by Chet Hagan
“The same.”
“In other words, you’re denying me the regular use of any of the Negroes in operating the horse business.”
“I’m simply controlling the use of the nigras as I see fit.” This time Lee managed to turn and walk away.
Charles had no choice but to go to Marshall Statler—with Lee—and ask him to mediate the dispute. In doing so he received his second shock of the day.
“I can understand that Funston must control the hands if he is to be manager of Elkwood,” Statler said.
“But, sir—”
“Hear me out,” Statler interrupted. “I can also understand that you, Charles, need the regular use of the experienced grooms and handlers and jockeys.” He turned to Lee. “I propose that those blacks be assigned permanently to Charles—that, to preserve the integrity of the racing operation, we sell to Charles what nigras he needs, for the token sum of one dollar each. Now, won’t that solve this little impasse?”
“Hardly, sir,” Lee snapped. “You know as well as I do that selling those slaves for a token will merely put my accounts in arrears at the end of the year. If Dewey is to purchase those boys, I submit that he ought to pay full value for them.”
Charles was disgusted. “I was under the mistaken impression that Elkwood was to be a cooperative venture—”
“Now wait, Charles,” Statler interrupted once more. “Funston has a valid point. Are you able to make such a purchase?”
“Probably.”
“Well, then, isn’t that the best way to proceed? You simply reach an agreement with Funston on the value of the hands you need, and that will settle it.”
“Will it?” Charles asked bitterly. “Am I to understand that all breeding and racing interests are no longer a part of Elkwood?”
“Of course they are,” Statler insisted. “But I think you’d be happy with a bit of autonomy in this matter.”
“If that’s what you wish.”
Charles and Funston wrangled over the prices, with Statler only a spectator. Funston wanted more than Charles thought reasonable, but Dewey finally agreed to two hundred fifty English pounds for each of the three jockeys, and two hundred pounds each for six grooms and handlers. It would deplete his reserves rather drastically, but he had no choice in light of Statler’s failure to back him.
In the next several days, he found himself paying for other necessities. Hay grown on Elkwood acres was sold to Charles; so, too, were oats. Dewey realized that he’d have to be totally self-sufficient on his six hundred acres, and he moved to acquire ten other Negroes—from an agent, not from Lee—as field hands to clear the acreage and put in crops of hay and oats for his horses.
In the midst of all of that there was the traumatic recognition that he was now a slaveholder! A thief of another man’s labor. That phrase, coined by Mr. Jefferson, tumbled around in his mind, and gave him more than one sleepless night. So did the certain knowledge that Funston Lee had managed to cut him off from the day-to-day activities of Elkwood.
It wasn’t the last of the adversities he was to face.
II
LESS than a month after the weddings, Andrew MacCallum wound up his business at Elkwood and prepared to leave. Short of losing Martha, Charles could think of no worse loss. MacCallum, his tutoring no longer needed at the plantation, had made arrangements to return to New Jersey to teach at the college at Princeton.
Statler planned a lavish dinner to bid farewell to the young teacher, and many toasts were drunk, many kind words were said. They didn’t change the reality of MacCallum’s leaving.
After the dinner, Charles and Andrew strolled together across the broad lawn overlooking the valley behind the mansion.
“I don’t know how I shall get along without your guidance, Andrew.”
“Nonsense,” the Scotsman said quietly, “you’ll get along just fine.” He paused. “There’ll come a time, though, when you’ll find a need to leave, just as I have. When that time comes, Charles, I hope you won’t hesitate. Elkwood and Mr. Statler have been good to you. But there’s more to this world than Elkwood. And Marshall Statler.”
Charles laughed uneasily. “I think I’ve already discovered that.”
“Hmmm. I know it’s a tutor’s failing, but tonight, as I watched you and Statler at dinner, I was reminded of some words of Mr. Shakespeare:
“‘Men at some time are masters of their fates;
the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that Caesar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.’”
“You put me in important company,” Dewey commented soberly.
“Perhaps. But I want you to understand, my old friend, that your future doesn’t lie in Caesar—in Statler. It lies in yourself. I’m convinced you have it in you to be an important man in this country, and that your future won’t hinge on being here at Elkwood. With Caesar, so to speak.”
“I only hope I don’t disappoint you, Andrew.”
“You won’t, Charles, you won’t.”
They embraced as brothers would embrace. And tears flowed unashamedly.
III
MACCALLUM had been gone only a few days when Dewey found himself wishing for his guidance. He had come into the little cottage after a long morning with the horses to find Katherine sitting at a table with Martha. The elder sister had been weeping; her clothes were disheveled, and there was an ugly purple bruise on her cheek.
“What—?”
“Funston has beaten her,” Martha started to explain, near tears herself.
Charles was annoyed. “Ought we be involved in this?”
“She’s my sister, Charles.”
“Very well … what happened?”
“Funston went into a rage,” Katherine sobbed, “when he learned I wasn’t pregnant.”
“That seems a poor excuse—”
“Oh, Charles,” his sister-in-law wailed, “it’s more than that.” Her sobbing prevented her from continuing for several moments. “You see, he thought I was pregnant when we were married.”
