By the Great Tree, Monrovia, Liberia. April the eleventh, 1830.
Fifty-six days at sea with most of our newly-freed black brethren suffering from seasickness, and now that we are in Africa, from the fever. We have lost four adults and five children, with dozens sick, particularly the light-complected.
All is not as we were led to believe. Food and basic goods are scarce, and merchants sell everything at 200 percent. Very little land has been cleared or planted as the settlers would rather follow the trading business than labor in the fields. We, however, need the crops.
I hope to have better news next time I write.
(Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, April 5, 2013.)