REVOLUTIONARY MEMORIES: CELEBRATING AND COMMEMORATING THE HAITIAN REVOLUTION

By

ERIN ELIZABETH ZAVITZ

A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT

OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

2015

© 2015 Erin Elizabeth Zavitz

To my familes here and in Haiti

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In Haitian Creole (Kreyòl), a common proverb is men anpil chay pa lò, or with

many hands the burden is light. The proverb aptly applies to the process of writing a

dissertation. Many hands have helped to make this burden lighter.

Haitian sources are scattered throughout archives and libraries. Without the

generous support of research grants and patience of librarians at these institutions, this

project would not have been possible. The research journey began in Haiti thanks to the

James R. Scobie Award from the Conference on Latin American History and a Center

for Latin American Studies Field Research Grant. The Dan David Prize Scholarship for

Young Researchers and grants from the History Department and Graduate School

supported subsequent fieldwork in Haiti. Additional support from the New York Public

Library, Chateaubriand Social Sciences and Humanities Fellowship, and the Center for

European Studies gave me the opportunity to trace sources to New York, France, and

England. Frère Ernest Even at the Bibliothèque Haïtien des Frères de l’Instruction

Chrétienne (BHFIC) made my first Haitian archival experience a pleasure. Since 2012,

Marie-France Guillaume has adeptly filled his shoes and patiently worked with me to

find sources at the library. At the University of Florida, Richard Philips, Paul Losch, and

Margarita Vargas-Betancourt exemplified the role of the librarian. They helped track

down sources, pointed out new research, and engaged in conversations about rare

Haitian books and my project.

I am grateful to the Haitians who shared their stories and interpretations of Haiti’s

history with me. I would not have been able to conduct these interviews without

Elizabeth Pierre-Louis and Erick Toussaint of the Foundation for Knowledge and Liberty

(FOKAL) who assisted me in contacting directors of FOKAL’s regional community

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centers and helped to organize a group interview with members of the foundation’s

Port-au-Prince-based debate teams. It is because of Elizabeth and Erick that I met Mét

Édris, the director of the Bibliothèque Oswald Durand in Dondon, Haiti. Mét Édris has

been an invaluable resource taking the time to introduce me to members of the

community, organizing my lodging, and just being there to help this blan (foreigner)

navigate life in Haiti. Other individuals have also been integral to the success of my

research in Haiti. First, Pasteur my moto-driver in Port-au-Prince made travel around

the bustling city relaxing. I would not have been able to get to the archives and various

meetings without him. Second, Yvon has been a guide and travel companion since I

met him during my first trip to Haiti in 2002. Lastly, in addition to Mét Édris’s help in

Dondon, several of the library’s members took a keen interest in my project and invited

me back to present for Dondon’s fête patronale (local saint’s day). Joeles, Whitny, Gary,

and Jodley spent numerous hours conversing with me about Dondon’s history for which

I am grateful.

My advisor David Geggus has provided constructive criticism and wit throughout.

Although he was at times skeptical of the exact direction of the project, this dissertation

would not be what it is without his constant support and feedback. My committee

members, Leah Rosenberg, Ida Altman, Jeffrey Needell, Paul Ortiz, and Benjamin

Hebblethwaite, also read drafts and provided insightful comments. In addition, I

benefited from exchanges with an amazing cohort of fellow Latin Americanists. Thank

you to Andrea Ferreira, Bill Fischer, Sarah Kernan, Lauren MacDonald, Diana

Reigelsperger, and Rob Taber for listening to all my Haiti stories.

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Throughout the many years of my studies my family has supported and

encouraged me. I am grateful to my parents Diana and John Zavitz and my sister Katie

for all they have done, it is be impossible to enumerate on their support. Also, through

the last five years of classes, research, writing, and teaching, Brenden Kennedy has

stood by my side as a friend, partner, and now husband. He may know more than he

ever wanted to about Haitian history and I thank him for reading drafts, listening to

ideas, and responding with caring criticism. Mési anpil.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...................................................................................................... 4

LIST OF FIGURES .............................................................................................................. 9

ABSTRACT ........................................................................................................................ 10

CHAPTER

1 INTRODUCTION: REVOLUTIONARY BEGINNINGS ............................................... 12

Revolutions, Commemorations, and Legends ........................................................... 15

Plan of the Study ......................................................................................................... 22

The Haitian Revolution ............................................................................................... 25 On the Eve of Revolution ..................................................................................... 25 The Revolution, 1789-1804.................................................................................. 27

1804 ...................................................................................................................... 31

2 PERFORMING REVOLUTION: JEAN-JACQUES DESSALINES AND HAITIAN INDEPENDENCE DAY, 1804-1904 ........................................................................... 38

Declaring Independence and Creating National Symbols ......................................... 43 From Popular to Official: Memories of Dessalines..................................................... 59

3 PAMPHLETEERS, PLAYWRIGHTS, AND CHRONICLERS: EARLY NARRATORS OF THE HAITIAN REVOLUTION ...................................................... 78

Printing and Performing Independence: 1804 Publications ...................................... 81 Declaring Independence ...................................................................................... 82 A National Memorialist: Louis-Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre ..................................... 84 Independence on Stage: Pierre Flignau’s L’Haïtien expatrié (1804) .................. 92

Divided Loyalties: Kingdom vs. Republic, 1807-1820 ............................................... 99 Royalist and Republican: The Many Faces of Juste Chanlatte ........................100 Of Monarchies and Noirisme: Baron de Vastey ................................................121 The Republic Writes Back: Jules-Solime Milscent and Noël Colombel ...........133

Unification and L’École de 1836 ...............................................................................145

4 INDEPENDENCE’S GOLDEN JUBILEE AND THE TRIUMPH OF THE MULATTO LEGEND .................................................................................................167

Thomas Madiou and Haiti’s First History .................................................................170 A Reactionary Response: Beaubrun Ardouin and Joseph Saint-Rémy ..................187 Émeric Bergeaud’s Stella: Haiti’s First Novel...........................................................209

Conclusion: A Mulatto Moment ................................................................................218

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5 NOIRISTES RESPOND: TWENTIETH-CENTURY HISTORIOGRAPHIC TRANSFORMATIONS ..............................................................................................220

Hannibal Price: A Precursor ....................................................................................222 Independence in Crisis: Noiristes and Mulâtristes Debate the Narrative ................229

Occupation and Reaction ...................................................................................229 Noiristes’ Opening Statement ............................................................................231 Mulâtriste Rebuttal: Louis Elie ...........................................................................239 Jean Price Mars: Re-envisioning Haiti...............................................................241

Consolidating the Black Legend ...............................................................................244

6 THE REVOLUTION ON STAGE AND IN THE SALON: LITERARY AND THEATRICAL IMAGININGS 1884-2004 ..................................................................261

Writing in Black: Haitian Realists and Patriotic Dramatists .....................................263

A Second Independence and Institutionalizing Noirisme ........................................292

Romance and Criticism: Toward the Promises of the Bicentennial ........................310

7 BOUCH PA BOUCH: ORAL TRADITIONS AND THE REVOLUTION ....................322

Vodou Songs .............................................................................................................323

Of Lwas and Heroes ..........................................................................................327 Creoles and Fran Ginen .....................................................................................335

Dondon: Revolutionary Ethnography .......................................................................342 Dondon according to Dondonnais: A Town’s Biography ..................................343 Local Memory Work: Historical and Ecological Tourism in Dondon .................347 Reciting the Revolution ......................................................................................352

8 CONLUSION: REVOLUTIONARY FUTURES .........................................................359

LIST OF REFERENCES .................................................................................................366

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ..............................................................................................386

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LIST OF FIGURES

Figure page 1-1 Haiti, Map No. 3855, Rev.4, United Nations, June 2008. ..................................... 37

3-1 “Baron de Vastey,” Clive Cheesman, ed., Amorial of Haiti: Symbols of Nobility in the Reign of Henry Christophe (College of Arms: London, 2007), 168. .......................................................................................................................166

5-1 Fort-de-Joux in the snow, personal collection, May 2013. ..................................260

5-2 Memorials to Toussaint Louverture near his cell in Fort-de-Joux, personal collection, May 2013. ............................................................................................260

7-1 Ruins of Vincent Ogé’s mother’s coffee plantation, Matador, Haiti, personal collection, June 2014. ...........................................................................................358

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Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

REVOLUTIONARY MEMORIES: CELEBRATING AND COMMEMORATING THE

HAITIAN REVOLUTION

By

Erin Zavitz

August 2015

Chair: David Geggus Major: History

On 1 January 1804 Jean-Jacques Dessalines formally declared the new country

of Haiti independent and established a tradition for commemorating the revolution. For

over two hundred years Haitian leaders have followed Dessalines’s example and staged

a scripted version of the nation’s past that responded to the needs of the present. At the

same time, ordinary Haitians have sought to construct their own narratives. I argue that

for Haitians, regardless of class, commemorating the revolution was a means of

defining themselves, defending Haiti’s existence, and celebrating the achievements of

African descendants. However, competing memories emerged from these

commemorations that challenged the fashioning of a unified Haitian national identity.

Chapter 2 examines Haiti’s first national holiday, Independence Day (1 January),

and demonstrates the relationship between elite and popular commemorations through

the evolution of the fête and the memory of Haiti’s founder and first head-of-state Jean-

Jacques Dessalines. During holiday celebrations, printed text and physical performance

combined to reflect a certain historical moment in Haiti’s past in order to shape present

perceptions of the nation and national identity. From performance, I move to

commemorations in print. In Chapters 3 to 6, I examine the creation of Haiti’s literary

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and historiographic canon through printed representations of the Haitian Revolution. I

demonstrate how Haitian intellectuals responded to a hostile international environment

shaped by the threat of French invasion, delayed recognition of statehood,

impoverishing indemnity payments to France, and exploitative commercial relations. In

this context, Haitian leaders used the history and memories of the revolution to defend

Haiti’s existence and celebrate achievements of African descendants. I trace this trend

through a corpus of texts many of which have been overlooked by historians and literary

scholars, although they open a window onto debates on Haitian historical memory,

national consciousness, and racial equality.

In Chapter 7, I move beyond printed representations and civic festivals, to the

memories of ordinary Haitians that appear in oral history and Vodou songs. The songs

and interviews provide a space for Kreyòl-speakers to recount their understanding of

history and memory, and also illustrate how Haiti’s majority has integrated official or

elite discourse and vice-versa.

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CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION: REVOLUTIONARY BEGINNINGS

Youn nan fason nou ka wè lòt fòm kolon se sa yo rele ong, pou fason moun sa

yo gaspiye kòb nan bagay ki pa itil. Mwen kwè nou gen anpil batay pou fè pou n tounen nan objektif revolisyon lan.

—FOKAL debate club member Interview by Erin Zavitz1

As the rain bounced off the tin roof of FOKAL’s (Foundation for Knowledge and

Liberty) outdoor exhibit space in Port-au-Prince, almost two-dozen Haitian youth

passionately discussed the history and legacy of Haiti’s founding. As the member

quoted above explained, Haiti’s independence was in limbo and the revolution

unfinished. There were still many struggles to come and these included new neo-

colonial agents like Non-Government Organizations (NGOs). Her comment

demonstrates the fragility of Haitian independence, as well as the inspiration of Haiti’s

revolution over two hundred years later. Moreover, consciously or unconsciously, the

member placed herself within discursive traditions of print and oral narratives of the

revolution. She extended the arc of Haiti’s anti-colonial struggle first conceived by

nineteenth-century intellectuals by adding twenty-first century NGOs, the new “kolon.”

Haitian intellectuals dated the struggle from the arrival of Christopher Columbus. The

member’s comment would make the movement 521 years old. She also enunciated the

common theme of external meddling. From French planters to international aid workers,

foreigners have inhibited Haiti’s development. Finally, it is the presence of a foreign

power, in this case NGOs, that limits independence and the fulfillment of the revolution.

1 One of the ways, we can see another type of colonist—it’s what they call the NGOs—in the way those people waste money on unnecessary things. I believe we have many battles to win before we can accomplish the objectives of the revolution. FOKAL Debate Club, interview by Erin Zavitz, Port-au-Prince, Haiti, 28 June 2013

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Her words are an echo of the fiery proclamation Louis-Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre

composed to declare Haiti’s independence in January 1804. Independence was

freedom from France and slavery. For Boisrond-Tonnerre and later Haitian authors,

independence remained a practical concept without any delineation of rights for the new

citizens of the first black state. In July 2013, this same meaning of independence,

freedom from foreign domination, arose in the debate club’s conversations with minimal

discussion of rights.

This interview scene illuminates the struggles over remembering the Haitian

Revolution. The response came to questions about Haiti’s current situation, specifically

the continued presence of UN forces, and if the objectives of the Haitian revolution had

been fulfilled. These questions, as well as what might appear to be more mundane

ones, such as name your favorite revolutionary hero, provoked heated responses and

rounds of argument. Thus, Steve Stern’s notion of “memory struggles” is quite

appropriate to describe Haitians’ collective memories of their country’s founding.2 Stern

clarifies that the process of remembering and forgetting is an exchange between all

sectors of society and “cannot be disentangled from an account of wider political,

economic, and cultural contexts.”3 My discussion at FOKAL demonstrated this

entanglement and the politics of commemorating Haiti’s founding.

This dissertation is a study of these memories, their entanglements, and their

expression in Haitian narratives of the country’s founding. At the same time, I attempt to

2 Historian Steve Stern coined the term “memory struggles” to describe Chilean collective memories of the Pinochet dictatorship in Chile. See, Stern, Remembering Pinochet’s Chile: On the Eve of London, 1998 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004); Battling for Hearts and Minds: Memory Struggles in Pinochet’s Chile, 1973-1988 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Reckoning with Pinochet: the Memory Question in Democratic Chile, 1989-2006 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010).

3 Stern, Reckoning, xxii-xxiii.

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reveal the silences, gaps, and voids that are equally part of the narration process.

Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot contends silencing occurs at four moments

in the production of historical narratives: “the making of sources,” “the making of

archives,” “the making of narratives,” and “the making of history.”4 The study of

commemorations and collective memory helps expose the creation of silences because

it focuses our attention on the multiplicity of voices, sources, and archives. While there

are dominant or master commemorative narratives based on the collective memory of

those in positions of privilege and power, there are equally counter narratives and

memories expressed through other memorial forms.5 The dominant and counter

memories do not exist in isolation. Rather, with the progression of time, the master

narrative may change in response to the counter memories. While the history of

independent Haiti has frequently centered on the political and cultural elite,

commemorations offer an entry into the construction of a more complex narrative that

can recount the lives and experiences of non-elite Haitians.

Through an examination of national holidays, historiography, literature, and oral

traditions, my dissertation explores these competing representations and narratives of

the Haitian Revolution as well as the deeply contested process of their evolution and

institutionalization. This set of commemorative forms allows me to: 1. explore a range of

4 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 26.

5 Yael Zerubavel, Recovered Roots: Collective Memory and the Making of Israeli Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 5-6. Zerubavel’s notion of commemorative narratives rests on the seminal study of memory by French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs (On Collective Memory, trans. Lewis A. Coser (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992). In distinguishing between collective and individual memories, Halbwachs argues for the social nature of memory. Halbwachs recognized that individual memories exist, but that they gain their meaning through interaction with a collective or social framework of memory. He contends, “One may say that the individual remembers by placing himself in the perspective of the group, but one may also affirm that the memory of the group realizes and manifests itself in individual memories” (On Collective Memory, 40).

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collective memories from various groups representative of Haiti’s population, 2. examine

how internal and external factors have shaped Haitians’ collective memory, and 3.

elucidate how representations of the revolution have evolved to meet the demands of

the present. The commemorations and their transformations during the nineteenth and

twentieth centuries offer a cultural perspective on Haiti’s history that sheds light upon

understudied periods of the country’s past.

Revolutions, Commemorations, and Legends

One of the great world revolutions, the Haitian Revolution created the first post-

slavery and second postcolonial state in the Americas. Moreover, the revolution

encompassed the hemisphere’s largest and first successful slave revolt. In contrast to

the other revolutions of the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth century, which have an

ever-growing body of scholarship on their commemorative traditions, there are no

monographs on how Haitians commemorated their country’s founding.6 This

6 For the French Revolution, texts include: Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Mona Ozouf, Festivals and the French Revolution, trans. Alan Sheridan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988); and Maurice Agulhon’s noteworthy series on Marianne, Marianne au combat: l’imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1789 à 1880 (Paris: Flammarion, 1979); Marianne au pouvoir: l’imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1880 à 1914 (Paris: Flammarion, 1989; Les métamorphoses de Marianne : l'imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1914 à nos jours (Paris: Flammarion, 2001). For the American Revolution: David Waldstreicher, In the Midst of Perpetual Fetes: The Making of American Nationalism, 1776-1820 (Chapel Hill: Universiyt of North Carolina Press, 1997); Simon P. Newman, Parades and the Politics of the Street: Festive Culture in the Early American Republic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); Benjamin H. Irvin, Clothed in Robes of Sovereignty: the Continental Congress and the People Out of Doors (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); Elizabeth Ruth Bethel, The Roots of African-American Identity: Memory and History in Free Antebellum Communities (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997), and Mitchell Kachun, Festivals of Freedom: Memory and Meaning in African American Emancipation Celebrations, 1808-1915 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003). On the Latin American wars of independence see: Enrique Florescano, “Independencia, Identidad y Nación en México: 1818-1910,” Legajos: Boletín del Archivo General de la Nación 7, no.5 (2010): 57-78; William H. Beezley and David E. Lorey, eds., ¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva La Independencia! Celebrations of September 16 (Wilmington, DE: SR Books, 2001); William H. Beezley, Cherly English Martin, and William French, eds. Rituals of Rule, Rituals of Resistance: Public Celebrations and Popular Culture in Mexico (Wilmington: SR Books, 1994); Hendrik Kraay, Days of National Festivity in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1823-1889 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013); “‘Let Us Be Brazilians on the Day of Our Nationality’: Independence Celebrations in Rio de Janeiro, 1840s-1860,” in Negotiating Identities in Modern Latin America, ed Hendrik Kraay,

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dissertation is a response to that lacuna and provides the first full-length inter-

disciplinary study of commemorations of the revolution from independence to the

present.7 Defined by Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot as “unthinkable,” the

revolution and the creation of an independent black state challenged contemporary

frames of reference (slavery, colonialism, European cultural superiority).8 The project of

building a black state and nation in a world dominated by slavery and colonialism was a

Sisyphean undertaking. I contend that representations of the revolution were integral to

this process. The study of commemorations and their accompanying narratives expands

our understanding of the dynamics of cultural and symbolic exchange and debates over

citizenship, race, and liberty in the Atlantic World. Moreover, examining Haitian

commemorative traditions demonstrates the importance of extending the chronology

and geographic focus of postcolonial studies to early nineteenth-century America.9

The four categories of commemorations I examine—national holidays,

historiography, literature, and oral traditions—reflect Haiti’s historical and contemporary

social divisions and help elucidate how Haitians of diverse social and economic

backgrounds remember the revolution. The commemorations require an

interdisciplinary approach to Haiti’s history. The project is situated at the crossroads of

(Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2007), 27-48, and “Between Brazil and Bahia: Celebrating Dois de Julho in Nineteenth-Century Salvador,” Journal of Latin American Studies 32:2 (May 1999): 255-86.

7 For preliminary work on commemorations by literary scholars and art historians see Carlo A. Célius, “Neoclassicism and the Haitian Revolution” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, ed. David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009); Jean Jonassaint, “Toward New Paradigms in Caribbean Studies: The Impact of the Haitian Revolution in Our Literatures” in The Tree of Liberty: The Cultural Legacies of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, ed. Doris Garraway (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008), 200-22.

8 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 82.

9 Mark Thurner and Andrés Guerrero, ed., After Spanish Rule: Postcolonial Predicaments of the Americas (Durham: Duke Univeristy Press, 2003).

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history, literature, and anthropology and explores a diverse and understudied corpus of

texts.

First, I examine a multi-genre collection of historiographical and fictional works on

the revolution. Just as the history of the revolution was silenced in Western history,

historians and literary scholars frequently ignore Haitian texts. As my chapters on print

commemorations illustrate, this is a product of the politics of publication, distribution,

and national canon construction. Haitian authors published wherever they could and in

whatever format, newspaper, monograph, or pamphlets. Short stories and serials

frequently appeared first in the press and later, depending on popularity and funding,

were published in a bound volume. By delving into the Haitian press, we can expand

our understanding of literary production—historical and imaginative—and uncover new

texts for analysis. Unfortunately, the extant newspapers, monographs, and pamphlets

are scattered across the Americas and Europe and nowhere gathered in one location.

The difficulty of access is complicated by biases built into the construction of national

canons. Scholars of Anglophone Caribbean literature have documented how the literary

boom of the mid-twentieth-century greatly influenced national canon formation that

tended to exclude earlier works.10 The creation of the British Caribbean canon was tied

to anti-colonial struggles of the mid-twentieth century and not to earlier publications. The

rise of indigénisme and noirisme created a similar critical atmosphere during and after

the first U.S. occupation of Haiti (1915-34), in which literary critics excluded earlier texts

10 Faith Smith, Creole Recitations: John Jacob Thomas and Colonial Formation in the Late Nineteenth-Century Caribbean (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2002); Alison Donnell, Twenieth-Century Caribbean Literature: Critical Moments in Anglophone Literary History (New York: Routledge, 2006); and Leah Rosenberg, Nationalism and the Formation of Caribbean Literature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007); Rosenberg, “The Audacity of Faith: Creole Recitations Explained,” Small Axe 15, no.2 (2011): 164-73.

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for not being Haitian enough.11 My four chapters on print commemorations integrate

these overlooked texts and read them alongside more well-known publications.

Almost all of the written texts I examine are in French and thus represent a

privileged minority of Haitians. Linguists estimate that, as of the twenty-first century, as

little as 1-2% of the population could be considered fully balanced bilinguals in French

and Kreyòl and that at least 90% of Haitians “communicate and express themselves”

only in Kreyòl.12 An innovation of my project is the incorporation of oral texts, specifically

interviews and Vodou songs in Kreyòl.13 Though Kreyòl became officially a national

language in 1987, the majority of Haitian texts continue to be published in French. Only

the privileged minority of fully balanced French and Kreyòl bilinguals have access to the

rich historiographic and literary traditions. The songs and interviews provide a space for

Kreyòl-speakers to recount their understanding of history and memory and thus serve,

in Trouillot’s words, to combat the processes of silencing in the production of history.

Furthermore, the inclusion of oral sources illustrates the movement of memories and

counter memories between the Haitian majority and the elite. Popular memories

influence the construction of official narratives and vice-versa.

I argue that for Haitians, regardless of class, commemorating the revolution was

a means of defining themselves, defending Haiti’s existence, and celebrating the

achievements of African descendants. Nevertheless, commemorations, both official

11 Marlene Daut, “Science of Desire: Race and Representations of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, 1790-1865” (PhD diss., University of Notre Dame, 2008), 296.

12 See Yves Dejean, “An Overview of the Language Situation in Haiti,” International Journal of the Sociology of Language 102 (1993): 73-83; Yon lekòl tèt anba nan yon peyi tèt anba (Port-au-Prince: FOKAL, 2006); Albert Valdman, “Diglossia and language conflict in Haiti,”International Journal of the Sociology of Language 71 (1988): 67.

13 I have chosen to use Kreyòl because it is how my interviewees would spell the language’s name.

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(elite- and state-created) and unofficial (popular), also served to institutionalize or

mythologize the revolution to the extent that it became both taboo and immortal. It

became taboo in the sense that written narratives (history and imaginative literature)

have to be reproduced within the contours of nationalist ideologies: in the nineteenth-

century, mulâtrisme (mixed-race nationalism) and in the twentieth, noirisme (black

nationalism). The revolution is equally immortal, a characteristic perhaps related to its

taboo quality. It is not a part of the past but rather is continually reenacted in the present

through holidays, songs, and the politicization of heroes. The revolution’s immortality

places on Haitians the burden of never forgetting, because to do so would threaten the

two pillars of independence: freedom from enslavement and from foreign domination.

The roots of this project lie in the path-breaking work of British political scientist

David Nicholls, who, in his book From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and

National Independence in Haiti, provided the first and thus far only English-language

study of Haitian intellectual traditions. Nicholls described his work as a study of how

“Haitians have seen themselves” or “a history of ideas” and how these ideas have

impacted Haitians’ actions.14 He argued that race, meaning Haitians’ shared African

descent, served to unite Haitians, while color, specifically the designations mulatto and

black, divided the population and ultimately harmed the country’s development. To

organize his discussion of Haitian ideologies, Nicholls presented two interpretative

models, the mulatto and black legends. Proponents of the mulatto legend celebrated

mixed-race accomplishments, proclaimed racial unity, stressed the fundamental role

that free people of color played in the revolution, and “insisted that government should

14 David Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and National Independence in Haiti, 2nd ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 5, 15.

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be in the hands of the most competent and qualified,” by which they meant the mixed-

race elite.15 Authors of the black legend memorialized the actions of revolutionary

leaders descended directly from African slaves, criticized the governments of post-

independence mulatto rulers, “pictured themselves as the champions of the poor black

rural workers and small peasants,” and emphasized color over class as the main

division in Haitian society.16 Nicholls’s legends form the basis for the competing political

nationalisms of Haiti, mulâtrisme and noirisme. Although Nicholls has been criticized for

over-emphasizing skin color, the legends speak to historic and contemporary social

divisions in Haiti that are a central factor in the country’s history and development.17

This dissertation is a re-envisioning of Nicholls’s legends through the evolution of

revolutionary commemorations. In particular, through a multi-genre source base I

expand the study of “how Haitians have seen themselves” to include a larger

percentage of Haitians. Moreover, while Nicholls’ black/mulatto binary obscures the

complex interplay of class, region, and culture that shapes Haitian identity, collective

memories provide a space to examine how these factors shape the construction of

narratives and, by extension, national ideologies. Nicholls’ omission is partially a

question of his sources. He read an impressive corpus of Haitian texts, yet his focus on

printed material restricts his analysis to the Haitian elite and a small middle class.

Moreover, because of his interest in political ideology, he primarily reviewed non-fiction

and did not examine how imaginative literature offered both complementary and

15 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 10-11.

16 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 11.

17 For a more extensive discussion of these critiques and the legacy of Nicholls see Matthew J. Smith, “From Dessalines to Duvalier Revisited: A Quarter-Century Retrospective,” The Journal of Haitian Studies 13, no.1 (2007): 27-39.

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alternative iterations of Haitian identity. The three waves of indigénisme that I document

(1830s-40s, 1890s-1900s, 1930s-40s) played an integral role in shaping the evolution of

Haitian political nationalism and understandings of the Haitian Revolution.

My revisions of Nicholls draw in part on the work of Michel-Rolph Trouillot.

Trouillot complicates Nicholls’s discussion of color. He posits that “Haitian ‘color’

categories refer to many more aspects of phenotype than skin color alone, even when

their etymology seems to indicate an exclusively epidermic referent.” He continues,

“color categories embrace characteristics that go far beyond the perceived phenotype

into the field of social relations. These can include income, social origin, level of formal

education, customary behavior, ties of kinship or marriage, and other characteristics.”18

Trouillot does not disagree with Nicholls’s general argument that Haitian disunion has

negatively impacted the country’s growth or that historical legends can inhibit

development. Rather, he emphasizes how multiple factors contribute to Haitian notions

of color and identity.

In addition, the growth of postcolonial and Francophone studies has increased

scholarly interest in Haitian texts, particularly those from the nineteenth century.19 For

18 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, “Culture, Color, and Politics in Haiti,” in Race, ed. Steven Gregory and Roger Sanjek (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1994), 148-49. Trouillot also makes this argument in his monograph State Against Nation: The Origins and Legacy of Duvalierism (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1990).

19 Sibylle Fischer, Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolution (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004); Chris Bongie, “ ‘Monotonies of History’: Baron de Vastey and the Mulatto Legend of Derek Walcott’s ‘Haitian Triology,’” Yale French Studies 107 (2005): 70-107; Deborah Jenson, Beyond the Slave Narrative: Politics, Sex, and Manuscripts in the Haitian Revolution (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2012); Doris Garraway, “Empire of Freedom, Kingdom of Civilization: Henry Christophe, the Baron de Vastey, and the Paradoxes of Universalism in Postrevolutionary Haiti,” Small Axe 16, no.3 (2012): 1-21.

22

my discussion of Nicholls, Marlene Daut’s work is the most relevant.20 Also engaged in

a project of “un-silencing,” Daut’s research explores how nineteenth-century notions of

race and racial miscegenation influenced representations of the Haitian Revolution.21

Her comparative perspective reminds us of how Haitians sought to respond to and

combat European racialized discourses. The themes of Nicholls’s legends should be

viewed as a part of this process of re-imagining blackness after 1804. Moreover, Daut

raises the important issue of how to balance internal and external causes of Haiti’s

underdevelopment. Nevertheless, we cannot dismiss Nicholls’s legends, because they

illuminate a national process of silencing. While Daut seeks to un-silence Haitian

intellectual traditions in an Atlantic network, she overlooks how Haitian representations

of the revolution obscure domestic tensions. Trouillot asserts that Haitian authors

“remain too respectful” of Haiti’s founding.22 The epic history they constructed and

continue to construct to combat racial discourses has not liberated the people who

contributed their blood and sweat to Haiti’s independence: the black majority.

Plan of the Study

This dissertation is divided into six chapters and progresses through the

commemorations chronologically. Chapters 2 and 7, on national holidays and oral

traditions respectively, frame the study, which primarily focuses on elite constructions of

20 Marlene L. Daut, “From Classical French Poet to Militant Haitian Statesman: The Early Years and Poetry of the Baron de Vastey,” Research in African Literatures 43, no.1 (2012): 35-57; “Science of Desire: Race and Representations of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, 1790-1865” (PhD Diss University of Notre Dame, 2008);“ ‘The Alpha and Omega of Haitian Literature’: Baron de Vastey and the U.S. Audience of Haitian Political Writing,” Comparative Literature 64, no.1 (2012): 49-72; “Un-Silencing the Past: Boisrond-Tonnerre, Vastey, and the Re-Writing of the Haitian Revolution, 1805-1817,” South Atlantic Review 74:1 (2009): 35-64.

21 Daut, “Science of Desire,” 12-13.

22 Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 105.

23

Haiti’s founding (printed representations). They illuminate the creation of counter-

memories and the interplay between popular and elite commemorative narratives. In

Chapter 2, I begin with Haiti’s first commemorative event, the declaration of

independence of 1 January 1804. I trace, from 1804 to 1904, the institutionalization of

the holiday and of its officiant, the revolutionary general and first head of state, Jean-

Jacques Dessalines. During holiday celebrations, Haitian heads of state and

government officials combined printed text and physical performance to reflect certain

historical moments in Haiti’s past to shape present perceptions of the nation and

national identity. Haitians could draw on a large repertoire of symbols and political

culture from France, Africa, and the Americas. Placing celebrations of the Haitian

Revolution in this Atlantic frame, I argue, demonstrates these symbolic exchanges and

Haitian adaptations. Moreover, Independence Day festivities also presented in

abbreviated form the themes and arguments that circulated in elite nineteenth-century

texts. Thus, Chapter 2 provides a snapshot of nineteenth-century Haitian historiographic

and literary developments, which are the subject of the next two chapters.

Chapters 3 and 4 cover approximately the first fifty years of Haitian literary

history. I begin with the Declaration of Independence, Haiti’s first national document,

and examine the initial iterations of Haiti’s competing national myths: the black and

mulatto legends. Common to both myths was a need to legitimize Haiti and the

revolution in face of delayed diplomatic recognition and racial prejudice. Fashioning a

littérature engagée or littérature de combat, Haitian authors from 1804 to the present

have remained on the defensive and the country’s precarious international position has

influenced how they can write the revolution’s history. By 1860, I argue, the mulatto

24

legend had become institutionalized through the publication of Haiti’s first novel and

multi-volume histories of the revolution. In the process, both mulâtriste and noiriste

authors struggled with how to represent Haiti’s majority population, the descendants of

slaves. To incorporate the peasantry and their culture, authors drew on the first wave of

Haitian indigénisme from the 1830s and 1840s. While slaves and maroons became

subjects of study, Haitian intellectuals believed they needed to be civilized and leave

behind their language, Kreyòl, and religion, Vodou.

The place of Haiti’s majority and its contribution to the nation’s founding changed

profoundly in the twentieth century. Chapters 5 and 6 examine the response of noiriste

authors to mulâtriste interpretations of Haiti’s founding. Chapter 5 demonstrates the

revival of noiriste narratives in the late-nineteenth century and the creation and

institutionalization of the black legend. Integral to this process are two waves of

indigénisme first in the 1890s and, second in response to the U.S. occupation, in the

1920s and 1930s. While the black legend goes further than its mulatto counterpart to

incorporate the black majority, the narrative remains focused on the achievements of

great men. Moreover, the triumph of noirisme in the elections of 1946 and 1957

symbolized the complete institutionalization of the black legend, which left little room for

narratives that did not agree with the official state ideology. I continue my discussion of

noirisme in Chapter 6. I examine a corpus of novels, newspaper serials, and plays that

illuminate literary expressions of noirisme. Similar to historiographical developments,

imaginative literature remains closely tied to the black legend. To break out of the

ideological hold of the legend, authors have turned to gender analysis or spiralism, to

construct narratives critical of the black legend.

25

Chapter 7 turns our attention to the process of creating and narrating popular

memories through oral commemorations: Vodou songs and oral histories. In historical

studies of Haiti oral sources have rarely been used. I seek to illustrate their value for

scholars and how they can add to our understanding of the history of the Haitian

majority. I examine how both Vodou songs and local commemorative activities present

counter-memories of the revolution and independence. At the same time, they illustrate

how with the third wave of indigénisme (1920s-30s), the black legend incorporated

popular memories which enabled it to become as pervasisve as it did.

The Haitian Revolution

On the Eve of Revolution

By the late 1780s Saint-Domingue represented the peak of the European

colonizing process in the Americas. With over 7,000 plantations, the colony had “the

Americas’ strongest export economy” exporting far more sugar and coffee than any

other place on earth, along with cotton, cacao, and indigo.23 These exports made up

two-fifths of France’s overseas trade and generated considerable tax revenue. The

colony also provided advantageous ports and a training ground for the French navy.

Thus, the colony had a substantial economic, fiscal, and strategic value for France.

Enslaved men and women labored to produce the profitable exports. In 1789,

almost 500,000 slaves toiled on the colony’s plantations. One-third of enslaved men and

women worked on lowland sugar plantations where they held positions from lowly field

workers to artisans, drivers, and domestic servants, who constituted the slave elite. A

slightly smaller number of slaves labored on mountain coffee estates, and a similar

23 David Geggus, The Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014), xi.

26

number on cotton and indigo plantations. Enslaved men and women’s experiences

varied by crop, region, and position. Planters were constantly purchasing new slaves; in

the years 1785-90, 30,000 men and women arrived from Africa each year. A very

heterogeneous population, over half of Saint-Domingue’s slaves were born in West or

West-Central Africa. Divided among the thousands of plantations, slaves formed “mini-

communities, where elements of African cultures could be preserved or blended.”24

In contrast to the neighboring islands, Saint-Dominguan society had an important

middle tier, free people of color (gens de couleur). Free people of color numbered

approximately 30,000 on the eve of the revolution, equal to the white population. They

included established mixed race families who owned land and slaves, and newly freed

African slaves. Freedom separated them from the enslaved majority, but the gens de

couleur had their own hierarchy. Artisans, market women, or rural smallholders were the

majority; however, an elite group comprised successful coffee and indigo planters. Their

economic prosperity differentiated them from fellow free Saint-Dominguans of color, as

well as other Caribbean free people of color. They were familiar with France and its

institutions, and some had traveled overseas for education. Free people of color also

made up a large proportion of the colonial militia and often were employed to hunt down

fugitive slaves. Descended from slaves, yet part of the support structure of slavery, they

thus held an ambiguous position in colonial society. They were both complicit with the

slave regime but also excluded from white society.

24 Geggus, The Haitian Revolution, xii.

27

The Revolution, 1789-1804

Over fifteen years (1789-1804) the diverse residents of France’s most productive

colony would fight successively for free trade, political representation, racial equality,

the abolition of slavery, and, eventually, independence. The various struggles form

three phases of the revolution. The first (1789-1791) was a period of political

maneuvering by whites and free people of color to gain representation in France and

establish local assemblies in Saint-Domingue. In 1789, elite free men of color in Paris

lobbied for racial equality, including representation in the metropole, which planters had

just won. Their lobbying in Paris unsuccessful, free men of color turned to more radical

means of enacting change. Mixed-race merchant Vincent Ogé returned home to Saint-

Domingue to organize an armed uprising with Jean-Baptiste Chavanne. The two

demanded equal rights for free people of color and gathered a band of several hundred

followers. While Chavanne proposed including slaves in the struggle, Ogé refused. He

had a more gradual vision of emancipation and was fighting for the interests of free

people of color not slaves. Free people of color equivocated on the issue of slave

emancipation and remained ambivalent about their relationship with Saint-Domingue’s

majority before and after abolition. Although Ogé’s revolt ended in failure and the

gruesome death of both men, it prompted other free men of color to take up arms and

the National Assembly in Paris to take initial steps towards racial equality.

In August 1791, slaves took action on their own account. Elite slaves, such as

drivers and coachmen, organized a revolt in northern Saint-Domingue, burning

plantations and killing whites. Their reasons for revolt are far from transparent, though

resisting slavery was principal among them. Leaders also claimed royalist leanings and

fought first in the name of Louis XVI and then for the Spanish king, Charles IV. By the

28

fall of 1791, Saint-Domingue’s three populations had announced their grievances and

defined the initial contours of the Haitian Revolution. The August 1791 revolt signaled

the end of this first phase in which free people of color and whites had been the primary

actors.

In the revolution’s next phase (1792-1802), the main protagonists were Saint-

Dominguans of African descent, both free and enslaved. First, free people of color

achieved a legislative victory: the National Assembly’s April 1792 proclamation of racial

equality, which granted citizenship to all free people of color. Representatives in Paris

hoped that ending racial discrimination among the free population would create an

alliance between the gens de couleur and Saint Domingue’s whites. Additional

protagonists entered the conflict the following year when the new French republic went

to war against Britain and Spain. Continental wars had often spread to the colonies, and

Saint-Domingue became a target of the British forces in Jamaica and Spanish troops

across the border in Santo Domingo. Foreign invasion prompted new questions

concerning the fate of the colony. Again, Saint-Domingue’s free and enslaved

populations divided with individuals turning to the British, Spanish of French.

The abolition of slavery in the summer and fall of 1793 (later ratified by the

National Assembly in February 1794) shifted the objectives of the revolution. Slaves

became citizens bearing arms for the French Republic. Freedom from slavery became

established in all regions under French control, but old divisions persisted in a new

form. The term anciens libres (formerly free) was used to designate individuals who had

been free before 1793 while nouveaux libres (recently free) referred to slaves who

gained their freedom through the emancipation decrees. Thus, Saint-Domingue’s

29

population was divided along multiple fronts and the fate of racial equality and abolition

rested precariously on the shoulders of a handful of French troops and the newly freed

slaves-turned-soldiers.

A critical turning point following slave emancipation was insurgent slave leader

Toussaint Louverture's switch from royalist Spain to republican France (1794). Over the

course of the next eight years, he defeated the British, consolidated power in his hands,

unified the French and Spanish sides of the island, and wrote a constitution for Saint-

Domingue that made him governor for life. While the reasons for Louverture’s volte-face

are still debated by historians, his decision to support the French dramatically changed

the course of the revolution.

As Louverture rose through the ranks of the republican army, he masterfully

removed potential enemies and opponents. His consolidation of power was often non-

violent. One glaring exception is his struggle with the leading southern general André

Rigaud. Known as the War of the South (1799-1800) the conflict divided Saint-

Dominguans by region, color, and class. Though both men were anciens libres,

Louverture was the son of African slaves, who had earned his freedom before the

revolution, whereas Rigaud was born free to an African mother and white father and

educated in France.25 Former slaves made up the great majority of both men’s armies

and Louverture’s officers were mostly black ex-slaves like himself. The southern army,

however, was dominated by the mixed-race and free-born, and certain anciens libres

under Louverture’s command also rebelled against him. Soldiers’ loyalty was based on

a mixture of color, class, and regional alliances. The war lasted a little over a year.

25 Geggus, The Haitian Revolution, xxvi.

30

Louverture and his army were victorious and Rigaud and many of his closest supporters

fled the island. The experience of war and its aftermath traumatized southern Saint-

Dominguans of color and fostered a southern collective memory that would impact

Haitian politics and history after independence.

With peace returned to Europe in the fall of 1801, Napoleon Bonaparte organized

a massive expedition with 10,000 soldiers under the command of his brother-in-law

General Victoire Leclerc. Angered by Louverture’s constitution and his annexing of

Santo Domingo, Napoleon sought to reestablish French (white) rule and slavery. The

arrival of the Leclerc expedition marked the final phase of the revolution, the war of

independence (1802-04). As French ships appeared on Saint-Domingue’s horizon the

local response was mixed. With memories of civil war fresh in their minds, residents of

the southern peninsula welcomed the French troops, never suspecting their ulterior

motives. Similar reactions occurred throughout the island. Generals Jean-Jacques

Dessalines and Henry Christophe were the exception. Both former slaves, they burned

St. Marc and Cap Français, respectively, and took to the hills with their troops, joining

Louverture in a short-lived resistance campaign. With nominal control established,

Leclerc arrested Louverture and deported him to France where he died in the mountain

prison Fort de Joux in 1803. Louverture’s leading generals kept their positions and

began disarming the population.

Over the summer of 1802 word spread from France’s other Caribbean colonies

that the French planned to restore slavery. Resistance to Leclerc increased, and, with

his troops dying from yellow fever, the French general launched a violent retaliation

campaign to little avail. Saint-Dominguans of African descent joined forces to fight for

31

independence under the command of Jean-Jacques Dessalines and the free-born,

mixed-race general Alexandre Pétion in an alliance across the color line. This alliance

came at a cost. The insurgent forces had to first eradicate the guerrilla bands often

called “Congos” that did not submit to either French or local authorities before they

could commit all their troops to fighting the French. The following fall, the indigenous

army (as they came to call themselves) of Dessalines and Pétion defeated the French

troops at a final battle, Vertières. The months leading up to the French surrender in late

November 1803 were gruesome. Bodies of all colors hung from trees, disease ravaged

European troops, and both armies burned everything in their paths. While the death toll

for the indigenous army is unknown, on the French side only 8,000 of the 44,000 troops

sent were still alive.

On 29 November 1803, days after the French surrendered, the victorious

indigenous generals issued a preliminary declaration of independence in the northern

port city of Fort-Liberté. A second, more accusatory and passionate, declaration was

delivered a little over a month later on 1 January 1804. The second text is the accepted

founding document of Haiti and 1 January became the first national holiday,

Independence Day. The first day of a new year, 1 January symbolized the past and

future. The day had been a holiday on plantations; Dessalines used a tradition from

slavery times to construct Haiti’s first national holiday. It also denoted the birth of a new

nation, the first to be born from a slave revolt and the second in the hemisphere to

defeat a colonial power.

1804

The accounts of Haiti’s founding ceremony, penned decades after independence,

are celebratory and hide the reality of a war-torn country and people. The Pearl of the

32

Antilles resembled an apocalyptic landscape. Plantations, fields, and towns were ash

and rubble, and exports dropped to a quarter of the island’s former output.26 In addition,

war, disease, and migration had dramatically reduced the population. Notably the

literate minority, a crucial group for state and nation building, was almost non-existent.

Jean-Jacques Dessalines and his new government faced multiple challenges of

state-building. Unlike its northern neighbor, Haiti had to wait decades for international

recognition. Motivated by a real fear of French reinvasion, Dessalines and his generals

invested heavily in building forts most notably La Citadelle in the northern mountains,

which is the largest fort in the western hemisphere. Dessalines also maintained a large

standing army of approximately 20,000 men to garrison these forts and provide

protection against a French invasion. This militarized post-revolutionary Haitian

landscape was also a masculine space that excluded women. Defense was a male task

and women had no role in protecting the new nation.

Dessalines’s military strategy of koupe tèt boule kay (cut off heads, burn houses)

left thousands of acres of agricultural land in ashes. While war had taken its toll on the

former colony’s plantation system, at the turn of the century it had bounced back

somewhat under Toussaint Louverture. The two-year War of Independence (1802-04)

hindered further growth. Nevertheless, in 1804 coffee and sugar plantations remained in

production and Haitians found American and British merchants interested in purchasing

their goods. Haiti’s new military and political elite sought to maintain the plantation

economy and profit from abandoned or seized French properties. The plantation stood

26 Geggus, The Haitian Revolution, xxxi.

33

in contradiction to the masses’ ideal of liberty: landownership and production rights.27

This contradiction led to the creation of an alternative export economy, including

foodstuffs to neighboring islands, run by small-holders and the state-

supported/controlled cash crop economy of coffee and to a lesser extent sugar.28

Haiti in 1804 was a demographically different place from 1789 Saint-Domingue.

The revolution and the 1804 massacres reduced the population by at least a third and

eliminated much of the literate minority. The few remaining Europeans faced two

contrasting fates. Most were massacred on Dessalines’s orders between February and

April 1804. Others, notably the Polish mercenaries who had deserted the Napoleonic

expedition became integrated into the Haitian nation; the first state constitution even

defined them as black.29 A few whites escaped death thanks to mixed-race neighbors or

family members, or because they could offer a service to the new Haitian state, as

doctors or priests. In the end, the small colonial white population almost vanished.30 The

demographic loss left post-revolutionary Haiti in need of people, and Dessalines and

subsequent heads of state sought to encourage immigration to repopulate the new

nation.

27 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, State Against Nation: The Origins and Legacy of Duvalierism (Monthly Review Press: New York: 1990), 44 and 73; Johnhenry Gonzales, “The War on Sugar: Forced Labor, Commodity Production and the Origins of the Haitian Peasantry, 1791-1843” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2012), 92.

28 Gonzales, “The War on Sugar,” 164. In the nineteenth century, logwood, cotton, and cacao were also exported, but coffee remained the main source of revenue, see Victor Bulmer-Thomas, Economic History of the Caribbean Since the Napoleonic Wars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 160-194.

29 Haiti, Imperial Constitution (1805), Constitutions of the World, accessed 9 April 2014 http://www.modern-constitutions.de/nbu.php?page_id=02a1b5a86ff139471c0b1c57f23ac196&show_doc=HT-00-1805-05-20-fr.

30 Trouillot estimates the white population was less than 1 percent, Trouillot, State Against Nation, 119.

34

The remaining population that would become Haitian was overwhelmingly either

African-born or of African descent. This shared African ancestry became the

cornerstone of Haitian identity, and, along with the alliance of former slaves and free

people of color in the War of Independence, inspired the national motto: “L’Union fait la

force” (unity is strength).31 Nevertheless, the ideological emphasis on unity did little to

prevent the creation of new social divisions based on revolutionary and colonial

categories. 1804 abolished slavery and colonial rule, yet the legacy of the two

institutions remained.

First, a new ruling class emerged of anciens libres and ex-revolutionary army

officers. Referred to in Kreyòl as “milat” the class included black and mixed-race

individuals.32 In 1804, educated and battle-wise anciens libres who stayed in Haiti (or

returned) quickly filled positions in the new independent government and formed a

portion of the nascent Haitian elite. The majority of these men were mixed-race and a

select few had received an education in France. Regardless of their education level,

they embraced European culture, spoke French, and practiced Catholicism. They lived

primarily in the new country’s southern and western port cities. This new elite also

included in its ranks men of full African descent who had ascended the social ladder via

the military. Their military prowess had enabled them to rise from slavery and receive

abandoned French plantations as a reward for their victories. Black officers became

31 For a discussion of the motto and other founding Haitian myths see, Maximilien Laroche, “The Founding Myths of the Haitian Nation,” trans. Martin Munro, Small Axe 9, no. 2 (2005): 1-15.

32 Here, I follow historian Matthew J. Smith in the use of the term milat. In Kreyòl, it signifies more than skin color (mulatto); it also references one’s social class and culture, specifically the use of French and practice of Catholicism. The term highlights the complex interplay of class, color, and culture in Haitian identity politics. See Smith, Red and Black in Haiti: Radicalism, Conflict, and Political Change, 1934-57 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 198n6.

35

property owners and had their own laborers. Though of full African descent, these men

were more often than not born on the island, spoke Kreyòl but used French-educated

scribes, and had an ambivalent attitude towards African traditions. They resided

predominantly in the North. Despite their different backgrounds, both the anciens libres

and military officers “sought access to an exploitable labour force, and were thereby

opposed to the transformation of the former slave producing masses into an

independent, self-subsistent, land-owning peasantry.”33 Unable to ultimately achieve

this economic model, conflicts within this ruling class shaped the development of post-

1804 Haiti. Moreover, the French-literate elite became Haiti’s intellectuals and had the

privilege and power to record the country’s founding and narrate its history.

The majority of Haiti’s population was nouveaux libres (former slaves). Born on

the island or in West/West-Central Africa, they spoke Kreyòl and/or their native

languages, practiced Vodou, and maintained an African-oriented culture. Emancipation

and independence held mixed promises for the masses. Some remained on state-run

plantations either by choice or force and received payment for their labor. Others turned

to the hills as slaves had done during the colonial era and formed squatter communities,

the foundation for what Haitian sociologist Jean Casimir terms “the counter plantation

model.”34 A small number of peasants would, like the black revolutionary heroes,

achieve limited social mobility through the military.35 In either case, the peasants would

33 Alex Dupuy, “Class formation and underdevelopment in nineteenth-century Haiti,” Race & Class 24, no. 17 (1982): 19.

34 Jean Casimir, La cultura oprimida (México: Nueva Imagen, 1981). The idea originates in the work of anthropologist Sidney Mintz on Caribbean peasantries. See Mintz, Caribbean Transformations (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Company, 1974).

35 Mimi Sheller notes that by 1840 “ there were approximately 25,000 men in the army and another 40,000 in the national guard…perhaps close to one fifth of the adult male population,” Sheller, “Sword-

36

create an identity that incorporated their African heritage and New World experiences

that seldom matched the elite’s Euro-centric national vision and rarely entered the

written archive.

Bearing Citizens: Militarism and Manhood in Nineteenth-Century Haiti,” Plantation Society in the Americas 4, no.2-3 (1997): 250; Trouillot, State Against Nation, 88. Alain Turnier’s biographical study of Mérisier Jeannis illustrates the opportunity for social mobility the military provided in nineteenth-century Haiti. See Turnier, Avec Mérisier Jeannis: une tranche de vie jacmélienne et nationale (Port-au-Prince: Impr. Le Natal, 1982).

37

Figure 1-1: Haiti, Map No. 3855, Rev.4, United Nations, June 2008.

38

CHAPTER 2

PERFORMING REVOLUTION: JEAN-JACQUES DESSALINES AND HAITIAN INDEPENDENCE DAY, 1804-1904

On the morning of January 1,1804, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, glowing with

immortal glory, marched out to Gonaïves’s main square grasping the Declaration of

Independence. His generals, heroes of the revolutionary struggle, accompanied him

and his secretary Louis-Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre, the author of the act. Soldiers and

people from the town and surrounding countryside crowded around the sacred liberty

tree and richly decorated altar of the homeland waiting for the pronouncement from their

valiant general. Dessalines climbed the altar’s stairs and spoke to the crowd in Kreyòl of

the atrocities of the French, concluding with what would become the national oath: “Let

us swear to fight for the Independence of our country until our dying breath.”1 As

Dessalines stepped back and made room for Boisrond-Tonnerre to read the declaration,

the generals and crowd enthusiastically repeated the oath. Switching to French, the

language of the document, Boisrond Tonnerre read the Declaration and a message to

the people from Dessalines. As he pronounced the final words, a reminder to the people

to defend their newly granted independence, Dessalines cried, “Long Live

Independence.” Dessalines and his generals descended the altar of the homeland and

paraded to the national palace where they continued celebrating their momentous

1 “Jurons de combattre jusqu’au dernier soupir pour l’Indépendance de notre pays,” Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti rev. ed. (1847-48; repr., Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988-91) 3:145-6.

39

achievements. At some later point they confirmed Dessalines’s position as governor-

general for life.2

This brief description highlights central themes that would become part of the

new nation’s foundational event. Fifteen years of revolution, though not all directed

towards the goal of independence, had come to an end. Now, amidst a war-torn

landscape and hostile international environment, the new country’s heterogeneous

population had to move forward and start the arduous process of forming a state and

nation. The declaration and Dessalines’s performance initiated both. First, by naming

himself governor-general for life he established an authoritarian state that relied upon

the military leadership of the generals who had fought for independence. Second, in

contrast to the historical and literary works to be examined in Chapters 3 to 6,

ceremonies combined print and physical performance to evoke memories of the past in

order to shape the construction of a new nation and people. Combining print and

performance allowed Dessalines, and future heads of state, to reach the population of

former slaves born on the island or in Africa and free-born people of color, as well as

naturalized Europeans and visiting European and American officials, merchants, and

government officials. Thus, as the officiant of the first civic festival, Independence Day,

Dessalines provides an entry point for my investigation of Haitian commemorations.

Internal and external pressures influenced the holiday’s celebration, which

served as a tool to define an official memory of independence and specifically that of

Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the fête’s creator and the only Haitian political leader to be

2 “Haitian Declaration of Independence,” The National Archives of the UK: CO 137/111/1, ff 113-117, accessed 5 April 2010, http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C12756259#imageViewerLink; Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:151.

40

incorporated into the Vodou pantheon. One of many revolutionary figures, Dessalines

was a controversial hero in life and death. For example, a day after declaring

independence, Dessalines issued a cancellation of all plantation leases, a step towards

acquiring plantations formerly owned by white French colonists.3 The nascent mixed-

race elite, sons (legitimately recognized or not) of former French planters, anticipated

claiming their relatives’ properties and Dessalines’s plan angered them. An additional

policy further complicated Dessalines’s domestic and international image and would

impact struggles over the founder’s memory. Alluded to in the declaration, Dessalines

ordered massacres of the remaining French population between February and April

1804, which jeopardized international relations and further alienated some members of

the mixed race elite.4 These were several of the factors that eventually led to

Dessalines’s murder by his own officers in October 1806 and contributed to heads of

state and historians’ confining the founder of Haiti to official amnesia.

Nevertheless, beginning in the mid-nineteenth century and culminating in the

1904 centennial, Dessalines would return as the father of independence. His journey

from creator of official memory to official oblivion and back again illustrates the color

and class politics of nineteenth-century Haiti. As unity remained an elusive goal and

threats to independence loomed on the horizon, the Haitian state and elite turned to the

memory of Dessalines in an attempt to reinvigorate the Haitian nation on its one-

hundredth birthday.

3 “Gouvernement d’Hayti: Arrêté” 2 January 1804, The National Archives of the UK: MFQ 1/184, accessed 9 Feb. 2014, http://haitidoi.com/2013/08/09/post-independence-cancellation-of-plantation-leases/.

4 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:159-179. Estimates of the death toll range from several thousands to 9,000, see David Geggus, “Haiti’s Declaration of Independence,” in The Haitian Declaration of Independence: Creation, Context, and Legacy, ed. Julia Gaffield (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015).

41

To trace these memory struggles, I turn to the small but vibrant Haitian press.

Newspapers, primarily published in Port-au-Prince, serve several commemorative

functions. Similar to the historical and literary texts reviewed in Chapters 3 through 6,

the physical paper is itself a commemoration and records the festivities of

Independence Day for contemporary Haitians and posterity. Reading (in private or

public) is an additional act of remembering. Though Haiti’s literacy rate in the early

nineteenth century must have been extremely low, the urban French-speaking elite

benefited from a press that included a variety of newspapers.5 During the twenty-five-

year presidency of Jean-Pierre Boyer at least nine different papers circulated in Port-au-

Prince and several more in regional cities. Le Télégraphe appeared regularly from 1813

to 1843 and the Feuille du Commerce circulated from 1824 to 1860, suggesting the

existence of a permanent reading public.6 Even though the majority of journals had a

limited circulation and lifespan, David Nicholls points out, “[they] were read by most of

those who were in a position to affect the policy of the government, and they were

therefore not without significant political influence.”7 These publications covered

commercial interests, news from Europe, Latin America, and the United States, and

events in Haiti, including Independence Day celebrations.

5 Current linguists debate the statistics of Haiti today with estimates near 2-5% for balanced bilingualism, see Yves Dejean, Yon lekòl tèt anba nan yon peyi tèt anba (Port-au-Prince: FOKAL, 2006). French literacy rates for the nineteenth-century must have been near this level or even lower.

6 The following newspapers appeared during Boyer’s presidency: Le Télégraphe, L’Abeille Haytienne, L’Hermite d’Hayti: Journal Historique et littéraire, Almanach National, Le Manifeste, Le Progrès, Le Phare, Le Républicain, L’Union , Feuille du Commerce, Le National, La Concorde.

7 David Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and National Independence in Haiti, 2nd ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 71.

42

Publication extended the life of the holiday; although the fête took place between

December 31 and January 1, regional commanders sent in accounts from

arrondissements across the island that appeared in the newspaper until as late as

March. As scholars have shown for celebrations of the American Revolution, reading

accounts contributed to the rise of nationalism and bridged geographic gaps by making

people feel connected through shared commemorative acts.8 Reporting on events in

other cities and, at least from 1821 to 1844, the eastern-side of the island helped link

readers in Port-au-Prince with other Haitians. The ceremonies throughout the nation

and their subsequent depictions in print redefined the island’s geography as Haitian.

Moreover, the reading of these accounts, in public or private, allowed elite Haitians to

“imagine” themselves acting in union with the citizens of other towns.9

The physical performance of commemoration provided an important supplement

to the creation in print of the national community. The elite, through reading, could

envision being part of the Haitian nation; more important, illiterate army troops and

audience members could participate in this imagining through public performance.10

Independence Day suggests the power of these two media and, as art historian Carlo

8 See David Waldstreicher, In the Midst of Perpetual Fetes: The Making of American Nationalism, 1776-1820 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997) and Simon P. Newman, Parades and the Politics of the Street: Festive Culture in the Early American Republic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997).

9 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, revised edition (London: Verso, 1991).

10 Thomas Abercrombie has argued for a similar supplement to Anderson’s print focus, see Abercrombie, “Mothers and Mistresses of the Urban Bolivian Public Sphere: Postcolonial Predicament and National Imaginary in Oruro’s Carnival,” in After Spanish Rule: Postcolonial Predicaments of the Americas, ed. Mark Thurner and Andrés Guerrero (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 176-220. Hendrik Kraay’s recent study of Brazilian civic festivals also moves between official and popular expression using printed texts and public celebrations, Days of National Festivity in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1823-1889 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013).

43

Célius explains, set up a model “consisting of official speeches, religious and civic

events, and popular merrymaking.”11

Declaring Independence and Creating National Symbols

Before witnessing or hearing about the festivities of 1 January 1804, many of the

new Haitians had experienced similar ceremonies before or during the revolution.

Moreover, the system of symbols employed by Dessalines such as liberty trees and

altars of the homeland and the prominent military presence came from the country’s

dual revolutionary heritage. Yet in 1804, these objects were redefined and became

Haitian as did the audience participating in the celebration. What ceremonial traditions

existed before independence? Why did Dessalines adopt symbols associated with the

French? What new meanings became assigned to them? To trace the creation and

evolution of Independence Day we must first examine the ceremonial heritage that

Dessalines built upon in constructing Haitian holidays. Fortunately, recent scholarship

on the Haitian Revolution enables us to survey Saint-Domingue’s ceremonial traditions

and symbolic systems prior to 1804.

The intertwined French and Haitian Revolutions provided a rich array of symbols

and traditions that were primarily borrowed from festive practices in Old Regime France.

Fêtes, Te Deums, artillery salutes, and processions were all methods to legitimize royal

authority in France and overseas. Moreover, symbols, place names, and the ritual

calendar “marked colonial space and time with the presence of the monarch.”12 For

11 Carlo Célius, “Neoclassicism and the Haitian Revolution,” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, ed. David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 360.

12 Gene Ogle, “The Trans-Atlantic King and Imperial Public Spheres,” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, ed. David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 81.

44

Saint-Domingue’s heterogeneous colonial population these symbols and performances

were the only means of interacting with a monarch located thousands of miles away.

Wealthy white planters and free people of color had the opportunity to travel to France

and witness other manifestations of royal authority in the metropole. Regardless of the

place of observation, individuals who would become Haitian in 1804 encountered

performances of France’s absolute monarchs and that provided a repertoire of symbols

and ceremonial traditions. The royalist rhetoric of the August 1791 slave uprising

suggests a move in this direction. Slave insurgent leaders in northern Saint-Domingue

proclaimed loyalty to the king of France, who, according to rumors, had just issued a

new decree granting slaves three free days a week.13 Carolyn Fick argues that in the

southern town of Port Salut “the slaves accepted [the rumor] as fact and demanded its

application as a right.”14 Regardless of the authenticity of the decree, “The royalist

banner and the distant French king’s name provided symbols around which slaves from

many different backgrounds could unite in opposition to the slave regime.”15 They took

on new meanings and became part of a struggle against slavery and not just

expressions of royal authority.

While the Old Regime was one source for the repertoire, the subsequent

French and Haitian Revolutions contributed to the colony’s system of symbols, notably

13 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 62 and Carolyn Fick, The Making of Haiti: The Saint Domingue Revolution from Below (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1990), 91.

14 Fick, The Making of Haiti, 138.

15 Ogle, “The Trans-Atlantic King,” 90.

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the liberty tree, the altar of the homeland, and a selection of martial images.16 Male

colonists of all classes and colors in Saint-Domingue observed the value of martial

symbols and the militia uniform in revolutionary France. John Garrigus’s biographical

study of Vincent Ogé contends that he sought to import the French revolutionary

concept of citizen-soldier and apply it to Saint-Domingue’s free men of color. In wearing

the uniform and purchasing a military commission, Ogé radically challenged colonial

definitions of citizenship and sought to include free men of color, especially those with

wealth. Ogé may not have intended to expand this revolutionary definition of citizenship

to slaves, but his image of a man of African descent in uniform continued the symbolic

transfer begun before the revolution that made military service a central aspect of male

identity in colonial Saint-Domingue and, later, independent Haiti.17

Following Ogé’s death, two disparate groups, slave insurgents and French

Commissioners, further elucidate the importance of martial symbolism. In the fall of

1792, French civil commissioners Léger-Félicité Sonthonax and Étienne Polverel

arrived in Cap Français with the charge of subduing the slave revolt and upholding the

citizenship rights of free men of color. Elizabeth Colwill notes that in their actions the

commissioners “were highly conscious of the importance of ritual” and the “entry

ceremonies, military assemblies, and political festivals…assumed a relentlessly

16 On the evolution of French revolutionary political culture and symbolism, see Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); Mona Ozouf, Festivals and the French Revolution, trans. Alan Sheridan (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988); and Maurice Agulhon’s noteworthy series on Marianne, Marianne au combat: l’imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1789 à 1880 (Paris: Flammarion, 1979); Marianne au pouvoir: l’imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1880 à 1914 (Paris: Flammarion, 1989; Les métamorphoses de Marianne : l'imagerie et la symbolique républicaines de 1914 à nos jours (Paris: Flammarion, 2001).

17 John Garrigus, “Vincent Ogé Jeune (1757-91): Social Class and Free Colored Mobilization on the Eve of the Haitian Revolution,” The Americas 68, no.1 (2011): 50-51.

46

masculine and militaristic cast.” Facing internal white and slave rebellions as well as war

with Britain and Spain, the commissioners issued emancipation decrees across the

colony in the summer of 1793. Male insurgents who agreed to fight for the French

Republic were reborn through martial ceremonies as free men and citizens. The new

freedmen of 1793 received only tricolor ribbons, but they demonstrate another branch of

martial imagery in revolutionary Saint-Domingue.18

A final and more noteworthy example of the symbolic transfer is the adoption of

military titles by slave insurgents in 1791. While free men of color had long participated

in colonial militias, the 1791 insurgents were a new category.19 The leaders who

survived the initial battles quickly assigned themselves military titles, illustrating the

importance of martial imagery even for slave rebels. Jean-François proclaimed himself

“Grand Admiral” and a bearer of the “Cross of Saint Louis,” while Biassou adopted the

title of “Viceroy of the Conquered Territories.” The insurgents in 1793 who agreed to

fight for the French Commissioners participated in martial ceremonies created by

Sonthonax and Polverel.20

Alongside the military uniforms and titles, revolutionary objects such as the liberty

tree, altar of the homeland, and Phyrgian cap also crossed the Atlantic. Beginning with

18 In April 1792, the national assembly passed a law granting free men of color rights of citizenship, and Sonthonax and Polverel were personally and politically committed to its application in Saint Domingue. See Elizabeth Colwill, “ ‘Fêtes de l’hymen, fêtes de la liberte’: Marriage, Manhood, and Emancipation in Revolutionary Saint-Domingue,” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, ed. David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 128,130.

19 David Geggus identifies four categories of armed slaves including the insurgents, see “The Arming of Slaves in the Haitian Revolution,” in Arming Slaves: From Classical Times to the Modern Age, ed. Christopher Leslie Brown and Philip D. Morgan (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 212.

20 Jane Landers, “Transforming Bondsmen into Vassals: Arming Slaves in Colonial Spanish America,” in Arming Slaves: From Classical Times to the Modern Age, 130, and Jacques de Cauna, Haïti: l’éternelle révolution histoire de sa décolonisation (1789-1804) (Monein, France: Editions Pyremonde/PRNG, 2009), 142.

47

the celebrations of 14 July in 1790, they became part of Saint-Domingue’s repertoire of

revolutionary symbols. Gazette de Saint-Domingeu reports that festivities for 14 July

1791 included an elaborate arc de triomphe and altar of the homeland with 23 steps.21

Their adoption in Saint-Domingue, specifically following the 1793 emancipation decrees,

transformed their meaning. Carlo Célius notes that the July 1793 celebration of “Bastille

day” served to sanctify “the emancipation [Sonthonax and Polverel] had recently

proclaimed.”22 Describing these festivities, nineteenth-century Haitian historian

Beaubrun Ardouin commented on the inclusion of the liberty tree, redefined as the

“majestic palm of the West Indies,” the carrying of pikes topped with Phrygian caps, and

the construction of an altar to the homeland in the central square of Cap Français.23

Recast in Saint Domingue’s system of symbols, the tree, cap, and altar all became

equated with not just freedom from the tyrannical monarch but with the end of slavery.

Long after the commissioners’ departure, the newly freed men and Saint Domingue’s

leaders of African descent continued to use these symbols and they would become, in

Carlo Célius’s words, part of the “basic symbolic machinery” of independent Haiti’s

official memory.24

Potentially the final source was West and West-Central African traditions slaves

brought with them. Although slaves formed the majority of Saint Domingue’s inhabitants

on the eve of revolution, their contribution to Haiti’s repertoire is harder to trace. John

21 Gazette de Saint Domingue, 22 July 1790, 416; Gazette de Saint Domingue, 16 July 1791, 719-720.

22 Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 352.

23 Beaubrun Ardouin, Études sur l’histoire d’Haïti, suivies de la vie du général J.-M. Borgella (1853-1860; repr., Port-au-Prince: F. Dalencour, 1958) 2:43.

24 Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 352-53.

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Thornton has suggested the influence of Kongolese political ideology in the Haitian

Revolution. In the years leading up to the 1791 uprising, slaves labeled “Congos” were,

after Creoles, the single largest ethnic group on coffee and sugar plantations across the

colony. Moreover, some insurgent leaders in the north identified as Kongos. Thornton’s

work opens with a quote from Macaya, a leader the French commissioners attempted to

woo in 1793, who proclaimed he was the subject of the King of Congo as well as the

kings of France and Spain. Macaya’s statement exemplifies the adoption of royalism by

the insurgents; however, Thornton argues we need to read this loyalty alongside

contemporary Kongolese beliefs.25

Eighteenth-century Kongo political ideology contained a dynamic tension

between absolutist and republican tendencies that defined “the nature of the king’s

rule.”26 The king embodied the image of a great warrior or conqueror but then was to

uphold public interest and rule with consent of the people. This ideology manifested

itself in the image of the blacksmith who was “a conciliatory figure [and] gentle,

generous, and unselfish.”27 The interplay of political philosophies, Thornton posits, could

have offered an African revolutionary ideology and alternative vision for post-colonial

Haiti.28 Following Carolyn Fick, the agricultural egalitarianism of the nascent Haitian

peasant might be the link to the unselfish Kongolese blacksmith.29 Nevertheless, the

25 David Geggus, “Sugar and Coffee Cultivation in Saint Domingue and the Shaping of the Slave Labor Force,” in Cultivation and Culture: Labor and the Shaping of Slave Life in the Americas, ed. Ira Berlin and Philip D. Morgan (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, 1993), 81; John Thornton, “ ‘I Am the Subject of the King of Congo’: African Political Ideology and the Haitian Revolution,” Journal of World History 4, no. 2 (1993): 181 and 183.

26 Thornton, “I Am the Subject,” 188.

27 Thornton, “I Am the Subject,” 195.

28 Thornton, “I Am the Subject,” 186 and 206.

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question remains to what extent Kongolese or other African political ideologies

influenced the new Haitian leaders, none of whom were born in Africa.

These French and African royalist and revolutionary traditions were surely on the

minds of Dessalines and his generals and secretaries as they moved towards declaring

independence. The withdrawal of French troops in late November 1803, following their

surrender to the insurgent army of former slaves and free-born people of color, signaled

a de facto independence for the western third of the island of Hispaniola. Although the

insurgent leader Jean-Jacques Dessalines issued a preliminary act of independence on

29 November 1803, an official public declaration would not be pronounced for another

month.30

Dessalines selected 1 January 1804 as the date for celebrating the country’s

founding. Symbolically charged as the beginning of not just a new year but also a new

era, Haiti’s calendar would be measured in years from independence, thus erasing the

French colonial past.31 More importantly for a new country of former slaves, 1 January

had been a holiday on the plantation. Dessalines thus maintained this designation and

redefined it as a moment to celebrate complete liberty. Practically speaking, the delay of

a month gave Dessalines’s secretaries time to write a revised declaration of

29 Fick, The Making of Haiti, 250.

30 There is some debate on the 29 November proclamation. The nineteenth-century Haitian historian Thomas Madiou quotes the text but contends it was an invention of foreign writers, Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti 3:125 n 1. More recently Leslie Manigat has proven its validity by demonstrating its existence in contemporary foreign newspapers, Manigat, “Une brève analyse-commentaire critique d’un document historique,” Revue de la Société haïtienne d’histoire et de géographie 221 (2005): 44-56. An English translation of the proclamation appeared in The Times, 6 Feb. 1804, 3. For more discussion of the two declarations see chapters by Patrick Tardieu and David Geggus in The Haitian Delcaration of Independence: Creation, Context, and Legacy, ed. Julia Gaffield (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015).

31 Sibylle Fischer, Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolution (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004) 230.

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independence. While officers, soldiers, and the general public gathered in Gonaïves,

the site of festivities, Dessalines’s secretaries drafted the document. As 1 January

neared, Dessalines grew impatient. Charéron, the secretary responsible for writing the

act, was slow in presenting Dessalines with a completed version. According to legends

surrounding the document’s creation, the act lacked the passion and anger Dessalines’s

desired.32 Hearing his leader’s displeasure, Louis-Félix Boisrond Tonnerre proposed a

new approach, stating “To write the act of independence, we need the skin of a White

for parchment, his skull for an inkwell, his blood for ink, and a bayonet as a pen!”

Boisrond Tonnerre spent the rest of the evening writing and produced a three part

document: the act of independence, Dessalines’s proclamation to the people, and his

nomination as head of state.33 The following morning, 1 January 1804, Dessalines

proclaimed the country of Haiti independent in Kreyòl and Boisrond Tonnerre read (in

French) the new declaration of independence. Facing a diverse population, the

performance sought to unite a newly formed people around the triumph of the revolution

and inspire them in the new project of nation-and state-formation.34

In contrast to the printed document, the physical celebration could cross linguistic

barriers and was the principal means of educating a public of recently freed slaves and

beginning the process of constructing national identity. The setting for this momentous

occasion included a liberty tree and an altar of the homeland, both direct links to the

32 “Anecdotes Historique,” L’Union, 4 Aug. 1839.

33 “Pour dresser l’acte de l’indépendance, il nous faut la peau d’un Blanc pour parchemin son crane pour écritoire, son sang pour encre, et une baïonnette pour plume!” Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:144-45.

34 Few members of the audience, including Dessalines, would have fully understood Boisrond Tonnerre’s text; however, its publication in French made the document fully accessible to an international French-reading public. Thus, in contrast to the printed histories and literary works aimed at a small, literate Haitian elite and an international audience, the national holiday celebrations were principally a means of transferring history and constructing identity on the local level.

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revolutionary era and the symbolism of the French Revolution. Beginning in 1804, the

tree and altar—centerpieces of the event—became redefined as new, national symbols.