Dewey groaned. “My relationship with your husband, Katie, is already strained. I think that whatever problems you have with him ought not to be brought into this house.”
“Charles, dear,” Martha pleaded, “hear her out.”
He shrugged.
Katherine drew a deep breath. “When you and Martha wanted to be married, and Father came to me asking about my marriage plans … well, I told Funston I was going to have a baby.”
“You lied to him?”
“Yes.”
“And when he found out the lie, he did that?” Charles pointed to her bruised face.
“Yes.”
“What would you have me do?” His disgust was evident in the tone of the question.
“Come back to Elkwood with me, and —”
Dewey cut her off. “No.”
“But I’m afraid of him!”
“Then go to your father,” Charles suggested. “He lives in the same household. This has nothing to do with Martha and me. I’ll not have you loading your personal problems on us.”
Martha, in a quiet voice, spoke to him beggingly. “Isn’t there something we can do, Charles?”
“Nothing! I’m not so sure, if you want my true feelings, that Funston wasn’t within his rights. What you did, Katie, was despicable. I want no part of this! Now or in the future.”
Katherine sighed, got to her feet, and left the cottage. Through the window they could see her slowly walking along the road toward the mansion.
“Weren’t you too hard with her?” Martha asked.
“Do you really think so?”
His wife tho
ught for a moment. “Perhaps not. It’s just that—”
Charles went to her and gathered her in his arms. “I don’t want this to come between us, Martha. But the cold fact is that you’re too forgiving. Have you forgotten what she tried to do to us?”
“No.” The reply was only a whisper.
“We’ll not talk about this again.” He kissed her. “Do you agree?”
“Yes.” Again, very softly.
“Dear, sweet Martha, I love you so.”
“And I love you, Charles.”
“Then let’s not risk that love by becoming involved in the insanities of those two.”
IV
A SON was born to Charles and Martha in the latter part of May 1787. In the first week of June, the Reverend Mr. Lawrence Smith officiated at a simple christening ceremony at Elkwood.
“What shall be the name of this child of Christ?” Mr. Smith asked.
“Franklin Dewey,” Charles answered proudly.
The minister dipped several fingers into a chalice of holy water and sprinkled it liberally on the baby’s head, drawing a loud squall from the infant.
“I baptize you Franklin Dewey,” he intoned, “in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom. And whatsoever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.”
The Reverend Mr. Smith looked up at the small group of family friends who had been invited to the ceremony. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you Master Franklin Dewey.”
Later, in the drawing room, where Statler was serving his best wine in honor of the occasion, one of the women guests asked Charles, “Is Franklin a family name?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He’s named for Dr. Benjamin Franklin, for his vital life as an American, and for the role he’s playing right now in the Federal Convention in Philadelphia.”
Funston, standing nearby, laughed. “It seems a shame to name a defenseless baby after a profligate old bastard like Franklin.”
Katherine tugged at his arm, trying to silence him. Shrugging her off roughly, he went to Charles. “Not being a native of this country,” Lee said sarcastically, “you may not be aware of Dr. Franklin’s reputation as a roué.”
“I’m aware of that and much more,” Charles answered, trying to control his temper. “He’s been a great man in this country for many years. And he’s served his country abroad—”
“Dallying with the ladies of the English and French courts all the while.”
Dewey ignored the remark. “And now, in Philadelphia, he’s a leader in the work to make this country even stronger—to preserve it for all time. I have no qualms about naming my son Franklin for him.”
Funston screwed up his face as if smelling something rancid. “Well, Dewey, to me Franklin has the mark of a traitor. Senile, perhaps, but a traitor, nevertheless. The reports coming out of Philadelphia are that Franklin is a leader of that band of radicals who want a so-called constitution. That’s not why the delegates were sent there —they were to amend the Articles of Confederation and nothing more!”
“Perhaps these times call for a greater experiment.”
“Experiment!” Lee’s voice rose, causing all heads to turn toward him. “Before those devils are through with that convention, we’ll have more than an experiment, believe me. I hear there’s even talk of freeing the slaves. Dangerous talk, Dewey, and dangerous men! And your precious Doctor Franklin is in the vanguard.”
“Virginians should have no reason for concern. We are well represented.”
“Well represented! Good God, man, Virginia is represented by republicans only. Our good governor, Edmund Randolph—a young radical! His past tells you that. And that Madison; he’s nothing but a letter-writing politician. And George Mason…” Lee shook his head in disgust. “He’s the owner of five thousand acres, yet he prattles about the rights of the common man. And Washington—he’d be king if we let him. And the others are just as bad.”
Charles laughed at him. “I’m glad to see that you’re consistent. Everyone’s out of step but you.”
“The greatest patriot in this state refused to attend that convention! Did you know that?”
“You mean Henry?”
“Patrick Henry! Right! He wouldn’t go to Philadelphia because he smelled a rat.” Funston drew himself up proudly. “I side with Patrick Henry. The only trouble is—in Philadelphia today there’s more than one rat!”
