Free Bon Marche by Chet Hagan

half-bow and Lee sprang into the coach, shutting the door firmly.
    Charles quickly climbed to his seat, smiling at the black driver. He was determined not to let his anger show.
    A cold, light rain began to fall as the coach made its way toward the church. He pulled his cape tighter around him, glancing over at the Negro coachman. “Under these circumstances,” he said, making an attempt at lightheartedness, “perhaps we shouldn’t have ventured out.”
    â€œYas, suh.” The black man didn’t look at him.
    â€œMay I ask your name?”
    â€œAh belongs to ole Mistah Lee.”
    â€œBut, you do have a name?”
    â€œMistah Lee call me Driver.”
    It seemed to Charles that the Negro was having difficulty keeping his answers civil. “What does your family call you?”
    The coachman looked over at him at last, surprise registered on his face. “Ain’t got no family, suh. An’ mah name’s Driver.”
    Dewey kept silent after that.
    The drizzle had ended by the time the half-hour drive to the church was completed, but it had done its damage. Charles’s cape was wet, and he was shivering from the cold.
    His spirit was dampened as well.
    II
    T HE scene at the rural Virginia church was not at all what Dewey had anticipated.
    Almost immediately after leaving their carriages, the women of the congregation disappeared inside the small white clapboard church while the men stood around in groups outside the building, not discussing matters of religion. The talk was of tobacco prices, the manner in which grain would be sown in the spring, trouble with slaves. And horses.
    Marshall Statler got into a protracted conversation with a gentleman who had been introduced to Charles as Mr. Ransom.
    â€œI swear to you, Ransom,” Statler said, “that there’s never been a finer stallion in Virginia than John Tayloe’s Yorick. Why, after six seasons at stud, Tayloe was able to return him to training to accept a challenge from Dr. Flood’s breed horse. Let’s see—that was in seventy-three, as I recall it.”
    â€œYes, I believe it was.”
    â€œDid you see that match?”
    â€œNo,” Ransom admitted.
    â€œWell, sir, I had that great good fortune,” Statler continued enthusiastically. “It was agreed that they run a single five-mile heat at five hundred pounds a side.”
    The master of Elkwood laughed. “I was able to find a hundred pounds as an added wager on Yorick. And it was devastating, sir, absolutely devastating! He covered the distance in”—a pause for thought—“in twelve minutes and twenty-seven, if my memory serves me, and Yorick was in hand the whole way. That was carrying one hundred and eighty! And Yorick, by that time, was thirteen. A truly amazing racing stallion, Mr. Ransom. It’s why I’m so pleased to have his son, Skullduggery.”
    â€œHmmm. I’ve always been partial to the Fearnoughts. ”
    â€œOh, yes,” Statler mused, “he was most prolific and his issue always had good size and stamina. But I always questioned his stud fee—ten pounds seemed exhorbitant.”
    â€œHe was important,” Ransom said defensively.
    â€œTrue. And I hope that when the war is finally concluded we can look to England again for some new bloodstock. God knows, we can use it.”
    â€œWill your Skullduggery be open to service outside mares?”
    â€œOf course,” Statler answered. “I don’t have enough mares left to keep him content. Does two pounds seem fair?”
    â€œEminently. We’ll talk of this again in the spring.”
    â€œFine, fine.”
    Another large coach drew up. Andrew MacCallum nudged Charles. “Here comes John Lee,” he whispered. “Be most careful with this one.”
    â€œFunston’s father?”
    â€œThe same.”
    The elder Lee, obsese and carelessly dressed, grunted his way out of the coach and