Of course, she knew the story like the back of her hand. She told it well and was greeted with wild applause when she pointed across the yard. “There! It all begins!”
And thus began the round of shots that made the expanse of land between the stables and the house rich and ripe with black powder. The federals had been traveling with a small, easily maneuvered six-pound howitzer, and in their attempts to seize the property, they sent their bronze cannon balls sailing for the house and ground. In fact, they had missed. At the time, their attempts to use the small cannon had done little but rip up great chunks of the earth. Today, it caused the air to become heavy with black powder.
“The Confederates had to stop the attack before the barn, stables and outbuildings could be set afire,” Frazier Donegal announced from the porch, with a microphone, his voice rich and deep and rising well above the screams and shouting.
Though there was no live ammunition, the small fight clearly taught onlookers just how horrendous it must have been for men in major battles. As the Confederates and federals fought here with guerilla tactics, Ashley asked the crowd to imagine thousands of men marching forward side by side, some of them able to reload three times in a minute. The carnage was terrible. The Civil War was considered to be the last of the ancient wars—and the first of the modern wars.
The defenders split, most of the men rushing the stables from the front. But the Yankees had come around the other side, and in their maneuvering they escaped the body of men they had been determined to fight. One of the attackers was killed at the stables; the others made it around to the cemetery, attempting to use the old vaults as shields. But Marshall Donegal had come around the other side, and while his men were held up, he met up with the attackers at the cemetery.
The fighting originally ended inside the cemetery, but now they ended it just outside, the only difference from that day to this. First, the crowd wouldn’t be able to see any of the action if it occurred there, and, with that many people tramping through, historic funerary art could be destroyed. And so, Charles Osgood, as Marshall, brought down several of the enemy and perished, brutally stabbed to death by bayonets, in front of the gates. The two surviving federal men—Justin Binder and Ramsay—raced toward the stables, whistling for their mounts. They leapt atop their horses and tore for the river road.
Frazier announced, “And thus did the fighting at Donegal Plantation come to an end.”
They said the Pledge of Allegiance, and then the band played “Dixie” and then “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” After the burst of applause that followed the last song, people began to surround the actors—who had remained in the battle positions where they had fallen—as they came to their feet, and they all seemed to disappear into the crowd as they were congratulated, questioned and requested for picture-taking opportunities. Then, at last, the crowd began to melt away, and the sutler began to close down his shop.
Darkness was falling in earnest.
It had been a tremendous success; standing on the porch and watching the crowd ebb, Ashley told herself that she’d been an idiot, letting a dream get to her.
But, as she looked out, it seemed that the plantation was covered in a mist again.
It was the remnants of the black powder from the guns, she told herself.
The mist bore a reddish color. Bloodred.
The sun had set in the west; it was due to the dying of the day.
Whatever the explanation, the entire scene was eerie.
A breeze lifted, and she had the odd feeling that somehow everything had gone askew and changed, and she had somehow entered into a world of mist and shadow herself.
“Well, old girl,” Frazier said quietly, smiling as he set a hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “Another wonderful day. Thank you for all your hard work on this.”
Ashley smiled. Her grandfather was happy. She adored Frazier, and she was always glad when he was happy. She worried about him constantly—driving him crazy, she knew. He had always been somewhat bony—though dignified! But now he seemed thinner, his cheeks hollow. He was old; but a man’s life span could be long, and she wanted him with her for many more years. Now he was smiling, basking in the pleasant glow of the day’s success.
“Come on. Let’s head into the parlor,” Frazier said. “I think we should probably be there to toast our actors and friends, eh?”
The family and some friends—including the soldiers for the day—traditionally retired to the riverside parlor for drinks and unwinding.
“You go on,” Ashley said. “I’ll be right there, I promise. I just want to see that everyone is really moving on.”
Her grandfather gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure Beth has already put out all manner of delicious little snacks, despite the fact we told her that chips would do. I’ll go supervise my liquor cabinet,” he said, wiggling his white brows.
She grinned. “You’d better do that. Ramsay will say that he deserves your hundred-year-old Scotch for being so generous!”
Frazier pantomimed real fear and then walked on into the house. Ashley was exhausted and ready for a fine glass of hundred-year-old Scotch herself.
