by Chet Hagan
Charles hadn’t expected any such move by Statler, but he accepted it readily. He had made a conscious decision to accept all that Statler offered. Statler’s passion for horses became his passion. Statler’s knowledge of racing became his knowledge. And, if he was to be a surrogate son, he’d accept that, too.
But what of Martha? Andrew’s report worried him. If what he had in mind concerning Martha came to naught, all that Statler was offering him might one day simply evaporate.
He needed Martha!
IV
CHARLES was grooming Rebirth following a workout when Martha came into the barn. She stood watching him at his chores without speaking. It was only when he started to fork some fresh hay into the horse’s manger that he saw her standing in the shadows.
“Miss Martha! Have you been there long?”
“Only a moment or two.”
He walked to her. “It’s nice to see you here. With the attention this fellow requires”—he jerked a thumb toward the horse—“I’m afraid I see you only at studies these days.”
The polite conversation ended there. Both young people stood silently. Martha gazed at the floor.
“Would you like me to bring Rebirth out for your inspection?” Charles asked, wanting to keep her there.
“No, I didn’t come for that.” She looked up at him. “Mr. MacCallum asked me the other day whether I was displeased with you for any reason, and I didn’t answer him. Since then—this is so difficult—I’ve decided I owe you an explanation for my actions.” She hesitated.
“Miss Martha, I—”
“No, Charles, please let me go on while I have the courage. It’s true, as you’ve probably suspected, that I have been avoiding you. But I don’t think I can go on that way in light of the fact that we are”—she permitted herself the hint of a smile—“uh … practically brother and sister. Father has made that clear. So you should know why I’ve been behaving as I have.”
Dewey waited for her to continue.
“I must confess that I felt some attraction to you when you first came to Elkwood.” Again her eyes were avoiding his. “But I’m afraid that attraction was destroyed, Charles, when I learned of your … your intimacies with my sister. There! I’ve said it.”
Charles groaned, turning away from her. “She told you what happened Christmas night?”
“Yes.” Martha began to sob.
He wanted to scream curses at Katherine’s name. “In great detail, no doubt?”
“Yes.”
Dewey turned, coming close to her. “Did she also tell you that I didn’t initiate it—that she came to my room uninvited?”
“Yes, she did.” Anger showed for the first time. “But that’s a poor excuse for you to make, isn’t it?”
Charles nodded.
Her anger goaded her. “Katie’s actions were perfectly in keeping with her convenient morals. But that you would be party to her … vulgar—” Tears came, halting the words.
“I can only ask that you forgive me,” he pleaded.
“Why should I?”
“Because I love you.”
Martha struck out at him, stinging his cheek with her open hand. “How dare you!” She raised her hand to hit him again, but dropped it. “Oh, what’s the use?”
“The use, dear Martha,” Charles replied, taking what small opportunity was presented to him, “is that we’ve got this terrible thing out in the open. Maybe now, with the kindness I know is in you, you’ll be able to find a way to forgive me.”
“No, I can’t!”
“Perhaps you could try.”
There was no response. Turning quickly, she left the barn.
Charles started after her, then thought better of it. He stood there, devastated. It was worse than he had expected.
Yet he wasn’t really surprised at what had happened. He was trying to fathom the depth of the cruelty of what Katherine had done. Not so much to him as to her sister.
8
DEWEY paced nervously, whacking his riding crop against his boots, his mouth dry with tension. All about him at the new Petersburg racecourse, built by George Milton and his monied associates, there was an atmosphere of gaiety. Of celebration.
For Charles, however, it was a day on which he had to prove himself, and the doubts he felt were beginning to crack his veneer of confidence.
Carriages and wagons of all descriptions began arriving early on the lovely mid-June day, discharging their passengers into the open wooden stands that had been erected at the finish line. Many made for the large pavilion built along the home stretch, where the track management offered what had been widely advertised as “sumptuous dinners and the choicest liquors.”
It was to be the first major race meeting in Virginia since Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown. Although there was still some scattered fighting in the Carolinas, of which less and less was heard every day, a new English cabinet had agreed in March to recognize the independence of the colonies. Thus, the races at Petersburg were in the way of a genuine occasion for public joy.
Marshall Statler and his party had been at Petersburg for several days. The two horses he intended to campaign over the new course—Elkwood’s White and Rebirth—had been tried on the track, satisfying Statler that they were ready.
Partly because of his reputation as a horseman, and partly because of his close friendship with George Milton, Statler had been invited to compete for the inaugural Petersburg Cup, a best-of-three, four-mile-heat event, the winner to take a silver bowl and a cash purse of some two thousand dollars that had been subscribed by the merchants of Petersburg.
Statler had used his influence with Milton to select his opponent in the cup race: a good competitor named Falconry owned by John Lee of Marsh Run. As a young horse, Falconry had gained a reputation as a strong runner, although his career had been limited because of the war. At nine, the chestnut horse, a grandson of the noted Maryland imported sire, Othello, was thought to be at the peak of his form. Statler’s newly acquired Rebirth, on the other hand, was untested.
