Chapter III: On Neutral Ground

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."