Chapter 7: The Note

At about half past ten that sultry night someone knocked at the seldom-used front door of the Williams' dark farmhouse. The air was still warm, stirred only by the slightest breeze. The night was full of the cicadas' song and the churr of crickets. Lightening bugs flickered in the fruit trees, and heat lightning flared quietly out toward the hills.

Seth's mother, still dressed as she had been when her younger son had been taken from her, carried a small lamp to the door. "Who is there?" she asked.

"Messenger, madam," came the reply.

"Who is it?" she said without touching the heavy door.

"I have a message from your son."

A familiar voice, she thought. Which son? Her pulse quickened as she pulled the door open and raised her flickering lamp. "Why, Mr. Bouve. Do come in. This is a surprise."

The dapper man removed his hat and bowed slightly as he crossed the threshold. His empty sleeve was pinned to his shoulder, and he held a riding crop under the stump of his missing arm.

"You have a message for me," Seth's mother stated, keeping her voice as flat as she could. To her knowledge, other than the Peter family and the wild-eyed editor of the Sentinel, then resting in the old Capitol prison for his pro-Southern rantings, Mr. Bouve was probably the leading Confederate sympathizer in the County.

"Yes'm, Mrs. Williams. Your son and another rider, who did not choose to give his name, appeared at my home something over an hour ago. Seth asked me to bring you this. He was most insistent." Mr. Bouve looked very uneasy. He reached inside his jacket and produced a folded sheet of notebook paper and handed it to Mrs. Williams. "The boy told me that you might be worried about him."

Seth's mother took the paper and put it into her pocket. "May I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Bouve? It was very kind of you to come so far on such a warm night."

"Aren't you going to read it, Mrs. Williams?" Bouve asked.

"Oh yes, but you have told me that Seth is all right. That is the important thing. I have some sherry. No liquor, I'm afraid, but perhaps just a glass of cool water or some buttermilk."

"Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Williams. I'll bid you good night. I must return home. Mrs. Bouve, you know, hasn't been well since..." His voice dropped, and he looked at his empty sleeve and then at Seth's mother. Perspiration dotted his face. "Perhaps a glass of water," he said.

"Yes, of course. Just a moment." Mrs. Williams set down her lamp, hurried to the kitchen and returned with a dripping glass. Mr. Bouve nodded a thank you and drank quickly. "Good night, sir," she said as he pulled open the door. "Thank you again. It was very kind." He bowed and she closed the door behind him and leaned against it, her eyes closed tight. Her hand, holding the empty glass, trembled.

Seth's mother tidied up her house and took the lamp into her bedroom, pausing on the way to see that Annie was sleeping peacefully. The woman undressed and then sat in her nightgown on the edge of her large, double bed with its high, dark headboard. She unfolded and looked at Seth's note. She smiled at the careful script, perhaps a bit too large, and the formal closing.

Dear Mother,

I am safe but I can not come home tonight.

I am still with the man who came to our house. He

promises to let me go as soon as he can. He says

it might be a day or two more. Please try not to

worry.

Yr loving son, Seth

She read the note again and then folded it carefully and put it in the drawer of her small, bedside table with Robert's few letters. Then she lay back, folded her hands together and prayed.