As he reached the clearing on the bank of the stream, Rambert reached instinctively for his Remington pistol, and a few of the more observant men did the same. He had just removed it from its holster when the eerie silence became a mad cacophony of rapid gunfire, spur-crazed horses, and Rebel war whoops. Scores of bullets rained on Rambert’s group before most of his men even had a chance to draw. Almost immediately the major felt a piercing sting in his left arm. He had drawn his pistol in time to make an accurate target of one of the Rebs, but then his horse reared repeatedly in panic, and he was sent tumbling to the ground in the deadly hailstorm of lead. In an instant he was on his feet again, assessing the attackers and getting off four quick shots before aiming his last bullet at a tall, gray-haired soldier who seemed to be the leader of the group. The old man gasped and clutched wildly at his chest as a large splotch of dark red spilled out over his hand. Then his body teetered precariously in the saddle and dropped with a heavy thud to the ground. With ammunition all but spent on both sides the forces engaged each other hand-to-hand, with most of the men raising sabers; a few others, bowie knives. Drayton hefted his saber and staved off a blow from a cavalryman who could not have been more than fifteen years old. The youth turned and drew his mount closer to the major, smiling with confidence as he delivered a series of blows, each of which met the major’s gleaming blade with a resounding clank. For several moments Drayton anticipated the younger man’s quick, sure movements, and lifted his saber to negate every one. The boy had been taught well, but his moves were predictable. Still, Drayton was beginning to tire. Every two-handed lift of his saber sent white hot pain through his wounded arm. He was bleeding heavily and his muscles were starting to ache and quiver. He was gasping harder with every breath, and his woolen tunic was soaked with sweat. The ruthless determination that had brought him through a hundred tight comers in the past was flagging, and he knew he could not continue to fend off the heavy-handed attack much longer. He had to take the offensive. But he could not summon the energy to do it.
He let out a weary groan as the cavalryman’s horse reared and gave him a moment’s rest. For a split second he felt himself succumbing to a strange, peaceful darkness which clouded and blurred his vision. But then he heard it. A terrible shriek of pain from Corporal Laird as he fell from his horse. Laird, the man who had fought beside the major for four long years and saved his life more times than he could remember. In that instant Drayton felt new strength pouring into his weakened muscles. His eyes blazed with fury as his sword evenly met his attacker’s, then drew back with lightning swiftness and thrust to lay open the cavalryman’s midsection.
The major was pivoting to face Laird’s attacker even before he withdrew his bloody blade. After a few parries to feel out his new opponent, Drayton thrust with all his might, sending the saber deeply, deeply into the man’s heart. A flood of scarlet splashed on Drayton’s hand as the Confederate soldier slumped forward against his horse’s neck. Their faces only inches apart, Drayton met his enemy’s shocked expression, then stepped aside to allow his lifeless body to drop to the blood-soaked ground. A dangerous, feral brightness still shone in the major’s eyes as he whirled, crouched and ready, to survey the scene. But his victim had been the last of the Confederates still mounted, and only one other remained on his feet. That man was wounded, and he swiftly raised his hands over his head when he realized that he was alone. Drayton stared for a moment at the man, then slowly staggered toward the stream, his saber dropping heavily from a bloodstained hand which had long since gone numb and cold. He swallowed hard and drew a deep breath as he splashed icy water over his face in an attempt to clear his vision. Then he stood and turned back to face the terrible aftermath of the battle. The ground was littered with blue and gray-clad corpses, and only three men besides himself were left on their feet: Essex, Hunt, and Will Riley. Still swaying heavily, the major stumbled toward the body nearest him and began checking for signs of life. The other men followed his lead but found all but six of the fallen beyond help. William Riley stared dazedly at his dead brother’s face for a long moment before he dropped to his knees and buried his head in the lifeless chest, sobbing like a child.
