was not only because of the pain it inflicted on the horse, but because of the mute, unprotesting surrender glazing its eyes.
Pursey’s was closed on Sunday, as he should have known, so he went to the one always open. Rough, illegal and catering to hard boys, it nevertheless offered good, plentiful food and never strong meat. On his seconddraft, a fiddler and a piper entered for their merriment and their money and, the piper having played less well than himself, raised Jacob’s spirits enough for him to join in the singing. When two women came in, the men called out their names with liquored glee. The bawds flounced a bit before choosing a lap to sit in. Jacob demurred when approached. He’d had enough, years ago, of brothels and the disorderly houses kept by wives of sailors at sea. The boyish recklessness that flooded him at Jublio did not extend to the sweet debauchery he had sought as a youth.
Seated at a table cluttered with the remains of earlier meals, he listened to the talk around him, which was mostly sugar, which was to say, rum. Its price and demand becoming greater than tobacco’s now that glut was ruining that market. The man who seemed to know most about kill-devil, the simple mechanics of its production, its outrageous prices and beneficial effects, was holding forth with the authority of a mayor.
Burly, pock-faced, he had the aura of a man who had been in exotic places and the eyes of someone unaccustomed to looking at things close to his face. Downes was his name. Peter Downes. A Negro boy had been summoned and now brought six tankards, the handles of three in each hand, and set them on the table. Five men reached for them and quickly swallowed. Downes also, but spit his first swallow on the floor, telling the company that the gesture was both an offering and a protection from poison.
“How so?” someone asked. “Poison may lurk at the bottom.”
“Never,” said Downes. “Poison is like the drowned; it always floats.”
Amid the laughter, Jacob joined the men at the table and listened to Downes’ mesmerizing tales ending with a hilarious description of the size of the women’s breasts in Barbados.
“I once thought of settling there,” said Jacob. “Besides bosoms, what is it like?”
“Like a whore. Lush and deadly,” said Downes.
“Meaning?”
Downes wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Meaning all is plentiful and ripe except life. That is scarce and short. Six months, eighteen and—” He waved goodbye fingers.
“Then how do they manage? It must be constant turmoil.” Jacob was imagining the difference between the steady controlled labor of Jublio and the disorderliness of sugar plantations.
“Not at all,” Downes smiled. “They ship in more. Like firewood, what burns to ash is refueled. And don’t forget, there are births. The place is a stew of mulattoes, creoles, zambos, mestizos, lobos, chinos, coyotes.” He touched his fingers with his thumb as he listed the types being produced in Barbados.
“Still the risk is high,” countered Jacob. “I’ve heard of whole estates cut down by disease. What will happen when labor dwindles and there is less and less to transport?”
“Why would it dwindle?” Downes spread his hands as if carrying the hull of a ship. “Africans are as interested in selling slaves to the Dutch as an English planteris in buying them. Rum rules, no matter who does the trading. Laws? What laws? Look,” he went on, “Massachusetts has already tried laws against rum selling and failed to stop one dram. The sale of molasses to northern colonies is brisker than ever. More steady profit in it than fur, tobacco, lumber, anything—except gold, I reckon. As long as the fuel is replenished, vats simmer and money heaps. Kill-devil, sugar—there will never be enough. A trade for lifetimes to come.”
“Still,” Jacob said, “it’s a degraded business. And hard.”
“Think of it this way. Fur you need to hunt it, kill it, skin it, carry it and
Pursey’s was closed on Sunday, as he should have known, so he went to the one always open. Rough, illegal and catering to hard boys, it nevertheless offered good, plentiful food and never strong meat. On his seconddraft, a fiddler and a piper entered for their merriment and their money and, the piper having played less well than himself, raised Jacob’s spirits enough for him to join in the singing. When two women came in, the men called out their names with liquored glee. The bawds flounced a bit before choosing a lap to sit in. Jacob demurred when approached. He’d had enough, years ago, of brothels and the disorderly houses kept by wives of sailors at sea. The boyish recklessness that flooded him at Jublio did not extend to the sweet debauchery he had sought as a youth.
Seated at a table cluttered with the remains of earlier meals, he listened to the talk around him, which was mostly sugar, which was to say, rum. Its price and demand becoming greater than tobacco’s now that glut was ruining that market. The man who seemed to know most about kill-devil, the simple mechanics of its production, its outrageous prices and beneficial effects, was holding forth with the authority of a mayor.
Burly, pock-faced, he had the aura of a man who had been in exotic places and the eyes of someone unaccustomed to looking at things close to his face. Downes was his name. Peter Downes. A Negro boy had been summoned and now brought six tankards, the handles of three in each hand, and set them on the table. Five men reached for them and quickly swallowed. Downes also, but spit his first swallow on the floor, telling the company that the gesture was both an offering and a protection from poison.
“How so?” someone asked. “Poison may lurk at the bottom.”
“Never,” said Downes. “Poison is like the drowned; it always floats.”
Amid the laughter, Jacob joined the men at the table and listened to Downes’ mesmerizing tales ending with a hilarious description of the size of the women’s breasts in Barbados.
“I once thought of settling there,” said Jacob. “Besides bosoms, what is it like?”
“Like a whore. Lush and deadly,” said Downes.
“Meaning?”
Downes wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Meaning all is plentiful and ripe except life. That is scarce and short. Six months, eighteen and—” He waved goodbye fingers.
“Then how do they manage? It must be constant turmoil.” Jacob was imagining the difference between the steady controlled labor of Jublio and the disorderliness of sugar plantations.
“Not at all,” Downes smiled. “They ship in more. Like firewood, what burns to ash is refueled. And don’t forget, there are births. The place is a stew of mulattoes, creoles, zambos, mestizos, lobos, chinos, coyotes.” He touched his fingers with his thumb as he listed the types being produced in Barbados.
“Still the risk is high,” countered Jacob. “I’ve heard of whole estates cut down by disease. What will happen when labor dwindles and there is less and less to transport?”
“Why would it dwindle?” Downes spread his hands as if carrying the hull of a ship. “Africans are as interested in selling slaves to the Dutch as an English planteris in buying them. Rum rules, no matter who does the trading. Laws? What laws? Look,” he went on, “Massachusetts has already tried laws against rum selling and failed to stop one dram. The sale of molasses to northern colonies is brisker than ever. More steady profit in it than fur, tobacco, lumber, anything—except gold, I reckon. As long as the fuel is replenished, vats simmer and money heaps. Kill-devil, sugar—there will never be enough. A trade for lifetimes to come.”
“Still,” Jacob said, “it’s a degraded business. And hard.”
“Think of it this way. Fur you need to hunt it, kill it, skin it, carry it and
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