But she left the porch to walk around to the front for one last look. Jerry Blake, one of the off-duty officers they hired for traffic and crowd control, was still out by the road, waving at the last of the cars to get them safely on their way. She lifted a hand to him and shouted, “You coming in, Jerry?”
He waved back at her and shouted in return, “No, thanks! I’m on my way home. I have an early patrol shift tomorrow. See you, Ashley!”
A minute later, she saw him check that the day visitors’ cars were all gone. Then he headed for his own car.
The buzz of chatter from inside filled the new silence. She followed the sound to the front parlor, where the reenactors were gathering. Looking around, she had the same strange sense of time encapsulated that she had felt before; none of the soldiers had changed out of their uniforms yet, and she was still in her Emma Donegal attire. Even Beth, who had seemed to get a tremendous sense of entertainment out of the day, was still in her 1860s garb. Some of the men had cigars, and they were allowed to smoke them in the house that night. Only the beer bottle in the hand of Matty Martin, the sutler’s wife, provided a modern note.
Matty came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Why, Mrs. Emma Donegal, you do create a mighty fine party, a mighty fine party! What a day!”
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Ashley said, inclining her head regally as a plantation mistress of the day might have done.
Matty dropped the act for a minute. “Oh, Ashley, we sold so much! And I can’t tell you how many people ordered custom uniforms. I’ll be sewing my fingers to the bone for the next months, but what a great day we had.”
“I’m so glad,” Ashley told her. She walked for the buffet with its crocheted doily and poured herself a Scotch whiskey—it wasn’t a hundred years old, but it would do. Others came up to her and she responded—so many friends, and everyone involved in the reenactment. The men bowed and kissed her hand, still playing elite gentlemen of the era.
Ramsay grinned when he was near her. “I’d say ninety percent of the fighting men never tasted a good brandy, so I’m sure glad we get to be the rich of the past.”
She smiled, and agreed. “Wouldn’t it be something if we could have Lee and Grant, and Davis and Lincoln, and show them all that the war created the country we have now?”
Griffin walked over to them, lifting his glass. “Grant was an alcoholic. A functional one, but an alcoholic. No relation, of course. My Grant family was Southern to the core. Cheers!”
“You’re a cynic, Mr. Grant,” Ashley said, inclining her head.
Griffin laughed. “Not at all. We strive for an understanding of history around here, right?”
“We do,” Ashley agreed. “And, historically, many of them were truly honorable people. Can you imagine being Mrs. Robert E. Lee—and losing a historic family home, built by George Washington’s stepgrandson and filled with objects that had belonged to George and Martha? Remember, Arlington was a home long before it became a national cemetery!”
“Cheers to that, I suppose,” Griffin said. “Whiskey, Mrs. Donegal? Why, my dear woman, you should be sipping sherry with the other wives!”
“I need a whiskey tonight!”
Ramsay and Griffin laughed, and she joined them while she listened to her guests chatting. Some of the other men argued history, too—and she saw that everyone involved in the actual reenactment had shown up. Cliff, Ramsay, Hank, Griffin, Toby and John—and the Yankees, Michael Bonaventure, Hadley Mason, Justin Binder, Tom Dixon and Victor Quibbly, along with John Martin, of course, and Dr. Ben Austin.
Everyone but Charles Osgood. She couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t there. He must have been thrilled to death with the day.
“Hey, where’s Charles?” Ashley asked, interrupting a rousing discussion of Farragut’s naval prowess.
A few of those close to her quit talking to look around.
“I haven’t seen him since he very dramatically died of his wounds,” Ramsay said. “I ‘skedaddled’ right after and rode out with Justin, before we rode back to take our fair share of the applause.”
“Cliff?” Ashley asked.
Cliff shook his head. “No, I was with the soldiers who came rushing in too late when Charles was being besieged by the enemy. I thought he just stood up and bowed when everyone was clapping. I don’t remember seeing him when you and Frazier started talking…or when the band played.”
“He’s probably outside somewhere. I’ll call his cell,” Ramsay said. He pulled out his phone and hit a number of buttons.
Ashley watched him. She realized the others had already turned away and were becoming involved in their conversations again.
Ramsay shook his head at her. “No answer.”
Cliff cleared his throat. “Not to be disrespectful in any way, but maybe he met a girl and—got lucky.”
