Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  “Yep, he sure does. I’ve seen some races here when it would have been best to bet on Caldwallader’s nag.” He laughed heartily.

  Off in the distance a voice was announcing the names of the jockeys. Dewey couldn’t make out the words, but he already knew that William Crafts, a slender lad weighing only one hundred pounds, was up on American Eclipse and that an experienced Virginia rider, John Walden, had drawn the assignment on Henry.

  The announcement ended, a hush fell on the crowd, the starter’s drum tapped, and the hush turned to a massive scream. Charles had never heard anything louder.

  Henry was away fast. Too fast, Dewey thought. Then he lost sight of them. “Where are they?” he called to Carrie.

  “Henry’s three lengths up, Grandfather. Under a tight hold.”

  Dewey smiled to himself. The youngster had learned well.

  At the end of the first mile, with the newspaperman running the stretch alongside the competitors, young Crafts was whipping and driving American Eclipse, trying without success to close the gap. Charles would read later that Cadwallader Colden, from his unique mounted vantage point, thought that Henry’s pace was “a killing one.”

  Henry was never fronted by the older horse. He won safely, crossing the finish line after four miles a solid length in front.

  Charles went to look at the two horses. Henry seemed not used up at all. But then the time was announced: 7:37½—the fastest four miles ever run in America! The rumor of the betting coup may have had some merit. That kind of speed could not be duplicated in a second heat. Yet there was something strange. While the Virginia horse did not seem distressed, American Eclipse was heavily lathered, and there were cuts on his flank from the almost constant whipping.

  A jockey change on the New York horse was made known to the crowd by a bull-voiced steward. An important one, Charles thought. The top jockey in America, thirty-eight-year-old Sam Purdy, would ride American Eclipse. He was closer to the weight assigned to the horse, making it unnecessary for Eclipse to carry the dead weight of lead slabs in his saddlecloth. That kind of change could have a salutary effect on Eclipse.

  Dewey went to collect his even-money bet on Henry at the public pool. And while the twenty thousand dollars was being counted out to him, he asked about the prevailing odds on American Eclipse to win it all.

  “Even money only, sir.”

  Charles frowned. So a lot of money had been bet on Eclipse. But why? he wondered. Henry ought to have been favored now. By damned, perhaps there had been a betting coup!

  “Another bet, sir?” the pool clerk asked.

  “Huh. Oh, no, not right now, thank you.” Charles jammed the wad of money into his pocket and, with Carrie, began to stroll about the course. His horse sense told him that Henry, even though it was not evident to the eye, had a lot taken out of him by the swift first heat. And it told him, too, that Eclipse had never been beaten in a best-of-three match. Therefore, he ought to wager on American Eclipse, but he was no longer willing to risk a large bet for even money.

  A piping, high voice stopped him in his tracks. It was saying: “I’ll bet a year’s crop of slaves on Henry!” He recognized the voice as that of Virginia Congressman John Randolph of Roanoke, whom he had known as a young man. A flamboyant horseman, Randolph was still betting heavily on Henry. If there had been a Virginia betting coup, wouldn’t Randolph have known of it?

  Charles sought out the congressman and found him in a knot of happy, celebrating Virginians, still exuberant about Henry’s first-heat victory.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Dewey said, pushing through to Randolph. “I’m Charles Dewey. We met many years ago.”

  Randolph looked at him without recognition.

  “I was with Marshall Statler.”

  “Of course, of course.” The Virginia gentleman stuck out his hand. “I remember Mr. Statler quite well.”

  “I couldn’t help overhearing your offer to bet a year’s crop of slaves on Henry.” Dewey grinned. “I’m not in the market for that kind of wager, but are you also offering hard money?”

  “Absolutely! My friends and I have been offering six to four on Henry”—he gestured around the circle of gentlemen—“with no takers, I might add.”

  “I’ll take it, sir.” Charles felt the money in his pocket. “For fifteen thousand?”

  “My God,” Randolph piped, “a stranger in the wilderness! Shall we accommodate him, gentlemen?”

