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 75 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.
