On The Front By: Patrick Jones

"Oh John, no. You can't go!" I cried, tears spilling down my pale face. I don't think I had yet come to really understanding what he had said.

"Margaret! I must do what I can to serve Virginia. If she's going to the Confederacy, I am too!"

"But that doesn't mean you have to fight! Would you please listen to reasoning, I.."

The burly man cut me off. "No, you listen!" he shouted. 'It makes no sense to run when a regiment is already stationed in the city! I don't want to be known as a coward!"

I turned my face from him. I knew there was no point in arguing further. He stormed out of the room, huffing with every step.

I looked out of the kitchen window, at the luscious meadows beyond. The lilies danced in the stifling June breeze. "Oh Virginia, how long will you stay like this?"

"Margaret, darling, I got in. I." He paused for a second as a single tear rolled down my cheek. " I leave tomorrow."

I didn't know what to do. I flung myself into his arms and wept. "Oh John, why do you have to go?"

He brushed back my long, brown hair and said, "Margaret, I'll come home, I promise."

It was the day after he left. I stood over the stove, cooking cornbread. I had just gotten up from bed. It was nine o'clock. I had scolded myself for waking so late. I abandoned the cornbread and retired to the porch, where I took a seat in my heirloom rocking chair. It was a beautiful day. There was a small breeze.

I was humming "Dixieland" when I felt a large lurch in my stomach. It stopped abruptly, but my stomach still harbored a sharp pain from which I was doubled over. I staggered inside and turned the stove off.

"It seems, Mrs. Mason, that in a few weeks, you're going to have a baby," The doctor said. "All the signs point to yes."

My mouth dropped open. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. All that came out was a tiny squeak.

Then I remembered what John had said before he left. "You sure are looking big!"

"You're such a flatterer!" I said sarcastically.

It was true! I was going to have a baby!

I received to letters from John that month. The first one mentioned him staying in a little town called Cattle Hill. The second one was more quick and hurried:

My Dear Margie,

I have been assigned to the front line. Don't worry, Margaret, the general says there won't be any battles for us until maybe a week.

All my love,

Johnny

I scrambled around for the return address, found it and began to write him back.

My Dearest Johnny,

I know this may come as a shock to you, but I'm going to have a baby! If it's a boy, I'll name him Jonathan Christopher after you! Oh, Johnny, please come home soon! I want you to be able to see your little bundle of joy!

Deepest of Love and Affections,

Margie

A week had passed and I had been waiting patiently for a letter. I paced up and down the wooden porch, reassuring myself that nothing had happened to him. I don't know why, but in this dark corner of my mind was a feeling of sadness. Despair hung on by a single string.

In one part of my mind, I hoped and prayed for a letter saying that he would get to come home soon, but in the other, I couldn't help thinking about getting one of those letters every mother or wife hates: "We regret to inform you."

Every night, I thought about him being on the frontline of battle, him being the first to go. These melancholy thoughts swam around in my head at night. I cried myself to sleep thinking of a fatherless baby, with only a mother to guide and protect him. No one to teach him how to hunt or shoot a gun. No one to give him manly talks or explain to him manly things. All of it would be lost for him. "Oh John, keep your promise."

It was July 2 and I was riding in my carriage over to the doctor's office. He had asked me to come back in a few days to see how I was doing. There was still no letter or word from John. I kept these thoughts in the very back of my mind during the day.

About five minutes away from town, my stomach started to heave and ho. It felt like huge butterflies were doing flips. I hurried the horses along. In was only a matter of minutes! I had to get there!

"Push!" they cried, hovering over me. "Push, push, push!" With one final push, and the 'ohhhhs' and 'awwwwws' from the nurses told me that it was over. Jonathan Christopher Mason had been born. The doctor passed him to me and I took him tenderly into my arms. Tears came to my eyes as I looked at his small dimpled fingers and his round face. "Oh John," I whispered. "Your baby's been born. Now all you have to do is come home and see him!"

It was three days before I could return home. As I pulled up to the porch, crying baby in hand, I spotted a letter on the rocking chair. I stumbled out of the carriage, grasping Jonathan tightly. I raced over to it, but hesitated before I picked it up. It was encased in a yellow envelope with red ink spelling out, Mrs. Margaret Mason

850 Olde Creek Hollow

I picked it up and slowly opened it. I yanked the letter out as shut my eyes tight before reading. I breathed in and out dozens of times before finally reading it. Upon looking at the first few words, my heart sank, and my mind slipped away to another place. It read:

Mrs. Mason,

We regret to inform you that your husband, Jonathan Christopher Mason, has died in battle. He fought gallantly and served the Confederacy well. I am deeply saddened at this loss as I know you are even more.

Sincere Apologies,

General Jackson

I stared at the letter like it was vermin. I threw it aside and rushed inside. I set Jonathan down in a small crib I had already prepared, and flung myself onto the bed, tears soaking the soft covers.

The day was bright and the headstones stuck out among the green grass. I had left Jonathan with a friend that day, so it was just myself and.. John. I fell to my knees at his grave and wept, placing a hand on the cold stone. "You promised! You promised!" I cried, bending down even farther. I didn't know how long I had spent at his grave that day. But I had been there long enough to know that is was time to take care off things, take up where John left off. I went back to the carriage, my mind determined. I was going to do this. I was going to be as brave as John was.

"Ma, I think it's time we go." The fifteen-year-old Jonathan stood over me, rubbing shoulder, comforting me. John's grave had had begun to crack.

I put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder and looked into his bright green eyes. Somehow, they looked stronger now, more confident. "Jonathan, you're going to be just like your father."