Ambrosia stiffened, her temper flaring for a moment. But then she recalled her first days at Wayside Hospital and knew that the major had good reason to doubt her usefulness. She herself had seen dozens of well-meaning females swooning at the sight of blood or running to empty their stomachs as soon as a surgeon touched a knife to a man’s flesh. Even she had found it difficult at first to observe some proceedings without feeling nauseous and light-headed. But then, as now, action meant life or death, and that knowledge had overcome any weakness that might have interfered with her abilities. She went after the major and gathered up a stack of clean linens, then followed him and a second soldier as they carried the young blond boy into the dining room. She placed the linens near the table, then hurried to get an almost full bottle of whiskey hidden in her father’s study, calling to Andrew to bring a length of rope. Without being told, she brought in a large pan of boiling water and arranged everything she had in the way of tools on a serving cart.
Andrew’s wizened face was drawn up like a prune as he shakily handed the major the rope and watched him tie the soldier’s unconscious body to the table. He gulped and backed out of the room in horror, white showing all around his dark brown eyes as a thin, sharpened knife was withdrawn from the pan of hot coals and poised above the boy’s chest. Private Riley, who had helped carry the patient to the table and was supposed to assist, went white as a sheet and followed behind Andrew, who was stumbling hurriedly out of sight. Ambrosia, who stood near the door, knew then that like it or not, the major would need her help. She slipped silently to take a place near his left elbow. For a moment, she watched him stare at the smooth, shiny blade of the knife-or perhaps he was staring at his hands, she thought, and wondering if he could carry through with what had to be done. Her eyes lifted to study his face, which was covered now with a sheen of sweat. His mouth was quivering slightly, his breathing labored, his eyes ablaze with some emotion closely akin to fear. Ambrosia waited in silence, a part of her reluctantly softening at what she saw in his eyes. At last, he angled the knife and made a precise cut into the boy’s flesh.
It was several moments before the boy began to stir and moan, and she saw Drayton wince and swallow hard as he continued. Ambrosia was amazed at the speed with which he probed for the lead, retrieved it, and closed and cauterized the wound. And for all the cold ruthlessness in his face, Rambert’s lean, calloused fingers were agile and gentle, and there was a skill to his movements that spoke of medical knowledge and experience. Ambrosia had seen dozens of surgeons that had not had his sureness or speed. She frowned thoughtfully and stole a glance at his face once again. The man was a doctor, she was certain of it. Yet his uniform was that of a cavalryman, and he had no tools of his own.
It was while he was bandaging the second wound that he reached for a damp cloth, only to find it thrust into his searching hand. His eyes lifted in surprise, which quickly changed to annoyance when they met Ambrosia’s, but he accepted the cloth without comment and quickly returned to the task at hand. He did not look at her again, nor did he protest when she moved to aid him with cleaning tools or tearing strips of linen. It took less than half an hour to treat all the boy’s wounds, and, mercifully, he remained unconscious the entire time. Ambrosia knew full well that his chances for recovery were slim, but it was to the major’s credit that he was still alive when they moved him back into the parlor.
“You ain’t takin’ care o’ the Reb before you take care
o’ Laird, are you?” The words came from Riley, who had paced the parlor while Drayton worked on Jamie Clark.
‘’Laird’s resting,’’ Ambrosia heard the major tell him. “The Reb goes first.” Drayton nodded toward the gray clad soldier and made to draw one of the man’s arms about his own shoulder. He waited for Riley to do the same.
“I ain’t helpin’ t’ save no Reb. Not after what they did t’ us back there. Jake and Cristoff and-and Kelly...” His voice faltered as he thought of his brother, lying in a shallow grave not five miles from where they now stood. “I won’t order you, Riley,” Drayton said quietly as Private Essex came to his aid. “Get some rest. I’ll need you and Hunt to ride out in the morning.”