  Quickly, the fifteen thousand dollars was apportioned among the Virginians, and Dewey had the wager he had been seeking. He had already won ten thousand on Henry’s record-setting heat, and now, he was convinced he was going to win even more when Eclipse won the next two heats. He was as sure of that as he was certain his name was Charles Dewey.

  He laughed to himself. But your name isn’t Charles Dewey, you fool—it’s Charles Dupree!

  He and Carrie found a spot from which to view the second heat, closer this time. He watched Sam Purdy striding about nervously, smacking his whip—a thin, cruel-looking cattail affair—against his boot. A measure of arrogance showed in Purdy’s face, and Charles liked that.

  As the second heat was called, and Purdy brought American Eclipse to the line, Congressman Randolph could be heard screaming: “You can’t do it, Mr. Purdy! You can’t do it!”

  He was wrong. Purdy’s superior horsemanship became apparent early. He pressed the pace, keeping Henry within striking distance. On the last of the four miles, Purdy urged Eclipse abreast of Henry, cut in on the rail on the first turn to save ground, and on the backstretch began to pull away. American Eclipse won the second heat by two comfortable lengths.

  For the third heat, there was a jockey change on the southern side. Trainer Arthur Taylor, who had been a noted jockey some years earlier, was pressed into service astride Henry. It made no difference. American Eclipse and Sam Purdy won by three easy lengths.

  Had there been a betting coup? Had Henry been sacrificed in the first heat? Charles thought not, but he really didn’t care. He—and Bon Marché—were now thirty-two thousand five hundred dollars richer! And he could turn his attention again to his own horses.

  III

  “OUR New York stay has seen nothing but profit,” Charles wrote home. “We have taken our silks into seven races, winning four. And everything has been sold, including the last of the vans. The packet for New Orleans sails on April 20.”

  But Dewey had another chore to perform before he could leave New York. Putting Carrie in the charge of Alma May, he rode to Princeton, New Jersey, to see Mercy Callison MacCallum. He dreaded facing Andrew’s widow; the guilt he felt about having destroyed the friendship so petulantly, so insanely, rode with him.

  It was well past noon when he got to the MacCallum house on the college campus. The distance had been greater than he had anticipated. Mercy was heavier than Charles had remembered her. Her hair had grayed. And when she saw him at the door, she wept.

  “Oh, Charles, it’s so good to see you.”

  He embraced her. “The visit is too late, I’m afraid.”

  Mercy took his hand and led him into the house. The black servant, Delilah, who was still with her, served them tea in the small living room.

  “There are times, Mercy, when words don’t mean anything at all.” Charles found it difficult to look directly at her. “And I won’t bore you with platitudes. Andrew was once my dearest friend. I killed that friendship. I’ll carry the blame for that to my grave. I just want you to know that if there is anything you need, you need only to make it known to me.”

  “I know,” she replied softly. “But I’m content here. I do some tutoring, and that makes me feel of some use.” She sighed. “We had nearly thirteen years together, Charles. It was a lifetime of love. I couldn’t have asked for more.”

  Dewey was silent.

  “We spoke of you just about a week before—” Mercy fought back the tears. “And Andrew said that when his time came … he wanted you to have something of his.” She rose and went to a s
mall desk in the corner and picked up a large book. “Andrew said that this was the most meaningful thing he could leave for you.”

  It was the large and very old English dictionary that MacCallum had used in the early years, when he was tutoring Dewey.

  He took the book from her, hefting it. And he smiled slightly. “It wasn’t the size of this book that gave me an education, it was the loving heart of the man who used it.”

  Dewey stayed for dinner at Mercy’s insistence. And she plied him with questions about Bon Marché and its people. He gave her a rundown on all of the children and grandchildren. After several sherrys at the end of the meal, Charles came to his feet and bade her farewell.

  “You can’t make that long ride tonight,” she protested. “You’re welcome to stay here.”

  “No, I must get back to New York. We sail in just two days, and I have some business to attend to before I leave.”

