African Americans and the Revolutionary War: Rough Crossings by Simon Schama

As reviewed in the New York Times, by Brent Staples, on 4 June 2006, "'Rough Crossings: Britain, the Slaves and the American Revolution,' by Simon Schama," in an article entitled, "Give Us Liberty" -- Imagine how history would have unfolded had we lost the Revolutionary War and been brought to heel by His Britannic Majesty, King George III. Instead of being revered as founders, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and their compatriots could well have been marched to the gallows and forgotten. British propagandists would have churned out a mythology much like the one American schoolchildren are force-fed today — but with the national roles reversed. The British monarchy would be depicted as the champion of liberty, with the rebels cast as agents of republican chaos and tyranny. The lesson would no doubt focus on the contradiction cited by Samuel Johnson, who inquired pithily of the Americans in 1775: "How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of Negroes?"

Simon Schama's "Rough Crossings: Britain, the Slaves and the American Revolution" picks up where Dr. Johnson left off. It offers a stirringly ambitious reconsideration of the Revolution with the question of slavery set at the very heart of the matter. Schama follows on the heels of historians like Benjamin Quarles, Gary Nash, Sylvia R. Frey and Cassandra Pybus, who have already highlighted the paradox of a revolution initiated in the name of liberty for people who passionately defended slavery. Always a master storyteller, Schama — an Englishman who has long made his home in the United States — has woven the strands laid out by those who went before him into an epic work that gets the reader's blood rushing as it debunks the traditional American view of the Revolution. Schama throws more than a few bombs along the way, as when he writes of the Southern slave owners: "Theirs was a revolution, first and foremost, mobilized to protect slavery."

"Rough Crossings" focuses on the black American role in the Revolution and, most particularly, on the tens of thousands of slaves who fled to British lines after Lord Dunmore issued a proclamation in November 1775 offering slaves from rebel plantations freedom in return for service to the crown. It was for the most part a nightmare journey. Many runaway slaves were caught by their masters, savagely punished and returned to bondage. Of those who reached British protection, many died agonizing deaths from smallpox and other diseases. Those who survived worked as laborers, guides, spies and fighters. They often served valiantly — at one point wearing sashes that read "Liberty to Negroes" — and spilled the blood of their former masters with alacrity. If nothing else, Schama's portraits of black loyalist fighters should provide Hollywood with fresh ideas about how to depict this war. Screenwriters will find prime material, for example, in the black guerrilla fighter known as Colonel Tye, who escaped from his master in New Jersey, survived the epidemics that ravaged Dunmore's Ethiopian Regiment in the Chesapeake and returned North to haunt the patriot outposts that were reachable from the British stronghold of New York.

As the war wound down, thousands of black loyalists were bottled up with the British Army in New York, wondering with good reason if the crown intended to honor its commitments to them. Far away, across the ocean, the South Carolina slave owner (and former president of the Continental Congress) Henry Laurens had engineered an 11th-hour addition to the Treaty of Paris that forbade the British from "carrying away" American property, which included the Negroes who had served the British as comrades in arms. As Schama shows, the passage turned into a long-lasting bone of contention between the Americans and the British. It put the fledgling Republic in the position of arguing before God and the nations of the world that black persons were not persons at all but property. This debased position mortified John Jay, after he became the nation's first secretary of foreign affairs in 1784. After the war had technically come to an end, the issue also created a confrontation between the combustible George Washington and the British command in America that might easily have flared anew into warfare.

In New York, black loyalists were justifiably fearful that the British would renege on the promise of freedom — and that their former masters would steal into the city and reclaim them. Among the terrified former slaves was Boston King, who had escaped his master in South Carolina and put as much distance as he could between his family and "the Americans." As he later wrote in his memoir: "Peace was restored between America and Great Britain which diffused universal joy among all parties except us, who had escaped slavery and taken refuge in the English Army; for a report prevailed at New-York that all the slaves . . . were to be delivered up to their masters, altho' some of them had been three or four years among the English. This dreadful rumour filled us with inexpressible anguish and terror, especially when we saw our old masters . . . seizing upon slaves in the streets of New-York, or even dragging them out of their beds."

The British response, Schama argues, far exceeded the strategic abolitionism exhibited earlier by English commanders who had found themselves desperately short of troops in the heat of war. In 1783, the British command in New York issued 3,000 certificates of freedom to King and other black people, entitling them to leave America for the British colony of Nova Scotia "or wherever else He/She may think proper." This was a "revolutionary moment in the lives of African-Americans," Schama writes. Another document, probably drawn up by the British commander in chief Sir Guy Carleton in late 1783, rendered free even black people who had come to British lines by the time the peace treaty took effect but as yet had "no regular protections or certificates." In contrast to Dunmore's "purely military opportunism," as Schama calls it, this document argued that black people within the British lines ought to be considered free because, it said, the British constitution was "not allowing of slavery, but holding out freedom and protection to all who came within."

This assertion was morally correct but legally erroneous. Slavery was in fact still legal in the British Empire and would remain so until 1833, and the British slave trade would continue unabated until 1807. But the institution had been dealt a serious blow a decade earlier, in 1772, when a British court ruled in favor of James Somerset, an African-American slave who had escaped his master in England and was subsequently apprehended by slave catchers and put aboard a ship bound for the Caribbean. In a dramatic case watched as closely as any celebrity trial today, the court shied away from outlawing slavery in Britain but ruled in essence that no master could remove a slave from the country to be sold abroad.

While the Somerset decision left slavery technically legal, it drove British intellectuals toward the view that slavery was inconsistent with British law and a stain on the national character. Indeed, the British abolitionist Granville Sharp would later suggest that the British defeat in America was divine retribution connected to the country's participation in the buying and selling of human beings. Meanwhile, as Schama points out, the decision was sometimes misunderstood. This was particularly true in America, where it scandalized the patriots and galvanized slaves who had already heard quite a bit about inalienable rights while serving — and sleeping with — their masters and mistresses. Schama believes that the "Somerset effect" — a misreading of the decision — was also operating among Carleton and his officers when the British commander ratified black freedom in New York. When confronted by Washington (who had himself lost slaves in the Revolution), Carleton famously replied that no interpretation could be put upon the Treaty of Paris that was "inconsistent with prior engagements binding the national honor which must be kept with all colors." Didactic to a fault — especially with Washington — Carleton may well have been trying to instruct the young Republic in a matter that would poison its civic relations and tarnish its founding ideals well into the future.