The Rebel soldier leaned heavily on the major’s shoulder as he half limped and was half dragged into the dining room. His eyes were full of fear as Drayton handed him the bottle of whiskey and told him to drink. He said nothing and did as he was told. Ambrosia prayed that the liquor would make him pass out and quickly, since it was the last bottle in the house. The soldier had drunk about half the bottle when his head began to loll, and Drayton took the remainder of the whiskey and told him to lie down. Ambrosia watched as he was bound to the table, then moved nearer to offer her assistance. The bullet had struck -the bone of the lower leg. Drayton sliced through his trouser leg and tossed the blood-soaked material aside. He ground his teeth and took a deep breath, almost as if he knew what was going to happen. The moment he put the knife to the man’s flesh, shrieks of terror and pain echoed piercingly throughout the house. The man’s violent movements made searching for the tiny ball of lead nearly impossible. Ambrosia saw the powerful muscles in the major’s arms flexing as he struggled to hold him still. A sudden frantic jerk against the knife sent a stream of dark red blood spurting like a fountain from the man’s leg, and she clutched blindly at the spot, trying to keep him from bleeding to death. After what seemed like a lengthy struggle, the soldier finally went limp and silent. Ambrosia helped Drayton clean up the damage, sponging up the blood so that he could proceed, and within minutes the severed vein was expertly ligated with a piece of silk thread. The bullet was retrieved in seconds, and the wound closed and bandaged. When the soldier was lifted from the table, he was deathly pale from loss of blood, but he was still alive and his breathing was regular. Now his recovery was left up to God.
Ambrosia sensed a difference in Major Rambert when the last man, the one they called Laird, was brought into the dining room. “How bad is it?” she heard him ask as Drayton offered him a generous swig of whiskey.
“Bad. Drink as much as you can. You’re going to need it.’’ The major’s manner was so abrupt that Ambrosia flinched as she busied herself with rinsing off the knife and pincers.
“You-you won’t take my leg off, Drayton. Promise me you won’t take off my leg.”
The major said nothing, forcing a few more ounces of whiskey down the corporal’s throat.
“You owe me a favor, Drayton,” he gasped out, turning his head to avoid swallowing any more. “I want to collect on it now.” He clutched insistently at Drayton’s tunic and refused to drink any more. “Promise me!”
Drayton reluctantly met his eyes and gave a nod. “You-you’ll write Grace for me. Tell her I-I...”
‘’I’ll write her. Drink.” Drayton pushed the bottle toward his mouth. Laird took several gulps this time, then pushed the bottle away, breathing hard. ‘’No. No more. I’ll be all right.”
Drayton took firm hold of his shoulders and pressed his back against the table. “I’m going to have to tie you down, John. It’s for your own good.” He wrapped the rope securely about his shoulders and torso, then secured his legs and knotted the rope repeatedly against the table. ‘I-It was real good fightin’ under you, Die-hard,”
Laird whispered hoarsely, the whiskey making his words weak and slurred.
“Damn you, Corporal,” he muttered as he forced yet another .swallow of bourbon down the wounded man’s throat. Laird drank until he began to choke, then slowly gave a timorous smile. “Real g-good...” His voice trailed off and his chin fell abruptly to his chest.
Drayton took the knife from Ambrosia and placed it in the brazier until the metal gleamed red and hot, wishing all the while he had not made that promise to Laird. Ambrosia frowned at him curiously. She had never seen a doctor so particular about his scalpel before. Most of them simply wiped the filthy blade on their coat and went on to the next patient. He glanced up
at her as he slowly withdrew the blade from the coals. “An old Indian medicine man’s trick,” he said to himself as much as to her. “Let’s hope the evil spirits are appeased with the ritual.”
She stared at him in shock. He was talking utter nonsense. But there was no time for hesitation as he moved the knife to open the flesh of Laird’s thigh. The corporal’s limbs jerked rigid in response to the sudden, intense pain, then dropped lifelessly on the table. Drayton breathed a sigh of relief as he probed the wound, easily locating the first bullet in a matter of seconds. It was the other bullet which gave him trouble. For what seemed an eternity he probed the wound, then cut and probed again.
The tiny ball of lead seemed to have vanished into the bone and muscle of the thigh.