Nevertheless, Milton knew that a match race between horses owned by gentlemen of the stripe of Marshall Statler and John Lee would capture the public imagination. And the match was made.
Perhaps as many as five thousand—some would report that the crowd was larger—were on hand for the opening of the Petersburg course. All of them were anxious to wager not only on the longer heat races but also on the dashes—single-heat races of three miles.
Andrew MacCallum had been pressed into service as Statler’s accountant. He followed the master of Elkwood around the course, making notes of his numerous wagers; the largest was a bet of “five hundred pounds English,” which he made with John Lee on the outcome of the Petersburg Cup. Before the racing got under way, the tutor had written down wagers in excess of fifteen hundred pounds, plus even a few bets in Continental dollars. Included was a sum exceeding three hundred pounds on Elkwood’s White, scheduled to go in the first dash of the day.
MacCallum, had he thought it worthwhile, would have protested his employer’s heavy wagering. How ineffective such a protest would have been was indicated by Statler himself: “I’d like to recover the investment in these horses right off, Andrew, and by God, I think we have the opportunity here today to do that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t approve, do you?”
“It’s not in my place to approve or disapprove.” The reply was stony.
Statler laughed. “You Scotsmen have the ability to disapprove just by your tone of voice.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Absolutely. But it doesn’t matter, Andrew; it doesn’t matter at all. We’re going to win today.”
MacCallum waved the copybook into which he had written the wagers. “I certainly hope so, sir.”
“Guaranteed, Mr. MacCallum! I’d like to make a recommendation that you act on that guarantee.” He was smiling broadly.
“Thank you. I’ll give that some consideration.�
�
Statler, laughing again at the tutor’s aversion to gambling, strolled away.
In the first dash, in which Elkwood’s White was ridden by one of the plantation’s Negroes, a lad named Horace, the Statler horse won in a close finish, beating a Richmond entry by only a head. Statler’s delighted whoops could he heard across the entire course as he dispatched MacCallum to collect his winnings. Andrew, still disapproving, hoped that he wouldn’t be sent to pay off on the much larger wagers on the Petersburg Cup.
Statler, MacCallum, and Dewey had spent days discussing the strategy for the race against Lee’s Falconry. While the slave, Horace, was an experienced jockey—he weighed only one hundred five pounds—it was decided that Charles would ride Rebirth for the cup event. Statler reasoned, and MacCallum agreed, that Charles was more familiar with the horse, having ridden him during the entire training period.
“You can best judge the stamina of Rebirth,” Statler told the young Frenchman. “Ask for speed when you can; save him when you should—and I’m not concerned about the added weight.” Charles would ride at one hundred sixty pounds.
The Elkwood strategists guessed that Falconry would be handled by Lee’s black rider, Cassius, who would be at about one hundred thirty. He was a strong jockey, much experienced, but Statler was able to discount what might have seemed an advantage for the Lee runner: “Cassius is a straightaway rider, able to handle a powerful animal, but unable—or unwilling—to be adventurous. He follows instructions meticulously, and that makes him totally predictable. In a tight squeeze, Lee’s boy cannot think for himself.”
Dewey’s nervousness as the race approached left him scarcely able to say a civil word to anyone. When his first friend in Virginia, George Milton, came up to him to wish him well, Charles could only mumble an acknowledgment.
“Saddle up!” came the command from the steward.
A Negro groom led Rebirth forward. Statler supervised the saddling as Charles stood by, tense and tight-lipped.
“Remember now, Charles,” Statler said when he was satisfied with the saddle, “get an immediate lead. Not too far out, mind you, but a decisive lead. And ride steadily after that, well in hand. We want Falconry to have to catch us at the end.”
“Yes, sir.”
The steward called for Statler and Lee to draw lots for starting positions, and Lee drew the inside spot. Statler shrugged; it meant little in a four-mile race.
As Charles stood waiting, trying to concentrate on what he had to do, Martha came up to him quietly, touching his arm.
“I thought perhaps you might want to carry this,” she said, pressing a delicate lace handkerchief into his hand. “For luck, you know.”
He was flustered. “Miss Martha, I—”
“Later.” She touched his lips with her fingers. “We can talk later. When we’re alone.”
She smiled at him, brushed a kiss against his cheek, and skipped away.
II
“TO mount!” the steward cried.
Statler boosted Charles into the saddle, making certain he was comfortable with the stirrups. He patted his leg.
“Patience, son, patience. Remember that you’ve got another heat after this one, maybe two.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles wheeled the horse and trotted him slowly to the start line. Falconry was already there, held firmly in hand by the strong Negro jockey. Charles took his position to the outside, some twenty feet to the left of his rival. He wanted to be well in the clear at the start.
There was no noise from the crowd now; it had been replaced by the silence of anticipation. Both Falconry and Rebirth walked up to the start evenly, and the starter’s drum tapped.
They were away!
Dewey rapped his mount smartly with the whip, asking him for speed. By the time they had gone two hundred yards, and were into the first turn, Rebirth was in the lead with an advantage of three lengths. Charles took a steady hold on the reins and had his horse under control, running easily.
