Now, the “battle” was something that taught history, and, largely due to its small size—and the fact that the current owner of the plantation, Ashley’s grandfather, Frazier Donegal, was a history buff and glad to welcome the units on his property—it was a popular event. “Living history” took place frequently at Donegal, as often as once a week, but an actual reenactment was done only once a year. Sometimes the actors doing the reenactments were involved in other locations. Some belonged not just to Civil War units, but Revolutionary War units, and it just depended on where the biggest shindig was going on. Luckily, most of the men who could claim to have had ancestors in the brawl loved the plantation and the nearly exact-to-the-past-moment location of the place, and they usually made this reenactment a priority.
Donegal House was surely one of the prettiest places left on the river road, with memories of the antebellum era held in place. The great house still maintained a gorgeous front. It had been built with magnificent Greek columns and wraparound porches, and elegant tree-shaded entries stretched forever before the front and back doors. The currently used stables, housing only six horses, were next to the house, while the larger stables needed in a bygone era were far back from the house, to the left, riverside, and offered three apartments for those who wanted to stay for the night. The old smokehouse and servants’ quarters were available for rent as well, and sometimes they even rented out five of the rooms in the main house. With Beth there, Ashley’s extraordinarily talented friend and chef, and the efforts they were making with the restaurant and the crazy business that came along with the reenactment, they had chosen this year just to let rooms in the outbuildings.
All this—living history and their bed-and-breakfast rentals—was done to survive into the twenty-first century. But the Donegal family had been letting the place out for nearly thirty years now. And the living history and the reenactments were the true highlights to be found here, distinguishing it from other great plantations along the river.
“Okay, sure. You all are right,” Charles said. “It’s over. Long over. Hell, the Yankees did win the war.”
Cliff laughed. “Still hard to convince my mama and a few other folks I know that it’s true. But thanks, Charles, that’s great. The Yanks are good guys. Man, it’s sad to think back, though, huh? We would have wound up being enemies.”
“Who knows what our feelings would have been back then?” Ashley asked. “We might have chosen to fight for the North.”
“It was a different time, a different lifestyle,” Griffin pointed out. “You’re all indignant now about injustice, but you didn’t live back then. You didn’t grow up in an economy of cotton and sugar.”
“Rich men wanted to stay rich,” Ramsay agreed dryly.
“Who’s being Marshall Donegal today?” Charles asked.
“That would be me,” Ramsay said. “I’ve done it the past five years.” He was quiet a minute; he had done it since Ashley’s father had passed away. “Ashley could don a uniform herself, but she thinks we boys should just be boys. So I get the honor.”
Ramsay was trying to move quickly past the mention of her father, Ashley knew. He had been gone five years now; he had died shortly after her mother. She had accepted their loss—and she knew as well that there would still be a little core of pain when she thought about them, even if she lived to be one hundred. Inwardly, she winced. She hadn’t just lost her father that day; that had been the end of her and Jake. Her fault, her call, and she still wasn’t sure why. He had frightened her, she thought. It seemed he had scratched the surface of something, and she didn’t want to know what was beneath. And still, to this day, she knew that although she had closed the door, she missed Jake. And missing Jake had colored everything else in her life.
“He died,” Charles reminded him. “Marshall Donegal was killed, you know,” he added quickly.
“Well, as we’ve said, the war is long over, so I guess they’re all dead now anyway,” Ramsay pointed out.
“Gentlemen,” Ashley said, speaking at last, “I want you all to know that you are greatly appreciated. You’re all such wonderful actors, taking on whatever role is needed, whenever it’s needed! Charles, the Yankees are great guys. Michael Bonaventure lives in town, and his ancestors lived there as well, right in the heart of the French Quarter. His family left when the war started, because Bonaventure’s ancestor was fighting for the Union. Hadley Mason is from Lafayette, but his ancestors agreed with the Northern cause as well. It will be fun for you to be a Yankee. It’s acting, just like when we act out the encampments. And I truly appreciate you taking on the role.”
“It’s really amazing,” Griffin said. “We do get all tied up in what was. The way the past still has so much to do with the present! Charles, come on, you’re a stepchild. We all really had ancestors back then who were involved with this thing. You’re welcome among us—totally welcome. But, hey, if I had come in on this recently, I’d be happy just to be a part of it all.”
Charles Osgood offered Ashley a weak smile. “Sure. You know me—I’m just happy to be here.”
To Ashley’s surprise, Ramsay Clayton suddenly spoke up again. “Charles, I have an idea. Some of those guys really are my friends. My good friends. I’ll be a Yankee today. You be Marshall Donegal.”
Charles opened his mouth, stunned, and stared at Ramsay. “Oh! Oh, no. I couldn’t take that honor away from you!”
“You get killed, you know,” Ramsay reminded him.
“Oh, like you said, they’re all dead now. I just couldn’t—I really couldn’t.”
“Hey, I think I want to be a Yankee for once,” Ramsay said. “It’s cool. You be Marshall Donegal, and I’ll be a Yankee. No arguments—it’s decided. I’ll be a winner for a change!”
“I don’t know what to say!” Charles told him.
“Say thanks, and let’s get on with it. We have to finish planning this thing,” Ramsay said.
“I’m going to be Marshall Donegal!” Charles said, still awed.
Ashley lowered her head, hiding her laughter. These guys really were like children when it came to the reenactment. They were so dedicated. But it was really good, she reminded herself. They kept history alive. It had been on a trip to Europe with her parents when she had seen the quote that meant so much to her: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” It was the philosopher George Santayana who had written those words, and she had seen them above the gates of a concentration camp. So, whether history was sterling or not—pitting man at his best and his worst—it was necessary to remember.
The reenactors did a fantastic job. Although there had been only a small encampment at Donegal Plantation at the time, they recreated a larger one, complete with a medical tent, where surgeries were acted out, officers’ quarters and tents for enlisted men.
“This is a right nice place to meet, but we need to get to business,” Griffin said, winking at Ashley.
“Yeah, Ramsay, looks like you need to skedaddle!” Cliff teased.
“I’m out of here!” Ramsay said, rising. He looked around. “Sadly, I do like Cliff’s digs better than being cramped up in an apartment!”
Griffin was right: they were in a nice place to meet. The office/living quarters in the stables were extremely pleasant; there was no heavy smell of hay, horses or droppings in any way, since the office had long ago been fitted out with air-conditioning and an air purifier to boot. There were a number of trophies along with books on horses, horse care, tack and maps on the shelves around the old massive desk with its iMac and printer. It was the horse master’s realm. No matter the state of riches or poverty the Donegal Plantation might be in, there was always a horse master. These days, the horse master did more than look after the six horses that remained. He was a tour guide, overseer—though they didn’t grow anything other than a few flowers now and then and a tomato plant or two—and