Decades of Darkness #97: For Whom The Belle Tolls
Decades of Darkness #97: For Whom The Belle Tolls
“Agriculture, manufactures, commerce and navigation, the four pillars of our prosperity, are the most thriving when left most free to individual enterprise.”
-- Thomas Jefferson, 3rd President of the United States
“Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails,
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.”
-- Oliver Goldsmith (1730-1774), Irish writer
“Money, not morality, is the principle of commerce and commercial nations."
-- Thomas Jefferson, 3rd President of the United States
* * *
14 April 1873
New White House,
Columbia City, Federal District
United States of America
Julia Gordon had lived for several years in an isolated plantation in Nicaragua, which politically meant that she lived in a distant island in what was already the most cut-off American territory, no matter that it had recently been granted statehood. Since she was denied the chance to vote anyway – a very few American women had started to call for female suffrage, which would be wonderful if it were granted, but Julia expected it to happen the week after Judgement Day – she had taken only passing notice of federal politics. That meant that until now she had little appreciation of how persuasive President Hugh Griffin could be. Hand the man a bucket of potatoes and a one-way ticket to Ireland, and she was sure that he could sell them for enough money to buy a return fare, and Dublin besides.
Griffin had ushered four reporters into his office for one of what he called his “deskside chats”. In a quietly whispered aside before they came in, he told Julia, “Jesse Grant, who’ll be the youngest one, is a man to watch. His father [1] started from nothing and ended up founding the Columbia Messenger. His son will go even further, I think.”
Griffin greeted each of the reporters in turn. Jesse Grant proved to be a man with a young-looking face and a scraggly blond beard. Julia thought he would look better clean-shaven, but then she thought that of most men.
Griffin said, “Miss Gordon, I’m pleased to introduce to you these four worthy gentlemen of the Fourth Estate. Mr Gerald Ewing, of the Register, Mr Jesse Grant, of the Messenger, Mr Henry Sherman, of the Courier and syndicated correspondent for newspapers from San Francisco to Philadelphia, and Mr Nathaniel Mifflin, of the Charleston Republic. Gentlemen, this is Miss Julia Gordon, owner of Sharkview Plantation, in one of our newest and finest states, Nicaragua.”
“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” Julia said, extending her hand for each of them to kiss in turn. None of these men had any meaningful social status in themselves, and thus did not truly deserve that gesture, but as reporters they had influence above any questions of wealth or breeding. She noticed that both Ewing and Sherman flicked their gaze to her left hand, where she wore no ring, although they should already know that from Griffin’s introduction.
Griffin said, “My friends, I understood that you wanted to meet the woman who has won the notice of the capital with her marvellous new fruit. Gentlemen, I give you... Madame Banana.”
Ewing said, “Ma’am, how did you discover these strange fruit?”
Julia said, “After a tiring journey up the San Juan River – you gentlemen would be astonished how difficult that voyage was before the recent improvements to the river – and reached that sparkling jewel of Central America, Lake Nicaragua. Then I found Granada, and there I found that there are many delectable tropical fruits which are unknown here in the old states, including the banana which I have the privilege of tasting a few days after I arrived.”
“With so many fruit, why did you choose the banana?” Grant said.
“Because of its superior taste and ease of shipping, coming in bunches and wrapped in its own preserving skin,” Julia said. “Why, I could have them shipped to the colder reaches of Canada, and they would still be fresh.” As she said that, she made a mental note. Why not sell bananas to Canada? Or probably New England would be best to start with.
The reporters asked her a few questions about the cultivation and properties of the banana, which she answered at length, and kept repeating how easily it was preserved and would keep a long time for Americans to eat.
Sherman said, “I understand that you use debt-slaves to grow these bananas. Why not use slaves instead, who are more reliable, less prone to flee, and can be made to work harder?”
Julia said, “I have found that, with suitable incentives, my subcontractors will work commendably quickly. And they do not try to flee much anymore; the border to Costa Rica is too well-guarded, and Guatemala too far away.” In fact, a couple had fled to the Mosquito Coast, which was a nuisance, but most of them stayed if well-treated, and identification papers took care of the rest.
