One of the unfortunate facts about being interested in nearly everything is that the depth of your knowledge is bound to remain inversely proportional to its range; the more you know en masse, the less you tend to know about a particular, narrow topic. The geopolitical interplay between the slave communities in the West Indies and the Old World makes for fascinating reading, but what I know about it could safely fit into a thimble. Nevertheless, I was drawn to Julius S. Scott’s “The Common Wind” after repeatedly reading that so many branches of historical scholarship owe quite a bit to the book and its arguments, with a New York Times article describing Scott, and I quote, “a cult figure among scholars.” Unfortunately, that article was also Scott’s obituary. He passed away earlier this month, on December 6, 2021.
Scott finished “The Common Wind” in 1986, but didn’t have it published until recently. At one point, Oxford University Press approached Scott expressing interest in the book, but the would-be editor made suggestions that he refused to give in to. Eventually, in 2018, Verso offered to print it as it stood with no corrections. Scott accepted, and one of the most influential books on the social and cultural history of the West Indies in the late eighteenth century finally found a home.
Scott’s aim is to uncover the various threads that linked Spanish, British, and French colonies in the West Indies and South America through the period of the Haitian Revolution. One of Scott’s biggest successes is to flesh out the complex, interconnected, and highly cosmopolitan world of these islands, both the planter class, their “masterless men” (i.e., non-whites who maintained their freedom), and the enslaved. Cities like Kingston, Jamaica, Cap Francais, Haiti and Havana, Cuba “nurtured the most complex patterns of mobility and presented the most vexing problems of control for all the colonial powers.” As Spain, Britain, and France made vast imperial gains, the social and cultural worlds of these cities grew accordingly, thereby becoming welcome shelters for runaway slaves or others who wished to change their station in life. These are the people who really drive the narrative of Scott’s book, thereby making it very much a history of the disenfranchised underbelly of the West Indies. Much of the writing done before Scott tells this history through the lens of European intellectuals and historians, while Scott actively contemplates the wit, creativity, and inventiveness of these masterless men and escaped slave populations.
Needless to say, the diplomatic treaties or official proclamations of the time will say nothing about these people. In addition to using letters, books, journals, and newspapers, Scott encourages fellow historians to carefully trace what might be perceived as the mundane interactions between such marginalized people as slaves and women involved in commerce, as well as the steady inflow of news brought by merchant seamen and transatlantic sailors. These underground figures brought news of the Old World as well as valuable knowledge to those seeking freedom, smugglers, and even poor, disenfranchised whites trying to circumscribe the ever-evolving set of security measures deployed by the local plantation class.
Scott’s work not only brings to the forefront a whole new class of people and their circumstances which can add to our knowledge of the West Indies during this time period, but he also carefully exhorts historians to rely not only on records and correspondence, neither of which were produced in large numbers for or by Black people. Equally important, argues Scott, are the “orally transmitted accounts,” like “scraps of news, conflicting interpretations, elusive facts, and shifting rumors” that coalesce together from all over the region. In urging his fellow historians to be more perceptive and creative purveyors of historical source material, Scott expands upon the ways in which historiography is made possible for heretofore invisible historical subjects.