Historian Simon Schama

The optimal arrangement for liberated slaves would have been to remain in British-occupied America, where the military could have backed the promise of freedom with force. When the black loyalists sailed away from America, they moved out of a militarized world and into a civil society that was not capable of fulfilling the debt owed to them. Britain had largely externalized slavery to its sugar colonies. It therefore seemed perfectly natural to externalize the black loyalists as well.

Those who landed in London were soon starving in the streets. Those who had gone to Nova Scotia were often exploited, denied the land they had been promised and trapped in destitution. Those who left England and Canada for the black colony in Sierra Leone dreamed up by abolitionists suffered terribly as a result of warfare, disease and mismanagement. Schama acknowledges this suffering, but insists that black loyalists were not dupes of the crown, as is sometimes asserted. They "knew exactly what they were doing," he writes, "even if they could never have anticipated the magnitude of the perils, misfortunes and deceits that would result from their decision." His point is that they found freedom and at least a measure of self-determination along the way. In Nova Scotia, Schama writes, the "loyalist diaspora" created some of the earliest free black Baptist and Methodist churches and perhaps the first school expressly built for free black children. When roughly a thousand of them later crossed the ocean to Sierra Leone, they did so as free persons, and enjoyed a brief exercise in self-government. Beyond that, the black loyalists managed to die as free men and women. And this was no mean feat for someone born black in America in the 18th century.

Brent Staples writes editorials on politics and culture for The Times and is the author of the memoir "Parallel Time." (source: The New York Times)

The B.E.T. Mini-series: The Book of Negroes

From The Globe and Mail [Canada], "How The Book of Negroes, a profound yet unknown Canadian story, became a miniseries," by Jane Taber, Louisbourg, Nova Scotia, Canada, on 2 January 2015  -- On a bitterly raw day last April, with the cold north wind whipping up the seas along the Atlantic coast of Cape Breton, Lawrence Hill watched his story, The Book of Negroes, come to life.

This was no Hollywood soundstage – Hill was bundled up against the almost hurricane-like winds blowing through the Fortress of Louisbourg, a national historic site and tourist destination in the summer, which on this day was dressed up to look like lower Manhattan in the late 18th century, when the victorious rebel Americans vanquished the occupying British.

“It was kind of surreal and unbelievable,” Hill said in a recent interview about seeing his award-winning 2007 novel transformed into a six-part miniseries.

The Book of Negroes chronicles the dramatic journey and life of Aminata Diallo, a young West African girl, abducted from her village and sold into slavery in America. Eventually, she registers her name in the Book of Negroes, the British ledger of 3,000 Black Loyalists who declared their allegiance to the King and were allowed to leave America for Nova Scotia – and what they believed was the promised land. She lives her final years in England.

The $10-million miniseries premieres on CBC Television on Jan. 7 at 9 p.m. (9:30 in Newfoundland) and continues on consecutive Wednesdays; in February, it will air in the United States on BET (Black Entertainment Television).

Academy Award-winning actor Cuba Gooding Jr. is one of the stars and key characters, playing the role of Sam Fraunces, a tavern-owner and freed slave, while Canadian actor Lyriq Bent plays the male lead, Chekura, Aminata’s husband.

Louis Gossett Jr., who won an Oscar for his part in the 1982 film An Officer and a Gentleman, was also in Nova Scotia in the spring, shooting scenes as Daddy Moses, a partially blind, elderly preacher who is a father figure to Aminata.

“It’s a natural, it’s a no-brainer,” Gossett said in an interview about taking on the role. “It’s just perfect, it’s historically right …”

Gossett has done a number of projects in Canada and considers it “my second home.”

He was a co-star in the groundbreaking 1977 television miniseries Roots, and narrated the 2013 audiobook of 12 Years a Slave; he says this project continues the story of “atrocities and slavery.” He doesn’t want the storytelling to stop: “There are some great stories now to tell both through Canada and North America about the African contribution,” he says.

The Book of Negroes is an ambitious production – filmed in two countries, South Africa and Canada, on two continents, with an international cast of 120 and more than 400 crew members – but Hill, 57, who co-wrote the screenplay, says it is “very profoundly a Canadian story, but a very unknown Canadian story.”

That his book has even come to life on TV is a feat – almost as much creative energy went into financing it as writing it. It’s been a four-year process.

“It is a beast,” says Damon D’Oliveira, the producer. “We have 18 different partners that are helping finance this.” A typical Canadian production would have six to eight separate sources, he says.

This is the biggest production and first miniseries that D’Oliveira – who with Clement Virgo runs Canadian production company Conquering Lion Pictures – has done. Virgo co-wrote and directed the miniseries.

At first, the two men wanted to make the book into a feature-length film – but felt, given its scope, that a miniseries made more sense creatively and financially.

“We realized the story was bursting out of the seams and needed a longer format,” says the Jamaican-born Virgo, who was initially put off by the book’s title.

“It felt like it would have been medicine. Good for me – a kind of story that you’re supposed to watch or read,” he says. “That was my first real prejudice against it.”

But that changed after a chance encounter with Molly Johnson, the Canadian jazz singer and songwriter, at a bookstore in Toronto’s Kensington Market. She insisted he read it – and pulled his wallet out of his pocket for him to buy it.

“I left it on my coffee table for about a month,” he says. “Then finally I had some time, I picked it up and … read it in about three days. I fell in love with the story. I fell in love with Aminata.”

Finding Aminata, however, was one of the most crucial elements to telling their story. She is a strong female lead and heroine – and they needed an actress who could age credibly over 30 years. (As a girl, Aminata is played by Canadian actress Shailyn Pierre-Dixon.) They found Aunjanue Ellis, a U.S. actress best known for her role as a maid in the movie The Help.

“She just blew us away,” recalls D’Oliveira of her audition. “She embodies the spirit of Aminata.”

For Hill it was also important that the Aminata character look right: “There is a trend to feature light-skinned black women in black roles,” he said. “I didn’t feel it was appropriate for a movie depicting an 18th-century woman from Mali. …

“Aunjanue is great and I’m glad that she looks right for the role, too,” he says. “Black women … would have had reason to be really offended if this role were cast … as a person who really looked white.”

Hill grew up as a multiracial kid – the middle child of a white mother and black father, both human-rights activists – in the unlikely but picture-perfect and predominantly white Toronto suburb of Don Mills in the sixties and seventies.