Drayton swore under his breath as Ambrosia mopped at the blood from the wound so that he might make yet another probe. Sweat was pouring from his brow, his face was set with tension, and his eyes were a frightening blaze of blue. She saw him hesitate and wince with total concentration as he drove deeper than ever before. Then slowly, cautiously, he inserted the pincers, twisting them until the tiny bullet, clutched tightly in its jaws, was lifted from the wound. Ambrosia heaved an audible sigh of relief and she saw the major let out his breath too. The worst was over now. He handed Ambrosia the pincers and continued, closing and sewing the severed flesh, then bandaging.
It was after midnight when Laird was finally settled on a makeshift pallet near the fire, and well past one before the other men’s injuries had been properly tended. Ambrosia followed the major about the parlor, tearing bandages and applying ointments after he had cleaned and checked the wounds. He said little to her beyond terse instructions now and again, which she promptly obeyed.
When they had finished he made a final check of Laird, then rose and left the parlor, his shoulders sagging with weariness for the first time since his arrival. Ambrosia paused as she gathered up her tools to watch him walk away. Then she frowned thoughtfully and hurried after him.
He had settled himself in a dining room chair and had almost finished what little was left of the whiskey. The bottle was yet in his hand, but his eyes were closed, his head bent.
“Major?”
His eyes flew open and Ambrosia knew a sudden fear. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel small and vulnerable, as she had seldom felt before. “Your-your arm needs tending,” she said in a shaky voice which was totally foreign to her. “Before I put these things away...’’
He glanced briefly at the tear in his sleeve, a gash which had long since dried. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and muttered, “It’s only a flesh wound. I’ll see to it later myself.’’
Ambrosia straightened her back. ‘’Suit yourself, Doc tor.’’
She turned her back on him, only to be whirled about to face him again by an iron-clad grasp on her arm. The strength of his fingers and the look in his eyes caused her to go pale for an instant, and she felt a strange weakness in her knees. “The name is Rambert,” he said sharply. ‘’Major Rambert.’’
“Suit yourself, Major Rambert,” she repeated with noticeably less bravado, but managing to square her shoulders and keep her head high. Their eyes locked for a moment, each refusing to yield any ground. Finally he loosened his hold on her and gave a slight smile. “You’re right, Mrs.-” He frowned, trying to remember. “Miss,” he amended. “What did that slave call you? Ambrosia? Yes, that was it. Ambrosia.”
“The name is Lanford,” she told him curtly.
His smile taunted her and he did not repeat her proper name. ‘’Ambrosia suits you, you know. Though it is a bit long. Is that what your beaux call you? Ambrosia? Or do they shorten it to Amy?’’ He cocked his head thought fully and let his eyes roam familiarly over the length of her. “Amy...yes, it’s much more appropriate.”
She glared at him, feeling outraged at his presumptuousness and furious with herself for having offered to help him at all. He was her enemy; he had forced his way into her home. She ought to feel triumph at the thought of his going through life with an empty sleeve. “Do you want me to tend your arm or not?” she said through gritted teeth, her green eyes glowing with open hostility.
He held those eyes for a moment, almost as if he sensed that her anger was not entirely directed toward him, almost as if he enjoyed her discomfort. Then he gave a slight shrug. “You seem a capable nurse.”
Ambrosia said nothing as she knelt beside the chair and placed the healing box on the floor near her knees. She lifted a scissors to the sleeve of his tunic, only to have him stop her. “No. I don’t want it cut. It can be mended.” Ambrosia held her breath until he released her hand, the mere touch of those long, lean fingers sending a current of warm awareness up the length of her arm.
He stood and unbuttoned the coat slowly. His eyes held hers, lighting with amusement when she blushed and turned away. She had seen two men stark naked in the last few ho.urs and had tended them without the least show of embarrassment. But her face now reflected total innocence, and he felt a sudden admiration for this young woman who had put her inhibitions aside for the sake of another’s life. He grimaced as he pulled the cloth free of the wound, then tossed his clothing aside and sat down again, clearing his throat loudly as he did so.
