Slavery’s legacy ?

I have a slightly unusual surname, and while I’m not an expert on my family’s history by any means, everything seems to point back to somewhere in the north east of Scotland as a point of origin, and in the main they seem to have been farmers, never rich, but never poor either.

How they ended up with a surname derived from middle French is a different story, and one I won’t go into here. But this post is about surnames.

If I google myself I find most of the usual – blog posts, tweets,  a physiology paper I co-authored thirty plus years ago when I was trying to be a scientist, embarrassing posts to mailing lists when I couldn’t get something to work. But if I click past the obvious I start getting other Moncurs, including quite a few in the Bahamas.

Now, the key point about these Bahamian Moncurs is that they’re all black, which means that in common with most black people in in Caribbean their ancestors didn’t travel there by choice – they went in slave ships from West Africa, and they certainly didn’t have middle French surnames.

How people in the Bahamas acquired surnames is something I don’t know. I’m guessing that slaves didn’t have surnames to start with but when they became free they acquired a surname, but of course it’s a little more complicated than that.

In Jamaica at least, children born to a slave mother and a white father (not necessarily the owner, most of the ‘professional’ staff – overseers, bookkeepers and the like were single men and like single men anywhere formed informal unions, some of which were long lasting and some less so) usually took his surname, and quite often would be mentioned in his will.

Others acquired surnames when they were baptised, and the name chosen could be someone they liked, the name of a pastor, or even a bookkeeper or the manager or owner of the estate.

Others acquired them when slavery was finally abolished, and again quite often just chose a name they liked. I’m guessing that what happened in Jamaica also happened in other British controlled islands in the Caribbean.

But what it does mean is that someone with the same surname as me was in the Bahamas and had some contact with enslaved people. I’d like it to be that the name was taken on because it was the name of a pastor who was well liked but I realise that the story might be considerably less pleasant, and if it was as a result of an informal union hopefully it was a loving a respectful one.

Just how less pleasant is something I only just came to realise. Yes, I knew about the slave trade and its cruelty, and I did wonder about how my surname ended up in the Bahamas. And then I came across a story that sent a tingle down my spine, and not in a nice way.

As I’ve said, my family seem to have originated from the North East of Scotland, most probably from somewhere round the Montrose area. While few of the landowners owned slaves and properties in the West Indies, a lot of them were investors, or shareholders in sugar estates.

When I say landowners, it includes the very rich but it also means people who we’d now call middle class, the minister, the dominie, the doctor, and small landowners.

Some time in the 1730’s some of these investors got together, and hired a slave ship to go and acquire slaves directly from the slave markets in West Africa and take the to plantations in the Caribbean – cutting out the middlemen.

Not a pleasant story, but one that suggests that one of my ancestors could well have been involved in the enslavement of other human beings.

Now I need to research further to try and find out just what exactly that involvement was …

[update 17 January]

Well, a couple of hours with Google and Wikipedia have convinced me that the story is more complicated than I first thought.

The Bahamas was never a sugar plantation colony – instead it was cotton, often cultivated by slaves brought by crown loyalists who relocated to the Bahamas after 1783. The Gullah slaves brought from the southern states of the newly minted USA were added to by other slaves bought through the usual slave trading channels from west Africa.

The complication comes from there having been Moncurs in South Carolina since 1685. South Carolina was of course a cotton growing slave state.

A further complication comes from the fact that the Bahamas were used by the Royal Navy after 1807 as a place to put ashore freed slaves after the abolition of the slave trade in the British Empire.

(Post 1807, while slavery per se was not illegal, the taking and selling of slaves was, and the British navy sent ships to West Africa and the Caribbean to intercept slave ships and free the people imprisoned on them. This of course gave the navy the problem of what to do with the freed slaves.

Basically they simply put them ashore somewhere convenient to the navy. Some were put ashore on St Helena in the middle of the Atlantic, some on the Bahamas, and doubtless others elsewhere.)

To add to the fun, a John Moncur is listed in the 1801 Jamaica Almanac as the master of a Royal Navy ship.  That in itself is not terribly significant, but the same John Moncur is listed in the Gentleman’s magazine as having died at the age of 71 in April 1814 at Greenwich while still on active service, which means it is not impossible that he commanded an antislavery patrol vessel and that some freed slaves took his surname as a mark of respect. Pure supposition, but one that might bear checking out …

 

 

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New year 2017

Well we sat out on the deck, ate prawns and drank champagne while we watched the sun set. Later on we watched a reprise of the Queen 1975 Christmas Eve concert and a doco on the Stones, while the cat – no party animal he – stalked about wondering why the humans were up so late and why the music was so loud.

