Matters were getting critical for Squire Fambrough. He had vowed and
declared that he would never be a refugee, but he had a responsibility
on his hands that he had not counted on. That responsibility was his
daughter Julia, twenty-two years old, and as obstinate as her father.
The Squire had sent off his son's wife and her children, together with
as many negroes as had refused to go into the Union lines. He had
expected his daughter to go at the same time, but when the time
arrived, the fair Julia showed that she had a mind of her own. She
made no scene, she did not go into hysterics; but when everything was
ready, she asked her father if he was going. He said he would follow
along after a while. She called to a negro, and made him take her
trunks and band-boxes from the wagon and carry them into the house,
while Squire Fambrough stood scratching his head.
"Why don't you make her come?" his daughter-in-law asked, somewhat
sharply.
"Well, Susannah," the Squire remarked, "I ain't been a jestice of the
peace and a married man, off and on for forty year, without findin'
out when to fool with the wimen sek an' when not to fool wi' 'em."
"I'd make her come," said the daughter-in-law.
"I give you lief, Susannah, freely an' fully. Lay your baby some'rs
wher' it won't git run over, an' take off your surplus harness, an' go
an' fetch her out of the house an' put her in the buggy."
But the daughter-in-law treated the courteous invitation with
proper scorn, and the small caravan moved off, leaving the fair Julia
and her father in possession of the premises. According to human
understanding, the refugees got off just in the nick of time. A day or
two afterwards, the Union army, figuratively speaking, marched up,
looked over Squire Fambrough's front palings, and then fell back to
reflect over the situation. Shortly afterwards the Confederate
army marched up, looked over the Squire's back palings, and also
fell back to reflect. Evidently the situation was one to justify
reflection, for presently both armies fell back still farther.
These movements were so courteous and discreet--were such a
colossal display of etiquette--that war seemed to be out of the
question. Of course there were the conservative pickets, the
thoughtful videttes, and the careful sharp-shooters, ready to
occasion a little bloodshed, accidentally or intentionally. But by
far the most boisterously ferocious appendages of the two armies
were the two brass bands. They were continually challenging each
other, beginning early in the morning and ending late in the
afternoon; one firing off "Dixie," and the other "Yankee Doodle." It
was "Yankee Doodle, howdy do?" and "Doodle-doodle, Dixie, too," like
two chanticleers challenging each other afar off.
This was the situation as it appeared to Squire Fambrough and his
daughter. On this particular morning the sun was shining brightly, and
the birds were fluttering joyously in the budding trees. Miss Julia
had brought her book out into the grove of venerable oaks which was
the chief beauty of the place, and had seated herself on a rustic
bench that was built around one of the trees. Just as she had become
interested, she heard a rifle-shot. She moved uneasily, but fell to
reading again, and was apparently absorbed in the book, when she heard
another shot. Then she threw the book down and rose to her feet,
making a very pretty centerpiece in the woodland setting.
"Oh! what is the matter with everything?" she exclaimed. "There's the
shooting again! How can I read books and sit quietly here while the
soldiers are preparing to fight? Oh, me! I don't know what to do! If
there should be a battle here, I don't know what would become of us."
Julia, in her despair, was fair to look upon. Her gown of striped
homespun stuff, simply made, set off to admiration her strong but
supple figure. Excitement added a new lustre to her eye and gave a
heightened color to the rose that bloomed on her cheeks. She stood a
moment as if listening, and then a faint smile showed on her lips. She
heard her father calling:
"Jule! Jule! O Jule!"
"Here I am, father!" she cried. "What is it?"
"Well, the Lord he'p my soul! I've been huntin' for you high an' low.
Did you hear that shootin'? I 'lowed may be you'd been took prisoner
an' carried bodaciously off. Didn't I hear you talkin' to somebody?"
Squire Fambrough pulled off his hat and scratched his head. His face,
set in a fringe of gray beard, was kindly and full of humor, but it
contained not a few of the hard lines of experience.
