Song of the Mockingbird, Chapter 1

Two quick notes - the use of 'ok' became popularized in 1839, following both an article in the Boston Post, and then the campaign of Martin Van Buren, nicknamed Old Kinderhooks, in 1840. And crawdaddies are crawdaddies - not craw daddies, crawdads, crayfish, or crawfish. LOL! I grew up there, I read the diary. I promise.

Chapter 1

Father stood with his back ramrod straight, his rifle on his shoulder, and bayonet in its bracket on the side of the rifle glinting in the sunlight. May was always warm, and this May was exceptionally so. Tiny beads of sweat stood on his forehead, under the black bill of his navy blue cap. His wool coat was buttoned to the neck. It had been made in the cooler spring in Pennsylvania, and there it might have been welcomed. In the mountains of East Tennessee, it was hot and hated. Despised for what it meant; standing for the war that rocked the community, the county, the country. The blue marked him as traitor to half of the people who knew and loved him, and gave him the burden of savior and hero to the other half.

Frank stood watching, wondering if he was as motionless as Father. Frank stared at his father, who seemed half stranger to him, wearing that new blue coat.

Father moved in a flash, the rifle whipping off his shoulder, taking careful aim, and firing in one long fluid movement. Frank started. A small explosion of feathers erupted in the sky, above the field on the other side of Mother’s honeysuckle-choked fences. Father squinted, staring, and snorted in disgust.

“Well, I can aim, and I can shoot. I just am too danged old to see what I’m aiming at before I kill it.” Turning, he clapped Frank on the shoulder. “Come on boy. Let’s go see just which songbird I’ve saved the flower of Southern woman hood from.”

Frank grinned. Father always said that some of the lines the Rebs used to get everybody fired up were a bunch of hog wash. Trying to keep the war at bay, he repeated them, making them sound stupid and meaningless, from the pulpit. “Protecting the flower of Southern Womanhood” was the title of an essay from a South Carolina paper, and was a phrase that made Father and Uncle Joe snort and laugh each time they read it. Mother got in a snit about their laughter, but Father teased her and called her ‘his violet, his peony, his dogwood blossom’ until she laughed, exasperated. But war came, war continued. War was where Father was going.

“I can’t stop it now boy, but maybe I can go where I am needed most.”

Frank bit his lower lip, clenching his jaw. He didn’t say the obvious. The family needed Father most, one elderly preacher wasn’t going to make a difference to the war. Losing that preacher would break the family.

Frank and Father climbed the fence, the intoxicating honeysuckle filling the entire yard with its heady scent. The first of the year’s fat honeybees were looping their way drunkenly from one blossom to the next. They walked in silence, Frank studying his Father, trying to memorize his features, his walk, his scent. He thought that ‘elderly’ wasn’t the way to describe his father. Lizzie always said he was old, when telling him not to join up. But Father’s hair was far more black than gray, with touches of silver at the temples. There were a few specks of gray in his black beard, at the corner of his mouth, although that only made him look permanently amused. Which he usually was anyway.

‘No’, Frank thought, ‘Father was strong, still tough’.
Frank stood a little straighter, his chest puffing a bit at the thought. He was old to be a soldier, but not an officer, and an officer he would be, of sorts. The 9th Tennessee Calvary granted him a Colonel’s status, although his official rank was Chaplain. He was an officer, but not in command.

The two stopped, finding what was left of the bird Father hit, practicing with the rifle he hadn’t used in years. Before he had met and married Mother, Father had been a rider, preaching on the Methodist circuit, traveling and preaching to places and people too remote for a church. He rode in the wilderness, living as much off the land as off the scant hospitality of his remote parishioners.

Together they stared at the gray and black bundle. Frank thought with a shiver, “the bird matches Father”. The little black body was streaked with silver. He shuddered at the bloody hole in the bird’s body.

Father was staring hard. He crouched down, his rifle across his knees. One big hand reached down and cupped up the little broken body.

“What’s the matter?” Frank asked, his voice low and confused.

“It’s a mockingbird, boy. You know it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” Father’s tone was taut.

“You said that was just a tall tale – superstition. From the darkies and Cherokee. Nothin’ an educated man believes. Didn’t you?”

Father looked at Frank steadily, his blue eyes intense and strong. He gave a nervous little laugh.

“Yes, I did boy. I guess the times and troubles are working on me. Still…”

Father stood and walked back to the fence, climbing over it easily with one hand still cradling the bird’s body. He walked beside the fence, beside the house, to the barnyard. He grabbed a shovel, and crossed behind the barn, where a tiny little creek ran. On the other side of the creek stood an ancient weeping willow, where Frank and Archie, and all of his sisters played through all the days of their childhood. The sunlight dappled the willow, shadowing the water, and even from a few feet away Frank could see the darting of crawdaddies and minnows in the icy trickle.

