Charles stared back at her blankly; the other men were smirking.
Why didn’t they all get it? They were actors in a show, hopefully teaching American history, with several perspectives, along the way. But some things died really slowly here, in plantation country. Family was still everything. Loyalty to hearth and home, kin, parish and state. They’d been wrong; they’d been beaten, and they knew it, but still, only one side of the cast of players was considered to be elite. And the reenactors could be incredibly snobbish.
That made Charles Osgood the odd man out.
Toby Keaton cleared his throat and then said softly, “Charles—come on. You’re lucky to be in with the 27th Bayou Militia Cavalry Unit. Most of the time, the fellows taking part in the reenactments here are direct descendants of those who fought before. You’ve got to see the truth of this thing. You claim your place in the ranks through marriage—your stepfather was an O’Reilly, and I know he raised you, but, you know, in other old Southern units, that wouldn’t count.” Toby was forty-four, and Ashley’s next-door neighbor at Beaumont, his Creole plantation, though they both had acres and acres of land. Toby grinned as if to cut the harshness of his words. “Newcomer—odd man out. You’re a Yankee if I’ve ever seen one!”
“Great! So now I’m a newcomer—and that makes me an outsider?” Charles asked, staring around the room. “Come on, guys, you’ve just got to understand. This will really make it look as if I don’t belong here at all!”
He gave his appeal to the others gathered at the horse master’s office in the old barn at Donegal Plantation that day—Cliff Boudreaux, Griffin Grant, Toby Keaton, Ramsay Clayton, Hank Trebly, all still with property in the general area, John Ashton, tour director from New Orleans, and Ashley herself. The “Yankees” were gathering in the old smokehouse—a separate building, and now a small apartment. Charles would be joining them soon; all of the reenactors gathered together for their roundtable discussions on the war, but each side met separately first on the day of the reenactment to make sure that every member knew the character he was playing. Later, they’d all meet back here to make sure that everyone was apprised of all the safety factors involved.
One, Charles, so it seemed, would have to play a Yankee, and go join the group in the apartment. They were short a Yankee, and that’s the way it was. All of them belonged to Civil War roundtables, and these days, none of them really cared about sides—they just liked to discuss tactics and procedure. They often met in the dining room at Donegal; Ashley loved to listen, because they also knew their history, and they spoke about events in the lives of many of the key players in the war, and the fact that the generals had often been best friends before they had been forced to choose sides in the bloody conflict. They knew about weapons, uniforms, sad stories about treason and resisters, draft riots, food, clothing, trade and so much more.
“Charles,” Cliff Boudreaux said patiently. “We’re all just teasing you here, really. We’re short on Yankees today, on account of Barton Waverly being sick with the flu. We’re pretty desperate. And that’s the rule; newcomers play Yankees when our brothers from up North ask for help. Hell, remember that year when half of us were laid up with the croup? Three of them Yankees had to come play Southern boys. We’re not doing anything bad to you—really.”
Ramsay Clayton was seated across the table from Cliff. Ramsay looked like an artist; he was tall, with a wiry muscle structure, long dark hair and classical features. He owned a small place down the road, but he spent a lot of time in New Orleans, where he sometimes showed his work at Jackson Square and sometimes had showings at the galleries. He grinned at Charles. “Yeah, and don’t forget, the Yankees won. Hell, come to think about it, where were all the Southern boys when we were losing this thing?” he asked lightly. “Ah, well. Born in our day and age, it’s easy to look back at the South’s part in the Civil War and wonder, ‘What the hell were we thinking?’”
Ashley smiled. She liked Ramsay. He was a good guy.
“Well, I wish I could just step up to the plate, but I can’t. I can’t play a Yankee—I just can’t,” Toby Keaton said. “Hell, my great-great-great-whatever grandfather was the first one to answer Marshall Donegal’s call for volunteers. He was one of his best friends. I think he’d roll in his grave if I played a Yankee. Good God! I own a plantation! Wouldn’t be fitting for me to play a Yankee. Lord knows, it could be bad for business.”
Hank Trebly grinned. “Well, I’m just big sugar. I don’t really give a whit. I see the war as over, over, over, and that’s the way it is. Lord A-mighty! The damn thing ended in 1865.” Hank owned the property next to Donegal, and his ancestors had owned it forever. The old plantation had been replaced by a sugar refinery years ago. He was a small man, in his early forties, and his business meant everything to him.
John Ashton shrugged. “My family might have been here, but I don’t care,” he said. “The Civil War means my income these days—tourists love to go back. But I love ’em all. Yankees, rebels, Brits, Brazilians! Bring them on. They all spend money and take tours.”
“And what happened here was in 1861, for God’s sake, before the thing had really even gotten going,” Griffin said, shaking his head. “Come on, now! My ancestor went on to die at the Second Battle of Manassas—now, that’s a damned big battle. We’re here to teach, and to remember everything that happened in the past—and how it made us what we are today. Let’s have fun, folks. C’mon—I come out here to forget the office and programming and statistics, computers and red tape. I don’t care who plays what. It’s just for a good time.”
“I spend most of my time in New Orleans, art on the square and all that—you can call me a doughboy for all I care. It’s the spirit of this thing,” Ramsay said. “And Lord knows, what happened here couldn’t even be called a battle. My ancestor and most of the Southern boys except for Marshall survived, but, as we’ve all pointed out now—the North won. We are living the United States of America. This wasn’t even really a battle.”
He was right. What had taken place late in 1861 hadn’t even been a battle. Drinking downriver, toward New Orleans, two Yankee spies had heard about Donegal’s then-owner—Marshall Donegal—preparing a major summons to area troops to prepare them for an invasion of New Orleans. In trying to draw Marshall Donegal’s men out further on the subject, they had all gotten into a fistfight when one made a ridiculous statement about Northerners being chickens. The two Confederates suspected the men of being spies, and had run back to Donegal. The spies went back to their headquarters, but they were spies, and thus their numbers were small. On each side, six men were mustered—and, rather than be executed as spies if they were caught, the Union men donned their uniforms.
The fighting had ranged from the stables to the porch of the main house and out to the chapel and cemetery—ending when Captain Marshall Donegal had died of a bayonet wound in his own family graveyard. The enemy had “skedaddled,” according to the Southern side; the rebels had been left in utter defeat, according to their Northern counterparts.
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.”
