Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  He neglected to mention to MacCallum that Marshall was also included in the schedule, something Charles had not wanted to happen, but Mattie had insisted upon.

  “You can’t exclude him from our lives,” she had told Charles, “just because you find his existence embarrassing. He’s a reality: he lives in this house. He has as much right to be here as the other children.”

  “It’s not that,” Charles answered weakly. “It’s just that—”

  “I don’t know why you can’t recognize that Marshall is a fine little fellow. He loves Alma May.”

  “I question the wisdom of allowing a black—”

  “Charles!” The subject had angered Mattie. Again. “When are you going to stop this nonsense about your own son?!”

  Dewey went on in his letter to MacCallum:

  Alma May is treated like a princess. And we have all taken to calling her that: ‘Princess.’ I admit to you that I’m a bit concerned that we are overindulgent with her, but she is such a darling.

  Little Tom is so different from Alma May. Shy. Reticent most of the time, but a fine boy. And we love him equally.

  Dewey wondered whether the words he had just written were true.

  You may remember that I wrote you about losing four horses to thieves coming off the Natchez Trace. Within the week they were caught. Justice was swift.…

  II

  A crowd had gathered around a temporary scaffold erected in the square in front of the Nashville jail. Charles, who stood there with his father-in-law, James Jackson, was moved to draw a comparison between what he had seen in Paris and the sullen frontiersmen brought out now for a public execution.

  “As a youngster, James, I saw a great deal of public punishment of criminals on the streets of Paris. There always seemed to be a kind of carnival atmosphere in the French crowd—a joy of sorts. Here, though, it’s all pretty somber.”

  “There’s nothing pleasant about a hanging,” Jackson commented.

  “It’s harsh punishment, that’s true.”

  A grizzled old man standing next to them, clad in smelly buckskins, spoke up: “Ya’ll pardon me, gentlemen, but hangin’ ain’t strong at all when ya think what they usta do to horse thieves hereabouts.” He spat in the dust. “I recollect back in ’93—thet a horse thief was fetched right here to this same spot. ‘Course, the town warn’t so grand in them days. An’ he was tied to thet whippin’ post to have more’n thirty lashes laid on his bare back. It warn’t a pretty sight. An’ then they branded him on both cheeks with the letters ‘HT’—fer horse thief.”

  He laughed raucously. “Now, seems to me thet sech a punishment is a damned sight more sensible than just a plain hangin’.”

  Charles grimaced.

  A young man, perhaps not more than twenty-five, with long blond hair and staring dark eyes, was led from the jail, the sheriff prodding him up the steps to the scaffold. The knotted rope was tightened about his neck, but he was not hooded.

  “This man,” the sheriff announced to the crowd, “was tried an’ found guilty of horse thieving. The proper authorities of Davidson County has sentenced him to hang.”

  Without further preliminaries, the trap was sprung and the body hurtled toward the ground, stopped cruelly short by the stout rope. The sound of the thief’s neck breaking could be plainly heard.

  Charles turned away, sickened.

  “‘Scuse me agin,” the old man next to them said, “but ain’t ya Mr. Dewey?”

  “I am.”

  “Seems to me ya be mighty pleased, it bein’ yer horses an’ all what was taken.”

  “The horses, however, were lost,” Charles explained.

  “But not the thieves, eh?” The man laughed loudly again.

  The crowd started to melt away toward the taverns and the cockpit outside the Nashville Inn.

  “I thought there were three of them,” Charles said to James Jackson.

  “There are. They’ll be hanged an hour apart.” Jackson frowned. “The entertainment is to be stretched out over the entire afternoon.”

  Dewey wanted to leave, but he felt he had to stay. He was the one, after all, who had complained to the authorities about his horses being stolen. Somehow it seemed his citizen’s duty to be present at the punishment of the thieves.

  Like the first, the other two men who were hanged that afternoon were not dignified with names when they were brought up to the scaffold. They had faces, though, and Charles saw them. He would continue to see them in his nightmares for weeks.

