Josiah’s gaze grew distant and sad for a moment, then lifted to meet the major’s once more. “Why’re you tellin’ me all this?” he asked bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do.”
“Turn around.” With a skeptical frown, Josiah did as he was told. Once again Drayton withdrew the knife from his belt, this time severing the ropes that bound the black man’s hands. “You’re a free man, Josiah.”
Josiah said nothing as he rubbed briskly at his wrists, easing the painful tingle as the blood began to flow freely into his hands. He made no move and asked no questions.
“You’re a free man, Josiah,” Drayton repeated. “But you’re still bound to this land and to the Lanfords. Just as surely as if you were blood kin.’’
Josiah straightened his spine proudly. What the major said was true.
‘’Miss Lanford is going to need your protection and your help when I leave here with my men, even if no other Yankees ever come to this place.”
Josiah nodded, but his eyes were distrustful.
“Is there a place nearby where you could hide yourself? A place where you’re certain you won’t be found? Somewhere away from the house?”
“I know of a place. I know lots of places. But-’’ His voice broke off as Drayton abruptly tossed him a small leather pouch of coins which he caught with both hands against his chest. Josiah’s eyes were wary as he withdrew a coin from the pouch and bit on it, then those same eyes widened in surprise.
“Bury them,” came the terse command. “And don’t leave any trace of fresh turned ground or they’ll find them.”
“But why?” Josiah did not have the words out of his mouth when the major handed him the gun he had confiscated the day before, fully loaded. Josiah stared at it in stunned silence. Drayton turned away and stretched a hand toward the door latch.
“Major?”
Drayton paused but did not turn to face him. He already knew what the black man would ask. “Why’re you doin’ this? Why? You’re one of them.”
“Yes,” he said after a long moment. “I’m one of them.”
Chapter 6
As the sun rose bright and clear on the horizon, Ambrosia woke and bounded to her window, her heart pounding in her breast, her breath coming short and fast. The sight of the huge gray cloud of smoke clinging to the low, moist morning air filled her with fear and revulsion. The Harrington place, a plantation not ten miles from Heritage. It must have been burned sometime during the night.
Ambrosia clenched her fists and pounded them hard on the sill, wanting to scream her frustration, wanting to break everything in sight with her bare hands just to pre vent them from destroying anything more. For a fleeting moment she saw her father, as clearly as if he were standing beside her. His gray uniform was crisp and new; brass buttons gleamed in the morning sun; epaulets flashed light; the wide-brimmed, yellow-plumed hat was tilted slightly back on his handsome head. But the expression he wore was not from any memory. His eyes had lost their arrogant self-assuredness and bore a look she had never seen before. It made him seem old and terribly sad. She hurriedly forced the image from her head. She turned away from the window and quickly changed her soiled clothing, wanting to get on with the day, anxious to do what work was to be done. Thank God there was work to be done.
The parlor was quiet when Ambrosia came down the stairs. When her eyes searched the room, Major Rambert was nowhere to be seen. She held back a cry of shock as her eyes fell on what had been the young blond soldier’s bed. It was empty. For a long moment she stared at it, biting her lip hard before she could pull her eyes away. Private Crawford was snoring loudly in the comer, and Josiah-Ambrosia’s eyes darted frantically about the room. Josiah was gone. She half turned to leave the parlor, frowning as she tried to think of some reason for his absence. Perhaps the major had taken him to help with the burial, or-
She stopped short, suddenly realizing that the soldier named Laird was waking, squinting and straining to see her, as if he were confused by what he saw. She knelt beside him, resting her palm lightly on his brow. Her eyes brightened. The skin was damp with perspiration, but not dangerously hot. She moved to get him a dipper of cool water, then lifted his head and gave it support as he sipped at it gratefully. He sighed and fell wearily back when he had finished.
“For a minute... I-I thought you were Grace,” he forced out hoarsely.
Ambrosia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Corporal.”
Laird gave a weak smile. “No need. You’re a lot prettier than Grace.’’
Ambrosia felt her cheeks flush at the unexpected compliment. “I’ll go and fetch you some broth from the kitchen,” she said rather brusquely.
