Rum is the scorched brand of empire, the persistent hangover of colonial ambition. It has wet the lips of rogues and royals, sticky with sugarcane, soured with sin. Once the dockyard’s demon, now a pedigreed pretender — bottled, branded, and veneered with respectability. But no matter how fine the label, history knows a bastard when it sees one.
Rum was never just a drink. It was a crude, caustic, and brutally efficient solution. In the 17th century, the Caribbean heaved with sugarcane, its sap boiled down to crystalline wealth, leaving behind a black, glutinous residue: molasses. It was waste, unwanted, until it wasn’t. Left to fester in the heat, it frothed into something which burned like rage. Whether enslaved Africans first stumbled upon this transformation is uncertain, but the men who owned them — ruthless in their accountancy — saw the numbers. Waste could be wealth, and misery was always monetisable.
Molasses surged north, thick as tar, to New England, where it was distilled into liquid currency. Barrels were stacked and sent east to Africa, where human flesh was priced in proof and proofed in flesh. Shackled men and women were hauled aboard, ferried west across the Atlantic in ships heavy with sweat and sickness, their passage as unrelenting as the tides. Between 1640 and 1807, British ships trafficked around 3.1 million Africans; one in five never survived. The rest were sold into cane fields, and the cycle began again, a remorseless loop of labour, liquor, and loss.
Sugarcane continued to devour the Caribbean, a creeping contagion of commerce, its sweet rot choking the islands. In Boston, Rhode Island, and Barbados, distilleries wheezed and clanked, vomiting up molasses-fed spirit, the air thick with the stink of boiling sugar and burning souls. At its peak, Newport alone had 22 distilleries, their smoke curling into the sky, dark as the trade which sustained them.
When the British swiped Jamaica from the Spanish in 1655, they found themselves with a cheaper, more intoxicating spirit than the navy’s old French brandy; it was doled out in rations which kept sailors cheerful, if not particularly seaworthy. By 1740, the fleet was a floating drunk tank, so Admiral Edward Vernon — ‘Old Grog’ in his weatherproof cloak — watered it down. A squeeze of citrus to fend off scurvy, and grog was born, proving necessity is the mother of all regrettable drinks. Pirates drank whatever was to hand: straight, stolen, or in punches as violent as their makers. Plantation owners took a more insidious approach, realising that a steady trickle of rum could serve as both pacifier and incentive. But rum did more than placate; it provoked. In the Maroon Wars of Jamaica, enslaved rebels drank before ambushes, fortifying themselves before striking at their British overlords. In Haiti, as revolution simmered, stolen casks were raised in toasts to liberty. It softened chains. It sharpened knives.
A squeeze of citrus to fend off scurvy, and grog was born, proving necessity is the mother of all regrettable drinks
The American Revolution was lubricated with rum, its distilleries swelling with the scent of molasses and mutiny. In 1808, Australia witnessed the world’s only successful spirit-fuelled coup when the New South Wales Corps, fed up with Governor William Bligh’s meddling in their rum trade, simply arrested him and took control. Throughout history, rum has oiled the machinery of power while simultaneously loosening its bolts.
Even in death, it left its mark. When Admiral Horatio Nelson perished at Trafalgar, his corpse was preserved in a barrel of brandy, though legend insists on rum. By the time it reached England, the cask was suspiciously light, allegedly siphoned off by thirsty sailors, birthing the macabre tale of “Nelson’s blood.” Fact or fiction, it speaks to the unholy devotion rum inspires. And yet, the Royal Navy would eventually sober up. After centuries of daily rations keeping its sailors half-seas over, the Admiralty called time on tradition. Black Tot Day — 31st July, 1970 — saw the last official rum ration poured. Sailors in full dress uniform held funerals for their lost allowance, some shedding real tears into their final measure.
By the nineteenth century, industrialisation had polished rum’s rougher edges. The Caribbean’s firewater matured, its unruly esters tamed by careful ageing. Unlike whisky, which insists on its own nobility, rum remains defiant. Jamaican rums bluster, their funk announcing itself before the cork is even pulled. The Martinicans craft theirs grassy and refined, touched by the tang of revolution. The Demeraras glower in the glass, each drop burdened with its own history.
Sailors in full dress uniform held funerals for their lost allowance, some shedding real tears into their final measure
Rum transcended America’s grand experiment with sobriety — which, like all forced temperance, was just an invitation to drink differently. Prohibition turned rum into the contraband king, smuggled in from Cuba and the Bahamas under moonlight. Captain Bill McCoy, an honest bootlegger in an industry priding itself on dishonesty, ensured his illicit cargo remained uncut, giving birth to the phrase “the real McCoy. The speakeasies roared, the flappers danced, and rum, weathering every storm, turned America’s morality laws into another drinking game.