“It was a stifling place racially, and it wasn’t a place I felt comfortable in,” he said. Still, he gives Don Mills top billing for making him an author: “Coming to terms with growing up mixed-race in Canada … that ambiguity probably was the crucible for a writer. … I feel thankful that I grew up in a background that was sometimes confusing.”

It’s been eight years since Hill wrote The Book of Negroes – and 30 years since he discovered historian James Walker’s book The Black Loyalists on his parents’ bookshelf.

“I was blown away,” he recalled. The Walker book is a scholarly tome, which dealt with the exodus back to Africa and also mentioned the Book of Negroes. “It sat with me for 15 years before I actually turned to it actively.”

Instead he wrote six other books before finding the confidence to write The Book of Negroes.

Writing a screenplay is a new genre for Hill. It is collaborative as opposed to being a solo act, he notes. He says the story has been changed to adapt to television – but it still honours his book.

And it is a Canadian story, he reiterates. “It’s a Canadian story that has not been dramatized before … the story of the Black Loyalists. That’s the problem with Canada – we have a very limited notion of what constitutes Canadian history.”  (source: The Globe and Mail)

Lawrencce Hill on Language

Lawrence Hill is the author of nine books. He co-wrote the screenplay for the TV miniseries The Book of Negroes, appearing in February on BET.

From Slate Magazine, "What I Learned About Language When I Titled My Novel The Book of Negroes," by Lawrence Hill, on 13 February 2015 --  The title of my novel, The Book of Negroes, has undergone a series of changes since HarperCollins Canada published it eight years ago. The original name resurrects a long-forgotten British naval ledger used to document the exodus of 3,000 African Americans from Manhattan. These African Americans—their stories also form the subject of my novel—became known as the Black Loyalists because they served the British in Manhattan on the losing side of the American Revolutionary War. The Tories had enticed slaves to throw off their shackles and fight, promising freedom to any man or woman who would take refuge behind British military lines. But the British lost the war, so they rewarded the 3,000 Black Loyalists with free passage by ship from Manhattan to Nova Scotia (on the Atlantic coast of Canada) in 1783.

In 2007, shortly before the first printing of the novel in the United States, my American publisher (W.W. Norton & Co.) changed the title to Someone Knows My Name. I was told that American bookstores were reluctant to order a book with the word Negroes on the cover. In the Netherlands, meanwhile, where the Canadian title was translated quite literally to Het Negerboek, a small group of protesters of Dutch Surinamese descent was so outraged that they burned copies of the book cover in an Amsterdam park. When, back in the States, BET bought a six-part miniseries adaptation of the story (the first episode airs Monday), the network opted to use my original title, which persuaded Norton to re-release the book as The Book of Negroes. This back-and-forth made me wonder: What is it with the word Negroes? How has it come to be so incendiary?

The word Nigger—traditionally pitched with such venom that my father ordered me as a boy to ball up my fists and start fighting the instant I heard anyone use it—has made a comeback. It’s the title of comedian Dick Gregory’s autobiography, which sold more than a million copies, and a history tome by Harvard Law School professor Randall Kennedy. Hip-hop artists have ushered it back into near-respectability.

Negro, on the other hand, has moved from respectable to despised. The U.S. government removed the word from its census forms in 2014. For many, it suggests that the person so designated is a weak-kneed Uncle Tom with no self-respect as a black person.

It wasn’t always thus. For most of the 20th century, Negro was a neutral, respectful way to designate Americans of African descent. (Martin Luther King Jr. used it repeatedly.) Marcus Garvey founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association in 1917. Three years later, Langston Hughes wrote “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.” In 1928, W.E.B. DuBois received a letter from a high school sophomore who argued that “ ‘Negro’, or ‘nigger’ is a white man’s word to make us feel inferior.” He replied: “ ‘Negro’ is a fine word. Etymologically and phonetically it is much better and more logical than ‘African’ or ‘colored’ or any of the various hyphenated circumlocutions … a Negro by any other name would be just as black and just as white; just as ashamed of himself and just as shamed by others as today.”

In my own family, I saw and heard the word Negro used many times. My father’s Ph.D. dissertation, completed in 1960, was entitled Negroes in Toronto: A Sociological Study of a Minority Group. When he was named chairman of the Ontario Human Rights Commission in 1971, the Globe and Mail newspaper ran a headline with these words: “Negro appointed chairman of human rights board.” However, by 1978, when my mother and father co-founded the Ontario Black History Society, the word Negro had quietly fallen to the wayside.

According to University of Baltimore law professor Michael Higginbotham, the beginning of the end of Negro coincided with the rise of the Black Power movement. (Think James Brown’s 1968 song “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud.”) As civil rights advanced, fewer and fewer people wanted to use a term coined by slave traders. As Higginbotham argues, Negro fails to establish parity between the people it connotes and other groups. “Black” and “African-American” are analogous to “White” or “Italian-American,” “but Negro” lacks specificity and stands apart.

Delivering the eulogy at the funeral of Malcolm X in 1965, the actor and playwright Ossie Davis said: “Nobody knew better than he the power words have over the minds of men. Malcolm had stopped being a ‘Negro’ years ago. It had become too small, too puny, too weak a word for him. Malcolm was bigger than that. Malcolm had become an Afro-American …”

It is never satisfying to define a person by race, and terms that purport to do so are bound to fail. This is because race itself is an absurd construct that places people of African heritage at the bottom of a social hierarchy. Yet we continue to innovate with language. We run in circles trying to do the impossible and find a term that will work: Nigger, Negro, colored, Black, Afro-American, African-American …

As we lurch forward, grappling with new terms in new contexts, we should at least be inspired by history.

The Book of Negroes is the best title for a novel and television miniseries about 3,000 people whose names and autobiographical details were entered into a British naval ledger by the same name. The document itself embraces the history of peoples of African descent as they moved from Africa to the Americas in slavery, and then threw off their chains to serve the British wartime effort in every capacity imaginable.

The story of the Black Loyalists is one of survival in the face of betrayal. Men and women, children in tow, came to live for years in ragged canvas tents on the southern tip of Manhattan. After being evacuated to Nova Scotia in 1783, some were enslaved or indentured in Canada. In Nova Scotia, many were never given the land they had been promised and were left to freeze or starve to death or to be hanged for trifling offenses such as stealing potatoes. The oppression in what should have been Canaan was too much to stomach: A decade after arriving in Nova Scotia, 1,200 Black Loyalists accepted a voluntary offer from British abolitionists to sail once more across the Atlantic, this time traveling free in a flotilla of 15 ships to found the colony of Freetown in Sierra Leone in West Africa.

