration and April 26, the old master of Bon Marché was present at every workout of the horse, giving advice to True and, at times, turning the advice into orders. He seemed to have been given a new life, and Honey tagged after him everywhere he went, caring for his smallest needs.

Three weeks before the race, Marshall arrived from New York, looking trim and fit. Charles embraced him and said what he had rehearsed over and over in his mind: “Son, there is too little time for prolonged apologies. I just want you to know that I'm sorry for what I've done to you, more sorry than you can imagine. I'm pleased that you think enough of me to come back here.” A nervous cough. “And now let's see how you and the equine Charles Dewey get along.”

It was a fact that Marshall hadn't ridden in a race in some years; he was now a trainer in New York, not a rider any longer. But when True Jackson had written to him, and Marshall had agreed to ride in the Bon Marché Cup, he went into a strenuous dieting regimen. He weighed one hundred ten pounds when he arrived in Tennessee.

In spite of the inclement weather, there was a large crowd at the Clover Bottom course. Umbrellas grew like mushrooms; under one of them stood the guest of honor.

Betting was brisk for the four-mile three-heat event, with a Nashville Jockey Club added purse of twenty-five thousand dollars. While Charles Dewey was the sentimental favorite in the public pool, the true favorite probably should have been a Kentucky horse, Invader, the undefeated winner of his first four starts.

Dewey's horse was bet down to even money, annoying the old man.

“Damn it,” he complained to Honey, “those are artificial odds. Charles Dewey doesn't rate even money. I appreciate the compliment, of course, but not as a bettor. I'd love to take those odds on Invader.” He leaned down to Honey and said to her sotto voce, “I don't suppose I could sneak a bet on Invader?”

“Pop-Pop!”

Charles roared with laughter. “No, I suppose not.”

He made a great show of wagering five thousand dollars in the public pool on his own horse, causing others at the track to follow his example. He felt bad about that, but he was trapped by circumstances.

True had him officiate at the saddling of Charles Dewey, and stood aside as Charles instructed the jockey. “Don't kill him, son,” he said softly so that others couldn't hear. “I suspect that you're in over your head. Try to keep Invader in sight. He's your competition.”

Twelve horses answered the starter's call, and when the drum tapped, Invader sprang to the lead. He kept it for the entire four miles, winning under restraint over another Nashville horse, Cumberland, an easy five lengths to the good. Charles Dewey was third, beaten by nine lengths.

The old man wasn't surprised.

Rain was coming down harder when the second heat was called. “Now you'll find out,” he said to Marshall, “whether this horse can run in the soft going.”

Invader was the wire-to-wire winner of the second heat in the slow time of 8:08
³
⁄
₄
. Marshall had done better with Charles Dewey, bringing him second with a vigorous ride, but still four lengths off the Kentucky horse. The perpetual Bon Marché Cup would spend its first year in the neighboring state.

Marshall was full of apologies. “I'm sorry, Father. I know how much this day meant to you.”

Dewey grinned. “I know how to lose, son. I've had a lot of experience in that. And experience, really, is what counted in that race. Invader was simply the better horse, that's all.”

True Jackson was also apologetic. “I had such hopes, Charles, that I could—”

Dewey cut him off with a clap on the back. “Charles Dewey will carry my name across the finish line in front a lot of times before he's done.” He grinned broadly. “Come! There's a victory celebration going on at the tavern.”

At eighty, Charles Dewey got quite drunk before the day was ended.

IV

C
HARLES
was late in rising the next morning, and when he came into the dining room he found only Mattie and Honey still at the breakfast table.

“Perhaps I should finally admit,” he said cheerily, “that I'm really eighty. I don't seem to be able to drink as well as I used to.”

Mattie looked with concern at his flushed face. “Are you well, dear?”

“Well? Certainly. It's just that my recuperative powers are slower these days.”

Honey went to him, putting a small hand on his forehead. “Pop-Pop, you're hot! You have a fever.”

“Hmmm, maybe a little one.”

“After you've eaten, Charles,” Mattie ordered, “I want you back in bed. You were wet yesterday, and you have to admit that you were quite intoxicated.”

“Maybe you're right. I think I could use some more sleep.”

He toyed with his food, then returned to bed, falling asleep almost immediately. But he dozed fitfully. Honey, who stayed with him, worried that his fever was growing.

At lunchtime, she reported her fears to Mattie. “I think we ought to call a doctor.” A slave was dispatched to Nashville to fetch Dr. Martin Almond, who had come from Maryland to the West.

The doctor was frank after his examination. “It's pneumonia, I fear. And I don't have to tell you how serious that may be in a gentleman of Mr. Dewey's advanced age.”

Mattie and Honey were solemn.

“I've given him a purgative, and I want you to watch him closely. If his fever gets higher, please send someone for me immediately. Otherwise I'll come in the morning again.”

Honey wanted to stay in the room all night. Mattie vetoed that. “I'll be there, dear,” she said kindly. “You can take over during the day.”

April lengthened into May with Charles Dewey still bedridden. Dr. Almond's periodic use of the lancet to drain away the old man's bad blood seemed to do little good. Honey assisted in those operations, but had to turn her ahead away so that she wouldn't see her great-grandfather's blood dripping from the tiny incision into a crockery bowl. And the good doctor dosed his patient frequently, trying to purge the sickness, first with something he identified as “Ipecac,” which caused Charles to vomit profusely, and then with a chloride of mercury compound—Almond told Honey it was “calomel”—which caused saliva to pour from Charles's mouth.

“The heavy discharge of saliva,” the doctor explained, “is cleansing the system.”

But each day found Charles Dewey growing weaker. There were periods when he was only semiconscious, when he mumbled unintelligible words.

Only in mid-May, when the doctor turned to giving him tea made from Indian herbs, did Charles seem to improve, even gaining enough strength to ask for food, then hungrily wolfing down the beef broth prepared by the black cooks. After a day or two, he could even sit up. He seemed to want to talk.

“There's someone I have to say something to,” he said to Honey one afternoon. “Could you fetch Alma May for me, please.”

Honey raced away on her errand, returning with Dewey's youngest daughter.

He stretched out his hands to her, and Alma May took them, falling to her knees beside the bed. “Father, you look so much better!”

“You've been here before?” He was perplexed.

“Daily, Father. It's just that you couldn't talk to me.”

A deep sigh. “I'm being so much trouble for you all.” He looked up at Honey. “Dear, could you leave us alone for a moment or two?”

Hurt showed on the young face, but she left the bedroom.

“Princess, you must do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“Tell Mary Elizabeth—”

“Shall I ask her to come here?”

“No, no.” He smiled weakly. “There won't be time for that.”

“Father!”

“No, it's true, Princess. But I do want Mary Elizabeth to know … well, what has happened to me.” He frowned. “That is, if she's still living herself.”

“I'll make sure I get in touch with her.”

“Good, good.” He patted her hand. “Maybe it's best, Princess, if this remains our little secret.”

“It will, Father.”

He groaned.

“Are you in pain?”

“No, Princess … just thinking of what an old fool I am, to believe that Mary Elizabeth would really care what has happened to me.”

“She loved you once, Father.”

“Hmmm.”

There was a quiet moment between them.

“Do me one other thing—?”

“What?”

“Stay with Bon Marché. It needs your peculiar strength, Alma May. And care for Honey, please.”

The Princess fought back the tears. “I'll do as you ask, Father.”

She kissed him and left the room. Honey returned hurriedly.