Confessions, not that I need any.

March 23, 1873
 
Do you have any idea what a pain it is to be a legend, or even associated with one? My uncle once murdered a man, Samuel Adams and tried to cover it up by burying him in salt and shipping him to New Orleans. He got caught, he got condemned and he supposedly hung himself the day before he could be killed for it.
Due to circumstances beyond my control I was labeled his son. Edgar Allen Poe and Herman Melville wrote tales of this story, “The Oblong Box” and “Bartleby, the Scrivener.” Thanks ever so much.
Along the way his brother managed to impregnate his wife, who had become attracted to John in such a way that way unacceptable and I was born.
I was fortunate. My real father, Samuel Colt, “adopted” me as his own as my mother and my so-called father escaped to the west. But this was not the case. I grew up as the “adopted” son of Samuel Colt in the lap of luxury. I had the best tutors and the best of possible educations, and for a time I was happy. But there was always this darkness, this curse hanging over my past. I finally decided to face it and track down the truth of my family history after I graduated from Cheshire Academy in 1860. It took me some time but I finally found my birth-mother and the real tale of my life. It shook me to my roots. Nothing I thought was true was real. While my father, my real father, did well by me his new family and heirs did not. I was lucky to escape with what I could from their malice.
Never again will I willingly embrace the falsehoods and lies of such a class of people. In the crucible of war I found beauty, truth and redemption in the lives of the poor, the ex-slaves, the sodomites like myself and the downtrodden. I will fight for them always. Nevermore shall I place an existence among the wealthy and well to do as a place I wish to live. Their souls are forfeit and so shall I use them in the world to come.
 
March 24, 1873