Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

But his face wore an odd expression, regretful and distant, until suddenly, the cool, impenetrable mask fell again. “My apologies, Miss Lanford,” he said almost lightly. There was a slight mocking ring to his tone, and she wondered briefly if he meant the taunt for himself as well as her. She felt a twinge of guilt for her lie, and even sorrier that she could not hate him as she would have liked to.

  A brief knock at the door startled the major to a proper distance and caused Ambrosia to fall limply into the chair and make a futile attempt at covering herself. Sheba entered the room a moment later and hesitated when she saw Major Rambert. She struggled to balance a pot of herb tea and a cup on a tray when her hands began to tremble. She was keenly aware of the uneasy silence, and as the major made a hasty departure, she noticed that Ambrosia fingered nervously at the remnants of her gown and stared dazedly straight ahead.

  Without asking if she wanted it, Sheba poured her a cup of the tea and set it beside her on the desk, then went to get a comforter recently taken from upstairs to cover Ambrosia’s bare shoulders. Ambrosia raised her eyes briefly when Sheba offered it to her, managing only the weakest of smiles in gratitude for her concern.

  “Go and get the others now,” Ambrosia told her. “We shall all sleep in here tonight.”

  Sheba pursed her lips and shrugged, then made to leave the room. But as she chanced one last curious glance at Ambrosia and found her staring numbly at her opened hand, she wondered exactly what the Yankee major had said and done besides caring for her wounds.

  Chapter 7

  Morning dawned gray and threatening, as if winter wished to offer one final stand against the coming of spring. Just after the grayish light took hold, Hunt, Essex, and Riley returned to Heritage along with a dozen men from their regiment and a wagon to transport their wounded back to the regiment surgeon.

  Ambrosia rose with the dawn and hurried to help Sheba prepare a breakfast for the soldiers, which emptied the last of their food stores. All through the preparation Ambrosia did a mental accounting of damages and losses, and tried to imagine rationing what little had been buried over the following weeks. But she could not allow herself to dwell on despairing thoughts, not when the soldiers were preparing for departure, not when the wounded and prisoners had already been carried out of the parlor to the waiting wagons. The Yankees would be gone soon and life at Heritage would go on. To Ambrosia, that was all that really mattered.

  Ambrosia was in the kitchen when Sergeant Rykert approached her, summoning her to the parlor on a matter of some urgency. She responded promptly, hoping only that neither Colonel Reed nor Major Rambert had decided to delay his departure. The moment she stepped into the house, she froze. Soldiers were rushing everywhere, grabbing everything in sight, stuffing pockets and bags with a mad fervor. One was removing miniatures of her grandparents from the wall, several others were opening and emptying drawers and cabinets. A few were even fighting over the larger pieces of furniture. Ambrosia stared in horror, then almost ran to the parlor, hoping that it would not be too late to stop them. At the threshold of the parlor she froze a second time, her eyes mirroring her shock. There too soldiers were roaming wildly about, pulling tables across the floor, even rolling up the threadbare carpets. In the center of the room stood Colonel Reed, Julian Bardo, and the Yankee major. The colonel wore a slight smile, as if he relished the words he spoke to Major Rambert, all the while holding a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  “...And my orders do not concern you, Major. I will not tolerate any interference.’’

  His smile widened then, and he removed the cigar from his mouth. ‘’Ah... Miss Lanford. I’ve been waiting to speak with you.”

  Ambrosia tried to calm herself as she strode toward him, wondering why he was suddenly in such a good humor. “What are your men doing, Colonel?” she demanded tersely. “I was under the impression that you gave orders-’’

  “I gave orders for my men to enjoy the hospitality, Miss Lanford,” he interrupted shortly. He blew a large cloud of smoke and watched it rise, curling to the fancy plaster ceiling. ‘’But at the time I gave those orders, I had no idea of your anti-Union sentiments. Indeed, Major Rambert lead me to believe that you were a loyal citizen.”

  Ambrosia stared at him in disbelief. This was South Carolina, and she was a Lanford. How could anyone have thought for a moment that she was less than a Con­ federate?