Describing the altars, art historian Carlo Célius explains, “At first only podiums of wood

but later more permanent structures, they were sites of power and of collective memory,

sacred ground where people gathered regularly to remember great deeds and renew

the civic oath of the founders.”35 In addition to the physical landscape, the language of

the declaration echoed throughout the later commemorations, specifically the oath to

forever renounce France. The document and ceremony established an independent

Haiti. Tonnerre’s language furthered this rupture. Haiti was the land of liberty and

freedom while France was home to barbarians, vultures, tyrants, and despots. Beyond

declaring independence and attacking the French, the text speaks of freedom from

slavery and tyranny but lacks any discussion of rights. Moreover, this freedom was a

product of Dessalines’s sacrifice, which placed the people in a position of debt to him,

“the protector of liberty.”36 The proclamation establishes no rights of the people; rather it

emphasizes a rhetoric of duty and provides a foundation for authoritarianism. Mimi

Sheller points out a similar phenomenon with citizenship in independent Haiti. She

argues, “Citizenship was defined by the elements of duty, obedience and obligation

(what the citizen owed the state), which far outweighed the rights-based element of

what the state owed to its citizens.”37 The 1804 declaration established a series of

35 Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 361.

36 “Haitian Declaration of Independence,” 8.

37 Mimi Sheller, Democracy After Slavery: Black Publics and Peasant Radicalism in Haiti and Jamaica (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), 98.

52

revolutionary symbols attached to a vengeful and authoritarian language that called on

Haitians to be obedient to the state and forever fight for its independence.

The celebration of 1 January 1804 created—de facto—Haiti’s first national

holiday. Dessalines officiated festivities the following year in Marchand in the Artibonite

plain, where he established the country’s capital. To commemorate independence, civil

and military officials gathered in the town and celebrations began the night of 31

December. The evening was alive with drums, fifes, and “African dances of all kinds.”38

Perhaps, then, African traditions continued at least in the pre-festivities. The following

morning, however, the military and anti-French rhetoric of 1 January 1804 took center

stage. Five thousand troops gathered around the altar of the homeland, which now

contained Dessalines’s imperial throne. In the fall of 1804, Dessalines had declared

himself emperor of Haiti. The inclusion of the throne on the altar of the homeland

illustrated this shift in government and added an imperial symbol to Haiti’s revolutionary

iconography. After Dessalines greeted the troops, Boisrond Tonnerre rose and

reminded the audience of the French cruelties and noble deeds of the armée indigène

(indigenous army).39 While in a new city, Marchand, the repetition of form and language

served to link participants with the first celebration. One of Dessalines’s leading

generals and a hero of the revolution, Henry Christophe went a step further, and

repeated the celebration five days later in his home city, Cap Haitïen. As Haiti’s first

newspaper, Gazette Politique et Commerciale d’Haïti reports, the day included its own

military procession, a reading of the act of independence, and swearing of the oath to

38 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:234-5.

39 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:237.

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die rather than fall under French domination again. The repetition of festivities in the

major port of Le Cap allowed more new Haitians to participate in the de facto holiday.

Christophe’s commemoration connected Haitians with the 1805 celebration in Marchand

and the first Independence Day in Gonaïves. Equally important, foreigners also viewed

the celebration, thus legitimating Haiti’s existence in front of an international audience.40

Independence Day’s significance increased that summer when Dessalines

ratified the first Haitian constitution. Under the heading of “General Dispositions” article

27 reads: “There shall be national festivals for celebrating independence, the birthday of

the emperor and his august spouse, that of agriculture and of the constitution.”41 The

1805 constitution codified the holiday and it would remain in all subsequent constitutions

to the present day. The official pronouncement of 1 January as a national holiday

continued the project of merrymaking both in the capital and regional centers.

In 1806 Dessalines would oversee his last celebration in Marchand. According to

an American residing in Cap Haïtien at the time, “much pomp and splendor was

displayed” in the capital. One can imagine that part of this pomp included the military

procession to the altar of the homeland and a series of speeches, both of which had

become customary elements of the celebration. While the visitor gave no comment on

these activities, he did mention the shocking cake served during dinner: “a piece of

confectionary in imitation of the skeleton of a white man [which was] to excite and

40Gazette Politique et Commerciale d’Haïti, 10 January 1805, 36.

41 Haiti, Imperial Constitution (1805), Constitutions of the World, accessed 9 April 2014 http://www.modern-constitutions.de/nbu.php?page_id=02a1b5a86ff139471c0b1c57f23ac196&show_doc=HT-00-1805-05-20-fr.

54

cherish in the minds of the chiefs, their hatred of the French, by exhibiting to their sight

such expressive symbols as could not fail to call to their recollection, the remembrance

of their past deeds.”42 Haranguing the French was not enough; eating them was a tasty

way to supplement the words of Boisrond-Tonnerre. While anti-French sentiment

remained in later ceremonies, the edible addition does not appear to have become a

recurring element of the festivities.

As Dessalines’s guests dined on sugary skeletons, parallel celebrations took

place in Cap Haïtien. Following the constitution and the model established by

Christophe in 1805, General Capoix organized celebrations for 1 January. First, several

days before the celebration, an edict was read in the streets commanding people to

gather at the Champ de Mars.43 In later years, announcements of the holiday would

appear in the state-sponsored paper, but one can imagine these publications were also

read out loud in the streets.44 On 1 January, the Cap Haïtien festivities included the

expected military display and reading of the Declaration of Independence. As

Independence Day became codified in the constitution, Dessalines and his generals

institutionalized a model of commemoration that stressed the importance of the military

in gaining and securing independence and repeated the public reading of the

declaration to ensure Haitians never forgot the atrocities of the French. Moreover an

English visitor to Haiti commented, the festivals “afforded the Haytians an opportunity of

engaging in their favourite amusements, [and were] no less calculated, by reviving in

42 Condy Raguet, “Memoir of Hayti,” The Port-Folio (February 1806), 5.3: 247.

43 I follow the author’s spelling of Capoix with an ‘x,’ Raguet, 246-47.

44 Under Jean-Pierre Boyer announcements for Independence Day appeared in December issues of the official paper, Le Télégraphe, see Le Télégraphe, 9 December 1821, 3.

55

their recollection the most important and interesting transactions of their history, to keep

alive those feelings of attachment to liberty and to their sovereign.”45

While crowds applauded readings of the declaration, unrest was building.

Dessalines’s generals and the nascent peasantry were growing weary of the new

regime. The 1805 constitution did far more than establish national holidays. It also

signaled Dessalines’s growing authoritarianism. As one general proclaimed during

celebrations for its ratification all Haitians should exhibit “obedience, submission, and

loyalty to the immortal Dessalines.”46 To bring an end to the “yoke of Dessalines,”

military leaders, including Alexandre Pétion, marched on Port-au-Prince.47 Amidst this

unrest, the Gazette Politique cheerily reported on the emperor’s name-day fête with no

mention of the growing tensions. On 17 October 1806, Dessalines rode to Port-au-

Prince to meet the insurgents and, caught in an ambush, died at Pont Rouge on the

city’s outskirts.48

Two weeks after his murder, on 6 November 1806, the paper gave a brief

resume of the events. Under the heading “Isle d’Haïti” the report opens explaining the

context and justification for Dessalines’s death: “For some time discontent has broken

out in several parts of the empire. Bad administration, various injustices and acts

against the safety of the first public officials, as well as individuals, had excited general

45 W.W. Harvey, Sketches of Hayti: From the Explusion of the French to the Death of Christophe, 2nd edition (1827; repr., London: Frank Cass, 1971), 300.

46 Gazette Politique, 25 July 1805, 132.

47 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:370.

48 Gazette Politique, 16 Oct. 1806, 161; I have been unable to locate issue 42 which would be the next in the series, thus we must jump to 6 November to find coverage of the assassination.

56

disgust toward the recently overthrown government.”49 The article continues stating that

at nine in the morning on 17 October Dessalines was killed at Pont Rouge in an ambush

by men he thought supported him. The use of passive voice avoids any placement of

blame. Dessalines’s death is justified by the vague list of his failings. These cover up

more specific conflicts over landownership, taxation, and the distribution of power. The

report concludes by suggesting a new direction for the future: “Now, it remains for us to

expect a wise and suitable Constitution that could, under a paternal leader and loyal

administrators, make us forget the mistakes of the past and lead us to the fortune for

which we have longingly hoped.”50 A little over two weeks after Dessalines’s

assassination, the Gazette’s article illustrates steps to excise the former emperor from

official memory.

Dessalines, the hero of independence, would further slip into oblivion as Haiti

became submerged in civil war. The first official step was to recast the hero as a tyrant

and the generals’ attack as an act of vengeance supported by the people. Dessalines,

who had been described as the people’s liberator, the Haitian equivalent to George

Washington, became the obstacle blocking Haiti’s progress.51 Fiery proclamations

published in the days following 17 October captured this sentiment: “Tyranny is

49 “Depuis quelques temps le mécontentement éclatait dans plusieurs endroits de l’empire. Une mauvaise administration, diverse injustices, et des actes contraires à la sûreté des premiers fonctionnaires publics, ainsi que des particuliers, avaient excités un dégoût général du gouvernement qui vient d’être renversé, » Gazette Politique, 6 November 1806, 169.

50 “ Il nous reste maintenant à désirer une Constitution sage et convenable, qui puisse, sous un chef paternel et des administrateurs amis de leur pays, faire oublier nos malheurs passés, et nous faire jouir du bonheur après lequel nos soupirons depuis long-temps [sic],“ Gazette Politique, 6 November 1806, 170.

51 Gazette Politique, 1 August 1805, 133.

57

slaughtered...Liberty reigns...we are finally free...”52 Dessalines’s removal and new

identity as despot instead of liberator gave the generals not only a second chance at

building a new state and nation but also an opportunity to restart the history of

independent Haiti. Independence Day remained at the center of this narrative, but the

main protagonists became Pétion and Christophe.

At the end of 1806 a new constitution drawn up by the mulatto leader Alexandre

Pétion curtailed executive power causing Henry Christophe, a black general from the

north, to refuse his appointment as president and start a civil war against Pétion and his

followers in central and southern Haiti. While the two men disagreed over the nature of

Haiti’s government, they continued Dessalines’s original holiday, Independence Day.

And, in many ways, the celebrations in Cap Haïtien and Port-au-Prince resembled each

other. Military processions reminded participants of the important role of soldiers, while

speeches stressed the value of unity in the face of division and external threats,

specifically plots by the evil and tyrannical French. However, each head of state

presented himself against his foe as the new hero and safeguard of independence. In

the Gazette Officielle de l’État d’Hayti, the state newspaper published in the north,

Christophe declared: “I have a sword in my hand, I will save the liberty of our country, in

spite of Pétion and his followers....”53 Pétion, however, relied on more than propaganda

to construct his image. In contrast to Dessalines and Christophe, Pétion went the

farthest to reconcile “the black majority to mulatto rule” through the granting of land to

52 “La tyrannie est abattue…La liberté renaît…nous sommes enfin libres,” Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:420.

53 “J’ai l’épée en main, je sauverai la liberté de notre pays, en dépit de Pétion et de ses adherens [sic]…,” Gazette Officielle de l’État d’Hayti, 4 June 1807, 20.

58

veterans of the revolution.54 This policy of appeasement helped Pétion build a base of

supporters among the new peasantry and not lose his traditional elite followers who

would be key guardians of Pétion’s memory. Christophe, in proclamations and

speeches, may have tried to define himself as the new liberator in face of the tyrant

Pétion, but his policy of forced labor and limited land distribution kept him from

achieving hero status upon death. While Christophe would die amidst regional unrest

and his body would be buried in secret, Pétion received an elaborate funeral service

and his tombstone identified him for posterity as the “Founder of the Republic.”55

Over the next two decades, Pétion would remain the lone hero of independence.

In contrast to Dessalines’s swift fall, the Haitian senate passed an act commemorating

Pétion’s service to the homeland only weeks after his death. The legislation called for a

mausoleum at the foot of the liberty tree, the renaming of Fort National as Fort

Alexandre and Champ de Mars as Place Pétion, creation of a day of mourning on 29

March, and a pension for Pétion’s daughter and two nephews.56 Furthermore, during

the first Independence Day after Pétion’s passing the official newspaper in Port-au-

Prince, Le Télégraphe, reported that the altar of the homeland was raised near Pétion’s

tomb.57 The location integrated Pétion even in death in the celebrations and

strengthened his position as the state-sanctioned Haitian hero. However, beneath the

54 Robert LaCerte, “The Evolution of Land and Labour in the Haitian Revolution, 1791-1820,” in Caribbean Freedom: Economy and Society from Emancipation to the Present, ed. Hilary Beckles and Verene Sheperd (Princeton: Markus Wiener Publications, 1993), 45.

55 Christophe committed suicide in October 1820 while Pétion died in March 1818. Louis Joseph Janvier, Les Constitutions d’Haïti (1801-1885) (Paris: C. Marpon et E. Flammarion, 1886), 88 and 115-16; Laurent Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks of History (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2012), 85; and Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 5:487-88.

56 Almanch National (Port-au-Prince: Imp. Joseph Courtois, 1826) 25.

57 Le Télégraphe, 10 January 1819, 2.

59

veil of official memorials to Pétion, Dessalines remained a popular hero. As Pétion’s

successor, Jean-Pierre Boyer faced increased criticism in the late 1830s and Haiti

moved towards another “revolution,” the memory of Dessalines re-emerged in the

official narrative and celebrations of Independence Day.

From Popular to Official: Memories of Dessalines

In contrast to the memory work of Haiti’s generals and heads of state, the people

of Haiti continued Dessalines’s memory in an unofficial capacity. Oral histories collected

by the nineteenth-century Haitian historian Thomas Madiou recount this process. After

the Pont Rouge ambush, Dessalines’s body was carried into Port-au-Prince. Along the

way the crowd attacked the cadaver cutting it and smashing it until it was

unrecognizable. Interrupting this scene of vengeance, an old woman named Défilée

gathered the pieces of the emperor’s body and took them to the cemetery.58 Soldiers

paid by Pétion helped her bury the remains in an unmarked grave. A contemporary

historian Beaubrun Ardouin, who claimed to have witnessed the event when ten years

old, contended that Défilée was too weak to carry the sack of Dessalines’s remains.

Instead, unable to transport and bury the fallen leader, she took on the emotional duty

of mourning him and placing flowers on the grave over the years.59 Perhaps it was also

Défilée who placed the candle that, Madiou notes, appeared on the grave for every All

Saints’ Day.60 Either way, Défilée as a representative of Haiti’s lower classes, suggests

that Dessalines remained a figure in popular memory.

58 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:406.

59 Beaubrun Ardouin, Études sur l’histoire d’Haïti (Paris: Dézobry et E. Magdeleine, 1853-60), 6:74n1.

60 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:406.

60

Vodou histories both further illustrate and complicate popular commemoration.

Dessalines is the only revolutionary hero to become a lwa or deity. His place in the

Vodou pantheon, and more specifically his association with Ogou, the African god of

iron, blacksmiths, and war, suggests the influence of African traditions in shaping

Haitian historical memory.61 However, it is difficult to know when Dessalines became a

lwa. Songs about Dessalines enter the written archive in the twentieth century but may

have existed in oral tradition long before Haitian intellectuals or foreign scholars started

recording them. Colin (Joan) Dayan suspects the process of deification occurred before

the “literate elite decided it would be wise to resurrect Dessalines as a hero.”62 As

sources clearly document the process of resurrection led by Haitian intellectuals in the

late 1830s and early 1840s, we could hypothesize that Dessalines’s popular

commemoration was established by this time. This would aid in its co-option by the elite

in the second half of the nineteenth century.

Madiou provides the first clues of the re-entry of Dessalines into official memory.

He claims that the wife of Pétion’s aide, Joseph Balthazar Inginac, put a headstone on

Dessalines’s unmarked grave.63 Unfortunately, he gives no date for this event. The anti-

Boyer newspaper, L’Union, contains the first dated whisperings of Dessalines’s return.

In January 1839, the paper published a collection of poems by Céligny Ardouin, a young

intellectual and brother of historian Beaubrun Ardouin, which included one on

61 Jerry and Yvrose Gilles, Sèvis Ginen: Rasin, Rityèl lan Vodou (Davie, FL: Bookmanlit, 2009), 127.

62 Joan Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 30-31 and 43.

63 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:406; a funeral elegy from Aux Cayes also claims Madame Inginac had a role in the burial, see “Procès verbal de la cérémonie funèbre, du 29 octobre 1845, en l’honneur de la mémoire de J.-J. Dessalines, l’empereur d’Haïti” (Aux Cayes : Imp. nationale, 1845), 14.

61

Dessalines. That same year L’Union published an article on the Haitian flag that

credited Pétion for convincing Dessalines to adopt the new colors.64 The presence of

Dessalines’s name in print is a change; he is often placed below other heroes,

specifically Pétion.

The new government put in power by the Revolution of 1843 took a more notable

step. Although Boyer’s presidency was the longest of the nineteenth century, it was not

without conflict. Plots were frequently being exposed throughout his twenty-five year

rule. The last of these was finally successful in unseating the Haitian president.

Legislative elections in 1842 had “ushered in a glorious era of regeneration.”65 A revolt

in the southern peninsula a year later on 27 January 1843 furthered this regeneration

and led to the Liberal Revolution and Boyer’s overthrow. As Le Manifeste, another Port-

au-Prince paper described, the revolution of 1843 sought to avenge Pétion’s name that

had been tarnished by the monster Boyer.66 As Mimi Sheller explains, this was the first

phase of the 1843-44 Revolution, which offered “a moment of democratic

effervescence.”67 To legitimate the revolution, the leaders turned to Independence Day.

1 January 1844 ushered in a new era of regeneration that would correct the failures of

Boyer and offer the country a chance to begin anew.

By Boyer’s downfall in 1843, Independence Day had become an established

holiday, but also undergone a significant change. In towns across Haiti, troops,

dignitaries, and townsfolk gathered in the central square on the morning of 1 January to

64 L’Union, 3 January 1839, 1-2. L’Union, 22 Sept. 1839, 3.

65 Le Manifeste, 6 February 1842, 1.

66 Le Manifeste, 2 July 1843, 4.

67 Sheller, Democracy After Slavery, 112.

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renew the oath to live free and independent, though now without any mention of France.

French recognition of Haiti in the spring of 1825 greatly affected the content and

program of Independence Day. In the winter of 1825, Boyer sent out new orders to all

district commanders warning against the use of potentially offensive language in

Independence Day ceremonies. He explained that because of France’s recognition of

Haiti as an independent state, officials should no longer read out the act of

independence and should avoid naming any nation in the annual oath.68 Ardouin noted

that the new oath was textually different from the 1804 version. He attributed it to the

positive change in Haiti’s status as a newly recognized state.69 Recognition required

Boyer to revise the content of the national celebration and, by extension, reinvent the

official memory of independence by removing the former enemy, France.

The Revolution of 1843 and the new era of regeneration maintained Boyer’s

changes but also began another shift in ceremonial traditions. Revolutionaries claimed

that, 1 January 1844, marked the end of twenty-five years of ignorance and misery. As

the president Charles Hérard declared, “It is to the glorious Dessalines and his immortal

compatriots that the homeland owed this new era into which it entered.”70 Although

Hérard’s presidency lasted but a few months, the celebrations of 1844 invoked 1

68 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 6: 485.

69 Ardouin, Etudes, 10:11-12.

70 “C’est au glorieux Dessalines, c’est à ses immortels compagnons que la patrie dut l’ère nouvelle dans laquelle elle entra…” Feuille du Commerce, 14 Jan. 1844, 2.

63

January 1804 in an attempt to erase the previous decades and re-start Haiti again on a

path without “deficient administration, political stagnation, [and] draconian despotism.”71

With many of the officers who had collaborated in the emperor’s overthrow

deceased or in exile, the revolutionaries of 1843 could bring back Dessalines as a hero.

In commenting on artistic representations of the revolution, Helen Watson points out, “It

was easier to hail dead men as heroes, however tarnished their reputation.”72 It was not

just Dessalines’s death, but the distance from it as well as official forgetting that

provided space to re-introduce the memory of Dessalines. He was no longer the tyrant

of Haiti’s history; this role fell to the recently deposed Jean-Pierre Boyer. Yet

Dessalines’s memory had to be censored. The era of regeneration according to the

revolutionaries was to be one of constitutional rule in which military dictatorships would

never prosper. The new president Hérard could invoke Dessalines in reference to his

heroic actions to secure Haiti’s independence. Yet he also criticized Dessalines’s style

of rule and championed Pétion as the republican hero and model to emulate.73 A return

to 1 January 1804 meant commemorating Dessalines the hero, not Dessalines the

emperor. The revolutionaries hoped to jump over his two years as head of state and

return to Pétion’s republic. However, the promises of popular sovereignty and

republican rule expressed on 1 January 1844 and the democratic opening of the 1843

Revolution never came to fruition.

71 Claude Moïse, Constitution et Luttes de Pouvoir en Haïti: La faillite des classes dirigeantes, 1804-1915, 2ed. (Port-au-Prince: Éditions de l’Univérsité d’État d’Haïti, 2009), 112.

72 Helen Watson, “Oath of the Ancestors by Lethière ‘le mulâtre’ : Celebrating the Black/Mulatto Alliance in Haiti’s Struggle for Independence” in An Economy of Colour : Visual Culture and the Atlantic World, 1660-1830, ed. Geoff Quilled and Kay Dian Kriz (Manchester, 2003), 186.

73 Feuille du Commerce, 4 Feb. 1844, 2-3. Feuille du Commerce, 21 Jan. 1844, 4.

64

The memory of Dessalines nonetheless remained, and post-1843 heads-of-state

took steps to officially commemorate the country’s founder. In particular, two black

presidents, Philippe Guerrier (1844-45) and Louis Pierrot (1845-46), supported efforts to

remember Dessalines. The new government paper, Le Moniteur Haïtien, records the

process of resurrecting Dessalines in state-sanctioned memory. On 25 October 1845,

the paper published a speech given by the director of the national school in Cap Haïtien

on the anniversary of Dessalines’s death. In contrast to Hérard’s invocation of the hero

of 1804, the speaker proclaims independence and the 1805 constitution as “the most

memorable and glorious [acts] of Haiti’s history.” Moreover, the speaker referenced

Dessalines both as a hero of 1804 and as emperor, suggesting that his governing style

was not a matter of national shame—at least not in the north, which to that point had

given Haiti both of its monarchs.74 Though almost four decades late, the speech

represents the first example of public mourning for the fallen hero. The pronouncements

of a local, especially northern, school director are a far step from the head of state

celebrating Dessalines, but demonstrate a larger grassroots movement that did push

the president to change official commemoration of the former emperor.

A week after the anniversary speech, Le Moniteur ran a cover story on various

celebrations across the country and announced a new day of mourning.75 Earlier in the

year, the former president, Philippe Guerrier, received petitions from cities across the

Republic demanding that the government honor Dessalines. Guerrier was a former

soldier of the revolution and represented one of the dying links to that era. Born, like

74 “…les deux actes [independence and 1805 constitution] les plus mémorables et les plus glorieux de l’histoire d’Haïti appartiennent donc à Dessalines,” Le Moniteur Haïtien, 25 Oct. 1845, 2.

75 Le Moniteur Haïtien, 1 Nov. 1845, 1.

65

Dessalines, in Grande-Rivière parish, he had served under him in the War of the South

and the War of Independence. This may help explain why the petitions arrived under his

rule and were positively received. More importantly, Guerrier was black and the elite

hand-picked him as the best choice to placate the masses. He became the first case of

politique de doublure. Translated as “the politics of the understudy,” it was a system

devised by lighter-skinned politicians to elect black puppet presidents who would

support their agenda.

Guerrier did not last long in office; he died in April 1845. It fell to his successor

and fellow northerner Louis Pierrot to respond to “the unanimous public opinion.”76

Unlike the aging Guerrier, Pierrot was not a puppet of the mixed-race elite, but a

nationalist and noiriste black general.77 It is not surprising that he supported the

petitioners and decreed a national funeral service for Dessalines on 27 October. The

decision made Pierrot an inheritor of black power and celebrated noiriste leadership. In

a speech from Aux Cayes, Louis Étienne Félicité Lysius Salomon, a member of the

southern black elite, eloquently expressed this sentiment. He praised Pierrot for his

noble action of honoring the memory of “the avenger of the black race, the liberator of

Haiti, a hero of Independence, the famous, Jean-Jacques Dessalines.”78 Decades later,

as president, Salomon became part of this genealogy of black power he commemorated

in 1845.

76 Le Moniteur Haïtien, 1 Nov. 1845, 1.

77 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 79. Noiristes viewed themselves as supporters of the black peasantry and felt political power should be in the hands of the majority (black) population.

78 “…la mémoire du vengeur de la race noire, du libérateur d’Haïti, du héros de l’Indépendance, du fameux Jean-Jacques Dessalines,” “Procès verbal” (Aux Cayes: Imp. Nationale, 1845), 6.

66

The turbulent 1840s created a rapid cycle of remembering and forgetting the first

head of state. An army revolt forced Pierrot out of office in 1846 and Dessalines’s

funeral service disappeared from the newspapers, a casualty of the regime change. The

following year the senate passed a law calling for memorials to Dessalines and Pétion,

yet construction was continually delayed.79 Despite the absence of a proper statue,

1847 became one more signpost year. In another attempt at politique de doublure,

Faustin Soulouque was “elected” president. A member of the National Guard and

former slave, he seemed a viable candidate for the elite. Soulouque was an illiterate

sexagenarian and viewed by the elite as “the dull head of the Guard.”80 However, he

quickly surprised his “electors” and took control of the government. To consolidate

power he attacked his opposition, the predominantly lighter-skinned urban merchants

and intellectuals, and pronounced himself emperor. Though he was ridiculed in the

international press, historian Murdo MacLeod argues that Soulouque’s coronation and

court represented “a symbol of true independence” to former slaves who could now hold

titles of their own. An important aspect of this political transformation and independence

was the memory of Dessalines.81

Upon his self-nomination as emperor, Soulouque revised the 1846 constitution.

Among its many changes was the creation of a new holiday, 2 January, Jean-Jacques

Dessalines day.82 Appearing first as a new law in December 1848 and then as part of a

79 Le Moniteur, 8 May 1847, 3 and 12 June, 2; Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 381.

80 Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks, 145.

81 Murdo MacLeod, “The Soulouque Regime in Haiti, 1847-1859: A Revaluation,” Journal of Caribbean Studies 10.3 (1970), 36.

82 Janvier, Les Constitutions, 261.

67

constitutional article, the day honored Dessalines for his service to the country. In

addition, the 1848 law included a provision for the creation of five paintings of

Dessalines that would hang in the National Palace, Senate, the Chamber of

Representatives, and the cathedral in Gonaïves.83 Correspondence between the

General Secretary of Haiti under Soulouque, L. Dufrêne, and the Haitian Minister in

Paris, Beaubrun Ardouin, recounts the festivities of 1 and 2 January 1849. Dufrêne

explains Independence Day was followed by a fête “in honor of the illustrious author of

this Independence.” He also notes that the evening before both celebrations Soulouque

released a great number of political prisoners.84 The creation of the 2 January holiday,

similar to the national day of mourning under Pierrot in 1846, placed Soulouque in the

genealogy of Haitian black leaders. Although he was a southerner, as the second

emperor of Haiti he was Dessalines’s heir. Soulouque’s freeing of prisoners during the

first celebrations in 1849 further demonstrates the symbolic potential of national

holidays. Perhaps in the spirit of freedom celebrated on 1 January, he bestowed

pardons on his enemies and sought reconciliation with the elite, many of whom had

family members in prison or who had been killed by Soulouque the year before.

For the next decade, Dessalines took his place next to Independence Day

celebrations. Soulouque’s resurrection of Haiti’s first emperor and institutionalization of

a holiday marked a milestone in the transformation of official memory. Even after the

83 Le Moniteur, 22 Dec. 1848, np.

84 “Le peuple s’enivre avec calme à ses réjouissances ordinaires, a l’occasion de l’anniversaire de notre indépendance qui cette année, a été suivi de la fête instituée en l’honneur de l’illustre auteur de cette Indépendance. La veille de ces fêtes, un grande nombre de prisonniers politiques ont été rendus à la liberté,” “Secrétaire Général à Ardouin,” 6 Jan. 1849, Maximilien Eugene Collection, New York Public Library.

68

mixed-race leader Fabre Geffrard toppled Soulouque in 1859 and formed a new

republican government, Dessalines would maintain his spot in the constitutionally

sanctioned national holidays.85 This commemorative tradition is a curious continuity

between two contrasting regimes. It also illustrates Geffrard’s political skill of

maintaining nominal popular support while balancing the demands of the black and

mixed race Haitian elite. Yet, with the fall of Geffrard, Dessalines Day disappeared and,

as Célius eloquently states, “[the hero] was still languishing in the antechamber of

Haiti’s national pantheon.”86

The removal of Dessalines may have been rooted in the schism between elites

and its manifestation in the Liberal and National Parties. Yet, the constitutions of 1867,

1874, and 1879 lack any holidays named for specific leaders, which suggests the

absence was not tied to a particular party.87 Rather, it may be illustrative of a shift in

commemorative traditions and the disappearance of public commemorations. First, the

depersonalization of holidays, beginning in the 1867 constitution, signaled a change in

commemorative traditions that could allow individuals or civic groups to celebrate

heroes of their choosing. Second, in place of codifying holidays for heroes, the state

and elite turned to alternative memorials such as monuments.88 Furthermore, the

heightened tensions among regional elites, political violence, and foreign intervention

forced commemorations of Dessalines to return to the private sphere.

85 Janvier, Les Constitutions, 272 ; L’Opinion Nationale, 5 Jan. 1861, np.

86 Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 389.

87 These are the constitutions of 1867 (Saget), 1874 (Domingue), and 1879 (Salomon), Janvier, Les Constitutions, 333, 387, 456.

88 Moïse, Constitutions, 229.

69

In 1860, the Haitian elite called for the construction of a statue for Dessalines.

Septimus Rameau, the founder of the principally black National Party, proposed the

statue as an integral part of Haiti’s regeneration under Geffrard.89 Articles by Rameau

appeared frequently in the paper L’Union, which represented the views of the southern

black elite, including Salomon the future president and supporter in the 1840s of

Dessalines’s first national memorial. In the capital, the mixed race editor of Le Progrès,

Elie Heurtelou supported the statue’s construction but only to honor Dessalines’s efforts

during the War for Independence (1802-03).90 However, other members of the Port-au-

Prince elite did not share Heurtelou’s views and fought to block the measure. They even

found support with the British and French consuls who met with President Geffrard

about the statue and their concerns over commemorating Dessalines, who had

slaughtered French men and women. Geffrard diplomatically responded explaining that

he could personally support the project but that the government would take no part.91

Regional differences, color politics, and potential international stigma inhibited the

statue’s construction and any official support, but Geffrard’s comment suggests that

personal commemorations of Dessalines were permissible.

The role of individuals speaks to private commemorations of Dessalines that had

occurred since his assassination in 1806. While members of the elite were absent in the

initial decades, the debate over the 1861 statue illustrates their personal investment in

remembering Dessalines. This trend only increased in the second half of the century.

89 L’Union, 25 Oct. 1860, np.

90 L’Union, 20 Dec. 1860, np.

91 “Levraud à Thouvenel, Ministre des Affaires Étrangères” 23 Dec. 1860, Correspondance Politique, 1860-68, Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes.

70

During the presidency of General Louis Étienne Félicité Lysius Salomon (1879-1888), a

black leader from the south, the elite took up the role of caring for the only physical

monument to Dessalines, his grave. La Nation, a Nationalist Party paper, contained a

story about Haitian intellectuals searching for Dessalines’s grave, which was covered by

bushes. Following their visit, they learned that the grave site had been cared for by

General Vigne Vignier, further demonstrating that as the state moved away from

constitutionally supported commemorations of individual leaders, groups or individuals

took up the duty of remembering. 92

Renewed efforts in statue building had appeared in 1868 under the government

of Silvain Salnave. The official correspondence of General Salomon, who was then the

chargé d’affaires to the courts of France, Great Britain, and Spain, discusses

instructions to locate an artist to make bronze statues of Pétion and Dessalines.93

Salomon was successful in finding several sculptors. However, he sadly reports “it

seems impossible that the two works will be completed in so short a time as one year.”94

Salomon’s assumption turned out to be correct. The statues were intended to be placed

in a national pantheon, which was never built. Lack of funds and political instability

plagued the project. In May 1876, the Port-au-Prince paper, Le Constitutionnel, reported

that fears of revolution led a New York studio to suspend work on a statue of

Dessalines.95 Haiti’s founding father had to remain—to return to Célius’s image—in the

92La Nation, 11 Nov. 1884, np.

93 “Félicité Lysius Salomon, Jeune à Secrétaire des Relations Extérieures,” 30 Jan. 1868, Maximilien Eugene Collection, New York Public Library.

94 “Salomon à Secrétaire des Relations Extérieures,” 31 May 1868, Maximilien Eugene Collection.

95 Le Constitutionnel, 6 Mai 1876, np.

71

antechamber until the 1890s, when preparations for the centennial led by civic groups

and the state reinvigorated his resurrection and provided a true entry into the

pantheon.96

In the fall of 1891, a group of Haitian intellectuals founded a literary, scientific,

and artistic club for the country’s centennial, L’Association du Centenaire de

l’Indépendance Nationale.97 Up to this point, civic groups or private societies had been

absent from planning Independence Day.98 Mounting state debt and political struggles,

along with the increased national significance of 1904, provided a space which had not

been available in annual celebrations for associations and individuals to work with the

government in planning the event.

The group’s surviving documents do not make it entirely clear why they formed in

1891. The date coincided with the one-hundredth anniversary of the August slave

uprising.99 While the Bois Caïman ceremony is absent from any discussion of the

founding, Monsieur Jérémie, the association’s president, did reference Boukman in his

96 Célius, “Neoclassicism,” 381-2.

97 Joseph Jérémie, ed. Haïti Indépendante (Port-au-Prince: Chéraquit, 1929), 25-27. Founding members included the editor of the association’s papers, a Monsieur Jérémie, the author Massillon Coicou, the Lhérisson brothers, and Pierre Laforest.

98 This stands in contrast to commemorative traditions in Latin America, in which associations and the state played a role in organizing festivities, see William H. Beezley and David E. Lorey, eds., ¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva La Independencia! Celebrations of September 16 (Wilmington: Scholarly Resources, Inc., 2001); Hendrik Kraay, “ ‘Let us Be Brazilians on the Day of Our Nationality’: Independence Celebrations in Rio de Janeiro, 1840s-1860s” in Negotiating Identities in Modern Latin America, ed. Hendrik Kraay (Calgary: University of Calgary Press, 2007): 27-48 and Days of National Festivity in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1823-1889 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2013).

99 On August 22, 1791, slaves in northern Saint Domingue rose up and within a month had killed hundreds of whites and destroyed over 1,000 plantations.

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inauguration speech at the club’s night school.100 He proclaims, “If our fathers had

stopped at the eloquent petitions of Julien Raymond, Ogé, and Chavanne would not

have summoned the Provincial Assembly of Cap [Français], Boukman would not have

led the slaves of the north in rebellion…”101 This is noteworthy and suggests the

continued construction of an inclusive national pantheon that commemorated rebel

slaves as well as affranchis. Initial planning of the centennial in 1891 created a specific

chronology of the revolution that connected the 1791 slave insurrection to earlier gens

de couleur movements such as that of Ogé and Chavanne.102

Within months, the association had approval from the president, northerner

Florvil Hyppolite, who thanked the founding committee for its actions: “I can only

welcome with pleasure the creation of a society whose name alone speaks to its

worth.”103 The group then set about meeting its main goal: “to raise patriotic sentiment

for the celebration of the centennial of our Independence.”104 With more than a decade

100 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 35. As Kate Ramsey has demonstrated for this time, the elite’s relationship with Vodou was complicated and highly ambiguous, see Vodou and Power in Haiti: The Spirits and the Law (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 54-117. Thus, it is unsurprising that Jérémie made no mention of it in his speech. Rather the association’s members probably shared the view expressed on the eve of 1904, by the chief editor of a Port-au-Prince paper, Le Devoir, who would lament the ignorant state of “the people” who sought to forget their problems in the “practice of Vodou and alcoholism,” see Le Devoir, 29 Jan 1903, 99.

101 “Si nos pères s’étaient arrêtés à l’éloquente protestation de Julien Raymond, Ogé et Chavanne n’auraient pas sommé l’assemblée provincial du Cap, Boukman n’aurait pas soulevé les esclaves du nord...,” Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 35.

102 In October 1790, Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Chavanne led a failed uprising outside of the northern city, Cap Français against French colonists’ unwillingness to extend rights to free men of color like themselves and end racial discrimination.

103 “Je ne puis voir qu’avec plaisir se créer une société dont le titre seul est déjà une recommandation,” Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 31.

104 “…en vue de préparer les esprits à la célébration du centenaire de notre Indépendance,” Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, III.

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to go before the actual celebration, members busied themselves with a variety of

activities. Newspaper accounts and speeches capture members reading poetry at social

events and attempting to start a night school for workers.105 While nationalistic poems

supported their mission of raising patriotic sentiment, the activities do not construct a

clear commemorative chronology. The founding in 1891 suggests the group members

viewed 1791 as the start of the revolution; however, few other events or dates appeared

in their records. As the centennial grew nearer, members focused on hero worship and

defined an inclusive cult of black and mixed-race revolutionary figures. They led

pilgrimages to Dessalines’s grave on the anniversary of his death and raised money for

events and masses to be said for the revolutionary heroes.106 Unfortunately,

preparations for the centennial were interrupted by the civil war between supporters of

Joseph Anténor Firmin and Nord Alexis. Members raised doubts about the possibility of

even celebrating the centennial. The press and official correspondence warned that the

country faced a crisis that threatened its very independence.107 By December 1902, the

victorious army of the North proclaimed General Nord Alexis president, and the

association quickly re-organized to present the president with the mission of planning

for the centennial.108

After only a few weeks in office, Alexis granted Justin Dévot, Justin Lhérisson,

Dantès Bellegarde, and other intellectuals of the re-formed Association Centenaire

105 Le Peuple, 28 Jan. 1893, np ; Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 35-51, 59-74.

106 Le Nouvelliste, 17 Oct. 1899, np and 16 Oct 1900, np.

107 Le Devoir, 2 July 1902, 69.

108 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, IV ; Le Nouvelliste, 30 Dec 1902, np.; Jérémie, Haïti Independante, 79.

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support from the government and a budget of 300,000 Haitian dollars. In a letter to the

society’s former president Monsieur Jérémie, the committee declared it would be

responsible for organizing a celebration “both dignified and affordable for the Centennial

of our national Independence.”109 The association went a step further and published a

proclamation to the Haitian people explaining its role, along with the government’s, in

planning for the momentous day.110 The year leading up to the centennial was filled with

conferences on revolutionary heroes, newspaper accounts of the club’s activities,

petitions to build monuments, and celebrations of events leading to Independence, such

as the centennial of the Haitian flag, Toussaint’s death, and the battle of Vertières. In

addition, the Port-au-Prince paper Le Soir, edited by Justin Lhérisson a member of the

Association, ran a ninety-two day count down to 1 January to make sure its readers

never forgot the date.111

Mirroring the men, members’ wives, daughters, sisters, and friends formed a

female branch of the Association du Centenaire.112 Up to this point, men had dominated

the holiday. The presence of local troops illustrated the importance of the military in not

only gaining and sustaining independence, but also defining the ideal Haitian man.113

The inclusion of farmers, politicians, merchants, and magistrates in the ceremonies

expanded the definition of Haitian masculine identity. Moreover, men of all occupations

109 “…d’une façon à la fois digne et modeste, la célébration du Centenaire de notre Indépendance nationale,” Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 79.

110 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 84.

111 See Le Soir, 30 Sept. to 31 Dec. 1903.

112 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 95.

113Elizabeth Colwill, “‘Fêtes de l’Hymen”; Mimi Sheller, “Sword-Bearing Citizens: Militarism and Manhood in Nineteenth-Century Haiti,” Plantation Society in the Americas 4, nos. 2& 3 (1997) and Democracy After Slavery.

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had the critical job of modeling good citizenship, which included being a “good father,

son, brother, and husband.”114 The discourse of paternalism and the prominence of the

military served to create a masculine-dominated space. The absence of women from

the ceremony may represent elite attempts to construct a sphere of domestic femininity

that corresponded to nineteenth-century European notions of womanhood.

Women took on a new active position in planning for the centennial and worked

to redefine elite gender roles. Their participation in events was a symbol of women’s

“patriotic piety.”115 For the most part, the women remained within the proper bounds of

elite Haitian womanhood. Giving a speech, attending a conference, or watching the

parade were appropriate patriotic actions for women. However, the national spirit could

overtake women and lead them to more radical acts. In Gonaïves, during the afternoon

reception for the centennial, “the excitement was so great…that the women and girls

declared their own role in the grand patriotic event and exclaimed loudly: ‘It is we who

have given life to the country’s men and we can sign too!’” The women’s cries referred

to a centennial address given by Alexis that imitated Dessalines’s Declaration of

Independence. As the centennial’s official historian recorded, the women rushed

forward and signed the address along with men.116 Their signatures suggest a new

attitude among women towards their role in founding Haiti and more active participation

in future commemorations.

114 “Article 22” 1816 Constitution.

115 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 97.

116 Antoine Augustin, Les Fêtes du centenaire aux Gonaïves, 1804-1904 (Port-au-Prince: Imp. Aug.A.Héraux, 1905), 47.

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Following the centennial of Jean-Jacques Dessalines’s death in the fall of 1906

the groups disbanded. Regardless, the members’ actions and words impacted the

development of the official memory of independence and Dessalines. First, Florvil

Hyppolite, who approved the Association du Centenaire, oversaw the inauguration of a

mausoleum for Dessalines on 19 September 1893, the first official physical

commemoration.117 A decade later, Alexis would re-enact Dessalines’s Declaration of

Independence by traveling to Gonaïves for the centennial. He began his speech that

morning stating, “It is a great pleasure for me to come to the same place as the Founder

to renew, on the Altar of the Homeland, our oath of Independence.”118 Returning to

Gonaïves connected his presidency to the original event in 1804. A northerner and

noiriste, he claimed his political genealogy by holding the ceremony in Gonaïves and

commemorating Dessalines. The official historian of the centennial went so far as to

compare Alexis’s election and the War for Independence; both were necessary for Haiti

to move forward.119

Complementary to the government’s actions, members of the Association du

Centenaire and other Haitian intellectuals organized multiple conferences on

Dessalines. The conferences sought to correct the injustices of the past and portray a

more balanced picture of the hero.120 Some lecturers admitted Dessalines’s flaws,

117 L.C. Lhérisson, Pour Dessalines (Port-au-Prince: Imprimerie Aug. A. Héraux, 1906), 9.

118 “C’est une bien grande satisfaction pour moi de venir a la même place que le Fondateur, faire renouveler sur l’Autel de la Patrie notre serment d’Indépendance,” Le Moniteur, Journal Officiel de la République d’Haïti, 2 Jan. 1904, 1.

119 Antoine Augustin, Les Fêtes du centenaire, 51.

120 Jules Rosemond, Conférence historique sur la vie de Jean-Jacques Dessalines: Fondateur de l’Indépendance Haïtienne (Port-au-Prince: Imprimerie de l’Abeille, 1903), 20.

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calling him a “tyrant” or noting “his violence and brutal energy.”121 Others wisely pointed

out how these negative images had been perpetuated by “haters of our race” who have

“obscured” our understanding of him.122 The collection of conferences stressed the

importance of remembering Dessalines as a “founder,” “liberator,” “benefactor,” and

“defender of our history.”123 In response to growing popular support of Dessalines,

Alexis’s government responded with a centennial celebration of Dessalines’s death in

October 1906. Alexis issued a proclamation declaring 17 October 1906 a holiday and

calling for nationwide memorial services to solemnly remember the “Illustrious Founder

of the Haitian Nation.”124 These acclamations, along with the commemorations and long

overdue monuments, combined to move Dessalines out of the antechamber and into

the main gallery of the national pantheon, where the other revolutionary heroes resided.

The first of January 1904 symbolized a momentous achievement for the island

nation. One hundred years of independence, even with economic and political

difficulties, was worthy of a proper celebration. To plan, the state turned to the traditions

of past Independence Days but also welcomed the participation of private societies. The

increased role of individuals influenced new developments in commemorative traditions.

While the symbolic potential of 1904 would quickly dim, the centennial did offer one

rebirth—the memory of Jean-Jacques Dessalines. No longer ostracized from official

memory, the founder of Haiti marched forward to accept his rightful place.

121 Lhérisson, Pour Dessalines, 8 ; Rosemond, Conférence historique, 50.

122 Septimus Marius, “Discours apologique: En mémoire de Jean-Jacques Dessalines” (Port-au-Prince: Imprimerie Aug. A. Héraux, 1906), 3 ; Duraciné Vaval, “Conférences historiques: Dessalines devant l’histoire et Toussaint Louverture à travers la littérature nationale” (Port-au-Prince : Imprimerie de l’Abeille, 1906), 13.

123 Marius, “Discours apologique,” 3; Lhérisson, Pour Dessalines, 8-10.

124 Jérémie, Haïti Indépendante, 129.

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CHAPTER 3 PAMPHLETEERS, PLAYWRIGHTS, AND CHRONICLERS: EARLY NARRATORS OF

THE HAITIAN REVOLUTION

Emblazoned across Pompée Valentin Vastey’s coat of arms (Figure 2-1) are a

crossed pen and sword, symbols of Vastey’s identity as an author engaged in a new

national littérature de combat (combat literature). Beginning in 1804, educated members

of the new Haitian elite took up the project of defending Haiti by writing the country’s

history. Of central concern was the struggle that had led to Haiti’s independence. While

texts about what we today call the Haitian Revolution had appeared while it was still

going on, the white authors who penned them subscribed to the dominant colonial and

racial ideologies of the European world.1 Engaged in an anti-colonial and anti-slavery

battle of words, Haiti’s first national writers employed their pens and printing presses as

weapons against these publications. In so doing, they built upon revolutionary traditions

of educated free men of color, who had earlier taken up their pens to fight racial

inequality before and during the revolution. It was to this group that most of Haiti’s first

authors belonged. Their publications served to reconstruct state and society after fifteen

years of warfare and to glorify Haiti’s existence in a white colonial world. In several

literary genres, authors celebrated the achievements of Africans and their descendants

in the Americas, legitimated the new country, and “un-silenced” its origins. Producing an

official historiography and narrative of the revolution was a politically charged process

that exposed the limits of Haitian unity and revealed regional, class, and color divisions

and created its own silences.

1 Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot contends even the most radical European and American authors lacked a “conceptual frame of reference” in which to explain the revolution and creation of a post-slavery state run by men of African descent, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 82.

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Little attention has been given to how Haitians tensely narrated their country’s

foundational event. Beginning with publications from 1804, Chapters 3 through 6 survey

printed Haitian representations of the revolution and examine the evolution of this

literature from Haiti’s founding to the 2004 bicentennial. The survey is not exhaustive,

but I have sought to balance understudied texts with well-known works and have taken

an interdisciplinary approach examining both historical and imaginative literature. Some

of the texts have previously received no scholarly analysis, or very little. I also read in

tandem publications that have usually been treated in isolation and thus shed light on

the evolution of Haitian political and cultural nationalism.

Writing Haiti’s history, specifically that of the revolution, exposed important social

divisions, most notably between this emergent elite and the majority of recently freed,

uneducated former slaves, who spoke no French. The elite, both black and mixed-race,

had only just united with the formerly enslaved masses to defeat the French, and this

alliance became a centerpiece of the revolution’s narrative. The recurring theme of unity

was deployed in defense against the exclusionary and racist world Haiti entered and

also to erase the gaping divisions between the political, military, and cultural elite and

the urban and rural masses. The revolutionary narratives expose this major cleavage in

the new society along with divisions within the emerging elite while establishing the

boundaries of Haitian historiographical debates. The texts constitute an elite project, as

I detail below; the first generations of Haitian authors were all male, primarily of mixed-

race, and often from families that had owned land and slaves. In addition, many

received an education in France and thus had cultural if not familial ties to the former

metropole. Yet, these men decided to stay in (or return to) Haiti and contributed—with

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their pens—to building the first post-slavery society in the Americas, while many of their

mixed-race contemporaries remained exiles in neighboring Caribbean islands, the

United States, or France.2 The educated men who remained to become government

secretaries, newspaper editors, teachers, and independent scholars had an investment

in Haiti’s future and many of them profoundly believed that recording Haiti’s past was an

integral part of the country’s development.

Common to all their narratives is a functional definition of Haitian independence

as freedom from slavery and an end to French colonial rule. Beyond this similarity,

debates arose over how intellectuals interpreted Haiti’s founding to justify specific rulers

and forms of government and to define the country’s cultural heritage. The debates

demonstrate initial iterations of what David Nicholls terms the mulatto and black

legends; however, by examining both the evolution of individual authors over their

multiple publications and the development of Haitian historiography, my corpus of texts

demonstrates that the contours of Nicholls’s legends were not fully defined. Early

authors introduced themes that would become part of both legends; however, regional

loyalities and patronage shaped their interpretations more than an overarching

ideological school. It is not until the mid-nineteenth century that we see a consolidation

of the mulatto legend, a school of thought that celebrated the achievements of mixed-

race revolutionary heroes as a means to justify contemporary rule by mixed-race men.

Furthermore, the texts also introduce the first wave of indigénisme (Haitianness) and

expose how the mixed-race elite began to appropriate folk/popular culture while also

struggling to define Haiti in terms of European notions of civilization.

2 Although several New England and Mid-Atlantic states had already abolished slavery or were gradually abolishing it, none had been what Ira Berlin terms “slave societies,” like Saint-Domingue.

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Printing and Performing Independence: 1804 Publications

As Dessalines and his generals outfitted forts with canons they had seized from

the French, government secretaries and printers established new national publishing

houses with former French printing presses. Quickly put to use, the presses turned out

Haiti’s founding document, the three-part Declaration of Independence written by Louis

Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre.3 While an original manuscript version has yet to be found,

printed copies made in January 1804 quickly circulated in the Atlantic World and

appeared, often in translation, in American and European newspapers.4 Bicentennials

of Haitian Independence (2004) and the Latin American Wars of Independence—2010

marks the beginning of commemorations that will continue for another decade—and the

discovery of an original printed copy of the act have prompted a flurry of scholarship on

Haiti’s founding document.5 The focus of this section is not the Declaration but two

3 What we today call the Declaration of Independence was not the first publication by the newly victorious insurgent forces. Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Henry Christophe, and Augustin Clerveaux issued a preliminary act on 29 November 1803 in the northern port city of Fort-Liberté. Dessalines selected 1 January 1804 as the date for celebrating the country’s founding. Nineteenth-century Haitian historians doubted the existence of this initial proclamation and argued it was an invention by foreign authors, Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti (1847-48, repr., Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988-91), 3:125n1. More recent scholarship has documented the act and found an English translation in The Times, 6 Feb. 1804, 3, see Leslie Manigat, “Une brève analyse-commentaire critique d’un document historique,” Revue de la Société haïtienne d’histoire et de géographie 221 (2005): 44-56; David Geggus, “La Declaración de Independencia de Haití” in Las Declaraciones de Independencia: Los textos fundamentales de las independencias americanas, ed. Alfredo Avila, Jordana Dym, and Erika Pani (México, D.F.: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2013), 121-131; Julia Gaffield, ed., The Haitian Declaration of Independence: Creation, Context, and Legacy (Charlottesville: University of Virgina Press, 2015). The 1804 “Acte de l’Indépendance” is a longer, more accusatory text than the 1803 proclamation.

4 Julia Gaffield has located an original print copy and a broadside of the declaration in the British National Archives. According to the nineteenth-century Haitian author, Emmanuel Chancy, the original manuscript burned in a fire in the Senate and National Palace in the 1860s along with other archival documents and rare portraits of revolutionary generals, L’Indépendance nationale d’Haïti: étude historique (Paris: Marpon et Flammarion, 1884), 1-2.

5 Monographs include Jacques de Cauna, ed., Toussaint et l’indépendance de l’Haïti (Paris: Karthala, 2004); Jean Casimir, Pa Bliye 1804 (Port-au-Prince: FOKAL, 2004); Jeremy Popkin, You Are All Free: The Haitian Revolution and the Abolition of Slavery (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); ed. David Patrick Geggus and Norman Fiering, The World of the Haitian Revolution (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009). Journals that ran special issues include Small Axe 18 (2005), Yale French

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other less studied texts from 1804. However, the Declaration illuminates several key

themes for my own analysis of later Haitian publications. I will begin with a brief review

of these themes before turning to the biography of the Declaration’s writer Louis Félix

Boisrond-Tonnerre and a discussion of his memoirs. The second text I examine, Pierre

Flignau’s play, L’Haïtien expatrié is Haiti’s first play, performed in 1804 and published in

1840; it has to date received no scholarly analysis. The play contributes an important

supplementary view of the revolution and raises the divisive issue of regionalism among

Haiti’s new intellectuals, as well as the themes of exile and migration.

Declaring Independence

In the Declaration, literary scholar Jean Jonassaint argues, Boisrond-Tonnerre

employed a counter-discourse to define the new people of Haiti.6 This counter-

discourse reversed contemporary nineteenth-century notions of (racialized) identity and

defined the “We,” indigènes d’Hayti, as independent (from France), free (from slavery),

and civilized, while the “Others,” the French, were barbarians, vultures, and tyrants.7

Boisrond-Tonnerre also alluded to the meaning of independence. In contrast to

Studies 107 (2005), and the Journal of Haitian Studies 10, nos.1-2 (2004). The Small Axe issue and conference led to two volumes edited by Martin Munro and Elizabeth Walcott-Hackshaw, Reinterpreting the Haitian Revolution and its Cultural Aftershock (Kingston: University of the West Indies Press, 2006) and Echoes of the Haitian Revolution, 1804-2004 (Kingston: University of the West Indies Press, 2008). Additional edited collections, Doris Garraway, ed. The Tree of Liberty: The Cultural Legacies of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008); Alain Yacou, ed, Saint-Domingue espagnol et la révolution nègre d’Haïti: Commémoration du Bicentenaire de la naissance de l’État d’Haïti (1804-2004) (Paris: Karthala, 2007); Wiener Kerns Fleurimond, Haïti, 1804-2004: Le Bicentenaire d’une Révolution oubliée (Paris: l’Harmattan, 2005).

6 Jean Jonassaint, “Toward New Paradigms in Caribbean Studies: The Impact of the Haitian Revolution on Our Literatures,” in Tree of Liberty: Cultural Legacies of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, ed. Doris Garraway (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2008), 203.

7 “Haitian Declaration of Independence,” The National Archives of the UK, CO 137/111, ff 113-117,

accessed 5 April 2010, http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C12756259#imageViewerLink, 3-4.

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revolutionary discourse in the United States and France, Haitian independence did not

include a discussion of rights.8 Rather, post-1804 independence—as defined by Haiti’s

political and military elite—meant freedom from slavery and French control. The new

people of Haiti were indebted to the head of state and his generals for ensuring their

freedom and the state’s political independence. Anthropologist Mimi Sheller notes this

recurring discourse through the 1840s. She argues, “Citizenship was defined by the

elements of duty, obedience and obligation (what the citizen owed the state), which far

outweighed the rights-based element of what the state owed to its citizens.”9 This

rhetoric of duty and obligation provides a foundation for the third theme established by

the Declaration, authoritarianism. Independence was a product of Dessalines’s

sacrifice, which placed the people in a position of debt to him, “the protector of liberty.”10

To maintain Haitian independence, a strong head of state, with military experience,

appeared necessary.

The words of the Declaration established the construction of Haitian identity as a

counter-discourse, the meaning of independence as freedom from slavery and colonial

rule but with no specific rights of the citizen, and the need for an authoritarian ruler. In

addition, the January 1 (Haitian Independence Day) ceremony emphasized the theme

of unity, but at the same time demonstrated the challenges of maintaining this unity in

such a heterogeneous population. The most apparent example from the performance

8 David Geggus, “Haiti’s Declaration of Independence,” in Haitian Declaration of Independence, ed. Julia Gaffield (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015).

9 Mimi Sheller, Democracy After Slavery: Black Publics and Peasant Radicalism in Haiti and Jamaica (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2000), 98.

10 “Haitian Declaration of Independence,” 8.

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came in the form of language. Dessalines opened the ceremony in Kreyòl, while

Boisrond-Tonnerre read the Declaration in French. The bilingualism of the event

captures the divisions of independent Haiti between a French-speaking and Catholic

elite and Kreyòl-speaking and Vodouist masses.11

A National Memorialist: Louis-Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre

While legend surrounds the life of Boisrond-Tonnerre, his biography is one of the

more complete of those of Haiti’s early intellectuals. He was born in the southern parish

of Torbec in 1776. Nineteenth-century Haitian historian Joseph Saint-Rémy, who

published Boisrond-Tonnerre’s memoirs in the 1850s, spun a tale describing his birth.

According to les vieillards with whom Saint-Rémy spoke, a violent storm occurred the

day of Boisrond-Tonnerre’s birth. His father added tonnerre, French for thunder, to

Louis-Félix’s family name in memory of his stormy beginnings.12 For Saint-Rémy, the

birth-story served as a larger metaphor for Boisrond-Tonnerre’s “violent character.”13

Saint-Rémy was one of several mid-nineteenth-century authors who helped

institutionalize a mulâtriste (mixed-race) nationalism in which the narrative of Haiti’s

founding justified mixed-race political control and celebrated a Eurocentric (elite) Haitian

culture. While he found Boisrond-Tonnerre’s noiriste (black nationalist) leanings

appalling in places, he felt compelled to publish them because the country lacked

11 Many of those born in Africa may have still spoken their mother tongues, making Haiti an even more linguistically and cultural diverse country.

12 Joseph Saint-Rémy, “Etude historique et critique” in Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire, par Boisrond-Tonnerre (Paris: France Libraire, 1851), viii.

13 “…sa violente complexion,” Saint-Rémy, “Etude historique et critique,” ix.

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comparable first-hand accounts of the Haitian Revolution by Haitians.14 Saint-Rémy’s

construction of a legendary birth served to explain Boisrond-Tonnerre’s narrative errors

as an inherent character flaw.

It is only more recently that historian John Garrigus has revised this legend

suggesting instead that Tonnerre refers to the French town outside of Paris where

Louis-Félix may have lived during the 1790s. The epithet “Tonnerre” helped distinguish

the young man from his uncle and guardian Louis-François Boisrond, one of the

wealthiest men of color in the south, who later served in Paris as one of Saint

Domingue’s deputies to the French legislature.15 In place of a legendary thunderous

birth, the geographical reference demonstrates that Boisrond-Tonnerre was a typical

member of Saint-Domingue’s wealthy free people of color. Saint-Rémy downplayed this

reality in his biographical sketch because he could not reconcile how a fellow mixed-

race man could espouse the radical views Boisrond-Tonnerre did.16 Nevertheless,

Boisrond-Tonnerre, like other early authors, grew up with relatives and neighbors who

represented an elite, politically active group of Saint Domingue’s free people of color.

Similar to his mixed-race peers and fellow writers, he attended school in France, where

in the 1790s he experienced the metropole’s revolutionary fervor. Returning to Saint-

14 Saint-Rémy, “Etude historique et critique,” vii. Proponents of the “noir” or black school championed the actions of revolutionary leaders descended directly from African slaves. They criticized the governments of post-independence mulatto rulers and emphasized color over class as the main division in Haitian society. On the other hand, authors of the mulatto school celebrated mulatto accomplishments, proclaimed racial unity, and were determined to rewrite history to correct the mistakes of the black school. For a more detailed discussion of each school see David Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and National Independence in Haiti (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 10-11.

15 John Garrigus, Before Haiti: Race and Citizenship in French Saint-Domingue (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), 308-9.

16 John Garrigus, “‘Victims of our own credulity and indulgence’: The Life of Louis-Félix Boisrond Tonnerre (1776-1806),” in Haitian Declaration of Independence, ed. Julia Gaffield (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015), np.

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Domingue in 1798, he began to establish himself—bidding on a sequestered

plantation—in his home parish of Aquin and working his way up the colonial

administration ladder.17 Several years later, Napoleon Bonaparte’s expedition to

reestablish (white) French control of the colony landed and the southern peninsula

quickly sided with the French. However, for men like Boisrond-Tonnerre who were

occupying former French properties, Napoleon’s troops did not symbolize the

revolutionary principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity; rather they represented a

return to white supremacy and a mortal threat.

In the summer of 1803 resistance forces under the command of a southern

mixed-racegeneral, Nicolas Geffrard, entered the region and Boisrond-Tonnerre left his

post and joined the fighting. It is during the war of independence (1802-03) that

Boisrond-Tonnerre begins his memoirs, which along with the Declaration of

Independence are some of the first documents by a Haitian that record the country’s

founding. Equally important, Boisrond-Tonnerre met the insurgent army’s commanding

officer, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and became one of the general’s secretaries. Similar

to his uncle, Louis-François Boisrond, and his neighbor, Julien Raimond, Boisrond-

Tonnerre turned to his pen to help secure Haitian Independence. While Raimond and

his uncle had fought a different battle for equal rights for free people of color, Boisrond-

Tonnerre, and other educated mixed-race men of his generation, inherited a model of

activism with the pen.18 Boisrond-Tonnerre concentrated on the “crimes committed by

17 Garrigus, Before Haiti, 310 and Garrigus, “Victims,” np.

18 Here I am borrowing from John Garrigus’s argument that the contribution to the revolution of southern elite free people of color has often been overlooked by historians who privilege armed (sword and machete) struggles, see Garrigus, Before Haiti, 227. Literary scholars have called this scholarship produced by Haiti’s early authors a literature of combat, which also plays on the sword and pen image,

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the French and their allies in 1802 and 1803,” testifying to the horrors of the French

expedition and validating Haiti as an independent country whose citizens fought for its

existence.19

Boisrond-Tonnerre continued his work for Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the former

slave who became head of state, and served as his secretary during Dessalines’ two-

year rule (1804-06). His loyalty to Dessalines would cost him his life. After he was

arrested in Port-au-Prince following Dessalines’s assassination, a crowd broke into the

prison and demanded the heads of Boisrond-Tonnerre and Dessalines’s black secretary

Etienne Mentor.20 Their executions completed the coup d’état by removing the former

regime’s publicists and ensured that at least two voices would be absent from the

recording of Haitian history.

Fortunately, Boisrond-Tonnerre’s experience of the revolution and vision of Haiti

are accessible in his 1804 publication, Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire d’Hayti.21 An

see Henock Trouillot, Les Origines sociales de la littérature haïtienne, 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Les Editions Fardin, 1986).

19 Garrigus, “Victims,” np.

20 According to Saint-Rémy, the duplicitous Boisrond-Tonnerre and fellow secretary Mentor escaped the scene of Dessalines’ assassination (17 Oct. 1806) and ran back to Port-au-Prince shouting: “Long live liberty! The tyrant is dead!” (Saint-Rémy, “Etude historique,” xv). After their arrest, Saint-Rémy claims, the commanding officer in Port-au-Prince, Alexandre Pétion, imprisoned the two but did not order their execution because he “n’ordonna jamais de répandre le sang de personne” (Ibid, xv). While this may just be a case of Saint-Rémy’s bias and his adherence to the cult of Pétion, the two men did not meet their death at his hands. As Chapter 3 illustrates in more detail, the Haitian political leaders and intellectuals struggled over how to remember the main revolutionary figures (Toussaint Louverture, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Alexandre Pétion, and Henry Christophe). Pétion received the first state-sanctioned commemoration and mixed-race authors championed him as the “Father of the Republic” in contrast to the violent and tyrannical Jean-Jacques Dessalines. Saint-Rémy was among these writers who celebrated Pétion, creating a hero cult to him (Saint-Rémy, “Etude historique et critique,” xvi).

21 In 2013 Jean Jonassaint found an original copy of Boisrond-Tonnerre’s Mémoires in Harvard’s Houghton Library. My analysis will follow this publication and where appropriate incorporate later editions, including an introduction by later Haitian historian Joseph Saint-Rémy. Saint-Rémy’s introduction, “Etude historique et critique,” could be treated as a separate text and forerunner of the mulatto legend/historiographic tradition that crystallized in the mid-1800s.

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understudied document of the revolutionary era, Boisrond-Tonnerre wrote Mémoires

only months after independence. The text expands upon the violent birth of Haiti

presented in the Declaration and offers one of the first accounts of the revolution by a

Haitian. Boisrond-Tonnerre sought to elucidate the identity of the new nation by

recounting the history of the final struggle for independence (1802-03).

First, he wove into his narrative the negative reversal present in the

Declaration.22 Boisrond-Tonnerre and later authors flipped nineteenth-century

depictions of racialized identities to both legitimate Haiti’s existence when neither

France nor any other white government had recognized its independence and to justify

the revolution. The atrocities of the French alluded to the in Declaration come to life in

his memoirs and support his classification of the former colonists as barbarians. In his

opening paragraph, he specified, “there is not an act, not a crime, not a recorded event

in this work that does not contain the greatest truth.”23 Anticipating doubters he insisted

on the veracity of his narrative. He admitted that, as the author, he or rather his pen “is

terrified by the numerous crimes it must recount.”24 This play on the authorial power of

the pen removes Boisrond-Tonnerre, the impressionable human, and proposes that the

impartial writing implement cannot even record all the French cruelties. The ending of

22 In the declaration, Boisrond-Tonnerre recounted Haiti’s origins using a reversal of negativity, or what Jean Jonassaint terms, “the new Haitian counter-discourse” (Jonassaint, “Toward New Paradigms,” 206).

23 “…qu’il n’est pas un fait, pas un crime, pas une action mentionnés dans cet ouvrage, qui ne porte avec soi le caractère de la plus grande véracité,” Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires pour sérvir à l’histoire d’Hayti (Dessalines: Imprimerie Centrale du Gouvernement, 1804), 3.

24 “…ma plume est effrayée du nombre des crimes qu’elle doit tracer,” Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 3. Bryan Edwards made a similar claim about his trembling hand when recounting the horrors enacted upon white women and children. Boisrond-Tonnerre could be extending Edwards’s image further to the actual pen. Yet, the argument of terrified pens appears in other Haitian writings. Perhaps, Boisrond-Tonnerre established a trope for excusing an author for the graphic acts he described.

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the sentence suggests a more important duty: bearing witness. Writing became an act

of witnessing for Boisrond-Tonnerre and recording French crimes, not expounding on

universal rights, was necessary to justify Haiti’s political independence and the abolition

of slavery for generations to come. The Haitian testimonies served to counter white

publications and memoirs of the revolution. Both impartiality and testimony are crucial

not only for the memoir’s credibility but also because Boisrond-Tonnerre saw his text as

history not just a personal journal. He stated “everything contained in these memoirs

should be part of the history we pass on to our posterity.”25

The history Boisrond-Tonnerre passed on for posterity is not the entire revolution,

but began when his life intersected with its narrative. Boisrond-Tonnerre experienced

the first phases of the revolution from France where he was attending school. Although

he returned to St Domingue in 1798, he chose to start his memoirs, not with his arrival

but in the months leading up to Napoleon’s 1802 expedition.26 The first third of the

memoir recounts the arrival of the French and Toussaint Louverture’s failed defense of

the island. Most of the narrative focuses on events following Toussaint’s arrest in the

summer of 1802, particularly the military campaign for independence.

In his account, Dessalines takes center stage. From the soldier born for war to

the general rallying his troops to the leader of the independence struggle, Boisrond-

Tonnerre juxtaposed a selection of scenes that validate the fight for independence and

Dessalines’s position as head of state.27 Moreover, Boisrond-Tonnerre’s construction of

25 “…tous les faits que contiennent ces mémoires doivent entrer au domaine de l’histoire que nous transmettons à notre postérité,” Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 5.

26 Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 5.

27 Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 7, 29, 48.

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Dessalines introduces another theme from the Declaration, authoritarianism. Other

revolutionary heroes are not absent from the narrative, but Boisrond-Tonnerre

presented Dessalines as the man destined to be Haiti’s first ruler. His characterization is

most apparent in his description of the shift from working with the French to attacking

them. Boisrond-Tonnerre recounted, “It [Toussaint’s arrest] was the wakeup call for

Dessalines…First, he went to Petite-Anse and spoke to Pétion whom he was seeing for

the first time and got him to join the campaign…”28 Dessalines here is the initiator of the

campaign for independence and works to recruit other leading generals to his cause.

Although Pétion was the first of the leading generals to openly rebel against the French

in Boisrond Tonnerre’s description, Dessalines holds authority and it is to him Haitians

owe allegiance for his efforts to secure independence. The details of the decision to

fight for independence are contested throughout Haiti’s early histories. Authors

frequently followed regional preferences (Pétion versus Dessalines) or assigned

themselves an important role in helping the top generals realize the French plans to

reestablish slavery.29 Their chronology of events and portrayal of heroes also served as

commentary on the necessity or dangers of authoritarianism.

After presenting his support for Dessalines, his patron, Boisrond-Tonnerre turned

to his own experience of the French expedition in southern Saint Domingue. The

inhabitants of the southern peninsula had just lived through the civil war between

28 “Ce fut le coup de lumière pour Dessalines…Il se rend d’abord à la Petite-Anse, parle à Pétion qu’il voyait pour la première fois, l’engage à prendre son parti…,” Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 48.

29 The latter is particularly true in the memoirs of Boisrond-Tonnerre’s contemporaries, Joseph Balthazar Inginac and Guy Joseph Bonnet who each claimed to have influenced the decision to fight for independence, Joseph Balthazar Inginac, Mémoires: depuis 1797 jusqu’à 1843 (Kingston, Jamaica: J. R. de Cordova, 1843); Edmond Bonnet, Souvenirs historiques de Guy-Joseph Bonnet (Paris: August Durand, 1864). This is an assertion Boisrond-Tonnerre was unable to make because he did not meet Dessalines until 1803 and the initial steps toward independence were taken in the fall of 1802.

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southern mixed-race leader André Rigaud and northern black general Toussaint

Louverture and for this reason initially welcomed the French forces. France, especially

for mixed-race men like Boisrond-Tonnerre, stood for liberty and equality. It was

unimaginable that the France that had educated them and granted racial equality and

abolition would become the enemy. From arrests to mass drownings, Boisrond-

Tonnerre described the daily violence non-white inhabitants faced. In these sections, he

moves from third person in the body of the text to first person in the footnotes and

recounts the horrors he witnessed.30 The shift in narrator demonstrates Boisrond-

Tonnerre’s realization that the French were no longer the guarantors of racial equality

and liberty. It was not just the violence committed against mulattos and blacks that

angered Boisrond-Tonnerre but also the loss of property and infringement on recently

won freedom.31 As a rising “minor official and aspiring rebuilder of plantations,” the

return of ancien régime policies with the French expedition threatened the racial equality

for which he and the older generation of free men of color had fought, and not just the

abolition of slavery.32 Moreover, liberty and equality implied land ownership, especially

for Boisrond-Tonnerre who had leased sequestered plantations that may have belonged

to former French colonists. The return of French forces could terminate this ownership

and the individual’s life. A personal witness to the violence, Boisrond-Tonnerre revealed

how the events of 1802-03 affected him while also justifying the insurgents’ struggle for

independence and Haiti’s right to exist.

30 Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 76-77.

31 Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 70.

32 Garrigus, “Victims,” 21.

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The conclusion of his memoirs may be surprising to scholars of the Haitian

Revolution because it lacks the climatic ending of the Battle of Vertières. Instead,

Boisrond-Tonnerre traced the movement of troops from campaigns in central Saint-

Domingue to Haut-du-Cap and stated “that one day sufficed for Dessalines to make

Rochambeau surrender” and that those interested could read the journal from this

campaign.33 The details of the battle were less important than the result: Dessalines and

the native army won. Furthermore, the cruelties Boisrond-Tonnerre just recounted

demonstrated the legitimacy of their struggle. The result of the battle appears not at the

end of the memoir but the beginning. At the bottom of the 1804 title page, absent from

the 1851 edition, in bold typeface is the publication date: “Year One of Independence.”

Boisrond-Tonnerre’s memoir records for posterity Haiti’s origins, and the title page

establishes the country’s new story commencing with the Declaration of Independence.

Independence on Stage: Pierre Flignau’s L’Haïtien expatrié (1804)

Boisrond-Tonnerre turned to prose to preserve the history of Haiti’s founding; a

fellow young intellectual, Pierre Flignau, chose to perform the origin story. One of Haiti’s

earliest playwrights, Flignau wrote and produced L’Haïtien expatrié: comédie en trois

actes et en prose in 1804. We know almost nothing about his life. The snippets of it that

we can piece together point to the commonalities such as status and education that

shaped Haitian writers’ formative years, as well as differences in revolutionary

experiences that may have affected their political leanings. From a publication note by

his nephew, who published Flignau’s play almost forty years later, we can glean that he

33 “Cette seule journée lui suffit pour faire capituler Rochambeau,” Boisrond-Tonnerre, Mémoires, 90.

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died at an early age and had family who preserved his work.34 As we will see with other

authors, family helped publish works posthumously. From details of the play’s

production, we can infer that Flignau came from southern Haiti, probably the port city of

Les Cayes, where his play was performed in November 1804. He represented a

generation of young men who came of age during the revolution and who then sought to

define their new Haitian identity. This identity, however, was greatly shaped by

regionalism. Flignau’s play recounts a specifically southern tale in which racism is an

evil of colonialism but color prejudice is an invention of Saint-Domingue’s northerners

(Haitians).