Ambrosia drew a deep breath to bolster her courage, then timidly raised her eyes only as far as the wound. But what she saw was enough to make her gasp. His shoulders and chest were riddled with tiny scars and large ones, and the strength in the muscles of his bare arms and torso was frighteningly apparent. His flesh was lean, and there was a hardness to it that made her know he could easily force her to do his bidding, in spite of his weariness. She swallowed hard and went about her work, making sure not to meet his eyes again. Cautiously applying a dampened cloth until the tiny bits of cloth and caked blood fell away from the wound, she applied an ointment and folded a square of linen to cover it lightly. She tore at a long strip of clean cloth and rose to her feet to bind it tightly around his arm, painfully aware all the while of his eyes upon her. She could not understand why her cheeks felt so hot, why his eyes caused her such anxiety. She knotted the bandage with an abrupt jerk that made the major wince, then quickly stooped to gather her things and take her leave. The major had other ideas. She had scarcely taken a step before he rose to block her path. Ambrosia’s fingers tightened about the healing box, and her eyes hesitantly rose from the crisp black hair which covered his chest to meet Drayton’s insistent stare.
“There-there’s food in the kitchen,” she told him in a small, breathless voice. “Sheba’s seen to feeding your men... the ones that can eat, that is-’’
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” he interrupted her, narrowing his eyes.
Ambrosia squared her shoulders and stuck out her chin, which was barely as high as his chest. “Me? Afraid of a Yankee?’’ She gave a short laugh which was none too convincing before she tried to sidestep him. But again he blocked her escape.
“No,” he agreed slowly. “You’re not afraid of me because I’m a Yankee. But there’s something about me that frightens you-”
“I am not afraid of you,” she snapped hotly, her anger finally adding strength to her voice. “But that doesn’t mean I feel comfortable about having you in my home, either. I would have to be a fool to trust a Yankee while the smell of your destruction still hangs so heavy in the air.’’ Her eyes flashed with fury as she faced her enemy. “You’re quite a woman, Ambrosia,” he said quietly, to her astonishment. He smiled at her again, a smooth, easy smile that made her tense again. “I never would have guessed that a woman so young and beautiful could-’’ He frowned suddenly, as if the thought of the wounded in the next room troubled him a great deal. ‘’I thank you for the men,” he finished a moment later. “As well as for myself.’’
He stepped aside then to let her pass, which she hurriedly did. The hour was late and she was bone tired a
nd anxious to have her rest. She spoke briefly with Sheba and Andrew about keeping watch over the wounded and more importantly, over the major, giving specific instructions that she should be summoned immediately in
the event of any emergency. She placed the healing box in plain view on a table in the parlor, then hurried up the stairs to her room, closing the door behind her and letting out a long sigh of relief.
“Ambrosia? Are you all right? Did they-?”
Ambrosia opened her eyes with a start to see Elly’s terrified face. “No. They didn’t hurt me. I’m well enough. Just very tired.” She let out another sigh and began unbuttoning her dress, grimacing at the bloodstains which covered the bodice and skirt. It would need to be washed out first thing in the morning.
“What were you doing down there all this time? I heard that man screaming. It was terrible! Were they torturing him? Did you see what they were doing to him?”
Ambrosia poured fresh water into the washbowl and
splashed her face and arms. “The man had a bullet in his leg. Major Rambert took it out.”
Elly raised a brow. “Major Rambert, is it?” A moment later, realization dawned and her eyes widened in horror. “You watched him do it?” she whispered.
“I helped him do it.”
“Lord have mercy! You actually helped save a Yankee’s life!” she said incredulously.
“Two of the men are Confederates,” Ambrosia told her quietly, not allowing her uneasiness to show.
Elly sank helplessly into the nearest chair. “If your papa ever finds out about this, he’ll probably disown you!”
Ambrosia bit her lip and wondered briefly if indeed her father would ever be able to forgive her, or if she would ever forgive herself. ‘’I’m tired, Elly. I’m going to bed.’’ “With Yankees in his house? You ‘d sleep with Yankees in this house?” She watched aghast as Ambrosia slipped out of her petticoat and walked toward her bed, clothed only in a worn chemise.
Ambrosia Page 5