As it turns out, many of these so-called adventurers were not merely going to Africa: They were returning to the homeland from which they had been stolen at a much younger age. This astounding narrative of resilience is precisely the sort of story that we need to remember and lean on, in times good and bad. Largely absent from American and Canadian history books and classrooms, it deserves study. It deserves resurrection. Negro may well be an outdated word in contemporary speech, but it and “The Book of Negroes” have a central role in history and the fashioning of the narrative of peoples of the African diaspora who came to America in chains and chose to leave it, free. (source: Slate Magazine)

Selma to Montgomery March

From the National Voting Rights Museum and Institute --  The Alabama Voting Rights Project (AVRP), centered on Selma, Alabama and Dallas County, was a major campaign to secure effective federal protection of voting rights. That protection had been compromised out of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Three of Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s (SCLC) main organizers-Director of Direct Action and Nonviolent Education James Bevel, Diane Nash, and James Orange had been working with AVRP since late 1963.

In 1963, the Dallas County Voters League (DCVL) and organizers from the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) began voter registration work. When white resistance to African American voter registration proved intractable, the DCVL requested the assistance of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), who brought many prominent civil rights and civic leaders to support voting rights.

On February 18, 1965, an Alabama State Trooper, Corporal James Bonard Fowler, shot Jimmie Lee Jackson at point –blank range, as he tried to protect his mother and grandfather in a café to which hey had fled while being attacked by troopers during a nighttime civil rights demonstration in Marion, the county seat of Perry County. Jackson died eight days later, of an infection resulting from the gunshot wound, at Selma’s Good Samaritan. His murder was the catalyst for the movement, the Selma to Montgomery March.

In response, James Bevel called for a march from Selma to Montgomery. At a memorial service for Jackson on Sunday, February 1965, Rev. James Bevel floated his idea at the end of a fiery sermon. His text was from the Book of Esther, where Esther is charged to “go unto the king, to make supplication unto him, and to make request before him for her people.” ”I must go to see the king!” Bevel shouted, “We must go to Montgomery and see the king!” Several days later Martin Luther King, Jr. confirmed that, a march from Selma to Montgomery would take place. He met with President Lyndon B. Johnson in Washington D. C., on March 5, outlining is views on the proposed voting rights legislation.

The Selma to Montgomery March consisted of three different marches in 1965 that marked the political and emotional peak of the American Civil Rights Movement. These three marches grew out of the voting rights movement in Selma, Alabama, launched by local African Americans who formed the Dallas County Voters League. The first march took place on Sunday, March 7, when 600 civil rights marchers, assembled on Brown Chapel. The mood was somber. This day became known as “Bloody Sunday”-when the civil rights marchers were attacked by state and local police with billy clubs and tear gas. The second march took place on March 9; it was know as “Turn Around Tuesday.” Only the third march, which began on March 21 and lasted five days, made it to Montgomery, 51 mile (82km) away.

The marchers averaged 10 miles (16km) a day along U.S. Route 80, known in Alabama today as “Jefferson Davis Highway.” Protected by 2, 000 soldiers of the U.S. Army, 1,900 members of the Alabama National Guard under Federal command, and many FBI agents and Federal Marshals, they arrived in Montgomery on March 24, and at the Alabama Capital building on March 25, 1965.

National and international attention of the march highlighted the struggle, the adversity, the violence as well as the determination of the Selma protestors. As a result of the media coverage worldwide, Congress rushed to enact legislation that would guarantee voting rights for all Americans. President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act into law on August 6, 1965.

“BLOODY Sunday”, 1965

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., James Bevel and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), in partial collaboration with Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), attempted to organize a march from Selma, Alabama to the state capital of Montgomery on March 7, 1965. The first attempt to march on March 7 was aborted because of mob and police violence against the demonstrators. This day has since become known as “Bloody Sunday”. “Bloody Sunday” was a major turning point in the effort to gain public support for the Civil Rights Movement, the clearest demonstration up to that time of the dramatic potential of King’s nonviolence strategy. King, however, was not present. After meeting with President Lyndon B. Johnson, he decided not to endorse the march, but it was carried out against his wishes and without his presence on March 7 by the director of the Selma Movement, James Bevel, and by local Civil Rights Leaders. King’s next attempt to organize a march was set for March 9, it was known as “Turn Around Tuesday.” The SCLC petitioned for an injunction in Federal Court against the State of Alabama; this injunction was denied and the judge issued an order blocking the march until after a prayer session, before turning the marchers around and asking them to disperse so as not to violate the court order. The unexpected ending of this second march aroused the surprise and anger of many within the local movement. The march finally went ahead fully on March 25, 1965. At the conclusion of the march and on the steps of the state capitol, King delivered a speech that has become known as “How Long, not Long”.  (source: National Voting Rights Museum and Institute)

Bridge to Freedom, 1965: Selma, Alabama

Eyes On The Prize Transcript: Bridge To Freedom (1965)

NARRATOR: Selma, Alabama, 1965.

C. T. VIVIAN: I don't want to ... (inaudible) leave. We have come to register to vote.

RACHEL WEST NELSON: If we can't vote, you ain't free. If you ain't free, well then you're slaves.

C. T. VIVIAN: We're willing to be beaten for democracy.

NARRATOR: Years of struggle came down to this climactic battle for voting rights. Before it ended, black and white Americans gave their lives. But would that be enough?

C. T. VIVIAN: You people beat people bloody in order that they will not have the privilege to vote.

MALCOLM X: In the areas of the country where the government has proven itself unable or unwilling to defend the Negroes when they are being brutally and unjustly attacked, then the Negroes themselves should take whatever steps necessary to defend themselves.

NARRATOR: To many Americans, black and white, this was their worst nightmare. Race riots in northern cities during the summer of 1964. The civil rights movement was ten years old, nonviolence had been the strategy. But could nonviolence work in a society which grew angrier each day?

GUNNAR JAHN: On behalf of the Nobel Committee --

NARRATOR: To the world, Martin Luther King, Jr., had come to symbolize the success of nonviolent strategy. He received the Nobel Peace Prize in December, 1964.

GUNNAR JAHN: -- and the gold medal.

NARRATOR: But in America, young militants were beginning to challenge King's leadership. Dallas County, Selma, Alabama. For more than a year, organizers from the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, SNCC, had worked with local residents in waging a voter registration campaign. They met some resistance.

