Ambrosia

by Rosanne Kohake

  Ambrosia drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. There was so much to be rebuilt, so much that had been lost in those terrible four years. She opened her eyes and tried to shake off the uncertainties that clouded her mind. The men were coming home, more and more of them every day. Yet no horses were tied to the iron hitching posts which edged the streets; no carriages traversed the pockmarked roads. The high-spirited, pure­ blooded stallions and expensive carriages which had once clogged Charleston’s streets were things of the past, luxuries the proud gentry of this city could no longer afford. And Ledger...Ledger! Ambrosia repeated the name over and over in her mind, as though it could somehow take away the sights and smells of war that surrounded her. But then her eyes dimmed and her brow drew into a worried frown. Many, many soldiers had returned to Charleston these past weeks. Ledger had not. And Melissa had not heard from him, not a single word in months.

  Ambrosia drew deeply of the fragrant air, heavily scented with flowers and the lingering tang of smoke. She needed to get away from the Bowman house, from the crowded quarters and the endless discussions of what had gone wrong with the world and what else was apt to go wrong. The proper folk of Charleston, for the most part, still kept to their houses and with good reason. Just two weeks before, the news of Lincoln’s assassination disrupted the uneasy peace that Federal occupation had brought in late February. For nearly a week Union troops struggled to quell riots, looting, and destruction brought on by hundreds of disgruntled Negroes who had flocked to Charleston in the hopes of claiming confiscated lands. There was no land to be claimed here in the city, despite rumors to the contrary. And the thousands of newly freed slaves pouring into Charleston only threatened famine and more destruction for a city that had been ravaged by four long years of war.

  Ambrosia sighed and began walking, noticing the tiny bits of glass that sparkled in the street. The larger pieces of glass and debris had already been cleared away by Federal troops. And the Yankees had forced order on the madness of the past weeks at least, she admitted silently as she passed a pair of patrolling soldiers. The two turned a curious eye on her and watched her make her way up the sidewalk for several moments before resuming their walk. She was a striking woman, even in black, obviously high-born. An observer could sense it in her stride and bearing, even if the huge Negress had not followed dutifully, protectively behind her with the look of a mother hen. The soldiers were surprised to see such a woman out so soon after General Sickles’s order barring citizens from the streets had been lifted.

  Ambrosia paused uncertainly at the comer of Broad and Meeting streets, then continued on though most of the residences beyond the intersection had been taken over by Union officers. The Bowmans, like many Charleston families, shared their home now with homeless relatives, all crowding into the small house on Meeting Street, trying their best to make do. Though Ledger’s mother had managed a smile and a generous welcome for her daughter-in-law’s kin, Madeline Bowman had not been overjoyed at the prospect of another mouth to feed, to say the least. The loyal Negroes Ambrosia had brought along helped make her arrival slightly more palatable. At least they could collect the food rations handed out daily by the Freedman’s Bureau and keep meager fare on the table.

  Ambrosia had not mentioned to anyone the gold coins Josiah had given to her, and she did not intend to. She had been furious when he had told her the truth about what had happened, furious about accepting charity from a Yankee, especially when that same Yankee had a hand in reducing them to the poverty they now endured. But her anger had subsided with the admission of cold reality. They had been left homeless and utterly destitute, and four loyal former slaves, who now shared quarters with the Bowman’s handful of remaining servants at the rear of the Bowman house, were dependent on her for their survival. She had decided then and there that they would indeed survive, that they would someday return to Heritage and rebuild what had been lost. Even after the journey, she had sixty dollars in gold left in the leather pouch, sixty dollars she did not intend to waste on food as long as they were not starving.