Following the repeal of the noble mistake, rum changed costumes again, donning a garland of orchids and jasmine, swirling into Mai Tais and Zombies beneath the neon glow of Tiki bars. Donn Beach and Trader Vic built an empire of rum-soaked escapism, selling the fantasy of Polynesia through the prism of post-war America. Sugar, slavery, and suffering were drowned beneath the escapist sea of coconut mugs and paper umbrellas.
Rum’s past is now swirled and dissected over £150 artisanal pours in rooms thick with the scent of righteousness. B-Corp-certified producers whisper about sustainability, terroir, and the nobility of fair trade. But sugar was always a currency of suffering, and no green seal can launder the past. The molasses may be cleaner now, but its roots still run red, impossible to distil away.
Despite its gentrification, rum remains a liquid contradiction — both shackle and key. It has baptised ships, emboldened mutinies, and crowned both tyrants and revolutionaries. In the grand theatre of spirits, it refuses to play a single role. It is the human condition bottled, ultimately mutinous, and feral at its core. Pour a measure, toast its ghosts, and drink deep. They are not done with us.
15 rums to try, as picked by Douglas Blyde
Inspired by The Banditti Club, a raucous set which filled Glasgow’s taverns with music, food, and laughter, this Madeira-distilled rum is spiced with cacao and allspice.
Buck & Birch’s wild take on parkin cake infuses demerara rum with oats, molasses, and wild hogweed seeds for a sweet, malty, earthy sip lifted by orange zest. Favoured by Gleneagles and Glenturret, it’s terroir-driven sipping rum at its most inventive.
A high-ester, funky Jamaican rum with notes of burning rosehips, buzzing beehives, and a boozy artist’s studio. Not for everyone, but pleasing in a punchy Daiquiri.
Infused with Jersey’s hand-foraged rock samphire, this fresh, citrusy white rum carries a hint of sea air and vegetal depth - apt for an elevated Mojito.
Replete with hand-harvested red dulse and warming spices, this smooth yet intricate island rum channels the ocean’s depth. Perfect with ginger ale or posh cola, with fresh lime.
A bold Seychellois blend of pot and molasses rums, aged in port, French oak, and bourbon casks, with eight-year-old Foursquare. Apricot, star anise, and cacao lead to warm spice - spot-on for a tropical Old Fashioned.
This B-Corp-certified Devonian blend unites cask-aged rums from Barbados, Australia, Trinidad, and Jamaica. Carbon-filtered, the results are dry with fudge and pineapple notes - ideal for an El Presidente beside dry vermouth, orange curaçao and grenadine.
Hattiers’ 54.5% ABV blend honours the Royal Navy’s gunpowder test. Barbados, Australia, Guyana, and Jamaica rums bring toasted brown sugar, banana, pineapple, mango, buttery pastry, and coal smoke.
Honouring the Royal Navy’s ‘tot’ tradition, this solera-aged blend from Guyana, Barbados, and Jamaica evolves continuously, reimagining naval rum for modern palates.
This single cask Brazilian is column-distilled from sugarcane juice and aged 11 years in bourbon wood, offering honeyed sultanas, dried pineapple, crisp apple, and a spiced finish. Just 394 bottles.
Crafted in Venezuela by Nelson Hernández, this 12-year-aged rum finishes in Oloroso casks. Rich with smoked wood, coffee, dark chocolate, ripe figs, and plums.
Aged for 15 years in Cuba’s humid climate, this rich rum develops deep notes of caramel and tobacco. Perfect neat or in an ‘Old Cuban’ - a refined Champagne-topped take on the Mojito.
Dubbed the ‘pinnacle’ of Gosling’s rums, this is a limited release from the Bermudan family behind Black Seal and the Dark ‘n’ Stormy trademark. Each barrel is aged individually for subtle variations.
Debuted at The Connaught’s Red Room, this terroir-led, Bajan masterpiece from Mount Gay Rum’s first female master blender, Trudiann Branker showcases the 2018 harvest. Bottled at 55%, it bursts with grapefruit, plum, almonds, sea salt, milk chocolate, then floral notes.
From the civilised end of Jamaican rum, this 25-year-old pot still release unites dark chocolate, black cherry, and polished mahogany notes. Aged entirely in the island’s sweltering climate, it was selected by Luca Gargano and Joy Spence from just 19 barrels. Just 2,706 bottles (at 63%).
