Free Dark Tide by Stephen Puleo

the Germans, who were threatening loudly to resume their U-boat submarine campaign against U.S. shipping, which they had suspended in 1916 amidst American protests.
    But for all of steam’s advantages, Van Gelder missed sailing, the
art
of sailing more than anything else; figuring the gusts and the swells, positioning his crew on the sails to take advantage of a sudden shift in wind direction, the feeling of being an underdog in the battle of man against weather. The steel-hulled steamers were larger, faster, sturdier, sleeker, and more reliable, but decidedly less challenging to him.
    Still, Cuba Distilling paid him well and had increased his salary since the war had begun in Europe. Under pressure to produce industrial alcohol at an unprecedented rate to meet the demands from the munitions companies, USIA had delivered clear policy messages to Van Gelder and the other Cuba Distilling captains: make sure the steamer storage tanks were filled with molasses when they left the islands; journey northward with the utmost speed; and carry out unloading procedures day and night at the storage tanks in Baltimore, New York, and Boston. Depending on the temperature of the molasses and the air temperature at the port cities, it could take several days to discharge hundreds of thousands of gallons of molasses. USIA ordered its captains to do anything they could to expedite the process, though Van Gelder was familiar enough about the peculiarities of molasses to know that the viscosity of the substance itself usually determined the pace of the transfer from the ship’s holds to the tank.
    Actually, Van Gelder welcomed the opportunity to get in and out of Boston as quickly as possible. This was his third visit to the North End waterfront since the company had built the new 2.3 million-gallon tank. The previous two times, he had witnessed a sight that made him queasy in a way that thirty years at sea had never done, a sight that actually forced him to avert his eyes and carry on grimly with the mundane tasks of connecting the discharge hose to the dockside pipes and pumping molasses from the
Miliero’s
hull compartments.
    It was a strange and chilling sight he and his crew members saw, though they never spoke about it, either during the pumping process or even as they pulled away from the dock and pointed the
Miliero
seaward. It was one thing for a tank to leak a bit; he had seen it dozens of times when he made deliveries up and down the East Coast.
    But the steel tank in Boston, which went into operation only about one year ago, leaked more molasses through its riveted seams than any other he had seen.

    Frank Van Gelder transported molasses along the East Coast following the same route that captains before him had traveled since the early 1600s. For three centuries, the molasses trade had been a vital part of the American and the New England economy, as important as fishing or textiles, and a critical component in the country’s political and social development.
    This dark-brown viscous liquid, a by-product in the processing of sugar cane, played a major role in some of the biggest events in American history: in the colonial discontent that led directly to the Revolution; in the introduction of slavery to the New World and, thus, the Civil War; in the growth of rum and liquor distilleries throughout the United States, and the resulting Prohibition movement; and in ensuring the superiority of Allied firepower that would eventually lead to victory in the First World War. It all started in Boston and New England.

    “Our orders are that you embrace the first fair wind and make the best of your way to the coast of Africa, and there invest your cargo in slaves.” According to historian James Pope-Hennessy, these were instructions issued to a ship’s master, not in the Deep South, but in Salem, Massachusetts. It was from Salem, as well as from Boston, Newport, and Bristol, Rhode Island, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and New London,