  She stopped for a moment and lifted her eyes to scan the shell of a huge brick building destroyed by fire years earlier. Stark, smoke-darkened arches rose from the rubble, supporting nothing more than a memory of what had been. Ambrosia lifted her chin and slowly moved on, her eyes becoming accustomed to the destruction all around her, her steps becoming firm and resolute. If she were ever to be able to leave this place, if she were ever to be able to return to Heritage, she would have to have more than sixty dollars. And that would mean she would have to find work-certainly no easy task in this city where the only jobs were army or government bureau jobs, both of which required applicants to take an oath of loyalty to the Union. Ambrosia knew of many proper women doing needlework and sewing, but she had almost gone mad trying to fill her hours with such work these past weeks. There were other women who had taken the oath in order to get positions teaching the children of Union officers stationed now in Charleston, or even teaching Negro children. The Yankees paid a decent wage. But Ambrosia could not bring herself to take the oath, not when she considered what her refusal to do so had cost her just two months before, not when she considered that her pride was the only thing she had salvaged from Heritage’s ashes. She could never betray the flag her father had died to defend.

  She sighed as she continued her walking, knowing that her chances of finding any kind of employment were almost nonexistent. But she had needed so to get out of the house, to be by herself for a little while, to be free of the stifling, crowded rooms always buzzing with gossip and conjecture, and even from the garden that had imprisoned all its beauty behind high walls and gates. She had never been close to Melissa, and with the forced confinement and the recent news of the burning of the Bowman plantation on the Ashley River, Melissa’s incessant whining and pessimistic remarks drove Ambrosia to her breaking point. Ambrosia was accustomed to being on her own, to walking alone about the wide, open spaces of Heritage, and to a life which demanded all her strength and will. She was a fighter by nature, and helplessness was something she could not bear to live with. In the Bowman house these days there was nothing to do but sit and wait for news of Ledger. Ambrosia felt every hour of confinement eating away at her courage, her resolve, her spirit. And in that she was not alone. Even Sheba had given in to tears this past week, and it was no wonder, the way she was bossed about the Bowman’s kitchen and made to feel like an unwanted servant. The old black woman had been in command of her own kitchen too long to adjust to being an ordinary menial again.

  Ambrosia halted abruptly when a large woman with flaming red hair stepped from a newly painted building, struggling almost comically with a hammer, nails, and a large wooden sign. Ambrosia cocked her chin curiously and stared as the garish, overdressed woman attempted to fix the red-and-white, hastily painted sign beside the door. The woman drove a single nail with twenty swings that Ambrosia could have tacked in two, then backed up into the street and admired her handiwork. The redhead studied it for a moment, walking a few steps to the right, then a few steps to the left, then grinning and giving a short nod of approval. She returned to the sign and put in another nail.

  Ambrosia swung her skirt to the side and made to step around the woman, who still blocked the sidewalk. But she suddenly thought better of it and peeked into the shop. Her eyes widened at the clutter and confusion which crowded every inch of space in the large room. Crates were stacked precariously one atop another, papers were strewn everywhere, and items just unpacked were tossed in haphazard piles, while shelves and counters stood completely empty. The woman left her sign and followed Ambrosia into the shop, catching her look of astonishment.

  “I’m afraid things aren’t too organized yet,’’ she apologized with what struck Ambrosia as a horrible Northern accent. “But if you’ll just tell me what you’re looking for, I’ll probably be able to find it...somewhere.”

  Ambrosia turned to face her and gave
a shrug. “Actually, Miss-”

  “It’s Mrs. O’Neal. I’m a widow woman now, nigh on a year.”

  Ambrosia politely inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Actually, Mrs. O’Neal, I was merely...er­browsing...” She couldn’t help but frown at the disorganization as she spoke, and Maggie O’Neal snorted with frustration and turned away. This woman wore black, as almost all of them did. And the threadbare look of that dress gave her little hope for a sale.

  After years of working in her husband’s small shop, Maggie O’Neal could recognize a good prospect from a bad, though she generally treated everyone with the same amount of attention. As her husband often used to remind her, one never could tell for certain what someone carried in his purse. And besides, Maggie was a naturally sociable person who enjoyed chatting and saw no virtue in enduring lonely isolation, even during her time of mourning. Her husband ‘s death had been sudden and untimely, just after they had made a commitment to sell their store and go west, a commitment that left Maggie with considerable capital and considerable uncertainty. From what she’d heard the West was no place for a lady alone, and she had not been thrilled with the prospect of living in some tiny, forsaken prairie town with a husband much less without one. So she had decided on Charleston just a month or so before, when the excitement and gossip about the recapture of Fort Sumter caught her fancy. For Maggie this was a place to start over fresh, to be her own woman, and (though she wouldn’t admit it), to capitalize on the needs of a conquering army as it occupied this city that had almost been destroyed. Army men were good customers, she knew that well enough. What Maggie did not know and what she had not really thought about before was the initial trouble it took to set up shop. She had arrived in town with two wagonloads of salable merchandise, found a place, and nailed up a sign.