Eventually Grant asked the question she had been waiting for one of the reporters to deliver. “How much difficulty did you have shipping them from Nicaragua, along that narrow river you mentioned, the... San Juan River?”
Julia said, “It was a little troublesome for the first couple of years, but I managed. It has become easier now. The San Juan River has been transformed by American engineers [2] as the first part of completing the Canal. I can bring far more bananas to the United States more reliably and cheaply since that. I hope they complete the Canal soon; when they have finished the improvements to the river, seagoing ships will sail straight into the lake, and when they finish the western passage, I can ship things to the West Coast as well.”
Griffin said, “This is why I wanted to build the Canal. I hope to bring the country closer together. Men may more freely move as they wish. We now stretch from sea to shining sea. Is it not only fair and reasonable that we should be able to sail from sea to shining sea as well? By this our commerce may increase. The harvests of America’s verdant soils, our God-endowed mineral riches, and the products of our tireless manufactures may more easily be brought to those who wish to buy them.”
Julia stared at the President for a long moment. When Griffin spoke, he sounded as if he believed it with all his heart. He made everyone who heard him want to believe it, too. Julia had already wanted the Canal, but now she felt as if it had to happen right now.
Mifflin said, “And it sounds like here we have someone who’s happy to earn her wealth from it.”
Griffin said, “The strength of the United States has always been that any man may earn his path to capital. If a man is astute, if a man is industrious, he may by dint of good management and hard work improve his station in life.”
Grant said, “Mr President, if Miss Gordon has her way in selling so many fruit to the American people, will not America become a Banana Republic?”
Griffin smiled. “It could be. And now, my friends, I think it is time for me to take advantage of Miss Gordon’s generous offer. She has agreed to let me try one of her famous bananas... and you gentleman as well, if you wish.”
The reporters all agreed to do so, and five bananas were brought in, already peeled and served one to a plate with knife and fork provided. Julia tried to hide a smile; she was used to simply peeling and eating them. But if it gave the fruit more appeal, she was happy to go along with it.
“Delicious,” Griffin declared, after finishing his. The reporters made similar comments. Griffin added, “I hope that you can ship plenty more of these throughout the country.”
“I will certainly try,” Julia said. With the President’s endorsement about to be carried across the nation, and Harry Walker’s other efforts to promote the banana, she hoped it would be so.
* * *
19 April 1873
Sand Ford Plantation
Near Savannah, Georgia, USA
Sand Ford Plantation. While Julia had lived the majority of her life there, coming back here did not feel like coming home. She was used to Nicaragua now, and this place of rice did not suit her tastes at all. More and more of the swamps had been cleared, even more than when she had last lived here, but it would still be an unpleasant disease-hole. Her father had been unlike most of the rice planters in choosing to live here rather than leaving matters to overseers, trusting that his family’s long history of immunity to most of the familiar diseases would keep them safe. He had been right, but Julia still did not want to visit here. Still, her father’s invitation had been just short of a demand.
So Julia had come, but she had taken precautions. Yolanda and Harry waited for her in Savannah; keeping them there would reduce awkward questions from her father and also give her the excuse to leave soon and claim the press of business. But for now, she was here, and after the initial round of greetings and insincere exclamations that it had been too long since they last set eyes on each other, Richard Gordon said, “I’d never imagined you would build so much up from nothing. I’m impressed.”
“The opportunity was there, so I took it,” Julia said. “The United States is about those who work hard improving their lot, isn’t it?” Something about President Griffin had rubbed off on her, sure enough.
“Of course. But it’ll be good that someone in our family will keep up the planting tradition.”
Julia stared. “What do you mean?”
“Sand Ford is no longer profitable for me to run, sadly. Rice doesn’t command the prices it used to even five years ago, let alone ten or twenty years past. And even with the improvements to the land around here, disease amongst the slaves erodes too much of my capital.”
“You’re going to sell Sand Ford?”
Richard nodded. “I’ve been talking to Michael Grimes, from over west near Blakely. He wants to buy some land hereabouts, and grow rice until he can turn it into a tea plantation.”