"No, father," said Julia, in reply to the Squire's question. "I was
only talking to myself."
"Jest makin' a speech, eh? Well, I don't blame you, honey. I'm a great
mind to jump out here in the clearin' an' yell out my sentiments so
that both sides can hear 'em."
"Why, what is the matter, father?"
"I'm mad, honey! I'm jest nachally stirred up--dog my cats ef I ain't!
Along at fust I did hope there wouldn't be no fightin' in this
neighborhood, but now I jest want to see them two blamed armies light
into one another, tooth and toe-nail."
"Why, father!" Julia made a pretty gesture of dismay. "How can you
talk so?"
"Half of my niggers is gone," said Squire Fambrough; "one side has got
my hosses, and t'other side has stole my cattle. The Yankees has
grabbed my grist mill, an' the Confeds has laid holt of my corn crib.
One army is squattin' in my tater patch, and t'other one is roostin'
in my cow pastur'. Do you reckon I was born to set down here an' put
up wi' that kind of business?"
"But, father, what can you do? How can you help yourself? For heaven's
sake, let's go away from here!"
"Great Moses, Jule! Have you gone an' lost what little bit of common
sense you was born with? Do you reckon I'm a-goin' to be a-refugeein'
an' a-skee-daddlin' across the country like a skeer'd rabbit at my
time of life? I hain't afeared of nary two armies they can find room
for on these hills! Hain't I got one son on one side an' another son
on t'other side? Much good they are doin', too. If they'd a-felt like
me they'd a fit both sides. Do you reckon I'm a-gwine to be drove
off'n the place where I was born, an' where your granpappy was born,
an' where your mother lies buried? No, honey!"
"But, father, you know we can't stay here. Suppose there should be a
battle?"
"Come, honey! come!" There was a touch of petulance in the old man's
tone. "Don't get me flustrated. I told you to go when John's wife an'
the children went. By this time you'd 'a' been out of hearin' of the
war."
"But, father, how could I go and leave you here all by yourself?" The
girl laid her hand on the Squire's shoulder caressingly.
"No," exclaimed the Squire, angrily; "stay you would, stay you did,
an' here you are!"
"Yes, and now I want to go away, and I want you to go with me. All the
horses are not taken, and the spring wagon and the barouche are
here."
"Don't come a-pesterin' me, honey! I'm pestered enough as it is. Lord,
if I had the big men here what started the war, I'd take 'em an' butt
their cussed heads together tell you wouldn't know 'em from a lot of
spiled squashes."
"Now, don't get angry and say bad words, father."
"I can't help it, Jule; I jest can't help it. When the fuss was
a-brewin' I sot down an' wrote to Jeems Buchanan, and told him, jest
as plain as the words could be put on paper, that war was boun' to
come if he didn't look sharp; an' then when old Buck dropped out, I
sot down an' wrote to Abe Lincoln an' told him that coercion wouldn't
work worth a cent, but conciliation----"
"Wait, father!" Julia held up her pretty hand. "I hear some one
calling. Listen!"
Not far away they heard the voice of a negro. "Marse Dave Henry! O
Marse Dave Henry!"
"Hello! Who the nation are you hollerin' at?" said Squire Fambrough as
a youngish looking negro man came in view. "An' where did you come
from, an' where are you goin'?"
"Howdy, mistiss--howdy, marster!" The negro took off his hat as he
came up.
"What's your name?" asked the Squire.
"I'm name Tuck, suh. None er you all ain't seed nothin' er Marse----"
"Who do you belong to?"
"I b'longs ter de Cloptons down dar in Georgy, suh. None er you-all
ain't seed nothin'----"
"What are you doin' here?" demanded Squire Fambrough, somewhat
angrily. "Don't you know you are liable to get killed any minute?
Ain't you makin' your way to the Yankee army?"