Father stepped across the creek, two strides taking him to the far bank. Frank trailed behind, uncertainty slowing his steps. He held back and watched Father, both of them encompassed by the shadow of the tree, separated by the stream between them. Father lay the bird on the ground, and dug a little hole with quick, efficient motion. He buried the broken little thing, patting the red clay soil over the top gently. He stood there for a moment then, his head bowed. Frank felt intrusive, knowing he was deep in prayer. The minutes stretched, and Frank wondered if he should leave. He turned to go and realized that Father was staring at him. His blue eyes flashed in the willow’s shade, catching a stray sunbeam and giving them an unearthly glow. For the second time, Frank shivered, trying to squash the image of the bloody bird that crept back into his head.
Father crossed back to Frank, placing an arm across his shoulder, and beginning the short walk to the barn.

“Don’t mind me boy. These times will place fancy with any man’s mind. That’s all it is, I took a fancy from a simple mistake. God won’t take me down for killing a mockingbird.”

He stared at his father. God demanding his father’s death in exchange for the bird’s?
Father seemed to know his mind.

“But I gave it a Christian burial, and said a prayer just in case.” Father’s rich laugh rang out, filling the barnyard with rich tones, and Frank laughed with him, unsure but relieved to hear the sound.
“Me – a preacher! A grown man, burying a mockingbird! Don’t you dare tell your Uncle Joe – I’ll never hear the end of it. Nor your mother, and especially not Lizzie! You hear me?”
Father’s tone grew more serious, and he stopped, looking at the sky with a contemplative gaze.
“Frank, don’t you tell what I just did. They’re all working themselves to death trying to show me how they aren’t worrying about me leaving, about how strong they are, just so I’ll be strong. If you told them I…well, let’s just keep it between me an’ you, a tired man’s foolish fancy. That’s all it was.” Father looked at him, eyebrows raised, although there was no question of argument. Frank didn’t quite understand, but at eleven years old, he supposed he’d figure it out someday.

"Ok Father, but what...?”

"No - just forget about it. You never even saw it. Understand?" Father's voice brooked no argument, and Frank shut his mouth, nodding again.

They crossed the barn yard together, toward the lean to at the back of the house. A birdcall broke the late afternoon hush, a series of double notes. Father froze, staring straight ahead. The call came again. Father dropped his head. His voice was soft and gentle.

“That’s the mate, boy. Mockingbirds mate for life. That little bird will call herself to death now, hunting for the one that can’t answer now. She won’t eat, nor sleep, nor rest. She’ll drop dead of hunger and thirst and exhaustion in a couple days.” Father sighed, his breath heavy. For a second, Frank thought his voice broke, but when Father continued, he realized he couldn’t tell.

“You go on in to you Mother now. I’ll be in shortly. Tell Mother I’ll be right there.”

Frank furrowed his brow, worry creeping up to keep company with the idea of the bloody mate. He continued on into the house, washing up as fast as he could. He could hear Lizzie, Mother’s maid, rummaging around in the linen closet in the hallway, and Mother singing in the parlor.

“Say brothers, can you meet us on Canaan’s happy shore?” Mother’s voice was low and sweet.

Crossing the kitchen, Frank glanced out the window, and saw Father standing in the field beside the house again. Frank stopped, rooted and fascinated. He stood with his head bowed, rifle on his shoulder, head cocked as though listening.

Suddenly, Father whirled, bringing the rifle up in the same smooth, fluid motion he used earlier. He fired, and Frank jumped, even though he knew the sound was coming. The window pane gave the faintest rattle, in response to Frank’s jump or Father’s shot.
Father walked across the field a little ways, and leaned down. Frank could see just enough that what he held in his hand this time was another little black and gray bird.

“The mockingbird’s mate” Frank thought, and for a third time a shiver ran up his spine.

“What give you the willies, boy? Goose on yore grave?” Lizzie marched behind him, her arms full of linens for the table. “Or on somebody else’s?” Her low laugh was rich and deep. Frank turned to her just as she caught sight of Father out the window. She dropped the linens. Her laugh cut off, and her tone dropped an octave.

“Oh, I am sorry, Master Frank. I am sorry.”

Frank would later be stunned at her apology. Lizzie had ruled him with an iron fist and a wooden spoon all the days of her life. But looking at her huge dark eyes, faded and watery with age, he knew that somehow, they were feeling the very same thing. They stood, watching Father, striding across the field again to grab the shovel, to disappear behind the barn. Their shoulders were close, but did not touch. Frank had the sudden wish that she would hold him and rock him as she had a thousand times before. But she hadn’t been able to hold him for years now. He was too old, too big, too close to being a man.

He wanted to tell her about the mocking birds, she would understand. She would know what Father did, and why it upset him, and why he then hunted down the lonely little mate. She would know, and would rock it away like she did when she was little.

But he gave his promise, and he was nearly a man grown. They stood in the growing dark of late afternoon, gazing at one another in silence, sharing the ache they could not discuss.