In the interwar period, a system for the movement of men, arms, and printed matter developed into a political network that in imperial sources came to be called the “lascar system.” Lascars were Indian seamen who worked for British and international merchant shipping companies and had contacts with trade unionists, communists, anarchists, and other politically active parties across the world—in particular in port towns such as Hamburg, Antwerp and Marseilles. They became key players in the politics of the interwar world, and especially in a still-colonised India, which was subject to various censorship regulations and a panoply of repressive legislation. A number of lascars became crucial in the emerging communist movement and in trade union politics. In a world of increasingly stringent border controls, restrictions on the movement of people, and paranoia about political radicalism and its ability to “infect” new areas, the lascars' mobility became an asset to political movements and a source of anxiety for states.

Given this, it is surprising that the literature on lascars seldom, if ever, addresses the question of their political activities. This essay takes some steps in that direction, focusing on the 1920s, when the “lascar system” took shape. “Lascar” is of course a name given to a profession, not an identity or a political ideology; and yet the importance of this profession in the politics of the early twentieth century, and of the interwar period in particular, is far too important to ignore or treat as mere coincidence.

Let us begin with a drawing, depicting the river mouth of Batavia. We see a lively scene. Europeans and Asians are fishing, peddling, rowing, riding, walking, and sitting along the waterway. A small prauw on the left appears to be manned by Javanese and Chinese. Behind the Waterkasteel, on the right, large numbers of oceangoing vessels are anchored before Batavia. In the middle of the drawing, we see three men on the path along the waterway, the “jaagpad,” pulling a flat cargo boat. The clothing indicates that these are “Moor” sailors. On the boat, we see three other sailors with turbans.

This scene, drawn by Johannes Rach in 1764, places the Dutch East India Company (VOC) in its Asian context. In previous decades, increasing attention has been paid to the structure of the “Asian” or overseas organisation of the VOC. Even more so, research has shown the importance of the Company's participation in the intra-Asian trade. From 1500 onwards, European trading companies not only became important in intercontinental European–Asian trade, but they came to dominate maritime trade within Asia as well. The VOC was one of the largest merchants active in intra-Asian shipping for much of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. For the VOC, however, it was not only its presence overseas that built the link between the Company and its Asian context. The VOC and its Asian context became intrinsically interwoven. Leonard Blussé, for example, emphasises the character of Batavia, the headquarters of the VOC in Asia, as a “Chinese colonial town.”

On transatlantic slave ships the Africans were predominantly there as cargo, while Europeans worked the deadly job of sailing and securing the vessel. On the plantations the roles changed, and the slaves were transformed into a workforce. European sailors and African slaves in the Atlantic world mostly encountered each other aboard slave ships as captive and captor. Once the enslaved arrived on the plantations new hierarchies and divisions of labour between slave and free suited to the particular working environment were introduced. Hierarchies of status, rank and colour were fundamental to the harsh and isolated working environments of the ship and the plantation. The directors of Surinamese plantations shielded themselves from the wrath of their enslaved by hiring sailors, soldiers or other white ruffians to act as blankofficier (white officer). These men formed a flexible workforce that could be laid off in case tensions on plantations rose. Below the white officers there were non-white slave officers, basjas, managing the daily operations on the plantations. The bomba on board slave ships played a similar role.

After failing to wrest Brazil from the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, the French turned their attention to the region north of the Amazon and south of the Orinoco River. The Guiana ventures the French launched during the middle decades of the seventeenth century met with numerous disasters, many of them self-inflicted, including bankruptcies, mutinies, murder, and costly rivalries between companies based in Paris and Rouen. Despite their many setbacks during the seventeenth century, however, the French were determined to establish plantations on the island of Cayenne in modern French Guiana. By the eighteenth century, French planters were cultivating sugar and tobacco in and around Cayenne using primarily the labour of African slaves. The nucleus, thus, of the future colony of French Guiana had been laid, in a territory sandwiched between the English colony of Guyana and the Dutch colony of Suriname, to the northwest, and Portuguese-controlled territory to the south and east. Prospering in Guiana was never easy, for the French or their African slaves, as the 1762–4 disaster of Kourou attests. But by then, the indigenous Galibí inhabitants of Cayenne (members of the Carib language group) seem to have been largely “written out” of the history of Guiana, except when they appear as a minority of slaves among a sea of Africans on a plantation.

On July 21, 1786 a secret meeting took place in the office of the Spanish ambassador in Paris, Count of Aranda. The ambassador, aided by the Irish abbot O'Sullivan (who acted as translator), met John Brooks, a British captain who introduced himself as a loyalist veteran of the American Revolution. Brooks had come to Paris from London, all expenses covered by the Spanish government, to inform Aranda of an expedition projected in Britain to invade the northern coast of South America in the vicinity of the port of Cartagena. According to Brooks, Juan Blommart, a French veteran of the American Revolution, was the leader of the projected expedition. With official British backing—Brooks declared that the Marquis of Buckingham was sponsoring the expedition—and the participation of military adventurers John Cruden and Francisco de Miranda, the expedition was scheduled to sail before the end of the year. After receiving Aranda's report, the Spanish Ministry of the Indies sent the information across the Atlantic to New Granada's Viceroy Antonio Caballero y Góngora for him to make all the necessary preparations to face this potential threat.