Julia said, “You own the land now. Why don’t you start planting tea?”
Richard said, “Because I’m too old and set in my ways to learn about that accursedly difficult crop. Let Grimes manage it, if he wants. With the sale of Sand Ford, I can buy a decent house in Savannah and rent out the slaves.”
“How have the boys taken the news?” Julia said.
“Dennis doesn’t know yet. I sent him a letter, but it won’t have reached Jefferson yet, and he’s probably still too busy swearing about boll weevils to notice. That farm of his won’t turn into a plantation now. Joseph only cares about the army and hoping that President Griffin starts a war somewhere. But Edward and Albert, well...” Richard gave her a long look. “To be frank, they’re hoping to inherit a share of your Nicaragua plantation. They’re convinced that you won’t have any heirs to leave it to. Will you ever marry?”
“I...” Julia could find no way to go on. Some things she couldn’t say openly, not to her father.
Her father nodded again, sadly, then raised his voice. “Lucy, show Julia to her room.” More normally: “Your homecoming party tonight. People coming from miles around. Maybe you’ll find someone who catches your eye.”
If I do, it’ll be someone who you wouldn’t approve of anyway. The slave Lucy appeared, and Julia followed her. As they walked away, Lucy said, “Mass Richard, he going to sell the place?”
The slaves would hear any news, of course. Julia had known that for years. She also heard the alarm in Lucy’s tone, and knew what it meant. “He’s selling the plantation, not the slaves. You’ll be going with him to Savannah.” She hoped they would be, anyway. And even if her father did sell off a few slaves while moving, he would keep the house slaves like Lucy.
* * *
25 April 1873
Savannah, Georgia
United States of America
When he was young, Captain Anderson Mitchell’s father and grandfather had been at pains to remind him that New England and the United States had once been one country. His grandfather had fought with New Hampshire’s Freedom Brigade during the Second American Revolution, trying and failing to hold New England under the rule of Washington, D.C. He had discreetly fled New Hampshire after the war, fearing the noose [3], but even then he had gone to Boston. One of the few signs of wisdom that his grandfather had ever shown, as far as Mitchell was concerned, since he still stayed within New England. After the Revolution, his grandfather had married and raised his father with the belief that New England should be looking to Washington, not to London.
Both had tried to teach him the same thing, but Mitchell would have no part of it. Washington, D.C. had been abandoned as a city around the time he was born, and who wanted to look toward a city named for a slaveholding American anyway? Jefferson, Madison, Franklin – all the American founding fathers had been slaveowners at some time in their lives, even if Franklin had repented after the Revolution. Only with the Second American Revolution had the new founding fathers – men like Pickering, Lowell, Quincy, Griswold and Cabot – abolished slavery.
Good riddance to the Americans, as far as Mitchell was concerned. He would do business with them, but he was glad he no longer needed to share a country with them. He was quite happy to sail his schooner into American or other ports of the Caribbean in search of goods to transport, but he would never want to live here.
“Who can understand the gringos?” Mitchell murmured to himself, as he walked through the streets of Savannah toward the Pulaski Hotel, the city’s finest, and his appointment.
He saw not a single horstcar; the new contraptions had started to fill the streets of New York, but the Americans seemed resolutely fixed on horses and buggies instead [4]. But he did see several blacks, walking around the city freely. They weren’t free in law, but the slavemasters here in Savannah let many of them live in their own houses, selling goods or other commerce, and simply paying a weekly fee to their owners. Yet these same Americans insisted that slaves could never be freed. They watched him closely, and if he uttered an abolitionist word to a slave a lynching would follow. The Jackals had a very few home-grown abolitionists, who would get laughed at if they tried something. But let a foreign visitor to a town even appear to be abolitionist, and the locals reached for the nearest rope.
When Mitchell stepped into the lobby of the Pulaski Hotel, a tall man dressed all in white walked up to him. “Captain Mitchell?”
“The same,” Mitchell said, extending his hand.
“Harry Walker, agent for the Gordon family and their fellow producers.”