Laird sighed and closed his eyes wearily. He opened them again a few moments later when Drayton appeared in the doorway. The corporal gave him a sheepish grin, which prompted a look of pleased surprise on Drayton’s face.
“You’re awake early. How’s the leg?” he asked as he stopped to check the patient’s brow.
“Hurts like hell, thanks to you,” Laird returned promptly. He brushed the major’s hand tersely from his brow. “And somebody a lot prettier than you’ s already given me a clean bill of health.”
“Oh?”
Laird gave a nod. “Pretty, green-eyed little cat. Hasn’t told me her name yet.”
“It’s Ambrosia Lanford. Miss Lanford to us Yankees. And I’m sorry to inform you about as loyal a Reb as you’re apt to find anywhere. Every drop of blood in her veins is pure Secesh.”
Laird paled and grimaced as a sharp pain took hold of him. “Well, I’m beholden to her, Secesh or not,” he forced out, trying hard to smile.
“I wish I had something to give you for the pain, John.
But there’s nothing here. Not even whiskey.”
Drayton’s eyes lifted as Ambrosia entered the parlor with a tray of steaming broth. Drayton rose to take it from her and began to spoon-feed Laird in spite of his feeble protests. Only when he had finished did he notice that Ambrosia still stood nearby, her eyes troubled and questioning.
“Where is Josiah?”
Drayton’s eyes narrowed coldly in a way that made Ambrosia want to cringe. “I needed his help this morning with burying Jamie. And I made a mistake of turning my back on him while he still held a shovel.” He rubbed the back of his head.
Ambrosia’s eyes mirrored her disbelief. ‘’He-he escaped?”
Drayton glared at her, then turned away, signaling that the conversation was finished. Ambrosia would have smiled at that, but something in the story did not quite ring true. Rambert was not the type of soldier to have been so careless with a prisoner, and she doubted that he had ever turned his back on anyone in his life. But her inquiring eyes only brought her a second angry glare from Drayton that made her relief take precedence over her curiosity. Josiah had somehow escaped, she assured herself, and he would hide himself somewhere until the Yankees left. She was glad he knew the land well enough to do it.
It was almost noon when they came, descending on Heritage like vultures on the carcass of a freshly slain animal. There were fifty or more of them, their horses’ hooves pounding as they all raced madly for the house. War whoops and yells shattered the peace of the warm morning. After spending the greater part of the morning behind a plow, Ambrosia was in the kitchen when the first sounds were heard in the distance. She froze, her eyes meeting Elly’s, then Sheba’s, before she could mask her terror. No one spoke, but fear hung almost tangibly in their silence.
Slowly, Ambrosia wiped her hands on her apron and proceeded with a calm, measured stride to the house with Sheba, Elly, and Sally close at her heels. Ambrosia headed instinctively for the parlor where she had seen her shotgun just a few hours before. She paused in the hall, seeing the major’s broad back before the window. Her gaze flickered over the shotgun which was propped in a nearby comer. She had seen the major unload it when he confiscated it t
wo days before, but it could still be used as a ploy. Yet the growing commotion told her that there were far too many of them to be held off with a single un loaded gun. Her eyes met Drayton’s momentarily when he turned away from the window. She straightened haughtily and left the room. She would never play the part of a defeated, helpless woman, no matter how many of them came here, no matter what they did. If she could not meet her enemy with violence, then at least she could meet them with courage. It was the one part of her they could never defeat.
With a cool, determined stride, Ambrosia made her way to the door and stepped out onto the porch where she stood straight and unyielding as an unarmed guard. The scene which spread before her was like a nightmare, and a part of her immediately went numb. Blue-coated soldiers rode rampant over the land with utter disregard for paths and fences and even livestock. Several men galloped over the freshly turned field Ambrosia had left a few minutes before, swinging their sabers to strike at the smooth handles of the plow, laughing raucously as large chunks of wood flew in every direction. Others seemed to draw a perverse pleasure from chasing and slaughtering the chickens or leaving ugly, deep scars on the tall, stately oaks which lined the drive. One soldier was already calmly reloading a revolver he had just emptied into a harmless old hound.
