Where the Mockingbird Sang
A Novel of the Civil War
by David Wilson Atwood
"
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Forward
The story of Evans Atwood is told from his journals. In keeping
with the spirit of journaling, there are many excerpts, real and
fictional, used in the telling of this story. Evans copied many of the
letters he received along with many he wrote in his “copy book”. From
this correspondence, I was able to piece together a narrative. All
letters and journal entries are outlined.
The fictitious entries are written in the same spirit that I think he,
or the person he was corresponding with, would have written. I have
been as true to the story as possible.
I have changed some of the language. It was a naïve and
sentimental time, and the men spoke in windy phrases. Things
written were often poetic and wordy. I have made them more modern
while making every effort to stay true to the time. All interpretation of
character and fact are mine, hence, I lay claim to all mistakes.
The story of Evans Atwood is told from his journals. In keeping
with the spirit of journaling, there are many excerpts, real and
fictional, used in the telling of this story. Evans copied many of the
letters he received along with many he wrote in his “copy book”. From
this correspondence, I was able to piece together a narrative. All
letters and journal entries are outlined.
The fictitious entries are written in the same spirit that I think he,
or the person he was corresponding with, would have written. I have
been as true to the story as possible.
I have changed some of the language. It was a naïve and
sentimental time, and the men spoke in windy phrases. Things
written were often poetic and wordy. I have made them more modern
while making every effort to stay true to the time. All interpretation of
character and fact are mine, hence, I lay claim to all mistakes.
Excerpts...
1) The Battle for Port Gibson, Mississippi
Thursday, April 30 – Friday, May 1, 1863
I shiver in the late night chill of the last night of April, first day of
May. The dusty scent of pine resin mixes with the sweetness of
magnolia and honeysuckle to bid me sleep. The pines provide a soft
bed of needles that entice me to yield to bone deep weariness, but I
can’t. Six thousand men in the fields and woods to our rear are
counting on us to be the first line of defense; the sharp point of the
sword, the warning shot.
We six of Company A, 15th Arkansas Infantry of the Confederate
States Army are assigned picket duty. Our post overlooks Rodney
Road along which we force marched hours ago from Grand Gulf on
the Mississippi River. The road crosses Bayou Pierre southeast of the
town of Port Gibson, a mile or two to our rear. This is the road Grant’s
invading army will use as they march inland from Bruinsburg where
they landed unopposed. Their objective is Vicksburg, about thirty
miles to the north. This is where we have to stop twenty thousand
Yankee invaders.
I say into the dark, “Midnight?”......
The muzzle flashes of artillery light their positions as well as
ours, and we are able to choose targets, fire, and move. The cries of
their wounded tell us we are effective. As they return fire, we target
their muzzle flashes, and continue our skillful, accurate, death
dealing work. The enemy fire is inadequate and inaccurate. They
aren’t as we good as we are.
The battle continues for over an hour with no break. My mouth
is parched from the gun powder as I rip open the cartridges with my
teeth before pushing them down the barrel of my rifle, but I cannot
stop to open my canteen and drink. The right side of my face is
stinging from the repeated blasts of caps into the chamber and the
back flash. I rub dirt over my face to ease the pain, and to prevent
further burns. My nostrils and throat are raw from the smoke laden
air.
The Union artillery pieces are silenced one by one either by our
cannon fire, or their ineffective fire and desire to conserve powder and
shot until daybreak. They did not expect this spirited a resistance
and choose to break off the engagement and reorganize; wait for
daylight.
Their skirmishers fall back too. We can hear hundreds, maybe
thousands regrouping along the road and in the woods. We are
panting from exhaustion. The physical strain of battle deepens the
fatigue from our forced march.
The Blue Bellies feel worse than we do. They have been forced to
yield. We have not given up one inch of ground, nor lost one soldier
to wound or death. I fear it won’t last.
Looking around, I see Buck crouching off to my right, and I make my
way to him.