The town was quiet – no parties, no fireworks so we watched the New Year’s Eve fireworks from Sydney and went to bed only to be woken by the cat snoring like the whistling souls of the undead.

The first day of 2017 was warm and overcast, but we sat out with coffee, pain au chocalat and fruit and talked about the seventies and how the world then was so very different from today’s hyperconnected always on world …

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The price of books in Australia

In Australia, we have a system whereby if a local publisher acquires the rights to a book and publishes an Australian edition, distributors are barred from selling overseas editions, except as remainders or as second hand books.

This is supposed to protect the local publishing industry and (hopefully) provide a platform for Australian authors to get published by ensuring we maintain a local publishing industry.

Protectionism with utterly laudable aims, but in practice completely broken. Ebooks are outside of this meaning that they are significantly cheaper.

More significantly the rise of global suppliers has led to the lunacy by which I can purchase an Australian book by an Australian author, printed in Australia, from the UK for 25% less than the ‘special online price’ from the publishers own website.

Such a differential defies all logic – how can it be possible for a UK book distributor to import books from Australia, warehouse them, and sell them to BookDepository, who then mail them to customers in Australia for 25% less than for the publisher to sell them direct.

It’s more than different tax regimes allowing a modest variation in the sticker price it’s 25%.

Second hand books are another case in point.

While we may not like the rise of these big second hand book barns that stock everything, and yearn for the days of little specialist second had booksellers, we’ve all got to admit that second hand book barns are convenient and useful

They’re also cheap. Which leads to another puzzle. I buy a lot of history and classics paperbacks, the history being mostly nineteenth and early twentieth century history. Usually these books cost a couple of dollars at most through AbeBooks and invariably come from these large second hand operations in the UK (and occasionally the USA). Never Australia.

While we know that Australia Post charges over the odds to send packages – about nine bucks for a paperback book, that’s not so different to the international postage charges from the UK or Ireland, yet Australian second hand book sellers either havn’t the scale or the stock and are simply not competitive pricewise.

Now people are not stupid. If I can work this out, other people can which will mean that

  • other people will also be buying direct from overseas
  • the grey import ban will simply collapse
  • Australian publishers will lose any financial benefit from being able to publish local editions of popular books
  • Australian authors will lose a local publication platform

and of course, the second hand market will cease to be in any way profitable.

I don’t have an answer, except to say that we can’t continue as we are. Globalisation has done for that, just as it did for the car industry.

A mix of electronic publication plus a bit of print on demand might do it, but then we have to contend with Amazon’s stranglehold on the ebook market.

As I said, I have no answer, but we do need a platform for Australian writing that is sustainable that allows us to tell ourselves stories about ourselves and how we live on this big dry red continent …

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Well folks, it’s a year since I retired

Next weekend marks a year since I retired. Not that I actually retired then, I had some sabbatical leave owing, meaning that formally I retired at the end of April, but this time last year I was saying my goodbyes and wiping my work machines in the knowledge that at the end of the week I would walk out of the door and not come back.

It was a big change. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip and keep smiling but underneath I was a bit emotional. I was not just saying good bye to colleagues who were also friends, I was drawing a line under the world of work, which, strangely, mattered to me more than I thought, as it is through work we middle class professional males define ourselves as a person.

The weekend after I walked out the door I took most of my work clothes to the charity shop. I still have a couple of spiffy shirts, a dark jacket and some formal pants but since I left it has been t-shirts and jeans, plus a fleece in the colder months. I didn’t even wear socks until the weather turned cold at the start of May. After all, since I no longer work I don’t need work clothes. And I’ve shed other baggage as well. The professional memberships have gone, and I no longer have access to some of the professional online resources that having a university email address gave me.

As for work, a year on I can say that I don’t miss it. I thought that I might, but selling our Canberra house, moving to country Victoria, and the renovation of our new house has kept me so busy I havn’t had an opportunity to miss work, and, with a year away from work I’m finding I have more perspective on the infighting and the annoyances that a managerial role seems to entail, and am beginning to see the game for what it actually is.

There has of course been a process of adjustment, and recovery. At first I just felt very tired. I would get up and do things but I just felt tired and disinterested. That went in time and I began to feel more purposeful and began to blog again and to generally take an interest in things, and get annoyed at the stupidity of politicians – always a sign of an active mind.

And as I adjusted to not having a job and more importantly not having a defined role I’ve been able to start on some of the things I always meant to have a go at – nineteenth century history for example. (I would say I’m loosely gathering material for some future blog posts but at the moment it’s really just packrat behaviour with snippets and books.) But strangely, I do feel there’s something there that could be turned into something, I’d say a thesis topic, but in truth I’m truly done with academia.