Drayton gave orders to Hunt and Essex to round up the stray horses while he stripped the clothing from the dead and made temporary bandages for the badly wounded. Corporal Laird was still breathing, but just barely. He had taken a cut in the abdomen and was losing a great deal of blood. It was doubtful he would make it unless that bleeding was stopped. Drayton took his time tearing apart a ragged gray shirt and tunic and wrapping the strips securely around Laird’s wound. It was in doing so that he noticed that Laird had also been shot twice in the leg.
Private Cristoff had been hit by a bullet in the chest, and his breathing was shallow and irregular. Knowing that his chances were none too good, Drayton bound the wound hastily and went on to the next. Jim Crawford had fallen early, grazed by a bullet in the temple. The wound had rendered him senseless, but once he regained consciousness, the injury probably would not have serious ramifications. Jamie Clark had been wounded twice in the shoulder and had also taken a bullet in the chest. His young, boyish face was ashen from loss of blood, but his pulse was strong and regular. He had a chance. Two Rebel prisoners, though wounded, looked able to ride, at least until they could reach adequate medical help.
By the time all the men had been patched together well enough to ride and the dead had been buried, daylight was waning. The rain was beginning to fall in a cold, monotonous drizzle. If the weather had been the slightest bit better, the major would have left Laird and Clark in the care of one or two of his men and gone for the regiment’s surgeon. But there was no shelter here, only winter-bare trees and wet ground, and a cavalryman’s tent offered no real protection from the elements. They had little choice but to seek out the nearest warmth and shelter and to hope it was not too far off.
Major Rambert let his stallion lead the way up a rise at a brisk walk, working his way toward the outbuilding he had seen from a distance. He was shivering now and could feel his flesh prickling beneath his rain-soaked clothing, but still he proceeded carefully. The ground was far too slick to take chances with the wounded. He reached the outbuilding, a small, abandoned shed of some sort with a gaping hole in the roof. He dismounted to have a look around. A door hung askew on a single rusty hinge, leaving the better part of the interior open to view. It was empty. He looked carefully about the building, until he found what he was looking for. A path of sorts, difficult to discern without the sun’s light but there, nonetheless. He remounted and cautiously picked his way along the trail.
Drayton was astonished when he finally saw it. Shadowed by rain and dusk and gloom and tangled by winterbrown ivy, the house was virtually untouched-an awesome, beautiful sight to his tired eyes. The gentle flickering of firelight, reflected now and then on one of the windowpanes, was very different from the roaring flames he had seen this past week. He sighed with momentary relief, then reminded himself that it was not a welcoming fire he saw. This house was someone’s home, and he was an invader, an enemy. There would probably be a struggle before the occupants of the house took in his wounded men. Most of the plantation houses which lay in the army’s path had been deserted, but the rest were ‘’guarded’’ by women and an assortment of loyal blacks. There was very little any of them could do-besides beg-to ward off an attack, even by a mere handful of Union soldiers. Still, Drayton was not looking forward to the confrontation.
The path had left them but a short distance from the house. Drayton paused to draw his revolver, then led his men quietly up the remainder of the long, tree-lined drive. The night was silent except for the muffled sound of horses’ hooves on the already wet ground. The major brought his horse to a halt and prepared to dismount. At that moment the heavy door was flung open and a small dark figure appeared, silhouetted against a sudden flow of lamplight. The major squinted against the brightness, and just managed to make out the b
arrel of a shotgun which must have weighed almost as much as the woman who held it. It was aimed directly at his chest. He did not move to dismount and said nothing as his eyes adjusted more fully to the light. Then he noticed that the slender arms which held that gun did not tremble in the least, and he sensed more than saw that the eyes fixed on him did not waver.
“You’re trespassing on private property.” Ambrosia’s voice was smooth and controlled and bore not the slightest trace of fear. “You have the count of ten to take your leave.”
The major studied the silhouette for a moment longer, trying to distinguish his opponent’s features. The voice was youthful in spite of its cool authority, and he could sense the slightest trace of impatience when it came again. “To the count of ten, I said. One...two...”