“Fine mornin’ ain’t it Boy?” Buck’s teeth show bright white in his
black bearded, gun powder marked face as he grins at me in victory.
Nathanial James Buchannan is much older than my twenty-six
years. He enlisted to fight the northern insistence that the south
change their ways, and he’s very good at it. His passion swept me
along and we joined together.
Even though he’s over forty, he and I are close. We’ve know each
other since I was six, and before the war, we traveled and adventured
. We’re opposites in most ways, and are good and bad for each other.
Buck is honest, hates liars, cheats, and thieves as much as I do, and
has never said anything he did not mean. It takes him awhile, but
once he reasons it out, if he speaks it, it’ll happen.
“I guess we showed those boys how Arkansians can shoot!”
“We made some Yankees wish for home, that’s for sure, and
some we sent a great way beyond.” The men gather round, pass
around canteens to drink and wash hot faces, and wind down from
the night’s battle.
Buck cuts it short with, “What are your orders Lieutenant?” He
has a way spurring me to action while letting me think it was my
leadership, not his, that got us where we needed to be.
It’s darker now as the moon has dropped below the tree line. We
can’t be certain of where to go if we could go. The Magnolia Church is
a shadow on the ridge. “We don’t have orders to fall back unless
pushed off this ridge, so we’re going to stay.” Everyone is quiet and
listening. “We’re going to take up positions facing the road. Their
skirmishers are on the next ridge or in the gullies and may come to
try us again.” Turning to Buck, “Sergeant, I figure it to be about 3:00
in the morning; that gives us three hours before first light. I suspect
we’ll have company then. Organize a rest and watch schedule
including me. Each man needs time to take care of himself, get
water, and sleep a little.” Chuckles from the men; all know there will
be no sleep tonight. “How we fixed for caps and cartridges? Give me
a count.” There is fumbling in the dark as each man checks. We
tally a number, or as close to it as we can get. “We don’t have enough
ammo. Buck, assign two men to go to the rear and get as much as
you can. Make some noise when you come back, or we’re likely to
shoot.” The detail is sent, and the rest of us take time to go to the
creek, wash our faces, and fill canteens, answer nature’s call, and
rest.
The woods calm, an owl hoots while crickets, frogs, and other
critters are heard again. The Yankees are milling around down the
road. There’ll be no sleep in their camp either. It’s almost as if the
battle was a bad dream. The stinging on my face and the moans of
their wounded tell me otherwise. I lay back to relax and let my mind
wander home.
Thursday, April 30 – Friday, May 1, 1863
I shiver in the late night chill of the last night of April, first day of
May. The dusty scent of pine resin mixes with the sweetness of
magnolia and honeysuckle to bid me sleep. The pines provide a soft
bed of needles that entice me to yield to bone deep weariness, but I
can’t. Six thousand men in the fields and woods to our rear are
counting on us to be the first line of defense; the sharp point of the
sword, the warning shot.
We six of Company A, 15th Arkansas Infantry of the Confederate
States Army are assigned picket duty. Our post overlooks Rodney
Road along which we force marched hours ago from Grand Gulf on
the Mississippi River. The road crosses Bayou Pierre southeast of the
town of Port Gibson, a mile or two to our rear. This is the road Grant’s
invading army will use as they march inland from Bruinsburg where
they landed unopposed. Their objective is Vicksburg, about thirty
miles to the north. This is where we have to stop twenty thousand
Yankee invaders.
I say into the dark, “Midnight?”......
The muzzle flashes of artillery light their positions as well as
ours, and we are able to choose targets, fire, and move. The cries of
their wounded tell us we are effective. As they return fire, we target
their muzzle flashes, and continue our skillful, accurate, death
dealing work. The enemy fire is inadequate and inaccurate. They
aren’t as we good as we are.