Flignau, like Boisrond-Tonnerre and the subsequent authors in this chapter,

embodied the image of a warrior intellectual as well as regional identity politics. Flignau

dedicated his play to the southern hero, General Nicolas Geffrard and thanked him for

his “encouragement [of] young men who, like me, want to refine the feeble talents

nature has given them.”35 As an intellectual, Flignau understood the importance of the

pen in defining the new nation; his dedication acknowledged the critical role of military

leaders like Geffrard. However, in naming Geffrard, the leading southern general of the

War for Independence, Flignau indicated his regional loyalty. His dedication was not to

Dessalines but to Geffrard, who earlier that year (1804) had defied the new head of

state by delaying the massacre of French residents and allowing Frenchmen and

34 “Publication note” in L’Haïtien expatrié: comédie en trois actes et en prose (Port-au-Prince : T. Bouchereau, 1840), np. The online database of the Association de Généalogie d’Haïti has a death notice for a Pierre Flignaux dated 23 April 1823, who was most likely the author and did die at a young age, http://www.agh.qc.ca/.

35 “L’encouragement que vous donnez aux jeunes-gens qui, comme moi, désirent de cultiver les faibles talens [sic] que la nature leur a départis,” “Dédication,” in L’Haïtien, np.

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women to escape. Historian Philippe Girard notes that Geffrard’s and other mixed-race

generals’ actions illustrate the complex relationships “between white and mixed-race

families” in the southern peninsula. He continues, “though opposed to French rule in

general, [they] were unwilling to kill a French neighbor or stepbrother.”36 In contrast to

Boisrond-Tonnerre’s anti-French rhetoric in the Declaration and Mémoires, Flignau’s

reference to Geffrard demonstrates the provincial charater of the work and presents an

initial fracture in the unity celebrated on 1 January.

His play places an additional spin on national identity formation and the

recounting of the revolution. L’Haïtien expatrié, as the title suggests, does not take

place in Haiti; rather the action unfolds in the nearby Danish island of St. Thomas. Exile

was a reality Saint-Domingue’s residents experienced regardless of color.37 Flignau’s

play, perhaps biographical, speaks to the problems that men of African descent faced in

neighboring slave societies where they took refuge. Moreover, Flignau recounted the

events of the revolution from the perspective of exiles and concluded with a

homecoming for the two main characters. Their return speaks to the demographic

needs of the new nation. Not only did former residents come back, Haiti’s first head of

state, Jean-Jacques Dessalines issued a proclamation to American ship captains to

transport any “Native Blacks and Men of Colour” who were in the United States and

36 Philippe Girard, The Slaves Who Defeated Napoleon: Toussaint Louverture and the Haitian War of Independence, 1801-1804 (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2011), 320.

37 Ashli White estimates that at least twenty thousand “black, white, and colored refugees” arrived in North America between New York and New Orleans (White, Encountering Revolution: Haiti and the Making of the Early Republic (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), 2). Gabriel Debien claims that over “700 officers and soldiers” left following Rigaud’s defeat by Louverture (Debien, “The Saint Domingue Refugees in Cuba, 1793-1815,” in The Road to Louisiana: The Saint-Domingue Refugees 1792-1809, ed. Carl A. Brasseaux and Glenn R. Conrad (Lafayette, LA: Center for Louisiana Studies, 1992), 40).

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unable to return to Haiti “for want of the means.” Dessalines backed up this request with

money; he would pay captains “Forty Dollars” for each person brought home.38 Alix and

Lindor’s homecoming was voluntary, though racial prejudice helped persuade them to

move. Perhaps individuals who took up Dessalines’s offer of passage faced similar

circumstances in the U.S. making Alix and Lindor’s experiences in St. Thomas

applicable to other Saint-Dominguan refugees of color. On one hand, the theme of

homecoming was a common trait shared by this first generation of Haitian intellectuals

who experienced the revolutionary era from diverse locations, yet chose to return to

help build the new nation. On the other hand, it demonstrates Haiti’s demographic

losses and the state’s policies to repopulate the country with both voluntary and

involuntary migrants.

In the opening monologue, Flignau introduced the theme of racial discrimination.

Alix, a young exiled Haitian, speaks of the difficulties he had landing in St. Thomas

because “I am not white.”39 St. Thomas, unlike Saint-Domingue, had not ended racial

discrimination nor abolished slavery.40 Moreover, St. Thomas at the time of the play’s

production was still a colony. In locating the play’s action in a neighboring colony,

Flignau may have been commenting on Haitian independence: to live free from racial

prejudice required national independence. Like many exiled Saint-Dominguans of color,

the character Alix reencounters the colonial color hierarchy upon arrival and is only

38 Marcus Rainsford, An Historical Account of the Black Empire of Hayti (London: Albion Press, 1805), 350. 39 Pierre Flignau, L’Haïtien expatrié, 7.

40 In 1792 French revolutionary government passed legislation making all free men equal regardless of color and in summer and fall of 1793 French civil commissioners Étienne Polverel and Léger-Félicité Sonthonax abolished slavery in Saint-Domingue.

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allowed to disembark because a white Danish merchant paid his entry. Later in the play,

Alix and his new acquaintance also from Saint-Domingue, Lindor, are called before a

judge and their identities are put on trial. The judge mocks Lindor who self-identifies as

a former army officer from Saint-Domingue and Bambara; Lindor as a black man,

especially one born in Africa, should not be free nor hold a military title.41 Alix also

declares he was from Saint-Domingue, but when asked his “color” he responds,

“look.”42 The judge is highly offended by his attitude and claims Alix believes he can

“pass” for white, which is worse than Lindor’s freedom and ability to bear arms.43 The

courtroom scene mocks the colonial color hierarchy, but also serves to define the two

main populations that will help build the Haitian nation, those of African birth and mixed-

race men born on the island.

Alix and Lindor represent the alliance between free men of color and the recently

freed slaves that secured Haiti’s independence, as well as Flignau’s regional

interpretation of revolutionary events. Neither man participated in the final struggle

against the French because they were in exile. Nevertheless through their exchanges

with other characters, they learn of events in Saint-Domingue, which prompts them to

recount their own experiences of the revolution. First, Alix explains that he left his home

because of “the horrors that happened” there.44 Flignau’s audience in Les Cayes could

have easily understood the possible horrors Alix experienced as a mixed-race young

41 Flignau, L’Haïtien, 15-16. Lindor specifies that his is not just African but Bambara, thus defining himself by his nation. 42 Flignau, L’Haïtien, 17.

43 Flignau, L’Haïtien, 17.

44 “Les horreurs qui s’exercent dans ma patrie,” Flignau, L’Haïtien, 8.

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man in Saint-Domingue’s southern peninsula. The modern reader, unlike the audience,

cannot draw on a shared past; however, one can imagine that Alix is referring to the civil

war between rival leaders André Rigaud and Toussaint Louverture. Louverture’s victory

was achieved through a violent reaction against Rigaud’s supporters, who included

many free men of color. Through his semi-veiled reference to the war’s aftermath,

Flignau accused Toussaint and his generals, including the current Haitian head of state

Jean-Jacques Dessalines, of being prejudiced against mixed-race Saint-Dominguans.

To escape the northern insurgents’ vengeance, many southern residents had fled to

neighboring islands. Alix may represent these exiled men, though Flignau did not date

his arrival in St. Thomas. The only clue he provides comes from the Danish merchant

who helped Alix land. He tells Alix that the French have invaded Saint-Domingue, seek

to re-establish slavery, and are now fighting rebelling forces under the command of

Dessalines.45 The conversation dates their exchange to late 1802 or early 1803 during

the war of independence.

In the next scene, Flignau elaborated on the play’s historical context through the

experiences of Lindor. Born in West Africa, as evidenced by his declaration in court and

facial scarification, Lindor was a slave in Saint-Domingue who earned his freedom

through the 1793 emancipation proclamations of Sonthonax and Polverel.46 He fought

for Rigaud during the civil war, which he contends was started by “our barbarous

enemies,” the French, and then spent several years as an English prisoner before

45 Flignau, L’Haïtien, 9.

46 In response to Alix’s question if Lindor is a “creole,” he answers, “Créole, non: les marques que je porte sur ma figure ne laissent pas de doute que je suis Africain…” Flignau, L’Haïtien, 10.

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arriving in St. Thomas.47 Flignau’s portrait of Lindor presents what will become a

common contention that French manipulation led to the civil war; however, it also

illustrates the complexity of regional and color alliances: Lindor, a West African by birth,

chose to fight for Rigaud not Louverture. Flignau’s two protagonists of color speak to the

author’s regionalism. Through characterization, he constructed the first argument (post-

independence) for the lack of color prejudice in southern Haiti and explained that

French meddling was the cause of the civil war, not color or class antagonisms between

Rigaud and Toussaint.

To conclude the piece, Flignau’s exiled soldiers return home. Upon learning that

the French in Saint-Domingue have surrendered, the two men decide to return home to

“the land of liberty.”48 Alix exclaims “we will taste the fruit of our brothers’ labors.”49

While this could be perceived as an attempt to take advantage of the freedom and

independence for which the insurgent forces fought, Flignau presented Alix and Lindor’s

homecoming as a general call for all “Haitians” to return and assist in the new process

of building a nation. Alix reminds himself, Lindor, and the audience that all citizens must

swear “to spill their last drop of blood to maintain Haiti’s independence.”50 Even from St.

Thomas, Lindor and Alix can share in the national oath and promise to protect Haiti.

Their return is the physical evidence of this promise and a sign to other refugees to

come home. Nevertheless, this national homecoming is tainted by regional sentiment.

47 Flignau, L’Haïtien, 11.

48 “la terre de la liberté,” Flignau, L’Haïtien, 20. 49 “ nous goûterons le fruit des travaux de nos frères,” Flignau, L’Haïtien, 20.

50 “ verser la dernière goutte de leur sang pour soutenir l’indépendance d’Haïti,” Flignau, L’Haïtien, 20.

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While Alix and Lindor embody the theme of unity, Flignau’s narrative and dedication to

General Geffrard demonstrate potential divisions in the national vision.

Divided Loyalties: Kingdom vs. Republic, 1807-1820

The project of building the first black and post-slavery nation-state in the

Americas turned out to be far more difficult than Lindor and Alix’s exclamations suggest.

Within two years, the alliances that helped secure independence crumbled and the first

head of state, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, faced a rebellion launched from the south and

supported by his own generals. The unrest led to his assassination in October 1806 and

the ensuing power struggle divided Haiti between two main rulers: Alexandre Pétion and

Henry Christophe.51 Haiti’s new intelligentsia had to choose sides, especially if they

wanted employment and access to publishing. The history of the revolution became a

strategy to justify either government as the guarantor of independence, thus

establishing a debate over authoritarianism versus republicanism. For both sides of the

debate, Haiti’s founding served to combat racial prejudice and demonstrate Afro-

descendants’ capacity for self-government. Moreover, in justifying the actions of the

revolutionaries, authors sought to obtain international recognition of Haiti. Yet, as each

author attempted to reconcile the challenge of recording Haiti’s history, their loyalities to

region and patron, their experience of the revolution, and family background shaped the

choices they made.

51 For a short period of time (1810-1812) Haiti was divided between four different states: a republic under Alexandre Pétion based in Port-au-Prince, a breakaway Republic of the Department of the South under André Rigaud, an insurgent state led by ex-slave Goman (Jean-Baptiste Perrier) in Grande Anse (the tip of Haiti’s southern peninsula), and a northern kingdom under Henry Christophe. Only the first and last produced major publications and will be the focus of this chapter.

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Royalist and Republican: The Many Faces of Juste Chanlatte

Juste Chanlatte, a colleague of Boisrond-Tonnerre’s, survived the 1806 coup

d’état and became one of Henry Christophe’s publicists. Born circa 1766 in Port-au-

Prince, Chanlatte was the mixed-race son of Pierre-Rémy (or Rémi) Chanlatte.52 The

Chanlatte family tree reveals a prosperous family of color with four daughters and

connections in southern Saint-Domingue. In contrast to the other three authors in this

section, Chanlatte grew up in a household of gens de couleur but had a living white

grandfather, unlike Boisrond-Tonnerre. While very little is known about his youth, Juste

grew up with politically and militarily active family members and received an education

in France.53 He returned to Saint-Domingue on the eve of the revolution and played a

prominent role in the fight for racial equality in the west, earning the rank of major

general, and penning one of the revolution’s most violent documents.54 Following the

British invasion of 1793, Chanlatte sided, at least temporarily, with the occupation forces

that controlled the west through the mid-1790s. With the withdrawal of the British and

consolidation of French republican control under Toussaint Louverture, he apparently

52 Chanlatte’s date of birth is generally given as 1766. Max Bissainthe claims he died at age 60 in 1828, which would make his birth year 1768: Max Bissainthe, Dictionnaire de bibliographie haïtienne, 59. Unfortunately, I have yet to find a baptismal record for either of Juste’s possible birthplaces, Port-au-Prince or Jacmel. Pierre-Rémy was a successful Port-au-Prince merchant and property owner in central Saint Domingue. His family included Antoine Chanlatte, who became a brigadier general during the Haitian Revolution and was elected to the Council of 500 in Paris: Moreau de Saint-Méry, Description, 217. David Geggus contends Antoine was Juste’s uncle, see “The Changing Faces of Toussaint Louverture: Literary and Pictorial Descriptions,” John Carter Brown Library, accessed 2 Sept. 2013, http://www.brown.edu/Facilities/John_Carter_Brown_Library/toussaint/pages/footnotes.html, footnote 10 and Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002) 301n71.

53 Scholars offer two possible institutions, Louis Le Grand Lycée or the Paris Oratoire, see Christophe Philippe Charles, Littérature Haïtienne: Les Pionniers-L’Ecole de 1836 (Port-au-Prince: Editions Choucoune, 2001), 37; Michèle Oriol, Histoire et Dictionnaire de la Révolution et de l’Indépendance d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: Foundation pour la Recherche Iconographiques et Documentaire, 2002), 173.

54 Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988-1991) 1:130; Geggus, The Haitian Revolution, 70.

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fled to the U.S.55 The arrest of Toussaint in 1802 opened an avenue for Chanlatte’s

return, and by 1804 he was one of Jean-Jacques Dessalines’ secretaries along with

Boisrond-Tonnerre and Etienne Mentor. In contrast to Boisrond-Tonnerre, who

experienced the horrors of racial violence enacted by French forces in the southern

peninsula, it is unclear if Chanlatte witnessed the trauma of 1802-1803. The lack of first-

hand experience may have tempered his interpretation of Haiti’s founding. Regardless,

Chanlatte, like his colleagues, expressed his own anti-French sentiments during

Dessalines’ spring massacres of remaining French colonists.56

Following Dessalines’s assassination, Chanlatte, though of mixed-race and from

the West moved north and served under Henry Christophe as editor of La Gazette

d’Hayti (later Gazette Royale) and as an official publicist alongside Pompée Valentin

Vastey. Under Christophe, Chanlatte emerged on the Haitian literary scene as a poet,

playwright, and pamphleteer. After Christophe’s death in 1820, he moved back to Port-

au-Prince and took up a job with the republic’s official paper, Le Télégraphe. He died

there in 1828.57 Successfully working for Dessalines’s empire, Christophe’s kingdom,

and Boyer’s republic, Chanlatte was the most politically versatile of the early authors.

His literary output illustrates an impressive adaptability both in terms of audience and

genre. His works include pamphlets, poetry, and theatrical dramas. In spite of his multi-

genre repertoire, Chanlatte’s texts have been understudied. My discussion will focus on

two texts that illuminate Chanlatte’s versatility and shifting ideologies. First is his only

55 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 301n71.

56 Joseph Saint-Rémy contended that Chanlatte advocated and participated in the massacres, Joseph Saint-Rémy, Pétion et Haiti: Étude monographique et historique (Paris: August Durand, 1857), 4:25-6, 47.

57 Raphaël Berrou and Pradel Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne: illustrée par les textes (Port-au-Prince: Éditions Caraïbes, 1975-77), 1:25.

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(non-newspaper) non-fiction piece Le Cri de la nature ou hommage haytien (1810).

Originally published in Haiti, a revised edition appeared in Paris in 1824 with an

introduction by a French professor of rhetoric, A.J. Bouvet de Cressé. At the same time

the Paris publication appeared, Chanlatte was also working on an epic poem; however

L’Haïtiade: poème épique en huit chants would not be printed until 1878. Together the

two texts exemplify Chanlatte’s discursive shifts from the early noirisme of Boisrond-

Tonnerre and Baron de Vastey to a more mulâtriste vision compatible with his final

patron, President Jean-Pierre Boyer.

In Le Cri de la nature Chanlatte presented a complete narrative of the Haitian

Revolution that sought to explain the revolution as a necessary anti-colonial and anti-

slavery struggle. Expanding upon Boisrond-Tonnerre’s work, he argued that Haitian

independence was a means to ensure emancipation and racial equality, and developed

a more explicit argument against slavery and racial prejudice through a discussion of

equality based on Biblical and ancient history.

His first chapter offers the first celebration of Haitians’ African heritage and

serves to refute pro-slavery arguments that blacks were inferior. He declared that “nous”

(Haitians/Blacks) had accomplished great feats as evidenced by the “ruins” in “Egypt,

India, and the Iberian Peninsula.”58 Here, Chanlatte connected Haitians to an African

past and suggested a solidarity among colonial peoples. David Nicholls notes that this

was a common trope writers in the northern kingdom and southern republic used: “they

agreed in seeing Haiti as a symbol of black dignity and black power in a world

58 “L’Inde, l’Égypte et la péninsule d’Espagne conservent encore quelques restes du glorieux passage de leurs ancêtres…” Juste Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature (Cap Haïtien: Chez P. Roux, Imp. de l’Etat, 1810), 7.

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dominated by European nations.”59 The ruins of Egypt were a particularly relevant

example, and Chanlatte may have had in mind the French 1798 expedition to Egypt.

Napoleon did not just invade the region, but sought to record and preserve its culture

and history. Through images and publications produced by the Institute of Egypt,

European audiences discovered the pyramids and Sphinx.60 If he was in Paris at the

time (1798), Chanlatte most likely read or heard about the expedition. His reference to

Egypt placed Haitians in a geneology of great black societies that were capable of

producing the monuments found by Napoleon’s corps of scholars and were not the

barbarians planters and slave traders claimed.

While Nicholls includes Chanlatte as one of the authors heralding Haiti as a

symbol of black potential, other authors have overlooked his 1810 publication and

frequently turn to his colleague the Baron de Vastey as the initiator of a nineteenth-

century pan-Africanism. For example, literary scholar Léon-François Hoffmann

contends, “I believe Vastey is the first New World Black to have claimed ethnic identity

with the builders of the Pyramids, whom he sees as having handed the torch of

civilization to the Greeks.”61 Reading Chanlatte with Vastey demonstrates that Vastey

built upon the earlier ideas proclaimed by Chanlatte and that the two royal secretaries

may have exchanged views on African heritage. French literary scholar Auguste Viatte

noted just this in his 1950 survey of Francophone literature: “his Cri de la nature, in

59 David Nicholls, From Dessalines, 41.

60 In 1809 the first volumes of Description l’Égypte appeared in Paris, but members of the Institute of Egypt published their own memoirs in Paris upon their return. The Institute also had a journal created upon its founding in 1798.

61 Léon-François Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisted (Pueblo, CO: Passeggiata Press, 1999), 77.

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1810, anticipated the anticolonial diatribes of Vastey.”62 Although Viatte negatively

referred to the anti-colonial rhetoric as diatribes, he acknowledged Chanlatte’s

precedence to Vastey. Thus, in the opening chapter of his chronicle, Chanlatte made

what is probably the first claim for both Haitians’ African heritage and anti-colonial

solidarity. Haitians would have the opportunity to write an alternative story to the white

racialized narratives and demonstrate the potential of African descendants in the

Americas.

Chanlatte’s revelation of a glorious black past served to counter planters’

arguments that blacks were inferior. He contended that to speak of “our” inferiority “was

to legitimate, in a way, the actions of traders in human flesh and to lay down a

justification for slavery.”63 This was an argument that would echo through contemporary

Haitian publications, but Chanlatte may have been the first to fully express the idea in

print.64 In deconstructing the claims of slave traders and planters, Chanlatte advocated

for the unity of the human race and contextualized the Haitians’ motivation to revolt.

Racial differences were fictions constructed by immoral men to justify slavery. Chanlatte

defined slave traders and planters as immoral because they acted against an equality

ordained by God. Three centuries of enslavement legitimated Haitian revolutionaries’

rebelling against this immorality.65 And, similar to Boisrond-Tonnerre, Chanlatte further

62 “…son Cri de la Nature, en 1810, a devancé les diatribes anticoloniales de Vastey…,” quoted in Aude Dieudé, “Toussaint Louverture and Haiti’s History as Muse: Legacies of Colonial and Postcolonial Resistance in Francophone African and Caribbean Corpus” (PhD diss., Duke University, 2013), 56.

63 “ Désavouer en nous l’unité d’espèce, poser en fait notre infériorité morale, c’était légitimer en quelque sorte le traffic des vendeurs de chair humaine et constituer en principe le droit de l’esclavage.” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 9.

64 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 41, and Dieudé, “Toussaint Louverture,” 51.

65 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 11.

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reasoned that the immorality of these men made them, not Haitians, the barbarians. His

argument of racial equality serves as an introduction to the revolution and as a

vindication of Haitians’ struggle against the French, “les tyrans de l’innocence.”66

After establishing this framework, Chanlatte turned to the history of the

revolution. He began his account, not in Saint Domingue, but in France. The

revolutionary “commotion” of the metropole was felt across the Atlantic and catalyzed

events in the colony.67 For Chanlatte the first key actors were free men of color,

specifically Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Chavanne, who were brutally executed

following their failed uprising in the fall of 1790. Though celebratory, Chanlatte criticized

Ogé for not extending the revolt beyond free men of color to the slaves. Later mulâtriste

writers would significantly revise Ogé’s agenda to make him an anti-slavery proponent.

In contrast, Chanlatte did not attempt to re-interpret Ogé’s actions to fit his vision of the

revolution as an anti-slavery struggle. Rather, he explained that Ogé’s rejection of

Chavanne’s proposal to incorporate slaves was the reason why the uprising failed.68

Ogé served as an example of how not to lead a rebellion. Success hinged on the

adoption of anti-slavery, not just racial equality for those already free. Chanlatte did

admit that their revolt and deaths were a necessary step in the struggle for

emancipation and, ultimately, Haitian independence: “this scaffold became the altar

where noble liberty would one day sit, later joined by her beloved daughter

66 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 17.

67 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 28-29.

68 “ …il [Ogé] ne voulut appeler autour de lui que des hommes libres, et il échoua dans son entreprise,” Chanlatte, Le Cri d la nature, 29.

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independence.”69 The image of liberty and independence suggests that the free men of

color learned from Ogé’s failure that the abolition of slavery was necessary for

independence.

Although abolition was central to independence, the men and women the

revolution freed played a limited role in Chanlatte’s narrative. While the three centuries

of slavery served to explain the motivations for revolution, Chanlatte offered only a

veiled reference to slaves: “The first blows were then struck against the hydra of slavery

and this electrical current spread from one end of the island to the other.”70 Whether

these attacks on slavery were initiated by slaves or refer to the emancipation decrees,

Chanlatte’s electric current implies that all of Saint-Domingue’s population responded

and took up the struggle against slavery. However, the only former slaves who appear

in the narrative are leaders such as Toussaint Louverture. Thus, aside from this

moment, ordinary nouveaux libres (former slaves) are not actors in Chanlatte’s

narrative, even though their freedom is the principal cause of the revolution.

Quickly passing through the events of the 1790s, Chanlatte chose to dwell on

two: abolition, which illustrated the potential of moral white men, and the civil war

between André Rigaud and Toussaint Louverture, an example of the machinations of

immoral white men. Chanlatte commended the actions of Sonthonax and Polverel for

seeing beyond the planters’ false constructions of black inferiority. However, he covered

the 1793 emancipation decrees in a sentence and simply referred to them as a last

69 “Mais cet échafaud est devenu l’autel où l’auguste liberté devait un jour s’asseoir, et bientôt fixer auprès d’elle sa fille chérie l’indépendance,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 29.

70 “Dès lors l’hydre de l’esclavage reçut les premiers blessures, et cette impulsion électrique se communique d’un bout de l’île à l’autre,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 29

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resort measure to maintain French control of the colony.71 His lack of interest in the

1793 decrees supports the pamphlet’s central argument that complete emancipation

could only be achieved with independence. Chanlatte proceeded to demonstrate how

this freedom could be challenged through the war between Louverture and Rigaud. A

trope that would become common among mulâtristes, he blamed white men for causing

internal divisions among Saint-Domingue’s Afro-descendant leadership. In describing

the war’s causes, he clarified: “and so began the internal divisions, fed in part by the

unrestrained ambition of the foolish Rigaud, and provoked in turn by the shrewd politics

of white men.”72 On one hand, Chanlatte blamed Rigaud, which may have been a sign

of his regional affiliation with Christophe’s northern kingdom.73 On the other hand, he

denounced the meddling white men just as Rigaud had done and as other mulâtriste

authors would.74 In this case, he specifically attacked General Gabriel Marie Théodore

Joseph d’Hédouville, the representative of the French government, who, Chanlatte

argued, pitted gens de couleur and nouveaux libres against each other, so as to win the

colony back for white Frenchmen.75

Absent from direct blame was Toussaint Louverture. Yet this did not absolve the

leader of criticism. Chanlatte’s portrayal of Louverture displays similarities with the 1801

71 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 31.

72 “ …ainsi commencèrent ces divisions intestines, alimentées d’une part l’ambition démesurée de l’insensé Rigaud, et suscitées de l’autre par la politique astucieuse des hommes blancs…” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 35.

73 Chanlatte or his uncle Antoine made a similar argument in Vie privée, politique et militaire de Toussaint Louverture (Paris: Magasin de Librairie, 1801).

74 See André Rigaud, Mémoire du général de brigade André Rigaud, en réfutation des écrits calomnieux contre les citoyens de couleur de Saint-Domingue (Aux Cayes: imp. de Lemery, 1797).

75 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 35.

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anonymous text, Vie privée, politique et militaire de Toussaint Louverture, which Juste

or his uncle Antoine probably authored. In this brief scene, however, Chanlatte painted

an overwhelmingly more positive image of Toussaint. He stated that Louverture had met

with Hédouville earlier and learned that he planned to arrest Rigaud. Louverture

supposedly wrote and warned the southern general believing Rigaud would see through

Hédouville’s false promises. Chanlatte lamented that Louverture did not act and stop

Rigaud from returning to the south, because he had given Rigaud his word that he could

return home freely. While Chanlatte admitted the civil war was won by the right side,

Louverture’s, he implied that the general was flawed because he was “a slave to his

word.”76 Chanlatte offered similar praise and criticism of Louverture’s ability to rebuild

Saint-Domingue’s agriculture and trade after the civil war and his favoritism towards

French planters.77 Chanlatte tempered his critique by explaining that this reproach

applied to many “of our leaders [and] proves that we know how to forget injustices and

treat our enemies fairly.”78 Louverture thus serves to show that Haitians have the moral

high ground. Unlike the French, who had yet to recognize the country’s independence,

Louverture and other leaders were able to forgive and move forward.

Concluding the narrative, Chanlatte recounted the arrival of the French

expedition in 1802 as an affront to emancipation and further evidence of the immorality

of planters. Like Boisrond-Tonnerre, he dedicated considerable space to detailing the

atrocities committed by the French. Using an adjective common in Haitian writings, he

76 “trop esclave de sa parole,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 35.

77 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 35.

78 “Ce reproche que l’on a pu appliquer à plusieurs de nos chefs, prouve que nous savons oublier les injustes, traiter généreusement nos ennemis…,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 32.

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referred to the period as a time of barbarity that required the Afro-descendants of Saint-

Domingue to invent new words to describe the new crimes the French committed.79

Chanlatte recorded the horrors to demonstrate how French violence and the repeal of

racial equality and emancipation pushed Haitians to fight for independence. Chanlatte

did not assign the decision to turn against the French expedition to any of Haiti’s early

leaders. Rather, Saint-Dominguans’ dedication to the ideals of liberty and equality and

their rejection of tyranny motivated them all—“us”—to fight the French. He contended,

“So many unheard of barbarities and executions forced us [Haitians] to run to the

woods, whence resonated our cries for vengeance.”80 Chanlatte’s description of

Haitians taking to the woods suggests the phenomenon of marronage and its centrality

to the revolution. Similar to his discussion of attacks on slavery and the electric current

of liberty passing across the colony, Chanlatte’s account only makes oblique reference

to Haiti’s former slave population and its experiences of the revolution. He obviously

was not interested in detailing different perspectives. Instead, as his use of the pronoun

“us” implies, the narrative implies that all Haitians joined together in the struggle. The

pronoun also signifies a constant theme in commemorations and writing on the

revolution: unity. It was only with the unity of former slaves and free people of color that

independence was achieved.

While the French had helped usher in racial equality and the abolition of slavery,

the final expedition threatened to reverse these advances using unlimited violence.

Chanlatte proposed a radical hypothetical that if the French had not employed such

79 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 38 and 48.

80 “Tant de barbaries, d’exécutions inouïes nous ayant forcés de nous jeter dans les bois, le cri de la vengeance a résonné de toutes parts,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 53.

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violent actions, perhaps Saint-Domingue would have remained a colony. He further

noted that it was not just violence but the assignation of identities—oppressor and

oppressed—that pushed Haitians to seek independence.81 Before the arrival of Leclerc,

the island was rebuilding under Louverture’s guidance. However, the reimposition of

ancien régime roles established “a necessary fight” which could only be resolved by the

expulsion of the French.82 The anti-slavery argument of Chanlatte’s opening chapter

comes full circle in the conclusion to his narrative of the revolution. Independence is

defined as emancipation.

If European planters, slave traders, and military generals were immoral,

Chanlatte made a diplomatic move in his final chapter to show that not all Europeans or

whites were. He stated, “Finally I breathe; my pen has only to apply itself to subjects

that smile at the thought and honor the human race.”83 The final chapter serves as a

release from the horrors of immorality described in the first three chapters. Moreover, it

distinguishes Chanlatte from his colleague the Baron de Vastey, whom visitors

described as maintaining a strong hatred towards whites.84 Chanlatte’s tone of

forgiveness also helps explain why his text was republished over a decade later in Paris

and its adoption by abolitionist organizations.

81 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 54.

82 Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 54.

83 “Je respire enfin; ma plume n’a plus à s’exercer que sur des sujets qui sourient à la pensée et font honneur à l’homme,” Chanlatte, Le Cri de la nature, 65.

84 William W. Harvey, Sketches of Hayti: from the expulsion of the French to the death of Christophe (London: L.B. Seely and Sons, 1827), 223-224.

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Originally published in Cap-Haïtien, the pamphlet had a limited audience, yet it

received mention among European abolitionists, thanks especially to the work of Abbé

Grégoire.85 Knowledge of the text and its message may have prompted A.J. Bouvet de

Cressé, a former French professor of rhetoric and publicist for the French navy, to

publish a revised edition for European readers over a decade later.86 Cressé’s edits

suggest he may also have had abolitionists in mind. Unfortunately, little is known about

Cressé and, aside from David Nicholls, few scholars have read the two editions

together; I will survey the key differences between the two texts and suggest several

possible abolitionist connections.87

Cressé’s re-publication prepared Chanlatte’s pamphlet for a larger, specifically

French, audience. First, to help the reader easily identify the subject matter of the text,

Cressé changed the title from Le Cri de la nature to Histoire de la catastrophe de Saint-

Domingue. The revision put Chanlatte’s text in conversation with contemporary

85 Chanlatte’s text circulated in abolitionist circles. French abolitionist the Abbé Grégoire mentioned it in his pamphlet, De la traite et de l’esclavage des noirs et des blancs (Paris: Adrien Egron, Imp, 1815). An excerpt appeared in English translation that same year in The Eclectic Review 3, no. 21 (1815): 490-496.

86 Juste Chanlatte, Histoire de la Catastrophe de Saint Domingue avec la Correspondance des généraux (Paris: Librairie de Peytieux, 1824). More research needs to be done to understand Cressé’s motivations in publishing Chanlatte’s text; however, he had an active publishing career and was the sole author of two other works: Histoire de la marine de tous les peuples, depuis la plus haute antiquité, jusqu’à nos jours (Paris: An André, 1824); Précis des victoires et conquêtes des Français dans les deux mondes, de 1792 à 1813 (Paris: Tenon, 1823). 87 David Nicholls references both the 1810 and 1824 edition and claims Cressé made substantial revisions, but he does not expand on this point: Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 266, n27. More recently, Aude Dieudé’s dissertation examines his writings; however she makes no mention of the 1810 edition and focuses solely on the 1824 version, which is accessible online: “Toussaint Louverture and Haiti’s History as Muse: Legacies of Colonial and Postcolonial Resistance in Francophone African and Caribbean Corpus” (PhD diss., Duke University, 2012). The original 1810 text in Foyle Special Collections at King’s College, London is not identical, yet I cannot fault Dieudé for using the more accessible text. However, she argues that Juste Chanlatte is the “rightful author” and used his initials “to write and publish his essay without risking his life and prevent any kind of threats, critics and censorship” (Dieudé, “Toussaint Louverture and Haiti’s History,” 49). While a French public may have responded differently than Haitian readers, it is doubtful Chanlatte feared threats or censorship because he had already published the same text in 1810. The use of initials may have been Cressé’s choice.

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European publications on the Haitian Revolution, perhaps a calculated move on

Cressé’s part to draw readers who were familiar with earlier accounts of the revolution

and French debates on re-taking the island.88 Yet, in publishing Chanlatte’s work in

Paris, his goal was not to support the efforts of ex-colons but to expose the impossibility

of such schemes.89 Second, beyond the title page, Cressé intervened to legitimate the

author and text. In “Author’s Note” he inserted an explanatory footnote introducing the

author for French readers, “M.J.C., orator, historian, poet, and one of the most

distinguished writers of the New World.”90 This clarification establishes the legitimacy of

Chanlatte and assigns the author an illustrious reputation. In his preface, Cressé

praised Chanlatte’s style, an additional sign of his distinction. Lastly, at the conclusion of

the text’s appendix of correspondence he added a final note attesting to the authenticity

of the documents.91 The comment refers to the letters from Henry Christophe and

French generals involved in the 1802 expedition. Although Christophe’s state secretary

and Chanlatte’s contemporary, Joseph Rouanez, had already confirmed the letters’

88 For example see Antoine Dalmas, Histoire de la révolution de Saint-Domingue: depuis le commencement des troubles jusqu'à la prise de Jérémie et du môle S. Nicolas par les anglais: suivie d'un mémoire sur le rétablissement de cette colonie (Paris: chez Mame frères, 1814); Mazères, De l’Utilité des colonies, des causes intérieures de la perte de Saint Dominge et des moyens d’en recouvrer la possession (Paris: Renard, 1814); James Barskett and Charles Malo, Histoire de l'île de Saint Domingue, depuis l'époque de sa découverte par Christophe Colomb jusqu'à l'année 1818 ; publiée sur des documents authentiques et suivie de pièces justificatives (Paris: L. Janet, 1819); Charles Vincent, Observations du Général du Génie Vincent (Paris, 1824) ; Pamphile de Lacroix, Mémoires pour servir à l'histoire de la révolution de Saint-Domingue (Paris: Chez Pillet Ainé, 1819).

89 A.J. Bouvet de Cressé, « Préface, » in Histoire de la catastrophe (Paris: Librairie de Peytieux, 1824), vii.

90 “M.J.C., orateur, historien et poëte, et l’un des écrivains les plus distingués du Nouveau Monde,” Chanlatte, Histoire de la Catastrophe, i.

91 Chanlatte, Histoire de la catastrophe, 153.

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legitimacy, the statement by a white man helped assuage any reader’s doubts about the

documents and the narrative.

Cressé’s insertions and validations of Chanlatte and his text are reminiscent of

techniques used by American and British abolitionists publishing slave narratives.

Chanlatte received an education in French and had full command of the language as

evidenced by his publishing career. Nevertheless, he was an individual of African

descent writing in a racialized world and, despite his privilege, he required an

intermediary like Cressé to legitimate his writing for foreign (French) audiences. Cressé,

similar to white editors and publicists of slave narratives, warned his readers about the

violent content of the narrative. He even recommended that women not read the

account because “their souls would be too painfully affected; merely reviewing this long

series of crimes against humanity would be dangerous for them.”92 An act of censorship

on the part of Cressé, his warning also attests to the authenticity of Chanlatte’s

narrative.

Cressé left most of the content intact, yet he made a substitution of nouns and

pronouns that suggests a larger audience and possible motivations for the re-

publication. Throughout Chanlatte’s discussion of racial equality and the history of the

slave trade, the Haitian author uses the French pronoun “nous” (we). In this section “we”

refers to Haitians and identifies Haitians with a glorious African past and other colonial

populations. Cressé replaced “we” with “Nègres” (Blacks), which would remove the

specific Haitian connection and extend Chanlatte’s argument for racial equality to other

Afro-descendants. In 1824, it is doubtful Cressé’s re-publication of Chanlatte’s text had

92 “ …leur âme serait trop péniblement affectée ; il y aurait trop de danger pour elles à seulement parcourir cette longue série de crimes de lèse-humanité…“ Cressé, “Préface,” vi.

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any influence on debates over the diplomatic recognition of Haiti; however, his

substitution of “Nègres” for “nous” may suggest a larger goal of emancipation in

France’s other Caribbean colonies. Chanlatte proposed that the immoral institution of

slavery pushed Haitians to revolt; other enslaved blacks might do the same. However, if

moral whites like Cressé helped guide emancipation, the French could avoid war in

Martinique, Guadeloupe, and Guyane. Whether or not Cressé was involved in French

abolitionism, he selected Chanlatte’s text over other Haitian publications, specifically

those of Pompée Valentin Vastey. Although it illustrates the horrors of slavery and the

revolution, Chanlatte’s text was a more neutral option in comparison to Vastey’s

strongly anti-French and anti-Haitian Republic writings. More important, Cressé must

have found value in his exposé of the revolution and perhaps this value was its

suggesting alternative paths to emancipation for European readers.

Chanlatte returned to the challenge of recording Haiti’s origins over a decade

later. This time he narrated not in prose but in alexandrine verse with an AABB rhyme

scheme. The narrative of L’Haïtiade reflectes changes in Haitian politics and

representations of the revolution. Le Cri de la nature had been published while noirisme

was still in vogue, under the black ruler Henry Christophe, but by the 1820s Chanlatte

had moved south to Port-au-Prince and was working under the mixed-race president,

Jean-Pierre Boyer.93 His poem demonstrates a discursive shift towards mulâtrisme,

which is representative of larger trends in Haitian publications on the revolution under

Boyer.

93 “Il [Chanlatte] ne le cache pas, tout au contraire; le texte a été rédigé à une époque ou le ‘noirisme’ était encore en vogue,” Fleischmann, “L’histoire de la fondation de la Nation haïtienne: mythes et abus politiques,” in Haïti 1804: Lumières et ténèbres: Impact et résonances d’une révolution, ed. Léon-François Hoffmannn, Frauke Gewecke, Ulrich Fleischmann (Madrid: Iberoamericana, 2008), 168.

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The epic poem L’Haïtiade recounts Haiti’s revolution in eight chapters. While

there is some debate on Chanlatte’s authorship of the poem, I follow his contemporary

and fellow Haitian author, Hérard Dumesle, who claimed in 1824 that Chanlatte was

working on a poem entitled “la Haïtiade.”94 Haitian literary scholar Duraciné Vaval also

acknowledged Chanlatte as the author and contends that an anonymous version

appeared in Paris in 1827/28, but that the only available copy appeared a half-century

later in Paris with revised orthography.95 Without the original copy, it is not clear how

Vaval substantiated the argument. However, the 1878 printing has updated spelling for

example plural words that end “ants” contain the “t” which is frequently absent in early-

nineteenth-century Haitian writing.96 Perhaps like Histoire de la catastrophe, Chanlatte

94 Hérard Dumesle, Voyage dans le Nord d’Hayti ou revelations des lieux et des monumens historiques (Imp. du Gouvernement: Aux Cayes, 1824), 268. Thomas Prosper Gragnon-Lacoste the editor of the 1878 printing believes the poem was produced between 1827 and 1828 because it bridges two contemporary schools of French poetry the “classical” and “romantic,” (Gragnon-Lacoste, “Avertissement,” in L’Haïtiade: Poème epique en huit chants (Paris: A. Durand et Pedone-Lauriel, 1878), vii). The author, however, remains anonymous just as he did in the first printing of the text. The original publication appeared without a date, author, or place of publication, and Gragnon-Lacoste refers to it as “that time” when writers could self-produce texts and hang them in novelty shops for passing buyers, (Gragnon-Lacoste, “Avertissement,” v). In a 1945 reprinting, Haitian author Jean F. Brierre contends the author was a Frenchman, Antoine Toussaint Desquiron de Saint Agnan (Brierre, “Introduction” in L’Haïtiade: Poème epique en huit chants (Port-au-Prince: Imp de l’Etat, 1945), ix). In a biographical note, a M. Desquiron fills in the picture, explaining that Desquiron de Saint Agnan’s son traveled to Haiti in the 1820s, married a woman in Jérémie, and sent letters back to his father about the island’s history and current situation, which he used to help compose the poem (M. Desquiron, “Notice Biographique,” xxv-xxvi). Reading the epic, Chanlatte’s published poetry, and Dumesle, it seems unlikely that a French lawyer from Toulouse was the epic’s author. The poem’s narrative is directed towards a Haitian audience that would know all the characters presented. Gragnon-Lacoste in his 1878 edition added an extensive collection of footnotes to explain events and people to a French audience. Moreover the poem’s style and zealous patriotism matches Chanlatte’s earlier poetry that appeared in the official Haitian newspaper, Le Télégraphe. 95 Duraciné Vaval, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, ou “L’âme noire,” 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Les Éditions Fardin, 1986), 1:20. David Geggus also notes the possible 1827/28 publication, though does not suggest an author; see Geggus “Haiti and the Abolitionists: Opinion, Propaganda and International Politics in Britain and France, 1804-1838,” in Abolition and its Aftermath: The Historical Context, 1790-1916, ed. David Richardson (London: Frank Cass, 1986), 139n45.

96 An example in the opening stanza is “enfants,” Juste Chanlatte, L’Haitiade, ed. Gragnon-Lacoste (Paris: A. Durand et Pedone-Lauriel, 1878), 3.

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passed a copy of the poem on to contacts in Paris, though it is unclear why his name

did not appear on the first version. Regardless of the exact details, Thomas Prosper

Gragnon-Lacoste printed an edition of the epic in 1878 without any knowledge of its

author.97 Gragnon-Lacoste believed the author was European and noted that the title

and genre of L’Haïtiade reminded the reader of other historical epics specifically the

Iliad and Aeneid.98 Whether or not Chanlatte had these other two epics in mind is

unknown. However, his poem did accomplish the same task of recording an origin story

replete with heroic actors.

In contrast to the linear chronology of Le Cri de la nature, the poem jumps back

and forth in time. Beginning in 1802 with the arrival of the Napoleonic expedition,

Chanlatte employed internal monologues to signal temporal shifts.99 For example,

revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture recounts to the reader earlier stages of the

revolution. His monologue in the middle of the epic creates an atmosphere of oral story

telling. Louverture becomes the conteur who shares with his listeners his country’s

origins. In addition, Louverture’s monologue functions as another oral text, a last

testament.100 Reflecting on the island’s struggles from his prison cell in the Fort de Joux

97 Gragnon-Lacoste the year before had published a biography of Toussaint Louverture and thus was interested in Haiti’s history, see Toussaint Louverture: Générale en chef de l’armée de Saint-Domingue, surnommé le premier de noirs (Paris: A. Durand et Pedone-Lauriel, 1877). It is unsurprising that he would have edited the poem, standardized the orthography, and added explanatory footnotes.

98 Gragnon-Lacoste, “Avertissement,” vii. 99 Juste Chanlatte, L’Haitiade, 26.

100 Edouard Glissant’s play, Monsieur Toussaint (1986) also recounts a non-linear history of the revolution through a series flashbacks or hallucinations Toussaint had during the last days of his life.

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in France, Louverture fills in the chronology by jumping back centuries to the arrival of

the Spanish.101

Through Louverture’s monologue Chanlatte presented a familiar argument on the

nature of Haitian independence from Le Cri de la nature: independence meant abolition.

Chanlatte’s decision to start Louverture’s account in 1492 emphasized the anti-colonial

struggle that triumphed with the revolution and raised an important theme of vengeance.

Chanlatte had already refined this argument in proclamations he wrote for Haiti’s first

head of state, Jean-Jacques Dessalines.102 Here he downplayed the image of

Dessalines the avenger and gave that role to Louverture. As Louverture’s monologue

continues, Chanlatte proposed additional meanings of independence. First, in

referencing the United States, Louverture proclaims “The example is near to us; of

proud America/Imitate, if we can, the patriotic fervor/ Let us be founders of a sovereign

state…”103 The example of the US and the call to be founders of a sovereign state

suggests more than a simple defense of slave emancipation. Several lines later,

Louverture states, “For France, Haiti was no longer a conquest/ Too long had she

bowed her head.”104 Louverture’s verses imply a desire for national identity. Moreover,

he places Haiti’s independence alongside that of its larger and more prosperous

101 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 94-139.

102 The most famous example produced by Chanlatte is Dessalines’ Proclamation, 28 April 1804, which states “Yes, I have saved my country, I have avenged America.” (David Geggus, The Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014), 181.

103 “L’exemple est près de nous; de la fière Amérique/Imitons, s’il se peut, l’élan patriotique;/Soyons les fondateurs d’un état souverain,” Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 107.

104 “De la France, Haïti ne fut point la conquête;/Trop longtemps devant elle a courbé la tête,” Chanlattte, L’Haïtiade, 108.

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northern neighbor, thus drawing a comparison between the two and legitimating the

Haitian Revolution.

Expanding the meaning of independence in his poem, Chanlatte also revised his

portrayal of the revolution’s actors. First, similar to the Baron de Vastey and the authors

to be examined in this chapter’s final section, he tentatively incorporated maroons into

his narrative. In Le Cri de la nature, Chanlatte had done no more than hint at the act of

marronage in reference to the decision to fight for independence in 1802. Generals who

defected from the French forces and organized their resistance in the mountains were a

far different matter than African-born slaves that escaped into the forest from

plantations, or former slaves who abandoned estate work to become squatters in the

hills. Early Haitian intellectuals censored the image of maroons. For Chanlatte the

maroon was a victim of slavery: “The fugitive slave who, to break his chains, went and

buried himself in the barren hills and so reclaimed his liberty in the bosom of nature; yet

in vain did he evade shame and insult…”105 Chanlatte’s maroon is first renamed a

fugitive slave, perhaps a more palatable term. More important is his use of the French

verb “ensevelir” (to bury) as a reflexive verb, meaning that the maroon would bury

himself in the hills. This could imply hiding, but also suggests that in finding liberty in the

hills the maroon would die. In the next verse, Chanlatte added another layer and

contended that slaves ran away for naught, thus devaluing the act of marronage. In the

end, he concluded hunting dogs would chase down the maroon and he would meet a

horrible death. These few verses contend that marronage was an act of desperation

and that it was not a tenable method of securing freedom. Chanlatte acknowledged the

105 “L’esclave fugitif qui, pour briser ses fers,/Allait s’ensevelir dans les mornes déserts,/ Et rentrait ainsi libre au sein de la nature, /S’était soustrait en vain à la honte, à l’injure…” Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 144.

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existence of maroons and even paid homage to fugitive slaves claiming the forests as

eternal monuments to their actions.106 Yet, he left a strong warning that other means

were more appropriate or effective for rebelling against slavery (or even current heads

of state).

Second, in contrast to the unfortunate maroon, Chanlatte memorialized in his

poem a national pantheon of heroes, primarily mixed-race male leaders, who embodied

the bravery of Afro-descendants and their potential as state builders. In the first chapter,

he introduced a large cast of heroes and one heroine, Tellésile the wife of Louverture’s

nephew Moïse, and gave at least a half stanza description of each one.107 This initial list

includes a diverse collection of revolutionary figures from Boukman a leader of the

August 1791 slave revolt to Noël Colombel an author who also worked for President

Jean-Pierre Boyer.108 This is a significant shift from Le Cri de la nature in which few

revolutionary leaders were directly named. Chanlatte’s inclusion of Boukman may be

the first mention of him by a Haitian author, if we accept the poem’s 1827/8 publication

date. Chanlatte’s contemporary, Hérard Dumesle, who testified to his work on the epic,

described the Bois Caïman ceremony but did not identify Boukman as present.

Chanlatte also re-interpreted the lives of those heroes that did appear in the 1810

publication to match a mulâtriste perspective of the revolution and contemporary Haiti.

The most striking example is Chanlatte’s portrait of Vincent Ogé. In Le Cri de la nature,

106 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 144.

107 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 8-15. 108 The inclusion of Colombel is notable because he is not known for fighting in the revolution but rather his support of independent Haiti, specifically Alexandre Pétion’s republic. Chanlatte mentions Colombel’s mission to France and his death at sea in 1823. His inclusion demonstrates the fluidity of time in the poem (Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 15-16).

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Chanlatte condemned Ogé for not including slaves in his October 1790 revolt. In

L’Haïtiade, Chanlatte portrayed Ogé as a borderline abolitionist and savior of all

Haitians, a characterization that would become common in mid-nineteenth-century

mulâtriste narratives. First, he skillfully employed the French second-person plural

pronoun “vous” (you) and its possessive form “votre” (your) when discussing Ogé’s

return to Saint-Domingue in the fall of 1790. He exclaimed, “Ogé, is returned to

you…happy moment of your deliverance.”109 The use of the second-person plural

avoids any discussion of Ogé’s interest in only defending racial equality of free people

of color. A stanza later, he described that “the children of Africa” together interpreted his

arrival as “a prophetic dream.”110 Again, Chanlatte did not directly state Ogé was an

abolitionist. However, his language implies that Ogé fought for all Saint-Dominguans of

color, free or enslaved. Lastly, the story of Ogé is presented through Louverture’s

monologue. A former slave, Louverture sings the praises of Ogé making him a hero for

all not just the elite gens de couleur.

The poem concludes with a final monologue by Louverture’s ghost who visits

mixed-race general Alexandre Pétion. Louverture tells Pétion of Haiti’s future and

victory against the French. More specifically he foreshadows the fall of Haiti’s first

leader Jean-Jacques Dessalines, the division of the country, and the triumph of Pétion

as president of a republic.111 Louverture leaves Pétion with a final vision of unification

under his successor, Jean-Pierre Boyer: “Two divided peoples are united;/ At the

109 “Ogé vous est rendu…l’heureux moment de votre délivrance,” Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 96.

110 “…les enfants de l’Afrique/ Interprètent ensemble un songe prophétique,” Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 96.

111 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 151.

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command of a hero the traitors are chastised;/ Haiti is but one family.”112 Chanlatte

jumped forward to the future and brought the history of the island up to his present

(1820s).

The final section further illustrates the construction of a pantheon of mixed-race

heroes, which is absent in his 1810 pamphlet. It is Pétion whom Louverture visits in a

dream and proclaims the rightful leader of Haiti, not the black leaders, and Chanlatte’s

former patrons, Dessalines or Henry Christophe, who are both described as tyrants.113

The heroes who emerge triumphant at the end of Chanlatte’s epic are Pétion and his

successor Boyer, both mixed-race men. The poem recounts the history of the revolution

so as to justify the rule of Pétion and republican government. In celebrating Boyer’s

ascendancy and the unification of the country, Chanlatte proclaims the mulâtriste theme

of unity across color lines. Nevertheless, Pétion’s visitations by Louverture cast the

black leader as a hero too, which was not a common pattern among mulâtriste authors.

In reading his poem and pamphlet together, we see how he aptly used his literary skills

and altered his interpretation of the revolution to support whichever patron he served

and atypically never faced an execution.

Of Monarchies and Noirisme: Baron de Vastey

Chanlatte’s fellow state publicist under Henry Christophe, Pompée Valentin (né

Jean-Louis) Vastey, the Baron de Vastey, was one of the most prolific early Haitian

authors. Vastey, in contrast to his colleague, has had a rebirth in Haitian, Francophone,

and postcolonial studies because of his strong anti-slavery, anti-colonial stance and his

112 “Deux peuples divisés se rapprochent unis;/ A la voix d’un héros les traîtres sont punis;/Haïti n’offre plus qu’une même famille,” Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 153.

113 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 151-152.

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elucidation of a nineteenth-century pan-Africanism. In reading his work alongside

Chanlatte’s, I contend that many of the themes originated in his colleague’s work;

however, Vastey extended Chanlatte’s discussion and elaborated a more coherent

noirisme.

Thanks to the work of political scientist David Nicholls and literary scholars Chris

Bongie, Marlene Daut, and Doris Garraway, a more complete picture of this polemical

nineteenth-century intellectual is emerging.114 Born in 1781 in the northern parish of

Marmelade, Vastey’s father was a Frenchman who rented land (fermier d’habitation),

probably a coffee plantation, and his mother was a free woman of color from southern

St. Domingue.115 While David Nicholls points out that Vastey’s mother “belonged to the

class of gens de couleur,” he was the recognized son of a Frenchman, which may have

mitigated to some degree the white discrimination and prejudice he experienced.116

Unlike Chanlatte and Boisrond-Tonnerre, Vastey did not grow up with two gens de

couleur parents; rather, like his intellectual nemeses Jules Solime Milscent and Noël

114 See David Nicholls, “Pompée Valentin Vastey: Royalist and Revolutionary,” Revista de Historia de América 109 (1990): 129-143; Baron de Vastey, The Colonial System Unmasked, trans. Chris Bongie (Liverpool: University of Liverpool Press, 2013); Marlene Daut, “ ‘The Alpha and Omega of Haitian Literature’: Baron de Vastey and the U.S. Audience of Haitian Political Writing,” Comparative Literature 64, no.1 (2012): 49-72; “From Classical French Poet to Militant Haitian Statesman: The Early Years and Poetry of the Baron de Vastey,” Research in African Literatures 43, no.1 (2012): 35-57; “Un-Silencing the Past; Boisrond-Tonnerre, Vastey, and the Re-Writing of the Haitian Revolution, 1805-1817,” South Atlantic Review 74, no.1 (2009): 35-64; and Doris Garraway, “Empire of Freedom, Kingdom of Civilization: Henry Christophe, the Baron de Vastey, and the Paradoxes of Universalism in Postrevolutionary Haiti,” Small Axe 16, no.3 (2012): 1-21.

115 Berrou and Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, 73; “Acte de Baptême,” Jean Louis Vastey, 29 March 1788 quoted in Daut, “From Classical Poet,” 36. An earlier Haitian source, Vastey’s own grandson, Haitian author Oswald Durand, recounted the arrival of his great-grandfather from France in 1769, see Oswald Durand, “Tournée Littéraire,” Haïti Littéraire et Sociale, 20 Sept., 1905, 403-404. Once in the colony he established himself in the southern port of Jérémie and married Marie Françoise Elisbeth Dumas, supposedly a free woman of color and great aunt of French novelist and playwright Alexandre Dumas. The dominant economic activity of Jérémie and Marmelade was coffee; thus, it is likely Vastey’s father rented a coffee plantation (Nicholls, “Pompée Valentin Vastey,” 132).

116 Nicholls, “Pompée Valentin Vastey,” 131.

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Colombel, he had a French father. His impact on Vastey’s early life is unclear. We do

know Vastey traveled to France for education, perhaps with relatives, and that he

experienced at least part of the revolutionary period in the metropole.117 In spite of his

connections to France, Vastey returned to Saint-Domingue at some point during the

revolution and, after independence, became an advocate for Haiti, specifically the

kingdom of his patron Henry Christophe, and an exponent of anti-French sentiment.

While Vastey’s passion is clear, we have a limited sense of his involvement in the

revolution. In later correspondence with British abolitionist Thomas Clarkson, Vastey

claimed to have joined Toussaint Louverture’s army at the age of fifteen, a sign of his

devotion to the Haitian cause.118 Marlene Daut suggests an alternative return perhaps

as late as 1808 based on the publication of Vastey’s poetry.119 The late return seems

unlikely because Vastey enters the Haitian historical record in 1804 as a secretary to

the Minister of Finance, André Vernet, under Jean-Jacques Dessalines. Vernet was

also from Marmelade and Vastey would benefit from his patronage and become an

117 Daut’s discovery of a carte de sûreté issued to a Pompé [sic] Vastey in 1794 helps unravel the mysteries of Vastey’s youth and confirms that he did travel to France, “Carte de sûreté,” Pompé[e] Vastey, 1794, Archives Nationales de France, F7/4803, quoted in Daut, “From Classical Poet,” 37. Following the law of 19 September 1792, all males over the age of 15 entering Paris had to obtain a carte. Vastey’s carte lists his height, profession (clerk), and that he had been in Paris for four years. If Vastey provided the civil committee with correct information, he traveled to France at the age of nine. Still a child, Vastey may have accompanied family to Paris and attended a school in the capital, especially if he held a position as clerk by the age of 13. Vastey’s later poetry demonstrates knowledge of major French Enlightenment thinkers, which could further support an argument that he received an education. See Daut, “From Classical Poet,” 41. Haitian literary scholars Berrou and Pompilus, however, propose is that Vastey was self-taught: Berrou and Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, 1:74.

118 “Baron Vastey to Thomas Clarkson,” 29 Nov. 1819 in Henry Christophe and Thomas Clarkson: A Correspondence, ed. Earl Leslie Griggs and Clifford H. Prator (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1952), 181.

119 Daut, “From Classical Poet,” 51n29; Garraway, “Empire of Freedom,” 10.

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integral member of Henry Christophe’s government.120 Vastey may have fabricated his

military involvement in his later correspondence to demonstrate his loyalty to the black

monarch Christophe—a counter to his French ancestry. He criticized his rival republican

secretaries in Port-au-Prince for having never fired a single bullet for “the cause of

liberty and independence.”121 Thus, to make himself more credible, Vastey had to claim

military involvement in the revolution.

Regardless of his military service, Vastey’s pen became his true weapon for the

battles independent Haiti faced. Christophe’s creation of the northern kingdom in 1811

marked a watershed in Vastey’s publishing career, and he rapidly became one of Haiti’s

most prolific writers until power struggles cut short his life.122 On and off civil wars

raged in Haiti from 1807 to 1820 between northern leader Henry Christophe (1807-

1820) and southern rulers Alexandre Pétion (1806-1818) and Jean-Pierre Boyer (1818-

1843). In August 1820, Christophe suffered a stroke. The uncertainty of his health

opened the door for rebellion and, facing a potential coup, Christophe killed himself on 8

October 1820. Less than two weeks later, southern president Boyer and his troops

entered the city of Cap Haïtien and took Christophe’s supporters prisoner; rebels had

120 Madiou, Histoire, 3:202, 207.

121 “Ce Milscent qui n’a jamais rien fait pour son pays, qui n’a jamais tiré un seul coup de fusil pour la cause de la liberté et de l’indépendance…” Vastey, Essai sur les causes de la révolution et des guerres civilies d’hayti (Sans Souci: L’lmprimérie Royale, 1819), 301.

122 Le Système colonial dévoilé (Cap-Henry: P. Roux Imp. du Roi, 1814); Notes à M. le Baron V.P. de Malouet (Cap-Henry: Chez P. Roux, 1814); A Mes concitoyens haïtiens (Cap-Henry : Chez P. Roux, 1815) ; Le Cri de la Patrie (Cap-Henry: Chez P. Roux, 1815); Le Cri de la conscience (Cap-Henry: Chez P. Roux, 1815); Relation de la fête de la Reine S.M. D’Hayti (Cap-Henry: Chez P. Roux, 1816); Réflexions sur une lettre de Mazères, ex-colon français…sur les noirs et les blancs, la civilisation de l’Afrique, le Royaume d’Hayti, etc (Sans-Souci: L’Imprimerie Royale, 1817). Essai sur les causes de la révolution et des guerres civiles d’Hayti faisant suite au Réflexions politiques sur quelques ouvrages et journaux français concernant Hayti (Sans-Souci: L’Imprimerie Royale, 1819).

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already killed his only surviving heir. One of his most ardent supporters, Vastey was

among those Boyer’s troops executed on 18 October 1820.123 His death silenced a

potential opponent to Boyer’s regime and development of any alternative narrative of

the revolution to those supported by mixed race intellectuals in Port-au-Prince.

Before his death, Vastey published over half a dozen pamphlets and monograph-

length works addressed both to Haitians, frequently his mixed-race brothers of Port-au-

Prince and the South, and to foreign readers.124 For both these audiences, Vastey

sought to legitimate the revolution and the government of his patron, King Henry

Christophe. This objective was particularly important because of regime changes in

France. As literary scholars Chris Bongie and Doris Garraway note, Vastey’s first

publications coincide with the restoration of the French monarchy and renewed efforts

by former French planters to reclaim Haiti as a French colony.125 Moreover, in the 1815

Treaty of Paris, British agents granted France an extension on the slave trade,

abolished by Napoleon shortly before. Vastey himself acknowledged that the ascension

of Louis XVIII symbolized a return to the ancien regime and “the colonial hydra” of which

the heads were slavery, colonialism, and racial prejudice.126 Thus, the events of 1815

presented a dual attack on self-rule and slave emancipation, the two pillars of Haiti’s

independence. Vastey expressed this combat in his correspondence with British

123 Madiou, Histoire, 6: 127-129; Nicholls, “Pompée Valentin Vastey: Royalist and Revolutionary,” Revista de Historia de América 109 (1990), 129.

124 For specific appeals to a Haitian audience see, Vastey Le Cri de patrie, 5; A Mes concitoyens, 6, 15; Le Cri de la conscience, 14. For more discussion of his audiences see, Doris Garraway, “Empire of Freedom,” 12.

125 Chris Bongie, “ ‘Monotonies of History’: Baron de Vastey and the Mulatto Legend of Derek Walcott’s ‘Haitian Triology’” Yale French Studies 107 (2005): 82; Doris Garraway, “Empire of Freedom,” 12.

126 “L’hydre colonial s’agite encore,” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, iii.

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abolitionist Thomas Clarkson: “Exasperated at seeing in the journals of the South and in

those of France, their faithful echoes, the calumnies which the enemies of Haiti and the

King endlessly repeat concerning his government and his person, I decided to tell the

truth in the matter.”127 He had an additional political objective beyond enlightening

foreign readers. Working with British abolitionists, Vastey hoped to convince members

of Parliament to recognize Haiti. Through requests to King Christophe, William

Wilberforce asked for publications to help educate members of the House of Commons

about Haiti’s history and current situation.128 In a subsequent letter, Wilberforce

thanked Vastey for his writings, which were exactly what his brother Stephen wanted to

present to the House.129 Vastey also passed along publications to Thomas Clarkson.130

To combat the return of the colonial hydra, Vastey constructed a narrative similar

to Chanlatte’s that hinged on the contention that slavery was an unnatural system

produced by colonialism. He vividly explained, “The planter is born and raised amidst

crime, and nourished by criminal acts. Brought up from his earliest years surrounded by

all types of cruelties, this fledgling monster feeds on tears, blood, and carnage; he

grows up with his cruel habits and, due to his ferocious nature, soon becomes just like

the monsters who gave birth to him.”131 The systems of slavery and colonialism created

127 Vastey to Clarkson, 29 Nov. 1819, 178-79.

128 William Wilberforce to Henry Christophe, 8 Oct. 1818, in The Correspondence of William Wilberforce, eds. Wilberforce, William, Robert Isaac Wilberforce, and Samuel Wilberforce (Philadelphia: H. Perkins, 1841), 282.

129 William Wilberforce to Henry Christophe, 27 Nov. 1819, 286.

130 Chris Bongie, introduction to The Colonial System Unveiled by Baron de Vastey (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2014), 37.

131 “Le colon né dans le crime, se nourrit de crimes et grandit dans le crime: élevé dès son plus bas âge dans tous les genres de cruautés, ce monstre naissant s’aliment de pleurs, de sang et de carnage, il croît

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the monster who was the planter, specifically the former French planters of Saint-

Domingue. Vastey’s purpose was to reveal the truth about the horrors and crimes of

colonialism and vindicate the Haitian struggle for freedom and independence.132 Unlike

Chanlatte, Vastey did not censor his narrative. Nor, as literary scholar Chris Bongie

notes, did he distinguish “between good and bad Frenchmen, good and bad

masters.”133 All colonists were monsters and Vastey described their violence in his first

major publication, Le système colonial dévoilé.134 Moving geographically from north to

south, he composed a testimonial for the men and women who had suffered at the

hands of “a white despot.”135 In his later book, Essai sur les causes de la révolution and

les guerres civiles d’Hayti, he explained that, for those who survived to bear witness,

“their mutilated bodies still bore marks that attested to their long and cruel suffering and

the barbarity of our tyrants.”136 Vastey’s writings unmasked colonialism and Haitian

bodies served as proof of the violence and inhumanity.

Besides campaigning for international recognition and correcting biased white

publications, Vastey viewed his writing as an act of commemoration for Haitian readers.

Near the end of Le Système he appealed to his Haitian readers: “Oh you, young

Haitians, who have the privilege to be born under the rule of laws and liberty! You, who

dans ses cruelles habitudes, et il devient bientôt par son naturel féroce, semblable aux monstres qui lui ont donné le jour.” Vastey, A Mes concitoyens, 18.

132 Vastey, Le Système, vii-viii.

133 Bongie, “Montonies of History,” 78.

134 Vastey, Le Système, 40-61.

135 “un despote blanc”, Vastey, Le Système, 63.

136 “les marques encore empreintes sur leurs members mutilés, attestaient leurs longues et cruelles souffrances, et la barbarie de nos tyrans;” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 213.

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know not that time of horrors and barbarism, read these writings, never forget the

suffering of your fathers, and teach yourselves to hate and defy your tyrants!”137

Vastey’s texts are a site of memory; they record the origins of Haiti. In writing he

remembered the struggle for Haiti’s existence and in reading his public could continue

this act. Just as Jean-Jacques Dessalines and his generals swore to forever defend

Haiti’s independence, literate Haitians could support the nation by “never forget[ing]”

and by reading the history of their nation’s founding.138

Vastey’s publications, specifically Essai sur les causes de la révolution et les

guerres civiles d’Hayti (1819), present a noiriste vision of Haiti’s past and support

contemporary black leadership (Henry Christophe). Haitians needed to commemorate a

specific (black) vision of the past. This included celebrating a pantheon of heroes

consisting of former slaves: Toussaint Louverture, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and Henry

Christophe.139 In addition, Vastey extended his interpretation of the past to argue for

black rule: “It was good politics that in a population composed of 14/15ths blacks and

1/15th mixed-race, control of the government was preferably entrusted in the hands of a

black man rather than a man of color.”140 In recounting Haiti’s history, Vastey delineated

137 “O vous jeunes haytiens qui avez le bonheur de naître sous le règne des lois et de la liberté ! vous qui ne connaissez pas ces temps d’horreurs et de barbaries; lisez ces écrits; n’oubliez jamais les infortunes de vos pères, et apprenez à vous défier et à haïr vos tyrans ! » Vastey, Le Système, 90.

138 “Jurons à l’univers entier, à la postérité, à nous-mêmes de renoncer à jamais à la france, et de mourir plutôt que de vivre sous sa domination,” (To the entire universe, posterity, and ourselves, let us swear to forever renounce France and to die rather than live under its domination) “Acte de l’Indépendance,” 6-7. The oath was repeated every Independence Day (see the discussion of civic festivals and memory in Chapter 2).

139 Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 165.

140 “Or, il était de la saine politique que dans une popuation, composée de quartoze quinzièmes de noirs et d’une quinzième de couleurs, les rênes du gouvernement fussent confiés, de préférence, dans la main d’un noir, plutôt que dans celle d’un homme couleur…” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 128.

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an argument for black rule because blacks represented Haiti’s majority. Half a century

later intellectuals reiterated this argument and made it a pillar of the principally black

National Party.141

Vastey expounded on the creation of the Haitian state and the current necessity

of a monarchical government. Christophe’s background and skin color made him a

legitimate ruler. Moreover, he established a monarchy, which for Vastey was the only

acceptable government for Haiti. Refuting the claims against Christophe and monarchy,

Vastey alleged that Port-au-Prince-based president Alexandre Pétion and his

secretaries were simply repeating the prejudiced views of former planters and believed

that Haitians were not ready to join the ranks of “the already civilized people.”142 He

stated that in 1804 “our ideas were not fixed on the form of government, representative

or monarchical, and our legislators knew better how to use a sword than a pen. So, it

was natural that an assembly composed of warriors adopted a purely military

government.”143 Suggesting that certain forms of government were appropriate or

natural depending on the country’s situation, Vastey went on to argue, that Haiti needed

a better form that fit its new situation as an independent state, a government that would

guarantee abolition, independence from France, and stability.144 For Vastey, the only

141 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 113-117.

142 Vastey, Le Cri de patrie, 21.

143 “ …nos idées n’étaient point fixées sur le mécanisme des gouvernemens [sic] représentatifs et monarchiques, et nos législateurs savaient mieux manier l’épée que la plume. Il était donc naturel qu’une assemblée composée de guerriers eût adopté un gouvernement purement militaire,” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 42-43.

144 Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 43.

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form of government that could accomplish these objectives was a monarchy.145 A

monarchy, specifically a constitutional and hereditary one, would prevent succession

struggles and the ascension of overly ambitious men.146 Vastey pointed out that

republics, ancient and modern, had produced tyrants like Robespierre, while

monarchies as evidenced by the exemplary Great Britain were realms of freedom and

happiness.147 Vastey offered little explanation for British happiness. What was important

was Britain’s recent ban on the slave trade, which contrasted to France’s repeal of the

1794 general abolition decree in 1802 under Napoleon Bonaparte and its negotiated

extension of the slave trade in 1815 under Louis XVIII.

If monarchies created political stability and happy subjects, a central component

was the sovereign’s ability to rule with “a firm and wise hand.”148 Beyond the window-

dressing of the success of British abolitionism and failures of the French revolutionary

principles and policies, a monarchy centralized power in the hands of one individual in a

similar fashion to the authoritarian structure established in 1804 under Jean-Jacques

Dessalines. Without a strong ruler, all of Haiti would resemble the southern republic

where the president “authorized vice, disorder, abduction, rape, theft, crime, and

murder.”149 For Vastey, the best example of the republic’s flaws was President

Alexandre Pétion’s willingness to meet with French agents. Vastey stated that he was

145 Garraway, “Empire of Freedom,” 17.

146 Vastey, Le cri de patrie, 25 and Essai sur les causes, 144, 148, and 316.

147 Vastey, Le cri de patrie, 27 and Essai sur les causes, 148.

148 “d’une main ferme et sage,” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 350.

149 “il autorisait le vice et le désordre, le rapt, le viol, le vol, les crimes, l’assassinat…,” Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 91-92.

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not against a treaty with France but, before negotiations could take place, the French

needed to consider Haitians “as a free and independent people.”150 The current French

proposals did nothing of the sort. Rather, the French envoys entered negotiations with

the view that Haiti was not fully independent.151 More important, citing evidence from

private instructions carried by the agent who attempted to meet with Christophe,

Agostino Franco de Medina, Vastey explained that the French sought to make Haiti a

colony again and reinstitute slavery.152 While Christophe refused to meet with Medina

(he arrested and executed him for spying), Pétion met with a second French delegate in

Port-au-Prince. According to Vastey, this illustrated that Pétion was an instrument of the

French (just as many of men of color had been before) and that he did not support

Haitian independence.153 Thus, only Christophe, the monarch, could ensure

independence because he was not swayed by ambition and French schemes.

Vastey supplemented his critique of colonialism with an argument for the historic

contributions of Africa to world history, a sign of racial equality. While Chanlatte initiated

the trope of ethnically identifying with Africa, Vastey elaborated the connection. He

noted, like Chanlatte, the glory of ancient Egypt and added that “the north” (Europe)

was indebted to Africa for its knowledge.154 In addition, using travelers’ accounts

specifically Mungo Park’s, he contended that contemporary Africa also demonstrated “a

150 “comme un peuple libre et indépendant,” Vastey, Le Cri de la conscience, 77.

151 As Laurent Dubois notes, the French agents consistently referred to Haiti as Saint-Domingue, its colonial name, a sign of the French government’s refusal to acknowledge the country’s new status (Dubois, Aftershocks of History, 80).

152 Vastey, Le Cri de la conscience, 7.

153 Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 60.

154 Vastey, Le Système, 19.

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notable tendency towards civilization.”155 Nevertheless, Vastey’s discussion of a shared

African heritage was not strictly celebratory.156 Just pages before he extolled the

accomplishments of ancient Egyptians, Vastey commended the British for their

“civilizing” project in Sierra Leone.157 His distinction between historic and contemporary

Africa was one that would become common among Haitian intellectuals. For Vastey and

his colleagues, “to be civilized in the early nineteenth century was to be like the

Europeans.”158 Faced with racial prejudice, Haitian authors had to distinguish

themselves from contemporary Africans to legitimate their own existence among the

“civilized” (white) people of the world.

Vastey’s and other Haitian authors’ identification with an African past and

rejection of an African present manifested itself in their treatment of Haiti’s majority:

slaves who had earned their freedom during the revolution. In early publications, the

Haitian majority is simply absent or, when present, is a tragic or pitiable character such

as the maroon whose actions are insufficient to fight the colonial system and achieve

freedom and independence.159 After independence, the maroon becomes for Vastey an

insult thrown at Haitians by Europeans. He declared in reference to French negotiations

that the French gave a free people “the epithets of evil savage and fugitive slave.”160 If

155 “une grande tendance vers la civilisation,” Vastey, Le Système, 22.

156 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 42, 45. 157 Vastey, Le Système, 18.

158 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 45.