  He flicked an ash to the floor and raised an expectant brow. “Do you deny it?”

  Her green eyes flashed as she lifted her chin. “Deny what?”

  “That you support the rebellion. That you are a Confederate sympathizer?”

  Had Ambrosia been only slightly less shocked, she would have laughed in his face. “Shall I also deny my name, Colonel?”

  Colonel Reed met her glare for a long moment, then turned his back and paced a few steps from her. “Mr. Bardo found two Confederate flags in the house,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And several thousand dollars worth of Confederate bonds were also found, buried in the yard.” He whirled to face her, his eyes narrowed in accusation. “Do you deny ownership of these items, Miss Lanford?”

  “I deny nothing.”

  ‘’Am I to assume then, that you refuse to take an oath of loyalty to the Union?”

  Something in Drayton’s eyes cautioned her against the retort she almost flung back at him. She calmed herself and spoke slowly. ‘’None of this is justification for stealing, Colonel.”

  “I need not offer any justification to the enemy!” he barked.

  In spite of what had happened the night before, Ambrosia’s gaze flew anxiously to Drayton’s face. She was suddenly afraid of what was happening, afraid of losing everything. And though she hated herself for admitting to any such fear, and even more for seeking his help, her eyes silently sought the favor. Colonel Reed followed her gaze. Major Rambert has no authority here,” he reminded her shortly. “I am in charge.”

  She stared at Drayton a moment longer, searching desperately for the protection he had offered her before. But his eyes were hard now, except for what might have been a tiny spark of pity. She watched numbly as he turned to give a curt salute to the colonel, then left the room with a quick, angry stride. And suddenly she knew. He had tried. He had pleaded her case and lost, and he would fight no more. She felt a cold prickling at the nape of her neck at the realization. She was alone now and powerless.

  The colonel rose to his full height and drew a long puff on his cigar as he watched Rambert’s exit. But it was the other man, Julian Bardo, who seemed more eager to gloat over his victory. He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped toward Ambrosia. “Perhaps you have learned a lesson in all this, Miss Lanford.”

  She stiffened and jerked away from him.

  He smiled and stepped close again. “The next time you must be more careful about choosing a protector. I could have saved you from all this...” He gestured about with his hand. “But you chose Rambert. And now you will lose everything. ‘’

  Ambrosia whirled and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. Everything was dead silent for a long moment then as every eye in the room riveted on her and Bardo. Slowly, he lifted his hand to touch the red imprint that had appeared on his face, feeling the hot sting of the impact in disbelief.

  The colonel tossed his cigar angrily to the floor. “You have half an hour to take your people and evacuate the house. I have orders to see it, and any other haven for Rebels, destroyed to the last timber.”

  Ambrosia felt a tear slip over her cheek, for all her efforts to hold it back. If she had had a gun, she would have shot the colonel and Bardo dead, and died willingly in exchange for seeing their blood. But she had no weapon, no way to fight so many, no way to prevent the slaughter of everything she held dear. She had only a tiny remnant of her pride.

  Without a word she left the parlor and went to salvage what little she could that had not already been stolen a
nd to somehow tell the others what she had been told.

  The morning remained dark and gray, and a chilly, intermittent drizzle began as the noon approached. Ambrosia stood tall and silent beside Elly and the three blacks, her eyes dark and distant, watching the soldiers load up the last of the livestock, watching them carry off shovels and tools that might have meant a chance for beginning again, watching the men destroy what few things they did not take. She was overcome by bitterness as she watched Crawford and Riley and several of Major Rambert’s men helping themselves to a share of the spoils as well. The major said nothing to stop them, and her hatred and bitterness grew. She met his eyes only once, briefly, but long enough to see the resignation in them, long enough to ignore the regret. She clenched her fists tightly to re­ strain the desire to scream at him, to hurt him, to destroy a part of him. Ambrosia lifted her eyes to the screaming soldiers who eagerly snatched up torches from a great bonfire at the front of the house. They ran like scores of fiery demons to spread their senseless destruction. Draperies, shutters, rugs, banisters, bookcases-all were set aflame. Then the shed, the springhouse, the carriage house, the kitchen, the stable... The fire was everywhere.

