Cat on the Scent

            Oak Ridge rises out of the land south of Lovingston, Virginia. Built in 1802 by a Revolutionary War veteran, one of the Rives family of Albemarle, the estate was buffeted from the scalding rises and freezing plunges of unregulated capitalism. The originator of Oak Ridge rode the economy like the tides. His progeny fared less well and over the nineteenth century the place changed hands, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.

            Finally Thomas Fortune Ryan, a local boy born in 1851, made good in the New York stock market and bought the place he remembered from his impoverished childhood. By that time, 1904, Ryan was the third-richest man in America—true riches, for there was no Internal Revenue Service.

            He set about creating a great country estate, not on the scale of Blenheim but on a Virginia scale, which meant he kept a sense of proportion. The mansion was twenty-three thousand square feet, and eighty other smaller houses, barns, and water towers completed the plan. A hothouse, built as a smaller version of London’s famed Crystal Palace, sat below the mansion.

            The place bore the mark of a single, overriding, rapacious mind. An alley of oak trees guided the visitor to the main house from the road—the northern, back side of the house. The grander entrance was on the other, southern side facing the railroad tracks because that was how Mr. Ryan rode to his country estate from New York, in his sumptuous private car. The buggies, phaetons, gigs, and the occasional coach-and-four drove up the back way.

            Given that the glory days of rail travel were over, the approach now was from Route 653, the paved highway to Shipman, the back road.

            The reenactors camped on the miles of front lawn and former golf course, their Sibley tents resembling teepees, common tents and larger officers’ tents dotting the verdant expanse like overlarge tissues.

            The reenactors would have to tramp a half mile to the oak tree, reckoned to be 380 years old. The Yankees would rise up out of the eastern woods surrounding Trinity Episcopal Church, while the Southerners would be marching due north from the edge of Mrs. Wright’s hayfields.

            The view was better for the public from the oak tree and it reduced the possibility of a raid on the main house.

            Having that many people on her front lawn caused the petite and pretty Rhonda Holland some inconvenience, but she bore it with good grace. John, her dynamic husband, delighted in strolling along the neatly laid out avenues of tents to chat with the fellows cleaning rifles, fiddling, and singing. A convivial man wearing a floppy straw hat, he had plans for Oak Ridge as magnificent as Thomas Fortune Ryan’s.

            John worked more slowly than Ryan, thanks to the proliferation of government agencies choking him with regulations, but he never gave up.

            The entire Holland family was on hand to view the reenactment, as were thirty thousand other people, a far larger crowd than anyone had anticipated.

            Add in the five thousand reenactors, including camp followers, and there were a mess of people.

            Harry sat on a camp stool. Tucker sat next to her, and Mrs. Murphy and Pewter lounged on a camp table spread with maps. The cats weren’t supposed to come but they’d hidden under the seat of the truck, then raced to freedom when the door was opened.

            Pewter nibbled on a square of hardtack. “How could they eat this stuff?”

            “With difficulty,” the tiger said, watching Fair Haristeen struggle with his gold sword sash.

            “Here.” Harry wound it around his middle, the two tasseled ends of the sash tempting Mrs. Murphy, but not enough to leave her perch, just enough for her to swat at the tassels when he walked by.

            Fair, a twinkle in his eye, said, “I love it when you fuss over me.”

            “Stand still.” Harry commanded but she smiled when she said it.

            “You know I never looked so good as when you bought my clothes.”

            “Fair, stand still. You’re a vet. Coveralls aren’t that glamorous. You look the same now as when we were married.”

            “Meant my Sunday clothes.” He playfully pinched her buttock. “I liked it best when you undressed me.”

            “Pulease.” Harry drew out the word. Pretending to ignore the banter, she secretly enjoyed it. “There. A proper Confederate officer.”

            “I’d rather be improper.”

            “What’s with you? Maybe the prospect of battle is an aphrodisiac.” She laughed.

            “No, you’re the aphrodisiac. I’m only doing this for Ned Tucker.” He kissed her on the cheek.

            A shout outside the tent sent them onto the grass avenue.

            Archie Ingram and Sir H. Vane-Tempest fought in Sir H.“s tent, next to Fair and Ned’s tent. Archie, lean and quicker than the Englishman, cracked him hard on the jaw.

            The larger man, about forty pounds overweight, sagged for an instant against the corner tent pole. The tent wobbled dangerously. Then Vane-Tempest collected himself, lunging for Archie, grabbing him by the waist and bulling him out onto the grassy avenue.