Two weeks out of the St George for the south, and I’m still preoccupied with our meeting the people of the new land, this new race and civilization. So much food for thought was this encounter that in a perfect, unhurried world, I’d have our ship put to sea for a thousand days so that I could process this fantastic exchange. So wondrous were the Algonquin that I’ve thought this place may be as fascinating as Cathay.
Juet has been mulling it over too, but for him the encounter has generated sheer terror. At dinners in my cabin, he wants to talk exclusively of weapons: cannon, knives, and hooks.
I confess I’ve indulged him, as he goes on about “besting the new people.” His every imagining relates to better catching to kill every beast, fowl, and fish. I’ve never seen him smile more than when he talks of sailing as a teen and seeing his captain then beating a sailor. Along the sandy coast, he spoke incessantly of firing grape into the Algonquin’s wigwams.