by Chet Hagan
“In what capacity, sir?”
“As a member of the staff of the Comte de Grasse, Admiral of the Fleet.”
Charles found it strange that he didn’t mind lying in response to Lee’s goading questions.
Funston persisted. “A ranking member?”
“As Comte de Grasse’s personal aide, Mr. Lee.” The lying had become fun; he was making Lee very uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you a bit young to hold such an exalted position?” Lee continued sarcastically.
“Age—young or old—was not a barrier in this war. Indeed, there were quite a few of your age who saw fit to serve at Yorktown.”
Katherine giggled, and several of the other ladies tried to hide smiles.
Lee’s rage was a sudden thing. His face went black with it. “You give me offense, sir!”
“Oh? In what way?”
“By innuendo, sir. There are good and valid reasons why I didn’t serve in the army.”
“I’m sure there are, Mr. Lee.” Charles grinned at him. “And I see no reason why you should have to detail them in this … uh … innocent conversation.”
“You, sir, are insufferable!”
“Funston, please,” Katherine begged, having seen his uncontrolled anger before.
“Stay out of this!”
Mrs. Smith, the pastor’s wife, spoke up. “I suggest, Mr. Lee, that perhaps this has gone far enough.”
Her no-nonsense words brought him up short. He bowed to her. “Of course, Mrs. Smith, you’re correct,” he said unctuously. “I do hope that you can excuse my boorish behavior.”
The matron patted Lee’s arm, smiling at him reassuringly. “I like to think that I can still appreciate the spirt of the young.”
A hand tugged at Charles’s sleeve. He turned to find Martha by his side.
“Perhaps Mr. Dewey would like to meet some of the other ladies,” she said softly.
He permitted her to lead him away.
“You made a mistake, you know,” Martha said as they walked slowly toward another group of women. “Funston can be mean. He won’t forget what just happened.”
“And what did just happen?”
“You made him look the fool.”
Charles laughed. “He does that fairly well on his own.”
“Don’t make light of this. Funston has a cruel side. He’s already killed one man in a duel.”
“Really? On what pretense?”
“Over the sale of a horse. He accused the other man of selling him a horse he knew to be permanently lame.” She furrowed her brow. “He’s dangerous when he believes he’s been crossed.”
Charles was warmed by her concern for him. “Miss Martha, I’m sorry if I brought you any distress.” A pause. “Uh … are they going to be married—Lee and Miss Katherine?”
“I hope so,” the young girl replied. “It would serve her right.”
He grinned. “A little sisterly animosity?”
“No, truthfulness.”
The word brought him up short. He stopped walking. “Uh … Miss Martha, I’d appreciate it, when I meet the other ladies, if there’s no more talk of Yorktown.”
She gazed up at him through those lovely blue eyes. Admiringly. “Your modesty becomes you, Mr. Dewey.”
Charles swallowed hard. “Yes, well…”
Martha smiled at him. “Very well, Mr. Dewey, no more talk of Yorktown,” she promised.
They arrived at a second group of women. Martha introduced him and then led him away to yet another knot of ladies. And another. And another, until Charles was certain that he had met every lady of the congregation.
Finally they stood alone under a large tree at the edge of the churchyard.
“Thank you, Miss Martha,” he said, “for being so kind to me.”
She didn’t answer him, looking shyly at the ground.
He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “You’re very beautiful.” The words were tender.
Martha’s reply was an almost imperceptible squeeze of the hand, but she kept her eyes downcast, not looking at him. Her shyness made her even more appealing to him.
“Well, there you are!” MacCallum’s cheery voice broke the spell of the moment. “Miss Martha, your father has asked me to tell you that he’s ready to leave. Would you inform Miss Katherine, please?”
Charles watched her leave, and turned to MacCallum with an embarrassed laugh. “Brewing?”
“Most definitely yes!” The tutor wasn’t happy. “It seems that my warnings fell on deaf ears. Your little encounter with Funston has now made the rounds of the entire congregation.” He was angry.