  For a time, the great house seemed immune to the flames, standing proud and aloof, even as the bright red­ gold tongues licked voraciously at it’s every corner. Then one after another, windows cracked and exploded. The interior became an inferno as the hungry flames sought to feed on the fresh, cool air outside. The dream that was Heritage was dying before Ambrosia’s eyes, leaving her alone and empty.

  Huge clouds of smoke mushroomed all about the flames, and a strong, acrid odor clung to the humid air. The flames roared high and almost glorious as they consumed the cupola, crackling and gasping and relentlessly devouring. When the cupola fell and the largest part of the roof collapsed, Colonel Reed gave orders for his men to depart. As soon as they had gone, Rambert turned quickly and also led his men away. Only after the last of the Yankees rode out of sight did Ambrosia collapse in a small, convulsing heap to sob in utter helplessness as the fire ran its course.

  The fire burned out of control until nightfall, when it began to rain in earnest. By then the grand walls of Heritage lay crumpled, fallen in defeat. Only a few brave tongues of orange managed to flicker into the darkness of the night, mingling their hissing and popping sounds with the gentle patter of raindrops. Ambrosia sat silent and oblivious to all, the rain cold on her hot cheeks, the wind sending shivers through her that echoed the cold ache in her soul. When darkness fell, the others thought to find shelter in the nearby woods, but Ambrosia refused to move. Andrew remained by her side throughout the night.

  The first light of dawn illuminated the hills of Heritage with a bright golden glow, but the highest hill stood scarred and blackened, like a spectral reminder of a life that had once been rich and full and beautiful. Ambrosia’s eyes were glassy and unblinking as they fixed on the ruins, refusing to believe. Her expression did not alter the slightest bit, even when Josiah crouched to the ground beside her, though his appearance had surprised the others.

  “You all right, Miz Ambrosia?” he asked solicitously. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  Her eyes left the shadowed ruins for a moment to gaze dumbly at his worried face. She said nothing, her eyes moving to the remains of the house once more. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, though she sat utterly silent, as if unaware of them. Josiah sighed and glanced uncertainly up at Sheba, who gave a helpless shrug. It was Andrew who came to Josiah’s aid, bending his cramped old legs to kneel beside her on the opposite side, putting his calloused, gnarled hand against her cheek. “Miz Ambrosia? Miz Ambrosia?” He prodded her until she met his eyes. “We can’t stay heah, Miz Ambrosia. Ain’ nothin’ lef fo’ us heah. We gots t’ go fin’ us a place t’ stay.”

  Her eyes flickered with momentary recognition, then she turned away. “You are all free to go,” she told them in a hushed voice. “I-I cannot offer you a home any longer.”

  Josiah and Andrew exchanged a quick glance, then looked to Sheba and Sally who shook their heads determinedly. Only Elly drew a ragged breath and faced them with timidity. The big house was gone now. The Lanford name meant nothing anymore.

  “Ain’t nothing to keep us here,’’ she insisted in a tearful whimper. “We’ll all die if we stay here. It’s cold and wet-we’ll die!”

  Ambrosia faced her with eyes which seemed suddenly old and faded. “You are free to go, Elly,” she said with a strange indifference. “Your brother’s place isn’t far from here. Everyone is free to go.”

  Elly’s face brightened a bit, but her eyes slipped uncertainly over the slaves who stood by Ambrosia so loyally. It made her feel guilty to be leaving, but survival was more important to Elly than any qualms of conscience. She turned abruptly to gather up the few personal items she had salvaged from the house. And then she was gone. The blacks shook their heads after her while they stood steadfastly at Ambrosia’s side. But there was an uneasy anxiety among them about what was to be done. For the past two years Ambrosia had given them orders, and they had been utterly dependent on her directions. Only Josiah had been on his own long enough to determine that breakfast was the first immediate need to be satisfied, and he left to find some small game. His initiative seemed to spur the others into action. Sheba and Sally went to dig up the provisions that had been buried weeks before, which proved quite a task without a proper shovel. Andrew gingerly poked about the remains of the kitchen, eventually locating a heavy old pot under the smoldering debris. It was badly dented but still serviceable, and it gave him reason to hope that there might be more.