  “But, Charles, it’s nearly ten!”

  He frowned. “The night holds no terror for me. Night or day, it seems, the specters of my mistakes haunt me. God, Mercy, I wish I could have talked to him just one more time.”

  “Please believe that that silly episode at Bon Marché didn’t mean a damned thing to Andrew. He remembered you with great affection.”

  “As I did him.”

  They embraced again. He mounted his horse and rode away. It was almost dawn when he got back to the city. In the hours that had separated Princeton and New York he had devised a plan he saw as a final tribute to Andrew MacCallum.

  IV

  CHARLES Dewey had left Bon Marché with twenty slaves. Now, the horses and vans dispersed, their duties were ended. On the morning before his departure from New York, he called them all together. In his mind, Andrew stood there with him.

  “I want you to know,” he told the blacks, “that I appreciate how well you all worked on this trip. It’s time now for Miss Alma May, Miss Carrie, and myself to return to Bon Marché. But you”—he spread his arms—“you are now free! Each one of you will have the proper papers to tell everyone that you are freemen. And one hundred dollars each to start a new life here in New York or wherever you choose to go.”

  The slaves stared at him unbelieving, saying nothing.

  Charles drew the manumission documents from his coat pocket. “If you’ll come to me, one by one, I’ll give you your papers, and your money.”

  One of the older men, called Hezekiah, finally spoke. “Mistah Charles, Ah wants to go back to Bon Marché. Ah don’ wanna stay here an’—”

  He seemed genuinely frightened by the prospect of being a freeman. And that shocked Charles. He couldn’t believe that such a thing was possible.

  Hezekiah’s bold words loosened the tongues of the others. And in just a few moments, Dewey’s well-meaning plan was destroyed. Only four of the men chose freedom. All the others wanted to go home.

  “Well, of course … I’ll do what you want,” Charles stammered. “We’ll get horses so that you can go back to Bon Marché overland, and I’ll give you some money for food and—” He stopped, still not believing what was happening.

  Margaret, the housemaid, came forward then.

  “Mistah Charles,” she asked quietly, “kin Ah stay, too?”

  That was another shock. He hadn’t really wanted to set this woman free. She was Carrie’s maid.

  “Maggie, I’d appreciate it if you would come home with us. Miss Carrie counts on you.”

  “Yas, suh.” Her jaw was set defiantly. “But Ah wants to be free!”

  Disconcerted, Charles signed a paper for her and counted out a hundred dollars. Margaret took them, turned quickly, and hurried away.

  But a majority—fifteen of the blacks—would be returning to Bon Marché. To slavery.

  Dewey understood none of it.

  45

  IN its more than a quarter of a century of existence, the name of Bon Marché had not been thought of by its neighbors as French. Dewey’s accent had long since disappeared, softened first by the drawl of Virginia and then further by the flat twang of the frontier. Bon was alway pronounced “bun” by the Tennesseans, and Marche was made to sound like the month or was pronounced “mark.” Indeed, the passage of time had virtually obliterated the stories of Charles’s French beginnings as more and more new residents, unconcerned with the past history of the leading citizens, poured into the area.

  Dewey, too, had stopped making references to his French heritage. As he had stopped nearly everything else since his return from New York. He seemed content, after his grand fling on the race circuits of the country, to turn full control of Bon Marché over to his two eldest sons and to his wife, Mattie. Carrie, his first grandchild, consumed all of his time, and what he once had been seemed of no importance to him.

  But suddenly, early in 1825, Charles Dewey became French again. Nashville was enraptured by the news that Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, was going to visit the city. It had been in excess of forty years since Lafayette had almost single-handedly brought the French into the American Revolution against the British, and had been rewarded with a commission of major general in George Washington’s beleaguered army. And now he was back, at the age of sixty-seven, for what would be a farewell tour of his second country. He was to be lavishly feted in New York, in Boston, and in Washington, where a grateful Congress had voted him a cash gift—to replace the fortune he had lost during the revolutionary war—of two hundred thousand dollars plus a township of land in Florida. The entire nation insisted on honoring him, and it was, without question, the influence of Andrew Jackson that was bringing him to Nashville.