159 Chanlatte, L’Haïtiade, 144 and Vastey, Le système, 66.

160 “…un lui donnant les épithètes de sauvages malfaisans et de nègres marrons,” Vastey, Le Cri de la conscience, 17.

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Boisrond-Tonnerre had argued against the label of barbarian, Vastey fought against the

label of fugitive slave, “nègre marron.” The term “maroon” symbolized lawlessness in

the eyes of the French who refused to recognize Haiti’s independence. Vastey’s writings

sought to combat this and legitimate Christophe’s monarchy. Maroons were also a

threat to Christophe’s centralized state and economy. Literary scholar J. Michael Dash

states, “[Vastey’s] ideal, like that of his King, was that of a scientifically advanced

modern state not the creation of a maroon culture based on the African village.”161 The

Code Henry, which Vastey helped write, laid out labor rules and punishment for

vagrancy, marronage by another name. Thus, for Vastey the label maroon held no

patriotic meaning, but was rather a term given to vagabonds who threatened the

functioning of the state, and, by extension, the maintenance of independence.

The Republic Writes Back: Jules-Solime Milscent and Noël Colombel

Baron de Vastey proposed a certain vision of Haiti’s past and present, which may

have pleased his patron Henry Christophe, but it created a strong response from his

domestic audience of “mixed-race brothers.” Intellectuals in Port-au-Prince turned to

their own printing presses and offered a different interpretation that expressed a

nascent mulâtriste ideology. The most vociferous were two recent returnees, Jules-

Solime Milscent and Noël Colombel. Welcomed by the president, Alexandre Pétion,

they quickly became ardent supporters of the southern republic and did not delay in

responding to Vastey’s prolific publications and attacks on Pétion and his successor,

Jean-Pierre Boyer.

161 J. Michael Dash, “Before and Beyond Negritude,” in A History of Literature in the Caribbean: Volume 1 Hispanic and Francophone Regions, ed. Albert James Arnold (Amsterdam: J. Benjamins, 1994), 531.

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Born in 1778 in Grande-Rivière du Nord, Milscent’s early years remain shrouded

in mystery.162 We can piece together his life through information on his family, though.

His father Claude-Louis-Michel Milscent de Mussé was a planter and commander of a

gens de couleur corps that fought maroons in northern Saint-Domingue.163 In the first

years of the Haitian Revolution, he became a vocal proponent of rights for free people

of color and had to flee Saint-Domingue to save his life. Back in France, he published a

newspaper in opposition to the colonial lobby in Paris, Le Créole patriote, and continued

fighting for racial equality.164 Milscent’s politics quickly won him enemies among

planters in Paris, who had the publicist guillotined in 1794.165 While it is unclear if or

when Milscent recognized Jules Solime, he was his father. Milscent fathered several

mixed-race children, including Jules’s older brother Stanislas Anthime (1770-1821).

Stanislas’s funeral eulogy simply describes him as being born on “the plantation of his

father Claude Louis-Michel Milscent de Mussé,” with no mention of his mother, which

suggests she was a slave.166 Stanislas traveled to France as a child to stay with family

in Angers and receive an education; thus Milscent père felt an obligation to provide for

his children regardless of their status.167 During the French Revolution, Stanislas also

advocated for the rights of free people of color, including himself, and served in the

162 Charles, Littérature Haïtienne, 53. 163 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 71.

164 Geggus, 166; Jeremy Popkin, You Are All Free (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 91.

165 Popkin, You Are All Free, 373.

166 “sur l’habitation de son père…,” “Notice Historique: Sur le citoyen Milscent, ainé,” La Concorde, 15 July 1821, 37.

167 “Notice Historique,” 37.

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military.168 Fortunately, he escaped the fate of his father and ended up having a

successful military career particularly under Napoleon Bonaparte who awarded him civil

posts in the occupied Germanic states of Westphalia and Hanover.169 His ties to

Bonaparte, however, led to his arrest in 1815. In and out of prison, he left France and

returned to his family in Haiti where he died shortly after arrival in June 1821.

From the lives of his father and brother, we can surmise that Jules may have also

attended school in France and experienced the revolution from the metropole. Records

on Saint Domingue refugees list several Milscents returning to France in the 1790s.

According to the “Liste définitive des propriétaires de biens” published in 1805, Jules-

Solime and Élisabeth-Zulime Milscent were living in Paris with property in Saint

Domingue.170 This confirms Haitian biographer Daniel Supplice’s claim that Milscent left

Saint Domingue before independence in 1804.171 In contrast to the other early authors,

Milscent’s claim to property associates him with the ex-colons in the metropole. As

Vastey noted, he did not serve during any stage of the Haitian Revolution, nor did he

return to Haiti immediately after independence. In fact, he remained in France for

another decade and only returned to Port-au-Prince in 1816 after the fall of

168 A later French history of revolutionary-era Angers politics mentions a Stanislas Anthime Stenclin as a “mulâtre.” It is highly propbable that this is Stanislas Milscent. His last name may have been altered because Milscent was not fully white and also, perhaps, illegitmate (Alber Meynier, Un représentant de la bourgeoisie angevine à l’Assemblée nationale (Paris: Picard & fils, 1905), 239.

169 “Notice Historique,” 37-38.

170 “Liste définitive des propriétaires de biens,” (Paris, 1805), Bibliothèque Nationale de France, accessed 29 Aug. 20103, http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5461336k.r=Liste+d%C3%A9finitive+des+propri%C3%A9taires+de+biens.langEN. The list is for colonists who returned between 1792 and 1799, thus Milscent may have been in Paris for over a decade.

171 Daniel Supplice, Dictionnaire biographique des personnalités politique de la République d’Haïti (2001), 504.

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Bonaparte.172 Jules may have made an earlier escape than his brother to avoid prison

as a former Bonapartist. Whatever his former allegiances, he became integrated into

the intellectual circles of Port-au-Prince, and within two years founded the pro-Pétion

newspaper, L’Abeille Haytienne with Noël Colombel and Delille Laprée.173 Milscent’s

backing of Pétion and Boyer, led Vastey to label him “a Haitian by skin color, but French

in principles.”174 Nevertheless, under Boyer, he became a leading political figure

attaining the position of président de la chambre in the 1830s. In continuing his loyalty

to Boyer, he assisted in the expulsion from the Haitian legislature of fellow author and

opposition leader, Hérard Dumesle in 1838. Four years later as Dumesle’s opposition

movement grew in the southern peninsula, Milscent met a tragic demise in the 1842

Cap Haïtien earthquake.175

In contrast to the other early writers, Milscent’s career was solely newspaper

based.176 He was co-founder, editor, and contributing author to one of the longest

running early unofficial papers, L’Abeille Haytienne (1817-1820). While other authors

also ran newspapers or worked for the official press, Milscent established the role of

press historian, meaning his contributions to Haitian historiography appeared in the bi-

monthly columns of his paper. His later political opponent Hérard Dumesle and the next

172 Berrou and Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, 1:56. Milscent published an ode to Bonaparte in 1805, further confirming his location and his support of the French emperor, the same man who had sought to reinstitute slavery and white control in Saint-Domingue (see Milscent, Ode sur l'avènement de Napoléon au trône; suivie d'une épître à un jeune militaire (Paris: Impr. des frères Chaignieau,1805). 173 Berrou and Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, 1:35.

174 “haytien de la peau seulement, mais français par ses principes,” Vastey, Essai, 300.

175 Berrou and Pompilus, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, 1:36.

176 Milscent came from a family of writers and was prepared to open his own paper upon his return to Port-au-Prince. Not only had his father edited two newspapers in France in 1792-94, his brother ran a “bureau d’écritures et rédaction” besides being a soldier: “Notice Historique,” 38.

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generation of historians such as Thomas Madiou and Céligni (or Céligny) Ardouin

followed in his footsteps, publishing first in newspapers and then expanding their work

into a monograph, or even multiple volumes. To this day, the Haitian press is an

important venue for Haitian intellectuals and more work needs to be done on examining

the columns of Haiti’s newspapers.

Milscent’s columns continue the anti-colonial and anti-slavery rhetoric of the early

authors. Although Vastey criticized Milscent and his fellow Port-au-Prince-based

authors for supporting the French, his writings employ the anti-French language initially

used by Boisrond-Tonnerre. In the opening lines of the paper’s prospectus he declared,

“Hayti! you are no longer this land ravaged by monsters who, after harvesting the hope

of your contemporaries, made you bow your head beneath the ignominious yoke of

tyranny.”177 Milscent’s monsters were the French, and colonialism and slavery became

subsumed under the yoke of tyranny. In the next issue, he called the French “nefarious

adventurers” whose “odious schemes” and “criminal machinations” upheld two centuries

of oppression.178 Over the course of the journal’s three-year run, Milscent did moderate

his language. Attacks against the French slowly receded in favor of critiques of Henry

Christophe, the king of northern Haiti. Nevertheless, he maintained an anti-colonial

critique that served to legitimate Haiti, particularly the republic based in Port-au-Prince.

In the opening article of the first issue, Milscent loudly proclaimed his and the

paper’s anticolonial stance. He declared, “The establishment of European powers in the

177 “ Hayti! tu n’es plus cette terre désolée par des monstres qui, après avoir moissonné l’espoir de tes générations, ont fait courber ta tête sous le joug ignominieux de la tyrannie,” Abeille Haytienne, 7 July 1817, 3.

178 “pervers aventuriers,” “plans odieux,“ and “criminelles machinations,“ J.S. Milscent, “Considérations sur l’Ile d’Haïti,” 1 Aug. 1817, 5.

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countries that the Supreme Being had separated by distance and the sea, is nothing but

usurpation.”179 Although denouncing colonial rule in general, Milscent did not argue for

wide-scale revolution. Rather, in defining colonialism as usurpation he established an

argument for Haiti’s independence and Haitians’ possession of their island. The French

and before them the Spanish committed robbery by colonizing the island. Milscent

contended that possession was permissible only when a foreign people discovered

unpopulated land.180 He admitted the rejection of foreign possession could equally apply

to Haitians; however, because Europeans, unaccustomed to the tropical climate,

forcibly brought in new laborers to replace the Tainos, this new population came to

identify with the place.181 He explained, “they worked the land and watered it with their

blood. They could no longer consider this homeland a dependent colony of the

Metropole…”182 This identification with the land justified, according to Milscent, the

struggle for independence and legitimacy of Haiti.

Although Milscent’s arguments echoed those of his rivals in northern Haiti, the

point of contention became how to ensure independence. In contrast to Vastey’s

argument for monarchy, Milscent’s articles offer an argument for the republic and

establish themes that would become institutionalized by proponents of the mulatto

legend. Unlike Vastey’s discussion, which is grounded in the failure of the French

179 “L’établissement de la puissance européenne dans les contrées que l’Etre Suprême avait séparées d’elle par les distances et par la barriére des mers, n’est au fond qu’une usurpation,” Milscent, “Considérations sur l’Ile d’Haïti,” 1 Aug 1817, 3.

180 Milscent, “Article III,” 16 Aug. 1817, 6.

181 Milscent, “Article III,” 16 Aug. 1817, 6.

182 “…elle a conservé ce sol et l’a arrosé de son sang. Elle ne peut plus considérer cette patrie comme une colonie dépendant d’une Métropole,” Milscent, “Article III,” 16 Aug. 1817, 6

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republic and the benevolence of the British monarchy, Milscent returned to the themes

of land and labor, which he used to justify Haiti’s existence.

In a series of articles entitled, “Politique,” he explained, “Liberty’s first benefits are

to guarantee man the product of his labor…”183 Milscent’s definition of liberty as man’s

right to the product of his labor appears as support for the counter-plantation model

former slaves established with their feet. He continued, “The system of small farms

adopted in the southern part of Haiti is without question the one that suits the people.”184

Here Milscent added the value of land to the meaning of liberty and independence.

Widespread land ownership was a component of the counter-plantation model and

Milscent seemed to acknowledge the desires of the majority. Nevertheless, the control

of one’s own labor and land was tied to the success of the state. The small farms would

produce goods that could be traded and create a prosperous state. Moreover, granting

land to members of Haiti’s majority ensured their support for Pétion’s government and

eased potential class or race tensions.185 For the farmers, the distribution of land would

increase their patriotism and promote a sense of national belonging.186 Milscent

concluded that only a republic could guarantee land and labor rights because a

monarchy meant the return to tyranny. He argued that Christophe replaced the former

183 “Les premiers bienfaits de la liberté sont de garantir à l’homme le produit de son labeur…” “Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 5.“Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 5.

184 “Le système des PETITES PLANTATIONS adopté dans la partie du Sud d’Haïti, est sans contredit, celui qui convient au peuple.” “Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 8.

185 For more discussion of Pétion and Christophe’s land and labor policies see, Robert LeCerte “The Evolution of Land and Labour in the Haitian Revolution, 1791-1820,” in Caribbean Freedom: Economy and Society from Emancipation to the Present, ed. Hilary Beckles and Verene Shepherd (Princeton: Markus Wiener, 1993), 42-47; JohnHenry Gonzales, “The War on Sugar: Forced Labor, Commodity Production and the Origins of the Haitian Peasantry, 1791-1843” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2012).

186 “Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 8.

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French masters with new lords for whom the residents of northern Haiti had to labor.187

The former slaves became serfs and “lost the benefits of the social contract.”188

In contrast to the tyranny of monarchy, Milscent claimed that a republic was the

best form of government for new states because it assured the citizens “the full

enjoyment of their rights” and did not curtail them for the benefit of a king or nobility.189

He disagreed with Vastey’s idea that Haitians’ recent emancipation made them

unprepared for a republican-style government and that they needed an authoritarian

leader to guide them and introduce them to freedom. Milscent’s republican rhetoric and

celebration of land distribution would become staples of mulâtriste interpretations of the

revolution.

Less is known about Milscent’s contemporary and co-editor of the Abeille, Noël

Colombel. He was born in Fond des Nègres a parish between the port cities of Léogane

and Jacmel in the 1780s.190 Assumed to be the son of parish notary, René Colombel,

Noël attended school in France, and he lived there until the 1810s.191 Similar to

Milscent, he had a more estranged relationship with the newly independent Haiti than

previous writers who all returned to Haiti and offered their services to the new heads of

187 “Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 7.

188 “Politique,” 1 Sept. 1817, 7-8.

189 “Politique,” 16 Sept. 1817, 4.

190 In the État Civil for Fond des Nègres there is a baptismal entry for Noél Volet the quarteron son of a free mulatto woman Marie Jeanne Volet. Noél was 3 1/2 at the time of his baptism in 1790, which would place his birth in 1786, État Civil, Fond des Nègres, 1790, p.9. Daniel Supplice dates Colombel’s birth to 1784, see Dictionnaire biographique des personnalités politique de la République d’Haïti, 1804-2001 (Haïti, 2001), 178.

191 “Trouvailles de Pierre Baudrier: La famille de Noël Colombel secrétaire de Boyer en Haïti,” Généalogie et Histoire de la Caraïbe 221 (Jan. 2009): 5758.

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state. Particularly noteworthy, Noël became, according to French court records, the

inheritor of his father’s property in 1817 and his name appears in the list for indemnity

payments (Indemnisation des Colons Spoliés) following France’s recognition of Haiti in

1825.192 Colombel was not just the son of a French colonist, as was Vastey, but stood

to inherit property from him. While his claim would not be recognized in Haiti, he

returned in 1816 and quickly found a position among the elite in Port-au-Prince. He

became “one of the principal apologists for Pétion’s regime.”193 Beyond his role as

newspaper editor, he served as chief secretary to Jean-Pierre Boyer and director of the

lycée national in Port-au-Prince. He died at sea supposedly on a diplomatic trip to

England in the early 1820s, and thus never received any indemnity payments as the

inheritor of his father’s colonial estate.194 His appearance on the list, however, suggests

he may have been favorable towards the compensation of former planters.

In the columns of Abeille Haytienne, Colombel and Jules Solime Milscent

engaged in a battle of words with the Baron de Vastey. The publication of the latter’s

Essai sur les causes de la révolution et des guerres civiles d’Haïti in 1819 necessitated

a separate response beyond the newspaper. Colombel took up the charge in a

pamphlet published later that year in Examen d’un pamphlet, ayant pour titre, Essai sur

les causes de la révolution et des guerres civiles d’Haïti. A passionate defense of Pétion

192 “Trouvailles,” 5758; Colons de Saint-Dominge: dossiers individuels, Archives Nationales de France,

sous-série F12/2770. 193 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 41.

194 Haitian scholar Christophe Philippe Charles claims Colombel died at sea in 1828: Charles, Littérature Haïtienne, 33. Contemporary bibliographies that include Colombel place his death in 1823 on board the Leviathan, a ship bound for England: Charles Théodore Beauvais de Préau and Antoine-Alexandre Barbier, Biographie Universelle Classique ou Dictionnaire Historique (Paris: Charles Gosselin, Librarie-Éditeur, 1829), 691.

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and the republic, Colombel did not offer the reader a new narrative of the revolution.

Rather, he critiqued Vastey’s interpretation and proposed how Haitian history should be

written.

In the opening pages, Colombel proclaimed that he could not remain silent

because Vastey attacked “the principles on which our social contract is based.”195 In his

account of the revolution and Haiti’s recent history, Vastey celebrated the achievements

of the northern state and its leader, Henry Christophe and lambasted the southern

republic and its recently deceased president Alexandre Pétion. More heinous for

Colombel was Vastey’s argument that monarchy was the only form of government able

to preserve Haitian independence.196 The republic based in Port-au-Prince was the

guarantor of Haitians’ rights not the northern monarchy under Christophe, whom he

describes as “the Bacchus of Le Cap.”197

Colombel contended Vastey’s text was not history but libel because of its

inaccurate and false portrayal of historic figures.198 Vastey had composed a black

history of the revolution in that his main heroes were all former slaves. Colombel viewed

Vastey’s treatment of them, specifically Jean-Jacques Dessalines as biased. He

claimed, “All he [Vastey] reports on this subject is obviously inaccurate, or in other

195 “…mais il a osé attaquer les principes sur lesquels repose notre pacte social,” Noël Colombel, Examen d’un pamphlet, ayant pour titre, Essai sur les causes de la révolution et des guerres civils d’Haïti (Imprimé au Port-au-Prince, 1819), iii. 196 Vastey, Essai sur les causes, 144.

197 Colombel, Examen d’un pamphlet, 14.

198 Colombel, Examen d’un pamphlet, 6.

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words, false.”199 The focus of his attack, however, was on how the northern author

portrayed the recently deceased president Alexandre Pétion. As literary scholar Chris

Bongie notes, Vastey made Pétion a replacement scapegoat for the French.200

Colombel strongly disagreed with this portrayal. Although he did not refute Vastey by

writing his own history that championed the rise of the republic from Saint Domingue’s

ashes, he stressed the role of Pétion, calling him the “savior of the homeland” in

contrast to Christophe, not merely the Bacchus of Le Cap but the “enemy of our

homeland.”201 For Colombel, Christophe was to blame, not Pétion, and he replaced

Vastey’s pantheon of ex-slaves with mixed-race heroes, establishing Pétion as the

leading figure. Thus, Vastey’s text was libelous because it celebrated the wrong heroes

(Christophe and Dessalines) and the wrong national vision (monarchy).

The debates over the possibly treasonous actions of either heads of state

illuminated how the two groups of intellectuals and their respective government patrons

approached the question of foreign recognition. Both heads of state acknowledged the

importance of foreign recognition and received at least tacit support from Great Britain

and, briefly, the United States.202 Vastey’s and Christophe’s correspondence illustrates

how the northern kingdom worked with abolitionist circles to help advance the cause of

recognition in Britain. Moreover, commerce in both the north and south served as a form

of acknowledgement, as Milscent himself admitted: “we are in a state of peace with the

199 “Tout ce qu’il rapporte sur ce sujet est d’une inexactitude, ou pour mieux dire, d’une fausseté manifeste” Colombel, Examen d’un pamphlet, 13.

200 Bongie, “ ‘Monotonies of History’, 83.

201 Colombel, Examen d’un pamphlet, iii, 14, 56.

202 For more discussion of tacit acknowledgement, see Julia Gaffield, “ ‘So Many Schemes in Agitation’: The Haitian State and the Atlantic World” (PhD diss., Duke University, 2012).

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nations that have tacitly recognized the independence of Haiti through published

arrangements [trade tariffs] and the frequentation of the island’s ports.”203 One nation

excluded from these arrangements was France. The restoration of the French

monarchy in 1815, however, brought agents to Haiti, who sparked debate regarding

their intentions. Although Vastey accused Pétion and later Boyer of scheming to return

Haiti to France and reinstitute slavery, there is little documentary evidence to support

the claim. The real contentious question was whether Haitians should pay an indemnity

to the former planters of Saint-Domingue for their property (land and slaves). David

Nicholls asserts that Pétion and his supporters were “willing to pay compensation”

because they “were mostly anciens libres who had been property owners themselves in

the colonial days.” He continues, “It is not, therefore, surprising that they were

sympathetic to the plight of their fellow landowners.”204 Nicholls makes a rather large

assumption here that anciens libres would identify as property holders and find a

common ground with former French planters. Nevertheless, as the lives of Pétion’s

secretaries demonstrate, anciens libres’ relationship with France was complicated. The

men displayed anti-French sentiment in print, but they did so using the French language

and following French literary movements. Moreover, they received an education in

France and payments might have gone to family who had helped educate and host the

men in their youth. More rare was the case of Colombel, who would have been eligible

to receive indemnity payments as his father’s heir. In contrast, Christophe’s kingdom

203 Milscent, “Politique,” Abeille Haytienne, 16 Aug. 1817, 3.

204 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 51.

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stood unequivocally against any indemnity, perhaps, as Nicholls claims, because

“nouveaux libres were more strongly represented.”205

In rebutting and revising Vastey, Colombel and Milscent presented the main

themes, which would become standards of the mulâtriste interpretation of Haiti’s

founding. First, their interpretation of the revolution supported the ascendancy and

consolidation of mixed-race rule. This function is a key component of David Nicholls’s

designation mulatto legend.206 Second, they contended that a republican government

was the ideal form to ensure Haitian independence, an independence that included

rights to labor and land, but also compensation of the former colonial power. The

writings of Colombel and Milscent present nascent legend of the Haitian past. Over the

next decades a second generation of authors would further refine their narrative.

Unification and L’École de 1836

A year after Vastey’s and Colombel’s publications appeared, the divisions that

gave rise to this battle of words no longer existed and Colombel’s republican vision of

Haiti triumphed. In October 1820, King Henry Christophe committed suicide in the face

of health problems and internal unrest. Within days troops led by southern president

Jean-Pierre Boyer reconquered northern Haiti and united the country. The centralization

of power in Port-au-Prince under the Haitian Republic necessitated a new history that

validated the Republic and its leaders.207

The southerner Hérard Dumesle responded with the first post-unification history,

205 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 51.

206 Nicholls, “A Work of Combat: Mulatto Historians and the Haitian Past, 1847-1867,” Journal of Interamerican Studies and World Affairs 16 no.1 (1974): 16, 19. 207 Hénock Trouillot, Les Origines sociales de la littérature haïtienne, 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Les Éditions Fardin, 1986), 97.

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Voyage dans le nord d’Hayti. Dumesle’s biography, like those of his predecessors, is

quite sparse. He was born in 1784 in the southern port city of Les Cayes. Little is known

about his childhood and his experience of the revolution. After independence, he had a

short-lived military career fighting in Jean-Jacques Dessalines’ invasion of Santo

Domingo (1805) and later (1807-1810) for Alexandre Pétion’s republic against Henry

Christophe. Laying down his arms, Dumesle returned to Les Cayes where he rose as a

regional politician and writer. He edited and published Les Cayes’s first newspaper,

L’Observateur: Journal Périodique.208 Here, Dumesle continued the struggle for the

republic with his pen, or, more exactly, printing press. In the paper, he “exalted

republican virtues, criticized the absence of civic spirit, and reviewed Haitian [and

foreign] literature.”209 Although a supporter of Pétion and the republic, Dumesle did not

agree with Haiti’s second president, Jean-Pierre Boyer, and became a leading opponent

of Boyer’s regime. A member of the revolutionary forces that overthrew Boyer in 1843,

Dumesle eventually ended up in exile with his cousin Charles Rivière-Hérard who briefly

served as president after the 1843 coup d’état. Dumesle never returned to Haiti and

died in Kingston, Jamaica in 1858. His principal work, Voyage dans le nord d’Hayti,

illustrates Dumesle’s political views and, more importantly for my analysis, is the most

detailed treatment of the revolution by a Haitian author up to this point, specifically

because it includes slaves’ actions.

In the first issue of L’Observateur, Dumesle discussed stages of national

208 The paper followed the layout of Milscent’s Abeille Haytienne with sections on politics, current events, and literature and espoused similar pro-republic ideology. It appears to have only run for one year, 1819.

209 “…il exaltait les vertus républicaines, critiquait le manque d’esprit civique et révisait la production littéraire haïtienne”: Carl Hermann Middelanis, “Les Mémoires fleurissent dans les lieux ruinés: Le Voyage dans le Nord d’Hayti ou les paradoxes de l’historiographie d’une jeune nation,” Ethnologies 28, no. 1 (2006), 101.

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development and declared that Haiti was between the second and third ages, in which

the country was steadily marching towards civilization.210 Writing history was a part of

development, but Dumesle viewed the existing Haitian publications, specifically those

produced under the deceased King Christophe, as flawed.211 The Voyage dans le nord

d’Hayti is Dumesle’s critical response to the earlier texts. If patronage and regionalism

biased Vastey’s views, Dumesle was also shaped by his southern upbringing and belief

in republicanism. As literary scholar Carl Hermann Middelanis, in the only in-depth study

of the book, notes, Dumesle is an early proponent of the “mulatto legend.”212 Woven

throughout his travelogue are a critique of authoritarianism and a celebration of the

republic as envisioned by Pétion.213 In the midst of his travels across Haitian space

and memory, Dumesle offered a more important contribution to Haitian historiography:

the first treatment of the August 1791 slave revolt by a Haitian author.

Dumesle’s journey begins in his hometown of Les Cayes in southern Haiti. As

the city disappears from view he reflected on the memories of illustrious men who

inhabited it.214 Internal reflection on sites of memory along with conversations with

locals he meets on his travels frame Dumesle’s historical account of the revolution.

Walking the streets of Cap Haïtien, for example, he noted “its ruins reveal the events

210 Hérard Dumesle, L’Observateur: Journal Périodique, 1 May 1819, 1.

211 Dumesle, L’Observateur, 1 June 1819, 9-10 and 15 August 1819, 13. In Voyage, Dumesle includes a literature review including works by Juste Chanlatte and the Baron de Vastey, see Voyage, 264-273. For the most part complimentary of Chanlatte’s fiction and non-fiction (264, 267-68), he criticizes Vastey for his anti-Pétion and anti-republic diatribes (265-67).

212 Middelanis, “Les Mémoires fleurissent dans les lieux ruinés,” Ethnologies 28, no.1 (2006): 101.

213 For a more complete discussion of genre, see Middleanis, “Les Mémoires fleurissent dans les lieux ruinés,” 99-118.

214 Dumesle, Voyage, 5.

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which took place there.”215 From these ruins, he jumps back to 1790 and the uprising of

Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Chavanne, the beginning of his chronology of the

revolution. The act of remembering breaks the linear progression of time. Dumesle was

writing in 1823/24 but he continually circled back in time to recount Haiti’s history. The

narrative of the revolution, however, maintains a linear development from 1790 to the

declaration of independence in 1804.

As Cap Haïtien’s ruins do not speak to the revolutionary outbreak in France,

Dumesle’s narrative starts in Haiti, in contrast to Chanlatte’s and Vastey’s. What

distinguishes Dumesle’s text more is his use of dates and details, evidence of his

research.216 Dumesle had read Haitian and French publications. In addition, the

organization of his narrative, specifically his conversations with local northerners,

suggests he may have also interviewed revolutionary veterans as a source.217 His use

of oral sources demonstrates what Middelanis terms a paradox of early Haitian writing:

how to build a national historiography without an established written archive. Dumesle

blended the two and in doing so he perhaps offered the reader a clearer sense of when

events took place and who was involved. In relation to the latter, Dumesle introduced a

new group of actors, slaves. Following his discussion of Ogé and Chavanne, he turned

to another uprising, the August 1791 slave revolt. He explained, “Near the middle of

August 1791, fieldworkers, artisans, and sugar house workers of several slave gangs

gathered during the night…and devised a plan for a massive insurrection that they

215 “ L’aspect de cette ville [Cap Haïtien] entretien la pensée de grands souvenirs, et ses ruines révèlent les événements dont elle fut le théâtre,” Dumesle, Voyage, 73.

216 Dumesle had at least read Civique de Gastine’s Histoire de la République d’Haïti (1819), see Léon-François Hoffmann, Haïti: Lettres et l’être (Toronto: Éditions du GREF, 1992), 281-82.

217 Middelanis, “Les Mémoires,” 108.

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sanctified with a religious ceremony.”218 Dumesle then switched to alexandrine verse

and recounted the event, including a footnote in Kreyòl of a speech by the ceremony’s

(unidentified) leader. This is the first mention by a Haitian author of both the revolt and

the Bois Caïman ceremony, a controversial event to this day.219

Before Dumesle, the only authors to mention the event were French. The

silences on Bois Caïman have led literary scholar Léon-François Hoffmann to declare it

a national myth based on an invention of the ex-colons.220 For Hoffmann the evolution

and manipulation of the story is crucial, not if the event really happened.221 In contrast,

historian David Geggus contends the ceremony did happen and dissects Dumesle’s

account and concludes it is, though flawed, a credible source on the ceremony.222

What is most important for my discussion is the inclusion of the event in Dumesle’s

revolutionary chronology, regardless of its authenticity. For the first time we have slaves

as historical actors in the revolution, the use of Kreyòl, and an admission of the

existence of Vodou.

Dumesle’s account, as Hoffmann and Middelanis both acknowledge, borrows

heavily from Civique de Gastine’s Histoire de la République d’Haïti ou Saint-Domingue

218 “Vers le milieu du mois d’août 1791, les cultivateurs, manufacturiers et artisans de plusieurs ateliers se réunirent pendant la nuit, au milieu d’un violent orage dans une forêt épaisse qui couvre le sommet du morne rouge, et là formèrent le plan d’une vaste insurrection qu’ils sanctifièrent par une cérémonie religieuse,” Dumesle, Voyage, 85.

219 For a discussion of Bois Caïman and the historiographical debates surrounding it see, David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 81-92. Recent controversy over Bois Caïman surfaced following the 2010 earthquake when American televangelist Pat Robertson claimed the ceremony was a pact with the devil.

220 Hoffmann, Haïti: Lettres et l’Être (Toronto: Éditions du GREF, 1992), 267-301 and Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions Revisited (Pueblo, CO: Passeggiata Press, 1999), 159-180.

221 Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions Revisited, 179-80.

222 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 82, 87.

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(1819), including the use of neo-classical themes.223 Middelanis argues that Dumesle’s

juxtaposition of classical and Haitian mythologies “exalt[s] the union of all the slaves,

men and women, in alexandrines.”224 Dumesle built upon the arguments for racial

equality proposed by Chanlatte, Vastey, and Milscent by illustrating how Haiti had its

own heroes, even those enslaved, who fought for liberty. Dumesle accompanied his

French verse with a Kreyòl version in the footnotes of a speech given by the ceremony’s

leader (later designated as Boukman). Again, these are firsts for Haitian historiography

and literature and precede the work by intellectuals associated with Haitian

Romanticism and the School of 1836.225 Dumesle, like the next generation of authors,

weakly acknowledged Haiti’s majority and its culture. Thus, his verses demonstrate an

early indigéniste strain.

Dumesle’s inclusion of the August 1791 uprising may be radical; however, his

coverage of the final stages of the revolution is far more reactionary and introduces

additional foundational themes of the mulatto legend of Haitian historiography. In

Chanlatte’s and Vastey’s discussions of the civil war between André Rigaud and

Toussaint Louverture, both authors blame the French and Rigaud for inciting violence

and discord. Dumesle, in contrast, used the war to build up a critique of Louverture. To

begin, Dumesle provided a far more sensational account of the break between

Louverture and Rigaud. For example, Louverture by looking at Rigaud’s reflection in a

mirror knew the southern general would betray him.226 This scene of divination reveals

223 Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions Revisited, 165-66 and Middelanis, “Les Mémoires,” 110.

224 Middelanis,”Les Mémoires,” 110.

225 Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisited, 167 and Middelanis, “Les Mémoires,” 112.

226 Dumesle, Voyage, 165.

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Louverture’s superstitious beliefs; a sign that he was not “civilized” enough to be a

leader. His criticism of the general clearly emerged when treating the aftermath of the

war. Here, Louverture’s ambition was a “devouring fire” that terrorized the southern

peninsula.227 Dumesle contended that the campaign to subdue the south was the

worst of possible options and that Louverture should have offered clemency to Rigaud’s

supporters. Dumesle, his family, or friends, may have suffered from or lost their lives

during the campaign for southern submission. Moreover, Dumesle claimed Louverture’s

ambition led to the 1801 Constitution that created, not a land of liberty, but “an empire of

tranquil despotism.”228 Louverture is not a revolutionary hero in Dumesle’s account, but

rather a man lusting for power, a trope other mulâtristes would expand.

The hero who does emerge in the final years of revolution is Alexandre Pétion.

Reversing Boisrond-Tonnerre and Vastey’s interpretations, Dumesle contended that

Pétion first unfurled the flag of liberty in October 1802.229 Dessalines only enters the

picture later and becomes head general thanks to Pétion’s support.230 In Dumesle’s

account, it is mixed-race generals who initiated the move to independence and they

only later received assistance from Dessalines and other black leaders. Furthermore,

Dumesle organized his narrative to comment on independent Haiti and support Pétion’s

government and the promise of a republican national vision. Returning to Les Cayes, he

passed Port-au-Prince, which was also in ruins after a fire and then traveled on to the

227 “un feu dévorant,” Dumesle, Voyage, 176.

228 “l’empire tranquille du despotisme,” Dumesle, Voyage, 183.

229 “c’était Alexandre Pétion; il déploya l’étendard de la liberté,” Dumesle, Voyage, 200.

230 Dumesle, Voyage, 210.

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southern peninsula.231 The destruction of Port-au-Prince Middelanis proposes is

symbolic of Dumesle’s distrust of the new president, Jean-Pierre Boyer.232 In addition,

Dumesle’s descriptions of the peninsula demonstrates his liberal vision for Haiti’s

future.233 Similar to Milscent and Colombel, he valued small-scale landholding and,

even more radical than his Port-au-Prince colleagues, he saw in the coumbite (peasant

work team) a promising combination of collective labor and individual productivity.234

A contributor to the nascent mulâtriste interpretation and indigéniste themes of

Haitian Romanticism, Dumesle stood as a transitional author between the close of the

first decades of Haitian historiography and the boom of the mid-nineteenth century.

Voyage is the most complete narrative of the revolution but still leaves gaps that later

authors would fill. It also foreshadows important debates to come over how to write

history, which sources to use, and who the important figures were. A year after

Dumesle’s publication, King Charles X of France recognized Haiti and accounts of the

revolution waned until the rise of the School of 1836. Many of these new writers had no

experience of the revolution but had grown up in the republic during the civil wars

between Pétion and Christophe. Regional divisions shaped their writing of history along

with the questions of color and class simmering in the background. At the same time,

the generation of men and women who had fought for Haiti’s independence was aging

and intellectuals felt a renewed pressure to record their stories and the country’s

founding. Improved relations with France, and the occupation of neighboring Santo

231 Dumesle, Voyage, 307.

232 Middelanis, “Les Mémoires,” 113.

233 Middelanis, “Les Mémoires,” 113-14.

234 Dumesle, Voyage, 318-19.

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Domingo, also opened up new archives and sources for the creation of detailed

accounts of the revolution.

The School of 1836 was the result of a concentrated effort by intellectuals based

in Port-au-Prince to develop Haitian scholarship. In the columns of the newspaper Le

Républicain, later L’Union, authors penned historical essays and short stories that

nuanced the narrative of the revolution proclaimed by the republic’s proponents in the

capital.235 Similar to Dumesle’s Voyage dans le Nord, the newspaper articles of the

mid-1830s added insurgent slaves and their voices (in Kreyòl) to the narrative

Influenced by French Romanticism, Haitian authors turned to the “folk” or Haitian

peasant for inspiration. Literary scholar Michael Dash states the interest in Haiti’s

majority was “based on protest against Boyer’s inability to arrest the fragmentation

taking place in Haitian society.”236 Romantic works incorporated Vodou, and black

peasant characters.237 To further their “folk” characterization, authors, particularly

Ignace Nau, incorporated proverbs and terms in Haitian Creole. In his stories, the

reader encountered a vision of Haitian popular culture replete with local vocabulary.

Nau’s literary imaginings found voice in the paper’s editorial columns, too. His brother,

Émile, published several articles on the creation of a national literature. Émile Nau

argued that Haiti currently had no national literature and criticized the imitative style of

235 Alternatives to Le Télégraphe, the state-sponsored paper, Le Républicain and L’Union ran 1836-37 and 1837-39 respectively.

236 J.Michael Dash, Literature and Ideology in Haiti, 1915-1961 (Totowa, N.J.: Barnes & Noble Books, 1981), 7.

237 Vévé Clark, Fieldhands to stagehands in Haiti: the measure of tradition in Haitian popular theater (PhD diss, UC Berkeley, 1983), v.

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Haitian authors and their use of French.238 While he did not directly call for the use of

Kreyòl, Émile Nau acknowledged that Haitian authors should develop their own form of

French and not just imitate the former metropole. The inclusion of local expressions and

peasant characters constituted an evolution in Haitian literature; however, the peasant

and his traditions were exotic elements of the romanticists’ imagination. Inclusion in

newspaper serials was far from enfranchisement. The stories and editorials did little to

resolve the divide in Haitian society between the Francophile elite and monolingual

Creole masses.

Though the paper only ran for a total of three years, the writers who contributed

to Le Républicain/L’Union formed a vanguard of Haitian intellectuals.239 While the main

innovations came in Haitian fiction, a group of young men interested in history made

important methodological interventions. Céligni Ardouin and Thomas Madiou

contributed articles on the Haitian Revolution to the paper. They would later go on to

compile larger histories of the revolution. Both authors introduced a new form in which

to write Haiti’s origin story, the biography. C. Ardouin would perfect this in an essay

collection published posthumously by his brother and fellow chronicler, Beaubrun

Ardouin. In both the collection and newspaper, he examined not just individual lives but

also specific battles. Biography then applied to people and events. Madiou limited his

forays in biography to the newspaper columns. Nevertheless, his articles were

preliminary explorations in Haitian history that would lead to his seminal Histoire d’Haïti,

238 Émile Nau, L’Union, 16 Nov. 1837, 4.

239 Hénock Trouillot, “En Faveur d’une Littérature Indigène,” in Isalina ou Une Scène Créole, ed. Christophe Phillipe Charles (Port-au-Prince: Editions Choucoune, 2013), 84. Writers included the brothers Ardouin (Céligni and Beaubrun), Nau (Émile and Ignace), Lespinasse (Beauvais and Dumai) and Thomas Madiou.

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the first multi-volume history of Haiti from the arrival of Columbus to the 1840s. Both

authors also incorporated new sources. C. Ardouin for example interviewed veterans of

the revolution and collected documents from Santo Domingo, respectively for articles on

the siege of Jacmel and the 1794 Fort-Dauphin massacre.240 Madiou was not as

explicit about his research techniques, but for his larger work he also collected

interviews establishing with C. Ardouin a tradition of using oral sources alongside the

archive to narrate Haiti’s history.

The two men’s interventions expanded the narrative of the revolution to include

new perspectives and voices, a trend that fellow contributors intensified in fiction. Two

specific national re-imaginings were the inclusion of slave resistance and of Jean-

Jacques Dessalines. Thomas Madiou introduced the first topic in an article on the

sorcerer Macandal.241 A slave in northern Saint-Domingue, Macandal entered colonial

records as a maroon leader and poisoner, executed by colonial officials in 1758.

Madiou’s article offers a snapshot of Macandal’s life and late colonial Saint-Domingue.

He laced together a story of resistance, unrequited love, and Macandal’s fantastic

death.242 Moreover, through the story of Macandal he introduced the theme of vodou,

or what the Haitian elite patronizingly termed sorcery and superstition. A decade later,

Madiou reduced the sensational tale to several paragraphs in his book, Histoire d’Haïti,

240 Céligni Ardouin, “Siège de Jacmel,” L’Union, 1, 8, & 15 March 1838, nos. 29, 30, 31; “Histoire,” L’Union 6 July 1837, no. 29 3-4.

241 Thomas Madiou, “Macandal,” L’Union, 9 Aug. 1836, 2-3.

242 Sentenced to be burned alive, Macandal broke free, and jumped through the flames. According to Madiou, a passing soldier stabbed and killed him, as he was fleeing Cap Français, “Macandal,” 3. The story predates independence and has become part of Haitian folklore, see Moreau de Saint-Méry, Description topographique et politique, (Philadelphia, 1797-98), 651-53.

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and included few of the (false) details from the newspaper article.243 If earlier authors

had exposed the atrocities of slavery and colonialism, Madiou provided a specific story

of resistance: “The planter who deserved his hatred…Macandal ruined him gradually

making his slaves die by toxic substances, then burning his properties and poisoning

him.244 Madiou inserted Macandal into the chronology of the revolution and initiated a

genealogy of slave resistance that later historians and novelists would elaborate. The

slave rebel and maroon leader are precursors to the actions of revolutionary leaders

and demonstrate the slaves’ desire for liberty.

While C. Ardouin did not include maroon leaders in his columns, the two authors

both contributed to revising the image of Haiti’s founder and first head of state, Jean-

Jacques Dessalines. As I discussed in Chapter 2, mixed-race leaders had erased

Dessalines from official memory and labeled him a violent tyrant. The mid-1830s

marked the beginning of a shift in official representations of Dessalines that would

climax in centennial celebrations of independence in 1904. Intellectuals from the School

of 1836 played a part in initiating this revitalization. Madiou and C.Ardouin painted an

ambivalent picture of the slave turned revolutionary leader. In an article on the fort

Crête-a-Pierrot, Madiou praised Dessalines’s leadership and called him “the child of the

revolution.” At the same time he spoke of how cruel and terrifying Dessalines was,

though he attributed these traits to his time as a slave.245 Madiou suggested that

Dessalines should be excused for his actions post-independence because he was a

243 Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti (1847-48, repr., Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988), 1:35-36.

244 “Le colon qui avait mérité sa haine…Macandal le ruinait insensiblement, en faisant périr ses esclaves par des compositions vénéneuses; puis il brûlait ses propriétés et l’empoisonnait,” Madiou, “Macandal,” 2.

245 Thomas Madiou, “La Crête-a-Pierrot,” L’Union, 13 Dec. 1838, 2.

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product of the slave system. C. Ardouin also noted Dessalines’ bravery and military skill

in his article on the siege of Jacmel during the civil war between Toussaint Louverture

and André Rigaud.246 His sympathies lay with fellow mixed-race leaders from the south

and west (Pétion, Rigaud, and Borgella). Nevertheless, C. Ardouin’s interpretation of

revolutionary heroes was not determined solely by his skin color. From the southern

town Petit Trou de Nippes, he recounted Dessalines’s appreciation of the southern

fighters’ courage and his civilized treatment of prisoners.247 Later accounts of the siege

of Jacmel, regardless of the author’s regional loyalties and politics, also stressed the

humaneness of Dessalines. Ardouin contrasted this with the “ferocity” of Henry

Christophe.248 The reappropriation of Dessalines as the founding father left Christophe

as the scapegoat for mulâtriste writers.

A series of short stories by fellow intellectual Ignace Nau continued this process

of re-writing a more inclusive narrative of Haiti’s founding. Nau’s fictional pieces

constitute the most radical accounts of the revolution prior to the twentieth century and

present an early indigénisme.249 Unlike twentieth-century indigénistes who embraced

peasant traditions as Haitian, the work of nineteenth-century Haitian romantics

illustrates a tension between commemorating a folk (black peasant) heritage and

246 Céligni Ardouin, “Siège de Jacmel,” L’Union 1 March 1838, 1-3; 8 March, 2-3; 15 March, 2-3 and 22 March, 2-3.

247 C. Ardouin, “Siège de Jacmel,” 15 March 1838, 2; 22 March, 3.

248 C. Ardouin, “Siège de Jacmel,” 22 March 1838, 3.

249 Hénock Trouillot, Les Origines Sociales, 122 and Christophe Philippe Charles, “Les Contes Créoles d’Ignace Nau,” in Islina ou Une Scène Créole (Port-au-Prince: Éditions Coucoune, 2013), 87.

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defending Haiti as civilized in the face of European racism.250 Just as Vastey and

Chanlatte proclaimed Haitian’s African roots but also heralded the civilizing benefits of

colonialism, Nau and his fellow authors incorporated Haiti’s folk (black peasants) yet

regarded them with a colonizing gaze.

Nau’s texts include a serial entitled, “Un Episode de la Révolution: Conte Créole”

and two stories ambiguously called “Souvenirs Historiques.”251 In all three, the reader

encounters a vision of Haitian popular culture, specifically religious beliefs. From a loup-

garou (werewolf) to vodou priests blessing insurgent troops to the power of the lambi

(conch shell), he presented a different view of the revolution filled with alternative

heroes, local beliefs, and superstition. In “Un Episode” the plot centers around healing a

young boy who saw a werewolf the night his father returned to battle in the plains

around Port-au-Prince. While Nau illustrated how local beliefs were used to solve the

crisis, he also judged the peasant traditions. For example, Nau provided a notes

section for foreign readers where he translated terms associated with Vodou, or what

Nau called “la superstition.”252 Vodou was not an equal belief system with Roman

Catholicism practiced by the Haitian elite, thus Nau referred to it as superstition. His

definitions and translations further illustrate this critical (colonizing) gaze. For example,

he explained caplata as “magician.”253 For post-Enlightenment European readers

250 Kate Ramsey elucidates a similar claim for the symbolic value of anti-Vodou legislation in nineteenth-century Haiti, see The Spirits and the Law: Vodou and Power in Haiti (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011), 56-67.

251 “Un Episode de la Révolution” ran from 15 Dec. 1836 to 15 Jan 1837 in Le Républicain, “Souvenirs Historiques” appeared in L’Union 20 April 1837, 29 March 1838, and 5 April 1838.

252 Nau, “Un Episode,” 15 Dec. 1838, 8.

253 Nau, “Un Episode,” 15 Dec. 1838, 8.

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magician implied charlatan and devalued Vodou in their eyes.254 Yet, the Kreyòl kaplata

was a common term for Vodou priest “from the colonial period until the nineteenth

century.”255 Nau’s translations provided the foreign reader with elite definitions and

descriptions. Although Nau’s employment of Kreyòl proverbs and vocabulary further

defined his characters as rural and black, he regarded the characters as exotic and

censored their culture, expressed through their use of Kreyòl, for foreign readers.

“Souvenirs Historiques” are organized as a conversation between a young

“bourgeois” man, and an elderly former slave, Jérôme. Jérôme recounts for the

“bourgeois” his experience of the revolution and describes his greatest personal reward

from the struggle, land.256 Nau like C. Ardouin and Madiou included Dessalines in the

peasant’s narrative. Gazing out over his productive land, a grant of “five or six carreaux”

from the state for his services during the revolution, Jérôme recounts the greatness of

Dessalines, specifically his courage and bravery. Yet, as his monologue progresses, he

laments how Dessalines changed, how power corrupted him “to provoke our vengeance

and force us, his own soldiers, to kill him at Pont Rouge.”257 Here, an aging former

slave voices a vision of independence and Haiti, similar to that of Milscent and

Dumesle: a country of small farmers who are free to labor on their own land. Jérôme,

who would have received his land from Pétion, the mixed-race hero and first president,

became a productive farmer. It is important to note that Nau’s tale, though supporting

254 Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law, 5.

255 Benjamin Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs in Haitian Creole and English (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2012), 246.

256 Nau, “Souvenirs Historiques,” L’Union 29 March 1838, 3.

257 Nau, “Souvenirs Historiques,” 29 March, 1838, 3.

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mixed-race rule, was an attack on the current president, Jean-Pierre Boyer, and his

state-run plantation oriented economy. Beyond addressing the meaning of

independence, Nau’s peasant also recites a mulâtriste interpretation of Dessalines as a

warrior but improper leader. Moreover, he does not blame regional or color divisions for

Dessalines’s assassination, but rather Dessalines himself, who was too weak to resist

the corrupting nature of power. Nau’s folktales, thus, serve to support the consolidation

of the mulatto legend and demonstrate how non-elite subjects could be incorporated

into the narrative. His indigénisme loses some of its radical potential and becomes a

narrative strategy for the mulâtristes.

In contrast to the newspaper columns and short stories that celebrated a more

inclusive view of Haiti’s culture and history, the second narrative from the School of

1836 placed mixed-race heroes (literally in one case) center stage. For the mixed-race

elite, Ogé and Chavanne were symbols of the struggle against racial prejudice, and

their failed uprising in 1790 was an important event in the chronology of the revolution.

Fifty years later, the mixed-race elite faced internal divisions. Jean-Pierre Boyer, the

longest ruling nineteenth-century head of state, encountered increasing criticism from

mixed-race and black southerners. In addition to these domestic power struggles, Haiti

also had to deal with the criticism of foreigners, consuls, merchants, and statesmen.

They claimed specifically that the country was “rife with internal color prejudice.”258

Intellectuals revisited Ogé and Chavanne’s revolt to counter claims of color prejudice

and illustrate that the revolutionary and contemporary mixed-race elite opposed the

institutions that created this prejudice: slavery and colonialism. Moreover, like the

258 Marlene Daut, “Science of Desire: Race and Representations of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, 1790-1865” (PhD diss. University of Notre Dame, 2008), 420.

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scheming of French generals during the revolution, they sought to demonstrate that

colorism was an invention of foreigners to weaken Haiti.

If the short stories and articles of Le Républicain and L’Union captured a more

inclusive national narrative, Émile Nau’s Réclamation par les affranchis des droits civils

et politiques: Ogé & Chavannes [sic] was a return to celebrating mixed-race heroes in

the face of challenges to mixed-race rule.259 Nau stressed the importance of the gens

de couleurs’ struggle and labeled it as the first event in the battle for racial equality,

abolition, and independence. Unlike earlier Haitian publications, Nau described Ogé’s

lobbying attempts in Paris and his failure to win over the colonists’ lobby at the Club

Massiac.260 By including the scene in Paris, Nau legitimated Ogé’s actions by illustrating

how he sought to use proper legislative channels and, only after continual defeat, did he

turn to violence. In addition, the scene introduced the debated issue of Ogé’s views on

abolition. He summarized Ogé’s argument as, “all men, without reserve, have the right

to liberty.”261 Nevertheless, he clarified that Ogé believed gens de couleur should

receive liberty immediately, while others (slaves) would receive freedom at a later time

and under certain conditions. Nau did not provide further comment and it would be later

mulâtristes who constructed Ogé as an abolitionist. He concluded the pamphlet, though,

proclaiming that Ogé and Chavanne were “the first defenders of our rights and our first

liberators.”262 Similar to Chanlatte’s use of the word “our,” Nau also obscured the

259 Nau’s more important publication, Histoire des caciques d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince, 1837), may also be an attempt to evade Haitian racial politics by focusing on the island’s pre-Columbian history.

260 Nau, Réclamation, 12-15.

261 “tous les hommes, sans réserve, ont droit à la liberté,” Nau, Réclamation, 14.

262 “les premiers défenseurs de nos droits et nos premiers libérateurs,” Nau, Réclamation, 46.

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actual recipients of the rights for which Ogé and Chavanne fought. The pronoun “our”

portrays an inclusive image with no divisions based on one’s status: free or enslaved.

The fictional counterpart to Nau’s pamphlet, Pierre Faubert’s play Ogé ou le

préjugé de couleur further celebrated mixed-race achievement while also moralizing

about racial discrimination. A native of Les Cayes, Faubert was the son of a

revolutionary war general. As he explains in the play’s dedication, thanks to his mother

he received an education in France. Faubert returned to Haiti, where he quickly rose in

the ranks of Jean-Pierre Boyer’s government. He began as the president’s aide de

camp and then his personal secretary. During the final five years of Boyer’s rule, 1837-

1842, Faubert was the director of the national high school in Port-au-Prince. It was here

that he first performed the play Ogé with his students on 9 February 1841. Faubert

wrote the piece to “inspire noble sentiments” in his students and to illustrate “all that is

absurd and odious in color prejudice.”263 Set in revolutionary Saint-Domingue, the play

uses the gens de couleurs’ struggle for racial equality to comment on contemporary

Haitian relations. Literary scholar Marlene Daut posits that Faubert endeavored “to

vindicate the mulattoes in the eyes of the world.”264 In particular, French abolitionist

Victor Schoelcher’s criticism of the mixed-race elite’s color prejudice concerned

Faubert.265 Schoelcher had visited Haiti in 1841 and published a scathing indictment of

the elite in 1843.266 For Faubert and other Haitian authors Schoelcher’s claims were but

another example of whites, especially the French, seeking to divide Haitians, as they did

263 Pierre Faubert, Ogé ou le préjugé de couleur (Paris: Librairie de C. Maillet-Schmitz, 1856), 12-13.

264 Daut, “Science of Desire,” 420.

265 Faubert, Ogé, 13.

266 Victor Schoelcher, Colonies étrangers et Haïti: résultats de l’émancipation anglaise (Paris: Pagnerre, 1843).

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during the revolution.267

Over a decade later when he published the play in Paris, racialized portrayals of

Haiti were at the forefront of Faubert’s mind. After the overthrow of mixed-race president

Jean-Pierre Boyer, the elite installed a succession of puppet presidents. In 1847 they

“elected” former slave Faustin Soulouque, who turned the tables on them and became

Haiti’s second black emperor. As he consolidated power, Soulouque executed his

opponents, who tended to be mixed-race urban residents. While Faubert had already

fled to Paris in 1843, Soulouque’s ascension caused a wave of mixed-race migration to

neighboring Caribbean islands and France. On one hand, Soulouque served as a case

of reverse color prejudice, a black Haitian attacking mixed-race Haitians. On the other

hand, European authors mocked the new black emperor and Faubert’s publication of

his play over a decade later was one of several responses to these racialized

writings.268 Faubert, like Émeric Bergeaud the author of Haiti’s first novel, Stella

(discussed in Chapter 4), may have also been driven to present a positive

representation of Haiti in the face of European publications.269

While the subject of Faubert’s play is violent and gruesome (the revolt and

execution of Ogé and Chavanne), he spun a fantastical tale of mixed-race intellectual

and moral superiority that contrasted with the barbarism of French planters. Central to

his reversal of racialized identities is Faubert’s characterization of Ogé. Similar to Nau’s

pamphlet and Chanlatte’s epic poem, Faubert’s play further advances the image of

267 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 95.

268 For more discussion on the images of Soulouque see Léon François Hoffmann and Carl Hermann Middelanis, Faustin Soulouque d'Haïti : dans l'histoire et la littérature (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007).

269 Émeric Bergeaud, Stella, trans. Lesley Curtis and Christen Mucher (New York: New York University Press, 2015), xix.

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Ogé, and by extension other mixed-race revolutionary heroes, as a fighter for the rights

of all Saint-Dominguans of color, free and enslaved.270 As Ogé and his band march to

battle they sing, and in one verse Ogé appeals to slaves and declares that the “star of

Liberty/Will soon shine in the enchanted sky.”271 With Ogé’s call to the slaves, Faubert

enacted the mulâtriste argument that Ogé supported abolition. For later proponents of

the mulatto legend, Ogé as abolitionist became a central tenet and illustration of the

lack of racial prejudice on the part of mixed-race leaders. More important, Ogé’s

embrace of equality signals a rejection of colonialism and slavery, the institutions that

continue to support inequality and raical hierarchies. And, by placing Ogé on the moral

high ground, Faubert implied that color prejudice was an external creation and not a

sentiment held by the mixed-race elite in neither the 1790s nor 1840s. Faubert’s play is

but an initial example of the construction of this narrative.

Ogé ou le préjugé de couleur demonstrates a growing consensus among Haitian

intellectuals and the consolidation of mulâtriste interpretations of Haiti’s history. The

early generations of authors struggled to construct national narratives. This struggle

was framed by internal factors including social divisions both inherited from the colonial

past and newly created by independence. Beyond such domestic issues, Haiti’s position

as a post-slavery state run by men of African descent in a world of colonialism, racism,

and slavery meant Haitian authors faced barriers that their American and French

counterparts did not when narrating their nation’s founding. Exposing crimes, and

bearing witness on the international scene became important rhetorical strategies to

270 Faubert, Ogé, 32.

271 “Oui, l’astre de la Liberté/ Luira bientôt dans ce ciel enchanté!” Faubert, Ogé, 68.

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both narrate the revolution and justify Haiti’s founding. Yet, the fracturing of the Haitian

state less than three years after declaring political independence presented authors with

a new challenge. Not only did writers have to validate the revolution and continue to

bear witness to the horrors of 1789-1804, they also had to explain the state under which

they wrote. From 1806 to 1820, new debates took shape in Haitian scholarship

concerning the proper form of government for the new post-colonial and post-slavery

state. The death of King Henry Christophe and consolidation of the country under

President Jean-Pierre Boyer signaled a third narrative shift. Increased political stability

allowed for a blossoming of publications and, under the influence of Haitian

Romanticism, a turn towards the history and traditions of Haiti’s peasantry or folk. Yet

intellectuals’ portraits of slave insurgents and peasants did not signify any real attempts

to bridge the social divide between the primarily mixed-race elite and black majority.

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Figure 3-1: “Baron de Vastey,” Clive Cheesman, ed., Amorial of Haiti: Symbols of Nobility in the Reign of Henry Christophe (College of Arms: London, 2007), 168.

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CHAPTER 4 INDEPENDENCE’S GOLDEN JUBILEE AND THE TRIUMPH OF THE MULATTO

LEGEND

Il n’existe pas d’histoire, pas d’histoire écrite, du moins. Il y a bien quelques livres concernant Haïti, des récits plus ou moins fantaisistes, rédigés par des étrangers

généralement peu bienveillants. Mais une histoire où se trouvent consignés méthodiquement et impartialement les faits de la découverte à nos jours, non,

décidément, personne, aucun haïtien n’a jamais pensé à entreprendre cela.

—Jean-Marie Th. Madiou, c. 1835 Thomas Madiou: Homme d’état et historien haïtien1

Back from studies in France, the young Thomas Madiou asked his father if a

history of Haiti existed. Madiou, before returning to Haiti, had met Isaac Louverture the

son of the revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture, and Isaac had piqued Madiou’s

interest in his homeland’s history and founding. Madiou père, quoted above, responded

to his son’s inquiry with a resounding no. Chapter 3 demonstrates that Haitians had

recorded the country’s history and founding in various genres. Yet, as Madiou père

qualified, no Haitian had undertaken to write an impartial and methodical history of the

country from its discovery by Christopher Columbus in 1492 to the present time. Madiou

moved by his encounter with Isaac Louverture (among other factors) decided to take up

his pen and write the first complete history of Haiti. The publication of Madiou’s three

volumes initiated a significant shift in Haitian historiography in the 1840s and 50s.

Together with Beaubrun Ardouin and Joseph Saint-Rémy, the three men composed the

first archival-based histories of Haiti up to the 1840s and partook in a radical venture:

writing a black history.

1 “No history exists, no written history, at least. There are quite a few books on Haiti, generally more or less fanciful stories written by unsympathetic foreigners. But a history in which the facts are recorded methodically and impartially from discovery to our present day, no, really, no one, no Haitian has ever thought to undertake that.” Arthur Lescouflair, Thomas Madiou: Homme d’état et historien haïtien (Mexico City: Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia, 1950), 15

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This chapter continues the story of printed commemorations of the revolution by

examining Haiti’s first novel, Émeric Bergeaud’s Stella (1859) and three multi-volume

national histories, Thomas Madiou’s Histoire d’Haïti (1847-48), Joseph Saint-Rémy’s

Pétion et Haïti (1854-57), and Beaubrun Ardouin’s Etudes sur l’histoire d’Haïti suivies

de la vie du Général J.M. Borgella (1853-60). In contrast to Chapter 3 that weaves

together multiple genres, this chapter examines a moment of genre separation but also

the consolidation of David Nicholls’s mulatto legend in the mid-nineteenth century.2 In

response to the School of 1836, these four authors sought to establish literary and

historiographic traditions that would define Haiti as a civilized nation.3 A principal

component was to provide a Haitian perspective that countered biased white

publications and continued the littérature de combat of the previous generation. For

nineteenth-century mixed-race elite men, this meant presenting Haitians as protagonists

and celebrating Haiti’s success as a symbol of black potential. Although far from an

inclusive narrative, the texts do introduce slaves as subjects (albeit in need of proper

guidance from the gens de couleur) and folk culture, especially early Vodou practices.

Madiou, Ardouin, Bergeaud, and Saint-Rémy were ambivalent at best and often hostile

towards the black majority. Their judgments and narratives exposed postcolonial

tensions in Haitian writing. Two questions, in particular, guided their writings: 1. How to

2 Proponents of the mulatto legend celebrated mixed-race accomplishments, proclaimed racial unity, and were determined to rewrite history to correct the mistakes of earlier authors who represented an emerging black legend. Authors of the “noir” or black legend championed the actions of revolutionary leaders descended directly from African slaves, criticized the governments of post-independence mulatto rulers, and emphasized color over class as the main division in Haitian society For a more detailed discussion of each school see David Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and National Independence in Haiti, 2nd ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 10-11.

3 One of the founders of the “School of 1836” Emile Nau noted this belief and proposed steps Haitian intellectuals should take to construct such a canon. See “Littérature,” L’Union, 16 Nov. 1837, np.

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conceive of Haitian civilization and progress both within and outside the bounds of

European definitions of these notions? 2. How to narrate a history in a linguistically

divided and illiterate society? The histories and novel illustrate a spectrum of responses

and narrative interventions that provide a foundation for the development of twentieth-

century cultural and political nationalisms (indigénisme and noirisme).

The 1840s-60s is a unique moment in Haiti’s literary history. On one hand, the

four authors were involved in nation-building projects like European and American

intellectuals. Novels and histories were literary symbols of the nation and a requisite for

any new country. On the other hand, domestic tensions were high for Haiti’s fiftieth

anniversary. The 1843 revolution which un-seated the longest-ruling mixed-race

president, Jean-Pierre Boyer, unsettled the mulâtriste narrative. Divisions among the

elite left space for black middling and lower classes to enunciate their views and

challenge the milat hegemony. The outcome of four years of off and on warfare was the

election of a former slave, Faustin Soulouque. Soulouque turned the tables on his

mixed-race electors and named himself emperor. A black emperor in power again

catalyzed mulâtriste proponents to respond. Their national vision was being threatened

and thus a new narrative was needed that would re-establish the power of mixed-race

leaders and elide social divisions. Moreover, the new black emperor increasingly drew

international ridicule and Haiti’s image as a bastion of African potential needed saving.

Narrating Haiti’s history regardless of genre was a patriotic endeavor that would

contribute to Haiti’s development and “remember” the revolution for younger

generations. In addition, the act of writing history, creating a national historiography, and

publishing the first national novel were all performances of Haiti’s civilization. In her

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work on Haitian law, Kate Ramsey contends that legislation was a method for “the state

and Haitian elite to assert Haiti’s ‘civilization’ and ‘progress’ in the face of the republic’s

diplomatic isolation and exclusion following independence.”4 Histories and novels were

equally part of this process. Although Haiti was now recognized by major European

powers (France, Britain, and Spain), Haitian writers remained on the defensive. With

diplomatic relations came an increase in foreign visitors who recorded their impressions

about Haiti. In particular, the visit of French abolitionist Victor Schoelcher and his

observations on the elite’s oppression of the black masses incited a strong reaction

from mixed-race intellectuals. In response to Schoelcher and prevailing racial and

imperial discourses, Haitian intellectuals saw themselves continually striving “to refute

the contention that people of African descent could not govern themselves or develop a

‘civilized’ society.”5 This purpose created a dual audience for Haitian historical and

fictional publications: Haitian and foreign. Because texts “performed” Haiti on an

international scene, particularly European, authors crafted narratives and arguments

within contemporary European discourses to legitimate Haiti and demonstrate the

country’s “progress” and “civilization.”6

Thomas Madiou and Haiti’s First History

Thomas Madiou’s initial volumes appeared in Port-au-Prince print shops in the

late 1840s during the rule of black president turned emperor Faustin Soulouque. The

4 Kate Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law: Vodou and Power in Haiti (Chicago: University of Chicago, Press, 2011), 62.

5 Ramsey, Spirits and the Law, 63.

6 For additional arguments concerning how literate members of the African diaspora defined identity within the bounds of the Enlightenment and nineteenth-century discourses on race, see James Sidbury, Becoming African in America: Race and Nation in the Early Black Atlantic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007) and Faith Smith, Creole Recitations: John Jacob Thomas and Colonial Formation in the Late Nineteenth-Century Caribbean (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2002).

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only author of the four to publish in country, Madiou’s history is a hybrid of Haitian

intellectual traditions. Most notably, Madiou did not strictly follow the standard tenets of

the mulatto legend that Nicholls elucidated. He treated revolutionary leaders with a

degree of neutrality and openly acknowledged the divisive nature of color. Moreover,

following the work of Hérard Dumesle, the Nau brothers, and Céligny Ardouin, Madiou

incorporated the actions of slaves into the revolutionary narrative. Maroons and

rebelling slaves fought for liberty, often for centuries, and their actions contributed to

Haiti’s independence. Yet, he supported his class (the milat elite) and demonstrated

how the culturally superior free people of color provided a necessary supervisory role

during the revolution and in independent Haiti.

In the three volumes that focus on the revolution, Madiou maintained the central

argument of revolutionary narratives: Haitian independence was the only means to

uphold the abolition of slavery and racial discrimination. Moreover, the struggle for

independence was one shared by all Haitians regardless of color, and it was their unity

that ultimately assured their victory over the French. Madiou added a corollary to his

justification of independence. He stressed that Haiti’s history was an account of “the

African race transplanted in Haiti.”7 Like his predecessors, Madiou sought to narrate a

black history at a time when Europeans and white Americans argued that Africans and

Afro-Americans had no history. Haiti served as international proof of blacks’ capacity for

self-rule and to create a civilization. Writing a national history was an integral

component of this racial vindication. For a domestic audience, writing and reading

history served to remind Haitians of the heroic struggle to form their country and the

7 “la race africaine transplantée en Haïti,” Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, rev. ed. (1847; repr., Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988-90) 1:iii.

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necessity of remaining united in order to protect Haiti’s independence. For a foreign

readership, Madiou’s text offered a Haitian perspective on Haiti’s founding and

contemporary history and demonstrated the potential of Africans and their descendants.

Because of the international attention Haiti received, Madiou cautioned, “If Haiti fails,

the black and his descendants may never again form an independent people in the New

World.”8 In order to maintain independence, Haitians needed to never forget the

revolution and the transformational power of unity.

Born in Port-au-Prince in 1814 to “fairly affluent” parents, Madiou grew up as part

of Haiti’s nascent elite.9 Though little is known about his mother, Madiou’s father was a

pharmacist and worked as a health officer under the mixed-race president, Alexandre

Pétion. His father remained a high-ranking civil servant in the republic; he even married

a niece of Haiti’s second president, Jean-Pierre Boyer, after the death of his first wife. In

addition, Madiou was the grandson of a French officer who moved to Saint-Domingue

before the revolution. Madiou benefited from his father’s status and French familial

connections and traveled to France for his education. Madiou attended schools in

Angers, Nantes, Rennes, and finally Paris where he completed a law degree in the early

1830s. While Madiou’s father hoped his son would remain in France and avoid the

“dangerous and tenacious” rivalries in Haiti an unexpected meeting altered the young

lawyer’s aspirations.10 During a trip to Bordeaux, he met Isaac Louverture and his wife,

the son and niece of Haiti’s revolutionary hero, Toussaint Louverture. According to

8 “Si Haïti succombe, jamais peut-être le noir et ses descendants ne formeront dans le Nouveau Monde un peuple indépendante,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:xii.

9 Ernst Trouillot, Hénock Trouillot, and Catts Pressoir, Historiographie d’Haïti (Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia, 1953), 137.

10 Lescouflair, Thomas Madiou, 13.

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Madiou’s nephew this encounter sparked an insatiable interest in Haiti’s history and the

young man left his life in France to return to his homeland.11 Once in Port-au-Prince,

he asked his father for a text on Haitian history. His father responded that he knew of no

written history by a Haitian. Although Chapter 3 illustrates that Madiou père was not

entirely correct in his answer, no archive-based written history existed. Madiou

supposedly exclaimed in response “Well then, this book that does not exist, it is I who

will write it!”12 The mixed-race, French-educated Madiou then began the task of

researching and writing Haiti’s history.

As his contemporary Beaubrun Ardouin would do, Madiou drew upon his father’s

government connections and his own position as secretary to General Inginac (chief

minister of Boyer’s government) to support his research. Working for Inginac, he

traveled the country and did research for his book, including interviews with aging

revolutionary veterans. A historian by choice, Madiou held various positions from

director of the national high school to minister plenipotentiary in Spain and served under

all Haitian heads of state until the election of Pierre T. Boisrond Canal in 1876.13 A

leader of the Liberal Party that often touted the “mulatto legend,” Boisrond Canal “was

condemned for his practice of giving all lucrative posts to mulattoes.”14 Madiou’s

decision to not serve in Boisrond Canal’s government is symbolic of his more critical

view of Haiti’s color politics. He did not simply support mixed-race leaders. For example,

he stepped down following Faustin Soulouque’s massacres of mixed-race elite

11 Lescouflair, Thomas Madiou, 14.

12 “Eh bien, ce livre qui n’existe pas, c’est moi qui l’écrirai!” Lescouflair, Thomas Madiou, 15.

13 Trouillot, Trouillot, and Pressoir, Historiographie, 137-38.

14 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 125.

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members in 1848. Yet, Madiou published three of his volumes under Soulouque and

later accepted the position of editor of the official paper, Le Moniteur. At the end of his

life, Madiou worked under President Lysius Salomon, a leader of the National Party and

member of Haiti’s small southern black elite. His service to diverse governments

demonstrates his lack of adherence to the mulatto legend of Haitian history but also his

ambivalent support of black leaders. He died in 1884.

Madiou published only three of his manuscripts before his death. It was not until

the centennial of Haitian independence (1904) that a fourth volume, on 1843-46,

appeared. During his absence from government service in the late 1870s, Madiou

deposited the manuscript with a notary in France.15 For the centennial, Haitian

president Nord Alexis, an ardent noiriste, funded the publishing of this tome. The

complete eight volumes did not appear for almost another century (1988-90) when the

leading twentieth-century Haitian publisher, Henri Deschamps, issued the entire set.

The revised edition lacks a controversial component of Madiou’s original 1847-48

publication, an index of names with each individual’s color designation. Thus, although

Madiou became adopted by twentieth-century noiristes, his emphasis on color was still

problematic for readers almost one hundred and fifty years later.16

Madiou’s index of people is symbolic of larger themes and debates in Haitian

historiography. For his contemporaries, Ardouin and Saint-Rémy, the index was another

sign of Madiou’s faulty interpretations that claimed color prejudice existed in Haiti.

Ardouin and Saint-Rémy, as elaborators of the mulatto legend, denied the divisive

15 Lescouflair, Thomas Madiou, 22.

16 Colin (Joan) Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 287n4.

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nature of color and championed Haitian unity. For Madiou, the index was probably not

meant to divide but rather supported the central theme of unity and demonstrated the

potential of hybridity or racial fusion. David Nicholls notes that Madiou believed

“civilization progresses because of the movement of populations and the blending

(fusion) of races.”17 The designation of color categories in the index illustrates the

diversity of people who came together to found Haiti. Similar to earlier authors, Madiou

contended that the united force of free people of color and former slaves was necessary

to achieve independence.18 Nevertheless, Madiou diverged from the mulatto legend that

came to dominate in the 1840s, and offered a fragile and precarious portrait of unity that

exposed social divisions both during the revolution and after.

To deconstruct the myth of unity, Madiou claimed the union between free people

of color and former slaves was not inevitable. First, in keeping with the mulatto legend,

Madiou contended foreigners (French and British) schemed to divide Saint-Dominguans

of color. Madiou argued that the French plotted to create “the greatest animosity

between the Blacks and the men of color.”19 British agents and their Saint-Dominguan

allies also incited conflict. They spread rumors that the newly freed slaves (nouveaux

libres) were in jeopardy of losing their freedom because the French would bring back

slavery. Of course, the areas under British control maintained slavery. The foreign

agents were using fear-mongering as a battle tactic to destabilize the Saint-Dominguan

17 David Nicholls, From Dessalines, 88. Hybridity is a repeating theme in Haitian publications and is the cornerstone of arguments combatting scientific racism, see J. Michael Dash, “Before and Beyond Negritude,” in A History of Literature in the Caribbean: Volume 1 Hispanic and Francophone Regions, ed. Albert James Arnold (Amsterdam: J. Benjamins, 1994), 529-546.

18 “Les deux castes n’ont terrassé leurs anciens oppresseurs qu’en réunissant leurs forces,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:212.

19 “…nous voyons la plupart des agents de la Métropole s’efforcer de faire naître la plus grande animosité entre les Noirs et les hommes de couleur,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:270.

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forces. Regardless of the veracity of their comments, Madiou raised an important point.