  It was some time later when all the scavengers converged and were able to put together a meal. No one spoke of what would be done afterward; no one spoke much at all.

  When Josiah offered Ambrosia an old, misshapen tin cup filled with stew, she glanced without interest at it, then looked away.

  “Eat, Miz Ambrosia,” he urged, placing the cup firmly in her hand. “You starvin’ t’ death ain’t gonna’ bring back what’s gone.”

  “Nothing will ever bring it back,” she said softly. Ambrosia looked up at him with tortured eyes and slowly shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Josiah closed his eyes and sighed, then moved the cup with renewed determination toward her mouth. “Eat first. Massah Jackson always said a man thinks twice as good on a full stomach.”

  Ambrosia twisted away from the cup and her eyes clouded with tears. “There’s nothing to think about anymore, Josiah. Nothing left to hold on to. Nowhere to go-” Her voice caught and she covered her face with her hands, ashamed of her tears. She did not want to cry but there was nothing left of strength inside her to stop it. All the memories of yesterday, all the dreams of tomorrow lay before her in ashes.

  Josiah fumbled clumsily with the cup for a moment, then managed to rest a timid hand on her shoulder. “We still have folks, Miz Ambrosia. Miz ‘lissa an’ Massah Ledger, they’ll take us in. But we can’t stay here.”

  Ambrosia sniffed back a fresh onslaught of tears and wiped roughly at her cheeks with the back of her hand. The thought of leaving Heritage was unbearable, of running to her sister for help even worse. But the mention of Ledger’s name made a tiny seed of hope take root in her deepest despair. Ledger... she closed her eyes and remembered the youthful, handsome face framed with thick, golden hair; the flashy, reckless smile; the clear, blue eyes so like a spring sky. Moments before she had believed that everything she loved was gone. But Josiah reminded her of what her heart had never really forgotten. She loved Ledger most of all.

  She opened her eyes and drew a long, unsteady breath as she gazed at the smoldering ruins one last time. She turned away. Father was dead. The house was gone. The means of rebuilding had been destroyed. Yet there was still something of hope left inside her. Her eyes fell on a small splash of purple in the greening grass and were fixed on it for several moments before she realized wha
t it was. She bent to touch the tiny violet, which had braved the wet, chilly night to blossom so much earlier than any of the other flowers. Ambrosia plucked it from its tiny stem and touched it to her cheek.

  “Miz Ambrosia?”

  She sighed and raised newly confident eyes, finally accepting the tin cup of stew. She would need strength to make the journey to Charleston on foot, without any money or provisions to speak of. And God only knew what they might find when they got there. She pushed that thought aside and began to eat in earnest, instructing the others to do likewise. They would all need their strength for what was to come.

  Part Two

  Charleston

  April 1865

  Chapter 8

  The late April sun was a blaze of white gold as it rose above the city of Charleston, though the air was still pleasantly mild and the breezes cool. Ambrosia waited until Sheba unlatched the heavy wrought-iron gate, then swept impatiently past her onto the street. She paused for a moment, letting her eyes scan the long row of houses, each bearing disfiguring scars of the shelling in the harsh sunlight, each sadly in need of patch and paint. The houses were all tall and thin and stood at right angles to the street, each protected by a surrounding brick wall or wrought-iron fence. Some houses were pink, green, or yellow, colors which only made their current state of disrepair all the more apparent. All was strangely quiet.

  The war was over; the South had been brought to her knees and had finally admitted defeat at Appomattox Court House weeks before. And though the hatred and bitterness inside Ambrosia raged stronger than ever against the Yankee victors, she had come to accept the fact that the Confederacy had been defeated on the battlefield. It was not right; it was not just. But she had learned many years before that right and justice were not always victorious. Still, life went on. It was a very different kind of life, a life of hardship, of poverty. But at least there was hope of changing those things. At least there would be no more killing and burning.