by L. Todd Wood
Ram immediately saw the business opportunity associated with the tar.
“Is this lake on the property I am considering to buy?” he asked the governor’s assistant.
“Yes.”
“I want it! Let’s return and sign the papers. I’ve seen enough!” He turned and headed back to his plantation. His escorts followed behind.
Chapter Nine
A year after finding Pitch Lake and buying the property, Ram burned with desire to return to London, to take his rightful place at the table of aristocracy. He decided to board a ship in the fall of 1814 and do just that. It was his first trip back. His businesses were booming, and he was making money hand over fist; he had the Midas touch. Wealth was no longer something he worried about, as Pitch Lake was becoming known all over the Caribbean and the Colonies. Ships from all of the European realms made their way to the coast of Trinidad to access the tar. Ram made sure they were filled with sugar as well when they left with their seams intact due to the asphalt. He could afford to spend some time away from Trinidad. The time had arrived to flaunt his success to the English gentry. He relished the thought.
Over the years to come, as with most of the planters, he would spend more time in London than he did in Trinidad, taking care of the plantation. This he left to other foremen who handled the job nicely. If they siphoned off a small bit for themselves, Ram turned a blind eye. And siphon they did; there was plenty for all to go around. As long as the majority of the money ended up in his coffers, all was good in his world. All Ram had to do was spend his money. So he spent with a vengeance, but not so wisely. The vices of the English capital beckoned to him as time wore on, pulling on his addictions.
This first trip back to London was completed in approximately three and a half months. The new clippers were very fast, sometimes making twenty knots or more. Speed was measured by a chip log, or a line with a wooden board tied at the end. As the ship moved away, the line acted as a drogue and would pull out line from a reel. The line had knots tied into it at uniform spacing. The number of knots reeled out corresponded to the speed of the ship. Over time, a knot came to be synonymous with a nautical mile per hour.
As the clippers were fast, they tended to carry passengers and mail from the American colonies or tea and opium from China. The right ship would provide very luxurious accommodations for a wealthy passenger. Freight was transported by larger and slower ships. The British sugar planter from the islands was a sought-out customer, as money was not an issue when it came to luxury.
The ships had to be fast, as the War of 1812 was still raging between the British and the upstart Americans. The American Captain Boyle of the Chasseur, harassed the British West Indies for several years, sinking or boarding many British vessels. The trip from Trinidad to London was fraught with danger during this time. Speed was a sought-after virtue during a naval engagement. The term clipper was derived from the word clip, meaning to move quickly. The clippers dominated ocean travel for almost a hundred years until the advent of the steamship and the opening of the Suez Canal in the late nineteenth century. The passage was difficult for sailing vessels, and the clippers could not keep a schedule as a steamer provided.
Ram was typical of the British West Indies planters. Being fabulously wealthy and having money to burn, the best place to burn it was London. The planters usually arrived at the docks with a shipload of servants, possessions, and silver. A plethora of con artists waited to relieve them of their money as soon as they hit the shore. It had become a kind of game that both sides understood and enjoyed playing. Ram was no different. He left the details of dealing with his possessions to his staff and headed off to the Chinese sector.
Ram had been in the English capital for three weeks. However, he didn’t really know how long he had been there. He had just regained consciousness in a numb sort of way and looked around the darkened room. There were no windows. The smoke wafted around the small flat, and he could make out the tiny, red fires of the pipes from other patrons of the establishment. The odor of opium was strong. A miniature, red kerosene lamp barely lit a corner of the room. There were at least ten men lying prostrate in various positions on the floor. They were lost in their own drug-induced haze and noticed nothing. The owner of the “den” handed him a pipe, as he could see Ram was waking. Ram took a hit and then lay back down on the soft, dirty pillows. He tried to make sense of the smiling, Chinese gentleman who stood over him with his small hat and long, braided ponytail hanging down his back. The man took the pipe from Ram and then held it over one of the small red lamps to again vaporize the opium. He then handed the pipe back to him, and Ram breathed in the white smoke. His eyes floated to the back of his head, and all of his pain went away.
The Limehouse district of London had more in common with the Thames than the land itself. The area was a cauldron of immigrants and sailing vessels connecting the river to the canals of London. Communities of sailors from around the world teemed over the docks, as ships constantly arrived and departed to destinations around the globe. The region was named after the Limekilns or “oasts” that dominated the area in medieval times, not from the “limeys” who lived there. Limey was slang for the sailors who drank their ration of lime juice to prevent scurvy.
He had arrived in Britain several weeks before with a ship full of sugar and also his new crop, oil. He had drilled several small wells near Pitch Lake, and they were producing nicely. Ram could see the emancipation of the slaves coming soon. It was the second decade into the nineteenth century, and soon the abolitionist movement would be in full force. The labor for sugar production would be in even shorter supply. It was a problem he would have to deal with eventually. For now, he was enjoying the fruits of his efforts. Oil would help ease the pain of reduced sugar production. Ram was hedging his bets. As sugar production fell, oil production and use was growing. He was early in sensing the business opportunities that oil provided.
