Sugar

 

Sugar cane plantations were the sources of oil in the 17th and 18th centuries. Many men came to the Caribbean to make their fortune with one of these plantations. Edward Northwik was one of them.

Many years ago he came to the colonies as the illegitimate son of an English landgrave. Only with a small donation from his father and hard work did he finally manage to build a profitable sugar cane plantation in the west of the island. After the destruction of Port Royal, there were hard years in the English colony. But he had mastered it.

Edward Northwik was a man in his mid-forties. His black hair had now acquired a few streaks of silver-gray, just as his face was lined with wrinkles and sun. He rode his stallion over the land that he had made cultivable and productive.

His expression showed the pride of a man who had made it. The Bullhands would be coming over tonight. Sandra Bullhand was his son's fiancée. A magnificent girl who had old Welsh noble blood in her veins. Of course, Edward had also taken the offspring into consideration when choosing this girl. The Bullhands were merchants from Kingston. A union would ensure prosperity for both families.

Luckily, Sandra Bullhand was a real beauty. A broodmare that you don't often see in the colonies. Edward hoped that his son would be the first to break in this thoroughbred - even if he felt a certain desire just at the thought. Her pale skin, her long, blonde hair and her freckles gave this girl a charm that would hardly leave any man cold.

***

It was a hot, humid day and the squire had already set out at dawn to check on the slaves at work. Mister Johnson stood in the southern sugar cane field with his whip, driving some of the young men to work. The crack of the whip could be heard from far away and so Edward knew where he found his steward.

Mister Johnson was a capable man. He was brilliant at getting the best out of the Negro slaves. The work in the fields was hard and hardly any slave lived past 40. The plantation owner knew this. When he started here, many of the slaves were his age. Today. 25 years later, only Fatima was still alive. The black female slave served as a cook and looked after the male slaves in the field, some of whom were her sons.

There was little room for women on the plantation. The sugar cane harvest was men's work. And only the strongest of them endured this work. Sometimes Edward even felt a little pity for these black animals brought to the colonies from the forests of Africa. Perhaps this was the reason why he had kept Fatima and her daughter, a mulatto, even though he could actually have better slaves for the same food. Naomi served in the manor and primarily cared for the needs of his daughter Nora. He knew that he was also Naomi's father, but he had no feelings for the girl he had fathered during his wife's pregnancy.

"Good morning, Sir Edward!" called the steward when he heard the stallion's hooves.

"Mister Johnson, how is the harvest?"

“The field is ripe,” muttered the strong, corpulent man, the hair on his head only a blur as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "We'll work as long as we can today, even though the midday sun will be hard on us. But I want to have this field ready before the hurricane session begins."

“Can you do it in this heat?” asked the plantation owner. He also had beads of sweat on his forehead under his hat.

"Sure and if I have to whip the lazy gang to death. Water helps against the heat."

At a sign from the foreman, an almost black-skinned slave brought the two white men a jug of fresh water and two cups. She poured them a drink and then went to the field to feed the slaves for whom the water was actually intended.

"Ah, that felt good!" groaned Edward as he drank the water greedily. His gaze fell on the slave's ass, which was hung with scraps of linen, and she quickly moved away from the white men. "Who is this?"

"Rihanna, she looks hot, doesn't she?"

"I don't remember buying them." Edward certainly wouldn't have missed such a nice piece of meat.

"She's one of the Winrow slaves."

"Ah, excellent."

Both men smiled contentedly. Winrow was a plantation owner who died of fever. Since his wife and children were also killed by the fever, his slaves were quickly distributed to the other plantation owners in the area.

***

Rihanna was new to the Northvik plantation, but she knew life as a slave. The girl was born into slavery and so she had never known another life. It was a life of obedience, because any resistance was punished with the whip. Even as a child, she had seen disobedient men being tied to the stake and the flesh being whipped from their bones. Such punishments were rare because the owners obviously didn't want to degrade their workers unnecessarily, but they still did it every now and then to show all the slaves what they were capable of.

Sometimes Rihanna dreamed of running away and joining the Maroons. The
Maroons were runaway slaves who lived in the interior of Jamaica. Apparently they were even led by a woman named Nanny. It was a tempting thought, but Rihanna didn't know how to pull it off. Escaped slaves were hunted by the plantation owners with dogs and burned into their bodies with red-hot iron.

The girl shuddered at the thought, for she hated pain, even if it was true of her daily companion. In her hands she carried two empty clay jars while she balanced another on her head. Hard work was the fate of all slaves. When she did her best, she avoided punishment from both the white masters and the male slaves, who were only too happy to vent on the women and seek a little happiness between their thighs.

Suddenly she heard the trampling of horses. Rihanna looked around cautiously with the mug on her head. She knew it had to be one of the white men. Only these had horses. So she wasn't surprised when Sir Edward rode down the narrow path.

She moved to the side and obediently lowered her gaze so as not to provoke him. He slowed down and almost stopped. She heard the stallion's snort and a shiver ran down her spine.

"They call you Rihanna?" Edward asked.

"Yes Mr."

"You know who I am?"

"Yes, sir. You are the owner."

"Good," said Edward. He ran his riding crop over Rihanna's chin and moved lower to her slender breasts, which were hidden under a strip of linen that she had wrapped around her chest. "What are you doing?"

"Fetch fresh water for the men, sir." She avoided his gaze as best she could. The whites of her eyes contrasted with her otherwise dark brown expression. Instinctively she wanted to avoid him, but the plantation owner danced around her with his huge horse.

"You mean for the slaves?" he asked, lifting her chin with his riding crop.

"Yes Mr."

Without exchanging a word with the slave, he rode on. He enjoyed her humble fear and a lustful smile played on his lips.

Rihanna also moved on. The way to the river was long. It formed the eastern border of the plantation. He got his water from countless small springs that were filled in the mountains by constant rain showers. Rain is as much a part of this land as it was of their lost homeland. The slaves who were captured in Africa and brought here often talked about it. She, on the other hand, knew hardly anything about the land of her ancestors, just as she knew hardly anything about her parents.

Rihanna was sold when she was a little girl. The plantation owners especially needed strong boys and men; as girls they were usually just a burden. So she lived the best years of her young life as a kitchen helper for the Winrows. It was a good time, better than life here with her new owner. Because his looks frightened her just as much as those of the slave driver named Johnson.

The slave continued along the path until it reached a small ridge that eventually led down to the river. Dense undergrowth flanked her path and gave her little freedom of movement. Her bare feet found every step unerringly so as not to cut themselves on the sharp stones. The empty jugs were pleasantly light. The way back would definitely be a lot more unpleasant.