“We don’t intend to leave.” The major’s deep, resonant voice interrupted her and sent a cold shiver down her spine. “And if you intend to fire that thing at me when you’re finished with your counting, I’d like to point out that I also have a weapon. Even if you are the better shot, there will be my men to contend with.”
Ambrosia frowned and let her breath out slowly, considering. But the shotgun remained pointed steadfastly at its target. The acrid smell of smoke had filled the air for days now, and the tales of horror from nearby plantations had filtered to Heritage. She had been expecting this, waiting for it. “What do you want?”
He gave a slight nod of his head as if in a belated, or perhaps sarcastic, attempt to appear polite. “I’m Major Rambert, Seventh Pennsylvania Cavalry. My men and I are in need of food and lodging for the night. ‘’
“You can take what food we have. It isn’t much. But you’ll have to take it and leave.” Her voice shook with determination. “I won’t have Yankees sleeping under this roof.”
“Some of my men are wounded; two of them need immediate attention. ‘’
“Then take them elsewhere, Major. They won’t get it here.”
“You don’t seem to understand, Mrs.-?’’
“Miss,” she corrected tersely.
He gave a short, stiff smile. “You don’t seem to understand, miss,” he amended emphatically. “The men are seriously wounded. They won’t last the night in this rain and cold.” His tone was suddenly as hard as tempered steel. “And I don’t intend to take them anywhere else.”
The sudden tightening of his sun-etched features frightened Ambrosia as she had not been frightened in a long time. She swallowed hard. “Andrew.”
A bent old black man whose entire body shook in fear appeared swiftly at her side. “Get the lamp and bring it here,” she ordered without once taking her eyes off the major or lowering her gun. “I want to see the major’s wounded for myself.’’
The old man shuffled back into the house to do her bidding, returning a moment later with an oil lamp, which blinked and flickered in his trembling hands. He gulped visibly as he took a step out onto the porch and gingerly proceeded on toward the major, who waited none too patiently now in the slow, drizzling rain. As the lamp passed Ambrosia, Drayton took a good look at the woman. She was small of stature, but her features were dramatic rather than delicate: coal-black Indian hair; a firm, square jawline with well-defined chin; a generous mouth; a straight, well-formed nose; a high forehead; and a pair of piercing, catlike eyes which easily dominated all else. There was much of a wild, gypsy maiden in that face, a pronounced, exotic kind of magnetism which mingled favorably with the courageous lift of her chin and the determined gleam in her eyes. She was much younger and much prettier than the major had expected. As the light drew closer to the soldiers, illuminating the major’s face, Ambrosia felt herself tensing, felt her arms rebelling against the weight of the heavy weapon she had supported for so long. She did not perceive the attractiveness in his face at first, only the overwhelmingly cold steadfastness of his features and the confident, almost arrogant lift of his brow. Eyes of a startling, icy blue contrasted sharply with swarthy, weathered skin and jet-black hair, and drew attention away from broad, muscled shoulders and a huge expanse of chest. Those eyes were lit with anger now as the cold rain dripped monotonously from the brim of his hat. Ambrosia swallowed against a growing tightness in her throat and clenched her teeth as she made a brief appraisal of the man, desperately seeking some flaw, some weakness in the eyes which did not leave hers. She could find none. “Do my wounded meet with your approval, miss?” he inquired with a hint of sarcasm. She had given no notice to the other soldiers, now well in range of the lamp’s light, but she hastily proceeded to survey them now and was just as quickly convinced of their urgent need. She gasped involuntarily when her eyes fell upon one who appeared to be nothing more than a boy with a head of curly yellow hair, a head hanging lifelessly forward on his chest. Then she saw two who wore ragged gray tunics. She frowned and let out a lengthy breath, reluctantly lowering her shotgun. “Bring them in.”
As she turned and made her way into the house, the major was aware of a shower of protests from another woman inside, who had not yet shown her face. “You can’t mean to let Yankees here! In this house! Lord have mercy, Ambrosia, you’ve gone completely daft!”
