During the Iran-Contra scandal in the 1980s I used to joke that if a pollster called and asked me where Nicaragua (home of the Contra rebels) was, I wouldn’t have an answer. It’s amazing that I could be so geographically ignorant (and this was just one example) and still view myself as an educated adult.[1]
For me, that has changed. Now that I am studying history, I am aware of the importance of geography. How can I understand Irish rebellions if I don’t know where the Pale and Ulster are? How much can I learn about the woolen industry in Languedoc if I don’t know where Languedoc is and whether it could raise its own sheep?
I am a convert. (That’s why I include two geography websites on the right-hand side of this blog.) Yet some of the most fundamental geographical insights come from outside the field of history. The chief outside influence, I venture to say, is evolutionary biologist Jared Diamond, whose remarkable book Guns, Germs, and Steel reestablished geography as a major force in shaping history.[2]
I used to think that the advent of factories marked the start of the Industrial Revolution. But there were factories operated by slaves in the West Indies a century before the Industrial Revolution began around 1750. Those factories were called plantations.
While the factory—“a building or set of buildings with facilities for manufacturing”—did typify the Industrial Revolution, such a construction had appeared a century earlier in Barbados in the West Indies. By the 1660s, English owners of sugar plantations had developed an “agro-industry,” fueled by slave labor.
The consumption of sugar skyrocketed in England in the seventeenth century, and the English in Barbados (and soon, Jamaica) took advantage of the demand. In his 1985 book Sweetness and Power, Sidney W. Mintz described a system he calls “the closest thing to industry that was typical of the seventeenth century”—Barbados sugar plantations.[1]
The plantations were not just agriculture; they involved a highly complex process that started with sugar cane planting and ended with at least partially refined sugar.Slaves planted and harvested the cane, extracted its juices, and boiled those juices into products of various levels of refinement, from molasses to sugar. A typical plantation had one or two extraction mills, a boiling house, a curing house, a distillery, and a warehouse.
“The heat and noise were overpowering, there was considerable danger involved, and time was of the essence throughout, from the moment when the cane was perfect for cutting until the semicrystalline product was poured into molds to drain and be dried,” Mintz wrote.[2]
Punishment should fit the crime. Last fall, taking a course on the Tudors and the Stuarts, I noticed that in early modern England (1485-1688) the punishments almost never fit the crime. A few examples follow, with comment below.
The great Catholic humanist Thomas More, author of Utopia, was Henry VIII’s Lord Chancellor when Henry made himself the head of the Church of England in order to divorce Catherine of Aragon. Thomas More refused to accept Henry’s rejection of the Pope and Church doctrine, so he was beheaded for treason.
Archbishop Hugh Latimer, Bishop Nicholas Ridley, and Archbishop Thomas Cranmer were not as lucky as Sir Thomas More. When Catholics returned to power under Mary I, they were burned at the stake, a horrific fate worse than beheading. In fact, nearly 300 Protestants were burned during Mary’s reign. (And Lady Jane Grey, the nine-day Protestant queen before Mary, was executed.)
Moving forward to Charles II’s reign, we find that at least 24 Catholics were executed by being hanged, drawn, and quartered (another horrific way of dying) because they were accused of being part of a ”Popish plot.” Yet there was no Popish plot. It was invented by Titus Oates, a disreputable renegade who had been kicked out of many places, both Protestant and Catholic.
What troubles me most is that these (and other [1]) travesties of justice took place in a time when the English touted their liberties and judicial protections.
This will be my most controversial post—perhaps my only controversial post. [1] December 7 has come and gone again, and there was little discussion of the details surrounding Pearl Harbor, except for appropriate remembrances of those who died.
A decade ago I began to research the history of the Pearl Harbor attack. I had happened upon the book Infamy by a Pulitzer Prize-winning author, John Toland, which raised disturbing questions about foreknowledge of the attack. [2] This was Toland’s third book about World War II. His prize-winning Rising Sun had treated the attack as a dastardly Japanese act; the second revealed poor communication between Washington, D.C., and Hawaii; and Infamy blamed the U.S. president and his high-level advisors for allowing the attack to go forward.
In Liberty magazine in 2010 (you can read the article on p. 39 of the October issue in Liberty Unbound ) I reviewedThe Pearl Harbor Myth: Rethinking the Unthinkable,a 2007 book by George Victor. [3] And I took the opportunity to discuss the long-standing controversy over the question, Did President Roosevelt and/or his advisors know about the potential attack and could they have taken action to prevent it?