He would however miss the continual crop of young, sexual slaves that he harvested from the families as they came of age. It was a pleasant pastime for him. Of course, the slave parents occasionally gave him trouble, if they could be called parents. The birthrate among the slaves had been declining for some time. It was another problem with this labor source. Slave women were hesitant to bring children into the world, where they would have to take care of them and work the fields at the same time. This was an almost impossible task. They also did not care to see their daughters abused by the white planters.
He was ruthless in dealing with any back talk or challenge from the “darkies.” In fact, he thought about the last time he took a new, young girl from the slave camp to his home, and he had to dispense justice. He had been smoking opium all night with some friends and was high as a kite when they decided to go look for some pleasures of the flesh from the slave camp. The sun was breaking over the horizon as they stumbled into the pitiful cluster of shacks some distance away from the main house of the plantation. Behind the ramshackle huts, small garden plots were laid out, where the slaves supplemented meager rations from their owner. A few domestic animals were roaming aimlessly.
The overseer was hopping off his wagon as Ram and his friends arrived. He unfurled a whip to crack and wake the slaves, hence the term “crack of dawn.” They quickly emerged from their quarters and began to head to the fields. Their breakfast would be brought out to them while they worked, sunup to sundown.
Ram spotted a young girl approximately thirteen that he had been watching grow for a while. It was time for her to become one of his “pleasurables” he thought and motioned for her to get on his horse. Her mother saw this and spit in his direction, mumbling something under her breath. There was hatred in her eyes.
That was enough for Ram. She had picked the wrong time to challenge him in his drug-induced state.
He took a rope from his horse, tied a noose, and put it around her neck. He tied the other end to his horse. The woman started jabbering something in fear that he couldn’t understand. It
didn’t matter to him anyway. His friends had their pistols drawn to prevent any trouble from the other slaves. Ram trotted to the sugar mill, which was close by. The smell of the boiling vats was thick in the air. Ram grinned as he thought about what he was about to do; sex coupled with violence excited him even more.
Ram was one of the worst of the British at dispensing punishment to the slaves, always thinking up more and more brutal ways of inflicting his will. He enjoyed the killing the most, when the opportunity presented itself. He didn’t do it often, because it was expensive to find replacements, but occasionally he had to show who was boss.
He pushed the woman to her knees and tied her arms behind her to a fence post. He went into the mill and ladled a cup of the boiling, sweet substance then walked back to the pitiful mother of several children.
“Hold her mouth open,” he ordered the overseer.
He turned to all of the slaves who were watching. “This is what happens when you challenge me!” He turned back to the mother and poured the scalding, thick liquid down her throat. She tried to scream, but there were just gurgles as she tried to breathe. Mercifully, she died a quick death. The stench of her burning flesh and the sugar was nauseating.
Ram smiled and motioned for the girl to get on his horse. She was uncontrollable with grief and in shock after witnessing her mother’s murder. Ram didn’t care. “I will call you Mary! It is your turn now, my dear!”
He pointed to the lifeless body and turned to the slaves. “Leave her till after the work day then you can deal with her! Let the flies enjoy her for a while!” he thundered and rode off on his horse. He noticed the woman’s husband staring at him with murder in his eyes, but Ram was too excited to have the girl to do anything about it. He wanted more opium. The overseer cracked the whip.
Ram tried to put all thoughts of the woman and the slaves out of his mind. He let the drug take effect then slipped in and out of consciousness. However, in his sleep, the slave issue came back to haunt him. It was not out of remorse, but out of worry. How would he tend to his crops and run the plantation when the British let the darkies go? The question plagued his unconscious mind. A plantation could not be run without labor, neither could his oil fields. He would have to solve this problem.
Somewhere in the opium mist, it came to him. He would do as the European nobility had done ages ago. He would make them indentured servants. But there were still not enough darkies! Well, he would find other workers. He would import them. Indians! He would import Indians! Problem solved.
Chapter Ten
And import Indians he did, tens of thousands of them. The British did free the slaves with the Emancipation Act, which went into effect in 1834. However, slaves were still required to work the fields during a period of indentured servitude, a system that was stopped as well in 1838. The plantations in the West Indies suffered. Sugar production suffered. Then the Indians started arriving by the boatload. It was another business for Ram, another source of money. He cornered the market for the new labor, with the help of his contacts in India. The years of servicing the Indian diaspora in London paid off. It seemed everything he touched turned to gold.
“Coolies” as they were called, along with other ethnic workers, were promised a five-year period of labor and then a free trip back to India. It goes without saying that they were grossly exploited. The free trip rarely happened. Their working and living conditions were not much better than those of the slaves. Their employers frequently docked their paychecks for minor items, food and the like, so they had little to show upon completion of their service. Many were signed up for a second five-year period without their authorization.
The planters sold the servants drugs to soak up any remaining money they had stashed away. The promised medical care was rudimentary if available at all, but the system kept the abolitionists off their backs, so the planters were happy. Ram was one of the worst of the exploiters.