“Here’s the shotgun, Elly,” he heard her reply in the same cool, collected voice she’d used when speaking to him. “You’re welcome to keep them out if you’re so inclined.”
Drayton gave a short smile in spite of himself as he noticed a figure fleeing up the stairs, then let his mind return to the task of moving his wounded men into the room which was being prepared.
“Sheba, gather all the clean linens you can find and bring them into the parlor,” Ambrosia ordered as she herself scurried about. “Andrew, light a fire in the parlor and start a kettle of water to boiling in the kitchen. Sally, I’ll need Mammy’s old healing box and candles, all that you can find. We’ll need light...lots of it...and blankets...”
By the time the last of the wounded had been carried into the parlor, a fire crackled begrudgingly about a stack of damp wood and several candles flickered in the large room. Drayton’s first concern was for Corporal Laird, who had regained consciousness and was attempting a smile as the major knelt beside him to check his wounds. He removed Laird’s boots and rain-soaked shirt, then wrapped a blanket about his shoulders and stripped him of his trousers. The gash in his abdomen had bled heavily at first, but the bandage seemed to have checked that, at least temporarily. The wound would have to be cleaned and rebandaged, but what worried Drayton more than anything else were the bullet wounds in Laird’s upper leg. They had bled very little, but from appearances, both bullets were still lodged deep in the flesh of his thigh or, worse, in the bone. They would have to come out tonight if he was to live. Or the leg would have to come off. Amputation was the safer, easier solution and surely the one he regiment surgeon would prefer. But Drayton could not afford to wait for a doctor to arrive and make that decision. A day, even a few hours’ delay could cost a man’s life. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, wrestling with the thought of what had to be done. Then he pulled a second blanket over Laird and moved on to the youngster, Jamie Clark.
Jamie had two clean flesh wounds in the shoulder and a third bullet in the chest. The shoulder wounds had reopened and were dripping bright red through the major’s hastily applied bandage. He would have to be first.
Drayton knelt beside Private Cristoff for a moment, then drew a blanket over his face. Without a word he moved on to one of the Confederate soldiers.
The Rebel soldier was wounded in the leg and would have to have that bullet removed. Attention for the others was not as crucial. There were gashes and bruises and a few flesh wounds, but those could easily be tended later. Again Drayton closed his eyes and his face reflected the turmoil within. When he opened them a moment later, Ambrosia was kneeling at his side, a small wooden box in her lap. He glanced briefly at the contents of the box, at the totally inadequate collection of salves and tools with which he was expected to sav
e three lives. He took the box from her hands and gave a brief smile, shaking his head. But Ambrosia noticed that his expression altered instantly when the young blond soldier stirred and moaned. For a moment she saw something in those cold, blue eyes which spoke of vulnerability, pain, or fear or...but it was gone before she could name it. He abruptly returned the box to her and moved to the young man’s side. She watched him guardedly for several moments then, wondering if he had dismissed her with the action. He looked cold and forbidding as he checked over the wounded soldier again, but Ambrosia saw that he did not deal roughly with the man’s wounds. He rose to his feet, met her gaze, and motioned her to one side of the parlor.
‘’Three of the men have bullets that will have to come out,” he told her quietly. “I will need a table and some rope, a needle and thread, a brazier or a pan of hot coals...” He paused. “Some whiskey, if you have it.” Ambrosia gave a small nod, took up the lamp, and led him into the dining room. It was a great room with many large windows and a huge oak table in the room’s center designed to seat thirty guests. ‘’I’ll have Andrew fetch some rope and I’ll get the whiskey and the rest.” She made to turn away, then stopped and met his eyes evenly.
‘’I’m willing to help, Major.”
His stare was icy. She was young and unmarried and would probably faint at the first sight of a man’s naked body. “You can help by staying out of the way.” He turned abruptly from her and marched back to the parlor to get Jamie Clark.
Ambrosia Page 4