By the end of 1964, SNCC was exhausted, with little money to continue. Selma's black leaders turned to Martin Luther King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference for help.

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR: Today marks the beginning of a determined, organized, mobilized campaign.

NARRATOR: King's presence reopened an old rivalry between the ministers of SCLC and the young organizers of SNCC.

JAMES FORMAN: We felt that there should be a projection and an organization of indigenous leadership and leadership from the community. Whereas the Southern Christian Leadership Conference took the position that Martin was a charismatic leader who was mainly responsible for raising money and they raised most money off of his leadership. But this differences in leadership then led to differences in style of work. We wanted a movement that would survive the loss of our lives; therefore, the necessity to build a broad based movement and not just a charismatic leader.

NARRATOR: SNCC and SCLC put aside their differences and launched a combined effort on January 18th, 1965. The Dallas County courthouse steps became a dramatic stage as prospective voters lined up for the registrar's office in Selma. The key actor was Sheriff Jim Clark. Movement leaders counted on Clark to draw media attention, the kind of attention that would interest Washington and win voting rights legislation.

MAYOR SMITHERMAN: I am a segregationist. I do not believe in biracial committees.

NARRATOR: Selma's political leaders understood the movement's tactics and were desperate not to get caught in the middle. Mayor Joseph Smitherman and his public safety director, Wilson Baker, hoped to restrain the volatile Sheriff Clark as he dealt with the demonstrators.

JOSEPH SMITHERMAN: They picked Selma just like a movie producer would pick a set. You had the right ingredients. I mean, you'd had to have seen Clark in his day. He had a helmet on like General Patton, he had the clothes, the Eisenhower jacket and a swagger stick, and then Baker was very impressive and I guess I was the least of all. I was 145 pounds and a crew cut and big ears. So you had a young mayor with no background or experience.

MAYOR SMITHERMAN: Our city and our county has been subjected to the greatest pressures I think any community in the country has had to withstand. We've had in our area here outside agitation groups of all levels. We've had Martin Luther Coon -- Pardon me, sir, Martin Luther King, we have had people of the Nazi Party, the States Rights Party, both of these groups have come in, they have continually harassed and agitated us for approximately three or four weeks.

NARRATOR: More than half of Dallas County's citizens were black, but less than one percent were registered by 1965. Throughout much of the South, custom and law had long prevented blacks from registering. In Selma, the registrar's office was open only two days a month. Registrars would arrive late, leave early, and take long lunch hours. Few blacks who lined up would get in. And getting in was no guarantee of being registered.

President Johnson knew the problem, and now having soundly defeated conservative Barry Goldwater in the recent election, he set this goal.

PRESIDENT LYNDON B. JOHNSON: I propose that we eliminate every remaining obstacle to the right and the opportunity to vote.

NARRATOR: But Johnson's staff had doubts about pushing for more legislation.

NICHOLAS KATZENBACH: I think those of us who had been involved day in and day out in civil rights legislation, in getting the 1964 Civil Rights Act through Congress were the people who were dragging our feet and wanted breathing room. The President didn't want that. He said, "Get it and get it now because we'll never have a better opportunity to get legislation on any subject including civil rights than we have right now in 1965. We have the majority to do it, we can do it."

NARRATOR: Although Sheriff Clark tried to control his temper, the strain began to show. In mid-January, he arrested Mrs. Amelia Boynton, a highly respected community leader. Angered by Mrs. Boynton's arrest, 105 local teachers marched to the courthouse in protest, knowing they might be fired by the white school board.

SHERIFF CLARK: This court house is a serious place of business and you seem to think you can take it just to be, uh, Disneyland or something on parade. Do you have business in the court house?

TEACHER: We just, we just want to pass through.

SHERIFF CLARK: Do you have any business in the court house?

TEACHER: The only business we have is to come by the Board of Registrars to register...

SHERIFF CLARK: The Board of Registrars is not in session this afternoon as you were informed. You came down to make a mockery out of this court house and we're not going to have it.

REV. FREDERICK D. REESE: So I saw then that he was not going to arrest us, as I really wanted him to do. Therefore, we asked the teachers then to regroup and we marched back, not to the school but to the Brown Chapel Church, at which time there was a rally held.

NARRATOR: The teachers march was the first black middle class demonstration in Selma. Sheyann Webb and Rachel West were schoolchildren at the time.

SHEYANN WEBB: And it was a amazing to see how many teachers had participated. I remember vividly on that day when I saw my teachers marching with me, you know, just for the right to vote.

RACHEL WEST NELSON: Teachers there was somewhat like up in the upper class, you know. People looked up to teachers then, they looked up to preachers. They were somewhat like leaders for back then.

REV. FREDERICK D. REESE: Then the undertakers got a group and they marched. The beauticians got a group, they marched. Everybody marched after the teachers marched because teachers had more influence than they ever dreamed in the community.

C. T. VIVIAN: And we want you to know, gentlemen, that every one of you, we know your badge numbers, we know your names.

NARRATOR: In mid-February, Reverend C. T. Vivian, an SCLC organizer, confronted Sheriff Clark and his deputies on the courthouse steps.

C.T. Vivian

C. T. VIVIAN: But believe me, there were those that followed Hitler, like you blindly follow this Sheriff Clark who didn't think their day was coming. But they also were pulled into courtrooms and they were also given their death sentences. You're not this bad a racist, but you're a racist in the same way Hitler was a racist. And you're blindly following a man that's leading you down a road that's going to bring you into federal court. Now, I'm representing people in Dallas County and I have that right to do so. Now, and as I represent them and they can speak for themselves, is what I'm saying true? Is it what you think and what you believe? For this is not a local problem, gentlemen. This is a national problem. You can't keep anyone in the United States from voting without hurting the rights of all other citizens. Democracy is built on this. This is why every man has the right to vote, regardless.

JIM CLARK: And he started shouting at me that I was a Hitler, I was a brute, I was a Nazi. I don't remember everything he called me. And I did lose my temper then.

C. T. VIVIAN: We have come to be here because they are registering at this time.

SHERIFF CLARK: Turn that light out. You're blinding me and I can't enforce the law with the light in my face.

C. T. VIVIAN: We have come to register and this is our reason for being here. We're not --

SHERIFF CLARK: You're blinding me with that light. Move back.

C. T. VIVIAN: You can arrest us. You can arrest us, Sheriff Clark. You don't have to beat us.

JIM CLARK: I don't remember even hitting him, but I went to the doctor, got an x-ray and found out I had a linear fracture on my finger on my left hand.