For a moment Ambrosia thought she would be sick. Her hatred twisted her stomach as she watched a spectacle she could never have envisioned in her worst nightmares. The blue-coated butchers were everywhere, rushing in a hundred directions at once to desecrate everything she held dear.
She steeled herself as another group of soldiers approached the house, these in a more orderly fashion, followed by a parade of horse-drawn wagons and carts. A short, rotund colonel at the head of the group raised his gloved hand as a signal to those behind him to stop. He and another man who wore no uniform advanced to the edge of the piazza where Ambrosia stood. Ambrosia guessed the colonel to be fifty years of age, though in truth he was much younger. His round, drooping face was lined in a perpetual scowl, and a full, gray beard could not disguise the lax curve of his mouth. The second man ‘was at least a score of years younger, and might have been considered handsome but for a long, disfiguring scar which drew far too much attention from his even features. Bright, black eyes and a rather dashing handlebar mustache only served to reinforce the fiendish, sinister quality of that scar. He was a well-built man of average height, his shoulders tapering to a trim waist which was accentuated by his tailored coat. The black eyes glittered with arrogance as they flashed over Ambrosia, his mouth curving upward in a knowing smile. She lifted her chin even higher and her eyes darkened to a stormy gray. Her gaze did not waver when the door behind her opened and the major stepped beside her on the veranda.
‘’Colonel Reed.’’ Drayton saluted the senior officer but something in his stance, his tone, lacked pleasantness and even respect. Ambrosia’s eyes wavered then, and she was surprised to see Drayton’s right hand pointedly caressing the smooth handle of his revolver.
“Major Rambert.” The colonel gave a return salute and copied the major’s tone. The older man nodded his head toward his companion. “This is Julian Bardo, correspondent for the New York Herald. Mr. Bardo is doing a story on me.”
“We met in Atlanta,” Drayton returned coolly. Bardo’s lips curled slightly as he caressed his scar.
“Under different circumstances,’’ he said slowly, remembering the woman Drayton had taken from him, remembering too clearly the way the man fought. “Fancy finding you way out here in the middle of nowhere. I would have thought a hero like you would prefer the thick of battle to the unpleasant task of foraging.’’
Ambrosia saw Drayton smile, but at the same time she sensed the tension coiling within him. When he spoke again it was not to the man named Bardo. “I’m afraid that my preference has earned me and two of my men a short stay here, Colonel. We were wounded in ambush day before last, and these people were kind enough to take us in.”
Again Bardo gave the ugly little smile. “We’re very glad to hear that, Major. The colonel and I have met up with very few cooperative Rebels hereabouts.”
Drayton’s eyes wandered pointedly over the countless acts of destruction taking place even as they were speaking. “I don’t suppose you have,” he commented with sarcasm.
The colonel cleared his throat almost nervously as Drayton’s fingers curled unconsciously about the handle of his gun. “We will be taking temporary shelter here, Major. There looks to be enough food to give my men a decent meal or two.” He twisted about in the saddle and gave the men a signal to dismount. A young soldier hurried to take the reins of his and Bardo’s horses as they did the same.
Bardo eyed Ambrosia steadily as he mounted the steps, staring at her as if she were a slave on an auction block.
“There won’t be enough for even one decent meal if you don’t stop your butchers, Colonel,’’ she said as the older man made to enter the house.
His eyes lifted to face her and he forced a smile. “I apologize if my men seem overly enthusiastic, Miss ...?”
“Your men seem to be animals, sir,” she retorted. “And you seem to lack the authority to control them.” The colonel’s smile vanished and his eyes bulged with anger. He would have slapped her without a second thought had she been alone. Like most of the Rebels she needed to be taught a lesson in respect. But something in the way Major Rambert stood beside her made him think twice about beginning that lesson just now. He let out a calming breath and turned abruptly away from her, lifting his revolver and firing several shots in the air.
