Sunday the sixth day of January Seventeen hundred and twenty.
Captains Log Entry
Today sees a storm all a raging around us, as we lay in our final course to the new french port of charlesfort, on the coast of the northern americas. At our back the strange port of somerset, its ghostly windows now fading astern. I can't help but wonder what riches and pains lie in wait for us all. I have made an offer to this Confederacy which now awaits this ship and her crew. What minor cargo I carry will be of little import or worth. But it should see us through the first days in our new settlement.
This storm is of such power as I have never seen before, but it also carries a feeling with it, almost a trace of kinship, a sence of waiting, foreboding.
Sleep now beckons me, I have already given over the watch to my trusting first mate, Carl Stuart, he is a solid sailor and a sure hand to guide us the remaining journey. In him I have absolute trust.
New friends await.
Argyll Struthers, Heir to the Shire of Bute.