C. T. VIVIAN: With Jim Clark, it was a clear engagement between the forces and movements and the forces of the structure that would destroy movement. It was a clear engagement between those who wished the fullness of their personalities to be met and those that would destroy us physically and psychologically. You do not walk away from that. This is what movement meant. Movement meant that finally we were encountering on a mass scale the evil that had been destroying us on a mass scale. You do not walk away from that, you continue to answer it.

C. T. VIVIAN: If we're wrong, why don't you arrest us?

POLICEMAN: Why don't you get out of in front of the camera and go on. Go on.

C. T. VIVIAN: It's not a matter of being in front of the camera. It's a matter of facing your sheriff and facing your judge. We're willing to be beaten for democracy, and you misuse democracy in this street. You beat people bloody in order that they will not have the privilege to vote. You beat me in the side and then hide your blows. We have come to register to vote.

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR: I'm here to tell you tonight that the businessmen, the mayor of this city, the police commissioner of this city, and everybody in the white power structure of this city must take a responsibility for everything that Jim Clark does and has created. It's time for us to say to these men that if you don't do something about it, we will have no alternative but to engage in broader and more drastic forms of civil disobedience in order to bring the attention of a nation to this whole issue in Selma, Alabama. (Transcript: Eyes On The Prize, Bridge To Freedom, 1965)

Anne Farrow: The Enduring Scars of Slavery

From the Hartford Courant, "Recognize Enduring Scars Of Slavery's Shackles," by Anne Farrow of Haddam (the author of "The Logbooks: Connecticut's Slave Ships and Human Memory" and co-author of "Complicity: How the North Promoted, Prolonged, and Profited from Slavery."), on 19 December 2014

We may never know what happened between black teenager Michael Brown and white police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Mo., but if we knew our history with slavery, we would know all that we need to about what happened during their 90-second fatal encounter and its devastating aftermath.

I am 63 years old, a white woman and in the odd and probably fortunate position of having written a newly published book on America's memory of slavery just at the moment when black anger over continuing racial injustice has captured national attention. Nine years ago, when I spoke about a book I co-wrote on connections to slavery in the antebellum North, anguished audiences asked: Why don't we know about this?

Now, the questions are about Ferguson, and the gulf between the way white and black Americans view and experience our justice system. The questions are about rage. There is a continuum between the questions a decade ago and the ones I hear now.

Slavery in America was not a footnote, not "the sad chapter" of our history but the cornerstone of our making. Three generations of eminent historians have documented the astonishing scope, duration, economic importance and savagery of bondage in America, but this key piece of our past still is not prominent in the narrative of our nation.

In studying a set of 18th-century ships' logs linking Connecticut and the slave trade, I saw that when we made stolen black labor our national bedrock and created a system where inferiority was identifiable by color, we doomed ourselves to the present day and a nation where justice and parity for black people have not been achieved.

The Connecticut seamen and commanders in these ships' logs did not regard their suffering African cargo as human. When they shoved them onto the English Caribbean islands, where the captives suffered and died in an agricultural system infamous for its cruelty, notions of kidnap and murder did not cross their minds. These black men, women and children were not seen as innocent people; they were a business opportunity, part of a supply-and-demand chain that separated an estimated 12.5 million Africans from their homes and changed a hemisphere.

Several hundred thousand in that involuntary migration came to the American colonies, and their palpable humanity didn't really pose a problem for most settlers here, either. The most pressing exigency of this brave new world was labor, and these valuable workers were the key to America's early success. Their stolen, uncompensated labor gave us our running start.

The best and most educated people owned slaves, promulgated its benefits and enjoyed the wealth slavery created — the keeper of my Connecticut logbooks was not an obscure mariner but a Saltonstall and the scion of an aristocratic family. This comfort level with the omnipresence of human bondage became a cascading series of accepted and pathological untruths: Black people were designed for slavery; they didn't mind being enslaved; they weren't really human; and they didn't recognize degradation and injustice.

Scholar Arna Alexander Bontemps documented the way captives in the South became invisible. Their labor was essential to their captors, but because they were not regarded as human beings, their emotions, their lives and their grief as exiles were not part of the record. They appeared as purchases, or as laborers. These one-name possessions appear in many Northern records as well.

By the time of the Civil War, 4 million black people were held in slavery in the U.S. The suffering of those millions — the majority of whom were born here — has never been adequately addressed and explored by Americans. The emancipation that ended legal slavery did not end racial prejudice, and those Americans who believe that it did need only look at the most recent statistics on African-American poverty, access to education, housing and health care. African-Americans are poorer than they were nine years ago.

Americans still do not have a shared and meaningful body of knowledge about a labor system that held those millions in bondage. The hard question of how a post-Enlightenment nation, founded on principles of personal liberty, became the largest holder of slaves in the Western world is still waiting to be answered.

If, as a country, we truly understood the extraordinary human catastrophe we created when we became economically dependent on the oppression of black people, if we took this in all its terrible dimensions into our hearts and then our history, we would not be scratching our heads over Ferguson. We would understand exactly why the legacy of enslavement is raging through our cities and begin to do something about it.  (source: Hartford Courant OP Ed)

The Cotton Empire

From the Kansas City Star, "‘Land of cotton’ was — and is — not such a happy place," by Kevin Canfield, in a Special to The Kansas City Star, on 3 January 2015 -- It plays a part in nearly everything we do. Not only is cotton found in clothes, bedding and books, Sven Beckert reminds us — it’s also “in the banknotes we use, the coffee filters that help us awaken in the morning, the vegetable oil we use for cooking, the soap we wash with, and the gunpowder that fights our wars.”

On one level, Berkert’s “Empire of Cotton: A Global History” is about the omnipresence of a single, extremely versatile plant. But more than that, it’s a comprehensive look at the ways in which cotton has shaped life in America and in countries all over the world — sometimes for the better, yet all too frequently for the worse.

Empire of Cotton: A Global History, by Sven Beckert 

Though Beckert, a Harvard history professor, offers an overview of 5,000 years of cotton-growing, he devotes most of his energy to a smaller block of time.

In his formulation, the economic system that would fuel the modern cotton trade took root in the 16th century. “War capitalism,” as Beckert terms the era’s ruthless network of international commerce, was built on the sale of human beings, and on the theft of land and natural resources from native people.

In the years after European explorers landed on these shores, they grabbed as much gold as they could get their hands on. Later, the newcomers turned to sugar and tobacco farming — and then, to the cultivation of cotton. This necessitated lots of laborers. The slave trade exploded.