About twenty-five percent of the immigrants were female. Upon arriving at their place of work, all workers were immediately sent to the fields with no seasoning, something even the slaves had enjoyed. The planters wanted to get as much work out of them as possible during their indenture. Some worked as much as twenty-two hours a day. Sometimes they were just not paid or their rations were cheated. The British planters considered the Indian women immoral, so they were routinely exploited for sex. It was not uncommon for a British planter to frequent the worker barracks and take his pick of the Indian wives sleeping with their husbands. All in all, it was a wretched existence for the Indian immigrants.
The old, Negro slave population didn’t fare much better. The planters saw to it that the cost for the Indian labor was kept very cheap. This froze the Africans out of the labor market. On the other hand, land costs were kept very high. This made it difficult for the former slaves to own land and start their own sugar production, which made for hard feelings between the different immigrant populations. This animosity benefited the wealthy white plantation owners and kept labor prices low.
For all of the abolitionist good intentions, the plight of the immigrant worker in Trinidad, and all of the British West Indies for that matter, remained little better than the slaves experienced. In Trinidad, the animosity between the races lasted for years to come. Historically in Trinidad, the different cultures tended to perform different functions in the labor market. Workers were placed into different trades based on their historical stereotypes. All of this was due to money pressures for the production of sugar. Sugar ruled the West Indies until the market changed over one hundred years later, and oil became the new sweet crop.
Two men approached the shantytown on horseback with their pistols drawn. The dwellings were located in the southeast corner of Trinidad, in an out-of-the-way, rocky outgrowth from the mountains. The men were tired from the long ride but alert. Some of the structures were built into the hillside and others stood alone along the dirt street. Either way, they were not built to withstand a stiff wind. The materials used seemed to be anything that could be scavenged form the countryside. The land here was infertile and hostile. The white men didn’t want the barren land, so they turned a blind eye when the Negroes set up a settlement there years ago. These wooden, ramshackle buildings would barely keep the water out much less withstand a hurricane, the older of the two men thought to himself. Naked children ran barefoot through the street while their mothers looked on from their houses, tending to their chores. Luckily, there was not a cloud in the sky as the noon hour approached.
Slowly the men trotted their horses through the center of town. The residents stared at them from their shacks, a shocked look on their faces. The white men didn’t belong here. They weren’t welcome here and they knew it. Even with their weapons, they were vulnerable. The group of former slaves outnumbered them greatly. The men hoped they could conduct their business and leave quickly.
They stopped in front of the last structure, which was a makeshift bar serving beer and some type of homemade moonshine. The still was set up in back for the production of homemade rum. Smoke rose from the fire under the device. The two men dismounted, all the while scanning the area around them, and slowly made their way inside.
The interior was dark, and it took a while before their eyes adjusted, so they sat at the rickety bar and waited. It was obvious they were not wanted, and no one made an effort to offer them a drink. An old, black man came up and sat down next to them. He said nothing for a few minutes then spoke.
“I think you boys is lost,” he said in a thick, Caribbean accent.
“We’re looking for someone,” said the older, white man.
“Who you lookin’ for?” said a voice in the darkness from a corner of the room.
“John Tate.”
There was silence for almost a minute. “You found him,” said the voice. “Now whatchu want with ‘em?”
“Well I’d like to talk to him face to face.”
A large, black man stepped out of the darkness. He was only approxima
tely fifty years of age, but decades of hard labor made him look much older. “I’m here so start talkin.”
The white man hesitated then spoke. “I understand you have issues with a man named Ram Edwards.”
The black man stiffened and his face became hard. “What do you know of that man?”
“Well,” the white man continued, “let’s just say he has made some enemies in his business and personal life over the years. He is somewhat of a prickly sort, you know. I understand you may be one of those who don’t like him so much.”
“You might be right.”
“So we are here to discuss a certain proposal. We know you have had a hard time getting land to start your own sugar production. We know you’ve had a hard time getting work. We know you’ve had a hard time in general. We are here to make you an offer.”
“Keep talkin’.”
“As I said, Mr. Edwards has enemies. Me for one. He’s done me and many others wrong. He doesn’t know how to make good business so that everybody wins. He’s only in it for himself. Well, there is no love lost. He also has no kin. So, if he were to disappear, his property would remit to the state. He controls a lot of land and oil that others want to get their hands on. His property is very valuable. I represent the governor, and I give you the governor’s word that if he were to disappear, you would get your land and a nice stipend to start growing sugar.” The white man quit talking and let that sink in for a moment.
“How do you know whoever made him disappear won’t go to the gallows?” asked the black man.
The white man reached into his pocket and removed five gold coins. He threw them on the bar, and they made a loud racket as they clanked against the glasses perched there. The black man’s eyes grew wide. “Here’s a down payment. The governor keeps his word. There will be more when the job is finished. We will know when to find you and pay you. Oh and one more thing, Mr. Tate, if you mention our little deal to anyone, we will string you up on the nearest tree.”