After being hunted like a dog through swamps, woods, and last night being chased by gunboats till I was forced to return, wet, cold and starving, with every man's hand against me, I am here in despair, and why?
For doing what Brutus was honored for—who made Tell a Hero. And yet I have stricken down a greater tyrant than they ever knew. I am looked upon as a common cut-throat. My action was purer than either of theirs. One hoped to be great himself, the other had not only his country's but his own wrongs to avenge. I hoped for no gain. I knew no private wrongs. I struck for my country, and for that alone. A country ground down under this tyranny, and prayed for this end and yet now behold the cold hand they extend to me. God cannot pardon me if I have done wrong. Yet I cannot see any wrong except in serving a degenerate people.
The little, the very little I left behind to clear my name, the Govmt will not permit to be printed. So ends all. For my country I have given all that makes life sweet and Holy, brought misery upon my family, and am sure there is no pardon in the Heavens for me, since Man condemns me so. I have not heard what has been done except what I did myself and it fills me with horror.
God! try and forgive me and bless my mother. To-night I will once more try the river with the intention to cross, though I have a greater desire and almost a mind to return to Washington, and in a measure clear my name which I feel I could do. I do not repent the blow I struck. I may before my God, but not to man. I think I have done well, though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did not desire greatness.
To-night I try to escape the bloodhounds once more. Who, who can read his fate? God's will be done. I have too great a soul to die like a criminal.
Oh may He, may He spare me that, and let me die bravely! I bless the entire world. Have never hated or wronged any one. This was not wrong unless God deems it so, and it's with Him to damn or bless me. And for this brave boy Herold with me who often prays (yes, before and since) with a true and sincere heart. Was it a crime in him?
If so, why can he pray the same? I do not wish to shed a drop of blood, but I must fight the course. Tis all that's left me.
SOURCES: William Eleazar Barton, The Life of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 2, p. 482-3; James Sawyer Jones, Life of Andrew Johnson: Seventeenth President of the United States, p. 145; Lydia L. Gordon, From Lady Washington to Mrs. Cleveland, p. 338-9