“In the three centuries after 1500, more than 8 million slaves were transported from Africa to the Americas,” Beckert writes.

Cotton raised by slaves on this side of the ocean was shipped to England and mainland Europe. There it was processed in sweatshops where impoverished laborers — adults and children alike — logged 85-hour workweeks.

This arrangement was nearly upended in 1791, when slaves in Saint-Dominique (present-day Haiti) rebelled against the country’s French regime. As they won their freedom, Saint-Dominique’s ex-slaves also shook the global cotton trade. The island had been producing nearly a quarter of the cotton imported into Britain, according to Beckert, but after the uprising that figure plummeted to less than 5 percent.

To make up for the shortage, Beckert writes, European cotton magnates sought increased output from America. A series of technological breakthroughs — foremost Eli Whitney’s seed-removing cotton gin — sped the growth of the stateside cotton industry. More and more slaves were needed on Southern plantations.

How prevalent was slave holding among American cotton producers? On the eve of the Civil War, Beckert tells us, “85 percent of all cotton picked in the South in 1860 was grown on units larger than a hundred acres; the planters who owned those farms owned 91.2 percent of all slaves.

“Cotton demanded quite literally a hunt for labor and a perpetual struggle for its control. Slave traders, slave pens, slave auctions, and the attendant physical and psychological violence of holding millions in bondage were of central importance to the expansion of cotton production in the United States and of the Industrial Revolution in Great Britain.”

The scope of slavery in America remains shocking, no matter how often the story is told. But the degree to which Europeans supported it well into the 19th century is often underplayed. In 1807, Britain outlawed the sale of slaves, but some English traders continued to aid American slaveholders until the Civil War.

“Liverpool, the world’s largest cotton port, was the most pro-Confederate place in the world outside the Confederacy itself,” he writes. “Liverpool merchants helped bring out cotton from ports blockaded by the Union navy, built warships for the Confederacy, and supplied the South with military equipment and credit.”

“Empire of Cotton” also features a host of edifying — and largely untold — stories about the destruction wrought by the fluctuating cotton market. In the middle of the 19th century, encouraged by English traders looking to make up production lost to the Civil War, some farmers in India switched from food crops to cotton. India began to import more food. But cotton prices fell, food costs spiked in the 1870s, and many poor workers couldn’t afford to eat.

“In India alone,” Beckert writes, “between 6 and 10 million people died in the famines of the late 1870s.”

Today the cotton industry is dominated by China and other countries where labor is extremely cheap. According to 2012 figures cited by Beckert, 29 percent of the world’s cotton is grown in China and 21 percent in India. Uzbekistan, a country with 0.004 percent of the global population, accounts for 4 percent of the world’s cotton — in part, Beckert writes, because child agricultural labor is legal.

Virtually every piece of clothing now sold in America — 98 percent, Beckert says — is manufactured beyond our borders.

“Workers in Bangladesh stitch together clothing under absurdly dangerous conditions for very low wages,” he writes, “while consumers in the United States and Europe can purchase those pieces with abandon, at prices that often seem impossibly low.”  (source: The Kansas City Star)

A Tale of Two Plantations: Slave Life and Labor in Jamaica and Virginia

As reported in the New York Times, "‘A Tale of Two Plantations,’ by Richard S. Dunn," reviewed by Greg Grandin, on 2 January 2015 -- For enslaved peoples in the New World, it was always the worst of times. Whether captured in Africa or born into bondage in the Americas, slaves suffered unimaginable torments and indignities. Yet the specific form their miseries took, as the historian Richard S. Dunn shows in his painstakingly researched “A Tale of Two Plantations: Slave Life and Labor in Jamaica and Virginia,” depended on whether one was a slave in the British Caribbean or in the United States. The contrasts between the two slave societies were many, covering family life, religious beliefs and labor practices. But one difference overrode all others. In the Caribbean, white masters treated the slaves like “disposable cogs in a machine,” working them to death on sugar plantations and then replacing them with fresh stock from Africa. In the United States, white masters treated their slaves like the machine itself — a breeding machine.

Dunn began working on this comparative study in the 1970s, around the time historians like Winthrop D. Jordan, Edmund S. Morgan and Eugene D. Genovese were revolutionizing the study of American slavery. Drawing on Freud, Marx and other social theorists, these scholars painted what Dunn calls the “big picture,” capturing the psychosexual terror, economic exploitation, resistance, and emotional and social dependency inherent in the master-slave relation.

A Tale Of Two Plantations: Slave Life and Labor in Jamaica and Virginia,  By Richard S. Dunn

Decades of extensive research led Dunn, a professor emeritus at the University of Pennsylvania, in a different direction, away from making large historical claims or speculating about the “interiority” of slavery’s victims. Instead, he’s opted to stay close to the facts, using demographic methods to reconstruct “the individual lives and collective experiences of some 2,000 slaves on two large plantations” — Mesopotamia, which grew sugar on the western coastal plain of Jamaica, and Mount Airy, a tobacco and grain estate on the Rappahannock River in Virginia’s Northern Neck region — “during the final three generations of slavery in both places.”

In Jamaica, Joseph Foster Barham I and his son Joseph Foster Barham II presided over Mesopotamia during its most profitable decades. Absentee but involved masters, they supervised the plantation’s progress from their homes in England, approving new planting fields, reviewing the amount of sugar boiled and rum distilled, and auditing the ledger books. The one thing they believed they had no control over was life and death. During the seven decades Dunn studies (1762 to 1833, the year Britain abolished slavery), Mesopotamia recorded 420 births and 751 deaths, figures that do not include abortions, miscarriages or, for the most part, stillbirths. At a time of rising production, the data “show twice as many deaths as births, and a high proportion of the slaves who died during these years were children, teenagers or young adults.”

The younger Barham said he took seriously his responsibility to improve the material and moral condition of his slaves. And his agents in Jamaica told him they did everything they could to increase the survival rate of newborns, including lightening the work burdens of expecting women. Nothing helped. As the ratio of deaths to births remained high, slaves themselves were held to blame. “The Negro race,” Barham wrote, “is so averse to labor that without force we have hardly anywhere been able to obtain it.” He is referring to the labor of sugar production. But the sentiment covered white opinions regarding the labor of slave reproduction. Women were punished for miscarrying, sent to the workhouse or to solitary confinement. Yet despite the death rate, the plantation’s population increased, replenished by new captives purchased from slave ships or other Jamaican estates.

