June 13, 1871

To-day, as I sat in the sleeper cab reading Twenty Thousand Leagues, Mr. O'Hedge stepped inside with some rather bad news from the South.

"They are sayin' that violent skirmishes have erupted along the border of Alabama, Georgia, and Mississippi," he said, drawing a newspaper from his pocket. He read, "Senator Albert Ames of Mississippi has brought forth the attention of federal mistreatment of southern farmers to President Grant. He declared on Monday, 'Abolitionist oppression of honest landowners will not be tolerated, and I fully stand by their decision to enact upon Mr. Butler's committee.' The statement has outraged Congress as Senator Ames has been a longstanding supporter of Ackerman's investigation."

"He flipped..." I whispered. "Why did he flip?"

"Aye, that be the question o'the mornin', ain't it?"

"Do they know who is behind those attacks?"

"They are supposin' it's those rascal red-shirts and White Leaguers. Incited by someone who is only known as the Foreman. Probably a Redeemer if you ask me." Robert uncorked a bottle of whiskey. "All these politics and what-not. They are sayin' that it is just a response to the nature of Mr. Braxton's prosecution. I am thinkin' they want to make a martyr out of him."

"Or an excuse."

He took a set beside me. "What troubles ya, friend?"

"It is so hard to describe. I fear that something dreadful is approaching. That fate will catch up. Everything that has happened bears so heavy on my shoulders, and I fear I will buckle soon."

"Aye, the world can seem that way, no doubt. Who am I to argue with that? I committed many-a wrongdoin' in my youth, but that did not stop my lady from fallin' in love with yours-truly. She saw past my sins for the scared little boy I was. She turned me around, I tell ya. My boy will be three this year."

"Congratulations," I smiled.

"Aye, but what I am tryin' to say to ya, my friend, is that fate always provides us with a second chance! Be patient. She will come through soon enough." He took another swing of his whiskey. "Do not be worryin' yourself sick with all this southern upheaval. I am sure it will all pass like water under the bridge."

"I envy you, Robert," I said. "Casual with no shred of worry or trepidation. Only bliss."

"Ah, but therein lies the riddle, my friend. Everyone has their qualms that meddle with their bliss. If that be the case, fella, how can a man like me appear so different?"

"I do not know."

"Aye, the answer is simple: a hobby be my way of escape. I love archery! I practice every chance I can. Figure I would pay respects to my ancestors. Nothing like meditation and the thrill of precision to distract the unquiet mind. What is your hobby, fella, if you have one that is?"

"I do not believe I have one..."

"Aye, maybe you do. You just have yet to discover it." He saw my diary. "I see ya scribblin' in there every night. Perhaps that is your hobby; writin'!"

I looked down at the diary, rubbing my fingers along its cracked boards, and flipping through the yellow pages. Painful recollections of past mistakes, grievances, and odious revelations emerged from my memory. This diary is a testament to all my failures—the only virtuous method of expelling my demons. A literary purge of all my sins. Every atrocity I have committed and abetted has been printed and shared with all who read it. Indeed, Mr. O'Hedge is correct. Writing is my hobby, but only insofar as to describe the truth... the truth of what kind of man I am.