Dewey was tiring of the game. “Lee, I believe I understand you for the first time. You see madness in everyone because you’re just a little mad yourself.”
“Be careful, sir—”
Marshall Statler came between them. “Gentlemen, this is hardly the occasion for such a heated political argument.” He looked around at the others, smiling. “I must confess that I envy them their youthful exuberance.”
Statler raised his glass high. “Come! A toast to my first grandson. To Franklin Dewey!”
“To Franklin Dewey!” the others echoed.
But not Funston Lee.
V
EACH day, each week, each month saw the steady erosion of hope that the brothers-in-law could be reconciled. Charles didn’t want reconciliation, and Funston wouldn’t have it. All stratagems employed by Statler to bring them together failed. One ploy was left to him: the Wednesday night dinners at the Elkwood mansion, Statler insisting that the two families dine together once a week. But the Wednesday nights only created an illusion of unity; the dinners were either sullen affairs where no one spoke, or shouting matches over any subject imaginable.
Perhaps Statler tried too hard to make the obligatory Wednesdays work. Often, in trying, he provided the spark for yet another argument.
Late in June 1788, the master of Elkwood said with too much enthusiasm, “It would be grand to be in Richmond these days to hear the verbal fireworks over the ratification of the Constitution.” He laughed gaily. “The reports indicate that it’s great entertainment.”
“Let’s hope that the Henryites prevail,” Funston growled, “so that we can be done with this nonsense about consolidated centralized government and get the states back to the business of governing themselves.”
“And bring what?” Charles challenged. “Chaos and disunity and weakness, leaving ourselves open to every foreign adventurer who would see the states as a prize ripe for picking?”
“That kind of talk is idiocy!” Lee waved a copy of the Virginia Gazette. “Patrick Henry, would they only listen to him, sees the truth in all this.” He began to read a marked passage in the newspaper: “‘Whither is the spirit of America gone? Whither is the genius of America fled? We draw the spirit of liberty from our British ancestors. But now, Sir, the American spirit, assisted by the ropes and chains of consolidation, is about to convert this country into a powerful and mighty empire. There will be no checks, no real balances, in this government. What can avail your specious, imaginary balances, your rope-dancing, chain-rattling, ridiculous idea of checks and contrivances?’”
Funston slammed down the newspaper for emphasis.
Charles grinned wickedly. “I’ll admit, Lee, that Henry is an orator of note. Why, it’s said that he spoke for seven hours straight the other day. But to what avail? In his dotage he merely spouts words, Lee, thousands of empty words. But I must say that he’s right about one thing: the Constitution will bring about a powerful and mighty empire. The great Patrick deplores that possibility, but it’s exactly what we need!”
“If this constitution is so great, so necessary, why is it that only two of the eight Virginia delegates to the convention signed it?”
“Three,” Charles countered. “Mr. Washington also signed it.”
“Washington! Washington!” Funston spat the name. “I’m sick of hearing of him! This President the Constitution speaks of—would that be Washington?”
“One would hope so.”
“And we’d have another King George. Go
d help us, an American King George!”
“Preferable to the return of a British king, or a French one, or even a Spanish one. Or perhaps you believe the American people would want that instead of Washington?”
Lee laughed sarcastically, picked up the newspaper again, and searched it for another paragraph. “The people, you say. Well, Mr. Henry had the answer to that: ‘Who authorizes gentlemen to speak the language of We, the people, instead of We, the states? The people gave them no power to use their name.’”
“It’s refreshing to know that you can read, Lee.” Charles got to his feet. “Perhaps, when you learn to think, we can resume this discussion.” He stalked from the room, Martha dutifully following him, muttering apologies to her father.
A week later, when Virginia had ratified the Constitution by the slim margin of ten votes, the Wednesday dinner at Elkwood was devoid of conversation. Statler knew it was dangerous to bring up the subject of the ratification.
VI
IN July, William Greene, Esquire, a lawyer from Richmond, came to see Dewey on an important mission, carrying with him a sheaf of legal papers. He sat with Charles and Martha in the modest sitting room of their cottage, of the Elkwood “under farm,” explaining that he had some news for the young Frenchman.
“Do you know a gentleman named de Grasse?” he asked. “The Comte François Joseph Paul de Grasse of Auvergne, France?”
“Of course. He’s the Admiral of the French Fleet. I served under him.”
“Was the Admiral of the French Fleet, Mr. Dewey,” the lawyer said sadly. “I’m afraid I have the distressing duty to tell you that Count de Grasse died in Paris this past January eleventh.”
“Good Lord!” Charles felt a genuine loss.
“There’s more to my news,” Greene went on. “Admiral de Grasse’s lawyers in Paris have instructed me to inform you that the count bequeathed to you a sum of money in his will.”
“To me!”
“Yes, sir. A rather handsome sum of money, as a matter of fact—ten thousand British pounds.”
Charles gasped, and Martha let out a little squeal: “Oh, Charles!”
“Ten thousand…” Dewey was having trouble speaking. “Ten thousand pounds? But … why?”