In Virginia, John Tayloe III, master of Mount Airy from 1792 to 1828, bred horses and slaves. The horses he raced, earning him the reputation “as the leading Virginia turfman of his generation.” The slaves he worked and sold. “There were,” Dunn counts, “252 recorded slave births and 142 slave deaths at Mount Airy between 1809 and 1828, providing John III with 110 extra slaves.” Tayloe, a fourth-generation enslaver, moved some of these surplus people around his other Virginia holdings and transferred others to his sons. The rest he sold, providing Tayloe with both needed capital and an opportunity to cull unproductive workers, keeping his labor force fit and young.

Colonial Virginia

Tayloe’s son William Henry took over Mount Airy in 1828, and its slave population continued to increase, even as depleted soil led to crop shortfalls and declining profits. So where the Barhams responded to their demographic crisis by buying more slaves and intensifying production, the new master of Mount Airy opted for expansion. He struck out west with his brothers, acquiring cotton fields in Alabama. Between 1833 and 1862, William Henry moved a total of 218 slaves from white-fenced Virginia to the Cotton South’s slave frontier, a distance of 800 miles. Many of these captives were teenagers, “of the right age to learn how to pick cotton.” By this point, with the Atlantic slave trade closed, Virginia had become a net slave exporter; in the early 1800s, there were fewer than a million enslaved people in the United States, mostly concentrated in the coastal and piedmont South. Four decades later, there were four times as many, spread from Charleston to Texas, from Mount Airy to west-central Alabama, where William Henry Tayloe established his new estates.

Dunn identifies three reasons Mesopotamia’s slaves couldn’t reproduce themselves: deadly body-wasting diseases, a poor diet and an onerous work regime. He is careful, though, to highlight the brutality of both plantations, especially the casualness with which the Tayloes broke up the families of slaves, either as punishment or to maximize the effectiveness of their labor. Dunn’s prose can be bracing in its understatement: “The extraordinarily large number of deaths,” he writes, “strongly suggests that the managers of Mesopotamia had been overtaxing their workers.”

Jamaica

Dunn’s restraint extends to a reluctance to engage in current debates concerning the relationship of slavery to capitalist development, which dilutes the power of his research and leads to some imprecision. It is unclear whether he believes antebellum slavery was inherently expansionist, as Walter Johnson and others have recently argued, or if the Tayloe family was merely making the most of the opportunities afforded by a growing slave population to diversify into Alabama.

Likewise, Dunn’s discussion of interracial sex seems tone deaf to decades of scholarship on the subject. Forty years ago, Winthrop D. Jordan wrote about the libidinal foundations of white supremacy in America. More recently, the historians Jennifer L. Morgan and Diana Paton have explored the linkages between ideology, law and sexual domination in slave societies. Dunn devotes a chapter each to two slave women, empathetically tracing their family history and considering the many hardships they endured. He mentions rape and “predatory” whites and discusses the sharp differences in the way mixed-race offspring were treated on the two plantations. Yet at times he plays down the varieties of sexual coercion that enslaved women lived under. At one point, he calls the relationship between a white overseer, his black “mistress” and his distraught wife a “ménage à trois.” Still, “A Tale of Two Plantations” is a substantial achievement. That it is the product of four decades of exacting research and deliberation comes through in each of its many details.  (source: New York Times)

Atlas of the Transatlantic Slave Trade, by David Eltis and David Richardson

A Brief Overview of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade

David Eltis (Emory University)

Early Slaving Voyages

From The Trans Atlantic Slave Trade Database Voyages, "A Brief Overview of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade," by David Eltis  (2007)--  With the key forces shaping the traffic briefly described, we can now turn to a short narrative of the slave trade. The first Africans forced to work in the New World left from Europe at the beginning of the sixteenth century, not from Africa. There were few vessels that carried only slaves on this early route, so that most would have crossed the Atlantic in smaller groups on vessels carrying many other commodities, rather than dedicated slave ships. Such a slave route was possible because an extensive traffic in African slaves from Africa to Europe and the Atlantic islands had existed for half a century before Columbian contact, such that ten percent of the population of Lisbon was black in 1455,(2) and black slaves were common on large estates in the Portuguese Algarve. The first slave voyage direct from Africa to the Americas probably sailed in 1526. Before mid-century, all trans-Atlantic slave ships sold their slaves in the Spanish Caribbean, with the gold mines in Cibao on Hispaniola emerging as a major purchaser. Cartagena, in modern Columbia, appears as the first mainland Spanish American destination for a slave vessel - in the year 1549. On the African side, the great majority of people entering the early slave trade came from the Upper Guinea coast, and moved through Portuguese factories initially in Arguim, and later the Cape Verde islands. Nevertheless, the 1526 voyage set out from the other major Portuguese factory in West Africa - Sao Tome in the Bight of Biafra – though the slaves almost certainly originated in the Congo.

The slave traffic to Brazil, eventually accounting for about forty percent of the trade, got underway around 1560. Sugar drove this traffic, as Africans gradually replaced the Amerindian labor force on which the early sugar mills (called engenhos) had drawn over the period 1560 to 1620. By the time the Dutch invaded Brazil in 1630, Pernambuco, Bahia, and Rio de Janeiro were supplying almost all of the sugar consumed in Europe, and almost all the slaves producing it were African. Consistent with the earlier discussion of Atlantic wind and ocean currents, there were by 1640 two major branches of the trans-Atlantic slave trade operating, one to Brazil, and the other to the mainland Spanish Americas, but together they accounted for less 7,500 departures a year from the whole of sub-Saharan Africa, almost all of them by 1600 from west-central Africa. The sugar complex spread to the eastern Caribbean from the beginning of the 1640s. Sugar consumption steadily increased in Europe, and the slave system began two centuries of westward expansion across tropical and sub-tropical North America. At the end of the seventeenth century, gold discoveries in first Minas Gerais, and later in Goias and other parts of Brazil, began a transformation of the slave trade which triggered further expansion of the business. In Africa, the Bights of Benin and Biafra became major sources of supply, in addition to Angola, and were joined later by the more marginal provenance zones of Sierra Leone, the Windward Coast, and South-east Africa. The volume of slaves carried off reached thirty thousand per annum in the 1690s and eighty-five thousand a century later. More than eight out of ten Africans pulled into the traffic in the era of the slave trade made their journeys in the century and a half after 1700. (source: The Trans Atlantic Slave Trade Database Voyages)