  When it was all over, he and his father-in-law retired to Mr. Parker’s inn, where Charles drank too much. As he was riding slowly back to Bon Marché, weaving unsteadily in the saddle, he wondered whether he would ever again be able to report the theft of a horse.

  He hoped he would not have to. The Natchez Trace, after all, was becoming civilized. The federal government had taken over the trace now that the U.S. Army engineers were building a full-scale road from Natchez to Nashville. Treaties had been signed with the Choctaws and the Chickasaws for the land. In all, the Indians were paid some three thousand dollars in miscellaneous merchandise for the five-hundred-mile stretch of the trace. Six dollars a mile! He was saddened by the cheating on the natives.

  Dewey drunkenly pondered the developments being made in the West. Why, hell, mail traveled from Natchez to the post office just adjacent to Bon Marché in only eight days!

  But his thoughts were muddled. He saw again the bulging eyes and swollen tongues of the three men hanged that day for stealing his horses.

  He shuddered.

  III

  FRANKLIN Dewey, displaying his customary solemnity, told his father, “I’m confident enough to bet a hundred dollars on Bon Star.”

  Charles looked at him in surprise. “Do you have a hundred dollars, son?”

  “Yes.” Franklin hesitated. “Well, Mattie … uh, Mother advanced me that much for the meeting.”

  Grinning, Charles clapped the young man on the back. His pride showed.

  At eighteen, Franklin Dewey was training his first runner for the 1805 Hartsville spring meet: a six-year-old gelding named Bon Star, in appearance almost a twin of his sire, Premier Etoile, by Skullduggery. And the boy’s horse would be, in the opening-day feature, matched against another gelding of note, Greyhound, owned by the prominent Tennessee breeder, Lazarus Cotton. It was to be the best of three two-mile heats.

  “Don’t expect too much,” Charles cautioned. “You might well be overmatched with Greyhound. Don’t you think you ought to spread your wagering over a few other races?”

  “No, sir. Bon Star will win.”

  The master of Bon Marché shrugged. Greyhound was a heavy favorite; he had been brought to Hartsville as the horse to beat. Only a few thought he could be beaten, among them Andrew Jackson, who had entered Indian Queen in the event. Indeed, Indian Queen was the horse Charles would have chosen, but he had to place a token bet on his son’s animal, while making no further effort to stop Franklin from posting the hundred dollar wager in the public pool. There was no other way, Dewey knew, to teach the young man about the intricacies of betting.

  Bon Marché had brought six runners to the Hartsville meeting. Four of them were trained by Charles. Yet another thoroughbred, Hardhead, by Cranium, another product of Skullduggery, was being handled by George Washington Dewey, Charles’s sixteen-year-old son.

  On opening day, however, the emphasis was all on Franklin and his Bon Star.

  Seven horses were led to the starting line and, when the drum tapped, Bon Star’s black jockey shot him into the lead. When they straightened out in the backstretch for the first time, the Bon Marché horse was six full lengths in the lead.

  “Your instructions, son?” Dewey asked quietly.

  Franklin was intent on watching the race through his glasses. “Yes, sir, I told Hannibal to take him well out. They’re going to have to catch us now!”

  Charles simply nodded. He knew the pace was too swift, but, again, he had to allow his s
on to learn through his own errors.

  By the time the field had gone a mile, the favored Greyhound was abreast of Bon Star, followed closely by Indian Queen. A hundred yards more and both Greyhound and Indian Queen had passed Franklin’s horse. On the final turn leading to the homestretch, all the others had also caught the tired Bon Star.

  At the finish line, Greyhound held off Indian Queen for a comparatively easy triumph, with Bon Star dead last, fourteen lengths off the winner.

  Dewey put a consoling arm across Franklin’s shoulders. “There’ll be other days, lad.”

  His son stared off into the distance for a moment or two. “What went wrong?” he asked finally.

  “Two things,” Charles said, ready with advice now that it was asked for. “First, you put him in over his head with Greyhound. Second, you sent him out for much too fast a pace. Even if he had won, son, he’d have nothing left for the other heats.”

  Hannibal trotted the badly lathered Bon Star up to where they stood. “Ah’m sorry, Mistah Franklin. We sure was tryin’.”