And that’s the way it went for more than three clockwise miles, with Rebirth maintaining his three-length lead under a stout hold.
As they came into the final half-mile, Charles glanced over his shoulder to see his rival, Cassius, going to the whip. The Negro jockey had been patient, saving his horse for one final challenge at the end.
Rebirth felt a slight prod of the spur, and Charles gave him his head without further urging.
Into the stretch they came, with Falconry gaining ground. Dewey, however, sat coolly. Unconcerned. He could feel that the horse under him had a lot in reserve. And he knew that Falconry’s bid had been started too late.
As they neared the finish line, Charles could hear Funston Lee screaming at the Marsh Run jockey: “Whip him, damn you, whip him!”
They went across the finish line with Rebirth the winner by a single length, but the race wasn’t really that close. Charles had done what he had wanted to do, what Statler had wanted him to do: he had won the race while saving the horse. Rebirth had not been extended at all; the blooded horse was barely drawing a deep breath as Charles dismounted to accept congratulations from the beaming master of Elkwood plantation.
Several yards away, Cassius, the Negro rider, had dismounted from Falconry to face the fury of Funston Lee.
“Damn you, boy, you let him steal the race from you! You could’ve won that heat, you ignorant bastard!”
Lee lashed out with his riding crop, striking the boy wickedly across the face. He was restrained by his father from doing more.
Charles turned away from the scene. It sickened him.
The time for the first heat was announced at 7:41½.
“My, my,” Statler commented, “I didn’t realize the pace was that fast.” He grinned. “We seem to have got something really good from Shackelford for our gold.”
In the period between the Petersburg Cup heats, when the racing managers had scheduled another dash, it was announced that the Marsh Run horse would have a rider change for the second heat.
“Mr. Funston Lee will be up on Falconry,” the steward bellowed.
Statler was unperturbed by the news. “It doesn’t change our plan,” he said. “We ought to be able to get our initial lead again, because Rebirth simply has more quickness away from the start. But I’m certain that young Lee is going to keep him closer to the pace this time.”
MacCallum added a caution: “Be careful of Funston, Charles. He’s capable of doing almost anything to win.”
III
THE second heat was called.
As Charles was boosted into the saddle again, Statler added his warning to MacCallum’s.
“Andrew is right, son, you’ve got to be careful of Funston. Stay clear of him. Do you hear me, son? Stay clear of him!”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
Once more Rebirth was positioned some twenty feet to the left of Falconry, once more the starting drum tapped, and once more Charles shot his horse into the lead with a solid whack from his whip.
Into the first turn, however, Lee had Falconry up closer. Only one length separated them.
There was no relaxing in the ride this time. Rebirth maintained his slight lead, with Charles keeping his stout hold. But Falconry was right there, pressing the pace. Charles began to worry that perhaps the pace was too fast now, but he was determined to follow Statler’s strategy to keep the lead as long as he could.
At the starting line, Statler was also worried. “Too swift! Too swift!” he complained to MacCallum.
They completed three rounds that way. Just a length apart.
As they swept by the stands to begin the final mile, Lee went to the whip. By the time they were into the turn, Falconry was breathing on Rebirth’s flank.
In the run down the backstretch they were lapped on each other, Lee whipping all the way. Charles tried to sit quietly on his horse, knowing it wasn’t time yet to make his move.
Falconry and Rebirth went into the last turn that way, stride for stride, run
ning as a team. Lee was simultaneously spurring and whipping, before and behind the girth, raising his arm high in the air, his body thrown forward with every whipping exertion, punishing the horse.
Falconry threw his rail in the air, flagging it up and down in the manner of a tired runner. Or one in pain.
Into the homestretch now—still as one.
Suddenly, just as Charles raised his whip to ask Rebirth for his final effort, Falconry came over sharply.
They bumped heavily!
Rebirth bobbled momentarily in his stride, and Falconry shot into the lead, Lee whipping and driving almost insanely, screaming at the top of his lungs.
They crossed the finish line that way, Falconry the winner by half a length.
This time Rebirth was breathing heavily when Charles pulled him up, a white foam of sweat dripping from him. Statler ran to them, quickly examining the horse to see whether he had been injured in the collision. When he was satisfied that he hadn’t been, Charles slid out of the saddle, and a Negro groom led Rebirth away, to walk him cool and prepare him for the final heat.
“He came over on me suddenly,” Charles tried to explain. “It happened so quickly I couldn’t avoid him.”
“Of course you couldn’t, son.” Statler patted him on the shoulder. “I’m just thankful you didn’t fall.”
“I thought for a moment we would.”
“Now you know why Andrew and I cautioned you about Funston.”
MacCallum, who had gone to check on the conditon of Falconry, joined them.
“Lee’s horse is badly distressed,” the tutor reported. “He’s been scoured at the girth—several spur cuts, I’d say—and in that wild whipping, Lee struck him too far back and has not only cut him on the sheath but has made a deep incision on the testicles.” The Scotsman shook his head sadly. “The blood’s flowing rather profusely from those cuts.”