“I think encounter is too strong a word.”
“To young Lee it was an encounter. Believe me!” Andrew sighed. “And then you top it off with a hand-holding tête-à-tête with an unchaperoned young lady—” He threw up his hands.
“You’re exaggerating the whole thing,” Charles insisted defensively. “We were just standing here. It was innocent.”
MacCallum shrugged. “I’ll accept your protestations of innocence, but others may not.” Another sigh and the tutor clapped Charles on the back. “Come—we’re all to dine at Marsh Run.”
“Marsh Run?”
“The John Lee estate. Mr. Statler has accepted an invitation for Sunday dinner.”
Charles blanched. “Oh, God!”
“Exactly.” But Andrew was smiling again. “This time, my impetuous young Frenchman, stay by my side, speak discreetly only when spoken to, and keep your hands to yourself.”
“Agreed.”
V
DEWEY’S forced semisilence at Marsh Run gave him an opportunity to observe a traditional Sabbath dinner on a Virginia plantation. There were other guests besides the Statler entourage: other planters and their wives and children, plus the Reverend and Mrs. Smith. Twenty-seven in all.
And there were surprises. John Lee, although a bit loud, was a gracious host, presiding over a truly sumptuous meal: beef, ham, wild turkey, goose, half a dozen different vegetables (including the bitter greens, identified this time as “collards”), a bewildering choice of wines, and a delicious frozen dessert that Lee called “ice cream.”
(Charles didn’t know—and Lee probably didn’t, either—that ice cream had long been a delicacy in France; but not in the society of one Charles Dupree.)
Mrs. Lee, too, was a surprise. When he had been introduced to the ladies at the church, Charles had not met Mrs. Lee. He wondered why. Now, at dinner, he found that John’s wife was a frail woman, her face drawn as if in constant pain, her hair nearly white, and she was confined to a chair to which wheels had been attached, a blanket covering her legs. Mrs. Lee was not introduced to Dewey, and she said not a word. Charles surmised that the woman was unable to speak.
She had been pushed to the table in her wheeled contraption by a light-skinned Negro serving girl—a tall, slim young woman of considerable beauty.
Later, when the men retired to Lee’s drawing room for brandy, the light-skinned girl was there again, serving the liquor. It was in that circumstance that Charles learned her name: Melody. It fit her. The few words she had to speak in the course of her duties were delicate, almost musical. He found himself following her moves about the room. She was the kind of woman who captured the eyes, holding them prisoner.
The conversation—was it inevitable?—turned to racehorses.
“I’m led to believe, Marshall,” the elder Lee was saying, “that this man Shackelford, at Charlottesville, has several young blooded horses he may be willing to part with. If you’re going there anyway, to look at those carriage horses, it might be worth your while to check out Shackelford’s animals.”
Statler’s interest was obvious. “I’d hate to think there’ll be racing again in the spring with Elkwood not represented. The way my situation is now, it’ll be three or four years before I can develop my own runners once more.”
“Tell me about Milton’s plans at Petersburg.”
“I know onl
y that he’s building a track—he and several partners—and the word is that it will be ready in the spring. June, I believe.” Statler grinned, childlike. “Lord, won’t it be good to get to racing again?”
Lee agreed, asking, “Any word about racing at the Charleston track?”
“No, there’s still some fighting in the Carolinas.”
“The damned war!” the elder Lee growled.
“The necessary war,” Statler countered.
“I doubt that. The Congress might have made some reasonable accommodations with the Crown if it hadn’t been for the likes of the Adamses, stirring up matters in their Boston hotbed until blood was spilled!”
“I seem to recall,” Statler replied, “that our own representatives were reasonably vehement in calling for war.”
“Yes, and I venture that that firebrand Henry will live to regret his words. That ‘give me liberty, or give me death’ nonsense! I know you accuse me of having latent Tory sentiments,” Lee continued, “but I’m deeply concerned about our future. There was some stability under the Crown, even though we might not have liked all of the machinations of George the Third. But, as Englishmen—and let’s not forget, Marshall, that’s what we are!—we had the protection of English common law. Now what? Can we survive this squabbling confederation of states? What will hold it together?”