It took several moments to get everyone’s attention, for the shots blended with those from every comer of the plantation. But quickly a strange silence fell, except for a few squawking chickens and barking dogs. The obvious agitation in Colonel Reed’s voice seemed to bring every man to attention. “I have just been reminded that we are ‘guests’ here, men. Major Rambert here has just assured me that the people in residence will offer full cooperation in seeing to our needs.” Many of the soldiers stared at him as if he were going mad. But no one made a move to challenge him; no one said anything.
“I want you all to try and take advantage of the hospitality being shown us, and to refrain from undue destruction of private property.’’ He lifted his chin and let his eyes roam over the land, seeming to catch the eye of each and every soldier, effectively emphasizing his words. He turned back to Ambrosia. “I will expect a meal prepared and served for my men within the hour,” he ordered tersely. Turning on a heel, he entered the house, drawing off his gloves and handing them to the young soldier who diligently followed him.
Ambrosia stood there for a moment, still unaccustomed to responding to someone else’s orders. But Bardo’s hungry black eyes forced her to make a quick decision. She pivoted and headed for the kitchen.
A meal was readied from the nine chickens and the cow that had been slaughtered before Colonel Reed had put a stop to the destruction. Divine Providence, Ambrosia believed, had saved the other cow. It seemed a bitter irony that this was the largest meal Sheba had prepared since before the war. She flew about the kitchen, groaning as “Miz” Ambrosia herself laid out Lucille’s finest china and silver for a pack of filthy Yankees that smelled of smoke and killing. Shaking her head in consternation, she filled a large old chipped pot with a bitter brew of acorn coffee for which there was no sugar and not enough cream. And everything Sheba prepared, everything that was carried from the kitchen, reminded them all that there might never be enough of anything ever again.
Most of the men were served their food from the kitchen door, but the officers and Bardo enjoyed a lei surely supper in the dining room. Colonel Reed had taken a seat at the head of the table, Bardo to the right of him, his black eyes following Ambrosia throughout the meal like those of a wildcat stalking a deer. The last of the men were finishing with their meal when Julian Bardo took out a cigar and ran it thoughtfully under his nose.
His eyes never left Ambrosia’s face even as she began to clear the table. “Miss...Lanford, isn’t it?”
Sally dropped the plate she had just picked up and was wide-eyed with fright at the mere sound of his voice. But Bardo was not speaking to her, and his eyes hardly left Ambrosia’s face, even when the china shattered to the floor. Ambrosia gave him a short nod, then continued to stack the plates and collect the silverware. It intrigued Bardo to see that her hands were perfectly steady. Everything about this woman intrigued him. “Sit down here. I want to talk with you.”
Her eyes reflected her astonishment at the request. He lit his cigar and took a long draw on it, nodding his head toward an adjacent chair. ‘’The colonel doesn’t mind, do you, Colonel?”
Colonel Reed gave a contented sigh and patted his stomach. “By all means, Miss Lanford. Join us.”
“I want to ask you a few questions for a piece I’m planning to do,” Bardo explained. “ ‘A Loyal Southerner Welcomes Union Liberators,’ I thought I might call it.”
Ambrosia’s eyes flicked over the chair as she struggled hard against the urge to slap his face. “Union liberators,” they called themselves. How ironic that Josiah, who had been a slave, was now a fugitive from the Yankee “liberators.” “I can talk just as well standing up, thank you,’’ she said finally.
The colonel’s eyes narrowed and there was a tense silence, angry and dangerous. Then the colonel kicked sharply at the chair Bardo had indicated and it leapt away from the table: “Sit down.”
Ambrosia hesitated. Sally hurriedly gathered a small stack of dishes and made her way clumsily from the room, praying she would not faint before she reached the kitchen. It was her movement and the reminder that there were others in the house to consider, others who might suffer the consequences of her actions, that made Ambrosia take a seat. With a smile of thanks, Colonel Reed accepted a cigar from Bardo and drew on it leisurely, as if to calm himself. Bardo pushed his chair back a bit from the table and impudently stretched his legs before him. He made no move to take out pen and notepad. He took another draw on his cigar. “How many slaves did you have on this plantation at the start of the war?”
Ambrosia Page 9