From the summer of 1793, the fear of re-enslavement could be used to motivate and

rally support, as well as to insult an individual or, after independence, a government.20

Beyond foreign plots and schemes, Madiou revealed a portrait of revolutionary

Saint-Domingue where color prejudice existed in its Afro-descended population. This

claim is most apparent in his second volume on the final years of the revolution. As he

built towards independence, Madiou dwelled on rivalries and conflicts that jeopardized

the coalition of Afro-descendants. First, he illustrated the divisive powers of color politics

in the civil war between northern black general Toussaint Louverture and southern

mixed-race general André Rigaud. He stated, “By exciting the passions of the Blacks

against the men of color, in order to achieve independence, Toussaint thus sought only

to satisfy his personal ambition.”21 Madiou’s description illustrates the issue of color and

its divisive nature. He claimed that color played a role in the civil war; Louverture waged

a war with the support of black troops against mixed-raced men. Moreover, color

prejudice was not a one-sided issue, as Louverture’s rival, Rigaud, also used color to

gain support against Louverture.22 In acknowledging color divisions, Madiou radically

broke with the mulatto legend and offended his contemporaries, Ardouin and Saint-

Rémy, who sought to correct his “faulty” interpretation in their own historical studies.

Louverture’s distrust of free people of color surfaced in a second rivalry with his

nephew, Moïse. Madiou claimed Louverture believed independence could be achieved

20 JohnHenry Gonzales, “The War on Sugar: Forced Labor, Commodity Production and the Origins of the Haitian Peasantry, 1791-1843” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2012), 97.

21 “Toussaint, en excitant les passions des Noirs contre les hommes de couleur, afin de parvenir à l’indépendance, ne cherchait donc qu’à satisfaire son ambition personnelle,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:424.

22 Madiou, Histoire, 2:51.

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through the union of the white colonist and black.23 Louverture’s flawed vision, which

raises the contentious issue of color prejudice, was a factor in his downfall. For Madiou,

Moïse had the correct view that independence could only come through the union of

“black and brown.”24 In Madiou’s interpretation, Louverture’s execution of Moïse delayed

independence because Louveture did not support the alliance of Saint-Domingue’s

Afro-descended population.

Alternative coalitions were not the only obstacle. In his account of the War of

Independence, Madiou exposed hesitant former slaves, unorganized resistance forces,

and defiant insurgent groups, in particular “the Congos.”25 He explained, “the laborers

[former slaves], while unhappy with the colonial regime, had no confidence that the

indigenous army would be victorious.”26 In place of the triumphant narratives in earlier

texts, Madiou revealed a population that needed convincing before fighting the powerful

French army. Unfortunately, Madiou lamented, the insurgent leaders did not inspire

unity because they were divided and did not have a single commander.27 Even worse

for Madiou, armed bands, primarily of African-born former slaves, refused to obey black

creoles (former slaves born in Saint-Domingue). Here Madiou exposed his class bias

and Euro-centrism. He claimed these “Congos” planned “to chase out the Whites,

destroy the organization of the colonial troops, and establish an African system.” For

23 Madiou, Histoire, 2:144.

24 Madiou, Histoire, 2:145.

25 Congos was a label given to all insurgent bands not allied with Dessalines and Pétion. The bands’ leaders were frequently born in Africa, though not all from the Kongo region of West-Central Africa.

26 “Les cultivateurs, quoi qu’ils fussent mécontents du régime français, n’avaient nulle confiance dans le succès final des armes indigènes,” Madiou, Histoire, 2:375.

27 Madiou, Histoire, 2:392.

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Madiou the “Congos” were problematic because they did not support the idea of

independence and their “African system” was neither civilized nor republican.28 Thus, it

was only with a consolidation of leadership under the two top generals, Alexandre

Pétion and Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who represented the free people of color and

former slaves respectively, and the elimination of the “Congos” that unity and

independence could truly be achieved and independence.

Overall, Madiou championed unity like all Haitian authors. Yet, he admitted that

in his contemporary Haiti equality was lacking and that color was a problem, one that

should not be denied but confronted. Remembering the revolution was, for Madiou, part

of the solution. To demonstrate the potential of unity, his narrative weaves together the

contributions of Haiti’s founding populations: free people of color and former slaves.

The failed uprising and execution of Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Chavanne

introduce the contribution of free people of color. While Chavanne’s portrait rarely

varied, representations of Ogé shifted from martyr for racial equality to abolitionist.

Months after his execution, slave rebels and later Toussaint Louverture claimed Ogé as

an emancipator and sought to avenge his death.29 Haitian intellectuals continued to

develop Ogé’s myth beginning in the 1820s with the poetry of Juste Chanlatte and

culminating in the early 1840s in the work of Emile Nau and Pierre Faubert. Madiou

further revised his contemporaries’ image making Ogé an ambivalent abolitionist and a

forerunner for independence. Similar to Faubert and Nau, Madiou quoted portions of

28 Madiou, Histoire, 2:396.

29 Gabriel Le Gros, “A White Captive’s Experiences,” in The Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History, ed. David Geggus (Indianapolis: Hackett Press, 2014), 84; “Toussaint the Abolitionist,” The Haitian Revoltuion, 124-25.

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Ogé’s speech to the white planters in Paris.30 Unlike his peers, Madiou did not dwell on

Ogé’s use of the word “liberté” or exaggerate his abolitionism to support the mulatto

legend. Rather, he dismissed the idea that Ogé wanted to include slaves in the uprising

as an invention of planters.31 He also contended that Ogé supported gradual

emancipation, a detail absent from earlier texts.32 Madiou’s specification illustrates the

complex relationship of class and race interests in the revolution. Ogé and other mixed-

race men were slave owners and were unsure about the role of slaves in the unfolding

conflict.

Madiou’s portrait of Ogé, however, was not free from an authorial agenda. If Nau,

Faubert, and Chanlatte embellished Ogé’s abolitionist stance to make him a national

hero, not just a mixed-race one, Madiou stressed Ogé’s anti-colonial sentiments. In an

additional document written shortly after his speech, Ogé alluded to independence as a

last measure to ensure racial equality.33 With this evidence, Madiou made Ogé a

supporter of independence, which in his narrative was the ultimate measure of heroism.

I have focused on Madiou’s portrayal of Ogé because it illustrates a more general

trend in Madiou’s (and mulâtriste authors) treatment of free people of color. Like his

contemporaries, Madiou portrayed free people of color as valuable guides in the

revolution for rebelling slaves as well as less enlightened gens de couleur. He stipulated

in his narrative that not all free people of color could be guides. Rather, an elite group of

30 Motion faite par M. Vincent Ogé, jeune à l’Assemblée des Colons, Paris, 1789, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, accessed 10 March 2015, http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k5612543t/f2.image.langEN.

31 Madiou, Histoire, 1:76, 78.

32 Madiou, Histoire, 1:78.

33 Madiou, Histoire, 1:74.

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men who espoused the revolutionary principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity and,

often, had received an education in France, were the select leaders.

In describing the various affranchi coalitions that formed in the early 1790s,

Madiou lamented that the free people of the South did not have “enlightened” leaders

like Pierre Pinchinat and Louis-Jacques Bauvais to regulate their actions.34 Madiou was

particularly appalled by their “frenzied rage” and murder of whites in the southern

peninsula.35 In the West, “To achieve their goal, the properly organized freedmen made

their revolution with order and method, avoiding excess, skillfully maneuvering between

the royalist Whites and the Pompons rouges, and profiting from the errors of the two

groups.”36 These respectable mixed-race men of Port-au-Prince were the models not

just for their fellow free people of color, but also for Haitian heads of state. Madiou

concluded that Pinchinat and Bauvais established “conciliatory politic[s]” which created

alliances among black and mixed-race affranchis as well as the black majority

(slaves).37 Madiou claimed these cross-class and cross-color coalitions (unity) saved

the educated minority, “the soul of our Republic,” from the fury of the ignorant masses.38

Although Madiou’s word choice appears harsh, he blamed not the masses but the

system of colonialism, which had classified and categorized men by color and falsely

created differences. Here Madiou expanded the anti-colonial critique begun by earlier

34 Madiou, Histoire, 1:126. Madiou also characterized the affranchis of the West as wholeheartedly supporting emancipation, another sign of their superiority, 1:192.

35 “rage frénétique,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:125.

36 “Les affranchis bien guidés firent leur révolutions avec ordre, avec méthode, évitant les excès, manoeuvrant avec adresse entre les Blancs royalistes et les Pompons rouges, et profitant des fautes des deux partis, pour arriver à leur fins,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:126.

37 “la politique conciliatrice,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:126.

38 “l’âme de notre République,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:127.

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authors like the Baron de Vastey. Through the examples of Pinchinat, Bauvais, and

other western elite affranchis, Madiou attacked racism and colonialism, while also

implying that these men saw past the invented color divisions and sought unity among

Saint-Domingue’s/Haiti’s population of African descent.39 Ironically, Madiou’s

conciliatory politics included black puppet presidents selected by the milat elite that

manipulated Haiti’s color politics to their benefit. In addition, Madiou’s description

reveals a regional bias similar to Ardouin’s. Both men contended that the West was the

superior province.

The enlightened men of the West extended their influence to the region’s slaves

and assisted in organizing and leading revolts. Madiou asserted, “What a difference

between the slave insurrection in the West led by free men of color and that of the North

where the slaves were left to themselves! On one hand, order, respect for property, and

not a single death. On the other hand, disorder, pillage, and frightful vengeance.”40

Madiou continued his argument for the beneficent leadership of free people of color and

their “civilizing” influence. In particular, he noted that the uprisings around Port-au-

Prince did not destroy property. The mixed-race elite included property owners and they

had an interest in maintaining plantations during and after the revolution. Madiou’s

inclusion of property illustrates a Haitian post-colonial dilemma of developing an

economy out of a plantation society. His assessment is an echo of Haitian politicians’

repeated emphasis on controlling squatters and vagabonds. The majority of Haiti’s

population before and after emancipation did not share the mixed-race elite’s idea of

39 Madiou repeated this construction of Pinchinat as colorblind, see Histoire, 1:326.

40 “Quelle différence entre cette insurrection des esclaves de l’Ouest dirigés par les affranchis, et celles des esclaves du Nord, livrés à eux-mêmes! D’une part l’ordre, le respect des propriétés, pas un assassinat; d’une autre part, désordre, pillage et affreuses vengeances.” Madiou, Histoire, 1:132.

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maintaining the plantation system. Thus, while Madiou negatively characterized the

northern slave rebels, he exposed social divisions that shaped the revolution and

independent Haiti. For Madiou and his contemporaries the narrative of the revolution

needed to present a certain image of Haiti’s founding. Pillaging and bloodthirsty slaves

along with the Congo bands of 1802-03 could not be part of this image. Even if men

involved with the August 1791 uprising became revolutionary leaders, the masses could

not be principal actors in the struggle for Haitian independence. Instead, elite free men

of color along with a select group of courageous and skilled former slaves led the

revolution.

At the same time Madiou celebrated the leadership of western free men of color,

he built upon the work of the School of 1836 authors and the earlier writings of Dumesle

and Chanlatte to incorporate the black majority into the revolutionary narrative. To frame

his discussion of the role of slaves, Madiou used a chronology common in Haitian

writing from independence: the anti-colonial struggle that finally succeeded in 1804

began in 1492 with the arrival of Christopher Columbus. This chronology emphasized

the theme of vengeance. The revolutionaries of 1804 were avenging the “Haitians”

(Madiou referred to the Tainos as Haitians) and returning the island to its former

independent state.41 The themes of vengeance and anti-colonialism were well-

established by the 1840s. Nevertheless, Madiou employed the two themes to construct

a genealogy of resistance that humanized the enslaved and made them contributors to

the struggle for freedom and independence.

41 Madiou, Histoire, 1:viii, 6.

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Madiou began his genealogy and the struggle for freedom in the late-

seventeenth century with the revolt of Padrejean, “ the first important revolt of the

Blacks, in whom the feeling of freedom germinated.”42 Although the French put down

the revolt, Madiou’s word choice in the sentence recast slaves as active participants in

the anti-colonial struggle that he dated from 1492. First, he referred to slaves as blacks,

removing the colonial label that demarcated their status. Second, he claimed the

rebelling blacks sought freedom. Madiou made an anachronistic move here. His

reference to freedom meant not simply an escape from slavery but the principle of

liberty as it came to be defined in the Age of Revolutions. Madiou continued this

characterization with subsequent slave revolts and presented slaves as men who could

understand and strive for the revolutionary principles of 1789. For example, Madiou had

already published an article on Makandal in the press, but in Histoire d’Haïti, Madiou

added a layer of interpretation absent from the 1836 article. The suffering of Makandal

and slaves of the North propagated not just ideas of liberty but also independence.43

Madiou noted though, “A conspiracy led by a certain Makandal, failed to eliminate in

one go all the Whites.”44 Whether or not Makandal’s objective was to kill the entire white

population, Madiou’s interpretation suggests that independence required the removal of

the ruling class, in this case through their death.

Madiou presented Makandal and Padrejean as early insurgents. However, they

both failed to overturn the colonial system. For Madiou, the French Revolution became

42 “Ainsi fut éteinte cette première révolte importante de Noirs chez lesquels naissait le sentiment de la liberté,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:27.

43 Madiou, Histoire, 1:35.

44 “Une conspiration dirigée par un nommé Makandal, faillit d’un seul coup étouffer tous les Blancs,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:35.

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the catalyst that led to ultimate victory and vengeance. David Nicholls notes, “[Madiou]

saw Haiti, founded as a free homeland for African people, as a repayment to the people

of Europe for the oppression which they had inflicted in the past, and for their

destruction of the indigenous Indians.”45 The revolutionary principles and actions of

whites Madiou contended “revived in the soul of the slaves the feeling of freedom” and

aided this struggle.46 In introducing the French Revolution and its influence, Madiou

added an additional element to his representation of slaves. On one hand, he presented

Padrejean and Macandal acting on their own. On the other hand, to achieve liberty and

independence, slaves needed guidance and that came from the revolutionary principles

of 1789 and free people of color.

Madiou aptly integrated colonial slave resistance into his narrative; however, the

August 1791 revolt and its leaders proved more challenging. Here, Madiou introduced

the trope of African barbarity, which he also applied to the Congo bands that did not join

the indigenous army to fight the French in 1802. More notable is the absence of the

Bois Caïman ceremony.47 Madiou, who did not shy away from including sensational

details on cultural practices and local beliefs, only mentioned a meeting of leaders on

the night of 14 August 1791.48 Madiou’s omission is noteworthy because Dumesle, who

also most likely conducted interviews, included a ceremony in his 1824 publication, and

less than a decade later Madiou’s contemporary, Beaubrun Ardouin, described a

45 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 88.

46 “réveiller dans l’âme des esclaves le sentiment de la liberté,” Madiou, Histoire, 1:50.

47 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 83.

48 Madiou, Histoire, 1:93. For Madiou’s discussion of what he terms superstitions and fetishes: see Histoire, 1:96-98, 131-33, 234-35.

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meeting and ceremony based on his brother Céligny’s unpublished research. While the

circle of Haitian intellectuals was quite small, Madiou may not have had access to

Dumesle’s text nor Céligny’s work.49 Perhaps he had not read Haitian accounts of the

ceremony and thus did not include it. Moreover, it is not entirely clear who Madiou’s

interviewees were. Madiou concluded his introduction thanking those who recounted

their lives and experience of the revolution to him. While he named generals and

politicians, he also broadly referred to “our veterans.”50 David Geggus suggests the

interviewees were mainly “mulatto generals” and “this may be why he made no mention

of Bois Caïman” and Boukman, the ceremony’s priest.51

In addition to limited sources or biased interviews, the absence of the ceremony

is illustrative of Madiou’s anti-Vodou stance throughout the narrative. Colin (Joan)

Dayan, David Nicholls, and Kate Ramsey have all commented on Madiou’s personal

judgments and the need to present a respectable (superstition and sorcery-free) Haiti.52

Ramsey argues in the mid-nineteenth century foreign visitors constructed an idea of

“vaudoux,” which included “ ‘fetishism,’ sorcery, and black magic,” as “proof of Haiti’s

lapse into barbarism.”53 The omission of Bois Caïman was perhaps a response to these

foreign accounts. Moreover, Madiou’s harsh criticism of the rebels’ practices further

delineated a line of respectability between the slaves and educated free men of color. In

49 Beaubrun Ardouin admitted in his history that Dumesle’s book was extremely rare in Haiti, thus Madiou may not have ever read it (Etudes, 3:528 n1). Searching the digitized copies of Madiou’s first edition, Dumesle’s name is never referenced, nor for that matter Dalmas’s, the first French publication based on eyewitness accounts of the uprising.

50 Madiou, Histoire, 1:xiii.

51 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 228n13.

52 David Nicholls, From Dessalines, 88; Dayan, Haiti, History, 9; Ramsey, Spirits, 62-63.

53 Ramsey, Spirits, 80.

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August 1791 and other revolts, Madiou described the slave leaders’ reliance on

superstition and the advice of sorcerers and magicians.54 Despite Madiou’s disdain, he

admitted that these beliefs inspired troops. He wrote almost in wonder of the power of

Hyacinthe, an insurgent leader from the West, who carried a bull’s tail and proclaimed

that bullets were made of dust. Madiou’s awe is joined with a feeling of regret for the

lives lost due to ignorance of European weaponry.55 Hyacinthe and his troops were

successful because they had the supervision of free people of color from Port-au-

Prince.

Madiou’s portrayal of slaves radically places them in the center of the narrative

as initiators in the anti-colonial struggle, a noiriste move. Even though slaves desired

liberty, their early revolts were not successful because they lacked the inspiring

principles of the French Revolution and the guidance of free people of color. Moreover,

their actions during the Haitian Revolution suffered from a combination of the ignorance

in which slavery kept them and their reliance on “primitive” African traditions like sorcery

and superstition. Black leaders who rose above these nefarious influences, such as

Toussaint Louverture and Jean-Jacques Dessalines, struggled with the impact of

colonialism and slavery. Madiou excused their actions because they had grown up in

slavery and contended race was not a factor. Overall, though, he demonstrated the

importance of cultural and racial fusion through his representations of the gens de

couleur and slaves. It was only through alliances and exchanges between the Afro-

descended population that the revolution succeeded and Haiti would succeed.

54 Madiou, Histoire, 1:96, 131, 234.

55 Madiou, Histoire, 1:132.

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A Reactionary Response: Beaubrun Ardouin and Joseph Saint-Rémy

Madiou’s histories appeared at the same time as the mixed-race political

machine’s politique de doublure came crashing down. Faustin Soulouque consolidated

power in his own hands and proceeded to arrest and execute many of the men who had

“elected” him to office, including friends and family of the authors examined here. In

addition, his ascension to the throne in 1849 and creation of the second Haitian empire

challenged the revolutionary narrative of the mixed-race elite. Madiou’s narrative now

became flawed and insufficient for his peers among the elite who sought to revise and

correct his portrayal of the revolution and Haiti. Joseph Saint-Rémy and Beaubrun

Ardouin responded from exile in Paris with their own multi-volume histories of Haiti’s

founding. Their experiences in Paris, particularly witnessing the ridicule of Haiti and its

“primitiveness” in the foreign press, made the project even more pressing. With access

to French archives and knowledge of Madiou’s texts, Saint-Rémy and Ardouin

constructed a reactionary narrative that sought to re-legitimate mixed-race power and

correct foreign misconceptions of the black nation. To frame their narratives, both men

turned to the biographies of great mixed-race revolutionary figures and established a

new trend in Haitian historiography, the use of biography to recount the revolution.

I begin with Saint-Rémy who is the least studied of the three historians.56 Haitian

and U.S.-based scholars describe Saint-Rémy as “a romantic attached to republican

ideas and free men of color,” and his writing as the “the most passionate” and most

56 Saint-Rémy edited the memoirs of Toussaint Louverture and Louis-Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre and wrote three histories of the revolution: Essai sur Henri Christophe, Général Haïtien (Paris: Impimerie de Félix Malteste, 1839); Vie de Toussaint L’Ouverture (Paris: Moquet, 1850); and Pétion et Haïti (Paris: 1854-57). I have chosen to focus on Pétion et Haïti because it covers the entire revolutionary period and the initial years following Haitian independence.

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hostile towards black leaders.57 On one hand, he stands at the end of the

historiographic spectrum from Madiou. On the other, Ardouin himself criticized Saint-

Rémy for committing errors and, like Madiou, falsely following oral traditions and

suggesting that color divisions existed in revolutionary Saint-Domingue.58 Saint-Rémy’s

texts help to contextualize Ardouin’s work. It is also important to note that Ardouin and

Saint-Rémy were on different sides of the divided mixed-race elite. Saint-Rémy, unlike,

Ardouin, supported the overthrow of president Jean-Pierre Boyer and sided with the

liberal followers of Charles Rivière Hérard in 1843. Ardouin was a senator during the

coup but, through the invention of politique de doublure, escaped exile and maintained

his political power. Saint-Rémy, after the unraveling of Hérard’s presidency, fled Haiti

and lived in exile for several years. Thus, the two men represent different factions in the

mixed-race elite and how politics and power shaped the construction of Haiti’s histories.

Joseph Saint-Rémy (1818-1858)

Joseph Saint-Rémy was born in Guadeloupe in 1816. His life illustrates the

symbolic potential of Haiti for African descendants across the Americas. Moreover, he

spent most of his life moving between various spaces in the Caribbean and France a

shared experience of many Haitian intellectuals. The year of his birth Haitian president

Alexandre Pétion published a letter to blacks of the region welcoming them to Haiti. His

letter was further supported by the Republic’s constitution that granted Haitian

citizenship to Native Americans and Afro Americans and their descendants who

57 Ghislaine Gouraige, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne, de l’indépendance à nos jours (Port-au-Prince: N.A. Théodore, 1960), 459; Pressoir, Trouillot, and Trouillot, Historiographie d’Haïti, 200; David Geggus, “The Changing Faces of Toussaint Louverture: Literary and Pictorial Depictions,” April 2013, John Carter Brown Library, http://www.brown.edu/Facilities/John_Carter_Brown_Library/toussaint/index.html.

58 Ardouin, Etudes sur l’histoire d’Haïti suivies de la vie du general J.M. Borgella (Paris: E. Dentu, 1853), 1:15 and 4:73, 100.

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migrated to Haiti.59 Saint-Rémy’s parents settled in the southern port Les Cayes. As a

boy, he studied under an educated Frenchman, and later, like other Haitian intellectuals,

traveled to the metropole for advanced studies.60 Saint-Rémy’s time in Paris coincided

with the rise of liberalism and the failed revolutions of the 1830s. As in Ardouin’s case,

this political and social atmosphere influenced Saint-Rémy’s interpretation of Haiti’s

history. At some point in the late 1830s, he returned to Haiti and established himself as

a lawyer in Les Cayes.

If revolutions had inspired him in Paris, they forced him to flee Haiti in 1845. A

resident of the southern peninsula and supporter of political reform, Saint-Rémy joined

with the revolutionaries of 1843 to overthrow the authoritarian president Jean-Pierre

Boyer. Saint-Rémy’s politics distinguish him from Madiou and Ardouin. While Saint-

Rémy joined the revolution, Ardouin a staunch supporter of Boyer used his political

power to select puppet presidents that would follow the agenda of the Port-au-Prince

elite. In 1843-1845 various factions struggled for control of Haiti and Saint-Rémy ended

up on the losing side. Thus, with other Haitian political exiles, Saint-Rémy sought refuge

in St. Thomas before moving on to Paris. During his sojourn in St. Thomas, the first

Haitian history went to press, and like Ardouin, Saint-Rémy was both pleased and

aggravated by Madiou’s text. The move to Paris afforded him the opportunity to visit

French archives and collect sources to write his own history of Haiti.61

Saint-Rémy returned to Haiti during the rule of Faustin Soulouque (1847-1859),

Haiti’s second emperor, and became a lawyer for the imperial court. His return, like his

59 François Dalencour, “Notice Biographique,” i.

60 Dalencour, “Notice,” ii.

61 Dalencour, “Notice,” vii-viii.

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involvement in the 1843 revolution, illustrates that Saint-Rémy did not strictly follow the

mulâtriste line. Soulouque was a southerner, even if he was black and a former slave.

Moreover, Saint-Rémy returned after Soulouque’s armed confrontation with the urban

elite and his massacre of merchants, politicians, and intellectuals including Beaubrun

Ardouin’s brother. To what extent Saint-Rémy supported Soulouque is unclear;

however, he did return, took up a government post, and continued research for his

project, including interviews with Jean-Jacques Dessalines’s widow. His few years at

the imperial court would be Saint-Rémy’s last time in Haiti. In 1853, he returned to Paris

and over the next few years struggled to publish the five-volume Pétion et Haïti, in

contrast to Ardouin, who published with the famous Parisian press E. Dentu.62 Saint-

Rémy passed away before he could afford to publish the final and sixth tome, the

manuscript for which has never been found. Far away from his home, which was

embroiled in another political struggle (the overthrow of Soulouque), his death received

little notice.63 While he produced almost a dozen texts on Haitian history, Saint-Rémy

remains the least studied of the three foundational historians. Perhaps with more

research, we can uncover additional information about this mobile Haitian author and

his life in Haiti, St. Thomas, and France.

Saint-Rémy opened his text with an explanation of his objective, which gave rise

to the debate between the three men. He explained that his first goal had been to write

a biography of Haiti’s first president, Alexandre Pétion. Yet, when he learned of

Madiou’s publication, his purpose changed: “Observing the number of errors and

62 The first three volumes were self-published “chez l’auteur” and the last two volumes appeared with Auguste Durand.

63 Dalencour, “Notice,” vii-ix.

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anachronisms which teemed in this volume…I made a sudden resolution to expand the

framework that I had traced in order to be able to restore at greater length the truth.”64

Saint-Rémy likely started working on the text during his first exile in Paris in the late

1840s. However, he delayed publication until 1853, perhaps for financial reasons, and

he thus knew of Ardouin’s two volumes that appeared that same year. This did not

dissuade Saint-Rémy, who acknowledged Ardouin’s text corrected Madiou’s mistakes,

but that the history of the Haitian Revolution is a large field and would benefit from

additional publications from the Haitian perspective.65 Saint-Rémy, like his colleagues,

saw his work as not just contributing to the nation’s history but also “the civilization of

men of my race.”66 He further explained at the end of the volumes on the revolution that

“in the middle of an ocean full of slave states, [Haiti’s independence] would give to the

world the majestic spectacle of the foundation of a nationality by the black race

oppressed elsewhere.”67 Writing Haiti’s history vindicated Haitians and all members of

the African diaspora and presented an alternative portrait to European colonialism and

slavery.

His narrative, along with Ardouin’s, serves to institutionalize a representation of

the united Haitian family in which color divisions were constructions of biased white

European and American authors who sought to delegitimatize Haiti. While Saint-Rémy

64 “Remarquant alors la quantité d’erreurs, d’anachronismes dont ce volume fourmillait…je pris soudain la résolution d’élargir le cadre qui je m’étais tracé, afin de pouvoir plus au long rétablir la vérité,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:8.

65 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:9.

66 “à la civilization des hommes de ma race,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:10.

67 “…allait donner au monde, au milieu d’un océan semé partout d’Etats à esclaves, le spectacle majestueux de la fondation d’une nationalité par cette race noire ailleurs opprimée,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:102.

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demonstrated like Madiou what could happen when unity broke down, he focused on

the necessity of a united mixed-race front and the role of the French and British in

sowing discord. First, Saint-Rémy cautioned his readers about the dangers of disunity,

specifically slave revolt. The collapse of the free people of color’s confederation led to

slave uprisings in the West and South.68 Saint-Rémy employed this event to comment

on contemporary Haitian politics and the need for the mixed-race elite to remain united,

or the black majority could seize power. Unity here referred to a class, the milat elite,

not all Haitians.

Second, Saint-Rémy built upon the arguments of earlier authors and claimed that

any divisions that did exist were due to foreign agents not local prejudice. Two key

scenes illustrate his claim. One, he refuted the claim of foreign agents and authors that

the deportation of a group of slaves called “les Suisses,” who fought with the affranchis

in the West was solely the responsibility of “les mulâtres” (the mulattos).69 He declared

that these men’s allegations “sow[ed] division among the children of Haiti.”70 Yet, Saint-

Rémy suggested that the affair was not a simple matter of lighter-skinned men

deporting darker-skinned men. He decided, “this deportation was as much the work of

free blacks as mulattos.”71 Saint-Rémy implied the matter was not, as foreigners’

assumed, the product of a mixed-race/black binary. He used the diversity of Saint-

Dominguans of color to refute the idea of color prejudice. The affranchis included black

68 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:59.

69 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:49.

70 “…semer ainsi la division entre les enfants d’Haïti,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:49.

71 “cette déportation fut aussi bien l’oeuvre des nègres que des mulâtres libres,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:49.

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and mixed-race men. Thus, he concluded one could not assume the mixed-race men

acted against blacks because if the division was simply based on skin color that would

entail acting against free and enslaved blacks.72 Focused on defending the mixed-race

elite, Saint-Rémy’s interpretation exposes an issue the historian does not discuss:

class. A class interpretation would present Saint-Rémy’s mixed-race heroes as

collaborators with the colonists, and thus, by extension, supporters of slavery and

colonialism, an image he did not wish to present.73

In his rejection of color prejudice, Saint-Rémy sought to criticize another

important figure, black revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture. While the targeting of

Louverture reveals Saint-Rémy’s bias against the black revolutionary leader, it also

illustrates the theme of foreign meddling. If Louverture employed the rhetoric of color

division it was because he followed too closely the advice of whites. This argument

surfaces in Saint-Rémy’s interpretation of the civil war between Louverture and

southern mixed-race general André Rigaud. Saint-Rémy viewed Madiou’s portrait of

Rigaud and the war as erroneous and insulting towards “the memory of this warrior.”74

Saint-Rémy contended, “The break between Toussaint and Rigaud was triggered by the

schemes of priests, planters, and the English.”75 As advanced in earlier Haitian

publications, foreign meddling was to blame for the war. Moreover, it was Louverture

who fell for the white plots not Rigaud, who Saint-Rémy claimed planned to kill the

72 Saint-Rémy focused on refuting color prejudice and missed the issue of class in the Swiss affair.

73 For more on class and the Swiss see David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 99-118.

74 “la mémoire de ce brave,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 2:43.

75 La rupture entre Toussaint and Rigaud fut précipitée par les manoeuvres des prêtres, des émigrés et des Anglais…” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 2:11.

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whites and declare independence.76 Saint-Rémy reversed the image penned decades

earlier by early noiriste the Baron de Vastey. In place of Vastey’s heroic black leaders

who never gave in to foreign machinations and thus saved the free men of color, the

black protagonists of Saint-Rémy’s narrative succumbed to foreign plots and destroyed

the revolution’s progress through their authoritarianism. Like Madiou, Saint-Rémy

employed references to Africa to further delegitimize the first black regime, Toussaint

Louverture’s governorship (1800-02): “he formed a society almost identical to those of

Central Africa.”77 This African society was devoid of all the progress the revolution had

made. Saint-Remy’s characterization of Louverture served to further his argument in

favor of mixed-race rule.

Unsurprisingly, he maintained, like Ardouin and to a lesser extent Madiou, that

the affranchis were the superior leaders. Saint-Rémy established this argument with the

case of Vincent Ogé, a rhetorical decision common in mulâtriste narratives. Returning to

the work of Nau and Faubert in the 1840s, he presented Ogé as an abolitionist and hero

for all. He proclaimed, “To him belongs the glory to have expressed resolutely, before

anyone, the desire for general liberty. Liberty is made for all; it should be given to all.”78

Saint-Rémy offered a loose paraphrase of Ogé’s speech to the planter’s club in Paris,

and like earlier authors, concentrated on Ogé’s use of the word “liberty.”79 Unlike Nau

76 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 2:3.

77 “il forma une société à peu près pareille à celles de l’Afrique centrale,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:3.

78 “A lui revient la gloire d’avoir, avant personne, formulé résolument le voeu de la liberté générale: La liberté est faite pour tous; Il faut la donner à tous.” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:20.

79 The lines Saint-Rémy paraphrased are: “…this Liberty, the greatest of possessions, the primary one: Is it made for all men? I believe so. Should it be given to all men? Again, I believe so. But how should it be given?” (Vincent Ogé, “Ogé Addresses the Planter’s Club,” in Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History, trans. and ed. David Geggus (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014), 49.)

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and Faubert, he qualified Ogé’s statement and noted that Ogé was unsure of how to

achieve liberty for all, a question Ogé had posed in his 1789 speech. Saint-Rémy added

that Ogé envisioned a process that began with equal rights for free people of color and

then led naturally to abolition.80 In Saint-Rémy’s history, Ogé became the first “freedom

fighter” who initiated the anti-colonial and anti-slavery struggle not just for his class but

all Saint-Dominguans of African ancestry.

Beyond constructing a pantheon of mixed-race heroes, Saint-Rémy’s chronology

assigns an influential role to free people of color. The most significant example is his

description and order of events in August 1791. In contrast to both Madiou and Ardouin,

Saint-Rémy offered no history of slave resistance. The absence is due in part to his

original intent to write a biography of Alexandre Pétion and his own favoring of mixed-

race accomplishments and actions. He did include the famous August 1791 revolt

outside Cap Français (Cap Haïtien), though not the Bois Caïman ceremony. In addition,

he introduced the revolt as occurring, coincidentally, in tandem with an affranchi

meeting in Port-au-Prince. Saint-Rémy noted, “and by a strange coincidence, this revolt

began the same day, in the same night that the affranchis gathered at Miss Rasteau’s

house issued their own call to arms. The slaves began their campaign by pillaging and

burning.”81 Saint-Rémy’s word choice implies that free people of color played a role in

inciting the August 1791 revolt. Like Madiou, he also portrayed the slaves’ actions as

more violent and disorderly than those of the free coloreds. Moreover, all three of

mulâtriste historians assigned agency in the slave revolt to non-slave actors. Madiou

80 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:28.

81 “…et par une étrange coïncidence, cette révolte commença le même jour, dans la même nuit que les affranchis réunis chez la demoiselle Rasteau, arrêtaient leur prise d’armes. Les esclaves commencèrent leurs mouvements par le pillage et l’incendie,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 43.

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claimed royalist planters were behind the uprising, while Ardouin, discussed below,

detailed various motivating factors but concluded, like Saint-Rémy, that free people of

color helped incite it.82 The latter two thus incorporated slaves’ entry into the revolution

by characterizing it as a sign of mixed-race support for abolition and equality among

Saint-Dominguans of color.

Saint-Rémy’s portrait of the August 1791 revolt sheds light on his interpretation of

the role of slaves in the revolution. Slaves were subjects of the narrative but did not act

of their own accord. The slaves in the August uprising followed directions from free

people of color, just as Louverture took direction from whites. Saint-Rémy’s word choice

supported this distinction. Slaves were “savage,” and black leaders like Jean-Jacques

Dessalines had “barbaric souls” and a “violent nature.”83 Unlike Madiou, Saint-Rémy did

not directly excuse Dessalines’s violence or the savagery of slaves as an effect of the

institution of slavery. He decided that Dessalines was the best to declare independence

because of his bravery and fearlessness.84 Nevertheless, it was only due to Pétion’s

humility and sagacity that Dessalines became the commanding general. Saint-Rémy

proudly made this comment based on an interview he had had with Madame

Dessalines, who had clarified this process.85 It was a common rhetorical device to

stress blacks’ courage and at the same time denigrating their lack of civilization. Saint-

Rémy applied the same logic to the Congo leaders of the North.86 More importantly, his

82 Madiou, Histoire, 1:93 ; Ardouin, Etudes, 1:220-226.

83 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:43; 3:25, 88.

84 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:63.

85 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:51.

86 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:23.

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characterization of Dessalines and Toussaint served as commentary on contemporary

Haiti. Violence was necessary to gain independence but it should not be part of state-

building. Moreover, military leaders like Louverture and Dessalines were prone to

authoritarianism and were not the ideal leaders of a republic.

While violence abounds in his descriptions, references to sorcery or superstition

are largely absent from Saint-Rémy’s portrayal of slaves and black leaders. Returning to

his description of the August 1791 slave revolt, he mentioned Boukman but did not

include any discussion of religious influences.87 Furthermore, the only individual he

designated as using magic was the mixed-race Romaine Rivière who commanded a

band of rebellious slaves in the West and was known as a prophetess of the Virgin

Mary. Saint-Rémy commented after introducing Rivière, “It is important to observe that

even today in the Antilles, many people of all classes believe in the power of

supernatural magic and sacrifice to the vile snake like it is a real God.”88 Saint-Rémy

acknowledged Vodou practices and even claimed many people believed in the

“supernatural magic,” though his punctuation signals his disgust with these beliefs. In

addition, near the end of his narrative of the revolution, he described the celebratory

dances for independence: “Choreography unknown in Europe, which thankfully is

disappearing more and more from our customs, which are today more civilized.”89 The

disappearance of African cultural traditions, Saint-Rémy contended, illustrated Haiti’s

87 Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:43.

88 “Il est bon de faire observer qu’encore aujourd’hui dans les Antilles, beaucoup de gens de toute condition croient à la puissance de la magie surnaturelle et sacrifient à l’immonde couleuvre comme au Dieu de vérité!” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:60.

89 “Chorégraphie inconnue à l’Europe, qui heureusement se retire de plus en plus de nos moeurs, aujourd’hui plus civilisées,” Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 3:100.

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progress. Thus while, Madiou and Ardouin used sensational descriptions to denigrate

Vodou and Haiti’s African heritage, Saint-Rémy removed it almost completely from the

narrative.

Beaubrun Ardouin (1796-1865)

The final historian, Ardouin, was also of mixed European and African descent.

His French grandfather traveled to Saint-Domingue in the mid-eighteenth century to

make his fortune. He had three children, including Beaubrun’s father, with Suz(s)anne a

black woman. Unlike many other affranchis, Beaubrun’s father did not travel to France

for his education, but remained in Port-au-Prince with his mother. Beaubrun and his

brothers were self-educated, and, in contrast to Haiti’s early authors, never attended

school in the metropole. More important than his father’s lack of training in France,

Beaubrun reached school age during the final phase of the revolution and the first years

of independence. It would have been difficult for his father to safely send the boy to

France. Without proper local schools, the Ardouin brothers taught themselves.

Beaubrun like other early authors did grow up in a politically and militarily active

household. His father, following the execution of Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste

Chavanne, joined the gens de couleurs’ struggle for equal rights. A member of the

national guard, he eventually became secretary to the future president, Alexandre

Pétion, and commander of the department of Nippes in the southern peninsula.

Beaubrun and his brothers grew up in the Nippes region and experienced the final years

of the revolution from this southern port. Beaubrun did not remember the war between

Toussaint Louverture and André Rigaud (1799-1800) or the invasion of the French

(1802-03), which happened during his earliest years. Nevertheless, the results of both

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campaigns impacted the family, particularly Louverture’s confiscation of his father’s

property in 1800. The Ardouin family’s private memories of the war and suppression of

Rigaud supporters tempered Ardouin’s vision of Haiti’s history. Moreover, Ardouin’s

father’s politics impacted his career in independent Haiti.90

The young Ardouin benefited from his father’s alliances and found employment

with various state offices including the national printer. A supporter of Pétion and his

successor, Jean-Pierre Boyer, Ardouin quickly rose in the republican government of

Port-au-Prince. Through his own position and his father’s relationships with

revolutionary generals, Ardouin had access to national archives and the ability to

interview key figures in the Haitian Revolution.91 Despite his support of Boyer, Ardouin

and his brother maintained political positions during the 1843 revolution and were

instrumental in instituting the politique de doublure (politics of the understudy). The elite,

frequently lighter-skinned, would select a black presidential candidate who would rule as

a puppet. Having a black president would appease the majority of black Haitians while

also giving the mixed-race elite control to run the government and support their

interests. This system helped overthrow the southern leaders of the 1843 revolution and

keep Ardouin and his colleagues in power, but it later backfired when the brothers

“elected” a palace guard Faustin Soulouque. Soulouque took control and executed his

opposition, including Ardouin’s half-brother, Céligny.92 Beaubrun escaped death

because he was serving as a diplomat in Paris. After the news of Céligny’s death he

remained in Paris, now an exile, and completed an eleven-volume history of Haiti. A

90 Hénock Trouillot, Beaubrun Ardouin, 11-2.

91 Trouillot, Beaubrun Ardouin, 15.

92 Hoffmann and Middelanis, Soulouque, 51.

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response to the errors of Madiou and a biographical tribute to one of his father’s friends,

General Borgella, Ardouin’s text is the seminal mulâtriste publication. With the

overthrow of Soulouque by mixed-race leader Fabre Geffrard, Ardouin returned to Haiti

and died in 1865. Eulogies filled the Haitian press and noted his contributions to the

country’s political and intellectual traditions.93

In the opening lines of his introduction, Ardouin eloquently expressed the desires

of a post-colonial historian. He explained, “I wanted to just try and examine from the

point of view natural to a Haitian, and as opposed to so many foreign authors who had

themselves considered this history from their perspective.”94 Similar to the first

generation of authors and his peers, Ardouin declared that Haiti’s history needed to be

written by Haitians because history had a didactic value and passed along lessons to

the next generations.95 Ardouin expounded, when these lessons were properly

presented, they could unite the citizenry and increase patriotism.96 Although Haiti had a

national history at the time of Ardouin’s writing, Madiou’s Histoire d’Haïti, it was flawed.

In addition, the new work by Saint-Rémy also needed improvement. He rationalized, “If I

arrive at different opinions, different assessments from the first two [Madiou and Saint-

Rémy] on several points of our national history, on the few men who have impacted its

course, it will always be for the purpose of being useful to our country which has the

93 Trouillot, Beaubrun Ardouin, 48-49.

94 “J’ai voulu seulement essayer de l’examiner au point du vue naturel à un Haïtien, et par opposition à tant d’autres étrangers qui ont eux-mêmes considéré cette histoire à leur point de vue.” Beaubrun Ardouin, Etudes sur l’histoire d’Haïti suivies de la vie du général J.M. Borgella (Paris: E. Dentu, 1853), 1:1.

95 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:3.

96 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:16.

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right to our devotion.” 97 While Ardouin noted incorrect dates, he took particular issue

with his colleagues’ use of oral traditions and portrayal of the civil war between

Toussaint Louverture and André Rigaud.

First, Ardouin’s criticism of Madiou and Saint-Rémy’s methods revolves around a

debate over proper sources: an issue that remains relevant today.98 Ardouin asserted

that his method was superior because he used first and foremost the report of Garran

de Coulon (Jean-Philippe Garran-Coulon). He stated, “I drew most of all from the

impartial report made by Garran de Coulon.”99 David Geggus explains that Coulon was

a left-of-center deputy and an early supporter of abolition and that his report “maintains

a degree of objectivity that distinguishes it from many other merely polemical works.”100

Ardouin’s classification of the text as impartial is not simply an expression of his

Francophilia. Nevertheless, Ardouin favored Coulon’s report over other sources,

specifically oral traditions.101 He stated: “I did not neglect oral or popular traditions when

it seemed to me that they offered any certainty; however, citing those that did not, I felt

obliged to refute them since they exhibited no possibility, no guarantee of historical

97 “S’il m’arrive de différer d’opinions et d’appréciations avec les deux premiers, sur quelques points de notre histoire nationale, sur quelques hommes qui ont marqué dans son course, ce ne sera toujours que dans le dessein d’être utile à notre pays qui a droit à tout notre dévouement.” Ardouin, Etudes, 1:15.

98 For a very recent example see the intellectual sparring between Trevor Burnard and Edward E. Baptist over Baptist’s reliance on the WPA narratives, also an oral source on slavery and its legacy (Edward E. Baptist, “The Response,” Slavery & Abolition 36, no.1 (2015): 186-197.)

99 “j’ai puisé surtout dans le rapport si impartial, fait par Garran de Coulon,” Ardouin, Etudes, 1:4.

100 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 44.

101 He also frequently took issue with Pamphile de Lacroix’s Mémoires pour servir à l'histoire de la révolution de Saint-Domingue (Paris: Pillet Ainé, 1819), which Madiou used. Thus Madiou’s interpretations were flawed not just because he used oral sources but also because he used the wrong French texts.

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truth.”102 Ardouin expressed one of the new tenets of the scientific discipline of history:

objectivity. He feared the oral traditions to be too subjective and shaped by the

interviewee’s faulty memory, a criticism of oral history that remains today. In one

particularly strong assessment of Madiou’s reliance on oral traditions, he contended,

“These old Haitian men could only have been in a lowly, servile position; and thus how

could they know of such things that took place between men such as Hédouville.”103

Ardouin rejected the experiences of these old Haitian men because of their age and

their social status. The old men could not accurately remember the details of French

envoy General Hédouville’s meeting with Toussaint Louverture and André Rigaud

decades afterwards.104 And as servants in the commissioner’s house they did not have

the training (European education) to understand the nuances of politics. Ardouin raised

a relevant critique of the potential biases and lacunae in oral histories. Nevertheless,

Ardouin’s contention with Madiou here and throughout his history rests less on Madiou’s

sources and more on the conclusions they offer.

Ardouin was intent on correcting Madiou’s argument that color was a divisive

factor in revolutionary Saint-Domingue and independent Haiti. As he admitted, Ardouin

did use oral traditions when they supported his argument. Yet, he critiqued oral and

written sources when they suggested a claim contradictory to his own beliefs, like color

102 “Je n’ai pas négligé les traditions orales, populaires, toutes les fois qu’elle m’ont paru offrir quelque certitude; mais en citant celles qui n’étaient pas dans ce cas, je me suis cru obligé de les réfuter, puisqu’elles ne présentaient aucune probabilité, aucune garantie de la vérité historique.” Ardouin, Etudes, 1:5.

103 “Ces vieux Haïtiens ne pouvaient être que dans une condition obscure, servile; et dès lors comment-auraient-ils pu savoir de tels choses entre des hommes tels qu’Hédouville.” Ardouin, Etudes, 3:528.

104 This meeting played an important role in the causation of the civil war between the two Saint-Dominguan generals.

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prejudice or the failings of mixed-race heroes such as Alexandre Pétion or André

Rigaud.

To counter Madiou and his oral traditions, Ardouin proposed that Haiti’s discord

came from distinctive regional characteristics of the three main colonial geographic

divisions. Ardouin portrayed the North as aristocratic and prone to authoritarianism,

while the South and West were democratic, though the South tended towards an

unbridled radicalism.105 Residents, mixed-race and black, slave and free, exhibited

these tendencies, which could be heightened by Machiavellian whites.106 For example,

both Vincent Ogé and Toussaint Louverture suffered from their northern predisposition

towards aristocracy.107 Thus, Ardouin utilized these regional principles to interpret

Haiti’s founding and obscure any discussion of color or social divisions. In reaction to

Madiou’s and Saint-Rémy’s histories, Ardouin expounded that the civil war between

Louverture and Rigaud was not based on color; it was “a war of principles.”108 Even

though later authors critiqued Ardouin’s bias, his rhetorical strategy took root. Haitian

literary scholar, Ghislain Gouraige affirmed, “The use of geographic divisions, of which

Ardouin is fond, gives rise to a unique theory that we often will employ in the political

struggles between blacks and mulattos.”109 For Ardouin, the theory of conflicting

principles served to justify the rule of western mixed-race men.

105 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:104.

106 Ardouin’s principles did not replace the common mixed-race argument on the threat of foreign meddling but rather supplemented it.

107 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:97, 147.

108 “une guerre des principes,” Ardouin, Etudes, 4:71.

109 Gouraige, Histoire de la littérature, 458.

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In spite of his hostility towards Madiou, both men arrived at similar claims in

support of mixed-race leadership. Ardouin, though, was more explicit in his rhetoric and

unwavering in his rejection of color prejudice or social divisions. His narrative was an

early iteration of the Liberal Party’s platform: “‘Government by the most competent.’”110

The most competent in Ardouin’s narrative are the western free men of color who are

the slaves “natural protectors.”111

Ardouin constructed this image of protector through his characterization of three

main affranchi leaders: Ogé, Rigaud, and Pétion. First, Ogé, though he was from the

North, supported abolition. Ardouin claimed Ogé’s experience in Paris had impressed

upon him the likelihood of abolitionist legislation and thus inciting the slaves in Saint-

Domingue was not necessary.112 And, similar to Saint-Rémy, Ardouin declared that with

equality free people of color could ameliorate slavery and achieve emancipation. In

Ardouin’s portrait Ogé was thus concerned for all Saint-Dominguans of color and

wanted to extend freedom to all. Second, he expanded this image with the case of

Rigaud. Like Ogé, Rigaud was an abolitionist. Ardouin argued he supported the

freedom of the slave auxiliaries, the Swiss, and slave rebels in the south, who took

refuge in the Platons.113 Moreover, Rigaud was not racist, Ardouin insisted, because he

had a black mother and a black brother.114 Ardouin’s logic here is weak; Rigaud’s family

is not evidence for his lack of prejudice. Lastly, Pétion, though not described as an

110 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 119.

111 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:204.

112 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:135.

113 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:256, 308.

114 Ardouin, Etudes, 3:324, 4:212.

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abolitionist, was heir to the protector model initiated by men like Ogé and Rigaud, and

was the hero of the revolution’s final stage. Ardouin portrayed Pétion as the initiator of

the independence movement and claimed he first raised the issue with Dessalines.115

Ardouin here highlighted a secondary argument relating to all free people of color, that

they were the conceivers of the idea of independence from the early 1790s.116 In

addition, Pétion helped recruit both black and mixed-race generals and subdue the

Congo leaders.117 Third, Pétion after independence distributed land, an important policy

in Ardouin’s eyes to insure the complete abolition of slavery. Thus, Pétion was less a

protector of slaves and more a defender of abolition and racial equality, the pillars of

independence.

Although Ardouin applauded the work of free people of color, particularly those

from the West, his narrative established one of Haiti’s national myths, the Vodou

ceremony of Bois Caïman near Cap Français. Ardouin credited his brother, Céligny, for

the account.118 Céligny’s explained his source was Paul Aly a subordinate of Toussaint

Louverture, who in 1841 was a Haitian military officer in Santo Domingo.119 Céligny

named the leaders, all “the most intimate friends” of Louverture and, like Hérard

Dumesle, proposed there was a meeting and ceremony, though the two accounts differ

115 Ardouin, Etudes, 5:259-60.

116 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:200; 3:209.

117 Ardouin, Etudes, 5:291, 344.

118 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:226.

119 Céligny Ardouin, Essais sur l’histoire d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: T. Bouchereau, 1865), 16 n6. Dumesle placed the event in “the middle of August,” while Céligny Ardouin gave the specific date 14 August (Dumesle, Voyage, 85; C. Ardouin, Essais, 17).

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on location and date.120 For the Ardouins and Dumesle the organization of the uprising

included a religious element, whereas Madiou described only a secular meeting.

Moreover, the Ardouin brothers were the first Haitian authors to depict Boukman as a

priest. There is a significant distinction in how each brother described him.

Beaubrun claimed that his entire section on Bois Caïman came from his brother’s

unpublished work.121 In volume 1 of Etudes (1853) he wrote, “Boukman also had

recourse to the magical influence of fetishism.”122 In contrast, Céligny’s book,

posthumously published by his brother in 1865, used a different adjective: “Boukman

also had recourse to the terrible influence of fetishism.”123 David Geggus suggests that

Beaubrun changed his brother’s text when he incorporated it into his 1853 history. It is

equally likely, however, given the historical context of each publication, that Beaubrun

used Céligny’s original text in 1853 but changed it before it went to press in 1865. Three

major changes had occurred by 1865 that could have influenced the harsher judgment

implied by the replacement of “magical” with “terrible.” One, the Vatican finally

recognized Haiti in 1860 and French priests arrived in 1864 to take over religious and

educational instruction. Next, at the same time the priests arrived a notorious case of

anthropophagy was passing through the Haitian court system, “l’affaire de Bizoton.” If

foreign visitors were already employing images of sorcery and cannibalism to illustrate

Haiti’s return to black savagery, the Bizoton affair did not help improve this image.

120 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:229.

121 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:226. Céligny began printing parts of his biographical studies in 1841 but never published the whole volume: Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 250n9.

122 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:299.

123 Ardouin, Essais, 17.

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Lastly, the new mixed-race president Fabre Geffrard passed legislation that further

criminalized Vodou practices in 1864. Beaubrun returned to a Haiti in which the elite

were far more suspicious of popular beliefs and intent on eliminating them than they had

been in 1841 when Céligny wrote the Bois Caïman account. Fetishism was an obstacle

in Haiti’s march to becoming a civilized nation. Thus, Beaubrun may have changed the

adjective in the 1865 printing to match the new anti-Vodou sentiments.

Ardouin’s portrait of Bois Caïman is just part of his interpretation of slaves in the

revolution. Similar to Madiou, he also constructed a genealogy of resistance to illustrate

that slaves were capable of understanding the idea of liberty. Ardouin asserted, “up to

the time of the Saint-Domingue revolution, the blacks [slaves] proved, from time to time,

that the love of liberty was as powerful in them as in other men.”124 Unlike Madiou, he

began the tradition with a Taino rebel, cacique Henry (Enriquillo). Ardouin extended the

love of liberty to other oppressed people and connected Haiti’s struggle for freedom to

the desire to avenge the island’s first native population.125 The capacity of slaves and

other oppressed peoples to desire freedom and liberty made them human in Ardouin’s

narrative and demonstrated their potential for becoming allies in the revolution.

Nonetheless, like Madiou, he hesitated to assign them full agency. This is most

apparent in his discussion of Bois Caïman, which included a detailed analysis of various

influences behind it.126 Ardouin suggested that former members of Ogé’s band, who hid

124 “…jusqu’à l’époque de la révolution de la colonie française, les noirs prouvèrent, de temps à autre que l’amour de la liberté était aussi puissant en eux que parmi les autres hommes,” Ardouin, Etudes, 1:220.

125 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:217. For Enriqullo’s revolt, see Ida Altman, “The Revolt of Enriquillo and the Historiography of Early Spanish America,” The Americas 63, no. 4 (2007): 587-614.

126 These passages are also a fascinating example of Ardouin’s breadth of sources and his methodology of quoting at length from sources to demonstrate competing viewpoints, see Ardouin, Etudes, 1:220-231.

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themselves in the mountains, helped organize the revolt.127 Using his brother Céligny’s

interview, Ardouin also contended that Toussaint Louverture played a central role in

organizing the revolt, though on behalf of the royalists of Cap Français.128 Ardouin

pointed out an assortment of other factors. These two illustrate his larger arguments

regarding the role of free people of color as revolutionary guides and the aristocratic

tendencies of the northern leaders. Moreover, his description reveals an ambiguous

notion of slave agency. He resolved, “the slaves took advantage of all the groups’

intentions to serve them as auxiliaries, as instruments.”129 Here the slaves both take

advantage of the situation but also serve as the instruments of the royalist planters and

free people of color. Ardouin’s contradiction obscures slaves’ actions, yet it

acknowledges the complex web of motivations and rivalries of revolutionary Saint-

Domingue. And thus, it may be a more realistic portrait than expected from a man who

helped institutionalize the mulatto legend.

Ardouin’s portrait of the rebelling slaves presents an additional contradiction: the

celebration of Haiti’s (biological) African heritage and denigration of African culture.

Similar to Madiou his narrative includes descriptions of early Vodou practices. Through

his characterization of Boukman and other insurgent leaders like Halao, as well as the

Congo bands, he condemned these traditions and their primitiveness, yet not African

ancestry.130 In a later volume, he eloquently explained the postcolonial dilemma:

127 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:220.

128 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:226-7.

129 “les esclaves profitèrent des dispositions de tous les partis à se servir d’eux comme des auxiliaires, des instrumens[sic]…”, Ardouin, Etudes, 1:232.

130 For Halaou’s description see Ardouin, Etudes, 2:352; Ardouin presented the Congos as “ignorant bands,” Etudes, 5: 374.

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For it must be said once and for all, in the past, as now, the mulatto and black of this country had accepted and must always accept with pride their African origins and not be ashamed in the face of colonial prejudices. They had and still have to vigorously suppress all the ideas, all the practices born of the barbarism of Africa that are irreconcilable with the civilization of the people.131

Ardouin captured the contradiction of nineteenth-century Haitian intellectuals. They

were of African descent and had to justify their existence to a world dominated by

European and American racism and imperialism. Haitian authors celebrated the

achievements of black men in the revolution. However, to refute white publications, they

had to work within the contemporary Eurocentric rhetoric that defined civilization and

progress according to European norms, specifically those recently emerged from the

Enlightenment. Thus, Ardouin’s vehement anti-Vodou stance and his characterization of

African culture as barbarous and uncivilized is an attempt to champion Haiti’s civilization

by distinguishing the African culture as less and less Haitian. It would take the crises of

the early twentieth century (U.S. Occupation and First World War) to overturn the

Eurocentric hierarchy of culture and create a space to rehabilitate and celebrate African

culture alongside Haiti’s French cultural heritage.

Émeric Bergeaud’s Stella: Haiti’s First Novel

Bergeaud’s Stella blurs genres (fiction and history) and literary traditions (French

and Haitian) to create the first fictional prose representation of the Haitian Revolution by

a Haitian. The hybridity of the novel supports Bergeaud’s argument for Haitian unity and

the positive effect of miscegenation. Moreover, as Bergeaud claimed in his introduction,

“A novel, without the stern seriousness of a work of history, can be a useful book.” He

131 “Car il faut le dire une fois pour toutes, si à ces époques reculées, comme aujourd’hui encore, le mulâtre et le noir de ce pays ont dû et doivent toujours accepter avec fierté leur origines africaines, ne pas en rougir devant les préjugés coloniaux, ils ont dû et doivent encore réprimer vigoureusement toutes ces idées, toutes ces pratiques née de la barbarie de l’Afrique et inconciliables avec la civilisation du peuple.” Ardouin, Etudes, 2:362.

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clarified: though fictional in form, his narrative did not “distort history.”132 Instead,

Bergeaud saw the novel as a means to explore Haiti’s founding free from the

restrictions of historical standards. Léon-François Hoffmann argues Bergeaud saw the

novelist as “a better guide for the nation than a politician armed with the practical

knowledge of past and present history.”133 Allegory and historical romance became the

frames through which Bergeaud recounted the story of five main characters that

represented the diverse population of revolutionary Saint-Domingue. Bergeaud’s

characterization serves to further advance his argument about unity and to erase color

differences. Lesley Curtis and Christen Mucher propose that the theme of unity and the

silence about social divisions—both components of the mulatto legend—are an attempt

to construct a positive image of the revolution in the face of continued negative

international representations of Haiti and its founding.134 Bergeaud was a member of the

milat elite and certainly sought to maintain his social group’s power. Nevertheless, he

deviated from the staunch mulâtriste interpretation of Ardouin and constructed a story in

which all of Haiti’s Afro-descended population positively contributed to the country’s

independence. Moreover, unlike the three historians, he depicted a role for women in

the struggle as a source of inspiration. His novel remains “masculine,” but

acknowledges the place of women in the founding of Haiti.135

132 “Un roman, sans avoir la gravité sévère de l’histoire peut être un livre utile” and “défigure l’histoire,” Bergeaud, Stella (Carouge-Genève: Éditions Zoé, 2009), 19.

133 Léon-François Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisited (Pueblo, CO: Passeggiata Press, 1999), 216-17.

134 Curtis and Mucher, introduction to Stella (New York: New York University Press, 2015), xix.

135 Anne Marty, préface to Stella by Émeric Bergeaud (Carouge-Genève: Éditions Zoé, 2009), 14-15.

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Bergeaud was born in the southern city of Les Cayes in 1818. As a young man

he worked for his uncle General Jérôme Borgella, who was then commander of the

region of Les Cayes. Before Bergeaud’s birth, Borgella was briefly head of state in the

southern splinter republic formed by Rigaud in 1811. Borgella reunited the region with

Pétion’s republic in Port-au-Prince and later helped subdue the southern peninsula,

which was under control of Goman. Borgella’s life is the foundation of mixed-race

historian Beaubrun Ardouin’s multi-volume history of Haiti. Ardouin was Bergeaud’s

cousin, a fellow intellectual, and the publisher of Stella following Bergeaud’s death in

1858. Thus, Bergeaud’s genealogy places him squarely in the milat elite, a position that

is important in terms of his representation of the revolution and emphasis on unity. More

importantly, with the fall of Jean-Pierre Boyer in 1843 and the ascension of former slave

Faustin Soulouque in 1847, Bergeaud’s connections and his involvement in a failed

coup made him a potential target for Soulouque’s anti-elite violence. He fled the country

in the spring of 1848 and lived in exile on the island of Saint-Thomas until 1857. Here,

Bergeaud wrote Stella with the images of the recent Haitian conflict fresh in his mind. In

the final year of his life, Bergeaud traveled to Paris in the hope of receiving medical

treatment. During his visit he gave Ardouin a copy of the manuscript, and, following, his

death, Ardouin published the novel with the respected publishing house, E.Dentu.136

The Paris printing illustrates the dual audience Bergeaud sought to reach. For a French

public, he hoped to (re)legitimate Haiti and provide a counter to the images of

136 A second printing occurred in 1887 under the guidance of Bergeaud’s widow, and this edition is available through the Digital Library of the Caribbean. A third edition has recently been published by the Swiss Éditions Zoé. The growing interest in Haitian literature from French and post-colonial literary scholars has led to two English translations, Émeric Bergeaud, Stella, trans. Adriana Hossman (Princeton: Markus Wiener, 2014) and Bergeaud, Stella: A Novel of the Haitian Revolution, trans. Lesley Curtis and Christen Mucher (New York: NYU Press, 2015).

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Soulouque. For Haitians, he recounted the epic founding of the country to remind them

of the need for unity and show that color prejudice was an invention of foreigners.

The novel begins with a brief description of the then two dominant images of

Saint Domingue: natural fecundity and plantation slavery. Bergeaud then introduced the

main characters: Marie l’Africaine, le Colon, the brothers Romulus and Rémus, and

Stella. Each is more than just a character in the story but an archetypal figure from

revolutionary Saint Domingue. Marie, the mother of Romulus and Rémus, stands for

slaves in general and mother Africa.137 Le Colon represents planters and the colonial

system, but not the French nation. Earlier Haitian authors had made a similar distinction

between the French and the colonists, with the latter being the true enemy. Stella, a

blonde, blue-eyed French girl, is liberty who travels from France to Saint Domingue.

Lastly, Romulus (black) and Rémus (mixed-race) are an amalgamation of the four main

revolutionary leaders, Toussaint Louverture, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, André Rigaud,

and Alexandre Pétion. They also share their names with the founding brothers of Rome.

The fraternal theme suggests that blacks and gens de couleur are equal partners in

creating the Haitian nation.

Similar to Ardouin, Bergeaud constructed the theme of unity around the image of

a family, specifically the family of Marie, Romulus, and Remus. This family symbolizes

the two main populations that would come to form Haiti. Bergeaud sees the diversity as

a positive: “This difference of color did not exclude an air of family resemblance that

137 Hoffmann asserts that Marie may also represent Haiti. When the brothers encounter Stella who promises to take their mother’s place, he claims this symbolizes the joining of Haiti and Liberty a sign of the country’s fulfillment of the revolution began in 1789 (Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions, 219).

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made evident, even at first sight, the fact that they were brothers.”138 Yet, absent from

the picture is the patriarch. Bergeaud’s third-person omniscient narrator completes the

portrait with two stories of violence that are part of Haiti’s legacy of slavery. First,

Remus, Marie’s mixed race son, is the child of the Colon, her master. While Marie was

most likely raped, Bergeaud masked the violent truth with orientalism. Bergeaud

referred to the Colon as a “capricious sultan,” suggesting his power, unpredictability,

and sexual desire.139 Bergeaud associated one of the central orientalist images, the

harem, with the plantation. His white readers would most likely have understood the

implied meaning in this word choice. The comparison also placed blame on the Colon

who was acting outside the realm of respectability and excused Marie who was a victim

of the system.

Second, Marie’s older son was born to a loving couple torn asunder by slavery.

Bergeaud constructed a particular lineage for Romulus. If earlier Haitian authors had

referenced the marvels of Egyptian pharaohs and Ethiopian kings, Bergeaud made

Marie a West African princess.140 Her fairy tale ended in tragedy, though. Captured

during a war with a rival nation, Marie gave birth on board a slave ship and survived the

Middle Passage with her son, an African noble.141 Bergeaud’s account of Romulus’s

birth and Marie’s heritage may be one of the earliest fictional portrayals of the slave

138 “Cette différence de couleur n’excluait pas entre eux un air de famille qui les eût fait, à première vue, reconnaître pour frères.” Bergeaud, Stella (2009), 28.

139 “son caprice de sultan,” Bergeaud, Stella, 28.

140 Bergeaud, Stella, 30.

141 Bergeaud, Stella, 31-32. Romulus’s heritage also alluded to contemporary claims that revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture was of royal blood, see Saint-Rémy, Pétion, 1:44 n2 and Geggus, “The Changing Faces of Toussaint Louverture.” Bergeaud may have had this in mind when he created the older brother.

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trade (from an African perspective) and the Middle Passage. Bergeaud crafted his two

main protagonists to represent the dual cultural heritage of Haiti and the violent legacies

of the institutions the revolution overthrew. Moreover, he offered two new national

patriarchs in place of the absent African father and conniving French planter, the united

black and mixed-race sons who would build Haiti.

With the foundational family established, Bergeaud moved to the novel’s plot: the

Haitian revolution. His characterization complicates the mulâtriste narrative and

presents a symbol, the maroon, which became part of the twentieth-century noiriste

revisions. In keeping with his promise to follow the historical narrative, Bergeaud

inserted two real-life revolutionary figures, Vincent Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Chavanne, in

his story and dated the beginning of the revolution from their uprising.142 From Ogé and

Chavanne, Bergeaud turned back to the brothers. The chronology presents Ogé and

Chavanne as heroes and an inspiration for the brothers, who in initiating their own battle

against “colonial tyranny” avenge the heroes’ execution. Madiou, Ardouin, and Saint-

Rémy offered a similar interpretation. Next, Bergeaud’s plot deviates from the mulatto

legend and Romulus and Remus flee to the hills to avenge their mother’s death as well

as those of Ogé and Chavanne. Romulus explains to his brother, “we will go first to the

Mountain and from there, while they believe we are maroons, we will return and

unexpectedly attack our enemy.”143 The brothers’ flight to the mountain introduces the

role of maronnage in the revolutionary narrative. Maroons are not the derisory figures

they were for Vastey, but important actors in the struggle. Also, in contrast to Madiou,

142 Bergeaud, Stella, 38.

143 .” “…nous irons d’abord à la Montagne et que de là, tandis qu’on nous croira marrons, nous reviendrons et tomberons à l’improviste sur notre ennemi.” Bergeaud, Stella, 41.

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Ardouin, and Saint-Rémy, Bergeaud made the mountains of Saint-Domingue a site of

memory. It was here that the brothers planned the revolution, not in the Port-au-Prince

salons of elite people of color.144

The brothers’ plotting leads to the August 1791 slave revolt. Romulus and Remus

descend from the hills and burn the fields and house of the Colon.145 Absent from

Bergeaud’s account is the Bois Caïman ceremony, and there is no reference to external

schemes, such as plots organized by royalist planters.146 He was the first Haitian author

to assign agency to the August 1791 slave insurgents. Yet, because the brothers are

mixed-race and black, Bergeaud did not completely construct a noiriste argument.

Moreover, Romulus and Rémus symbolize the leaders of the revolution, which limits the

idea of application of agency to all slaves. Hoffmann asserts, “Bergeaud describes the

history of Haiti as a fight among giants and supermen. The common people, the lowly

foot soldiers, the humble cannon fodder who sacrificed themselves unsparingly, are

given rather short shrift.”147 The focus on great men is problematic throughout the

nineteenth-century texts, and as we will see, also twentieth-century publications.

Regardless, the portrayal differs from that of the historians and demonstrates that the

novel provided Bergeaud with an opportunity to present at least a mildly alternative

vision of the revolution.

144 Chanlatte in his epic poem also included the mountains as a site of memory but they are more a site of mourning where the maroons died after being hunted down by dogs, and not a site of anti-colonial resistance.

145 Bergeaud, Stella, 45-47.

146 Bergeaud, Stella, 42.

147 Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions, 224.

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Attacking the Colon’s plantation was a necessary step, yet in the relevant scene

Bergeaud illustrated that vengeance alone would not lead to independence. A new

inspiration appears in the shape of a young white Frenchwoman, Stella. Another

allegorical figure, Bergeaud created Stella, named for mariners’ guiding star, as the

physical embodiment of liberty and voice of reason for the two brothers.148 The brothers

confess to her, “We give you our hearts completely.”149 Without knowing who Stella is,

the brothers swear to commit to her. Bergeaud characterized their relationship as a

romance that weathers the storms of the revolution. For example, Bergeaud

represented the civil war between rival generals Toussaint Louverture and André

Rigaud as a quarrel between the brothers to win Stella’s love.150 Lurking in the

background is the Colon and his use of color prejudice to divide the brothers. A

common mulatto legend claim, Bergeaud blamed foreigners for inciting discord and

blinding the brothers to Stella’s reasoning. Through the narrator, Bergeaud moralized:

“Discord is a violent and painful condition that devours individuals and ruins

societies.”151 Bergeaud’s lesson is as much about the revolutionary period as it is about

his contemporary Haiti. Writing in exile, he viewed the government of Soulouque as

proof of the evils of color prejudice and division. Unsurprisingly, in the novel it is

Romulus, the brother of full African descent, who falls into the Colon’s trap. Rémus

148 Marlene Daut, “Science of Desire: Race and Representations of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, 1790-1865” (PhD diss., University of Notre Dame, 2008), 306; Hoffmann, Haitian Fictions, 217-219.

149 “Nous vous donnons nos coeurs tout entiers,” Bergeaud, Stella, 52.

150 Bergeaud, Stella, 119.

151 “La discorde est un état violent et douloureux qui épuise les individus et ruine les sociétés,” Bergeaud, Stella, 161.

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remains immune to the idea of color prejudice.152 In the end, the brothers re-unite and

return to Stella for guidance. After helping to defeat the French, Stella reveals her true

self (Liberté) and ascends to the heavens to watch over the new independent state of

Haiti, the homeland of liberty, equality, and fraternity.

Bergeaud’s characterization of Stella demonstrates the transfer of discourse

during the Age of Revolutions. Similar to the historians, Bergeaud suggested that the

African descendants of Saint-Domingue needed the additional guidance from these

European ideas to successfully complete the revolution. Inspiration from Europe was

not a negative for Bergeaud. Rather, he and his peers demonstrate that men of African

descent could understand and even expand the notions of the Enlightenment. Black

men were capable of civilizing themselves. What was needed was a proper balance

between cultural heritages.

Stella and Marie symbolize this balance and Haiti’s hybrid lineage as well as a

female role in the revolution. While the historians noted several key heroines in their

texts, these women were not protagonists of their narratives. Ardouin declared that

women in all nations’ history had an influential role over men’s decisions. Stella and

Marie illustrate this role and play a central part in Bergeaud’s story.153 In Stella’s case,

she reveals to the brothers the wonders of liberty and discusses with them preparations

for the various stages of the revolution. Marie provides the initial motivation behind the

revolution, personal revenge. And, after her death, she reappears in dreams to the

brothers to remind them of their struggle and their Africanness.154 The brothers

152 Bergeaud, Stella, 115.

153 Ardouin, Etudes, 1:235.

154 Bergeaud, Stella, 61

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effectively combine their two heritages (France and Africa) and this hybridity is part of

the revolution’s success. Bergeaud fictionalized the same argument present in the

histories, but expressed it through the bodies of a black and a white woman. He also

established female corporeal representations of Haiti, which became a more common

trope in the twentieth-century, though with one important revision: the embodiment of

the Haitian nation would be a black woman, former slave, who spoke Kreyòl.

Conclusion: A Mulatto Moment

Like the first generation of authors, these mid-century writers maintained the

themes of anti-colonialism and anti-slavery and celebrated the unity of Haitians as Afro-

descendants. The publishing boom of the mid-nineteenth century left an origin story that

championed mixed-race leaders over the tyrannical black generals and legitimated their

right to govern Haiti and maintain its independence. Despite their political agendas,

these men also advanced the revolution’s narrative and provided a Haitian

interpretation. First, Ardouin and Madiou in particular detailed a centuries-long history of

resistance that incorporated slaves and a few Tainos into the national narrative. Their

rhetorical strategy is one that Haitians today repeated frequently in interviews I

conducted. Moreover, Ardouin and Madiou commented on African traditions and

religious beliefs. Although their descriptions are judgmental, they offer a glimpse of

popular cultural practices. Third, Ardouin and Saint-Rémy introduced a new genre, the

biography, which became a popular method of narrating the revolution. The focus,

though, is on men who are in the archive, the heroes both black and mixed-race and

thus this obscures an “ordinary” history of the revolution because, regardless of skin

color, the founding fathers are far from ordinary. Finally, as the biographies of great men

suggests, all three authors raised the dilemma of the archive. While Hérard Dumesle’s

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work had broached the issue of writing history in a predominately illiterate country,

Madiou, Saint-Rémy, and Ardouin heatedly debated it. The three historians illustrated

the advantages and disadvantages of written and oral sources and agreed, at least, that

to capture a more complete picture of Haiti’s past both sources were needed. As new

generations of authors came of age, these debates would fuel another politically

charged re-writing of Haiti’s origin story and the creation of a competing black legend,

the subject of Chapters 5 and 6.