“Our faith in our own abilities to govern.”
“Poppycock! You’ve been seduced by the honeyed words of the gentleman from Monticello. He’s a dangerous man, I tell you! If what he proposes becomes reality, Statler, we’ll have anarchy. Anarchy!
“The strength of this colony, of our Virginia, has always been its landholders. If we are shunted aside, if the government falls into the hands of the mechanics and the shopkeepers and the ne’er-do-wells who are without land and without substance of any kind, not only will we be destroyed but so will Virginia. Without Virginia a confederation of states is a straw house.”
After a pause for reflection, Statler answered him. “We cannot forever maintain our … uh … artificial dominance, John. All the people must be involved in our government if it is to prosper. I happen to believe what Jefferson wrote about the equality of men.”
“Equality! Good Christ! You may believe that a mechanic, who can’t read or write, is your equal, but I don’t. Such a man could never be my equal! I’m an aristocrat, and I make no apologies for it.”
Several of the other men in the room were moved to respond: “Hear, hear!”
“Let me ask you this,” Lee went on, “are your nigras equal to you?”
“No, but—”
“Well, Marshall, there are those—and some in this state, too—who will tell you that nigras are equal! How many blacks do you have?”
“One hundred and fifty three.” The figure came out with no pause for thought. Statler was certain of his holdings.
“And how many whites at Elkwood?”
“Eleven, not counting my daughters.”
“I have nearly two hundred nigras,” Lee continued, “and there are fourteen white men here. Now, what’s going to happen to us if the slaves get it into their heads that they’re equal, for God sake? We’ll be murdered in our beds!”
John Lee’s face was flushed. “In Virginia, there are enough nigras to take over, if we let them. And in the Carolinas, too.”
Statler groaned. “John, you’re overwrought on this subject.”
“Maybe. But I have enough intelligence to feel some honest fear. There’s no more reckless man than one without fear. I’ll not sit by for a single moment, Marshall, if I hear talk of nigra equality on this property. No black at Marsh Run is going to say those words more than once, because he’ll be a dead nigra!”
“You’re a harsh man, John.”
“So should you be, my friend. So should you be.”
VI
DEWEY was already in bed, after the return to Elkwood, when there was a knock on his door.
“It’s Andrew.”
“Come in.”
The tutor entered, still fully dressed, carrying a bottle and two glasses. “I thought I’d better not arrive at this late hour without the solace of some good sherry.” He held up the bottle. “This is an amenity of your employment. Good wine is one of the rewards of an ordered life.”
Charles smiled. “So I’m to be rewarded. For my good behavior at Marsh Run?”
“I watched you staying on the other side of the room from Funston. Very carefully and very wisely, I thought.”
Dewey continued grinning.
“That’s not the reason for my visit, though. I’ve come with some interesting news,” MacCallum announced. “Mr. Statler is arranging to travel to Charlottesville at the end of the week. The three of us, with an eye to buying some horses.”
“He wants me to go along?”
“Yes,” Andrew said soberly. “I suspect that he doesn’t want his young Frenchman left alone with his daughters.”
Charles showed concern. “You think that’s the reason?”
“Of course not,” MacCallum chortled. “That was just my attempt at humor. A poor attempt, apparently.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew, if I seem humorless. It’s just that I feel I might have behaved so badly today that—”
“Nonsense! Mr. Statler told me that he wants to begin to educate you about horses.” A hesitation. “This may be the start of his Charles-as-a-son phase.”
“More humor?”
“No, this time I’m serious.
“But, Andrew, I’ve been here less than a week—”
“And you’ve already made your mark. He heard, as everyone else did, of your incident with Funston. I believe he’s proud of you for having stood up to that arrogant … uh … fop.”
Charles laughed. “You were going to say something else.”