  But the tasks of organizing, of recording what merchandise she had, of setting up books was completely beyond her. That had always been her husband’s responsibility. And she didn’t know where to begin.

  Ambrosia picked her way gingerly through the store; scanning an abundance of merchandise the likes of which she had not seen since before the war. There were pots and pans and trinkets and farm tools, but the bolts of cloth propped in one comer were what caught her eye, the bright, soft fabrics of blue and green and gold which almost beckoned the touch of her hand. Instinctively she leaned forward and brushed them with her fingers, thinking how long it had been since she’d felt yards and yards of fabric swirling in graceful folds about her feet, suddenly remembering how wonderful it had been to wear a soft, feminine gown, to watch Ledger smile, to dance with him... It had been years since she’d thought of music and dancing and pretty gowns, since she’d thought of anything beyond survival.

  “A-hab!”

  Ambrosia started as Maggie let out another screech. “A-hab!”

  Belatedly a young, gangly black wearing ill-fitting, tattered clothing shuffled slowly through the maze of boxes and stood before Mrs. O’Neal, scratching one shoulder. “Yes’m.”

  “Have you come across those spools of blue thread yet?”

  The Negro stared at his bare foot as he moved it idly over the planked floor. “No’m.”

  “Well, hurry and find them. The general’s wife will be here at noon and I promised her I’d have them for her.”

  “Yes’m.” The black turned and retraced his steps, moving no more quickly than he had when he answered the initial summons. Maggie snorted and bit her lip in frustration, but she straightened immediately and forced a smile when she noticed Ambrosia’s interest. “That Ahab! He’ll be the ruin of me and this shop before I even begin!” She stepped closer and her smile widened at the prospect of making a sale. “Beautiful cloth, isn’t it? And with your eyes...’’

  Her salesmanship was lost on Ambrosia, who was still eyeing Ahab as he moved slowly about the back room. Maggie watched Ambrosia closely, wondering why this young woman seemed so interested in him. “He’s the fifth man I’ve hired and the best of them so far,” she admitted. “At least he’s shown up three days in a row without the smell of liquor on his breath. But-well, he’s not exactly the most ambitious fellow in Charleston, either. And you can see how much there is to be done.” She waved a hand about her at the boxes and clutter, then forced another smile and pointed out another bolt of cloth, this one blue. ‘’That would go well with your eyes too.”

  Ambrosia looked at the cloth with renewed interest, though her mind was not on buying fabric. “You’re probably looking for some hardworking, reliable help, then.” It was a statement more than a question.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a thing in the South!” Ambrosia lifted an indignant brow. “Oh, I’m sure there are hardworking gents hereabouts,” Maggie hastened to explain, “but most men would rather starve before they’d take orders from a woman.”

  “I sympathize with your dilemma, Mrs. O’Neal,” Ambrosia returned politely. Her thoughtful expression became serious as she added slowly, ‘’I can also help you solve it.’’

  “You can?”

  Ambrosia gave a short nod. “How can you do that?” “By working for you.”

  Maggie’s hopeful eyes grew wide with shock as they flew up and down Ambrosia’s diminutive form. She was an attractive girl in an odd sort of way, but small and frail-looking, and Southern gentility was branded plainly on her every word and gesture. She was probably wonderfully gifted at parlor conversation and sewing samplers, and terribly talented at pouring tea, Maggie thought. But she would certainly not be capable of the sort of work a job here would require. ‘Tm not interested in hiring a woman,” Maggie told her bluntly.

  ‘’But, Mrs. O’Neal, you admitted your need just a moment ago.”

  “I said I needed a man. This is heavy work, Mrs.-?” “Miss Lanford.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. The woman had never even been married and probably couldn’t add two and two. ‘’There are things here that only a man could move, Miss Lanford.”