As they shook hands, Walker’s eyes gave him a quick once-over. He was ex-military; Mitchell was convinced of that. Not because he carried a pistol – most white men in Savannah did – but from the way he sized up everyone and everything.
Mitchell said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you ask to see me? Especially here, instead of at my ship.”
“It wasn’t me who asked to see you. My principal did, and she waits for you in the dining room. If you’ll follow me...”
She? Mitchell wondered. As well expect a woman to have principles as be the principal here. Except for a few widows who maintained plantations from their husbands, and a very occasional daughter who was an only child, American women weren’t involved in commerce, any more than New England women were. And he knew that the Gordon family still had men to conduct its commerce; he had had dealings with Edward Gordon the last time he was in Savannah.
Still, a woman waited at one of the tables in the Pulaski’s grand dining hall. She rose as Walker performed the introductions. “Ma’am, this is Captain Anderson Mitchell, of the Yankee schooner Lady Grey. Captain, this is Miss Julia Gordon, owner of Sharkview Plantation, Nicaragua, whom I am privileged to represent in the mainland states.”
Owner in her own right? Mitchell offered her a bow, and she returned a dignified curtsey. Sure enough, she dressed and acted like an American aristocrat. Long black hair hanging loose, which would have been frowned on as risqué in New York or Boston. She wore white, just like Walker – American fashion seemed to be colourless, these days – but in an elaborately worked lace-edged silk dress which would probably cost him a year’s profits. He would have guessed her age at twenty-five, but she was clearly unmarried. Quite odd, given her wealth and beauty.
“Join me for lunch, captain?” Julia asked.
“I’d be honoured, ma’am,” he said, and sat down. “Will Mr Walker be-” He looked around, and could see no sign of the agent. “Where did he go?”
“Mr Walker has a pressing prior engagement, I’m afraid,” she said, sounding amused, but she did not bother to explain.
“How’d he get away so quietly?” Mitchell asked.
“He spent some years in the Jaguars,” she said. He must have looked blank, because she added, “A specialist unit of soldiers who fight in jungles and such. Harry moves silently without even thinking about it, most of the time.”
“That might cause a few surprises now and then.” He signalled for a waiter.
“Oh, you have no idea how much,” she said, with the same half-amused smile.
Although Mitchell had called for the waiter, when the man arrived he stood in front of Julia. Well, that was the advantage of being an aristocrat, he supposed.
“You like seafood, Captain?” she said. She barely waited for his nod before ordering some toasted angels and crab.
He wanted to ask why she had asked to meet him, but knew better than to bring it up. Besides, how often did he get to have lunch with a genuine American belle? He knew better than to think she might be attracted to him, but that did not stop him daydreaming. In any case, she was pleasant company, coaxing him into telling sea tales throughout the lunch, and laughing at all the appropriate moments. But she spoke very little about herself, and gave no hint about her intentions throughout the toasted angels – grilled oysters wrapped in bacon, spiced with peppers and doused in lime juice – and crab and two glasses of white wine of a vintage which he could only imagine tasting normally.
She only revealed her intentions when he was feeling contentedly full and relaxed. “Care for some desert?” she said. Again, she did not wait for his nod, but signalled for the waiter. From the way the waiter hurried to bring out two strange yellow fruit on a tray, he knew she had been planning this moment for some time.
“These are bananas. Grown in Nicaragua, in my own plantation. Try one. They peel easily, and while some Americans like to eat them with knife and fork, they were designed for fingers.”
He tried one, and smiled. “Very good.” He paused, and noticed how she was watching him. “How many of these do you grow on your plantation?”
“Enough,” she said. “Do you think people in New York, say, or Boston would enjoy these?”
“I suppose so, but-”
“Then you can surely find buyers. Here, we have been selling them for two dollars a bunch. I expect that if I gave you a hundred and fifty or so bunches, you would make $300 easily, perhaps more. Does half of whatever you earn from their sale seem a fair bargain, Captain?”
“Quite fair,” he said, struggling to keep up. “But why bother selling them in New England when you surely have buyers for them here?”
