Chapter 1091: San Domingo, Center of the Caribbean
April 4, 1796.
South of Andros Island, the largest island in the Bahamas.
Port Mastpoint was teeming with people. The groans of the sick and injured echoed through the air. Children held in their mothers' arms appeared numb, neither crying nor laughing.
These people had fled here to escape the brutal reign of Aaron, drawn by rumors that ships would arrive to carry them away.
However, at this moment, the five or six hundred people on the shore were gazing longingly at the tumultuous sea, yet there was not a single sail in sight.
Mike Grant, a man standing six feet three inches tall with light brown skin and slightly curly hair, frowned as he looked behind him. No one knew when Aaron's Royal Guard might catch up.
When that happened, these fugitives would be executed immediately—without the slightest hint of a trial.
He suppressed his anxiety and comforted his wife. "Julie, the ship will be here soon. That's how the Dunn family escaped to San Domingo."
He picked up his son and continued, "I heard they really need people who know how to grow sugarcane over there. Especially mixed-race people like us; they say we can even participate in elections."
Just then, a cheer erupted from the crowd. "Look! A ship!"
"God, there really is a ship coming for us!"
"Thank heaven, we're saved!"
About twenty minutes later, a gray-black brig slowly sailed into the crude harbor. Port Mastpoint had been burned by Aaron once before, and it was only recently that countless fugitives had patched it up enough to allow a ship to dock.
Soon, a gangplank was extended from the ship, and over a dozen sailors jumped onto the pier.
Grant quickly grabbed his wife's hand and strode forward. The surrounding black people habitually moved aside to clear a path for them.
However, when Grant caught a clear glimpse of the captain's face, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned to the crowd and shouted, "Run! It's a pirate!"
He recognized the captain—Sean Grant, his distant cousin, who had joined a pirate crew eight years ago. His name had been on the British government's wanted list ever since.
Seeing the commotion, Sean Grant hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper, unfurled it, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "The San Domingo Parliament sent me! These are my hiring papers! I'm here to get you out of here!"
Half an hour later, Mike Grant sat in the foul-smelling captain's cabin, looking at his cousin in astonishment. "When did you... stop doing that line of work?"
"Ah, just last month," Sean replied. "The San Domingo Parliament is recruiting ships everywhere. As long as you can transport people from the Caribbean to Port-au-Prince, you get four hundred francs a load. Plus, you get political asylum from the Parliament."
Mike Grant hesitated. "That doesn't sound like much. A pirate... I mean, a free captain should be able to find treasure quite easily."
"Nonsense!" Sean handed him a cup of tart wine. "The British, French, and Spanish fleets are all hunting us. We can barely manage a few jobs a year."
"In the autumn, we even have to go to Jamaica to harvest sugarcane just to earn enough for a meal."
"But enough about me. What have you been doing all these years? I see you have a child now."
"I saved up some money and became a partner in the Tompkins Plantation," Mike Grant said, taking a sip of the wine. The vinegary taste nearly made his stomach turn. "Ugh—this is truly... potent stuff."
"Anyway, in our best years, we could produce over four and a half tons of sugar. We made some money."
"Then the slave liberation uprisings started. The plantation was damaged, but we still had about half our output."
"But then Corey Aaron declared himself king and started killing everyone. I heard the British propped him up just to get revenge on the black population."
"Yeah, it was the British," Sean said, draining over half his cup as if it were the finest vintage. "People in San Domingo are talking about it in the streets. The British gave Aaron guns. It's the same in Jamaica and Saint Vincent; the British intend to kill every black person who participated in the riots."
He suddenly thought of something and stared at Mike. "Wait, did you say you had a sugarcane plantation?"
"It wasn't just mine. There were four partners."
"Doesn't matter. So, you're an expert at growing sugarcane?"
"Well, more or less. That was my job."
Sean's eyes lit up. "If I gave you thirty workers—er, I mean, black men—could you manage a ten-acre sugarcane plantation?"
"That wouldn't be difficult. The Tompkins Plantation was eighteen acres—roughly a hundred and ten mu—and I managed more than half of it myself."
"Fantastic!" Sean exclaimed excitedly. "Let's partner up. I'll sell this old tub and buy some land in San Domingo to grow sugarcane."
"Do you know how cheap plantation land is there? Two hundred francs can get you ten acres of land."
"And right now, a pound of sugar sells for two francs and three sous!"
"San Domingo is currently flooded with refugees. You just have to give them something to eat; you barely have to pay wages."
"I've done the math. If a ten-acre plantation has a good harvest, it can earn over four thousand francs a year."
Mike Grant felt a surge of interest. "The returns are good. But I'm worried that if there are too many plantations over there, the sugar merchants will drive the prices down."
"Don't worry about that. The San Domingo Parliament has a government trade convoy. They announce the purchase price at the beginning of every year, and it doesn't change for twelve months."
"In that case, we could easily buy more land. Maybe sixteen or seventeen acres. I have some savings as well."
"Can you handle that much?"
"Of course!"
A week later, Sean's ship docked at Port-au-Prince.
He mortgaged the ship to a local bank and quickly received a sum of money.
However, when he and Mike went to the land exchange market, they were stunned by the scene.
At least three or four hundred people were gathered there. A cacophony of French, English, and Spanish filled the air, and the notice board for land sales was completely obscured by the crowd.
After half a day, Mike Grant learned from the conversations around him that because of the political turmoil across the Caribbean, almost everyone had fled to San Domingo, the last paradise in the region.
In recent months, the population had increased by over a hundred thousand.
Of course, this was the result of Joseph hiring a large number of French and Spanish merchant ships to transport people from various islands to San Domingo. Even the French Atlantic Fleet had joined the ferry operation.
At the same time, the French government had allocated over a million francs to provide shelters and half a month's worth of free rations for these refugees.
One had to realize that most of those who managed to escape were able-bodied men, which caused the labor force in San Domingo to nearly double in an instant.
San Domingo had plenty of land; what it had always lacked was people.
This was the reason plantation owners had once been willing to spend fortunes purchasing slaves.
Now, sturdy labor was flooding into San Domingo for free.
The San Domingo Parliament cooperated fully—driven by the zeal of the converted, the entire government was deeply Francophile, even more obedient than France's own provinces—and introduced a series of policies to expand the area of sugarcane cultivation.
Furthermore, Joseph had deployed eight hundred French troops and over three thousand flintlock muskets to ensure the political stability of San Domingo.
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