  “Certainly Andy can’t presume to speak for all of Tennessee on this matter of honoring Lafayette,” Charles said one night in March during a late-hours discussion with his son-in-law, August Schimmel.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t intend to do that,” Schimmel replied. He took a sip of sherry. “The word is that Jackson will rely on a committee of prominent citizens to help him plan the welcome. And it seems clear to me that you’ll be included, Charles.”

  Dewey frowned. “You fail to understand Andy. I opposed him in last year’s election, you’ll recall, coming out publicly for Clay. He’ll not forget that.”

  “Nonsense! Your lack of public support was, if you’ll pardon me, of little consequence in the final analysis. It was the Congress that denied him the Presidency and gave it to Adams.”

  “Andy Jackson lives by one guiding principle,” Charles interrupted. “You’re either his friend or his enemy. There’s no gray area with him. And if he perceives you as the enemy, as he does me, well … enemies are not to be rewarded in any way.”

  Dewey got to his feet and walked to the fireplace to stare into the dying embers. “I dearly want to be on that committee, August,” he said quietly. “Not for any personal honor, but because it was Lafayette’s example that gave me the courage, so many years ago when I was just a boy, to become an American.”

  “I’m certain you’ll be asked to help plan the Lafayette celebration,” Schimmel assured him.

  The editor was wrong. Less than a week later a representative of General Jackson came to see him at the newspaper office.

  “Mr. Schimmel,” the emissary said, “I am charged by General Jackson to secure your help in the planning of the welcome for the Marquis de Lafayette.”

  “That’s a distinct honor. May I ask who else is on the committee?”

  The man ticked off the names of the others.

  “And Charles Dewey? What of him?”

  “No, he’s not included.”

  “But surely you know that Dewey is a native of France, and fought on the French side during the American Revolution?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I can’t think of anyone more qualified to be on this committee to honor General Lafayette.”

  The words were repeated. “He’s not included.”

  “May I suggest that you point out to General Jackson Squire D
ewey’s availability?”

  “That would be futile.” The man shrugged. “You know as well as I do that Dewey declared himself against Andy in the presidential election.”

  “But that has nothing to do—”

  “It has everything to do with it. Andy doesn’t want him. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the final word.”

  Schimmel grimaced. “Then I won’t serve either.”

  Another shrug. “That’s a foolish decision. You risk offending General Jackson.”

  “It’s a risk I’ll just have to take.”

  II

  BY Wednesday, May 4, the day that Lafayette was due to arrive in Nashville, Dewey’s anger at having been shunted aside by Andy Jackson had run its course. Even the embarrassment he had felt in having to ask Mattie to intercede with her cousin to make certain they’d be invited to the dinner in Lafayette’s honor at the Nashville Inn had passed.

  He stood now on the edge of a massive crowd at the public square—Schimmel would write that the crowd exceeded twenty thousand—granddaughter Carrie beside him, and cheered with everyone else as a grand carriage drawn by four white horses brought Lafayette from the docks to a special stand built in the square.

  As the French nobleman mounted the stand, the cheers grew even louder.

  “You’re looking at a truly great man,” Charles told Carrie. “A man of unyielding principle and integrity, who risked position, wealth, and even life itself to fight for something he believed in: the independence of what was to become the United States of America.”

  “Who’s that younger man with him?” the girl sked.

  “His son, George Washington Lafayette, named for the general, as is your uncle George.”

  “Will you speak to General Lafayette, Grandfather?”

  “I hope so—perhaps at the dinner tonight.”

  Once again Charles Dewey was frustrated. He and Mattie were assigned seats at the dinner as far away from the honored guest as was possible. When the meal ended and Charles tried to edge through the crowd, Lafayette was whisked out through a rear door and was off in the carriage to spend the night at The Hermitage.