“This is just the beginning,” she said. “Sell them carefully. Find merchants who will want to buy more later. If you can do that, then we can expand things fast enough.”
“We?”
“I hope to sell bananas everywhere in North America, Captain Mitchell. In a few months I will be seeking investment to create a distribution company. I’m sure that will keep your shipping very busy.”
She seemed so full of enthusiasm when talking about the company and the fruit. More than when she had been talking to him, which he found vaguely insulting in a way which was hard to pin down, since she had been friendly enough during the meal. But no wonder she did not bother with a husband. Her bananas were obviously good enough for her.
* * *
18 November 1873
Sharkview Plantation
Nicaragua Territory, USA
Yolanda knew the news would be bad from the moment Julia walked into her room. They had maintained separate bedrooms for years, to minimise the rumours amongst the field staff (the house staff knew better, but could be trusted not to talk) and to save the inconvenience of moving in and out whenever one of the frequent would-be suitors or other guests came to Sharkview. But Julia had never been quite the same since she visited her father’s plantation half a year before. Quieter, brooding sometimes, and more distant, although she evaded Yolanda’s delicate questioning why.
“Querida,” Yolanda said, forcing a smile.
They kissed, but it was rather perfunctory, and when Julia sat down on the bed, she kept space between them. “There’s something I must tell you,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’ve decided... I’ve decided to marry Harry Walker.”
Despite expecting something bad, the words felt like a blow to the stomach. Not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry or both, Yolanda managed, “You’re abandoning me for that maricón?”
“Abandon you? Never!” Now Julia did reach over to squeeze her hand. “You are and always will be my only true love. But this I must do for reasons of need.”
“You need to marry a man who has no more interest in you than you claimed you had in any man?”
Julia said, “It stops people asking questions about him as much as they do about me. Marrying him won’t stop his own pursuits, anymore than it will interfere with you and I. But it must be him. Any other man would think that, on marrying me, he would own all this.” She spread her hands as if to encompass all of the plantation and the new company she had so recently formed. “Harry knows better.”
“A marriage in name only, then?” Yolanda asked, her thumping heart subsiding a little. “You won’t...?”
“I have to, until I have a child,” Julia said, and Yolanda felt the tears well up in her eyes again. “Neither he nor I will find any pleasure in it, but I need a child. Without that, no-one will believe it a true marriage, and everything I have built here will vanish when I die. I cannot will it to you. But then Harry goes back to living his own life, and we will continue as we always have been, mi amor.”
“No, we won’t. It wouldn’t be the same.” Yolanda looked across at Julia, and saw that face which was normally so full of love and life had gone blank. She wondered if she had every truly known what went on behind those eyes. “What will your father think of you marrying such a man?” she asked, trying what she thought was her strongest card.
“By now, my father will be grateful that I’m married at all,” Julia said.
“Enjoy his gratitude then, since you care nothing for what I feel!” Yolanda said. Julia tried to lean closer and put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off. “Leave me alone.”
Wordlessly, Julia rose, nodded and walked, leaving Yolanda staring at the closed door for a long, long time, trying to decide what to do.
* * *
From The Granada Mural
23 April 1875
Announcements:
Mr. Harry Walker and Mrs. Julia Gordon Walker, of Sharkview Plantation, Chontales County, are pleased to report the arrival of their first child, William James, born on 16 April. The boy and his mother are both reported to be in fine health and good spirits.
* * *
[1] Grant’s father is Ulysses H. Grant, an ATL brother of General Ulysses Grant. See posts #40 and #47. Jesse Grant himself was born in 1851, and has already made something of a name for himself as a reporter.
[2] Actually, a lot of the engineers on the Nicaragua Canal are British and French.
[3] After the War of 1811, the New England federal government and the various state governments actually tried to reconcile their Unionist inhabitants, pardoning all but the most notorious individuals if they were willing to swear allegiance to New England. But there was a considerable amount of private retribution.
[4] More to do with the roads being mostly poor quality and a general American unwillingness to spend money on upgrading them for the sake of a few horstcars.
* * *
Thoughts?
Kaiser Wilhelm III
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