The plantation had been dead for three years.

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2026-06-10 12:07:10 -

Colonel James Beauregard sat on the porch of the house that had belonged to his father, then to his brother, then to him, watching the cotton fields stretch out into the distance like a sea of white ghosts. The house was falling apart—the paint peeling, the floorboards sagging, the roof leaking when the rains came. But it was standing. And standing was something. He had been forty-two when the...

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