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CHAPTER 5 NOIRISTES RESPOND: TWENTIETH-CENTURY HISTORIOGRAPHIC

TRANSFORMATIONS

The initiative of Madiou, of Ardouin, of St. Rémy, etc. was beautiful and praiseworthy. But these writers have made only the first steps. They have

sketched the pattern that should guide, like a compass, the bold and enterprising men…

—Gérard Laurent Coup d’oeil sur la politique de Toussaint-Louverture1

Although Thomas Madiou, Beaubrun Ardouin, and Joseph Saint-Rémy debated

elements of Haiti’s founding, their multi-volume histories established a revolutionary

narrative with mixed-race protagonists who defined culture and civilization in relation to

post-Enlightenment Europe. As I argue in Chapter 4, their works along with Émeric

Bergeaud’s novel, Stella, served to consolidate the mulatto legend in the mid-nineteenth

century. This legend came under fire several decades later. A new generation of Haitian

intellectuals, often phenotypically black, challenged the interpretations of Madiou,

Ardouin, and Saint-Rémy. These fin-de-siècle historians initiated a noiriste response to

the dominant mulâtriste interpretations. Yet, as Gérard Laurent’s quote above

acknowledges, their revisions drew upon certain themes introduced by these first

historians. In particular, Madiou’s and Ardouin’s creation of a genealogy of resistance

and their introduction of slaves and slave culture, specifically early Vodou practices,

provided a rhetorical space for later authors to further explore the role of Haiti’s black

majority in the country’s founding.

1 “L’initiative des Madiou, des Ardouin, des St. Rémy etc était belle et digne d’éloges. Mais ces écrivains n’ont réalisé que les premiers pas, ils n’ont esquissé que le schéma qui devrait guider, comme une boussole, les hommes hardis et entreprenants…,” Gérard Mentor Laurent, “Epitre dédicatoire,” in Coup d’oeil sur la politique de Toussaint-Louverture (Port-au-Prince: H. Deschamps, 1949), 2.

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This chapter traces the evolution of noirisme and the construction of the black

legend from the 1890s to 1970s in Haitian historiography of the revolution. This is not an

exhaustive study of relevant publications; rather I have selected texts that make, for

better or worse, specific interventions in Haitian historiography.2 Beginning in the late

nineteenth century, noiriste authors began writing histories that placed black Haitians at

the center of their analysis and moved mixed-race actors to the background. Similar to

Madiou, Ardouin, and Saint-Rémy, they viewed the black majority (recently freed

slaves) as uneducated and ignorant, and they turned to Europe for their cultural model.

Nevertheless, they began to redefine specific aspects of peasant culture as positive.

This chapter begins with Hannibal Price’s De la Réhabilitation de la Race noire par la

République d’Haïti (1900) that exemplifies this trend. Price refuted foreign authors’

racist portrayals of Haiti and in the process secularized Vodou. By so doing, he worked

to legitimate discussions of Vodou in elite circles as a motivating force for slaves in the

revolution. This intervention paved the way for twentieth-century authors to center the

revolution’s narrative on the contributions of maroons, slaves, and black leaders, as well

as to emphasize the motivational influence of Vodou. In addition, noiriste historians

stressed the divisive nature of color and articulated an authoritarian-style government in

which a black man stood as the representative of the masses.

Twentieth-century noirisme fostered the rise of the black legend, which like the

mulatto legend that served to bolster the power of the mixed-race elite, legitimated the

black elite and the new black middle class. The U.S. Occupation of 1915-1934 spurred

2 A notable absence and necessary addition in the future is noiriste-inspired biographies. David Geggus’s work on the biographies of Toussaint Louverture provides a model for similar work that could be done on the more limited studies of Jean-Jacques Dessalines or Henry Christophe, see Geggus, “The Changing Faces of Toussaint Louverture: Literary and Pictorial Depictions,” John Carter Brown Library, http://www.brown.edu/Facilities/John_Carter_Brown_Library/exhibitions/toussaint/index.html, 2013.

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Haitian writers to more thoroughly embrace popular culture in the third wave of

indigénisme in the 1920s and 30s. This cultural movement fused with political black

nationalism (noirisme) to further the evolution of the black legend. Yet, the legend did

not automatically become the new dominant myth or main historiographic interpretation

of the revolution. During and after the occupation, intellectuals presented mulâtriste and

noiriste constructions of Haiti’s founding. The elections of 1946 and 1957 signaled the

dying breaths of the mulatto legend and the institutionalization of the competing myth.

The dictatorship of François Duvalier and his son (1957-1986) incarnated a state

appropriation of the black legend and left little room for critique. Noiriste interpretations

became the official state narrative and the Duvaliers the living embodiment of the black

revolutionary heroes.

As a new myth replaced the old legend, no real narrative solution emerged to

construct a critical history of the revolution. Over a century after Madiou, Ardouin, and

Saint-Rémy published their multi-volume histories Haitian historiography had reached

an impasse. The black legend had created its own pantheon of black heroes,

mythologized the maroon and Vodou priest, and critiqued the role of color prejudice in

Haiti’s development. Noiristes, though, were ambivalent about how to treat the black

majority, especially the insurgent bands, the Congos, and the tensions between black

Saint-Dominguans. Furthermore, the legend’s increased emphasis on color

essentialized Haitian identity and covered up existing social divisions, particularly those

of class.

Hannibal Price: A Precursor

The end of the nineteenth century was a period of political turmoil in Haiti.

Presidents from the two political parties, the primarily mixed-race Liberal Party and the

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mainly black National Party, flipped-flopped in and out office from the fall of Fabre

Geffrard in 1865 to the invasion of U.S. marines in 1915. These regime changes were

seldom the result of open elections. Rather, each potential presidential candidate had

his own militia, which marched to Port-au-Prince and appointed him as the new head of

state. Haitian intellectuals found themselves on varying sides of late-nineteenth-century

politics and supported candidates based a variety of factors such as color, class, and

region. Similar to earlier generations, many held government posts often in overseas

consulates. Abroad, intellectuals had more freedom to write and increased access to

publishing houses and archives. Moreover, like their predecessors, Haitian authors both

at home and abroad had to deal with foreign perceptions of their country. Thus, the

littérature de combat did not end once the major global powers had recognized the

state. Rather, the rise of scientific racism and European and American imperialism

necessitated a defensive approach to narrating Haiti’s history.

Turn-of-the-century Haitian literary history often focuses on the works of two

rising black intellectuals, Anténor Firmin and Louis Joseph Janvier. Their collected

publications served to refute racialized foreign images of Haiti and to commemorate

Haiti as a symbol of black potential. Hannibal Price, a mixed-race author from Jacmel,

also contributed to the fin-de-siècle littérature de combat begun by Firmin and Janvier.

He is not as well studied because his writing vacillates between mulâtriste and noiriste

interpretations. David Nicholls calls him a proponent of the mulatto legend and notes his

discriminatory view towards black Haitians. For example, Price chastised fellow mixed-

race intellectual Frédéric Marcelin for his support of black president Lysius Salomon and

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his service to “a negro government.”3 Yet, Price also advanced arguments on Vodou,

marronage, and the role of slaves in the revolution that became integral to twentieth-

century noirisme.4 In contrast to Nicholls, I argue that Price is a noiriste precursor and

represents the ambivalence of fin-de-siècle Haitian intellectuals who attempted to

celebrate Haiti’s African heritage while also presenting the country as civilized in

European terms.

Price’s biography shaped his narration of Haiti’s past. Price was the son of a

Haitian functionary in Jacmel. He explained in the introduction to De la Réhabilitation de

la Race noire par la République d’Haïti that he was one quarter white. Price’s father was

the mixed-race son of a British sailor named Price and a Haitian woman. Price

presented his genealogy to demonstrate that he neither hated whites in general nor his

white ancestor in particular.5 Rather, he continued, he disliked institutions such as

slavery and racism and their proponents.6

Writing in the early 1890s, Price lived in a hemisphere in which slavery no longer

existed; yet racial prejudice continued to shape Haiti’s relationship with foreign powers

and international perceptions of Haiti remained derogatory in nature. Like earlier Haitian

intellectuals, Price contended that people knew little about Haiti’s history or what they

knew came from foreign publications.7 He declared, “So I feel the need to take speak

3 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour, and National Independence in Haiti, rev. ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 110.

4 For more on Price and nineteenth-century Haitian perceptions of Vodou see, Kate Ramsey, Spirits and the Law: Vodou and Power in Haiti (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011), 57-117.

5 Hannibal Price, De la Réhabilitation de la Race noire par la République d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: J. Verrollot, 1900), vi.

6 Price, De la Réhabilitation, vi.

7 Price, De la Réhabilitation, iii.

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out to defend my cruelly slandered country, to show and to prove to other nations that

the language in with which they have heard Haiti described is that of hate and not of

history, or much less of philanthropy.”8 Price expressed a sentiment that runs

throughout Haitian writing and captures the purpose of littérature de combat: the need

to correct racialized representations of Haiti’s past and present. He also foreshadowed

more recent work on how aid societies, missionaries, and non-government

organizations in the name of philanthropy construct certain images of Haiti that justify

their actions.9 If French abolitionist Victor Schoelcher aggravated Haitian intellectuals in

the 1840s and 1850s, the British consul Spenser St. John’s history provoked a new

round of littérature de combat in the late-nineteenth century. St. John served in Haiti

during the 1860s and published an account of his experience in 1884 replete with

titillating commentary on Haitian cannibalism.10 Price saw his narrative as a correction

to St. John’s portrait of Haitian religious practices. In addition, Price identified a second

audience he sought to educate: African-Americans.11 As an official of the Haitian

consulate in Washington D.C., Price encountered white and black American views on

Haiti. If Haiti was to remain a model of black potential, convincing African-Americans of

8 “Je sens donc le besoin de prendre la parole pour defendre mon pays cruellement calomnié, pour montrer, pour prouver aux autres peuples que le langage qu’on leur a tenu sur Haïti est celui de la haine et non celui de l’histoire, bien moins encore de la philanthropie.”Price, De la Réhabilitation, iv. Price concluded his book with a final chapter reviewing foreign publications and an appendix response just on St. John (Price, De la Réhabilitation, 659-712).

9 See Paul Farmer, The Uses of Haiti (Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press, 1994); Timothy Schwartz, Travesty in Haiti: A True Account of Christian Missions, Orphanages, Fraud, Food Aid and Drug Trafficking (Charleston: Book Surge Publishing, 2008); Mark Schuller, Killing with Kindness: Haiti, International Aid, and NGOS (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2012). 10 St. John observed the Bizoton trial (1864) of eight Vodouists accused of ritual cannibalism and this experience influenced his narrative, (Laurent Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks of History (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2012), 160-63). Spenser St. John, Hayti or the Black Republic (London: Smith & Elder, 1884).

11 Price, De la Réhabilitation, iv.

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its development was crucial. Furthermore, Price’s objective demonstrates Haitian

authors’ position within a larger Black Atlantic intellectual world and their sense of a

shared hemispheric black experience.

Price’s text as a defense of Haiti covers a range of topics. Most important for this

chapter is his account of Haiti’s founding. He framed the history of the revolution in a

similar fashion to Haiti’s first authors: he established the existence of racial equality.

Price contended that all races were equal according to the Christian God. The argument

for divinely ordained equality is an echo of early-nineteenth-century claims by authors

such as Juste Chanlatte. In employing religious rhetoric, Price rejected contemporary

science like the evolution theories of Charles Darwin and Hebert Spencer.12 Price

argued that theories of evolution supported prejudice or “the hatred and war between

men.”13

Nevertheless, Price borrowed from science in his discussion of Africa. He

explained, “The blacks of Africa are savages. That is not an argument against the

inherent equality of the two races, the white race having also passed through this

stage.”14 Price adopted the idea that humans progressed through increasingly better

stages towards a more civilized one, a common argument in earlier Haitian works to

justify the advancement of Haiti. While Haitians were of African origin, they were black

men and women who had become enlightened through their incorporation of European

values. Assimilation of cultures and peoples, Price argued was a positive because it

12 Price, De la Réhabilitation, 9.

13 “la haine et la guerre entre les hommes,” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 13.

14 “Les nègres en Afrique sont sauvages. Cela n’est pas un argument contre l’égalité native des deux races, la blanche ayant aussi passé par cet état.” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 29.

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was isolation that led to ignorance and kept populations in primitive states.15 The history

of the revolution was an example of the success of Haiti’s racial and cultural hybridity.

Price opened his narrative with a scene found more commonly in Haitian

imaginative literature: storytelling. Price explained, decades before writing in 1865 he

met a man named St. Charles who had fought in the revolution. He reminisced: “I

invited him to come and see me. And, almost every evening, in the open air, under our

sky brazen with splendor, the old soldier, squatted before my hammock, responded

during the long hours to my questions, and laid out before me innumerable memories

like so many precious but rough-cut stones.”16 Even though Price used published works

in his section on the revolution, this scene of the oral transmission of knowledge speaks

to the Haitian reality and foreshadows the twentieth-century indigéniste movement that

stressed the centrality of oral traditions and folklore. Moreover, the final author in this

chapter, Michel-Rolph Trouillot, brings Price and indigénisme together to construct a

history of the revolution inspired by oral literature.

More important than Price’s conversations with St. Charles, is his explanation of

early Vodou practices. He posited that “Vaudoux” was not an invention of “strangers,

enemies of Haiti and the black race.”17 Rather, Kate Ramsey argues he offered a

“reconceptualization” of Vodou.18 This reconceptualization defined Vodou as a series of

secret anti-slavery meetings held under the auspices of a religious gathering. He

15 Price, De la Réhabilitation, 89, 96, 149.

16 “Je l’engageai à venir me voir, et Presque chaque soir, en plein vent, sous notre ciel insolent de splendeur, le vieux soldat, accroupi devant mon hamac, répondait pendant de longues heures à mes questions, étalait à mes yeux des souvenirs sans nombres, qui étaient autant de pierres précieuses quoique brutes.” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 141.

17 “étrangers, des ennemis d’Haïti et de la race noire,” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 163.

18 Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law, 97.

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declared, “the real object of these so-called religious meetings was THE PLOT FOR

FREEDOM [capitalization in original].”19 While Price’s secularization of Vodou is

problematic, his argument is path-breaking and establishes the centrality of Vodou in

the Haitian Revolution. In contrast to the primitive superstitions of Thomas Madiou and

Beaubrun Ardouin’s histories, Vodou becomes a motivational force in the slave revolt

and ultimately the revolution. Price’s reconceptualization sets the stage for twentieth-

century indigénisme and the rise of the black legend.

Price mediated the influence of Vodou through his characterization of

revolutionary protagonists. Price presented parallel revolutions led by slaves and

maroons and free people of color.20 This organization may partially explain why Nicholls

labeled Price a mulâtriste writer because he celebrated the contributions of the

affranchis.21 However, with his description of Vodou as a means for slaves to organize

against the institution of slavery, Price offered a portrait of black agency. Moreover,

Price legitimated the violence of slaves. He contended that in contrast to their enslaved

brethren in the United States who could flee to Canada, Saint-Domingue’s slaves had

no neighboring colony to which they could run. Thus, “To reconquer his liberty,” the

slave “could only dream of revolt, armed struggle.”22 In Price’s description, the slave is

the subject taking action, liberating himself. The enslaved were not, Price argued,

primitive beings with no notion of freedom as white authors, even those favorable to

19 “ces prétendues réunions religieuses avaient pour objet réel LA CONSPIRATION DE LA LIBERTÉ,” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 171.

20 Price, De la Réhabilitation, 222.

21 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 120.

22 “Pour reconquérir sa liberté, il ne pouvait rêver que de la révolte, la lutte à main armée,” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 186.

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abolition, suggested.23 Instead, Price adamantly noted that the Haitian “he owes

nothing, absolutely nothing to neither the whites or to any white.”24 Here Price did not

assign a color category to his Haitian; however, he meant Haitians of all colors and

backgrounds.

Slaves, through the motivational force of secular Vodou and free people of color,

through their European education, mobilized to destroy slavery and colonialism for all.

Price’s parallel revolutionary movements erase color differences and celebrate unity. On

one hand his portrait of slaves and secular Vodou bestows a new level of agency on the

black majority. On the other hand, his narrative repeats common themes of the mulatto

legend such as the absence of color divisions in Haiti. In this way, Price serves as a

transitional author between the dominant mulatto legend of the nineteenth century and

the emergent competing black legend to which I will now turn.

Independence in Crisis: Noiristes and Mulâtristes Debate the Narrative

Occupation and Reaction

In the summer of 1915, the current Haiti’s president, the sixth in four years,

attempted to flee to the French Embassy. Angry crowds caught Vilbrun Guillaume Sam

and tore his body apart in an act of vengeance for the 167 recently executed political

prisoners. The streets of Port-au-Prince were not the only scenes of chaos. Months

earlier, U.S. marines took $500,000 worth of gold from the vaults of the National Bank of

Haiti supposedly to payoff Haitian debts to American bankers.25 The seizure was

23 Price, De la Réhabilitation, 261.

24 “…il doit rien, absolument rien, ni aux blancs, ni à aucun blanc,” Price, De la Réhabilitation, 278.

25 Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks, 204.

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another example of U.S. imperial might in the Caribbean.26 It was also a sign of Haiti’s

economic stagnation. The country relied on customs duties as the main source of

government revenue. Consuls and foreign merchants often turned to gunboats to

ensure their respective nations had favorable duties, reducing the Haitian state’s

revenue. Moreover, the decrease in world coffee prices that began in 1890 restricted

Haiti’s income and ability to repay loans.27 Lastly, a small but powerful group of German

traders, who married Haitian women and circumvented Haitian law prohibiting foreign

property ownership, controlled internal commerce.28 After war began in Europe, U.S.

officials viewed Germany as a threat to security and stability in the region. President

Sam’s death, financial crises, imperial dreams, and fears of foreign interventions led the

U.S. to act in late July 1915.

The U.S. occupied the country for the next fifteen years. Under the guise of

saving Haitians “from their own barbarism,” the marines stationed in Haiti brought their

own barbarism: North American racism.29 Prejudice coupled with forced labor served to

temporarily erase social divisions and prompted a variety of responses.30 The “cacos” or

guerrilla bands of peasants and the rural middling class fought against the corvée, the

26 The occupation of Haiti was just one of many intervention campaigns in the region: Venezuela (1895), Puerto Rico and Cuba (1898), Panama (1903), Nicaragua (1909), and the Dominican Republic (1916). Moreover, the U.S. completed the Panama Canal in 1914 further increasing interest in controlling the Caribbean basin.

27 Victor Bulmer-Thomas, The Economic History of the Caribbean Since the Napoleonic Wars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 190-191.

28 Hans Schmidt, The U.S. Occupation of Haiti, 1915-1934, 2nd ed. (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1995), 34; Nicholls, From Dessalines, 143.

29 Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks, 213. For more on the occupation and American forces see Mary Renda, Taking Haiti: Military Occupation and the Culture of U.S. Imperialism, 1915-1940 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001).

30 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 142.

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forced labor system used by the marines to build roads. This movement ended with the

death of its two leaders Charlemagne Péralte and Benoît Batraville in 1919 and 1920

respectively. Urban intellectuals launched non-violent resistance through newspapers

and cultural organizations. In their newspaper columns and discussions, a new

generation of writers redefined Haitian identity. Similar to earlier waves of cultural

nationalism (indigénisme) of the 1830s and 1890s-1900s, these writers argued that the

roots of Haitian identity lay in the culture of the Haitian folk, or the black peasant

majority. Unlike the earlier movements, indigénisme of the 1920s and 30s did not

dissipate. Instead, it initiated the adoption and at time co-option of folk culture,

specifically Vodou practices and dance, by the Haitian elite. It also combined with

noirisme to become an official national ideology that shaped the interpretation of Haiti’s

past. And while, mulâtriste authors attempted to counter the emerging black cultural and

political nationalism, the removal of U.S. troops in 1934, the rise of a black middle class,

and the election of a black president facilitated the triumph of a new national vision.

Noiristes’ Opening Statement

Narratives of the revolution published during the occupation demonstrate this

ideological evolution, through their attention to black protagonists, as well as a

chronological shift. In response to the contemporary presence of foreign troops in Haiti,

authors focused on the final phase of the revolution, the War of Independence (1802-

03). The victory of the insurgent forces of former slaves and free people of color served

as a reminder of Haitian potential and inspiration for the future. Moreover, as Colonel

Alfred Nemours declared in a military history of the revolution, the military successes of

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the indigenous army (and subsequent Haitian soldiers) proved that blacks were equal to

whites even on the battlefield.31

The first text, based on a series of lectures from 1924, Horace P. Sannon’s La

Guerre de l’Indépendance, demonstrates the trend of narrating histories of the

revolution’s phases. Sannon explained that the revolution had three phases: the

struggle for equal rights by the affranchis, 1790-1792; struggle against slavery by the

enslaved, 1791-1793; and the struggle of the recently freed to maintain their liberty, as

well as the restoration of order and the economy, 1793-1803.32 In his published

lectures, Sannon focused on the end of phase three, which has become the most

popular period to examine.33 Sannon’s concentration on these years allows him to

recenter the narrative on black protagonists, specifically Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and

the military accomplishments of former slaves and free people of color.

After establishing his chronological focus, Sannon, like other Haitian authors,

briefly covered the debate over racial equality. He made a notable distinction,

particularly in comparison to Price’s heavy religious (Christian) overtones. Sannon

claimed that law not the Christian God, made the entire world free and equal.34 Later

authors would continue Sannon’s argument for equality under law, and devoted

31 Alfred Nemours, Histoire militaire de la guerre d’Indépendance 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Éditions Fardin, 2004), viii.

32 Horace P. Sannon, La Guerre de l’Indépendance (Port-au-Prince: Chéraquit, 1925), 5.

33 Other texts include two more works reviewed in this chapter, Alfred Nemours’s Histoire militaire de la guerre de l’Indépendance and Hénock Trouillot’s “La Guerre de l’Indépendance d’Haïti.” The history of the War of Independence is also the topic of more recent work by the Auguste brothers, Claude B. Auguste and Marcel B. Auguste, L’expédition Leclerc, 1801-1803 (Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1985).

34 Sannon, La Guerre, 5-6.

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nationalists and Vodouists would counter the divinity of the Christian God with Bondye,

the head Vodou deity.

More significant than the removal of Christian rhetoric, Sannon portrayed black

general Jean-Jacques Dessalines as the primary proponent of independence. He

argued that Dessalines aspired to independence as early as the battle for Crête-à-

Pierrot in March 1802.35 David Geggus notes that this makes Sannon an exception

among twentieth-century noiristes, who usually claimed Toussaint Louverture was the

first to contemplate independence.36 Dessalines becomes Sannon’s hero and initiator of

the independence movement because he resisted the French expedition under

Louverture and then as the head of the indigenous army. Writing during the U.S.

Occupation of 1915-1934, Sannon wanted to present a triumphant narrative of

resistance, which Louverture’s tragic death in France did not support.

He further stressed Dessalines’s importance by comparing him to Alexandre

Pétion, the mixed-race hero of mulâtriste narratives. Sannon pointed out that Pétion

“was but an adjutant-general, while Dessalines was a division general.”37 Dessalines

was thus the senior military leader. Yet, Sannon admitted that Pétion served a crucial

political role: “But, as a mulatto, as a man of the West and as a former supporter of

Rigaud, he was more qualified than any other to persuade the men of color of the West

and South to join with Dessalines…”38 In his description of Pétion, Sannon highlighted

35 Sannon, La Guerre, 8-9.

36 Geggus, “The Changing Faces of Toussaint Louverture.”

37 “Il n’était qu’adjudant-général, tandis que Dessalines était divisionnaire.” Sannon, La Guerre, 18.

38 “Mais, comme mulâtre, comme l’homme de l’Ouest et comme ancien rigaudiste, il se trouvait plus qualifié qu’aucun autre contemporain pour persuader les hommes de couleur de l’Ouest et de Sud de se rallier à Dessalines,” Sannon, La Guerre, 18.

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the main divisions in revolutionary Saint-Domingue that would continue in independent

Haiti. Thus, while he used the comparison to cast Dessalines as the ultimate hero of the

revolution. He also may have suggested a plan for resistance during the occupation.

Haiti was in need of another great military leader like Dessalines but also a politically

savvy and diplomatic Pétion. In other words, Sannon called for unity across twentieth-

century color, class, and regional divisions.

If Sannon celebrated black leadership, his noiriste approach did not

accommodate divisions among black Saint-Dominguans. Sannon claimed that after

Louverture’s arrest the blacks rebelled to protect their liberty.39 The actions of the

masses then were integral in initiating the movement to independence. Nevertheless,

these masses most likely included the insurgent bands called the Congos. The Congos,

which Sannon called Louverture’s irregulars or “Tacos,” appear as they did in mulâtriste

histories: as an obstacle to independence. Sannon concluded the elimination of the

“Tacos” was “a terrible but necessary measure.”40 He moved from celebrating the

contributions of the black masses to excusing the violence of the black creole leaders

against the same population. The difficulty of reconciling the noiriste vision of a unified

black population in Haiti with the revolutionary and contemporary divisions based on

class and region only became more pronounced with the institution of the black legend.

Building on Sannon’s work, military officer and Haitian diplomat, Alfred Nemours

composed a two-volume history of the War of Independence. Nemours’s text is the first

military history of the revolution by a Haitian. He saw his work as a correction to

39 Sannon, La Guerre, 7.

40 “C’étaient des mesures terribles mais nécessaires.” Sannon, La Guerre, 37.

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Thomas Madiou’s multi-volume history. Madiou, Nemours noted, was not a solider, and

thus interpreted the final battles of the revolution from a layman’s perspective.41 To

further advance his military focus, Nemours included a collection of primary sources

from the Leclerc expedition such as invasion plans. Similar to earlier authors, he

benefited from his government position to explore national, regional, and provincial

archives in France.42 Access to foreign collections is not a privilege all Haitian

intellectuals have and is a reminder of the politics of producing history in developing

countries.

The cult of the hero limits Nemours’s analysis. Throughout his two volumes, the

main protagonist and hero is Toussaint Louverture. In contrast to Sannon who praised

Dessalines’s military skills, Nemours characterized Louverture as more than a general.

He specified that Toussaint was also, “an administrator, an organizer, a head of

government.”43 Nemours explained these various roles in reference to the entire

revolution, a strategy to extend the chronology of his narrative beyond the revolution’s

final years. First, Louverture’s role as administrator and head of government led to

discussions of his policy and its codification in his 1801 Constitution. Nemours

countered negative images of Louverture. For example, he sought to refute

misconceptions of Louverture’s labor policy and denied that “the fate of the workers

41 Nemours, Histoire militaire, 1:192.

42 Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:443-444. Nemours was a Haitian diplomat in France during the U.S. occupation and a graduate of the French military academy, L’Ecole Militaire de Saint-Cyr (Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:203; Ghislain Gouraige, Histoire de la littérature haïtienne (Port-au-Prince: Imp. N.A. Théodore, 1960), 468).

43 “un administrateur, un organisateur, un chef de gouvernement,” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 1:66.

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[former slaves] was worse than before.”44 Nemours explained the major difference: “the

worker is free” and has an interest in production because he receives a quarter of the

plantation’s revenue.45 The former slaves’ liberty is the most significant improvement;

however, Nemours’s perspective is primarily that of policy maker; he examined official

documents, and does not take into account the reactions of “the workers.” His focus is

on the actions of Louverture, whom he believed to be a great man.

Nemours jumped backwards in time to explain Louverture’s talents as an

organizer. In reference to the 1791 slave revolt, Nemours constructed Louverture, the

creole slave with a degree of education and Christian piety, as a civilizing agent.

Nemours stated, “[Louverture] disciplines the wild bands of Jean-François and Biassou.

He wants to discipline and civilize the leaders themselves.”46 Nemours’s judgment is an

echo of nineteenth-century mulâtriste interpretations in which the slave insurgents and

later Congo bands were primitive, savage, and superstitious. Nemours’s

characterization of Jean-François and Biassou as flawed makes Louverture the superior

leader, not just in the 1790s but also the 1800s. The narrative flashbacks to the slave

revolt and Louverture’s early years also illuminates the difficulty we see in Sannon and

other authors, both mulâtriste and noiriste, to deal with the actions and culture of the

black majority represented by slave insurgents and the Congos.

A final and unique element in Nemours’s commemoration of Louverture is the

inclusion of a trip to Fort-de-Joux (Figure 5-1) where Louverture died after being

44 “le sort des travailleurs était plus misérable qu’auparavant,” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 1:73.

45 “Le travailleur est libre.” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 1:74.

46 “Il discipline les bandes farouches de Jean-François et de Biassou. Il veut discipliner et civiliser les chefs eux-mêmes.” Nemours, Histoire militaire 1:89.

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imprisoned by Napoleon. As will be seen in Chapter 6, theatrical performances also

construct Fort-de-Joux as a site of memory. Nemours’s pilgrimage in 1927, like

imaginative literature, integrates the fort into Haitian collective memory. His physical

visit becomes a pilgrimage and commemoration through a combination of actions such

as his organization of a memorial service at the nearby parish church. Moreover, his act

of recording the visit and sharing it with an audience are additional celebrations of

Louverture. The significance of the visit is heightened by Nemours’s description. First,

he referred to the trip as a pilgrimage and compared it to a religious holiday in Brittany

(northwestern France), the “pardon breton.”47 Nemours’s Christian comparisons serve

to present Louverture as a deity. Nemours himself asserted that his actions have

“established the cult of Toussaint-Louverture” in the mountains of eastern France.48

Nemours pilgrimage established a new act of commemoration. Later Haitians repeated

his journey to the Jura Mountains near the Swiss border and contributed to Louverture’s

cult with busts and plaques in front his cell (Figure 5-2). Most recently, Haitian president

Michel Martelly visited the fort, the first Haitian head of state to pay his respects to the

revolutionary general.49

Although Louverture is the hero of Nemours’s text, his chronology provides a

space to revise the contributions of the Congo leaders and black majority. Nemours

stressed the continuation of resistance even after Louverture’s arrest in the summer of

1803. He clarified:

47 Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:200.

48 “établi le culte de Toussaint-Louverture,” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:221.

49 “Haiti-Politic: Moving Tribute of President Martelly to Toussaint Louverture,” HaitiLibre 1 Nov. 2014, accessed 10 April 2015, http://www.haitilibre.com/en/news-12415-haiti-politic-moving-tribute-of-president-martelly-to-toussaint-louverture.html.

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Rebellion threatened everywhere: in the North and North West. Romain in the Limbé highlands, in those of Plaisance, Sylla; Sans Souci in the mountains of Grande Rivière and Dondon; in the northern plains Macaya and the famous Congo leader Petit Noël Prieur; Mavougou and Va-Malheureux; in the hills of Gros-Morne, on the coast of Borgne, and Moustique. These elusive leaders actively continued the battle.50

Nemours’s description of the resistance movement reads like a list of insurgent

dignitaries. Absent from his list are the revolutionary heroes, who are not, in Nemours’s

narrative, the initiators of resistance in the summer 1803. Instead, the Congo bands and

their leaders have a moment in the spotlight. According to Nemours, they maintained

the insurrection in the interior and continued the fight for freedom.51 Nemours’s focus on

the War of Independence allows him to integrate the Congos as more than just savage

bands. They are not heroes on the scale of Louverture, but do contribute to sustaining

the resistance movement against the French.

In examining resistance, Nemours also acknowledged the role of the ordinary

soldier. He expounded, “The others, had always remained armed, living only in the

woods or rugged mountain retreats…”52 These others, whose names are unknown,

become re-born in the black legend as the heroic “unknown maroon.” Nemours’s brief

mention of peasant insurgents is a step towards institutionalizing the maroon as the

equivalent to European and American commemorations of the Unknown Soldier. Four

decades after Nemours’s publication, his “others” of the mountains would be honored

50 “La révolte grondait partout: dans le Nord et le Nord-Ouest. Romain dans les hauteurs du Limbé, dans celles de Plaisance, Sylla; Sans Souci dans les montagnes de la Grande Rivière et du Dondon; dans la plaine du nord Macaya et Petit Noël Prieur, le fameux chef des Congos; Mavougou et Va-Malheureux; dans les mornes du Gros-Morne, sur les côtes du Borgne, de Moustique, ces chefs insaisissables continuaient activement la lutte.” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:289-90.

51 Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:387.

52 “Les autres, sont toujours restés en armes, ne vivant que dans les bois ou les retraites escarpées des montagnes...” Nemours, Histoire militaire, 2:300.

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for their contributions to the revolution with the statue “Nègre Marron Inconnu” (The

Unknown Maroon) in downtown Port-au-Prince.53

Mulâtriste Rebuttal: Louis Elie

Sannon and Nemours shifted the narrative focus to the final years of the

revolution, which provided an opportunity to focus on black protagonists, commemorate

black heroes, and ambivalently integrate the Congo bands. While their histories initiated

a noiriste turn in the scholarship, the dominance of the new interpretation was not

certain. David Nicholls remarks that members of the Haitian elite “saw in the occupation

a chance to re-establish the political hegemony of the mulatto elite which had been

gradually eroded in the preceding decades.”54 As in the nineteenth century, the

revolution’s narrative was a way to support the mixed-race elite’s bid for power. The

columns of Port-au-Prince’s newspaper demonstrated the heated debates over how to

narrate the revolution. An example of the mulâtriste rebuttal is a series of articles by

mixed-race intellectual Louis Elie that appeared in Le Temps, a Port-au-Prince-based

paper run by the Catholic elite.55 Elie also published a monograph on the revolution;

however, I focus here on his newspaper articles because they highlight the continued

importance of the press as medium for Haitian historians.56

Elie opened his narrative in a manner uncharacteristic of even staunch

nineteenth-century mulâtristes. He presented the revolution as beginning before 1789

53 “Discours du Ministre Paul Blanchet à la cérémonie de la pose de la première pierre de la statue du Nègre Marron Inconnu,” Alliance Française, série B 524PO/B/41, Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes, Nantes, France.

54 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 146.

55 Nicholls, From Dessalines, 180.

56 Louis Elie, Histoire d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince, 1944).

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with protests against colonial control by two white colonists, the Mallet brothers Pierre

and Nicolas.57 Elie claimed Pierre died at some point in the revolution but Nicolas joined

the indigenous army in 1803, fought for Independence, and signed the Declaration of

Independence.58 David Geggus notes there was a Nicolas Pierre Mallet, “a white creole

planter from the south coast, who had led his former slaves against the French army”

who signed the Declaration.59 Elie’s choice of a white revolutionary is notable, though

the Mallet brothers are just one, Nicolas Pierre. Nineteenth-century author Juste

Chanlatte dedicated a short chapter to moral whites such as Abbé Grégoire, Thomas

Clarkson, and William Wilberforce. Chanlatte argued these men demonstrate that not all

whites were racist planters and colonists.60 Perhaps Elie’s inclusion of the Mallets is a

similar rhetorical choice and an olive branch to the occupying U.S. forces. Yet, Elie did

more than just praise the Mallets’ morality, he called the brothers “precursors of Haitian

independence.”61 Elie’s narrative of the revolution, then, begins with white agents and

sidelines even the contributions of free people of color until later.

The affranchi heroes do make their appearance. Elie argued that Alexandre

Pétion, André Rigaud, and other affranchi leaders “instilled the spirit of liberty” in the

slaves, including the black revolutionary generals Toussaint Louverture, Jean-Jacques

Dessalines, and Henry Christophe.62 Elie revived the argument for free people of color’s

57 Louis Elie, “Les Causes véritables des guerres de l’Indépendance,” Le Temps 10-12 Sept. 1928, 2.

58 Elie, “Les Causes,” 6.

59 David Geggus, “Haiti’s Declaration of Independence,” in The Haitian Declaration of Independence: Creation, Context, and Legacy, ed. Julia Gaffield (Charlottesville: University of Virginia, Press, 2015).

60 Juste Chanlatte, Le Cri de nature (Cap Haïtien: Chez P. Roux, 1810), 65-68.

61 “deux précurseurs de l’Indépendance haïtienne,” Elie, “Les Causes,” 5.

62 “C’est la classe agissant des mulâtres qui leur a inculqué l’espirit de liberté,” Elie, “Les Causes,” 7.

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guidance at a time when a growing black middle class threatened mixed-race power.

Elie went a step further than his mulâtriste predecessors and employed the rhetoric of

scientific racism to legitimate the superiority of the affranchis. He asserted, “The brillant

design of Independence came out of free people of color’s intelligent brain.”63 In

contrast, the African brain of black revolutionary general Dessalines did not have the

“flexibility” to handle politics and diplomacy.64 If earlier mulâtriste histories appeared

contradictory because they celebrated Haiti’s African heritage while also striving to be

civilized à la France, Elie based the distinction in biology. His classification of

Dessalines’s brain as unable to process the demands of state-building suggests that

black Haitians could never be equal to the mixed-race elite.65 According to Elie, they

had to rely on the enlightened brains of the descendants of affranchis to guide the

country.

Elie’s interpretation and the mulatto legend in general, however, lost out to the

inflexible African brains of the black majority. At the same time Elie published his

articles, one of his contemporaries compiled a series of lectures that promoted the

culture of the black majority as the true expression of Haitian identity. Jean Price-Mars’s

Ainsi parla l’oncle (1928) became the foundational text of indigénisme.

Jean Price-Mars: Re-envisioning Haiti

Born in the northern town of Grande Rivière du Nord, Price-Mars symbolizes the

transformation of the Haitian intelligentsia. Though older than many of the authors who

63 “La géniale conception de l’Indépendance est sortie du cerveau lumineux des affranchis.” Elie, “Les Causes,” 12.

64 “la souplesse,” Elie, “Les Causes,” 17.

65 David Geggus also notes in the influence of scientific racism on Elie’s and other Haitian intellectuals’ writings, Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 218.

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protested the U.S. Occupation, Price-Mars was black and began his education in Haiti.

Thanks to a fellowship, he traveled to Paris in 1899 to attend medical school. In contrast

to the previous generations and his contemporaries, Price-Mars did not come from a

wealthy family that could fund his education abroad. He represents the rise of a black

middle class in Haiti, which benefited from increased state expenditure on education

and included non-elite intellectuals. Price-Mars went on to become one of Haiti’s most

famous authors. His work redefined Haitian identity as rooted in the African traditions

maintained by the peasant. Price-Mars’s call for the elite to embrace Haitian folk culture,

specifically Kreyòl and Vodou, initiated a third wave of indigénisme. Unlike in the earlier

waves, Haitian intellectuals and the state responded enthusiastically and helped create

a lasting cultural nationalism.

Published the same year as Elie’s newspaper articles and Nemours’s military

history, Price-Mars’s Ainsi parla l’oncle (So Spoke the Uncle), is not a history of the

revolution. Nevertheless, the book and the cultural movement it prompted radically

changed the revolution’s narrative. To begin, Price-Mars acknowledged the postcolonial

challenge Haitians faced: “Evidently the simplest choice for the revolutionaries badly in

need of national cohesion was to copy the only model that they comprehended.”66

Price-Mars realized that the newly independent state desperately needed a united

population. Moreover, he understood that France was the model for many of the new

elite. What frustrated Price-Mars was that the Eurocentric outlook adopted by the

revolutionaries came to signify a rejection of local culture based on African traditions.

66 Jean Price-Mars, So Spoke the Uncle, trans. Magdaline Shannon (Washington D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1983), 7.

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He referred to this phenomenon as “collective bovaryism.”67 Appealing to the elite’s

Francophilia he argued that like the protagonist of the great nineteenth-century French

novel, Madame Bovary, by Gustave Faubert, the elite imagined a society completely

disconnected from reality. By not understanding who they were, the elite had rejected

part of their identity, their African heritage. He lamented: “Since then all that is

authentically indigenous—language, customs, sentiments, beliefs—have become

suspect, tarnished by bad taste in the eyes of elites smitten with nostalgia for the lost

mother country [France].”68 To correct the past century’s Eurocentric errors, Price-Mars

offered a solution. He argued that Haitians, especially the elite, could re-find themselves

through Kreyòl and Vodou. He suggested Haitian intellectuals “draw the substance of

[their] works sometimes from this immense reservoir of folklore.”69

The majority of the book proceeds to demonstrate the value of folk culture and

refute elite notions of African inferiority. In particular, Price-Mars concentrated on Vodou

and argued that it was a religion that had evolved like any other belief system.70 In his

discussion, we see the influence of Hannibal Price. Price-Mars hyphenated his two

given names to form one surname, in honor of the mixed-race intellectual Hannibal

Price and as a symbol for Haitian unity and solidarity.71 Perhaps, Price-Mars also

wanted to illustrate his intellectual debt to the man who integrated Vodou into the

revolution’s narrative. Price-Mars revised his mixed-race predecessor’s secular

67 Price-Mars, So Spoke, xi.

68 Price-Mars, So Spoke, 8.

69 Price-Mars, So Spoke, 178.

70 Price-Mars, So Spoke, 35, 39.

71 Gérarde Magloire, “Jean-Price-Mars,” last modified 25 March 2009, accessed 12 April 2015, http://www.lehman.cuny.edu/ile.en.ile/paroles/price-mars.html.

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interpretation, though, and contended that Vodou was a religion. He claimed that Vodou

was born in the “nocturnal meetings in the woods,” which Price saw as gatherings to

organize slave resistance.72 Together the two intellectuals provided a new vision of

slave agency and culture that noiristes would appropriate to create a black epic of

Haiti’s founding. Unfortunately, Price Mars’s call to embrace Haiti’s folk culture led to a

romanticization of the peasant that did little to resolve economic and social inequalities.

Moreover, as Matthew Smith points out, Price Mars saw the adoption of indigénisme by

political black nationalists like François Duvalier as detrimental because noirisme

“advocated greater social cleavage rather than national unity.”73 Price-Mars had hoped

to unify Haitians across color, class, and regional lines not create new divisions.

Consolidating the Black Legend

A Black Revolution and Narrative

In 1946 a black president entered the National Palace. The noiriste vision, first

enunciated in 1815 by the Baron de Vastey, that the head of state should resemble

fourteen-fifteenths of the population became a reality. Dumarsais Estimé was not only

black but came from Haiti’s peasantry. He came to power thanks to a politically active

and demographically significant urban black middle class who believed in the potential

of black political nationalism.74 Estimé’s election began a process of institutionalizing

noirisme and the black legend. In particular a group of radical black nationalists, the

authentiques (authentics), proclaimed themselves to be “the real inheritors of the legacy

72 Price-Mars, So Spoke, 107.

73 Matthew Smith, Red and Black in Haiti: Radicalism, Conflict, and Political Change, 1934-1957 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 27.

74 For a detailed discussion of the factors and “revolution” of 1946 see Smith, Red and Black, 71-101.

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of Dessalines.”75 Key members of the authentiques included future dictator François

Duvalier (Papa Doc). In 1948 he published with his friend and fellow noiriste intellectual

Lorimer Denis a manifesto-like booklet on Haitian history, Problème des classes à

travers l’histoire d’Haïti. Problème first appeared in 1946 in the newspaper Chantiers

and then came out in several editions in 1948 and again 1964 during Duvalier’s rule.

Similar to the earlier noiristes of the 1920s, Duvalier and Denis celebrated black

revolutionary leaders. Yet, they added a layer of interpretation: color divisions.

Duvalier and Denis, along with Louis Diaquoi, had spent the previous decade

discussing Haiti’s history and the importance of re-evaluating the nation’s African

cultural heritage. First known as “Les Trois D” (the three Ds), they became the Griots in

1932.76 Griot is a traditional West African term for a storyteller. The name signified the

groups’ interest in African culture. Building on the indigénistes’ call to embace Haiti’s

folk culture, the Griots developed a more radical, black vision of Haitian identity.

Matthew Smith describes:

In outlining this argument of Haitian identity, the Griots went further than their predecessors in emphasizing racial differences and offering an analysis of the vexing question of Haitian racial and color divisions. Drawing on their ethnographic research, they demanded a greater incorporation of folk practices, especially vodou, in national life. It is from the peasantry, the Griots argued, that Haitian culture derives.77

In Problème, Duvalier and Denis combined the earlier ideas of the Griots (1930s) with

those of the authentiques of the 1940s to create a noiriste manifesto.

75 Smith, Red and Black, 108.

76 Smith, Red and Black, 24.

77 Smith, Red and Black, 25.

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Duvalier and Denis opened their study with the contention that Haiti’s history is a

tale of two classes rooted in the colonial categories of affranchi and slave.78 They

proceeded to narrate the revolution seen through the prism of their class divisions. Skin

color is integral to their classes.79 Thus, the conflict is not one of economic classes but

rather color groups, mixed-race and black. First, they attacked the mixed-race hero Ogé

who had been held up by mulâtriste historians as an abolitionist and hero for all

Haitians. Duvalier and Denis completely reversed this image: “Symbolizing the

conscience of his class, Vincent Ogé repudiated all solidarity with the slave class.”80

They argued Ogé’s refusal to ally with slaves to fight the white planters was a sign of his

color prejudice and class interests. In their opening example, Duvalier and Denis

exposed a major flaw in their interpretation: the conflation of class and color. They

proposed black solidarity, yet Haitian identity politics did not neatly correspond with

either class or color categories. And, even though the categories of affranchi and slave

existed in Saint-Domingue, they obscured additional divisions within the social groups

that included factors like color as well as language and religion.

Duvalier and Denis continued to recount the revolution through the lens of color

divisions with an emphasis on the superiority of black leaders and black unity. They

constructed black leaders such as Toussaint Louverture, Makandal, and Boukman, as

representatives of the masses.81 This color solidarity serves to justify contemporary

78 François Duvalier and Lorimer Denis, Problème des classes à travers l’histoire d’Haïti 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Imprimerie de l’Etat, 1965), ix, 4-5.

79 David Nicholls, From Dessalines, 194.

80 “Vincent Ogé symbolisant la conscience de sa classe a répudié tout solidarité avec la classe des esclaves.” Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 12.

81 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 15, 20, 21.

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black leadership because, following their argument, only black rulers truly represent the

will and wishes of the people (who are also black). Moreover, black revolutionary heroes

shared in the culture of the masses. For example, they pointed out that Boukman was

ultimately successful because he used Vodou to rally the slaves.82 Thus, current black

leaders should also embrace the folk culture, a sign of indigénisme’s influence, to help

create a united black class.

Their theme of black solidarity runs into trouble with discussions of conflicts that

divided the nouveaux libres (former slaves). Depending on the time period, they

excused divisions within the black population as a result of planters’ invention of color

prejudice or the meddling of the mixed-race elite.83 Yet, in their narrative of the

revolution their logic of external schemes disappears. The examples of Moïse and

Charles Belair, black leaders who may have actually had a better understanding of the

desires of the nouveaux libres, are brushed aside because the two young men did not

understand the power of destiny. First, Moïse, Duvalier and Denis claimed, was unable

to understand the visionary genius of his uncle, Toussaint Louverture. 84 Second

Charles Belair tried to beat “fate” that had already respect selected Dessalines as the

founder of Haiti.85 Their argument for black unity and contention that the affranchis and

whites caused divisions are unable to address the differences among the black

revolutionary leaders. In addition, like earlier noiristes, Duvalier and Denis were also

uncomfortable with the insurgent bands, the Congos. If Nemours’s military history had

82 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 20.

83 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 72, 77; Smith, Red and Black, 105.

84 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 87.

85 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 87.

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provided a slightly more positive spin on these soldiers, Duvalier and Denis revived the

image of nineteenth-century mulâtristes. The Congos in their interpretation were the

“incarnation of anarchy and disorder.”86

Problème des classes portrayed black heroes, criticized mixed-race leaders, and

exposed the divisive nature of color in Haiti’s history. However, the idea of black

solidarity created new silences and again failed to reconcile the issue of disunion

among the nouveaux libres. This failure translated to contemporary Haitian politics and

as Matthew Smith remarks noirisme did little “for the welfare of the poor” and “could not

eradicate the fundamental problem of rampant graft and corruption” of the state.87 More

problematic as Jean Price-Mars feared, noirisme supported the growth of an

authoritarian state bolstered by a new black legend.

Silencing Dissent: the Marxist Cannot Speak

Duvalier and Denis published their booklet over a decade before the 1957

election. Matthew Smith’s study of post-occupation Haiti demonstrates that these years

were filled with political developments. Yet, as noirisme grew in strength its ideological

influence restricted narratives of the revolution. In particular, the combination of Cold

War politics and consolidation of the black legend created a reactionary public sphere.88

The mixed-race intellectual and socialist Etienne D. Charlier attempted to interject an

alternative interpretation of Haiti’s founding.

86 Duvalier and Denis, Problème, 90.

87 Smith, Red and Black, 87, 117.

88 Paul Magloire, president from 1950-1956, prided himself on his commitment to defeat communism (Smith, Red and Black, 155).

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Published in 1954, Charlier’s Aperçu sur la formation historique de la nation

haïtienne, offers a Marxist-inspired analysis of the revolution. Charlier was a member of

the Parti Socialiste Populaire, one of Haiti’s left-wing parties primarily composed of the

mixed-race elite.89 Charlier organized his history of the revolution in terms of economic

factors. While classes and global economic systems overshadow color politics, Charlier

did not completely ignore them. Rather, his narrative demonstrates an attempt to move

beyond the ideological limits of noirisme and how neither a focus on only class or color

explains the history of the revolution. In addition, the negative reception of his text

illustrates how the black legend was becoming the official state narrative.

Charlier’s Marxist interpretation emerges in his selection of protagonists and his

explanation of their actions. First, in keeping with the black legend, Charlier celebrated

the figure of the maroon. He explained, the first example of marronage appeared under

the Spanish with the revolt of Henrique.90 Henrique’s resistance became a model for

African slaves and maroon communities such as the most famous in Bahoruco and

served as “the boulevard to our independence.”91 Maroons according to Charlier were

representatives of African-born (bossale) slaves who formed a class in conflict with

creole slaves.92 Although Charlier integrated the black masses into the narrative, het

reated marronage as only a preliminary phase in anticolonial struggle, and so allowed

89 Smith, Red and Black, 86-87.

90 Etienne Charlier, Aperçu sur la formation historique de la nation haïtienne (Port-au-Prince: Les Presse Libres, 1954), 5.

91 Charlier, Aperçu, 23.

92 Charlier, Aperçu, 29.

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staunch noiristes to accuse him of favoring the role of the affranchis and supporting a

more mulâtriste interpretation of Haiti’s founding.93

Charlier, though, tried to balance Marxism and noirisme. He explained that the

main cause of the 1791 slave revolt was the institution of slavery itself not royalists or

free people color.94 He also included the Bois Caïman ceremony, yet added a new

character, the manbo (Vodou priestess) Cécile Fatiman, who supposedly performed the

ritual sacrifice. Charlier claimed, based on an interview with her grandson that she was

a mulatto with green eyes.95 Here, Charlier shifted between a structural analysis of the

slave revolt, a noiriste argument for the influence of Vodou, and proposed that a mixed-

race manbo helped lead the ceremony. Charlier offered a similarly layered analysis of

the War of the South. In place of the institution of slavery, Charlier contended that the

institutions of global capitalism and imperialism, specifically exhibited by the U.S. and

Great Britain, were external factors in War of the South. These larger systems, along

with internal factors like former planters, manipulated the anciens libres led by southern

mixed-race general André Rigaud and a new elite group of nouveaux libres, mainly

Toussaint Louverture’s officers.96 On one hand, systems and institutions are the causes

of the war. On the other hand, Charlier introduced a general division between the

anciens and nouveaux libres, but then further specified that the nouveaux libres had

classes or ranks among them. At the top of the nouveaux libres hierarchy were military

officers who owned plantations. Although his attempt to apply Marxism to the Haitian

93 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 70

94 Charlier, Aperçu, 58.

95 Charlier, Aperçu, 49n1.

96 Charlier, Aperçu, 132.

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Revolution is not always successful, it does expose the multiple divisions which

noirisme sought to cover up. Moreover, Charlier’s work foreshadows the final text of this

chapter, Michel-Rolph Trouillot’s Ti dife boule sou istwa Ayiti. Trouillot also draws on

Marxism and class analysis to deconstruct the black legend.

Charlier’s Marxist reading is not entirely devoid of color. He concluded the book

with Dessalines’s assassination. He stated, “Dessalines died as he lived: like a man,

above our color quarrels.”97 Charlier implied both that Dessalines was not prejudiced but

also that color divided and created conflict. Charlier’s division of nouveaux and anciens

libres was not entirely based on class. Rather, he admitted in the end that color

prejudice led to the tragic death of Haiti’s founder. Charlier’s Marxist experiment, though

limiting, is not as insufficient as Nicholls contends. Charlier may have underestimated

the power of color to rally the new black middle class to Duvalier; yet, he exposed how

class could equally break down color solidarity. Thus, to narrate the revolution, authors

needed to examine how both factors interacted.

Institutionalizing Myth: History Under Duvalier

While Charlier was criticzed for his inability to follow all the tenets of noirisme, a

mixed-race contemporary perfected the combination of noirisme and indigénisme

through the history of marronage. Jean Fouchard was an established scholar of Haitian

culture by the time he published Les marrons de la liberté in 1972 (The Maroons of

Liberty).98 In his work on the Haitians maroons Fouchard introduced a controversial

97 “Dessalines meurt comme il a toujours vécu: en homme, au dessus de nos querelles de pigmentation.” Charlier, Aperçu, 308.

98 Jean Fouchard, Les marrons de la liberté (Paris: Éditions de l’École, 1972). It was published in English as Jean Fouchard, The Haitian Maroons: Liberty or Death, trans. A. Faulkner Watts (New York: Edward W. Blyden Press, 1981).

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argument, though one completely in agreement with the black legend as it was

institutionalized under François Duvalier. Fouchard contended that maroons organized

and sustained the August 1791 slave revolt. Only four years after Duvalier inaugurated

the statue of “The Unknown Maroon” in 1968, Fouchard placed maroons at the center of

the revolution’s narrative.

Fouchard’s focus is not the revolution per se but the decades before it. In support

of his argument for the centrality of marronage in the slave uprising, he constructed a

detailed picture of marronage on the eve of the revolution. This picture is flawed, as is

Fouchard’s methodology. Nevertheless, his text represents an important development in

Haitian historiography of the revolution and it illustrates how the institutionalization of

the black legend has limited historians’ ability to examine the revolution outside the

proscribed national ideology.

First, Fouchard made a valuable contribution by opening up what was then a

fairly new source base for the study of slavery and the causes of the revolution: colonial

newspapers. He explained, “It appears to us that the announcements of flight, the

descriptions of Maroons published in the Saint-Domingue newspapers can shed new

light on the practice of marronage and at the same time on the face of the slave.”99

Runaway slaves advertisements are an important resource and those Fouchard

examined in Les Affiches Americaines are now available through the online database

“Marronage in Saint-Domingue.”100 Fouchard correctly surmised that they also help to

provide intimate details about slaves. These details are missing from Haitian

99 Jean Fouchard, The Haitian Maroons, 7.

100 French historian Jean-Pierre Le Glaunec organized this project, which includes over 11,000 runaway slave advertisements from 1766-1790, see http://www.marronage.info/en/index.html.

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historiography, especially the noiriste narratives that claim to commemorate black

leaders and the black majority. The narratives revolve around categories of black

people but rarely include details that give the masses a human face.

With that said, Fouchard’s methodology demonstrates the challenges of using

runaway ads. Fouchard counted names and references to runaway slaves and arrived

at a total of 48,000 maroons from 1764-1793.101 Unfortunately, the number of maroons

listed in the newspaper bears no certain relation to the total number of fugitives in any

year. David Geggus points out that Fouchard’s figures involve some double-counting

and that, because of a sudden increase in the number of newspaper titles, they

particularly inflate the numbers on the eve of the slave uprising. This served to support

Fouchard’s argument that the uprising grew out of a surge in marronage, and that

maroons played an integral role in the revolution.

Second, Fouchard’s study brought together two themes of the black legend:

maroons and Vodou. He asserted, “From 1786 Voodoo continued to be the Maroons’

most effective arm for increasing desertions and the struggle against slavery.”102 Here,

Fouchard presented an essentialist view of Vodou as one unified religion. Moreover, he

assumed that all Maroons would be Vodouists thus obscuring any differences among

the runaway slaves, for example elite domestic slaves may have rejected early forms of

Vodou in favor of Catholicism. Despite the generalizations, Fouchard’s point supports

the official black legend, which had incorporated Vodou as a motivational force for

slaves in the revolution.

101 Fouchard, The Haitian Maroons, 106.

102 Fouchard, The Haitian Maroons, 338.

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Fouchard’s celebration of the maroon in the end does little to integrate the black

majority. The maroon becomes a symbol that can be manipulated by the state to buy

popular support. Moreover, the co-option of popular culture erases the idea of difference

and suggests that Haitians are a united black front.

A Critique from the 10th Department (Exile): Michel-Rolph Trouillot

A young college student in Brooklyn, NY, Michel-Rolph Trouillot published the

first Kreyòl history of the revolution in 1977. Part of a famous family of Haitian

intellectuals, Trouillot left Haiti in 1968.103 Carolle Charles, a fellow Haitian immigrant

during the 1960s, contends Trouillot’s youth in New York contributed to his perspective

on Haitian history. Furthermore, I would add that his position as an exile provided a

space to critique the black legend that would not have been possible if he had stayed in

Haiti. Similar to Chapter 6 on imaginative literature, the histories and novels that are

able to push the narrative boundaries have come from authors in exile or those

employing specific theoretical approaches. Trouillot’s text demonstrates both

interventions and potential developments for Haitian historiography beyond the black

legend.

First, in Ti dife boule sou istwa Ayiti Trouillot followed the example of Etienne

Charlier and offered a Marxist analysis of the revolution. His commitment to Haiti’s black

majority emerges not just in his content and argument but more importantly the book’s

form. Trouillot chose to write in Kreyòl the majority language in Haiti. He made this

decision at a time when Kreyòl was not an officially recognized language.104 Mariana

103 Carolle Charles, “New York 1967-71, Prelude to Ti Difé Boulé: An Encounter with Liberation Theology, Marxism, and the Black National Liberation Movement,” Journal of Haitian Studies 19, no.2 (2013): 152.

104 Only in the 1987 Constitution did Kreyòl become an official language.

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Past and Benjamin Hebblethwaite suggest Trouillot wrote in Kreyòl as “a way to

indirectly critique the Duvalierist interpretation of Haitian history by reaching out to all

Haitians, not just the early wave of intellectuals who left the island.”105 His use of Kreyòl

is a radical stance and allies him with the majority. Moreover, it exhibits the indigenous

writing Jean-Price Mars called for a half-century earlier. However, Past and

Hebblethwaite’s point raises a key question about audience. Lyonel Trouillot in the

introduction to the 2012 edition recalls students and teachers using the book in class or

secretly reading it.106 Thus it had a Haitian audience among the Kreyòl literate. Over the

past three decades, this audience must have increased, as Kreyòl has become an

official language and a language of instruction in school. Regardless, as Past and

Hebblethwaite add “His language policy reflects a Marxist analytical framework that

implicitly critiques the Haitian establishment’s use of the minority language, French, to

limit access to power just as they bind it to their families.”107 Language is part of

Trouillot’s argument against the epic history of the revolution. He advocated for

narrating national history in the national (and majority) language Kreyòl.

A second element of the form Trouillot uses further advances his Marxist analysis

and critique of noiriste historiography. Trouillot organized the narrative as one long

storytelling session. The opening chapter sets the scene of a gathering and the call and

response exchanges between the audience and the conteur (storyteller).108 Trouillot

105 Mariana Past and Benjamin Hebblethwaite, “Ti dife boule sou istoua Ayiti: Considering the Stakes of Trouillot’s Earliest Work,” Cultural Dynamics 26, no.2 (2014): 152.

106 Lyonel Trouillot, “Entwodiksyon,” in Ti dife boule sou istwa Ayiti (Port-au-Prince: Edisyon KIK, 2012), 4.

107 Past and Hebblethwaite, “Ti dife,” 153.

108 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Ti dife boule sou istwa Ayiti 2nd ed. (Port-au-Prince: Edisyon KIK, 2012), 7.

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maintained the sense of a performance through the use of oral traditions such as

proverbs and songs.109 These interjections carry the performance as well as further

explain his argument. For example, before introducing the 1791 slave revolt he included

a Vodou song with references to Ginen (Africa) and a storm, perhaps foreshadowing the

legend of the stormy night of Bois Caïman.110

Along with Trouillot’s interventions in form and language, he presents a narrative

full of conflict and discord, a complication of the black legend and the theme of unity.

While the expected mixed-race and black revolutionary figures are present, Trouillot’s

protagonists are groups rather than individuals. His narrative is a history of

contradictions, binaries, or the opposition of class and social groups, unsurprising given

his Marxist leanings. However, through the evolution of these contraditions over the

course of the revolution, Trouillot deconstructed the epic history of the revolution.

Trouillot exposed the legacy of social divisions based on the complex relationship of

color, class, and culture. Unlike Charlier, Trouillot successfully employed Marxism to

create multiple categories and divisions within them.

The first groups in opposition are masters/slaves, who represent the global

binary of exploiter/exploited.111 Trouillot further subdivided each of these groups. First,

he noted there were white masters and mixed-race (milat) masters.112 He thus raised

the question of whether or not mixed-race revolutionary leaders followed class or color

109 For additional details on Trouillot’s use of Kreyòl and popular culture, see Past and Hebblethwaite, “Ti dife,” 156-57. Their article is one of the few publications on Trouillot’s history. Hopefully with their translation of Ti dife boule sou istwa Ayiti non-Kreyòlophones will be able to read the text.

110 Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 34.

111 Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 12-13.

112 “mèt bitayson blan yo/mèt bitasyon milat yo,” Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 24.

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interests. Second, he addressed divisions among the enslaved. Here he used a proverb

to introduce the issue: “every slave’s a slave but not all slaves are the same.”113 He then

explained that a binary existed between urban or domestic slaves and field slaves. This

distinction he argued helped explain the rise of black leaders and the organization of the

1791 slave revolt. Yet, the “kontradiksyon” (contradiction) would later appear as an

obstacle for the revolution and independence.

A second important binary, “nouvo lib yo/ansyen lib yo,” moves Trouillot’s

narrative to the late-1790s and the War of the South between the black northern general

Toussaint Louverture and the southern mixed-race leader André Rigaud. Again, like the

binary master/slave, this category splits further. Trouillot contended that Louverture and

Rigaud were friends in 1797 and not preparing to wage war against each other. Yet,

they had different goals, different ideologies, and Trouillot represented these in the

contradiction: “organization of Toussaint/organization of Rigaud.”114 The term

organization in both cases serves to avoid designating the color of either leader’s

supporters. In addition, Trouillot’s word choice supports his argument that the “color

question was not among one of the primary causes of the War of the South.”115 His

interpretation of the War of the South refutes noiristes emphasis on color. Instead, the

term organization suggests competing political parties that have their own platform and

vision for the future.

113 “Tout esklav se esklav men tout esklave pa menm.” Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 25.

114 “òganizasyon Tousen/òganizasyon Rigo,” Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 78.

115 “kesyon koulà a pa t parmi kòz fondalnatal kòz lagè na Sid la,” Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 85.

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Trouillot concluded with a final division, the state and the nouvo lib yo (freed

slaves).116 He developed this binary in later publications on the rise of Duvalierism and

even used it as a book title: State Against Nation (1990). Here the state represents the

anysen lib (free people of color) of the previous contradiction, as well as a new elite

group of black officers. Trouillot’s use of oral traditions begins to elucidate the culture of

the nouveaux libres, his protagonists. The majority of the former slaves (nouvo lib)

symbolize the black majority and Haiti’s native culture. Trouillot commented earlier the

three elments of folk culture are: land, Vodou, and Kreyòl.117 The contradiction with the

new mixed-race and black elite is the result of conflicting group values. Vodou, and

Kreyòl are at the center of this debate. Furthermore, Trouillot pointed out, the folk

culture construced a counter definition of liberty: land.118 This is a counter memory of

the revolution we will see again in imaginative literature and in oral traditions.

Through Marxism, Trouillot presented a revisionary narrative of the revolution

that stressed divisions and exposed the limits of the revolution for the majority.

Moreover, he demonstrated the potential of using Kreyòl and oral traditions to write a

popular history. However, for academic audiences, his argument would be strengthened

with archival evidence. To understand the relationship between the former slaves, the

black creole leadership, and mixed-race officers, we need more details. Thus, Trouillot’s

history offers a much needed narrative of the revolution that is accessible to Haitians.

However, to demonstrate that Haitian historiography can fully move beyond the black

legend and the legacies of Duvalier, new archival histories need to also be written. This

116 Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 118.

117 Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 44.

118 Trouillot, Ti dife boule, 45.

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is challenging for many Haitian scholars who lack resources and access to sources.

Perhaps the source interventions of Trouillot’s songs and proverbs and Fouchard’s

newspapers are a starting point for a new critical Haitian historiography of the

revolution.

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Figure 5-1: Fort-de-Joux in the snow, personal collection, May 2013.

Figure 5-2: Memorials to Toussaint Louverture near his cell in Fort-de-Joux, personal

collection, May 2013.

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CHAPTER 6 THE REVOLUTION ON STAGE AND IN THE SALON: LITERARY AND THEATRICAL

IMAGININGS, 1884-2004

Following independence, Haitian writers turned to their pens and printing presses

as a means of legitimating Haiti’s existence—specifically in the face of delayed

international recognition—and constructing a narrative of the country’s founding in

response to prejudiced publications by white Americans and Europeans. Haitians

composed plays, pamphlets, travelogues, and multi-volume histories defining and

defending their new country. In the first half-century of independence, they began the

process of creating Haiti’s national historiography, theater, and fiction. This literature,

historical and imaginative, constructed a narrative of the Haitian Revolution that

celebrated unity between Haiti’s disparate populations of African descent, erased color

prejudice, and justified the rule of Haiti’s mixed-race elite. In Chapter 5, I trace the

response to the dominant nineteenth-century national vision called the mulatto legend

and the rise of the competing black legend or noiriste school in Haitian historiography.

This chapter continues the discussion by exploring a corpus of understudied

imaginative texts, specifically newspaper serials, plays, and novels.1 I focus on these

genres first because the novel is a defining text of a nation’s literary progress. Second,

the newspaper serial was the predecessor to the novel. Newspapers were a less

expensive and easier to access genre and thus many authors first published serials

which later became books. Lastly, theater extends my discussion beyond the French-

literate elite. The rise of a black middle class meant that playwrights had a new and

1 Poetry is absent from this study for a thorough review of twentieth-cenutry Haitian poerty see J. Michael Dash, Literature and Ideology in Haiti, 1915-1961 (Totowa, N.J.: Barnes & Noble Books, 1981).

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expanded audience and they neeed to compose works that appealed to this audience.

Often excluded from analysis for their authors’ overt patriotism or lack of engagement

with contemporary literary movements, these works illustrate how Haitian authors

employed imaginative representations of the revolution to elucidate emerging noiriste

themes in literature and their evolution of over the course of the twentieth century.

Exploring a selection of imaginative texts from the 1880s to early 2000s, I

contend these representations of Haiti’s founding demonstrate the creation and

evolution of literary expressions of noirisme (black nationalism) from the end of the

nineteenth century to the bicentennial in 2004. Novelists and playwrights first responded

to the rise of noirisme by constructing narratives of the revolution fixated on tales of

great black men. Two waves of indigénisme the first at the turn of the century and again

in the 1920s and 30s further shaped imaginative representations of the revolution.

Authors strove to incorporate the culture of the black majority through depictions of

Vodou and the use of Kreyòl. A notable absence, though, is the figure of the maroon. In

contrast to the historiographic works maroons are never protagonists and rarely

secondary characters in imaginative representations of the revolution.2 While maroons

are absent, black female protagonists enter the narrative for the first time. A growing

tradition of women writers complicated the patriarchal narrative and offered a pantheon

of revolutionary heroines. Moreover, Jeanne Perez’s play and Marie Vieux Chauvet’s

2 The absence of the maroon also stands out in comparsion to other Caribbean literatures. In particular, the maroon has an important role in Edouard Glissant’s play, Monsieur Toussaint. For more discussion of Francophone theatrical representations see Axel Artheron, “ ‘Les marrons de la liberté’ au theater: essai de problématisation du marronage dans les dramaturgies révolutionnaires afro-caribbéenes francophones du XXe siècle,” unpublished paper received through e-mail correspondence with David Geggus, received 17 Oct. 2014, Microsoft Word file. In addition, the maroon is a character in the region’s novels such as Alejo Carpentier’s El reino de este mundo, Maryse Condé’s, Moi Tituba sorcière: noire de Salem, and Michelle Cliff’s Abeng.

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novel do more then just insert women into Haiti’s origin story, they also expose a history

of rivalries and class, color, and gender divisions that continue to haunt their homeland.

Despite these revisions, imaginative representations remain focused on elite or

exceptional actors like revolutionary heroes and heroines. As historian Laurent Dubois

notes, “Haitians are still largely the objects rather than the subjects of the political and

economic order under which they live.”3 While referring to the contemporary reality,

Dubois’s observation applies to imaginative literature of the revolution in which slaves

and maroons, the ancestors of Haiti’s present-day peasants and urban working class,

remain excluded from the narrative. Thus, although it revises the dominant nineteenth-

century narrative of triumphant mixed-race heroes, twentieth-century Haitian historical

fiction and drama continued to obscure the revolutionary experiences of Haiti’s majority.

Writing in Black: Haitian Realists and Patriotic Dramatists

By the second half of the nineteenth century a growing faction within the

intellectual elite sought to revise mixed-race authors’ triumphal narrative of the

Revolution and confront the myth of a colorless society. These men were often

descended from the small free black population of Saint-Domingue, and thus

distinguished themselves from their lighter-skinned elite counterparts who could trace

their ancestry back to Saint-Domingue’s wealthy mixed-race families. Moreover in

contrast to the first generation of authors, who were all men of mixed-race, this cohort

often first attended schools in Port-au-Prince and then, if financially able, traveled to

France for university and advanced studies. They grew up in a politically unstable Haiti

that faced frequent international threats from Europe and the growing imperial neighbor,

the United States. The history of Haiti’s founding remained a weapon against new

3 Laurent Dubois, Haiti: The Aftershocks of History (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2012), 365.

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waves of imperialism and scientific racism. Literary scholar J. Michael Dash contends,

“History was a coherent linear process and they [late nineteenth-century Haitian

authors] were progressively moving away from the colonial past to a secure

independent future.”4 Part of the move towards an independent future encompassed

revising the origin story to include black leaders. Nevertheless, Dash continues, this

Whiggish view of history as a linear progression lost salience as a cyclical pattern of

coups d’etat, indebtedness, and gunboat diplomacy became the norm. The next

generation of intellectuals saw “the past was not a nightmare they could dismiss but one

they were condemned to relive.”5

Responses to the intellectual crisis came in two literary movements: Haitian

Realism and a “littérature humano-haïtienne et universelle.”6 The latter is often

associated with literary journal, La Ronde (1892-1902). Both movements drew

inspiration from European trends in literature and art, specifically French Realism and

Symbolism. Universal Haitian humanists broke away from the dominant trend of

littérature de combat or littérature engagée, which they felt was too closely aligned with

politics.7 The goal of a national author should be more than “to paint the splendid setting

of their island, the writer must explorer more intimate feelings through lyrical themes.”8

This was a call to internal reflection, as well as literary aesthetics. Members of the

4 Dash, Literature and Ideology, 22.

5 Dash, Literature and Ideology, 32.

6 Marie Denis Shelton, Image de la société dans le roman haïtien (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1993), 18.

7 Dash, Literature and Ideology, 32.

8 “de peindre le cadre splendide de leur île, l’écrivain doit explorer des sentiments plus personnels à travers des thèmes lyriques,” Wedsly Turenne Guerrier, “Réhabilitation d’un poète Haïtien: Etzer Vilaire,” (PhD diss., University of Florida, 2010), 28.

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generation of La Ronde were principally poets and they wanted authors to focus more

on language, measure, and rhythm. The poetry would reveal both the unique Haitian

soul but also create larger universal connections beyond borders and skin color.9 While

the poetry of La Ronde members profoundly contributed to the evolution of Haiti’s

literature, the authors rarely composed verses about revolutionary heroes and their

exploits. Rather, it was intellectuals who developed the competing literary school,

Haitian Realism. In prose and verse, they re-imagined Haiti’s founding and gave voice

to an emerging fin-de-siècle noirisme.

Fin-de-siècle Haitian Realists—also known as “l’école patriotique” and the

“nationaux”—sought to do “what [Émile] Zola had done for the urban poor in France,” for

their own peasants and urban dwellers.10 They were heirs to nineteenth-century Haitian

Romanticism in which authors made the first attempts to capture folk culture. Romantic

works include those discussed in Chapter 3, such as the newspaper short stories of

Ignace Nau that incorporated creolized French, Vodou, and peasant (black)

characters.11 The growth of Haitian Realism produced an early twentieth-century

publishing boom of novels, newspaper serials, and plays about local history and

moeurs. At the same time, the state and intellectuals were busy organizing for the

celebration of Haiti’s centennial (1904). As I detail in Chapter 2 on civic festivals,

lectures, statues, and ceremonies promoted patriotic fervor on the eve of 1904.

9 Guerrier, “Réhabilitation,” 45.

10 Dash, Literature and Ideology, 27. For alternate names, see Léon-François Hoffmann, “Frédéric Marcelin: un Haïtien se penche sur son pays,” in Mémoires et cultures: Haïti, 1804-2004, ed. Michel Beniamino and Arielle Thauvin-Chapot (Limoges: Presses Universitaires de Limoges, 2006), 187 and Guerrier, 21.