  “I know,” Franklin mumbled. To a handler: “Walk him cool and get him ready for the second heat.”

  The Negro jockey’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “Uh . . son,” Dewey interrupted. “I don’t think it’s wise to put him in the second heat. He’s given you everything he had.”

  “But, the wager—”

  “Is lost, Franklin.” Charles’s words were firm. “One thing you have got to learn—right now. Never sacrifice a horse for a bet.”

  Franklin’s head was bowed in disappointment.

  “Bon Star is a useful horse. He’ll win some, perhaps before this meet is ended. But not today, and not in this kind of company.”

  “Yes, sir.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  In the second heat, when only four of the original field answered the starter’s call, Andy Jackson’s Indian Queen pressed Greyhound’s pace for a mile and a half. But the big gray horse was just toying with his rivals. He easily pulled away in the last half-mile, winning by six convincing lengths.

  Later in the afternoon, Charles came upon Jackson. “A difficult day, eh, Cousin Andy?” he said lightly.

  Jackson frowned, annoyed by Dewey’s flippant tone. “Greyhound will meet his match later, believe me. Major John Verell is coming with Truxton.”

  “The Virginia horse?”

  “The same. A damned good son of the imported Diomed, out of the fine mare, Nancy Coleman. Bred by Tom Goode in Chesterfield County.”

  “I know Mr. Goode,” Charles commented. “He has an outstanding reputation as a breeder.”

  “Well, he turned out an excellent one in Truxton, let me tell you. When he meets Greyhound, Charles, Truxton will take him. If you need a wager, that’s my recommendation.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  IV

  A Greyhound-Truxton match, however, was not what occupied the thoughts of the Bon Marché family. On the third day of the meet, George Dewey sent out his Hardhead in a three-mile dash against eight others, winning in a drive by half a length.

  Charles was more delighted than his younger son. “How much did you win in the pool, George?”

  “Pool?” The boy shrugged nonchalantly, a smile lighting his handsome face. “I guess I forgot to bet.”

  George and Franklin were so different. Both had Dewey’s good looks: blond hair, hazel eyes, rugged square faces. There was no doubt that they were brothers, or that they were Charles Dewey’s sons. But where Franklin was sober and intense, George was easygoing and quick to laugh.

  The sixteen-year-old had allowed Charles to pick the race for Hardhead and had followed his instructions to the letter, not concerned whether his father’s advice was right or wrong. Franklin wanted to do everything himself, jealously guarding the permission Dewey had given him to make his own decisions.

  On the fifth day, without telling Charles beforehand, Franklin entered Bon Star in another heat event, this time at three miles, but against maidens. At least, Charles thought, he hadn’t overmatched the gelding this time. Franklin had the jockey keep Bon Star off the pace but within striking distance. They won the first heat by two lengths without pressure at the end. The boy had learned something; it was indelibly stamped on his mind. The victory was duplicated, almost stride for stride, in the second heat.

  “Congratulations, son,” Dewey said exuberantly. “You handled him marvelously.”

  Franklin nodded, his face a stern mask.

  “Winning is supposed to be enjoyed,” Charles laughed.

  “I had no bet.”

  “Well, now you have a purse for wagering the next time.”

  “A hundred dollars only. I owe that to Mother.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you risked it. After all, she expected it would be wagered when she allowed you to have the original hundred.”

  “She didn’t expect I’d be a fool about it.”

  Dewey offered nothing more. He understood that his eldest son was going to make his own decisions, no matter what his father said.

  It was at the end of the first week, on a Sunday, that the Greyhound-Truxton match was made. It hadn’t been intended to be a match race, but no other horse on the grounds was entered in the three-heat four-mile event to challenge them.

  The match drew a large crowd. Wagering was heavy. Major John Verell, the owner of Truxton, took every side bet offered him. Dewey had heard that Verell had wagered over ten thousand dollars, and he wondered whether the major had those kinds of assets. Obviously, he thought he was going to make a killing in the backwoods.