The battle continues for over an hour with no break. My mouth
is parched from the gun powder as I rip open the cartridges with my
teeth before pushing them down the barrel of my rifle, but I cannot
stop to open my canteen and drink. The right side of my face is
stinging from the repeated blasts of caps into the chamber and the
back flash. I rub dirt over my face to ease the pain, and to prevent
further burns. My nostrils and throat are raw from the smoke laden
air.
The Union artillery pieces are silenced one by one either by our
cannon fire, or their ineffective fire and desire to conserve powder and
shot until daybreak. They did not expect this spirited a resistance
and choose to break off the engagement and reorganize; wait for
daylight.
Their skirmishers fall back too. We can hear hundreds, maybe
thousands regrouping along the road and in the woods. We are
panting from exhaustion. The physical strain of battle deepens the
fatigue from our forced march.
The Blue Bellies feel worse than we do. They have been forced to
yield. We have not given up one inch of ground, nor lost one soldier
to wound or death. I fear it won’t last.
Looking around, I see Buck crouching off to my right, and I make my
way to him.
“Fine mornin’ ain’t it Boy?” Buck’s teeth show bright white in his
black bearded, gun powder marked face as he grins at me in victory.
Nathanial James Buchannan is much older than my twenty-six
years. He enlisted to fight the northern insistence that the south
change their ways, and he’s very good at it. His passion swept me
along and we joined together.
Even though he’s over forty, he and I are close. We’ve know each
other since I was six, and before the war, we traveled and adventured
. We’re opposites in most ways, and are good and bad for each other.
Buck is honest, hates liars, cheats, and thieves as much as I do, and
has never said anything he did not mean. It takes him awhile, but
once he reasons it out, if he speaks it, it’ll happen.
“I guess we showed those boys how Arkansians can shoot!”
“We made some Yankees wish for home, that’s for sure, and
some we sent a great way beyond.” The men gather round, pass
around canteens to drink and wash hot faces, and wind down from
the night’s battle.
Buck cuts it short with, “What are your orders Lieutenant?” He
has a way spurring me to action while letting me think it was my
leadership, not his, that got us where we needed to be.
It’s darker now as the moon has dropped below the tree line. We
can’t be certain of where to go if we could go. The Magnolia Church is
a shadow on the ridge. “We don’t have orders to fall back unless
pushed off this ridge, so we’re going to stay.” Everyone is quiet and
listening. “We’re going to take up positions facing the road. Their
skirmishers are on the next ridge or in the gullies and may come to
try us again.” Turning to Buck, “Sergeant, I figure it to be about 3:00
in the morning; that gives us three hours before first light. I suspect
we’ll have company then. Organize a rest and watch schedule
including me. Each man needs time to take care of himself, get
water, and sleep a little.” Chuckles from the men; all know there will
be no sleep tonight. “How we fixed for caps and cartridges? Give me
a count.” There is fumbling in the dark as each man checks. We
tally a number, or as close to it as we can get. “We don’t have enough
ammo. Buck, assign two men to go to the rear and get as much as
you can. Make some noise when you come back, or we’re likely to
shoot.” The detail is sent, and the rest of us take time to go to the
creek, wash our faces, and fill canteens, answer nature’s call, and
rest.
The woods calm, an owl hoots while crickets, frogs, and other
critters are heard again. The Yankees are milling around down the
road. There’ll be no sleep in their camp either. It’s almost as if the
battle was a bad dream. The stinging on my face and the moans of
their wounded tell me otherwise. I lay back to relax and let my mind
wander home.
| Chapter 1 |
| Both of David's books are also available at Page and Palette bookstore in Fairhope, Alabama |
| Also by David Wilson Atwood: The Common Guy's Guide to Raising Children. Available online Follow the link below... A Common Guy's Guide to Raising Children |
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| A story about family, battles, heroes, true love and the Civil War. You will love it! Read it out loud!" "Riveting...I felt like I was there. Music from Ken Burn's Civil War series should be playing in the background." |