11 Vévé Clark notes in her work on theater that to say peasant or folklore means/t black, Clark “Fieldhands to Stagehands in Haiti: The Measure of Tradition in Haitian in Haitian Popular Theater” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1983), v.

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Imaginative representations of the Revolution became a part of this intellectual activity.

Historical dramas about revolutionary leaders filled Port-au-Prince’s theaters, while

short stories and newspaper serials, feuilletons, captured alternative imaginings of

Haiti’s origin story. Across the genres, authors re-envisioned Haiti’s founding as black in

contrast to the dominant mixed-race narrative of the nineteenth century, enunciating an

emerging noiriste platform. Nevertheless, this was not a simple substitution of heroes or

a uniform ideology. Fin-de-siècle imaginative works actively integrated black heroes

while upholding national unity across color lines, recasting the dominant racialized

identity, and legitimating Haiti’s revolution and independence.

One of the first noiriste fictions, Louis Joseph Janvier’s short story “Le Vieux

Piquet” (1884), though chronologically outside the period of Haitian Realism, seeks to

capture an alternative vision of the Revolution and its aftermath. Through the

protagonist Jean-Louis, Janvier recounted a history of the Revolution that emphasized

the actions of former slaves and their leader, Jean-Jacques Dessalines. There were no

mixed-race heroes, white abolitionists, or white females embodying Liberty who helped

the slaves achieve their freedom, a striking change from the previous generation’s texts

that proclaimed the virtues of mixed-race leaders and their guiding role in the

Revolution. Janvier’s history, though fictional, was black.

Port-au-Prince born in 1855, Janvier was from a family that traced its roots back

to revolutionary fighters from the city. His father and grandfather had served various

heads of state. After finishing his studies in Port-au-Prince, he traveled to France to

pursue advanced degrees in medicine, social science, and law.12 His experience in

12 Pradel Pompilus, ed. Louis Joseph Janvier par lui-même (Port-au-Prince: Imp. des Antilles, 1976), 7-13.

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France and later England prompted his interest in writing about Haiti and correcting

negative views of his homeland and its history.13 This desire is clearly expressed in “Le

Vieux Piquet,” which recounts the experiences of slaves turned peasant-insurgents in

Haiti’s southern peninsula from the colonial era to the 1880s. Janvier explains in the

story’s Foreword: “Until now those who wrote the history of the piquets were their

enemies or their assassins.”14 Revising mulâtriste narratives, Janvier’s story illuminates

an alternative vision of independence and central themes of the emerging noiriste

ideology such as the celebration of black heroes, distribution of land, and corruption of

mixed-race leaders.15

Janvier’s tale opens in the 1880s but then jumps in time as the main character,

Jean-Louis Bon Dos, proceeds to recount his family’s history to his grandson. Janvier’s

framing of a story within a story invokes the image of a storyteller and the importance of

oral transmission among Haiti’s illiterate, Kreyòl-speaking peasants. In addition, the

personal genealogy reads as a manifesto for early literary expressions of noirisme.

Janvier, a member of the “ultranationals” a branch of the National Party, one of two

political parties in nineteenth-century Haiti, saw himself as the peasants’ spokesman

and believed that land-ownership was central to their welfare.16 In “Le Vieux Piquet,”

Jean-Louis serves as the peasant embodiment of Janvier’s voice.

13 Pompilus, Louis Joseph Janvier, 21.

14 “Jusqu’ici ceux qui ont écrit l’histoire des piquets étaient leurs ennemis ou leurs assassins,” Louis Joseph Janvier “Le Vieux Piquet,” rev. ed(1884, repr., Port-au-Prince: Imp. Panorama, 1961), 4.

15 “Le Vieux Piquet” became a staple noiriste text in post-Occupation Haiti and Lorimer Denis and François Duvalier called it a guide for any leader that wanted to be aware of the masses, see Denis and Duvalier, Problème des classes a travers l’histoire d’Haïti 2 ed. (Port-au-Prince, 1965), 75.

16 David Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier: Race, Colour and National Independence in Haiti 2nd ed. (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1996), 113, 115.

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Jean-Louis begins his narrative during the colonial era and briefly describes the

horrors of slavery. He stresses for his grandson how slaves lacked control over their

labor and what they produced. Moreover, planters violated the structure and intimacy of

the family. He concludes, “Horrible times, loathsome, more barbarous than any other!”17

For Jean-Louis slavery was an evil system because the black man was unable to

control his labor and income or to own land.

Freedom and independence embody the opposite: the potential for former slaves

to own land and control their labor. Jean-Louis expresses these sentiments when he

recalls how the “black creoles” rose up, broke their chains to become “the masters of

the country,” and placed their faith in Dessalines, who “after leading them to

independence had promised them land.”18 In declaring independence, Dessalines also

performed the formerly prohibited role of patriarch. Dessalines was the national father

and by extension former slaves could follow his model and be patriarchs and maintain

their family units. Janvier’s reference to inclusion family stability may signal his veiled

support of more authoritarian leadership, an element of noirisme.

Unfortunately, independence—the distribution of land and the freedom to control

one’s labor—was stopped short by the assassination of Dessalines in 1806.19 Jean-

Louis’s tale becomes a repetition of struggles to regain land and overthrow corrupt

mixed-race leaders who did not share the same (black) vision of independence. The

revolt of Goman (1806-1819) in the southern peninsula (Jean-Louis’s home region) is

17 “Temps horrible, exécrable, plus barbare qu’aucun autre!,” Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 8.

18 “…après les avoir conduits à l’indépendance leur avait promis des terres,” Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 9.

19 Janvier’s tale captures, one hundred years earlier, Haitian scholar Jean Casimir’s argument for the “counter plantation system.”

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the first example. Jean-Louis explains, “Goman thought that all who had fought for

freedom should have their share of the material inheritance; that the farmer should have

the sole right to enjoy the produce he derived from working the land by the sweat of his

brow.”20 Later revolts in 1843, 1846, and 1868 repeated the struggle of Goman, which

was itself a repetition of the Revolution. Jean-Louis took part in these later uprisings,

those of “les piquets,” a reference to the pikes peasants carried into battle. However,

Jean-Louis has the satisfaction of seeing the repetition of insurgence end and the vision

of independence restored by the black president, Louis Étienne Félicité Lysius

Salomon.21

Salomon, a member of the southern black elite, was seen as an heir to

Dessalines. Salomon helped cultivate this image by participating in the revival of

Dessalines’s memory in the 1840s and then commemorating the first head of state

during his presidency (1879-88).22 In “Le Vieux Piquet,” the conteur (storyteller) Jean-

Louis exclaims, “Salomon returned from exile and took power. October 1879! All of us

smiled…Salomon was our own.”23 Salomon’s land distribution (1883) further confirmed

20 “Goman pensait que tous ceux qui avaient combattu pour la liberté devaient avoir leur part de l’héritage matériel; que le cultivateur devait être appelé à jouir seul des produits qu’il tirait du travail de la terre à la sueur de son corps,” Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 9.

21 Goman’s rebellion and Salomon’s rise to the presidency highlight the southern peninsula’s history of black resistance. Although Janvier was from Port-au-Prince, he chose to locate his story in the mountains of the southern peninsula, which was a stronghold of peasant activity, instead of the northern plains. While many of Haiti’s black revolutionary leaders hailed from the North the region became associated with caudillo-style leadership in the nineteenth century. The southern peninsula’s history of peasant rebellion and its black elites’ critique of Port-au-Prince politics created an ideal setting for Janvier’s tale of revolutionary redemption through Salomon’s land distribution.

22 In Chapter 2 I examine this process in more detail.

23 “Salomon revint d’exil et monta au pouvoir. Octobre 1879 ! Tout nous sourit…Salomon était nôtre,” Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 25-26.

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his connection the people, black peasants, and made him Dessalines’s heir.24 Jean-

Louis interprets the law for his grandson, “we would be men, property owners; we would

work for ourselves.”25 In voicing his support for the law, Jean-Louis represents Janvier’s

support for Salomon and land distribution.26

Jean-Louis’s story ends with a happy conclusion. The peasants’ struggle is over.

Salomon’s distribution of land has fulfilled the promise of the revolution. Jean-Louis can

now die and his grandson can become a farmer not an insurgent.27 Published soon after

the land distribution law, “Le Vieux Piquet” presented a new Haitian identity: the

independent black farmer who could escape the cycle of violence that had plagued the

country since 1804.

Written more than two decades later, Massillon Coicou’s serial illustrates the

evolution of noirisme to incorporate an emergent pan-Africanism, as well as a continued

revision of the past to include Haiti’s black majority, former African slaves.28 In contrast

to Janvier’s tale in which black creoles (individuals of African descent born in Saint-

Domingue) initiate the fight for freedom and independence, the two main characters of

Massillon Coicou’s “La Noire” are bossales or African-born slaves. “La Noire” appeared

24 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 115.

25 “…nous allions être des hommes, des propriétaires, nous allions travailler pour nous, ” Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 26.

26 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 115.

27 Janvier, “Le Vieux Piquet,” 29.

28 David Nicholls dates the beginning of Haiti’s involvement in the Pan-African movement to 1900 when representatives attended the Pan-African Congress in London. See Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 134.

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in the Port-au-Prince daily Le Soir from 3 November 1905 to 5 June 1906.29 The serial

included over the eight months 165 installments and recounted the commencement of

Haiti’s revolution. The feuilleton begins in the late 1780s and follows an allegorical cast

of characters —slaves, free people of color, and planters— during the first years of the

revolution. Coicou’s inclusive cast provides him the opportunity to narrate the revolution

from multiple perspectives and illustrate the complex web of alliances and rivalries in

revolutionary Saint-Domingue. Unfortunately, he never finished “La Noire.” The final

known installment leaves the reader and main character Jean in the middle of

revolutionary upheaval in late 1792/early 1793 after the arrival of the second civil

commission from France. Despite the unfinished nature of the story, it is an exceptional

text in Haiti’s literary canon and one of the earliest Haitian fictional treatments of

slavery, yet it has received no scholarly analysis. The two main characters, Jean and

Atica, were born in West Africa and sold into slavery ten years apart. Through the story

of their reunion in late 1780s Saint-Domingue and their experience of the revolution,

Coicou introduces an imaginative iteration of noiriste themes that would become

dominant decades later: the valorization of African heritage, creolization, a genealogy of

black resistance, and the detrimental effects of color prejudice.

Janvier’s contemporary, Massillon Coicou grew up in Port-au-Prince and

attended the same high school, Lycée Alexandre Pétion. While Janvier spent most of

his adult life in Europe, Coicou made a living writing and teaching in Port-au-Prince,

29 The paper’s editor Justin Lhérisson was a fellow intellectual involved in Haitian Realism; he published two of his own novels in the paper on the urban culture of Port-au-Prince. Coicou’s serial was one of many that Lhérisson promoted in his paper.

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which did not provide enough for his large family of eleven children.30 Nevertheless, the

two men crossed paths in Paris where they both held posts at Haiti’s Paris legation.

Coicou’s foreign service was short-lived and he returned to Haiti in 1904 where he

continued to publish and teach. However, Coicou fell out of favor with the government of

President Nord Alexis. Named president in 1902 after a violent power struggle with

Anténor Firmin, an intellectual from northern Haiti, Alexis faced another election year in

1908. In January 1908, Firmin returned from exile and began rallying supporters,

including Coicou and several of his brothers. Alexis learned of their partisan activities

and had them shot the night of 15 March 1908. The violence of that spring brought an

untimely end to Coicou’s literary career. It also exposed another rift between the military

and intellectual elite.

“La Noire” opens with a scene from a slave auction and introduces one of

Coicou’s main themes, creolization. In describing the female protagonist Atica’s

purchase and adjustment to slavery, Coicou commented on the inhumanity of slavery

and the process of creolization slaves experienced. For example, in recognizing the

male protagonist Jean, who was from her hometown, Atica calls him by his African

name, “Acouba.” Jean quickly scolds her and tells her to call him, Jean, his new name.

Unaccustomed to the French language, Atica has difficulties pronouncing his name.

Jean instructs her to repeat it to him until she can say it correctly.31 This scene

illustrates how naming practices and language redefined the captured African as a

slave.

30 Jacquelin Dolcé, ed. Massillon Coicou: Textes Choisis (Port-au-Prince: Editions Choucoune, 2000), 13-14.

31 Massillon Coicou, “La Noire,” Le Soir, 14 Nov. 1905, np.

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Coicou was not just interested in elements imposed by the master, such as the

slave’s Christian name, but also the process of cultural production enacted by slaves

themselves. In the example above, it is Jean initiating creolization not his master, M.

Destrin. Coicou furthered this linguistic exchange and outlined the creation of Kreyòl:

“Thus, slowly, with all its numerous and heterogeneous elements, the poor slaves

formed their patois out of a real strangeness but also a curious plenitude, such that it

was capable of satisfying all their daily needs …”32 Coicou’s interpretation of Creole

genesis, one of the first by a Haitian intellectual, contributes to his narrative of the

Haitian Revolution.33 In contrast to proponents of the mulatto legend, earlier Haitian

authors who privileged the role of the revolution’s mixed-race leaders, and late-

nineteenth-century revisionists like Janvier who stressed the role of black creoles,

Coicou chose a protagonist who was African-born but also had a command of French.

While Janvier argued for the importance of land for Haiti’s peasants, Coicou added to

the early noirisme the need to recognize Haiti’s African past, a tenet of indigénisme.34

According to Coicou, the slave Jean represented an ideal balance between Haiti’s two

main cultural influences in the eighteenth century—Africa and France. Coicou’s

inclusion of linguistic encounters on the plantation illustrated this cultural métissage and

validated Haiti’s hybrid cultural heritage. Coicou’s fictional portrayal of creolization

demonstrates the ways African and European heritage shaped Haiti’s culture and

32 Coicou, “Aussi, lentement, avec tous ses éléments innombrables et hétéroclites, ces pauvres esclaves formaient leur patois d’une étrangeté réelle et pourtant d’une plénitude curieuse, propre à satisfaire tous leur besoins de vivre…”, Coicou, 29 Dec. 1905, np.

33 I explore his discussion of Creole genesis in more detail in ““Encountering Creole genesis in the Haitian Press: Massillon Coicou’s fin-de-siècle feuilleton ‘La Noire.’” In La Española—Isla de Encuentros, ed. Hanna Geiger, Jessica Barzen, and Silke Jansen (Tübingen: Narr Francke Attempto, 2015).

34 Nicholls, From Dessalines to Duvalier, 136.

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revises the dominant nineteenth-century narrative, which privileged Haitians’ European,

specifically French, heritage.

Creolization and the central role of bossales highlight an important theme in

Coicou’s story, the divisions on the plantation and in maroon camps between creole and

bossale slaves/maroons. Far from the romantic image of maroonage introduced by

Haiti’s first novelist Émeric Bergeaud and today’s mythologized nég mawon (maroon),

Coicou presented an ambivalent image of the maroon and a cautionary tale of the

deleterious effects of rivalries and divisions. Or, in other words, the feuilleton performs

the Haitian proverb nèg ap trahi nèg depi nan Ginen “man has been betraying man

since Africa.”35 Division and disloyalty propel the narrative beginning with the central

character Jean’s flight from the plantation. Moreover, Coicou intricately weaves in his

critique of marronage. Upon Jean’s arrival the third-person omniscient narrator

describes the maroon camp: “They lived there free and strong. Fruits and vegetables

were all they had for their daily bread. Pure air and clear water abounded all around

them to remove, if necessary, the impact of this frugal regime in which their indolence

found its full expression.”36 In this first encounter with the camp, the narrator portrays

the maroons as almost noble savages. They are free and partake of nature’s

abundance (the available fruits and vegetables) with limited work to make their fertile

environment more productive.

35 This proverb also appears, depending on the source as “nèg pa fye nèg depi nan Ginen” (Wally R. Turnball, Hidden Meanings: Truth and Secret in Haiti’s Creole Proverbs (Durham: Light Messages, 2005), 242) or “ nèg ap trompé nèg depi nan Guinin” (Fayo, 3333 Proverbs in Haitian Creole (Port-au-Prince: Éditions Fardin, nd), 275).

36 “Libres et forts, ils vivaient là. Des fruits et des légumes, ils n’avaient que cela pour leur pain de chaque jour; et l’air pur, l’eau claire abondaient autour d’eux pour [annihiler], s’ils en besoin, l’effet de ce régime frugal où leur paresse conscient trouvait pleinement son compte,” Coicou, 8 March 1906, np.

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The maroon camp appears almost utopic; however, the issue of productivity

reveals potential for division and a critique of marronage by Coicou. On the one hand,

the maroons are free and no master controls their labor, a vision we see in Janvier’s “Le

Vieux Piquet.” On the other hand, they live in isolation, concerned only with their

survival. His criticism is illustrative of Haitian intellectuals’ continued difficulty writing

about the Haitian masses, slaves, maroons, or peasants.37 Through the camp scenes,

Coicou exposed competing meanings of freedom but also the obstacles to forming

alliances in revolutionary Saint-Domingue.

As Jean proceeds into the camp Coicou introduced a pair of historical figures,

rarities in this serial. First, the leader of the camp is Romain(e), a free man of color

supposedly from the Spanish side of the island.38 Nineteenth-century Haitian historians

constructed Romain as a fantastical figure who claimed to be the “Godson of the Virgin

Mary” and rallied slaves to revolt and flee to the mountains outside Port-au-Prince.39

While Haitian historians mockingly wrote of Romain’s supposed powers and ridiculed

him as an “imposter,” for Coicou he forms part of a genealogy of resistance.40 Through

the third person narrator, Romain recounts a narrative of slave resistance complete with

37 Early-nineteenth-century author Baron de Vastey expressed a similar ambivalence. In his exposé on slavery and colonialism, he contended: "Le malheureux qui n'avait pas le courage et la force d'âme de supporter les cruels châtimens que l'on voulait lui infliger pour la faute la plus légère, fuyait dans les bois pour s'éviter les tourmens…" (Vastey, Le système colonial dévoilée (Cap-Haïtien, 1814), 66).

38 For more discussion of Romain’s origins and symbolic interpretations of his name, La Prophétesse see Terry Ray, “The Virgin Mary and Revolution in Saint-Domingue: The Charisma of Romaine-la-Prophétesse,” Journal of Historical Sociology 11, no. 3 (1998): 341-369.

39 Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti (1847-48 ; repr. Éditions Henri Deschamps: Port-au-Prince, 1989-90), 1:127-28; Beaubrun Ardouin, Études sur l’histoire d’Haïti suivies de la vie du général J.M. Borgella (Paris: Dézobry, Magdeleine et Cie:, 1853), 1:315-16.

40 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 1:128. In Madiou’s narrative, Romain, along with other insurgent leaders, is portrayed as an obstacle in the struggle between free men of color and French republican forces and poor whites and royalists factions for control of Port-au-Prince and its environs.

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a cult of black (African) heroes that dates to the 1670s with Padre Jean.41 The tale’s

central figure is Macandal, a fugitive slave from northern Saint-Domingue mythologized

as a maroon leader and poisoner who plotted to eradicate white Saint-Dominguans and

liberate the slaves.42 After evading capture for possibly up to eighteen years, colonial

officials eventually put him on trial and burned him at the stake in Cap Français in

1758.43 Romain claims to have been a member of Macandal’s maroon band and thus

portrays himself as continuing Macandal’s supposed dream of liberating the slaves.44 In

41 Padre Jean was a slave in Spanish Santo Domingo who killed his master and fled to the northwest side of the island near Port-de-Paix in the late 1670s. There he organized a revolt against the nascent planter class and fled to the mountains before being caught by the planters and their buccaneer allies. His revolt is one of the earliest recorded on the western third of the island, what would become twenty years later Saint Domingue. Twentieth-century Haitian scholars, specifically Jean Fouchard, have placed Padre Jean in a chronology of resistance and marronage making him a Haitian hero who initiated the struggle against slavery and colonialism.

42 The late-eighteenth century chronicler Moreau de Saint-Mèry contends Macandal planned “de faire disparaître de la surface de Saint-Domingue tous les hommes qui ne seraient pas noirs” (Moreau de Saint-Mèry, Description topographique et politique de la partie française. Philadelphia, 1797-98), 339). Haitian historian Thomas Madiou proposes a similar scheme “de proclamer la liberté et l’indépendance de la race noire » in his book (Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 1:36), but not in his earlier newspaper article (Madiou, « Macandal, » L’Union 9 Aug. 1838, 2-3). His contemporary, Beaubrun Ardouin mitigated Macandal’s plot explaining “on l’accusa d’avoir conçu le projet de l’empoisonnement de tous les blancs de la colonie” (1:219). For Ardouin the accusation does not equal reality. He counters the sensational accounts with Saint-Mèry’s contemporary, Hillard d’Auberteuil who claimed Macandal mainly poisoned other blacks and only a few whites (Ardouin 1:219n1). This is more in line with Madiou’s article from 1838, which suggests Makandal’s motivations were personal (jealousy and lust for beautiful slave women). For a complete discussion of the various descriptions of Macandal see Pierre Pluchon, Vaudou, Sorciers, Empoisonneurs de Saint-Domingue à Haïti (Paris: Karthala, 1987). Debates over the details of Makandal’s poisonings and rebellious plots continue in twentieth-century publications and illuminate additional historiographic tensions over the relationship between marronage, Vodou, and the Haitian Revolution.

43 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 75.

44 Coicou, 12 March 1906, np. Few details are known about Romain other than his sensational image as “la Prophetesse.” Robert Taber has found notarial records from Léogâne, which document Romain purchasing his wife and children’s freedom, owning land and slaves, and requesting the transfer of his baptismal certificate from the Spanish side of the island to confirm his freeborn status (" ‘Through My Own Labor': Free People of Color and Manumission in Pre-Revolutionary Haiti, 1777–88," paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Historical Association, Washington, D.C., 2-5 January 2014 7, 10). While these do not give Romain’s age, it is unlikely that he met Macandal. One, Macandal was probably not a maroon leader. His status is a later invention that twentieth-century scholars have erroneously repeated (Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 75). Two, Romain’s material wealth suggests he chose to be integrated into the colonial economy as a member of western Saint-Domingue’s free people of color

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this storytelling scene Coicou constructed Macandal as a harbinger of slave rebellion

during the Haitian Revolution. Romain and, to a greater extent, Jean are heirs to

Macandal’s emancipation project.

From Padre Jean in the 1670s to Jean in the 1790s, Coicou’s chronology and

narrative establishes several firsts in imaginative representations of the revolution.45 He

presents what would become a foundational noiriste revision of the mulatto-legend, “that

the slave rebellion grew out of a rising tide of marronage that built up momentum

through the colonial period and that it was organized and led by maroons.”46 In his

narrative, the century-long liberation project that began with Padre Jean’s revolt in 1670

overshadows the free people of color. Romain, who was of mixed-race, appears at first

to be the culmination of this struggle. Yet, as he foreshadows in his tale of Macandal’s

downfall—fellow blacks reported Macandal to the whites—his own treasonous acts

would allow Jean to rise as the black hero of the narrative. Jean embodies the noiriste

interpretation of black men leading the revolution.

Coicou’s narrative is not a simple celebration of blackness. As mentioned above,

Jean views the maroons as unproductive. He expresses similar frustrations with newly

arrived runaways who do not think of the future or understand the honor of labor

and not live on the margins as a maroon. During the Revolution, he did incite rebellion among slaves, raid Léogane, and fight troops from Port-au-Prince. This would not be incompatible with his pre-revolutionary identity; whites and free people of color viewed the slaves as possible allies at best or cannon fodder at worst to assist in local or regional power struggles between and among Saint-Domingue’s multiple groups.

45 As mentioned in Chapter 4, mixed-race historians Thomas Madiou and Beaubrun Ardouin also constructed a genealogy of slave resistance to illustrate how slaves had an intrinsic drive for freedom.

46 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 70.

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(l’honneur du travail).47 It is not just a conflict over meanings of liberty, but also how to

achieve it. Several installments later, Coicou recounted Jean’s and his band’s reaction

to the August 1791 uprising in northern Saint-Domingue. In contrast to the maroons and

even Romain, who are keen to employ violence against the whites of the west, Jean is

hesitant: “Already his admiration for the prowess of his fathers of the North [northern

insurgents] was attenuated by the somber news.”48 Through Jean’s displeasure at the

violence of the northern insurgents, Coicou presented a portrait of a proper leader—at

least for urban, educated Haitians—one that could resonate with his Haitian audience,

who like Jean were also tired of violence and the political instability it caused.

In Jean’s judgments of the maroons and insurgents is a larger theme of the toxic

effects of inter- and intra-group conflicts. Jean, angered by finding his love Atica in the

arms of the master, later forgives her, realizing that she did not act on her own free will.

Yet, at this same moment Jean catches another slave spying on them and kills him.49 In

these opening scenes, Coicou illuminated power relations on the plantation and

divisions among the slaves. Jean’s murder of the spying slave initiates his flight from the

plantation and his journey from slave to maroon to hero. The hierarchy among

plantation slaves (based on gender, position on the plantation, and place of birth) is just

one of the divisions Coicou presented. Jean’s ascension to power in the maroon camp

leads him to encounter more fatal divisions between slaves/maroons and free people of

color.

47 Coicou, 29 March 1906, np.

48 “Déjà d’ailleurs son admiration pour les prouesses de ses pères du Nord était atténuée par de sombres nouvelles,” Coicou, 24 April 1906, np.

49 Coicou, 11 Dec. 1905, np ; 16 Dec. 1905, np.

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Recruited as a member of the group known as the “Swiss,” Jean prepares to say

goodbye to Atica. Before his departure, she warns him not to trust the affranchi leaders

and begs him to stay. Coicou’s historical backdrop for this exchange is highly

significant. The Swiss were armed slaves who joined, or were recruited by, the free

people of color when they began their rebellion to obtain racial equality in 1791.

Although they were victorious in battle, the story of the Swiss is a tragic example of

revolutionary rivalries in Saint-Domingue. The leaders of the free people of color used

their battlefield success to win equal status with the whites, but they continued to accept

or support the slave regime.50 In negotiating with the colonists the fate of the Swiss

became a contentious issue. Whites wanted to punish the Swiss or return them to their

plantations, but some affranchis leaders had offered all or some of them freedom in

exchange for their military service.51 Few of the original Swiss survived, and it is

doubtful those who did found the freedom promised by the free people of color years

earlier. The Swiss’s saga raises important questions concerning self and group interests

and class and racial identity in revolutionary Saint-Domingue. Furthermore, the affair

became a symbol of mulâtre treachery that was raised by black leaders from Toussaint

Louverture to François Duvalier.

Through Atica’s discussion with Jean, Coicou offered the first Haitian fictional

interpretation of the Swiss and their origins. She declares to Jean, “So, what I hate, you

said it well, it’s the freedmen. It’s their selfish spirit that just wants to free themselves

50 The specific law was May 15th decree that accorded equal rights to people of color born to free parents. Yet, the concordats imposed after the affranchi rebellion went further than this decree and ended white supremacy outright.

51 Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 103.

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and that is always ready to hinder the slave’s struggle. Be he a mulatto like your Ogé or

a black like your Lambert, what does it matter, since color means nothing to

me…”52Atica’s distrust of the affranchis (freedmen) foreshadows this terrifying tale, yet

her argument is one of class not color.53 She explains to Jean she dislikes all affranchis

regardless of their color (mulatto or black) because they are selfish, and only concerned

with their own survival. She faults them for not thinking of the collectivity of Afro-

descendants and what should be their joint struggle against the oppressor, the white

colonists of all classes. Her argument echoes Jean’s comments about the maroons and

their interest in the survival of the individual or the band, not the racial collective. This is

one of the few moments when Coicou shifted from the third-person omniscient narrator

who recounts in the past tense to the present tense and the first person. Atica’s use of

“I” expresses her own individuality and not the collectivity of the masses. Yet, she

articulates this individual dislike through her patois, a sign of her connection with the

slaves and maroons.54

52 “Donc ce que je hai, tu l’as bien dit, c’est l’affranchi, c’est l’esprit égoïste qui veut s’émanciper tout seul et qui est toujours prêt à entraver la route sur les pas de l’esclave. Qu’il soit mulâtre comme ton Ogé ou qu’il soit noir comme ton Lambert, que m’importe, puisque la couleur ne m’est rien…,” Coicou, 30 April 1906, np. Vincent Ogé, discussed in Chapters 2 and 3 in more detail, was a mixed-race leader who advocated for affranchis’ rights in Paris. In 1790, he led a failed uprising against white planters. His execution catalyzed debates on racial equality in Saint-Domingue and Paris and even influenced leaders of the August 1791 slave revolt. Jean-Pierre Lambert was a free black from Port-au-Prince and had fought with French troops in the American Revolution. He military experience helped him rise as a leader of affranchi resistance in the West. Mulâtriste historians frequently used him as an exmaple of free people of colors’ lack of color prejudice because their leadership included free blacks like Lambert. 53 Mixed-race nineteenth-century elites rejected the argument of color and argued that the tragedy of the Swiss was but another example of French machinations. Noiriste writers revised this argument and focused on color prejudice and class. Coicou straddles these two interpretations. The French are absent from his imaginative rendering of the Swiss. Through Atica, we see instead an early iteration of the noiriste argument and class interest of the affranchi. For more discussion of the Swiss and historiography see David Geggus, Haitian Revolution Studies, 99-118.

54 “Et Atica, en disant cela dans ce patois qu’elle parlait si pittoresquement…” Coicou, 30 April 1906, np. While Coicou does not write in patois or creole, his description of how the characters would have spoken is a linguistic advancement in Haitian literature. Over half a century after the School of 1836 that first

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Coicou was clear that inter-and intra-group divisions were detrimental; he

seemed more ambivalent about the solution. On one hand, we can read the arguments

of African slaves Jean and Atica as a counter to the nineteenth-century dominant

mulatto legend in which select individuals (mixed-race) are “ready” or “capable” to lead

the masses (black former slaves). On the other hand, Jean, though a black hero, also

views the masses with a paternalistic gaze, i.e. the maroons or recently escaped slaves

who do not value the honor of hard work. Jean attempts to reconcile Atica’s fears by

explaining “there is a bad element in all the classes…You say that the affranchis focus

too much on their own suffering, yet I will say that slaves do the same.”55 Conflicted by

the violent reality of rebellion, Jean observes the obstacle of self-interest in both groups.

Though pessimistic, Coicou demonstrated through Jean’s explanation the potential for

alliances across color and class, but admitted that it would take great exertion to get all

sides to understand the shared struggle.

Unfortunately, the process of overcoming divisions and rivalries and reconciling

divergent visions of freedom is left hanging in limbo. One, in the final published

installment, Jean is injured and the reader has no idea if he will survive. Two, the story

ends suddenly on 5 June 1906, and no more installments appear in the next issues of

Le Soir.56 Coicou’s historical references place the end in late 1792 or early 1793 after

the arrival of the Second Civil Commission from France. Regardless, Coicou left the

incorporated vocabulary and expressions specific to Haiti, the Haitian Realists, including Coicou, wrote in a creolized French that represented the reality of fin-de-siècle Haiti. 55 “…il y a un mauvais génie dans toutes les classes…Tu dis que les affranchis ont trop leurs passions d’affranchis ; mais alors je dirai que les esclaves ont trop leur passions d’esclaves,” Coicou, 30 April 1906, np.

56 Coicou, 5 June 1906, np.

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reader with an alternative narrative of the revolution’s first years that acknowledges

Haiti’s African heritage, integrates slaves and maroons as actors, and makes an

important critique of social divisions and the deleterious effects of rivalries.

In Janvier’s and Coicou’s stories, great revolutionary leaders and heads of state

enter the narrative, but the majority of the action is completed by slaves, maroons, and

peasants. In contrast, on the stage the narrative remained filled with the heroic actions

of great men, albeit with the addition of a few supporting women.57 The genre’s

continued focus on “heroes” may in part be explained by the authors’ belief in the

didactic potential of theater. In a letter that accompanied one published script, the

Haitian actor and writer, Antoine Innocent speaks of the ability of theater to reach

beyond the elite to every class of society.58 Other dramatists echoed these sentiments

in their introductions. Nevertheless, it is doubtful their plays reached a broad audience.59

The lines are in French and, more importantly, are frequently in verse with a rhyming

AABB structure or even alexandrines. Even if actors switched to Kreyòl during

performances the style would still make it quite difficult for a Kreyòl-speaking, illiterate

peasant to follow. Moreover, attending the theater in Port-au-Prince was a luxury few

57 Raphaël Berrou and Pradel Pompilus, Histoire de la Littérature Haïtienne (Port-au-Prince: Éditions Caraïbes, 1975), 2:693.

58 “Antoine Innocent présent Vendenesse Ducasse,” in Fort de Joux ou les derniers moments de Toussaint Louverture by Vendenesse Ducasse (Port-au-Prince: Editions Veteran, nd), np.

59 In Le Théâtre haïtien: des origines à nos jours, Robert Cornevin contends that theater was a way for Haitian intellectuals to reach the illiterate masses and share with them the major national events and causes (Cornevin, Le Théâtre haïtien (Montreal: Leméac, 1973), 10, 58). With limited information on the actual performance of nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century plays, I would argue the opposite based on the published texts available. The elaborate rhyming verses in French were far from comprehensible for the majority of Haiti’s monolingual Kreyòl population. Nevertheless, work on Vodou and Haitian theater suggests that religious practice served as a theater for non-elite urban dwellers and rural peasants, see Vévé Clark, “Fieldhands to Stagehands in Haiti: The Measure of Tradition in Haitian Popular Theater” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1983) and Frank Fouché, Vodou et théâtre pour un nouveau théâtre populaire (Montreal: Éditions Nouvelle optique, 1976).

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peasants could afford both in terms of admission prices and time to travel to the capital.

Nevertheless, shifting demographics and the gradual growth of a black middling class in

Port-au-Prince at the end of the nineteenth century did mean that a larger audience of

non-elite background could watch and perhaps understand the dialogue. Regardless of

the exact composition of the audience, the dramatist believed that plays supplemented

written Haitian history. And nothing was more important to perform than Haiti’s epic

origin story.60

Following the noiriste revisions evident in Janvier’s and Coicou’s texts, the fin-de-

siècle plays focus on the black revolutionary leaders such as Toussaint Louverture,

Jean-Jacques Dessalines, and Henry Christophe. They thus demonstrate a break with

earlier historical dramas like Pierre Faubert’s Ogé et le préjugé de couleur (discussed in

Chapter 3) that celebrated mixed-race leaders. In addition, the playwrights followed

Haiti’s early publications and flipped racialized identity constructions just as Boisrond-

Tonnerre did in 1804. Nevertheless, these staged representations of black nationalism

also exhibited common themes of mulâtriste texts, specifically the role of foreigners in

sowing division between Saint-Domingue’s black and mixed-race populations. Haiti’s

fin-de-siècle theatrical productions performed a more conservative version of the

emerging black nationalism that contained lingering elements from the previous

century’s mixed-race narrative.

Chronologically first, Vendenesse Ducasse’s Fort de Joux ou les derniers

moments de Toussaint Louverture (1896) is the earliest surviving full text Haitian

theatrical production on Toussaint Louverture. Literary scholar Vèvè Clark documents

60 “Antoine Innocent présent Vendenesse Ducasse,” np; “Préface” in L’Empereur Dessalines by Massillon Coicou (Port-au-Prince: Imp. Edmond Chenet, 1906), i; Charles Moravia, La Crête-à-Pierrot: Poème dramatique en trois tableaux et en vers (Port-au-Prince: Imp. J. Verrollot, 1908), v.

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an 1877 play, La Dernière nuit de Toussaint Louverture by Alcibiade Pommayrac, but I

have been unable to find any full text or extract of the piece. From the title, one can infer

that Pommayrac like Ducasse, chose to situate the action of his play not in Saint-

Domingue but in France at Fort de Joux where Napoleon imprisoned Louverture.61

Louverture’s imprisonment and death serve as a moment of historical reflection on the

revolution and Haiti’s founding. In addition, the performance of Louverture’s final months

brings the French fort into the Haitian imaginary and makes it a Haitian lieu de mémoire

(site of memory). While the elite could travel to France, it is unlikely they could have

visited Fort de Joux. It remained a French military outpost until the First World War and

did not become an official historic monument until 1996.62 Watching a theatrical

performance, Haitian audiences could travel to Fort de Joux and incorporate the French

site into their national imaginary. The play inscribed the fort with Haiti’s revolutionary

history, not France’s, and symbolically brought Louverture back to Haiti.63

61 Later authors would follow Ducasse’s example and narrate from Fort de Joux, see the bicentennial era novels of Fabienne Pasquet, La Deuxième Mort de Toussaint-Louverture (Arles: Actes Sud, 2001) and Jean-Claude Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint Louverture…avec la plume complice de l’auteur (Plume et Encre: Montreal, 2004). A fellow Francophone Caribbean author also selected the fort as his setting, see Edouard Glissant, Monsieur Toussaint: théâtre (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1961). In contrast to Ducasse, Glissant’s play shifts in time and we witness Louverture debate with figures from his and Saint Domingue’s past like a vodouizan being mounted by different lwa. Two Haitian authors have broken with this pattern and moved Louverture between Saint-Domingue and France: Jean F. Brierre, “Adieu à la Marseillaise” in Jean F. Brierre 10 Works, 84-131 (Nendeln, Germany: Kraus Reprints, 1973); Jean Métellus, Toussaint Louverture ou Les racines de la liberté: théâtre (Paris: Hatier International, 2003) and Toussaint Louverture, le précurseur: roman (Pantin, France: Temps des cerises, 2004).

62 “Château de Joux” Monuments historiques, Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, last modified 6 March 2014, accessed 18 Aug. 2014, http://www.culture.gouv.fr/public/mistral/merimee_fr?ACTION=CHERCHER&FIELD_1=REF&VALUE_1=PA00101629.

63 In the early 1980s, Jean-Claude Duvalier attempted to repatriate Louverture’s remains; however, none were found at the fort. The French and Haitian governments therefore exchanged a symbolic urn filled with dirt from the site (“Protocole: Funérailles et Entrée de Toussaint Louverture au Panthéon Nationale,” 5 April 1983, Centre des Archives Diplomatiques de Nantes, sèrie B, 524PO/B/86). Moreover, in front of Louverture’s cell are a bust and plaque placed in 2003 (bicentennial Louverture’s death) by the Société Haïtienne d’Histoire et de Géographie.

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The play’s location also serves an important role in defining Louverture’s identity

and framing Ducasse’s argument for the legitimacy of Haiti’s founding. First, presenting

Louverture in prison, Ducasse captured competing images of the revolutionary hero

through his interactions with other characters. In the dialogue between Louverture and

Mars Plasir, his servant, we see a paternalistic leader who does not wish his servant to

suffer with him.64 In his opening remarks, Louverture explains to Mars “Let fall on me

alone the merciless/Anger of the First Consul. The only guilty one/Is I. You are suffering,

and my generosity cannot accept such loyalty.”65 Louverture appreciates Mars’s loyalty

but explains that his imprisonment is a personal battle he must fight with Napoleon. He

clarifies in the next scene, “But every human life has its reversals/ We cannot escape

from where destiny leads us.”66 Louverture confronts his imprisonment and death with

stoicism.

Ducasse also characterized Louverture as morally superior through his dialoge

with Amyot, the commander of Fort de Joux, and Carfelli, Napoleon Bonaparte’s envoy

sent to interview Louverture. Cafarelli mockingly exclaims, “If you suffer, it is your wish, I

swear/ If you tell me now where your treasure is hidden…Making your chains fall

instantly.”67 First, Cafarelli’s lines confirm Louverture’s argument that he alone is guilty;

however, for Cafarelli Louverture is guilty because he does not share with Napoleon the

64 Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 3.

65 “Laisse s’appesantir sur moi seul l’implacable/Colère du Premier Consul. Le seul coupable,/ C’est moi. Tu souffres, et ma générosité/ Ne peut pas accepter tant de fidélité,” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 5.

66 “Mais ce sont les dessous de cette vie humaine./ Nous ne pouvons pas fuir le destin qui nous mène,” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 14.

67 “Si vous souffrez, c’est vous qui le voulez, je jure/ Si vous dites bien vite où gisent les trésors…En faisant tomber à l’instant toutes vos chaînes,” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 16.

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location of his treasure. A revolutionary myth, Ducasse used the tale to illustrate the

material motivation and greed of the French, an argument for why they could revoke the

abolition of slavery and imprison Louverture.

Louverture’s and Cafarelli’s exchanges do more than simply repeat revolutionary

legends. In rebutting Cafarelli’s accusations, Louverture legitimatizes the Revolution

and elucidates Haitian identity as a counter discourse to European constructions of

black barbarity and savagery: “I had to resist these enslavers./ Cowardly cruelty,

contempt, and hatred…These French, who despite the Revolution,/ Dare support

oppression of the black,/ In mutilating forever my country and race.”68 Louverture

reverses the blame and argues it is the French who have gone against the principles of

their revolution. Their violation of the Rights of Man and abolition of slavery justify

Louverture’s and his generals’ resistance. In the final scene, Ducasse advanced this

philosophical argument further. Louverture, in his final breaths, absolves Cafarelli: “You

who are but a soldier, you grieve?/ Go, Cafarelli, I pardon you; go!”69 Ducasse’s final

scene reveals the ultimate triumph of the dying hero, the generosity to pardon his

enemy. The pardon is not simply unilateral; Cafarelli admits his own awakening: “I have

been thinking. My burden is unbearable, perhaps./ I am an instrument, old man; I serve

a master./ Your immense courage has stirred my heart./ Pardon, old man, pardon! You

68 “Il fallait resister à ces porteurs de fers,/De lâche cruauté, d’outrages et de haine [sic]/…Ces français qui, malgré la Révolution,/ Osent contre le noir, proner l’oppression/En mutilant toujours mon pays et ma race,“ Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 20.

69 “Vous n’êtes qu’un soldat, et vous vous désolez ?/ Allez, Cafarelli, je vous pardonne; allez!” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 35.

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are the victor!”70 Louverture can pardon the prison guard because Cafarelli has realized

the validity of Louverture’s position, but also the guard acknowledges that he, too, is a

slave. He serves a master, Napoleon, and Louverture understands this dilemma when

he states that Cafarelli is but a soldier. Louverture’s pardoning of Cafarelli is at the most

simple level the final act of a great hero. However, Ducasse’s inclusion of Cafarelli’s

prise de conscience serves to illuminate the corrupting influence of systems of power

and domination, a relevant lesson in late-nineteenth century Haiti.

The closing lines solidify Ducasse’s portrayal of Louverture as the superior leader

in contrast to Napoleon, a larger commentary on the construction of Haitian identity

against the dominant racialized images of Africans and their descendants. Again

Louverture and Cafarelli become the spokesmen for the two discourses. In Cafarelli’s

lines, Ducasse repeated the verbs “to betray” and “to lie” to construct an image of

blacks as two-faced and hypocritical. He built intensity through the guard’s interruption

of Toussaint’s lines, as well as scenes of violence and savagery such as burning towns

and an exclamation: “You, vile offspring snatched from Africa!”71 Cafarelli embodies the

racialized discourses of the revolutionary era as well as late-nineteenth-century

European imperialism and scientific racism. Ducasse responded through Louverture

with a reverse set of adjectives such as “brave,” “audacious,” and “sincere,” a repetition

of Boisrond-Tonnerre’s counter-discourse found in the Declaration of Independence.72

Furthermore, Louverture’s argument that the French have forsaken their revolutionary

70 “J’ai médité. Mon role est pénible, peut-être./ Je suis un instrument, vieillard; je sers un maître./ Votre courage immense a remué mon coeur./ Pardon, vieillard! pardon! Vous êtes le vainqueur!” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 35.

71 “Vous, les viles rejetons arrachés à l’Afrique,” Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 17-18.

72 Ducasse, Fort de Joux, 19, 21, 23.

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ideals implies that he and the insurgents of Saint-Domingue have not. Thus, Cafarelli’s

“vile [African] offspring” are in fact revolutionaries who uphold the ideals of liberty in the

face of French hypocrisy. This argument is an echo from earlier Haitian publications and

is repeated in fin-de-siècle plays when Haitians found themselves in need of legitimating

their existence in the face of scientific racism and renewed U.S. and European

imperialism in the Caribbean.

Ten years later, Charles Moravia scripted a similar debate in his play, La Crête-à-

Pierrot. First performed in April 1907 at one of Port-au-Prince’s private schools, le Petit

Séminaire-Collège St-Martial, the action revolves around an 1802 battle between newly

arrived French forces sent by Napoleon to reinstate white control of the island and

reestablish slavery and Toussaint Louverture’s generals. The battle ended in a French

victory but becomes an important moment in the revolution’s chronology and

progression towards Haitian independence. Though teleological and anachronistic,

Moravia’s play captures the heroism of the Saint-Dominguan generals, specifically

Jean-Jacques Dessalines, legitimates the revolution, and furthers the construction of

Haitian identity against European racism.

If Louverture is the hero of Ducasse’s play, for Moravia Dessalines takes center

stage and Saint-Domingue’s senior general and governor receives but a mention. This

is partially a response to the historical record. Louverture was not at the Crête-à-Pierrot

battle but Dessalines was. Yet, Moravia was not concerned with being historically

accurate. For example, he placed Dessalines’s future secretary and writer of the

Declaration of Independence, Louis Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre at the fort when Boisrond-

Tonnerre would not meet Dessalines until the following year, 1803. More importantly,

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the prominence of Dessalines speaks to his full re-entry into Haiti’s pantheon of

revolutionary heroes, a process that culminated in the centennials of independence

(1904) and of Dessalines’s assassination (1906). Moravia also employed Dessalines to

create a link between the battle and Haiti’s independence, as well as to comment on the

dangers of color prejudice. A French plot at the beginning of the play to divide

Dessalines’s top generals along color lines further supports the latter. A French prisoner

simply called “colon” tells, in separate scenes, the mixed-race Lamartinière and black

Magny that the other is a traitor.73 Realizing the Frenchman’s trick, the two generals

imprison the colon and reject any distinction based on color. Moravia exhibited noiriste

leanings with his celebration of Dessalines, yet also skirts around the question of color

by blaming the French prisoner for trying to create divisions where none existed. This

was a common trope initiated during the revolution by mixed-race general André Rigaud

and continued by proponents of the “mulatto legend.”

Moravia continued to walk a thin line between the two legends in his legitimation

of Haiti. While Ducasse assigned the role of spokesman to Louverture, Moravia set up a

debate between the French naturalist Michel-Étienne Descourtilz and Louverture’s

white, Jacobin bandleader. Descourtilz was actually present at the battle of Crête-à-

Pierrot. A captive of the black insurgent forces, he provided one of the most detailed

accounts of resistance to the 1802 Leclerc expedition. Descourtilz’s description of his

time with Dessalines and his troops revealed a general contempt toward people of

African descent and discursive objectification. Historian Jeremy Popkin notes how

Descourtilz reproduced racialized European discourse about blacks at the same time

73 Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, 6, 8.

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men and women of African descent were overthrowing European authority.74 Moravia’s

selection of Descourtilz is a rhetorical device with historical grounding. In the play, the

French naturalist serves as a spokesman for the French and the racialized colonial

state, the biggest physical and discursive enemies the black insurgents faced. In reality,

Descourtilz’s own memoir served a similar purpose and supported re-colonizing Haiti

through the 1810s.

The debate between the two men begins with Descourtilz describing the fighting

he has witnessed and his contempt for Dessalines whom he describes as “an

executioner, tiger, and cruel monster.”75 The bandleader replies that Dessalines’s

violence is justified “to wash away the blood of three hundred and ten years of

crimes.”76 Colonialism and slavery excuse the actions of the black insurgents. Tension

builds until Descourtilz’s gives up and exits the stage unable to win the battle of words.

The audience’s attention then shifts to the bandleader who proceeds to recite a

passionate monologue espousing the ideals of the French Revolution and lamenting the

turn the French revolution has taken: “Oh! No! It is no longer you, Liberty, who leads

them,/ Our regiments become barbarous hordes…But today, France, abdicating its

destiny,/Brings back slavery in these distant countries! On the lips of French servants of

74 Jeremy Popkin, Facing Racial Revolution: Eyewitness Accounts of the Haitian Insurrection (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 271.

75 “Dessalines! bourreau, tigre, monstre cruel,” Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, 32. Michel Etienne Decourtilz traveled to Saint-Domingue in 1798 to try and profit from the colony’s new calm under Toussaint Louverture. During the arrival of Leclerc’s expedition from France, he witnessed Dessalines’s fighting as a prisoner of war and recorded his shock and horror in his memoirs.

76 “Pour laver dans le sang TROIS-CENT-DIX ANS de crimes,” Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, 32.

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tyranny,/ The word of liberty sounds so ironic…”77 He concludes his speech humming

the Marseillaise a final audible symbol of the superiority of Saint-Domingue’s local

resistance. The monologue and music demonstrate the failure of Napoleonic France to

uphold the revolutionary ideals. In contrast, it is the black insurgent forces that fully

embody the promises of liberty, equality, and fraternity, yet their spokesman is a white

Frenchman. In the play’s preface Moravia explained that the bandleader represents the

idea of Haiti as a refuge for the republican ideals and idealists Napoleon

crushed/deported.78 The defense of Haiti by a white man is an intriguing choice. On the

one hand, the legitimation of Haiti by a white Frenchman appears to break with fin-de-

siècle noirisme in which blacks are the subjects and defenders of Haiti. On the other

hand, Moravia may have been speaking to contemporary issues with the hope that

American and European politicians and investors would learn a lesson and support the

black republic. The bandleader’s legitimation of Haiti and the revolution could be the

final level of acceptance and complete rejection of colonial and racial discourse.

Beyond validating the insurgents, the scene demonstrates the transfer of

symbols and the construction of Haitian identity in opposition to the European image of

the black savage expressed by Descourtilz. Moravia stresses the symbolic exchange in

Act Three where Dessalines, his generals, and Boisrond-Tonnerre discuss the creation

of the insurgents’ flag—based on the French tricolor. In addition, they introduce a new

77 Oh! non! ce n’est plus toi, Liberté, qui les mènes,/ Nos regiments changent en hordes inhumaines…Mais aujourd’hui, la France abdiquant ses destins,/ Ramène l’esclavage en ces pays lointains! Aux lèvres des français servant la tyrannie,/ Le mot liberté sonne ainsi qu’une ironie…,“ Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, 42.

78 Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, vii.

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heroine, Marie-Jeanne, the Haitian Joan of Arc.79 Marie-Jeanne was the lover of

General Lamartinière and she fought at his side during battles. Moravia’s inclusion of

her is the first instance of a historically-based woman of African descent entering the

narrative of the Revolution. Marie-Jeanne, like the men, contributes to Saint-Dominguan

resistance and suggests that women also played a role in the formation of Haiti. Later

dramatists would continue to develop revolutionary heroines and gender was to become

one of the few lenses of analysis available after the institutionalization of noirisme under

François Duvalier. In addition to enacting the inclusion of women, Marie-Jeanne

reverses the inferior position of the island’s African-descended population. As Joan of

Arc fought to save France, Marie-Jeanne and her male companions fought to found

Haiti. Moravia’s imagery is teleological. The idea of Haiti probably did not exist in 1802

during the battle of Crête-à-Pierrot. However, the symbolic equivalence of two national

heroines makes a strong argument for the bravery and courage of Haitians in opposition

to the racialized identity of Descourtilz.

A Second Independence and Institutionalizing Noirisme

Faced with the shock of the U.S. occupation (1915-1934), authors who chose to

write about the Haitian Revolution did so principally in poetry and plays and their

interpretations remained conservative. The authors of the indigéniste movement

displayed little interest in re-imagining the revolution’s narrative and thus no novels exist

that deal explicitly with Haiti’s founding. My discussion of literary noirisme turns to a

collection of historical dramas published in the decades after the occupation. The

commemoration of the revolution on stage fit with larger literary movements of the time

such as indigénisme and négritude both of which contributed to the mid-century

79 Moravia, La Crête-a-Pierrot, 55.

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institutionalization of political noirisme. Moreover, the first historical drama by a female

playwright demonstrates how gender could be employed to revise the patriarchal

narrative and critique the pantheon of revolutionary heroes.

Literary scholars have ignored theatrical representations of the revolution written

during and after the Occupation because of their overt nationalism, limited attention to

contemporary Haitian events, and apparent lack of literary invention.80 Nevertheless, if

we read beyond the patriotic discourse, the plays illustrate traces of indigénisme and

the evolution of noiriste themes in Haitian theater. The four plays discussed in this

section extend literary expressions noirisme beyond the fin-de-siècle performances of

Moravia and Ducasse. Specifically, in response to indigénisme, playwrights

incorporated Kreyòl and Vodou and revised the national pantheon of revolutionary

heroes to include women and non-military actors.

Women in theatrical representations of the revolution up to 1940 have primarily

been white (French) and have played the roles of love interest or supporting partner, not

the protoganist. The first two plays, Jeanne Perez’s Sanite Belair (1942) and Jean F.

Brierre’s Les Aieuls (1945), revise this portrait of women and employ gender to initiate a

re-imagining of the masculine-dominated narrative of Haiti’s founding to include leading

black women. Perez and Bierre present national couples that serve to inspire Haitian

woman to be good wives and patriots. Their plays break with the mode established by

Pierre Faubert’s 1840 production Ogé ou le préjugé de couleur of failed mixed-race

relationships in which white female characters do not function either as a potential

80 Joan (Colin) Dayan is the only scholar to offer any sustained analysis of one work, Daniel Hippolyte’s Le Torrent. Vèvè Clark provides a list of plays but does not discuss those I examine here, see Clark,“Haiti’s Tragic Overture: (Mis) Representations of the Haitian Revolution in World Drama (1797-1975),” in Representing the French Revolution: literature, historiography and art, ed. James A. W. Heffernan, 237-60 (Hanover, NH: Dartmouth University Press, 1992).

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partner in a foundational, national couple or as a potential role model for the female

Haitian audience members.81

Jeanne Perez aptly illustrated the gendering of the nation’s origin story, while

also suggesting an alternative chronology of the revolution’s final phase, the war for

independence. The first published female playwright to treat the revolutionary period,

Perez gendered the revolution through the story of a female historical figure, Sanite

Belair.82 In the play, Sanite proclaims to her French accusers that she is of African

ancestry and that her predecessors survived the horrors of the Middle Passage.83 Perez

offered few other details on her heroine’s past, but the exchange suggests that Sanite

was born a slave and gained her freedom later, perhaps in the 1793 emancipation. This

portrayal would make her an ideal heroine in the revolutionary struggle because she

began her life enslaved and ended it defending liberty.

Haiti’s seminal histories of the revolution offer few other details. Thomas Madiou

described Madame Belair as black, which would support Perez’s construction.84 More

important than Sanite’s ancestry, both Madiou and his contemporary Beaubrun Ardouin

noted her strong temperament, influence over her husband Charles, and dislike of

81 Doris Sommer, Foundational Fictions: the National Romances of Latin America (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991).

82 Reviewer Luc Grimard of the Port-au-Prince paper, La Phalange claims to the best of his memory that Perez’s play being the first piece performed at the Rex Theater by a woman, “Sanite Première,” La Phalange, 11 August 1942 quoted in Jeanne Perez, Sanite Belair (Pétion-Ville: Edition de “La Semeuse,”nd), 14.

83 Perez, Sanite Belair, Act III, 2.

84 Thomas Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988-91) 2:367n1.

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whites as exhibited by her murder of a white secretary.85 For the two mixed-race male

historians, Sanite was not a heroine of the revolutionary struggle and her husband’s

revolt was a misguided insurrection like those of the “Congo” bands of former slaves. In

contrast to the historical narrative, Perez celebrated the Belairs’ activities as a stage in

the move towards independence. They proclaim to the members of the tribunal that they

were fighting for liberty, for their country, and for their race.86 Though the narrative is

teleological, it suggests that the Belairs advocated for independence before the

traditional heroes—Jean-Jacques Dessalines and Alexandre Pétion. Perez’s portrayal

places a key figure of the revolution outside the struggle for liberty; Dessalines is

presented as a jealous rival, not a potential leader or future head of state.87 Through a

gendered vision of the revolution, Perez presented a critique of the noiriste

commemoration of Dessalines and added two new figures to the national pantheon,

specifically a black heroine.

While Moravia included scenes with Marie-Jeanne, the black Joan of Arc, Perez

presented Sanite as the black Liberté and expanded the nation’s origin story to include

women in leading roles. From Sanite’s entrance on stage, singing La Marseillaise,

Perez constructed her as the ultimate guerrière and heir to the revolutionary principles

espoused by the French. In the closing scenes, Sainte returns to the La Marseillaise

and declares to the tribunal: “I am a citizen. I give my blood for liberty, this liberty of

85 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 2: 366-67, 404-405; Beaubrun Ardouin, Études sur l’histoire d’Haïti suivi es de la vie du Général J.-M. Borgella (Paris: Dézobry, Magdeleine et Cie, 1854), 5:257.

86 Perez, Sanite Belair Act II p. 16; Act III 2, 14, 22.

87 Perez, Sanite Belair, Act I 11; Act III 8. A half century later, historian Philippe Girard made a similar argument in his book, The Slaves who Defeated Napoloen: Toussaint Louverture and the Haitian War of Independence, 1801-1804 (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2011).

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which you sing in the Marseillaise, my marseillaise…”88 In the use of the possessive

pronoun “my,” Perez transfered ownership of the La Marseillaise to a black woman and

demonstrated that the Haitian Revolution achieved the radical promises of liberty and

equality championed by the French.

Perez tempered Sanite’s revolutionary fervor through her relationship with her

husband Charles. In a series of scenes with Charles, Perez introduced the proper role

for Haitian woman.89 Women should remain at home and support their men in spirit not

action. An image of domestic femininity, Sanite performed an ideal role for

contemporary Haitian women. However, this image is complicated in the final scenes

before Charles and Sanite’s execution. The tribunal’s reporter reveals that even women

who remain on the home front are involved: “You know the ambitions of your husband,

you have control over him, you have pushed him, encouraged him to revolt…”90

Between the astute observations of the reporter and Charles and Sanite’s discussion,

Perez revealed how Haitian women could be activists and maintain an ideal of domestic

femininity. Lastly, the play climaxes with Sanite’s final act to demand an equal execution

to her husband’s. Sanite’s death received dramatic coverage by nineteenth-century

historian Thomas Madiou who stressed her removal of the blindfold and bravery in

facing the firing squad.91 Perez added Sanite’s voice by having her refuse the assigned

88 “Je suis citoyenne. Je donne mon sang pour la liberté, cette liberté que vous chantez dans la Marseillaise, ma marseillaise…,” Perez, Sanite Belair, Act III 22.

89 Perez, Sanite Belair, Act I 21, Act II 5.

90 “Vous connaissiez les ambitions de votre mari, vous aviez de l’autorité sur lui, vous l’avez poussé, encouragé à la révolte,” Perez, Sanite Belair, Act III 14.

91 Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 2:404-05.

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execution style fitting for her gender, beheading. In the end, Sanite’s verbal attacks win

over her accusers who shoot her alongside her husband.92 Sanite then embodies the

ideal Haitian woman: a good wife who supports her husband from home, but also an

equal partner in the defense of liberty.

To further support Sanite’s image as black Liberté, Perez incorporated elements

of the indigéniste literary platform, specifically Kreyòl and Vodou. By including the

language and religion of Haiti’s black majority, Perez blended noirisme and indigénisme

on stage, just as the historians in Chapter 5 did in print. In a scene reviewers described

as “folkloric,” Sanite’s servants and, supposedly, Toussaint Louverture’s samba perform

for her to lift her spirits.93 First, the presence of a samba, the individual who composes

songs to the lwa during a Vodou ceremony, suggests indigéniste elements.94 Perez

went further and incorporated Kreyòl into the scene. Even Sanite uses it to converse

with the servants and samba. Although the published play includes footnote

translations, it is likely the audience fully understood the dialogue. From the play’s

reviews, we know the audience was primarily elite and included the current president

Elie Lescot. And, it debuted at one of the main Port-au-Prince theaters, the Rex.

Nevertheless, even the Francophile, mixed-race elite spoke Kreyòl. Perez’s inclusion of

the majority language illustrates Haiti’s linguistic layering. Moreover, the “folkoric” scene

speaks to contemporary state actions to both censor and appropriate images of Haiti’s

92 Perez, Sanite Belair, Act III 23-24.

93 “Sanite Première,” La Phalange, 11 Aug. 1942 quoted in Perez, Sanite Belair, 13.

94 Jerry and Yvrose Gilles, Sèvis Ginen: Rasin, Rityèl, Respè lan Vodou (Davie, FL: Bookmanlit, 2009), 255. Here I follow the spelling used in Perez’s play. In Chapter 7, I use the Kreyòl spelling sanmba.

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culture.95 Perez’s play represents a transformation of theatrical representations of the

Revolution to include women in leading roles, incorporate popular elements, and

complicate the national pantheon of revolutionary heroes.

The next play under consideration similarly uses gender to challenge the

patriarchical narrative of the Haitian Revolution and presents a pantheon of heroines.

Performed at Port-au-Prince’s lycée des filles (girls’ high school), Jean F. Brierre’s Les

Aieuls (1945) is the only all-female historical drama about the revolution. Through the

two main characters, both students at the girl’s high school, Brierre introduced his black

female pantheon of heroines. And, in contrast to Perez’s French and Kreyòl-speaking

Sanite Belair, Brierre’s students and heroines all speak French. However, the play’s

structure reveals indigeniste elements: Brierre framed the students’ encounter with the

women of the revolution in a dream sequence. The scenes unfold like a Vodou

ceremony replete with the visitations from the ancestors.

The visitations begin with a comment on class lessons and the silences in the

historical record. One of the girls, Lucienne, exclaims, “There is a type of injustice in the

teaching of History in our schools. As Ms told us yesterday, we speak all the time of

men and we leave women in the shadows, as if men all by themselves could have

created our Homeland.”96 Fifty years before Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph

Trouillot would theorize the silences in Haiti’s revolutionary narrative, the girls combat

95 Kate Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law: Vodou and Power in Haiti (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 177-247.

96 “Il y a une sorte d’injustice dans l’enseignement de l’Histoire chez nous, comme nous le disait hier Mlle, on parle tout le temps des hommes, et on laisse les femmes dans l’ombre, comme si les hommes auraient pu tout seuls nous créer une Patrie.” Jean F. Brierre, “Les Aieuls” in 10 Works (Nendeln, Germany: Kraus Reprint, 1973), 2-3. I have kept the capital H in my translation to emphasize that women are absent from written official history.

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the masculine-domination of Haitian history and seek to give voice to the silenced

women of the revolutionary era.97

Brierre’s heroines include Perez’s leading lady, Sanite Belair, but also more

obscure figures such as Henriette, a spy for the insurgent army during the war for

independence. The women who have left traces in the archive, like Sanite or Claire

Heureuse—Jean-Jacques Dessalines’s wife—acknowledge their privilege. For example,

Sanite advises the girls, “You know my history, my name is known to you, but there are

thousands and thousands of other women who were as great, who were as courageous

as Sanite Belair.”98 Sanite expresses the problem of postcolonial history and the ability

of the black woman to speak and record her contribution to Haiti’s founding. Her words

reveal to the girls that history is more than what is discussed in class or read in books.

Moreover, she suggests that women actively contribute to the nation, even if they go

unrecognized. Nevertheless, similar to Perez’s Sanite who symbolizes the ideal patriotic

woman but also the supportive wife, the women in Brierre’s play suggest that the ideal

role of a patriotic Haitian woman is to find a proper partner, support him and, by

extension, the Haitian nation. The one exception in Brierre’s pantheon is Défilée.

Eternally described as la folle, crazy woman, Haitian historians claim she collected and

buried the remains of Dessalines after his assassination at Pont-Rouge in 1806.99

97 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995).

98 “Vous connaissez mon Histoire, mon nom est connu de vous, mais il y a des milliers et des milliers d’autres femmes qui furent aussi grandes, aussi courageuses que Sanite Belair.“ Brierre, “Les Aieuls,” 4.

99 Haiti’s first historians disagree on the exact details of Defilée’s actions. Thomas Madiou claims she carried Dessalines’s chopped up body parts and buried them, Madiou, Histoire d’Haïti, 3:406. The memoirs of General Guy-Joseph Bonnet corroborate Madiou’s story, Edmond Bonnet, Souvenirs Historique de Guy-Joseph Bonnet (Paris: Auguste Durand, 1864, 142. However, Beaubrun Ardouin, who was ten at the time of Dessalines’s murder, claims Defilée was too weak to carry the body and thus

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Through providing Dessalines with a proper burial, Défilée even exhibits a domestic role

caring for the national father. While the narrative has opened to include women, they

are not fully independent subjects but exist in conjunction with their male counterparts,

principally husbands.

Perez and Brierre incorporated black women into Haiti’s origin story.

Furthermore, they integrated elements of Haiti’s peasant culture: Kreyól and Vodou.

The final two plays perform additional aspects of the post-Occupation noirisme,

specifically the evolving critique of color divisions and adoption of Haiti’s African past.

Le Torrent (1940) by Dominique Hippolyte and Boisrond-Tonnerre (1954) by Marcel

Dauphin confront the issue of color divisions—an element of the noiriste critique—and

revise the cult of heroes to include non-military figures, specifically Jean-Jacques

Dessalines’s secretaries.

Dominique Hippolyte’s play captures post-Occupation noiriste revisions of Haiti’s

founding and also illustrates the growing investment of the state in historical production.

In celebration of Haitian Flag Day, 18 May, the Department of Public Instruction ran a

competition in1940 for the best historical drama. Celebrated unofficially beginning with

the centennial in 1903, 18 May became a constitutionally recognized holiday in 1932.100

The addition of a theatrical competition illustrates an expanding repertoire of

commemorative actions and an attempt by the state to incorporate intellectual

productions into the festivities. The call stated: “This competition is established with

mixed-race general Alexandre Pétion paid soldiers to carry the body parts. Instead, Defilée visited the grave and placed flowers on it every year, Ardouin, Études sur l’histoire d’Haïti (Paris: Dézobry, Magdeleine et Cie, 1856) 6:74n1.

100 “Dispositions Générales, Art. 124,” Constitution de la République d’Haïti, 1932 (Port-au-Prince: Imp. Nationale, 1932), 21.

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educational, literary, and patriotic objectives to encourage and expose young talent

while also contributing to the development of national theatre and the cultivation of

patriotism founded on service, discipline, and unity.”101 Hippolyte’s play, according to

the jury reviewing the submissions, met the educational, literary, and patriotic

requirements, while also seamlessly weaving together human and historical truths.102

While the committee did not detail what these truths were, they contended that the play

captured the colonial milieu of 1802, particularly the issue of color prejudice.103

However, the play’s characters and themes speak more to contemporary Haitian

identity debates and reveal the evolving post-Occupation intellectual movement of

indigénisme. While the jury included one of Haiti’s leading social scientists and founder

of indigénisme, Dr. Jean Price-Mars, their argument for Le Torrent had to appeal to the

current president, light-skinned Sténio Vincent, and his administration. Broad categories

of human and historical truths and a historical setting of the revolution served as safe

spaces from which to critique contemporary Haiti.

Hippolyte, borrowing from Haiti’s first novelist, Émeric Bergeaud, used the trope

of twins to deconstruct twentieth-century Haitian social divisions and recount the final

years of the revolution. Pierre and Jean are the sons of a French planter from Cap

101 “Ce Concours est institué dans un but à la fois éducatif, littéraire et patriotique, en vue d’encourager les jeunes talents susceptibles de se révéler, et, tout en contribuant à développer le théâtre national, de cultiver un patriotisme de bon aloi fait surtout d’activité, de discipline et de solidarité,” “Communique du département de l’instruction publique,” quoted in Dominique Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 5.

102 “…la vérité humaine et la vérité historique se sont confondues dans le même respect et la même dignité de la personne humaine,” “Rapport du jury d’examen des manuscrits,” quoted in Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 14.

103 “Rapport du jury d’examen des manuscrits,” 13.

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Français and his female slave, Sor Rose.104 The brothers embody post-Occupation

Haitian identity politics. Disdainful of his African mother and disillusioned by his love for

a French general’s daughter, Pierre represents the mixed-race Francophile Haitian

elite.105 In contrast, his twin Jean, though educated in France, openly accepts his

African heritage, works with maroon bands, and eagerly joins the war for independence

against the French.106 He epitomizes the indigéniste’s vision of the new Haitian who

embraces his African past.

Similar to Perez, Hippolyte drew upon Haiti’s dual linguistic situation. Jean and

Pierre speak fluent French; however, their mother and the black insurgents, including

revolutionary leader Jean-Jacques Dessalines, speak Kreyòl. An advent in theater, the

inclusion of Kreyòl also supports the indigéniste argument of the play. If the use of

Kreyòl by Dessalines and Jean and Pierre’s uncle Ti-Noël rallies the insurgent troops, it

is revolutionary rhetoric that helps propel the movement, or “torrent.”107 As Dessalines

exclaims at the end of Act II before the war for independence begins, “In a torrent, we

rush to throw ourselves at the French…”108 Here Hippolyte describes the insurgent

troops as a torrent, yet the term also refers to the flood of ideas and emotions that

104 Colin (Joan) Dayan claims Hipplotye’s play is one of only two texts to include the folklore character Sor Rose. The other text is Timoléon Brutus’s biography of Dessalines, L’Homme d’airain (Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 48).

105 Dominique Hippolyte, Le Torrent (Port-au-Prince: Presse Nationales d’Haïti, 1965), 24-25.

106 Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 25.

107 Hippolyte’s torrent brings to mind similar descriptions for mass movements. A contemporary of the playwright, Port-au-Prince politician Daniel Fignolé organized “slum dwellers and workers to create a popular force of mass protestors” called woulo konmpresè (steam roller) (Matthew Smith, Red and Black in Haiti: Radicalism, Conflict, and Political Change, 1934-1957 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009), 86. More recently, Jean-Bertrand Aristide’s party Lavalas—the Kreyòl term for torrent, deluge—demonstrates the continued onrush of torrents in post-Duvalier Haiti.

108 “En torrent, nous allons nous jeter sur les français…,” Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 71.

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eventually overtake even Pierre, the representative elite, Francophile, free man of

color.109 In the play’s closing lines, Pierre’s love interest, the white French girl Emilie,

asks Pierre to come with her. Pierre responds, “Impossible…The torrent is taking

me.”110 An act earlier, Pierre and Emilie were blindly in love; however, Hippolyte

introduced obstacles to the bi-racial couple’s success. In the end, it is not a romantic

love but a patriotic one that wins and convinces Pierre to join the struggle. Emilie does

not represent the future; instead it is Pierre and Jean’s African mother who stands silent

at the end, “like the image of the future and victorious Nation.”111 The struggle for

independence is built on the backs of free people of color like Jean and Pierre and

former slaves like Sor Rose and Ti-Noël. Moreover, the torrent of Dessalines’s troops

and support for the revolution’s promises of liberty unite the brothers, who signify a

greater unity of Saint Domingue’s heterogeneous population of African descent. And, in

light of Perez’s and Brierre’s play, it is a Kreyòl-speaking, formerly enslaved African

woman who symbolizes the new nation, again a nod towards indigénisme and black re-

imaginings of Haiti’s founding.

The final play, Marcel Dauphin’s Boisrond-Tonnerre, takes a temporal jump to

1806 and Dessalines’s assassination to introduce two new heroes into the pantheon:

Louis Félix Boisrond-Tonnerre and Etienne Mentor. Discussed in more detail in Chapter

3, both men served as Dessalines’s secretaries and thus were potential opponents to

109 In a dialogue between Jean and Dessalines, Dessalines compares Pierre to Pétion who has “un tempérament froid, un calculateur” (67). This furthers Pierre’s construction as the representative character of the Francophile mixed-race Haitian elite because Pétion was the mulatto general who returned with to Saint-Domingue with the French expedition and initially fought against local Saint-Domingue forces under the control of Toussaint Louverture. Dessalines and Pétion would go on to form an alliance and defeat the French, thus securing the abolition of slavery and Saint Domingue’s independence.

110 “Impossible…Le torrent m’emporte, Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 99.

111 Hippolyte, Le Torrent, 99.

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the generals who led the coup against Dessalines. Dauphin’s selection of the two

writers illustrates how intellectuals contribute to nation and state-building. He expands

the cult of heroes to include intellectuals who defined Haiti’s existence, in the country’s

founding document, the three-part Declaration of Independence, as well as in

pamphlets, laws, constitutions, and proclamations. As I argue in Chapter 3, these men’s

pens and printing presses became tools to build and defend Haiti just as revolutionary

generals’ canons and rifles had during the war. Writing one hundred and fifty years

later, Dauphin affirmed the position of the intellectual not just in the initial years after

independence but also on the sesquicentennial anniversary. An heir to the combative

nationalist literature begun by Dessalines’s secretaries, he engaged in the process of

institutionalizing the noiriste revisions of Haiti’s founding in imaginative literature.

Dauphin’s play focuses on the hours after Dessalines’s assassination and the

execution of Boisrond-Tonnerre and Mentor, an event that is poorly documented.

Dauphin imagined his own narrative leading up their death. Moreover, he employed the

arrest of the two secretaries as a lens to examine social divisions and power struggles.