  “My man Josiah will help for a few days, until I can get things organized. And then I ought to be able to-’’ Maggie vehemently shook her head. “You must understand, Miss Lanford,’’ she insisted firmly, ‘’that most of my customers will be Union soldiers and soldiers’ wives and-and other people with whom I-I’m sure you would rather not associate,’’ she added, flustered. She didn’t quite know how to tell a proper woman that she welcomed the business of prostitutes as much as any other kind.

  The argument gave Ambrosia pause, but only for a moment. “I am willing to associate with whomever the position requires.”

  Maggie searched the woman’s face and knew that she meant every word she said. Still-a Southern gentle-woman working for her? The idea was preposterous! “I’m sorry, Miss Lanford. But the answer is still no.”

  “We will discuss salary at the end of the week,” Ambrosia informed her, peeling off her gloves and untying her bonnet, both of which she handed to a stunned Sheba. ‘’That will give me ample time to prove to you what a mistake you almost made.’’

  Maggie was rendered speechless for an instant and considered calling the authorities and having the woman removed. But something inside her admired Ambrosia’s persistence, even while it made her angry. And besides, she had little to lose by letting the woman work for a week and everything to gain. She stared, much agog, as Ambrosia sent her woman after that man Josiah, and then began to gather up the empty boxes and packing material that had been strewn carelessly about the floor. Maggie vented a bewildered sigh and shook her head, wondering how she had gotten herself into this situation and not at all sure she liked it. But there was little to be done about it now beyond waiting and hoping, and watching that the girl didn’t steal her blind. It was important too that she get on with the business of making money. “A-hab! Ahab! Have you found that blue thread yet?”

  Chapter 9

  It was Ambrosia who discovered the thread, and not u
ntil the middle of the following day. By then Maggie was already in awe of the petite woman who worked as hard as any man, lifting boxes nearly as large as herself and organizing everything with an efficiency Maggie couldn’t help but admire. One week later, after they had worked out a modest salary arrangement, Maggie was amazed when Ambrosia presented her with a complete account of all inventory, neatly penned and alphabetized. Each day after closing, Ambrosia stayed an extra hour or so to be certain that the accounting was kept up to date. In very short order she had earned herself a secure position by making herself invaluable to Maggie’s business.

  But there was a cost attached to the job that Ambrosia had not really considered. It did not take long for word to filter back to the Bowman household that Ambrosia would no longer be welcome in the homes of Melissa’s friends. The fact that she, an unmarried woman, was employed as a common shop clerk was scandalous in itself, particularly when so many good men had returned home and had no hope of finding work. But the fact that she was employed by a Yankee woman and dealt with Yankees herself-well, it was more than the proper women of Charleston would stand for, even if her name was Lanford. The women would shake their heads and cluck their tongues in dismay every morning as she made her way up Meeting Street, the black woman Sheba following just a step behind her. Madeline Bowman was chided for permitting such conduct, and she was counseled to rid her home of any guest who would dare exhibit such untoward behavior. While Madeline made no excuses for Ambrosia, neither did she voice her objections to the girl’s employment, for it put the first hard cash into the family coffers in many long months. Ambrosia was family after all, she would explain to her disapproving friends. The girl had no one else and could hardly be turned out into the streets.

  Melissa was not so kind in her treatment of her sister and let everyone who would listen know that she disapproved heartily of Ambrosia’s conduct. Yet it was not so much outrage she felt each morning when she watched Ambrosia rise and ready herself for the day’s work. It was jealousy. Ambrosia had found a reason for going on, while Melissa felt as if she had none. The gracious, lovely way of life she had come to Charleston to enjoy was gone now. The opulent parties, the outrageously ex­ pensive gowns, the thrill of being admired by scores of dashing young men had all vanished into the past. Her world was filled with want and hunger and withered old women dressed in rags, and men who had come home maimed and defeated. How could they have been beaten? She wanted to scream. They had been so eager to taste Yankee blood, to prove their bravery on the field of bat­ tle. They had all been such fools, she thought. And now they were broken men. The anguish of war was there in their eyes.