  Charles went to study both horses. Greyhound, after his win on opening day, had won again under Lazarus Cotton’s careful handling and seemed in the peak of condition. But Truxton was a big, strong horse, fifteen hands three, a handsome bay with white hind feet. Dewey decided to wager a thousand dollars in the public pool—on the underdog, Greyhound.

  He had been invited to join the Jackson party for the race, and when he got to Jackson’s carriage, where much drinking was under way, Andy asked him, “Did you take my advice on Truxton, Dewey?”

  Charles smiled broadly. “I gave it my fullest consideration.”

  “Good, good,” Jackson said, reading into the answer what he wanted to hear. “You won’t be sorry.”

  It was a no-contest race. Greyhound humiliated Truxton, winning in straight heats.

  Andrew Jackson was furious. “That damned fool! Verell had the best horse, and he let him get beat. Some men just don’t know how to condition horses!”

  Dewey said nothing, slipping away to collect his winning bet. He certainly didn’t want Jackson to know that he had wagered on Greyhound.

  When he returned to the Jackson party, Patton Anderson, Andy’s sycophant, was just arriving at the carriage with Major Verell in tow.

  “Major,” Jackson said sternly, “news of adversity seems to travel more swiftly than news of a happy nature.”

  “So I understand.”

  “It has become common knowledge around the course since the race that you’re in serious financial trouble.”

  “Picked clean,” Verell admitted, with some grace.

  “I’m prepared to offer you fifteen hundred dollars in cash for Truxton.”

  “I’d take it, but it wouldn’t get me out of difficulty.”

  “What would?”

  The Virginian sighed. “Well, let’s see…” He consulted a slip of paper he withdrew from his pocket. “Over and above the fifteen hundred, I’d still be left with eleven hundred and … uh … seventy dollars to meet.”

  “I’ll pay those debts as well,” Jackson said immediately.

  “But, sir,” Verell said smoothly, “if I sold you Truxton I’d have nothing left to race.”

  “I have three geldings here of racing age, worth, oh”—he turned to Anderson—“what would you say, Patton?”

  “Three-fifty, probably.”

  “The geldings go into the pot, Major
.”

  In spite of his seemingly untenable position, Verell prolonged the bargaining. “Truxton, unless he suddenly falls dead, is certain to win some purses before the year is out. It seems that it might be valid that I share in those. Perhaps, sir, a percentage…?”

  Jackson glared at him. When he spoke again, the words were delivered slowly and deliberately, making it clear that he would go no further. “Should we win a purse before the end of the fall season, Major, I’d consider a bonus of two other geldings of racing age, to be chosen by gentlemen’s agreement.”

  Verell stuck out a hand. “Judge Jackson, you are now the owner of Truxton.”

  Andy pumped the hand vigorously. Turning quickly, he grasped Dewey by the arm. “Come with me. I have another chore to do.”

  Jackson sought out the owner of Greyhound.

  “Lazarus,” he said, “I’ve just acquired Truxton. I’m here to offer you a match race, on this same course in the fall meeting. Five thousand dollars a side.”

  Cotton studied Jackson for a moment. “This is not a jest?”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “In that case, I must accept, mustn’t I?”

  As they walked away from Cotton, Jackson said sotto voce: “Indian Queen is going to be revenged.” He laughed. “It’s said that revenge is sweet, but that’s only true when the revenge promises to be profitable.”

  V

  BACK at Bon Marché at the end of the spring racing meeting at Hartsville, Charles found time to write to MacCallum:

  My two eldest sons are no longer maidens at the races! Both won at Hartsville with horses they trained, and I couldn’t be more proud. I managed three wins myself, to prove to you that I haven’t lost the touch. Racing in the West is most vigorous, although I must confess that, at times, the wagering patterns seem strange. You would be appalled at the betting that goes on here. To show disdain for money seems to be in fashion.

  Everyone is talking now of the fall meetings, both at Hartsville and at the Nashville Clover Bottom track. And most of the talk is of a rematch of the Virginia-bred Truxton and the Tennessee horse, Greyhound. There’s no telling how much money and other things of value will change hands on that one.…