I am feeling better today. Angelina, Thomas Peter, and Elizabeth have all taken turns staying by my bedside during my recovery.
    Apparently my arrival created quite a stir. All three insisted that I swayed so severely in the saddle that they were certain I would tumble to the ground. Elizabeth was the first to reach me. She says I was incoherent and that I resisted their efforts to help me down, flailing my arms wildly and growling. What a spectacle I must have been! Twice this past week I caught glimpses of Angelina and Thomas Peter, straddling the split rail fence between the house and the barn, swaying back and forth and trying to make deep noises with their voices, imitating me.
    My health is returning. The wound in my left arm is almost healed.     My twelve-year-old nursemaid, Angelina, has appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. The look on her face informs me that this day's writing is drawing to a close. Her almond colored skin, slightly thickened lips, and wavy dark hair reveal her guiltless mixture of race and culture, embodying the bewildering perplexity of our bloody sectional conflict. She is an innocent, caught between two worlds, both white and black, much like the very issues surrounding this war.
    She embodies the war that works within me. I, too, am a mixture. I advocate autonomy for the States as do my brothers in the Confederacy. Yet, I proclaim the urgency of overcoming the great evils of slavery as do my brothers in the North.
    Angelina refuses to leave the doorway, watching me with a smile behind her eyes.
    Very well, I shall put away the pen for today, with the promise that you must let me continue my writing as God permits. I will use these days to focus upon the Rebel Heart and Founding Fathers' journals.
    My brother John Ezra, Captain of the 63rd Pennsylvania volunteer regiment, is on the move again with an offensive in Virginia. Elizabeth is not certain of his whereabouts at this time.