I also have a garden to plant, a bicycle to start riding seriously again, and I plan to get myself a telescope for next winter to have a proper look at the planets for myself, so I’m not short of projects. Hopefully by this time next year I’ll even have a sense of direction again …

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Notebooks

I’m an obsessive about notebooks.

As well as obsessing about suitable devices for taking notes, I use notebooks extensively, and I’m picky, very picky. Moleskine or Rhodia for bound notebooks for use as travel journals, and Clairefontaine, Rhodia or Moleskine for working notebooks.

It might seem a bit excessive picking upmarket brands, but they last (I’m still using the Moleskine notebook I bought as a travel journal before going to Laos in 2005) and the paper is usually such good quality that one can write on them with a liquid gel pen or a fountain pen even when the humidity has reached some tropical level of ridiculousness.

I’m prepared to try some of the cheaper own label versions available from the big box stationery stores, but I keep coming back to those three brands.

But there’s one exception – an Aurora Bur-o-class notebook that I bought from somewhere in York in 1998 …

auroranotebook1

I bought this incredibly tough fabric covered A6 notebook made by Aurora, a Belgian manufacturer shortly before going to Turkey in 1998.

I’ve never seen them for sale anywhere else, but a Google search confirms they’re still around and available in Belgium and possibly elsewhere.

Along with a small hardback notebook that lives in my daily use backpack, I’ve used it as a daybook ever since, and I’m reaching the point where I need to get myself a replacement, preferably equally hard wearing. and yet equally compact and equally good quality.

What’s a day book?

It’s that incredibly useful thing you carry round with you to write down useful things, like the phone numbers of taxi drivers and tuktuk men – they might have a hazy grasp of English, but they can write their mobile number in your book and you can text them to come and pick you up from a restaurant to take you back to you hotel, or the names and partnumbers of something you’ve seen you want to check the online price of, or someone’s email address and so on, or indeed somewhere to stick the postit someone’s just given you with meeting details.

In other words a book for the ephemera of life, yet incredibly useful for the few days you need the info, or before the note gets transcribed or the meeting date ends up in your calendar …

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Supermoon

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Supermoon over Woragee from Factory Lane

Ok, most definitely not the best photograph, taken on a Samsung Galaxy at about 2010 AEDT last night, but we had fun driving round the back roads to get a decent view of the moon as it rose over the paddocks round Beechworth. Surprising just how obscured the moon was by trees when it was low in the sky.

Our major problem was that in Beechworth the sun was still setting as the moon came up washing out the effect slightly – it was definitely more dramatic this morning when I let the cat out for his morning foray …

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The V/line train to Melbourne

Last Tuesday, we needed to go to the city (actually St Kilda, but never mind) and instead of driving we caught the train to celebrate our becoming eligible for Seniors’ travel cards.

In a lot of places, a 500 km round trip in a day on a train would not be remarkable, and certainly we’ve travelled longer on more ambitious journeys in Europe, or indeed even on the night train from Bangkok to the Lao border, but trust me, longer train journeys is just not an Australian thing. With the exception of our single trip on the Sunlander, our use of trains has been confined to suburban services in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane.

Even all the years we lived in Canberra, we never once took the train to Sydney. It was simply easier, quicker and cheaper to drive or fly.

However, our wrinklycards made the train an option, avoided the pleasure of paying to sit in a traffic jam on the Melbourne tollway, not to mention donating several body parts to park anywhere sensible.

However the train is not a totally straightforward option. First of all there’s only three each way in a day, and secondly it takes three hours to cover the 250km at a fairly bucolic 85km/h.

However it does work – the 0730 train gets you to Southern Cross for 1030, giving us time to hop on a tram to Pelligrini’s for an excellent coffee and strudel before making our way St Kilda to do what we needed to do, and leaving time for a little bit of shopping on the way back to catch the 6pm train home. A long day, especially as you need to add on the drive to Wangaratta train station and back, but eminently doable.

The train was reasonably comfortable, even if the coaches were a bit old and battered and had clearly seen better days, and the on board cafe could produce a reasonable coffee and sported a range of reasonable looking sandwiches at a reasonable price. As it was we only tried the coffee, we took breakfast bars and bananas for the journey down and bought a couple of upmarket focaccias in the station for the journey back.

There’s no wifi on the trains, but the seats all had fold down tables meaning that you could work if you wanted. However not that many of our fellow passengers seemed to, though those that did seemed to either be reading documents on tablets, or else working offline.

