My dearest Henrietta:

We have arrived at last, and I, exhausted from such a long and arduous journey over land and sea, nevertheless have set my pen upon the page with good speed. It is as fine a time as any to write, though Edward insists that I keep it short and attend my health; I have acquired a hacking cough, doubtless from the hold of that damned vessel and the sickness that festered like sores upon our lips. I would tell you in detail of the yellow drinking water and rotten meat, of the heat, bodies pressed all together, and the lice and rats that ran thick as cattle through the bowels of the ship; of the scurvy, typhus, and dysentery that ran rampant throughout our long journey; of the deaths of more than forty men, women, and children. But I do not have the strength for more than that now, and so let me say that it is a wonder I am still alive, and leave it at that, other than to insist you are not to worry about me. That silly charm Mr. Gatling was good enough to supply has been watching over me, I suppose-you must thank him for me again, Hennie. It has been nestled against my flesh for all these many days, and the weight of it around my neck gives me comfort. I have yet to let it leave my sight.

As for the journey over land, that was considerably more pleasant. Upon leaving the colony (a lively and open place, and one that will doubtless succeed), we passed along a rutted country road, moving steadily inland and to the North across wild country, guided by a friendly Indian. Many of them are friendly now; there is considerably less warfare than we had heard tell in the Motherland, although there are still groups that attack and burn villages to the ground, and murder and rape the women and children, the savages. The Indians have their own odd beliefs, as I am already learning, though quite a large number of them are being converted by the Church of Christ even as I write this. The Bible has long since been translated into their native tongue by that good Christian, Mr. Eliot, and there are native churches, though they are as yet few and far between, and are of course run by Christian white men.

I have the most curious story to tell you about the Indians, for something happened yesterday, just before our arrival at the site of what will be my future home (and yours, if things progress, God willing!), and I am interested to know your interpretation of it. The road we had been following had dwindled to a mere path cut through the wood, and we had lately progressed over a stretch of very rough land, hilly, with dense growth on all sides. For several miles we had been within earshot of the most wonderful deep-throated roar-surely the falls of which we have been told! I had been looking forward to my first glimpse of them, and the river itself, when our Indian guide abruptly stopped short and refused to go one step further along the narrow track. When asked why, he would not give a satisfactory answer-only that this was a “bad place” full of “evil spirits.” He insisted that we need only follow the track upriver until we found a shallow area in which to cross over, after which the temporary dwellings built by the advance party would be found on the opposite bank.

We argued with him, but to no avail, and finally the three of us-Edward, Jonathan, and myself-set out along the last leg of our journey alone. The sun was still high in the sky, and the many insects and birds moving among the trees, along with the pleasant sound of the river, kept us from taking what the Indian said to heart-but I must say, Hennie, I kept one hand on the charm around my neck and the other on the knife at my side, wondering what to expect.

When we finally rounded the corner and set eyes on the place for the first time, I was reminded of why I made such a long and difficult journey. It is as pleasant as we have been told, the river winding through the trees before dropping abruptly over the raging falls, the land beyond flat and full of sturdy oak and pine, before the ground rises again into more mountainous territory. I have since done a bit of exploring; the only unpleasant aspect is an area of marshland several kilometers below the falls, which is filled with dead trees and weeds and the most abominable stench of rotting vegetation. It is this spot which I presume the Indian had been referring to as a “bad place,” and on that point I am inclined to agree with him. But the bog is a good distance away from the settlement, and is of no real concern.

Finally, last night I did not sleep well, having the most unsettling series of dreams, for which I blame both the long journey and the incident with our Indian guide. During that period between consciousness and sleep I was filled with the strangest sense of anguish, as if I had left something behind, or had forgotten something that I must remember, and the night seemed filled with the most peculiar sounds, as if the very earth were trying to vomit up a sickness it had held for too long. When I awoke I was clutching the charm in my fist, and the engravings on its face left an impression on my palm that is still there this very moment.

But I worry you needlessly with these silly stories. The important thing remains that I have arrived in fairly good health, that the land is beautiful regardless of any local superstition, and that we will have a town here. Of that I have no doubt. In any case, I have run on for too long, and must attend to other things. I hope this letter finds you well (I do not know when or even if you will receive it, the mail service being what it is here), and be assured that I will write you again in the near future.