Jun. 1852
Mother—I am deeply weary. I am afraid that my efforts are futile. The Rebel, my dear friend, tells me he has a plan—capricious git refuses to tell me what. My people have chosen greed over humanity; our brothers and sisters are dying for their hubris. It defies God, I fear. They are in dire need across the sea. My heart of hearts is weeping—but I have little time. How I wish I could return to Bristol. Alas, I—