(Interestingly there wasn’t a Mac to be seen the day we did it, it was small Dell ultrabooks all the way)

So, comfortable enough, but the first question to ask is why so slow? (The Melbourne/Sydney train, which is operated by the NSW train operator, does the same journey in two and a half hours, using one of their superannuated XPT trains, which are based on the British Rail Intercity 125).

Well, despite V/Line having invested in some pretty spiffy high speed trains, they are broad gauge (1600mm) only and the line from Melbourne to the border with NSW is now standard gauge (1485 mm) meaning we have to make do with some converted carriages and a freight locomotive, and V/Line simply don’t have the capacity to provide more trains or indeed have the trains to run a faster service, even though you could have thought they could have sourced some reasonable refurbished trains from Europe.

We’re also not alone in still having the rattly old country trains, some of the less busy longer broad gauge country services still have locomotive hauled services.

It’s galling though that in 1897 Mark Twain commented on the lunacy of Australia’s disastrous rail gauge muddle, and nearly 120 years later we’re still living with the consequences …

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Bulgaria and the end of world war 1

It was pouring with rain today, too wet to do anything outsider or much inside, so I treated myself to some downtime researching how Australian newspapers reported the abdication of Nicholas II.

Of course, Nicholas II was not the only ruler of a Slav state to be styled tsar, and not the only one to abdicate, Ferdinand of Bulgaria was also styled ‘Tsar’ and also abdicated, although in October 1918, after an Entente breakthrough on the Macedonian front.

Most anglophone histories of the First World War ignore the conflict with Bulgaria, despite the involvement of troops from the British and French colonial empires, not to mention Greek and Serb soldiers.

Yet, at the time this was seen as a crucial breakthrough, isolating the Ottoman Empire from Germany and causing financial panic in Berlin. (It’s also interesting how newspapers reported what was happening by relying on correspondents in neutral countries who had access to newspapers published in Germany and AustriaHungary).

Clearly it was felt in Germany and AustriaHungary that the collapse of Bulgaria had certainly brought about the endgame in the middle east and that the war was increasingly unsustainable, and that the loans made to their Balkan allies and Turkey had little if any chance of ever being paid back …

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J A Rochlitz

In Beechworth, we have a park known as Queen Victoria Park. As some of the streets round about have Crimean war names  I always sort of just assumed that it was laid out in the 1850’s just as Beechworth was turning from a mining camp to somewhere altogether more respectable.

Not a bit of it, the park and its ornamental ex navy cannons date from 1901, and was established on the site of what had been the Botanical Gardens, which date from 1861. It was renamed Queen Victoria park in memory of Queen Victoria, who of course died in 1901.

The original botanical gardens had been laid out according to a design by a Hungarian gentleman J A Rochlitz.

Rochlitz is quite an interesting individual – as well as the botanic gardens, and later obtaining plant material for them, Rochlitz was one of the first to plant vines in Beechworth, in Havelock road in 1856, and also worked in a daguerrotype studio in Ford street in the 1850’s.

This is quite interesting – firstly it suggests that Rochlitz was a man of some education in the sciences, which is not terribly surprising as any gold mining town would have attracted people with scientific knowledge to work in assay offices. What’s more interesting is the suggestion that by the late 1850’s the town was changing, with winemaking, and possibly other agricultural activities beginning to compete with gold mining.

Equally, it tells us that there was money about and that people were prepared to pay to have their photographs taken either as mementos or to send to relatives to show they were doing well …

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Lenin and the ‘Rathmines Accent’

Way back in 2012 I wrote about the story that Lenin spoke English with a Dublin accent. At the time I was mildly incredulous, but in a comment Dara O’Rourke suggested that I follow up the story of Roddy Connolly, son of the Irish revolutionary James Connolly, who actually met with Lenin in Petrograd in 1920 and is the source of the ‘Dublin accent’ story.

which is to say the least interesting, as when one thinks about revolutionary socialism, Ireland is not the first country that comes to mind, but that is of course to forget the impact that the October 1917  revolution made on the organised trade union movements around the world, and seemed to offer a better world among the chaos and collapse that accompanied the end of the first world war in Europe.

One story that my mother, who was born in 1918, used to tell was of being held up at their apartment window by her father when she was very small to see a parade of men in work clothes with red flags, and being told ‘that is the future’.

Her father, my grandfather – who I never knew – was a manager with the Co-operative society, so it’s fair guess that he too was enamoured of the changes that socialism might have brought.

I’ve also now found some partial corroboration of the Dublin accent story – while Arthur Ransome may not have recorded how Lenin spoke English, H.G. Wells did, and said that he spoke with an Irish accent …

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