“Yes, but he isn’t worth the effort of a good, strong obscenity.”
“Then you don’t think Mr. Statler is displeased with me?”
“Not at all. So rest easy.” He poured the sherry into the glasses and handed one to Dewey.
“Something has just now occurred to me,” Charles said. “We will be going to Charlottesville to buy horses to replace some of those stolen by Colonel Tarleton. Yet John Lee seems to have his horses intact?”
“Tarleton found something better at Marsh Run,” MacCallum explained. “Beef cattle. He ran off with Lee’s entire herd. More than two hundred head, I understand. Colonel Tarleton didn’t leave any of the plantations in this area unscathed, believe me.”
A brief silence as they sipped the wine. “Andrew,” Charles said finally, “how seriously should I take that conversation tonight—I mean Mr. Lee’s vehemence about his Negroes?”
“I’m sure he meant it. But you shouldn’t be overly concerned. It’s not something we’ll have to deal with. Both of us are outside the establishment, so to speak.”
The tutor poured them a second sherry. “Did you notice that mulatto girl, the one called Melody?”
“It would’ve been difficult not to notice her. She’s a real beauty.”
“That’s John Lee’s daughter.”
“What?”
“Yes, and no one denies it. As I understand it, Mrs. Lee has been confined to her chair for some twenty years. She lost the use of her legs in an unfortunate fall from a horse. While fox hunting, as I hear it. After, when that happened, the elder Lee had to look elsewhere for his … uh … well, you understand.”
“He took a black mistress?”
‘He’s not unique in that, you know.”
“Does Mr. Statler—?”
MacCallum tilted his head. “To my knowledge, no. It’s possible, of course, but I doubt it. I would think that he would consider the feelings of his daughters first. Suppose they should learn of such a thing…” He shrugged. “But, I can’t honestly tell you that he hasn’t.”
Charles Dewey slumped down on the edge of the bed. “Will I ever understand all this, Andrew?”
“In time, y
ou will. You may not agree with it all, but you’ll understand it.”
6
UNDERSTANDING?
It came swiftly.
Less than two weeks after his arrival at Elkwood, Dewey was in Charlottesville, beginning his understanding of horses.
On the two-day journey—which the three men made in a farm wagon drawn by a team of oxen in lieu of draft horses—conversation, between bumps and jolts, was all about horses. As MacCallum had predicted, Marshall Statler began to sound like a father when addressing the young Frenchman. He used the word son frequently.
“Son, the first thing you have to understand about horses,” Statler was saying as they bounced along, “is that there are some who have the eye of a competitor. You can see it—really see it—in their eyes. A dull-eyed horse, believe me, will not be much good at the races. A clear, determined eye is the first thing I look for in a horse.”
Their first move at Charlottesville was to visit a horse trader named Amos Darnell, a dour-faced man, a bit paunchy, who smelled of horses.
“Your letter, Squire Statler, spoke of the need for carriage horses.” Darnell winced. “The war, sir, hasn’t been kind to the horse trade. But”—he smiled slightly—“I am in possession of a matched pair of light draft horses—crossbred, actually—that might suit you.”
He led the way into a large barn and signaled to his black servants, who led two well-muscled bay horses, with neat white blazes on their faces, out of their stalls. To Charles they were so nearly alike in appearance as to be twins.
“A gelding and a mare,” Darnell explained, “the progeny of identical breeding, of course. The dam was a blooded horse.”
Statler nodded, examining the animals closely, running his hands firmly down their legs and staring into their eyes. He made a gesture, and the Negro handler walked the horses down the barn aisle and back again as the master of Elkwood watched every move.
He silently studied the horses for several minutes. “Five … six years old?” he asked.
“You know your horses, Squire Statler,” Darnell answered him. “The mare’s seven, the gelding six.”
“Hmmm.” Statler scratched his chin.
Darnell knew it was time to talk money. “The owner, for whom I’m the agent, requests that I ask five hundred pounds.”