"No, suh." The negro spoke with unction. "I'm des a-huntin' my young
marster, suh. He name Dave Henry Clopton. Dat what we call him--Marse
Henry. None er you-all ain't seed 'im, is you?"
"Jule," said the Squire, rubbing his nose thoughtfully, "ain't that
the name of the chap that used to hang around here before the Yankees
got too close?"
"Do you mean Lieutenant Clopton, father?" asked Julia, showing some
confusion.
"Yessum." Tuck grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Marse Dave
Henry is sholy a lieutender in de company, an' mistiss she say he'd a
done been a giner'l ef dey wa'nt so much enviousness in de army."
"I saw him this morning--I mean--" Julia blushed and hesitated. "I
mean, I heard him talking out here in the grove."
"Who was he talking to, Jule?" The Squire put the question calmly and
deliberately.
There was a little pause. Julia, still blushing, adjusted an imaginary
hair-pin. The negro looked sheepishly from one to the other. The
Squire repeated his question.
"Who was he talking to, Jule?"
"Nobody but me," said the young lady, growing redder. Her embarrassment
was not lessened by an involuntary "eh--eh," from the negro. Squire
Fambrough raised his eyes heavenwards and allowed both his heavy hands
to drop helplessly by his side.
"What was he talkin' about?" The old man spoke with apparent
humility.
"N-o-t-h-i-n-g," said Julia, demurely, looking at her pink finger-nails.
"He just asked me if I thought it would rain, and I told him I
didn't know; and then he said the spring was coming on very rapidly,
and I said, 'Yes, I thought it was.' And then he had found a bunch of
violets and asked me if I would accept them, and I said, 'Thank you.'"
"Land of the livin' Moses!" exclaimed Squire Fambrough, lifting his
hands above his head and allowing them to fall heavily again. "And
they call this war!"
"Yessum!" The negro's tone was triumphant. "Dat sholy wuz Marse Dave
Henry. War er no war, dat wuz him. Dat des de way he goes 'mongst de
ladies. He gi'um candy yit, let 'lone flowers. Shoo! You can't tell me
nothin' 'tall 'bout Marse Dave Henry."
"What are you wanderin' 'round here in the woods for?" asked the
Squire. His tone was somewhat severe. "Did anybody tell you he was
here?"
"No, suh!" replied Tuck. "Dey tol' me back dar at de camps dat I'd
fin' 'im out on de picket line, an' when I got dar dey tol' me he wuz
out dis a-way, whar dey wuz some sharp-shootin' gwine on, but I ain't
foun' 'im yit."
"Ain't you been with him all the time?" The Squire was disposed to
treat the negro as a witness for the defence.
"Lor, no, suh! I des now come right straight fum Georgy. Mistiss--she
Marse Dave Henry's ma--she hear talk dat de solyers ain't got no cloze
fer ter w'ar an' no vittles fer ter eat, skacely, an' she tuck'n made
me come an' fetch 'im a box full er duds an' er box full er vittles.
She put cake in dar, yit, 'kaze I smelt it whiles I wuz handlin' de
box. De boxes, dey er dar at de camp, an' here me, but wharbouts is
Marse Dave Henry? Not ter be a-hidin' fum somebody, he de hardest
white man ter fin' what I ever laid eyes on. I speck I better be
knockin' 'long. Good-by, marster; good-by, young mistiss. Ef I don'
fin' Marse Dave Henry no wheres, I'll know whar ter come an' watch fer
'im."
The Squire watched the negro disappear in the woods, and then turned
to his daughter. To his surprise, her eyes were full of tears; but
before he could make any comment, or ask any question, he heard the
noise of tramping feet in the woods, and presently saw two Union
soldiers approaching. Almost immediately Julia called his attention to
three soldiers coming from the Confederate side.
"I believe in my soul we're surrounded by both armies," remarked the
Squire dryly. "But don't git skeer'd, honey. I'm goin' to see what
they're trespassin' on my premises for."