In contrast to earlier plays where color divisions were due to external meddlers like the

French, Dauphin performed the noiriste argument that color prejudice, particularly on

the part of mixed-race individuals, harmed Haiti’s development. This is an important

shift in literary noirisme and an argument that had surfaced much earlier in

historiography. In a preface to the printed play, Dauphin’s contemporary Paul Lizaire

explained the historic and contemporary value of the biographical drama: “Dauphin

raises the silhouette of Boisrond-Tonnerre like a ray of light, like a bugle sounding the

charge against the prejudice and wickedness of our society.” In Haiti, he continued, “the

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onrush of ambition reveals itself, in a grotesque way, giving free rein to the new

Hédouvilles, eternal enemies of our people…”112

Similar to Hippolyte, Dauphin wove together a critique of social divisions through

opposing characters. In place of twin brothers, though, he selects a cast of historical

figures who represent divisions in Haiti’s new elite—generals who led the 1806 coup

d’état and Dessalines’s imprisoned secretaries. Moreover, he added generational

difference, between those born decades before the Haitian Revolution and those born

during it, to these social fractures. The question of age frames the play beginning with

General Gérin’s son Jean telling the family friend General Borgella that he wants to be a

farmer and author not a soldier or politician—the typical careers for an elite man.113

Jean’s decision is even more shocking because his father is the Minister of War.

Regardless of the prestige and family connections, he declares, “I will cultivate the land,

and if possible, I will write history, the history of my country.”114 He justifies this decision

contending that farming supports the new nation while the military and politics lead to

conflict and death: “I dislike the glory that tears this country apart and spreads grief

among families.”115 In contrast to the expected path of social advancement for young

112 “Dauphin dresse la silhouette de BOISROND TONNERRE comme une torche de clarté, comme un clairon sonnant la charge contre les préjugés et les turpitudes de notre collectivité… où la ruée des ambitions s’affirme de façon si grotesque, laissant beau jeu aux nouveaux Hédouville, éternels ennemis de notre Peuple…” Paul Lizaire, “Préface” in Boisrond Tonnerre: pièce en 3 actes by Marcel Dauphin (Port-au-Prince, nd), np. Théodore Hédouville was a French general who had encouraged the conflict between Toussaint Louverture and André Rigaud that led to the War of the South.

113 General Etienne Gérin was among the most partisan of southern leaders and perhaps the most implicated in Dessalines’s overthrow. The other was presumably Jérôme Borgella, but he was only 30 years old at independence and not a general.

114 “Je cultiverai la terre, et si c’est possible, j’écrirai l’histoire, l’histoire de mon pays,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 18.

115 “Je n’aime pas ces gloires qui déchirent le pays et répandent le deuil dans les familles,”Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 19.

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Haitian men, regardless of social status, Jean sees an alternative path in agricultural

production, perhaps providing goods for the new national economy. His vision is one of

construction not destruction and division, a divergent image from that of his father’s

generation, which stressed the role of the military and defense of Haiti’s fragile

independence.

Dauphin concluded the play with another generational struggle, this time

between military leaders. The up and coming officer David eagerly awaits the chance to

execute Boisrond-Tonnerre and Mentor. Borgella warns him early in the play: “Be

careful, my dear David, of betraying friendship for the profit of political ambitions.”116

Here Borgella speaks of David’s friendship with Mentor, which the young officer is

willing to sacrifice because he believes Mentor desires to take over the country. He is

equally suspicious of Boisrond-Tonnerre and agrees with the older General Gérin that

all of Dessalines’s secretaries are dangerous because of their radical views and

education.117 Borgella interjects arguing that educated men have valuable skills to help

the new nation.118 Nevertheless, the ambitious David does not heed Borgella’s advice.

In a confusing penultimate scene, David enters their cell and shouts “Bayonet them!

Bayonet them!”119 The reader and audience infer that the two secretaries are killed. The

next scene begins with General Borgella finding David and the two victims. After

expressing his horror, Borgella recites the play’s moral: “And your punishment must

116 “Prenez garde, mon cher David, de trahir l’amitié au profit des ambitions politiques,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 34.

117 Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 23-24.

118 Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 25.

119 Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 99.

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teach a lesson to future generations in this country, so that ambitious traitors shall be

forever fearful to stab patriots in the back.”120 The generational difference between

Borgella and David demonstrates conflicting national visions. Unlike Jean who

completely rejects the military and political path, David is a rising officer and fears

potential competitors. Lacking Borgella’s experience with the violence and trauma of

war, he quickly moves to continue the cycle of treason and violence that characterizes

Haiti’s birth and first years of independence. Beyond the events of 1806, Dauphin

constructed a larger commentary on contemporary Haiti and the continued pattern of

military coups and destructive social divisions based on age, class, and color.

The frame of generational differences illuminates additional social divisions. The

exchange between Gérin, David, and Borgella about the secretaries’ dangerous

education reveals the fractious nature of the Haitian elite. The two older generals

represent the wealthy mixed-race southern elite who held key political and military

positions, as well as large tracts of land. Boisrond-Tonnerre, though also from an elite

southern mixed-race family, symbolizes the first iterations of a noiriste agenda. His

colleague Mentor was a free black man. Thus, David’s concern that Mentor might take

advantage of the power vacuum following Dessalines’s assassination could be read as

color prejudice. Killing Dessalines removed a black ruler; the mixed-race elite would not

have wanted another one in his place, especially his former secretary. Dauphin more

explicitly dealt with the color issue in a tense exchange between Boisrond-Tonnerre and

the prison guards. In a mock tribunal, Boisrond-Tonnerre exclaims between

interruptions from the commandant: “In effect, after we revolted against the cruelties of

120 “Et l’écho de votre châtiment doit retenir à l’esprit des générations, pour qu’à jamais, dans ce pays, les ambitieux et les traîtres aient peur de frapper les patriotes, dans le dos,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 100.

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the foreign hordes, we rebelled against the anarchy of our comrades, against…against

the imbecility of the mulatto who believes himself to be superior to the black and

against…against the stupidity of the black who detests the mulatto.”121 Dauphin built

tension through the commandant’s interruptions and leads the audience to believe that

Boisrond-Tonnerre’s harangue concerns only the prejudice of the mulâtre. However, he

sneaks in a final clause that elucidates a more nuanced argument: both groups are

guilty of discrimination. Labeling both noir and mulâtre as prejudiced complicates mid-

twentieth century noirisme that placed color at the forefront of historical analysis and

blamed the mixed-race elite for oppressing the majority, black population.

If Boisrond-Tonnerre’s defense suggests a degree of ambivalence on the part of

Dauphin, he constructed a stronger noiriste agenda with a re-assessment of Jean-

Jacques Dessalines’s administration. In a dialogue with the commandant, Boisrond-

Tonnerre mocks him and his vision of Dessalines: “The tyrant…But yes, since tyranny

consists of pursuing thieves, punishing looters.”122 Boisrond-Tonnerre flips the

conceived notion of Dessalines the tyrant and presents a list of traits that would be

wanted in a leader. Moreover, he makes the commandant and his allies the enemy for

assassinating a just ruler engaged in regulating the state.

Denunciations do not just come from the mouth of Boisrond-Tonnerre, but also

from the father of Etienne Mentor. In arguing with the commandant for the right to visit

121 “En effet, car après nous être révoltés contre les cruautés des hordes étrangères, nous nous sommes soulevés contre l’anarchie de nous congénères, contre…contre l’imbécilité du mulâtre qui se croit supérieur au noir et contre…contre la stupidité du noir qui déteste le mulâtre,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 96-97.

122 “Le tyran…Mais oui, puisque la tyrannie consiste à poursuivre les voleurs, à châtier les pillards,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 62.

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his son, he accuses those responsible for Dessalines’s death of destroying the

promises of independence: “Listen! When I saw the last vestiges of oppression leave, I

believed that fraternity had been established for good in my country…Alas, it went up in

black smoke at Pont Rouge.”123 The departure of the French equaled an end to

oppression and the blooming of brotherhood across color lines. The assassination of

Dessalines, though, the father laments, divided the Haiti and the hope of brotherhood.

Throughout the scene Dauphin demonstrated the father’s anger by giving him longer

lines and invoking revolutionary symbols specifically the Haitian flag. Moreover, the

father narrates his own experience in the revolution that legitimates his argument.

Mentor’s father and Boisrond-Tonnerre perform their loyalty to Dessalines, which

implies their allegiance to the revolution. In contrast, the commandant and those who

supported Dessalines’s assassination are portrayed as violators of the revolution’s

promise to end oppression. Dauphin did not offer any directional cues on the characters’

color. Nevertheless, these two scenes illustrate a noiriste reading of Haiti’s founding.

The commandant represents the mixed-race elite who overthrew Dessalines and

divided the country/population and Boisrond-Tonnerre and Mentor the loyal supporters,

mixed-race and black, of Dessalines and the revolutionary principle of fraternity.

Dauphin’s representation in the closing scene recasts the assassination of

Boisrond-Tonnerre and Mentor as motivated by color politics. Their support of

Dessalines, and more generally black leadership (noirisme), makes them a threat to the

mixed-race generals and the establishment of a mulâtriste government. Earlier

historiorgraphical treatments of the execution claim both men died to obsurce any

123 “Ecoutez! Quand j’ai vu partir les derniers vestiges de l’oppression, j’ai cru que la fraternité pour toujours s’était établie, en mon pays… Hélas ! elle est montée en fumée noire du point [sic] Rouge,” Dauphin, Boisrond-Tonnerre, 80.

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discussion of colorism.124 Dauphin’s performance suggest an alternate noiriste reading

that exposes the interplay of color and politics and contends the fulfillment of the

revolution lay in the hands of blackmen.

Romance and Criticism: Toward the Promises of the Bicentennial

The “election” of 1957 and ascension of the black medical doctor François

Duvalier symbolized the institutionalization of the noiriste narrative in history and, to a

lesser extent, literature. Works that broke with the Duvalier-supported noiriste narrative

did so at the risk of the author’s life and forced many intellectuals to flee the island, as in

the case of Marie Vieux Chauvet. Those who remained found refuge in a new literary

movement, spiralism, which eventually provided a theoretical tool to deconstruct noiriste

dominance.125

The final section will examine two novels, Marie Vieux Chauvet’s Danse sur le

volcan (1957), and Jean-Claude Fignolé’s Moi, Toussaint…avec la plume complice de

l’auteur (2004). The two works are representative of shifts in the imaginative literature of

the revolution over the last sixty years. On the one hand, we again see how gender is

deployed to critique the masculine-dominated and noiriste rendering of the revolution.

On the other hand, authors of the bicentennial boom demonstrate that, although the

revolution’s narrative appeared impermeable to literary inventions, spiralism provides a

124 Joseph Saint-Rémy, Pétion et Haïti (1855. repr., Paris: Libraire Berger-Levrault, 1956), 4:68-69.

125 Spiralism is a Haitian literary movement that three Haitian authors (Frankétienne, Jean-Claude Fignolé, and René Philoctète) began in 1965. A common Caribbean shape (conch shell and hurricane), the spiral became a literary metaphor and creative tool distinct from indigénisme. The swirling of the spiral suggested an alternate construction or layering of time, the narrative could move backwards and forwards in a non-linear fashion. Literary scholar Kaima Glover notes the shape also “allegorizes the tension between the insular and the global” (Glover, Haiti Unbound: A Spiralist Challenge to the Postcolonial Canon (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010), ix). Moreover, Spiralists did not seek to define Haiti’s cultural origins but rather to explore Haitian realit(ies). They privilege form over politics and reject association with any organized literary or ideological school, a reflection of the founding authors decision to remain in Haiti during the Duvalier dictatorships.

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useful tool to re-imagine the lives of revolutionary figures. The initial spiralist

interventions maintain the masculine focus that has dominated the two hundred years of

imaginative and historical writings on the revolution, yet they represent a shift away from

the Duvalier noiriste origin story.126

The second woman to write on the revolution, Marie Vieux Chauvet has recently

become the subject of more scholarly activity. However, the scholarship is not equally

balanced between her texts and frequently omits her second novel, La Danse sur le

volcan, which offers an intimate window into revolutionary era Port-au-Prince.127 Similar

to Jeanne Perez’s play on Haitian heroine, Sanite Belair, Chauvet complicated the

noiriste interpretation of Haiti’s founding, which became institutionalized under the

dictatorship of François Duvalier. Moreover, like Perez, she constructed this critique as

a woman from the mixed-race bourgeoisie. Literary scholar Kaiama Glover notes her

class and color made it difficult to categorize Chauvet and her scathing critiques of

contemporary Haitian politics:

To write for Chauvet was, then, to write (in her comfortable house, in her fancy suburb) at once in opposition to a brutalizing, authoritarian government and to models of elite female subjecthood in Haiti. This self-

126 Glover notes that few literary scholars have examined the spiralists’ novels, and she does not include Fignolé’s, Moi Toussaint, in her study (Glover, Haiti Unbound, x). Thus, this final section contributes to scholarship on spiralism by looking at how spiralists’ interepreted Haiti’s founding.

127 Chauvet is not the only Haitian woman to write a novel about the revolution. Ghislaine Charlier, the wife of former Marxist leader Étienne Charlier, has published one of a purported two volume work following the life of the mixed-race daughter of a Jewish plantation owner from the southern town of Jérémie, Mémoires d’une affranchie (Montréal: Méridien Littérature, 1989). Similar to Chauvet, Charlier’s tale seeks to unsilence the place of women in the revolution and deconstruct the noiriste narrative. Thus, mulâtresses dominate the position of heroine in novels by Haitian women. In addition, Fabienne Pasquet published a dual biographical novel on Toussaint Louverture and Prussian author Heinrich von Kleist, La Deuxième Mort de Toussaint Louverture (Arles: Actes Sud, 2001). Kleist is not a random selection. In 1811 he published his own novel on Saint-Domingue and the revolution entitled, Die Verblobung in St. Domingo. Pasquet weaves together an Enlightenment-inspired conversation between the two men with the objective of assisting Louverture achieve a proper second death in accordance with his stature as a revolutionary hero and upholder of the ideals of liberty, fraternity, and equality.

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positioning outside of political community makes Chauvet a real challenge to situate within Haiti’s radical tradition, though her literary works propose a radical critique of the sides-taking and politicking that overdetermined the atmosphere in which she lived and wrote.128

In agreement with Glover, I would argue Chauvet’s work is illustrative of Haiti’s mid-

twentieth-century radicalism. Reading La Danse sur le volcan, which Glover does not

specifically discuss, alongside other examples of imaginative literature on the revolution

further demonstrates her radical stance and critical gaze on Haiti’s history and its

contemporary reality. To reveal how she complicates the noiriste narrative, I will focus

on Chauvet’s characterization.

If the earlier texts attempted to construct a cult of black heroes and heroines,

Chauvet’s novel offers a contrasting multi-colored pantheon of unexpected historical

and invented figures. To begin, the heroine of the story is a free young woman of color,

Minette. She was a resident of Port-au-Prince who, along with her sister Lise (also a

character in the novel) broke the color bar on the Saint-Domingue stage.129 An

exceptional figure in her own right, Chauvet’s fictional Minette becomes a revolutionary

heroine struggling for an end not just to racial inequality but also slavery. We follow

Minette’s move from the more or less safe and segregated gens de couleur

neighborhood to fame in the white world of the theater and then to the revolution’s

battlefields. Along the way the reader encounters a stream of characters. In comparison

with Émeric Bergeaud’s novel, Stella, and Massillon Coicou’s serial, “La Noire,” Chauvet

also selected a cast of characters, historical and fictional, to represent the diverse social

128 Kaiama Glover, “‘Black Radicalism in Haiti and Disorderly Feminine: The Case of Marie Vieux Chauvet,” Small Axe 17, no.1 (2013), 15.

129 For a complete discussion of Minette and Lise see Jean Fouchard, Le Théâtre de Saint-Domingue (Port-au-Prince: Imp. de l’État, 1955), 303-349.

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groups of colonial Port-au-Prince. In contrast to Coicou and mid-twentieth-century

noiriste authors, Chauvet’s novel revolves around the actions of free people of color,

both mixed-race and black.

Minette and Lise are free women of color and they play leading roles on stage

and in the novel. They are accompanied by an entourage of free men of color, many of

who played integral roles in the revolution. The most important for Minette’s

development and the novel’s intrigue are Joseph Ogé and Jean-Baptiste Lapointe.

Joseph is an educated free man of color who serves as Minette and Lise’s teacher and

clandestinely educates slaves. His half brother in the novel is the historical figure

Vincent Ogé, who led the early struggle for racial equality and violently resisted white

planters in northern St Domingue. While Vincent did have an older brother named

Joseph, Chauvet’s character seems to be more of her invention.130 Chauvet used him to

argue for the importance of education in creating historical change. In meeting his

young pupils, Joseph tells Minette and Lise that education is important “because

education pushes man to rebel. Ignorance creates resignation.”131 Joseph, then,

assists in the girls’ education and, more important, Minette’s radicalization and entry into

the gens de couleur resistance movement in Port-au-Prince.

The other leading man in Minette’s life, Jean-Baptiste Lapointe, also introduces

the heroine to the realities of Saint-Domingue. Lapointe was a gen de couleur planter in

Arcahaie, central Saint-Domingue, who allied with the British during their occupation

130 Joseph Ogé assisted Vincent and was arrested with him (Ardouin, Études, 1: 137 and 148). Joseph’s fate after the 1791 trial is unknown. Chauvet’s character survives and does not participate in his half-brother’s revolt.

131 “parce que l’instruction pousse l’homme à se révolter. L’ignorance crée la résignation,” Chauvet, La Danse, 12.

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(1793-98) of the region. Lapointe in the novel and reality is a perplexing figure.

Throughout the novel Minette is constantly conflicted over her lust for the man and her

dislike of his actions. During a passionate visit to his plantation, Minette rapidly flees in

reaction to Lapointe’s treatment of his slaves. She exclaims to herself: “He, too,

supported slavery. He, too, was a cruel planter.”132 On one hand, Lapointe was a

wealthy planter, a fact that was difficult for Minette to accept particularly as she

becomes involved in the struggle for racial equality and the abolition of slavery. On the

other hand, Minette learns through the affranchi network, specifically her involvement

with the Lamberts (a free black family in Port-au-Prince), that Lapointe is also

associated with the struggle for racial equality. The dichotomy Chauvet presented

through her characterization of Lapointe has historical roots. David Geggus notes that

Lapointe was known both for his extreme severity towards other free people of color in

Arcahaie but also as a leader of that community.133 The volatile character Chauvet

portrayed as Minette’s love interest captures the diverse historical attitudes towards

Lapointe as well as the reality of layered identities in revolutionary Saint-Domingue. An

individual’s color and class did not automatically predict one’s political views or loyalties;

rather change was the constant.

If Minette and her sister exist in the urban gens de couleur world of Port-au-

Prince and central Saint-Domingue, their mother Jasmine serves as a link to slavery

and the greater battle that will consume the heroine’s life and her island. Specifically,

Jasmine’s body displays the signs of slavery; her back is covered in whipping scars,

132 “Lui aussi était un esclavagiste. Lui aussi était un colon féroce…,” Chauvet, La Danse, 179.

133 David Geggus, Slavery, War, and Revolution: the British occupation of Saint-Domingue, 1793-1798 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), 329.

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which she reluctantly shows her daughters.134 Jasmine’s scars illustrate the horrors of

slavery that the girls never experienced. And, for Minette particularly, the corporeal

memory becomes one of the catalysts in her struggle for racial equality for all of St.

Domingue’s population of African descent. Not just Jasmine’s body memorializes

slavery; her stories of slave resistance also educate her daughters and highlight a

noiriste element in Chauvet. The arrival of Joseph prompts Jasmine to recount her

memories of slave resistance, especially the story of Macandal.135 The legacy of

Macandal and genealogy of slave resistance reappears throughout the novel, a

reminder to never forget the past. As Marie-Rose, a mixed-race girl adopted by wealthy

white planters, explains to Minette the loas (Vodou deities) “[speak] through the voice of

the lambi and the slaves in hearing the sounds receive the words of the African

gods.”136 Through the personal experience of their mother and stories from other

characters they meet outside the urban enclave of Port-au-Prince, Minette and her

sister encounter slavery and a heritage of resistance. Jasmine’s stories and the sounds

of the lambi are the few allusions to the grand symbol of noirisme, the maroon. Chauvet

may have purposefully obscured the theme of marronage to not support the black

legend and critique the institutionalization of noirisme. Moreover, she did not assign

major roles to slaves or include any of the black revolutionary leaders, another symbol

of her critique of the noiriste trend to include only black leaders. Instead, the novel is

primarily an urban tale of free people of color and their experience of the revolution.

134 Chauvet, La Danse, 32 and 164.

135 Chauvet, La Danse, 13.

136 “qui parlent par la voix du lambi et les négres en les écoutant captent les messages des dieux d’Afrique,” Chauvet, La Danse, 215.

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The final text returns to the realm of great men narratives but with a spiralist’s

twist. Jean-Claude Fignolé, one of the principal authors associated with Haiti’s spiralism

movement, proposes an inventive interview with revolutionary leader Toussaint

Louverture. The exchange is reminiscent of Brierre’s young students who are visited by

spirits of revolutionary heroines. Both author and narrator, Fignolé encounters

Louverture during a pilgrimage to Fort de Joux in 2003, the bicentennial of the

revolutionary leader’s death. In the opening lines, Louverture announces, “I will tell my

guest the truth. We only have twenty-four hours to journey in time.”137 Whether the

exchange is one of a Vodou lwa mounting, a Dickensian ghost of Haiti’s past, or a

meeting between Louverture and his twenty-first-century scribe, Louverture’s concern

introduces the novel’s layers of time, a sign of Fignolé’s spiralism. The twenty-four

hours they have together implies a linear notion of time progression; however, the idea

of “navigating in time” suggests the coming and going of a spiral. With 2003 as the point

of departure, Louverture and Fignolé start a narrative and temporal journey. And while

Louverture desires to speak the truth, his interactions with Fignolé expose the limits of

objectivity and the process of constructing a narrative.

The first temporal jump Louverture makes is to his birth. Initially re-iterating a

textbook-like story of his birth, Louverture stops and exclaims: “It would be too banal if

the history of Toussaint Louverture began like a cheap serial. Write me something

grand in accordance with the destiny the Lord gave me. For example, make me born on

137 “Je dirai la vérité à mon invité. Nous avons seulement vingt-quatre heures pour naviguer dans le temps,” Jean-Claude Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint Louverture…avec la plume complice de l’auteur (Plume et Encre: Montreal, 2004), 13.

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a stormy afternoon. The sun descends into the ocean with a crimson burst.”138 As

Louverture begins his narrative he slides towards subjectivity and asks for a grander

arrival into this world, one that matches his position as a great revolutionary. Beyond

critiquing narrative construction, Louverture’s demand makes him appear pompous.

Fignolé uses the temporal shifts and first-person narration throughout the novel to

present a Louverture who is more than an infallible hero on a pedestal.

Passing from 2003 to the mid-eighteenth century, Louverture proceeds to relate

a more or less linear recounting of the Haitian Revolution. He breaks chronological

progression with interjections about authors who have written his biography and any

errors they may have made. In Louverture’s account of the revolution, Fignolé both

incorporates and critiques noirisme. First, the noiriste strand appears strongest in

Fignole’s portrait of Bois Caïman. Louverture declares that there was a ceremony and

that he was present; however, “I kept myself to the side behind the circle of light.”139

Louverture’s narrative echoes the noiriste revolutionary chronology and excludes the

free people of color’s struggle for racial equality and constructs a narrative led by black

men. Fignolé incorporates additional debates around Bois Caïman, including a dual

religious influence of Vodou and Islam.140 Fignolé’s image of Louverture evolves as their

138 “Ce serait trop banal que l’histoire de Toussaint Louverture commençât comme un petit roman feuilleton. Écrivez-moi quelque chose de grandiose en accord avec la destinée que le Seigneur me réservait. Par exemple, faites-moi naître un après-midi d’orage. Le soleil descend sur l’océan dans une apothéose pourpre,” Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint, 17.

139 “Je me tenais en réserve derrière le cercle de lumière,” Fignolé, 128.

140 David Geggus and Léon-François Hoffmann offer close readings of the available sources on Bois Caïman and neither argues for an Islamic influence (Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 81-92; Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisited (Pueblo, CO: Passeggiata Press, 1999), 159-180 and Haïti: lettres et l’être (Toronto: Éditions du GREF, 1992), 267-301). The argument for Islam comes from the anti-Christian discourse of Boukman’s supposed prayer and an interpretation of his name of book man, meaning “man of the book” a phrase to describe Muslims, see

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interview continues and Louverture shifts from prideful storyteller to contemplative old

man.

Moving through the revolution’s events, Louverture’s narrative complicates the

noiriste interpretation most vividly through an insertion of class. He explains to Fignolé

that historians have wrongly defined the war between himself and the mixed-race

southern general André Rigaud as a civil war. He refutes this idea countering with the

argument that Toussaint Louverture in 1799, when the war began, was not that different

from André Rigaud, both men held military titles and owned plantations.141 He contends

that he and Rigaud represented the same class. Louverture claims that the conflict was

not a struggle between a former slave and free man of color but, rather, a regional fight

to gain ultimate control of the island. Thus, Louverture identifies with one of the enemies

in the noiriste legend, “gens de couleur libres.”

Pages later, he supplements this discussion with a reflection on the different

meanings of freedom he and the former slaves, nouveaux libres, held, a sign of class

divisions between himself and the masses. He describes:

The liberty that I offered had no meaning since it amounted to a right to work exclusively to enrich former and new masters. This liberty, the blacks refused. They fled in groups to join the maroon bands in the hills, particularly those in the West led by Lamour Dérance and Petit-Noel Prieur. Undisciplined by taste and choice, they deliberately ran in front of death because it ensured them ultimate liberty in the distant land they worshipped in all their prayers. I had failed. Dismally. Nevertheless, a prisoner of my dreams and illusions, abstractly fantasizing about nourishing myself with ingenuous hopes, I became accustomed to

Sylviane Diouf, Servants of Allah: African Muslims Enslaved in the Americas (New York: New York University Press, 1998), 152-53. Fignolé’s inclusion of the Islamic interpretation may be a commentary on the difficulty of uncovering in the colonial archive the exact details of the ceremony and a sign of continued debates around its value/place in Haiti’s origin story.

141 Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint, 210.

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convince myself that as long as there was one black, just one to labor on my properties, I would have succeeded in teaching my people, more then freedom, the very sense of freedom through the dignity of labor. Evidently, it’s false. There is only dignity in work when one labors for oneself.142

I have quoted this passage at length because it elucidates a moment of critical reflection

on the revolution and its legacy. In Louverture’s confession we hear the echoes of

Janvier’s peasants who sought control over their own land and production, their vision

of freedom and independence. We also encounter the Marxist critique of Etienne

Charlier and Michel-Rolph Trouillot and disunion within the black majority. Fignolé posits

that Louverture is at once one of the masses because he is black but also separate

from them because he is plantation owner. Moreover, here in Louverture’s confession,

the maroon briefly enters the scene. The maroon and the laborer demonstrate the

failures of not just Louverture but the post-1804 Haitian state. Louverture admits two

hundred years later that he did not view liberty in the same way and acknowledges the

obstacles in building a post-slavery society in the nineteenth-century Caribbean. Later,

he describes how he attempted to spread his vision of liberty through the creation of

plays performed in theaters in towns and churches in rural communities—all to help the

nouveaux libres understand the Louverturian vision for Saint-Domingue. Borrowing from

a much later revolutionary leader, Louverture thanks Mao Zedong for the expression

142 “La liberté que j’offrais n’avait aucun sens puisqu’elle ramenait au droit de travailler exclusivement pour enrichir d’anciens et de nouveaux maîtres. Cette liberté-là, les nègres la refusaient. Ils partaient en masse grossir les bandes des marrons dans les mornes, en particulier dans l’Ouest, celles de Lamour Dérance et de Petit-Noel Prieur. Indisciplinés par goût, par choix, ils couraient délibérément au-devant de la mort parce qu’elle leur assurait une définitive liberté dans une terre lointaine qu’ils vénéraient de tous leurs vœux. J’avais échoué. Lamentablement. Pourtant prisonnier de mes rêves ou de mes illusions, fantasmant dans l’absolu en nourrissant sur moi-même de candides espérances, je m’accoutumai à me persuader que tant qu’il y aura un nègre, un seul à cultiver une de mes propriétés, j’aurai réussi à enseigner à mon peuple, plus que la liberté, les sens même de la liberté à travers la dignité du travail. Évidemment c’est faux. Il n’y a de dignité dans le travail que quand on opère pour soi,” Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint, 238.

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“cultural revolution” to describe his activities.143 The revolution was unsuccessful,

though, because the masses held their own visions of liberty, which they maintained

after Louverture’s death.

As the twenty-four hours reserved for the interview come to a close, Louverture’s

narrative breaks down, just as his dreams for Saint-Domingue did. In desperation he

exclaims, “The country ! But which? It also betrayed my dreams!”144 A reflection on

Louverture’s failures before his arrest by the French in 1802, Fignolé concludes the

novel with Louverture’s cry as a commentary on Fignolé’s Haiti two hundred years later.

The failure of Louverture’s cultural revolution is a repetition throughout Haiti’s history as

leaders never successfully integrated the disparate populations who became Haitians

on 1 January 1804.

Ending with Fignolé’s and Chauvet’s novels illustrates the evolution of

imaginative representations of the revolution. While the two novels illuminate openings

and “unsilencings” in the construction of Haiti’s origin story, they also, as well as the

earlier texts in this chapter, demonstrate the limits of all three genres—theater, short

story, and novel—to imagine the voids in the archives. Fignolé’s Louverture may

construct a multi-faceted identity that makes him appear a hero and a flawed man;

however, he is an exception to the general experience of Saint-Domingue’s enslaved

Africans and their descendants. Louverture may acknowledge his uniqueness, yet the

novel revolves around him not the peasants who rejected his policies. Even with

143 Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint, 256.

144 “Le pays! Mais quel? Lui aussi a trahi mes rêves!,” Fignolé, Moi, Toussaint, 286.

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imagination, Haiti’s authors have been unable to write their story.145 Perhaps a sign of

the limited extension of subjecthood mentioned by Dubois in the introduction, their

continued absence is also a tragic testament to the power of myth. Haitian

anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot attests to this power contending “the literature in

Haiti remains respectful—too respectful, I would say—of the revolutionary leaders who

led the masses of former slaves to freedom and independence.”146 Although Trouillot

refers specifically to non-fiction, the revolution is Haiti’s founding epic and, two hundred

years later, radical revisionings are still taboo even in the realm of fiction.

145 Here I am referring to the Créolistes’ call to use literature as a means to unsilence the histories of the Caribbean, Jean Bernabé, Patrick Chamoiseau, and Raphaël Confiant, Eloge de la Créolité (Paris: Gallimard, 1989), 38. More important, the most well-known fiction of the revolution has been produced by foreign authors such as Alejo Carpentier (El reino de este mundo (México DF: Ibero Americana de Publicaciones, 1949); Aimé Césaire (La tragédie du roi Christophe (Paris: Présence Africaine, 1963); Edourd Glissant (Monsieur Toussaint: théâtre (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1961), Derek Walcott (The Haitian Triology (New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2002); Madison Smartt Bell (All Souls’ Rising (New York: Pantheon Books, 1995), Master of the Crossroads (New York: Pantheon Books, 2000), The Stone That the Builder Refused (New York: Pantheon Books, 2004).

146 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 105.

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CHAPTER 7 BOUCH PA BOUCH: ORAL TRADITIONS AND THE REVOLUTION

From the salons of Port-au-Prince and Paris, I turn to a different set of

commemorations and the narratives they create. Vodou songs and oral histories offer

an entry into the memories of the Haitian majority. Up to this point, my discussion has

focused primarily on printed texts in French that are inaccessible to most Haitians. This

chapter expands the discussion by examining texts that primarily circulate in Kreyòl and

by oral transmission. The songs and interviews are a response to the methodology

initiated by Thomas Madiou over 150 years earlier. He realized the necessity of

recording the personal experiences of revolutionary veterans as a way to allow Haitian

voices to speak in a world dominated by white Americans and Europeans. This chapter

strives to provide a similar space.

To do so, I draw on oral history, ethnography, and textual analysis to explore

popular commemorative practices and narratives. My texts are interviews and Vodou

songs. First, I collected oral histories in Kreyòl and French over the course of several

research trips to Haiti in 2011-14. Individuals and groups of Haitians spoke with me

about their country’s history and legacies of the revolution. We also discussed how they

commemorated Haiti’s founding. The interviewees ranged in age from 18 to 60 and

came from Haiti’s three regions: North, West, and South. I found that the majority of

individuals willing to talk to me were male. Thus, there is a gender bias in the oral

histories. Moreover, as I explain below a larger portion of my interviews came from the

northern town of Dondon. There I was warmly welcomed and was fortunate to observe

the planning and production of local commemorations. I also use field notes from these

visits and social media to supplement the interviews. Second, the Vodou songs provide

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another perspective on popular commemorations. I rely on four collections recorded by

Haitians and Americans. Overall, they represent a corpus of over 2,000 Vodou songs.

Together, these oral texts demonstrate complementary commemorative forms.

While the work of Benedict Anderson tends to foreground discussions of nationalism in

print culture, these sources demonstrate how Haitians have created other sites of

memory to express their definitions of national identity. These include songs, proverbs,

historic sites, and community lectures. In all these texts, Haitians construct narratives of

the revolution. The texts’ creators, Vodou priests, tour guides, and local farmers, do not

exist in a social vacuum. Rather, they create and re-create their narratives in relation

and in reaction to those of the elite and state. The songs and interviews recount a

history of the revolution that, on one hand, corresponds with the dominant noiriste

interpretation, thus showing an exchange between popular and official

commemorations. On the other hand, they offer alternate interpretations of social

divisions, the legacy of the revolution, and the meaning of independence.

Vodou Songs

On a Vodou temple in the western city of Léogâne is a mural depicting the Bwa

Kayiman ceremony (August 1791).1 To the north, in the city of Gonaïves a sign on the

Lakou Badjo wall reads “Gran Lakou Badjo/Ogou Batagri/Anperè Desalin.”2 These walls

display alternative commemorations present in Vodou traditions.3 This narrative

1 Benjamin Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2012), Gallery 12.

2 The sign announces that one has arrived at the Lakou Badjo that serves the lwa Ogou Batagri and Emperor Jean-Jacques Dessalines. “Aimee Green Photo Collection,” Vodou Archive, http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00014918/00001.

3 This chapter uses the term Vodou to represent various religious practices that have come to be defined as Haitian Vodou.

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appears similar to the arguments of noiriste historians and indigéniste authors in that all

three celebrate black leadership, incorporate the culture of the black majority, and

emphasize the important role of slaves, particularly the August 1791 revolt, in shaping

the Haitian Revolution. Nevertheless, the revolutionary memories present in Vodou

songs or in temple paintings represent older traditions that flourished in spite of the

Haitian elite’s Eurocentric outlook and the mulatto legend.

While the study of Vodou and Haitian music have an established historiography,

historians have rarely turned to songs as potential documents.4 This is not due to lack of

sources. Multiple collections and recordings exist, yet historians have hesitated to

incorporate this alternative source base into their research. Vodou songs are a

challenging source because they lack the system of cataloging (date, author, etc.) that

we rely upon to write history. Contextual clues help, but the songs are an expression of

a “living memory” and thus are constantly being created, re-created, or forgotten.5 The

ever-evolving nature of the songs mirrors the process of commemoration, which is as

much about remembering as forgetting.6 Thus, by including Vodou songs in the study of

commemorations, I hope to initiate a discussion of how Vodou songs create counter

memories and what these memories are.7

4 Musicologist Michael Largey has studied “Haitian art music” of the early twentieth century to understand Haitian nationalism. He argues “that Haitian composers turned to Vodou, a lower-class Haitian religious practice, to bolster their claims of an ‘authentic’ national identity during the United States occupation of Haiti from 1915-1934” (Largey, Vodou Nation: Haitian Art Music and Cultural Nationalism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 4) Largey’s work is an intervention in the study of Haitian nationalism and music; however, he focuses on elite composers who incorporated Vodou themes into their music.

5 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 2.

6 Marc Auge, Oblivion, trans. Marjolijn de Jager (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004).

7 Here, I follow the work of literary scholar Colin (Joan) Dayan and historian Laurent Dubois, who demonstrate how the songs can be a valuable resource for the study of Haitian history Colin (Joan) Dayan, Haiti, History, and the Gods (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); Laurent Dubois,

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Intellectuals involved in the rise of twentieth-century Haitian indigénisme

represented Vodou as both a unified belief system and a religion worthy of scholarly

inquiry. Moreover, the U.S. occupation of 1915-1934 and the African Diaspora cultural

movements, such as the Harlem Renaissance and Négritude, gave further impetus to

Haitian and foreign researchers to study Vodou practices. The explosion of interest in

the 1930s, 40s, and 50s led to the first transcriptions and translations of ritual songs.

Harold Courlander, Alan Lomax, Zora Neale Hurston, Maya Deren, Katherine Dunham,

Alfred Métraux, Milo Rigaud, Jacques Roumain, and others visited Haiti’s lakou,

recorded songs, learned dances, participated in ceremonies, and even experienced

being mounted by the lwa (spirit, ancestor). Courlander and Rigaud, along with his wife

Odette Mennesson Rigaud, published the most complete printed compilations of songs

from the post-occupation era. Their collections cover the 1930s-50s, though the songs

may have been sung for many years. For example, Courlander’s song transcriptions

contain references to Haitian heads of state from as long ago as the 1840s (Charles

Hérard Rivière) and also the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century.8 All three

collectors traveled extensively throughout Haiti, yet anthropologist Karen Richman notes

that the Rigauds frequently visited and escorted foreigners to the community of Ti-Rivyè

outside Léogâne.9 She argues that their excursions influenced the local practices: “The

elite’s appetite for ritual, or Misdor’s perception of their expectations, reinforced the

“Haitian Independence in Haitian Vodou,” in The Haitian Declaration of Independence: Creation, Context, and Legacy, Julia Gaffield, ed. (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2015); “Dessalines Toro d’Haïti,” The William and Mary Quarterly 69, no.3 (2012): 541-48.

8 Courlander’s manuscript includes references to Nord Alexis, Florvil Hippolyte, Oreste Zamour, and Stenio Vincent, see Vodou Archive, http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00014982/00001.

9 Karen Richman, “Migrants and the Discovery of African Traditions: Ritual and Social Change in Lowland Haiti,” Journal of Religion in Africa 37, no. 3 (2007): 388-89.

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trends toward codification of elaborate ritual performance.”10 Richman’s claim raises the

issue of assuming the songs’ authenticity. Like all texts, they are constructed and

influenced by external factors, including the explosion of interest from foreign and

Haitian scholars. The proliferation of recordings and studies coincided with the rise of

noirisme and indigénisme, and, as Richman’s study suggests, these elite ideologies did

filter down to peasant communities. More important, like the Ti Rivyè ougan who

performed what he thought the elite expected, Haiti’s lower classes shaped elements of

noirisme and indigénisme and passed along counter memories and narratives.

A third collection is the product of four decades of research by leading ougan

Max G. Beauvoir. This is the most extensive collection of Vodou songs to date. It has

1763 songs from Vodouists across Haiti that Beauvoir collected from 1974 to 2006.

Nevertheless, Beauvoir did not visit the three major lakou in Gonaïves: Lakou

Souvenans, Soukri, and Badjo.11 The absence of songs from these three lakou may

explain why few of Beauvoir’s songs mention Jean-Jacques Dessalines. In particular,

Lakou Badjo, which traces its history to 1792, played an important role in the revolution

because, according to oral traditions, the founding ougan advised Dessalines.12 Thus,

Dessalines is an important ancestor for Badjo and is commemorated there. Lastly,

Creolist Benjamin Hebblethwaite has compiled, annotated, and translated songs from

these three collections and other unpublished texts in his 2012 Vodou Songs.

10 Richman, “Migrants,” 389-90.

11 Max G. Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil Sacré ou Répertoire des Chansons du Vodou Haïtien (Port-au-Prince: Koleksyon Memwa Vivan, 2008), 47.

12 Interview Sèvitè Dorsainville Estimé by Benjamin Hebblethwaite and Claire Payton, 1 November 2012, Gonaïves, Haiti, Vodou Archive, http://ufdc.ufl.edu/AA00016785/00001.

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The four publications span more than sixty years of Vodou song recording and

cover traditions from across Haiti. Layered with memories, the songs offer an initial

perspective on the evolution of popular commemorations of the revolution. While the

majority of the approximately 2,000 songs I reviewed do not concern the revolution, I

focus on two types of songs: those that specifically name a revolutionary figure, event,

or place; and those that critique the attitude of Creoles towards Vodou. Through these

two categories, a memory of the revolution emerges that celebrates both black

leadership and the mobilizing power of Vodou and locates Haiti’s cultural heritage in

Africa.

Of Lwas and Heroes

Chapter 2 explores the recuperation of Dessalines’s memory by the Haitian elite.

Oral traditions and songs played a central part in this process. Yet, Dessalines is not the

only figure to be remembered. A closer examination of the songs reveals the

transformation of other insurgent figures, Macandal and Boukman, into lwa creole

(spirits born in the Americas), as well as the catalyzing role of Vodou at Bwa Kayiman

(August 1791).

To begin my discussion, I will return to a text examined in Chapter 3, Hérard

Dumesle’s Voyage dans le nord d’Hayti (1824). In his book, Dumesle was the first

Haitian to mention a religious ceremony associated with the planning of the slave revolt.

Moreover, he recorded a nine-verse poem supposedly recited during the event.

Vodouists and noiriste historians have recuperated the chant, referred to today as

“Lapriyè Boukman” or “Le serment de Bois Caïman,” as a symbol of slaves’ anti-

colonialism and a celebration of Haiti’s African heritage.

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Tradition holds that Boukman, one of the slave revolt’s leaders, recited the

verses during the Bwa Kayiman ceremony in August 1791.13 Boukman, a coachman

and ougan, was an initial leader of the rebellion. Whether or not Boukman recited the

incantation or if it was really in “dodecasyllabic verse,” the song establishes a set of

themes that re-appear in Vodou song collections.14 First, through its presentation of dual

deities the song establishes the superiority of Vodou. One may represent the

benevolent Bondye (God) of Vodou and the other, Bondye blan, the white or foreign

God “who is cruel and criminal.”15 Benjamin Hebblethwaite asserts that this is a “military

strategy” of Boukman’s in which the white God is “the major obstacle to libète

(freedom).”16 The poem’s opposition of early Vodou practices to Christianity appears out

of place given that black revolutionaries had a “generally favorable” attitude towards the

Catholic Church.17 Yet, Léon-François Hoffmann notes the unique defense of Vodou in

such an early text.18 Though skeptical about the entire event, Hoffmann’s claim

suggests why the poem is now a part of the Vodou song corpus: it celebrates the

majority’s culture as morally superior to that of the French planters and Haitian elite,

both of whom rejected Vodou practices.

13 There is no archival evidence of the ceremony. The first Haitian account is Dumesle’s, and he does nto claim the Kreyòl as an authentic oath; it is merely a translation of part of his French poem (Dumesle, Voyage, 87-88). Moreover, he did not name Boukman as the ceremony’s leader. Later authors connected the two. For more on the ceremony and its sources, see David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 74-92.

14 Léon François-Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisited (Pueblo, CO: Passeggiata Press, 1999), 168.

15 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 47.

16 Italics in original, Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 47.

17 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 79.

18 Hoffmann, Haitian Fiction Revisited, 166.

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Beyond denouncing the crimes of the white God, the oath democratizes liberty. It

is a sentiment that “beats” or “speaks” even in the hearts of slaves.19 Similar to the

rhetoric of nineteenth-century Haitian historians like Thomas Madiou and Beaubrun

Ardouin, the extension of the desire for liberty to slaves makes them human and equal

in the eyes of Bondye. Moreover, Bondye “hides in the cloud,/ and there, he sees us, he

observes everything the whites do!”20 The song suggests that the colonists are

responsible to a higher power and that they violate divine law. Furthermore, Bondye’s

constant watchfulness is makes Vodou the motivating force behind the slave revolt, not

royalist planters or republican free people of color.

“Lapriyè Boukman” is the only text of my corpus that we can reliably date to the

nineteenth century; the remaining songs come from twentieth-century transcriptions and

recordings. The oath initiated a counter memory and process of recuperation in which

Bwa Kayiman and Boukman became reference points in an oral narrative of the

revolution. In Max Beauvoir’s collection two songs illustrate the evolution of these

memories. First, in song 326 the singer calls out “Oh Boukman/At Bwa Kayiman.”21 As

part of a ritual, Vodou songs serve to communicate with the lwa and ancestors. The

invocation of Boukman’s name demonstrates his importance in Vodou. The singer

further suggests Boukman’s significance through the title “Papa.”22 The Kreyòl papa

19 Hérard Dumesle, Voyage dans le Nord d’Hayti ou Révélations des Lieux et des Monumens Historiques (Imp. du Gouvernement: Aux Cayes, 1824), 88 ; Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 48. 20 “caché dans youn nuage,/ Et la li gadé nous, li vouai tout ça blancs fait! ” Dumesle, Voyage, 88.

21 “Boukman, o/Nan bwa Kayiman,” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 144.

22 Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 144.

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means “father” but is also a familiar term for an ougan.23 The addition of “papa” gives

Boukman religious authority. The singer continues, “We praise your name, we do not

deviate from you/At Bwa Kayiman.”24 The verses further characterize Boukman as a

spiritual guide and explain that Boukman had a central role in Bwa Kayiman. The 1791

revolt and its success are among the most significant moments in the struggle against

slavery. These events show that this newly won freedom (from slavery) lay at the heart

of Haiti’s founding.

The song transitions from describing the inspiration of Bwa Kayiman to lamenting

division within Haiti and the threat of foreign intervention. In the final verses, the singer

cries: “Our country is divided, family is turned on itself,/ We did not carry out Bwa

Kayiman to serve foreigners [whites].”25 The reference to division implies that Bwa

Kayiman is a symbol of unity, perhaps an alternative image to the nineteenth-century

painting “Le Serment des Ancêstres” (1822) by Guillaume Guillon-Lethière.26 The song

intimates that in August 1791 slaves born in Saint-Domingue and West/West-Central

Africa came together to rebel against slavery and colonialism. The emphasis is different

from that on the alliance of former slaves and free people of color portrayed in the

23 Albert Valdman, ed. Haitian Creole-English Dictionary (Bloomington: Creole Institute Indiana University, 2007), 533; Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 223.

24 “Nou lonmen non w, nou pa detounen w/Nan Bwa Kayiman,” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 144.

25 “Peyi nou divize, lafanmi dozado,/Nou pate fè Bwa Kayiman an pou n sèvi etranje.” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 145.

26 In Benjamin Hebblethwaite’s Vodou Songs, song 81 from JL associates unity with the ceremony and Boukman. See, Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 162-63. The “Serment des Ancêstres” is an allegorical painting of Haiti’s independence with revolutionary generals Jean-Jacques Dessalines and Alexandre Pétion standing hand-in-hand over a tablet with broken chains beneath it. Above them a white God oversees their actions. Dessalines and Pétion symbolize the alliance of former slaves and free people of color that led to independence.

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painting and historiography. One, it dates the theme of unity to 1791 and not 1804. Two,

the alliance is between only those of full African descent. Moreover, “lafanmi,” the

family, refers both to immediate family but also a group who serve the lwa. The lwa, not

European notions of liberty and freedom, may have inspired the family of Beauvoir’s

song. Either way, similar to printed commemorations, the disunion of “lafanmi” in the

song suggests the impact of foreign meddling. Bwa Kayiman was a rejection of white

culture and an attack on colonists and their property. It was not to benefit or serve the

whites, the song states. This final line could reference ideas that white royalists

organized the revolt, but more likely it is commentary on foreign exploitation after

independence. While we cannot date the song to a specific era, the theme of foreign

oppression, economic and military, runs through Haiti’s history. The song ends with a

critique of imperialism and contends that the revolution is incomplete. Yet, it also

suggests a sense of shame for not upholding the work of the ancestors and fulfilling the

revolutionary goals.

A second song, 1426, advances Boukman’s position as a religious leader. The

opening verse declares, “Sanmba we are.”27 Sanmba, or sanba, comes from the

Kikongo word, sámba, which means prayer, dance, and song.28 In Haiti, they are lead

singers in Vodou ceremonies because they have “the ability to open the gates between

the living and the ancestors.”29 They also have a more secular role in various popular

musical forms such as the konbit (collective work gang) or rara (Lenten band). In both

27 “Sanmba nou ye,” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 375.

28 Jerry and Yvrose Gilles, Sèvis Ginen: Rasin, Rityèl lan Vodou (Davie, FL: Bookmanlit, 2009), 255.

29 Valdman, Haitian Creole-English, 650; Jean Fouchard, La Méringue: danse nationale d’Haïti (Port-au-Prince: Henri Deschamps, 1988), 37; Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 288.

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popular culture and Vodou, sanmbas are leaders. They are also, in a sense, the

equivalent in oral literature to an author. And, as an author, the sanmba is writing an

oral history through songs and actions just as the elite did with their pens.

The plural pronoun “nou” in the song indicates that Haitians, specifically

Vodouists, are sanmbas and can invoke the lwa. A more peaceful rejection of

Christianity than “Lapriyè Boukman,” the song legitimates Vodou as the religion of Haiti.

The verses build the argument, “Since we left Africa, we are sanmbas.”30 “In referencing

Haitians’ African origins, the singer characterizes being a sanmba as natural because it

is what “we” have been for centuries. On one hand, as a leader in Vodou ritual, the

verse empowers Vodouists proclaiming “nou” have become leaders. On the other hand,

sanmbas role as oral authors suggests that “we” have the responsibility of remembering

the culture and history of the homeland, Africa, and Haiti.

After repeating these verses, the singer interrupts the narration and exclaims,

“My friends, if you think I am lying.”31 His interjection implies some may doubt the

veracity of his claim and the following line will offer a rebuttal. It also illustrates the call-

and-response style of Haitian oral traditions. The singer does not simply recite his

verses but engages with the audience and the use of the second person “you” indicates

the audience reacts to his words. To prove his point, the singer states, “Go check,

Boukman, Macandal, sanmba we are.”32 The mention of Boukman and Macandal is the

only argument the singer needs to give. His logic is Boukman and Macandal were

sanmbas, meaning they practiced Vodou and thus were leaders in resisting slavery.

30 “Depi n soti an Afrik, se Sanmba nou ye.” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 375.

31 “Mezanmi si w kwè m manti,” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 375.

32 “Al sonde Boukman Makandal Sanmba nou ye,” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 375.

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The “we” are their progeny and thus are leaders too. The song creates a Vodou

genealogy that unsurprisingly associates contemporary Vodouists with black leaders.

And, if we accept the argument that Boukman and Macandal were sanmbas, they have

the potential for revolutionary action.33 The “we” of the song then have agency to create

change.

While spiritual leaders had the ability to enact revolutionary change, they could

also fail when they did not properly follow the lwa’s guidance. In “Yanvalou Priyè

Ginen,” a song from Haitian author Jacques Roumain’s Le sacrifice du tambour-

Assôtô(r) (1943), the spirit “Vodoun Djohoun” speaks with Macandal, perhaps as a lwa

that mounted him, and warns him not to travel.34 Vodoun Djohoun maybe a variant of

the Dahomeyan lwa, Djahountò, or a Fon-derived word for priest, djandjoukou.35 In

either case “Vodou Djohoun” signifies a speaker with religious authority and power who

is sharing an important message with Macandal.36 The song claims, “he didn’t want to

listen.”37 The result of not listening is death: “It was by going up and down from Loman’s

house, that they killed him, oh my lwa.”38 Laurent Dubois notes that the song continues

33 Boukman was a Vodou priest (David Geggus, ed. The Haitian Revolution: A Documentary History (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014), 72). Macandal, discussed in Chapter 2, was a famous poisoner and sorcerer. We have no written record of a religious title for him or contemporary evidence he was a community leader (Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 75-77). Yet, the songs recast both the men as figures of religious authority and incorporate them into twentieth-century Vodou.

34 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 65.

35 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 229.

36 It is likely Makandal came from West-Central Africa and not the Bight Benin region from where the character “Vodou Djohoun” may have originated (Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 75). The song presents a syncretization of West and West-Central African beliefs. Thus, perhaps Makandal was not guilty of being a poor listener but rather could not understand the language of the message.

37 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 65.

38 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 65.

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with a reference to a Jean-Pierre Dessalines. He contends this is Jean-Jacques

Dessalines and that the failure of Macandal to hear the lwa may also be a

foreshadowing to Dessalines’s death.39 In a similar song collected by Haitian

anthropologist Milo Rigaud, Makandal becomes the lwa and Dessalines the obstinate

listener. According to the song, “Every day Makandal is calling Dessalines,/Dessalines

does not listen.”40 The next verses reference the same house from Roumain’s song,

house of Loman.41 Rigaud offers no explanation as to who Loman may have been, but

the remaining verses reveal that Dessalines’s failure to follow Macandal’s advice led to

his death.42 The two songs demonstrate that the lwa, or ancestors representing the lwa,

communicated with both leaders, which suggests the place of Vodou in slave revolts

and the revolution. Ultimately, it is the failure of men to listen to their spiritual guides that

causes their deaths and, in the case of Dessalines, impacts the development of Haiti.

Rigaud’s song ends, like Beauvoir’s song 326 on Bwa Kayiman, with the country in

crisis: “the country is turned upside down”43 The moral of the song is that respecting the

lwa is necessary for Haiti’s prosperity and political stability.

This selection of songs demonstrates a process of recasting historical figures

and events in Vodou mythology. Bwa Kayiman becomes a commemoration of the

common theme of unity and is the beginning of the revolution’s narrative. Macandal and

39 Dubois, “Haitian Independence in Haitian Vodou.”

40 “Tous lé jours Makandal apé pale Dessalines,/Dessalines vé pas couté,” Milo Rigaud, La Tradition voudoo et le voudoo haïtien: son temple, ses mystères, sa magie (1953, repr. Port-au-Prince: Collection du bicentenaire Haïti, 2004), 62.

41 “la caille Loman,” Rigaud, La Tradition, 62; “kay Loman,” Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 64.

42 Rigaud, La Tradition, 63.

43 “Pays-là chaviré,” Rigaud, La Tradition, 63.

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Boukman, who are heroes in historiography and literature, become Creole lwa who

provide inspiration for revolutionary leaders (Dessalines) and contemporary Vodouists.

They also advocate for Vodou and its positive role in Haiti’s development, a theme that

continues to evolve in the next set of songs.

Creoles and Fran Ginen

Searching for revolutionary references is an entry into the vast corpus of Vodou

songs. Yet, as Gerdès Fleurant explains there are several levels of song interpretation:

“manifest and latent, or the surface and deep levels.”44 Because Vodou songs are part

of a larger ritual that involves music and dance, textual analysis may never reach the

latent/deep level of interpretation; however, exploring themes that subtly refer to the

revolution is a step beyond surface level analysis.45 A relevant theme that emerges in

the four collections is a division between creole and ginen. In particular, songs refer to

the group “Creoles” and their negative attitude towards Vodou.46 I contend that the

juxtaposition of creole and ginen in the songs serves as an alternate representation of

Haitian social divisions to the black/mixed-race binary we see in historiographical and

literary texts.47

Creole is a term rooted in Haiti’s colonial past. It refers to one’s place of birth.

Both whites and blacks born in Saint-Domingue were called Creoles because they were

44 Gerdès Fleurant, “Vodun, Music, and Society in Haiti: Affirmation and Identity” in Haitian Vodou: Spirit, Myth, and Reality, ed. Patrick Bellegarde-Smith and Claudine Michel (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 50.

45 Dubois, “Haitian Independence in Haitian Vodou.”

46 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 251.

47 The division of Creoles and Fran Ginen also presents an alternative wording of the creole/bossale interpretation of French sociologist Gérard Barthélemy. See Barthélemy, Créoles-bossales: conflit en Haïti (Petit-Bourg, Guadeloupe: Ibis, 2000).

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born in America. For enslaved Creoles, their American birth often gave them an

advantage on the plantation. Creole slaves frequently held more privileged positions,

such as domestic servants, coachmen, and slave driver and spoke Kreyòl and often

basic French. They also tended to distance themselves from their African heritage and

newly arrived Africans, bossales. In contrast, ginen can refer to individuals “who work to

preserve African culture and traditions.”48 To help distinguish this group from the more

common meaning of ginen, Africa(n), the term fran may be added. Fran Ginen is “a

grassroots Vodouist who, uncorrupted by outside influences, exclusively follows Ginen

traditions.”49

The songs about Creoles and pure Ginen offer an alternative vision of Haiti’s

social landscape after the revolution. Absent from the songs are debates over color or

class. Instead, the division between Creoles and pure Ginen suggests the world of ex-

slaves in which place of birth was an important distinction. Creoles in the songs most

likely represent slaves born in Saint-Domingue, but may also refer to elite slaves

regardless of their place of birth because they had more exposure to white culture.

Either way, the Creoles’ distinguishing feature is their rejection of African traditions. The

songs construct a narrative of this rejection and how the Creoles turn their back on the

lwa. Second, pure Ginen signifies slaves born in Africa (Ginen) or members of the black

majority who, with some modification, continued to serve the lwa and envisioned

building a society rooted in their African heritage. In contrast to the Creoles who are

48 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 239.

49 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 236.

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called by their colonial category, the pure Ginen designate a new name for themselves.

They are not bossales, as the master or slave trader would have labeled them.

Haitian author Jacques Roumain’s writing celebrates the Haitian peasant. His

novels, in particular Gouverneurs de la Rosée (Masters of the Dew), are seminal texts

of the indigéniste movement. His interest in the culture of Haiti’s black majority extended

to Vodou, and in 1943 he published a study of the religion. The book Le sacrifice du

tambour-Assôtô(r) includes a collection of Vodou songs that accompany the ceremonies

for various lwa and the Asòtò drum.50 The “Yanvalou Priyè Ginen” is a series of songs

for the lwa Loko Atisou and is the earliest recorded song of my corpus that introduces

Creoles as characters. The series opens with requests for forgiveness from Loko,

Ginen, and the saints.51 Near the end of the first song, the singer introduces a group,

“kreyòl yo” (the Creoles). The next verse describes “they’re going to touch Loko’s

vèvè.”52 In Kreyòl, to touch is “manyen,” but it can also mean to feel or handle as well as

to harm or cause difficulties.53 Hebblethwaite has used the translation “to touch,” which

to a non-Kreyòl speaker may not appear particularly negative. Yet, what the Creoles are

going to touch, vèvè, are symbols drawn with flour, ashes, or other materials for each

lwa and they “are gates through which the lwa travel” or a way to write to the

ancestors.54 The Creoles’ act of touching could be a sign of disrepect to Loko, the lwa of

50 The Asòtò drum is the largest of the Vodou drums. It has its own lwa bearing the same name (Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 53). Many of them were confiscated during the U.S. occupation of 1915-1934.

51 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 61.

52 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 61.

53 Valdman, Haitian Creole-English, 463-64.

54 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 298; Gilles, Sévis Ginen, 319.

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the song, and could disrupt the process of drawing the vèvè. The exchange continues

on a more positive note, though: “It’s the Creoles today who show the Ginen Creole

songs.”55 Here the Creoles are not disrespecting the ceremony but are offering creole

songs, meaning songs created in Haiti. These verses introduce an ambivalent Creole

attitude towards Vodou and African traditions. They suggest, however, that Creoles can

participate equally in the service.

As the series of songs to Loko continue the interpretation of the Creoles shifts. In

the third song, the Creoles appear again: “These days Creoles don’t serve Loko

anymore.”56 The reference to “these days” implies time has passed since the Creoles

offered their songs to Loko. They have stopped worshipping Loko and, perhaps, all the

lwa. The Creoles are no longer ambivalent; they have rejected Vodou.

Jacques Roumain’s contemporary, Milo Marcelin, recorded a series of songs for

the lwa Ayizan Velekete that also demonstrate a negative portrait of the Creoles. The

critique of the Creoles in this song series is particularly appropriate because Ayizan “is

the protector of ritual purity and the defender of morality, and she does not tolerate

corruption and negative influences.”57 The singer is thus filing his grievances with

Ayizan and exposing the irreverence of the Creoles. In the fourth song, the singer asks

Ayizan, “Don’t you see that the Creoles trouble us?”58 Several verses later, the question

becomes a statement and the singer declares: “The Creoles are troubling me.”59 The

55 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 61.

56 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 63.

57 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 212.

58 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 77.

59 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 78.

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two verses establish that the Creoles of Marcelin’s songs are the antagonists, yet what

trouble they are causing is not entirely clear.

As the song series concludes, the singer returns to the conflict and the trouble.

Repetition and punctuation signal that the action and tension of the song are building. In

particular, the singer repeats the Haitian proverb, “konplo pi fò pase wanga” (conspiracy

is stronger than a magic charm) and the exclamation “Creoles devoured my sanity!”60

The proverb “konplo pi fò pase wanga” is commentary on Haitian politics and social

relations from the revolutionary era to the present. David Geggus has interpreted the

proverb as a sign that organizing the August 1791 slave revolt required more than

magic.61 Here, conspiracy takes on a more negative connotation and implies actions

against Vodouists, not plots against slavery. It may also suggest that magic is no match

for the power of coup d’états and political power struggles.

The Creoles in Marcelin’s songs for Ayizan become a threat. The singer uses the

first person throughout these verses, while at the same time conveying a sense that the

threat of being “devoured” is a shared fear. The “my” of the song may represent

Vodouists and not just the singer. In addition, the verb “devour” could be a reference to

anti-Vodou legislation. From the 1830s to Marcelin’s time (1940s), Haitian politicians

passed various anti-Vodou laws and attempted to regulate what they viewed as the

superstitious practices of the black majority.62 While we cannot determine the exact

conspiracy in question, the verses reveal the antagonisms between the Creoles and the

60 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 79.

61 David Geggus, Haitian Revolutionary Studies, 77.

62 For a complete history of anti-Vodou legislation, see Kate Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law: Vodou and Power in Haiti (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2011).

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Vodouists, a sign of disunion among Haiti’s rural population, and the deleterious effects

of “konplo” (conspiracy).

The hostile image of the Creoles reappears in more recent song collections from

Haitian ougan Max Beauvoir. Song 460 express both Creoles’ disgust for Vodouists and

Vodouists’ frustration with Creoles’ rejection of the ancestors and lwa.63 Sung for the

lwa Èzili Danto, the chant opens with an exclamation: “The Creoles say no more Ginen

/they do what they want!”64 The Creoles have left behind Ginen (Africa) and its beliefs.

They are no longer beholden to the lwa and ancestors. Similar to the earlier songs, this

verse expresses an outright rejection of Vodou. The subsequent lines imply a darker

transformation: “Yes, they can turn their bodies, yes they can turn their bodies to do

what they want!”65 The image of turning their bodies could be read as physical

movements. However, the verse may allude to Creoles’ ability to transform themselves

into the supernatural characters of Haitian folklore such as lougawou (werewolf). The

Haitian werewolf does not just change into a wolf for the full moon, rather it can become

a beast, change its skin, or even wear its skin inside out.66 The characterization of the

Creoles as werewolves could be a horrifying message for Vodouists of what could

happen if someone does not serve the lwa. Even without the supernatural interpretation,

the song criticizes Creoles who have stopped practicing Vodou.

63 Song 735 in Beauvoir’s collection also contains an anti-Creole message, Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 231.

64 “Kriyòl di konsa nan pwen Ginen ankò, yo fè sa yo vle!” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 172

65 “Ya pe vire kò yo, ya pe tounen kò yo pou yo fè sa yo vle o!” Beauvoir, Le Grand Recueil, 172.

66 Gilles, Sèvis Ginen, 367.

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The final song associated with the creole/ginen division offers a positive vision for

Vodouists in the face of persecution. JL, a Haitian immigrant to the US, in a Yanvalou

rhythm, presents the opposing category to the Creoles, “pure Ginen.”67 The previous

songs have all recounted the errors of the Creoles and how they have wandered from

the path of Vodou. JL’s song characterizes “fran Ginen” (pure Ginen) as protagonists

and survivors because of their Vodou practices. The song opens, “Loudmouth, people

talk their talk,/we don’t pay attention to them.”68 Although JL does not identify who the

“people” are, they are the antagonists much like the Creoles of the previous songs. In

the next verse, JL declares, “If we are still here/it is because we are pure Ginen.”69

Here, the “pure Ginen” or Vodouists enter triumphantly into the song’s narrative. They

are not simply appealing to the lwa and recounting the irreverence of the Creoles.

Instead, JL’s verse implies that the Vodouist religion, or by extension culture, is what

sustains them. If we extend the argument, Haiti is still here because of Vodou and the

pure Ginen and not because of the Creoles. JL’s next verse directly addresses the

relationship between Vodou and Haiti’s development: “The people go around talking,/

they say Vodou is underdeveloped.”70 The claim that Vodou hinders Haiti’s

advancement has been present since the country’s founding in 1804. JL’s comment

most likely refers to his reality of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The downfall of the

Duvalier dictatorship led to a domestic backlash against Vodou because François

Duvalier incorporated Vodou and various priests into his political machine. Moreover,

67 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 166.

68 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 166.

69 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 166.

70 Hebblethwaite, Vodou Songs, 166.

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the rising presence of American evangelicals who viewed Vodou as satanic further

supported the regressive image of the religion.71 JL’s song rejects these arguments and

contends that in spite of centuries of persecution Vodou and Vodouists will live on in

Haiti.

Dondon: Revolutionary Ethnography

Ethnography and oral history are relatively untapped sources for historians of

Haiti.72 Like Vodou songs, they are problematic because they challenge the historians’

because they provide multiple and often times conflicting accounts. As Alessandro

Portelli notes, “the personal and private feelings and stories they [oral histories] tell have

operated below the level of attention of most historians, cultural institutions, and official

media, overly concerned with a narrow definition of what constitutes ‘fact’.” Portelli

continues, it is not an absolute truth he seeks in doing oral history. Rather, he is

“specifically fascinated by the pervasiveness of erroneous tales, myths, legends, and

silences.”73 Oral history makes the narrative more complex by adding new voices, or in

the words of Haitian anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot, they un-silence the voices we

have ignored or overlooked.

The voices of this section are mainly from the northern town of Dondon, yet I also

integrate interviews from other regions to illustrate moments of congruence and

divergence. I focus on the stories and work of Dondonnais (people of Dondon) because

71 For more on this rhetoric see Ramsey, The Spirits and the Law and Elizabeth Macalister, “From Slave Revolt to a Blood Pact with Satan: The Evangelical Rewriting of Haitian History,” Studies in Religion 41, no.2 (2012): 187-215.

72 Matthew Smith, “Two-Hundred-Year-Old Mountains: Issues and Themes in the Historiography of the Modern Francophone Caribbean,” in Beyond Fragmentation: Perspectives on Caribbean History, ed. Juanita De Barros, Audra Diptee, David V. Trotman (Princeton: M. Wiener Publishers, 2006), 115.

73 Alessandro Portelli, The Order Has Been Carried Out: History, Memory, and Meaning of a Nazi Massacre in Rome (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 16.

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residents are involved in a grassroots project of preserving and commemorating the

history of Dondon. In 2006, residents formed two organizations dedicated to the region’s

development and tourism: ADA (Association for Dondonnais in Action) and COTAD

(Committee to Support Alternative Tourism in Dondon). The town serves as a case

study in the creation and maintenance of a local history and illustrates local, national,

and international politics of commemoration. For example, while Dondonnais initiated

the project, they have support from international aid organizations such as the Inter-

American Development Bank. Their efforts demonstrate a different process of

preserving history than the classical image of oral transmission perhaps best captured

by the Martinican novelist Joseph Zobel in La Rue Case Nègres. Parades, seminars,

and mapping of historical sites have replaced the tales of elders. With this shift, a new

group of experts, trained tour guides, recounts the history and employs a noteworthy

rhetorical device, the tale of two Christophes, to organize the centuries long anti-colonial

narrative. In addition, oral histories and preservation efforts celebrate local heroes and

memories but also reveal the over-arching theme of the importance of unity.

Dondon according to Dondonnais: A Town’s Biography74

Dondon is a commune (parish) of approximately 32,000 located in the mountains

of northern Haiti about 20 miles from the port city of Cap Haïtien. The parish is made up

of five smaller zones (sections communales): Brostage, Bassin Caïman, Matador,

Laguille, and Haut-du-Trou. Each zone contains towns, villages, and smaller rural

74 I have chosen to recount Dondon’s history using only interviews. Many of the Dondonnais who shared their knowledge with me had attended school through at least high school and were part of the tourism movement. Moreover, as evidenced by the walls of the tourism organization’s office that were adorned with excerpts of Moreau de Saint-Méry’s Description topographique, physique, civile, politique, et historique (1797), many had read their history texts. While no one stopped during the interviews to cite their sources, their responses most likely are influenced by their education and reading.

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communities. One of the largest towns is Dondon, named after the parish. As part of the

process of “un-silencing,” oral history places the interviewees at the center of the

narrative to let them tell their history. What follows is an attempt to do just that: the

history of Dondon narrated by its residents.75

Dondon is an important lieu de mémoire for three of Haiti’s eras, pre-Columbian,

colonial, and revolutionary, making it a logical choice for fieldwork.76 Dondon’s

significance is tied to the area’s topography. The parish is nestled in the mountains

facing Cap Haïtien. The mountains contain limestone deposits that created a network of

caves in the area. For the Tainos, the island’s pre-Columbian inhabitants, the caves had

religious significance; they carved zemis (Taino deities) into the rock, which remain

today.77 The caves and carvings are now one of the area’s tourist attractions. They have

even garnered an advertisement from Haiti’s Ministry of Tourism, a sign, according to

the Dondonnais, of how grassroots efforts put pressure on the Haitian state to act and

support their preservation efforts.78 In addition, the caves have a scientific value and

speleologists have visited and mapped them.79

The advancement of European colonialism brought French filibuster and surgeon

André Minguet to explore the area for potential French settlement. He was the first

75 Henri David Eustache and Jean Vilfort Eustache, “Dondon, un joyau à visiter,” Le Nouvelliste, 17 Nov. 2009.

76 Interviewees often organized their own narratives into a similar chronology with a fourth era, post-1804, William, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011.

77 Émil and Antoine, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 15 June 2014; tour of cave led by Anïde, one of COTAD’s trained guides.

78 Facebook page Ministère du Tourisme Haiti, 9 April 2015, accessed 10 April 2015, https://fr-fr.facebook.com/haititourisme; Émil and Antoine, interview.

79 Émil and Antoine, interview; Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 4 July 2013.

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Frenchman to discover the caves.80 Minguet’s interest in the region, though, was

primarily agricultural, and he saw the mountains as an asset both for protection against

the Spanish and as a natural barrier to corral livestock.81 After the Treaty of Ryswick

(1697) in which Spain officially relinquished control of the western third of the island to

the French, Minguet received a land grant for the area that would become Dondon.

Some Dondonnais date the town’s founding to Minguet’s grant (1698).82 Others claim

1727 when the Catholic Church established a parish in the region.83 The discrepancy in

dates demonstrates varying notions of possession based on individual settlement or the

presence of European institutions such as the Catholic Church.

Early Dondon was a frontier town that quickly developed as a site of coffee

production. Antoine aptly described the importance of coffee both in colonial and post-

colonial history: “Dondon even married coffee.”84 During the colonial era, plantations

sprung up on the hillsides. The most relevant for my study is the estate of the mother of

revolutionary leader Vincent Ogé. The ruins, which COTAD has recorded, can be found

today among corn and bean fields. Coffee remains a main export of the community, and

the parish has Haiti’s oldest coffee cooperative. Founded in 1955, Coopérative Agricole

et Caféière Gabart le Vaillant is named for a local revolutionary hero, Gabart the

Brave.85 The co-op’s name is representative of a common memorial practice in Haiti to

80 Émil and Antoine, interview; Ménard, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011.

81 Émil and Antoine, interview; Ménard, interview.

82 Jose, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview.

83 Émil and Antoine, interview; Ménard, interview.

84 “Dondon même s’est marié avec le café,” Émil and Antoine, interview.

85 Émil and Antoine, interview.

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name schools, community centers, or even coffee co-ops after historical figures. At least

in Dondon, many understand the historical significance of the co-op’s name because of

local efforts to remember the parish’s history; however, this is most likely not the case

for all institutions bearing the names of historical figures.

If the mountains of Dondon provided spiritual retreats and the ideal setting for

coffee groves, they also had a strategic value during the revolution. Ménard described

the region as a “corridor” though which black, mixed-race, and white revolutionaries

passed.86 Dondonnais often proceeded to list the various figures that traveled through

the region: Vincent Ogé, Jean-Baptiste Chavanne, Toussaint Louverture, Philippe Rose

Roume, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Henry Christophe, and Sans Souci.87 Their list

demonstrates the importance of the region throughout the revolution for various groups.

First, Ogé and Chavanne launched their attack against racial prejudice from the

neighboring parish of Grande Rivière du Nord in October 1790, making the area a

revolutionary battlefield. Second, the caves of Dondon became refuges for maroons and

slave insurgents and also a place to store weapons.88 The reference to Sans Souci, a

military officer who later refused both to surrender to the French and to obey black

creole generals like Dessalines and Christophe, suggests the continued value of caves

for the “Congos” or insurgent groups in the war of independence.89 Lastly, the inclusion

of French colonial official Philippe Rose Roume is notable. Roume did not support

86 “koulwa,” Ménard, interview.

87 Émil and Anotine, interview; Philippe, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011; Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview; Henry, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 16 June 2014.

88 Haiti’s first novel, Stella, offers an imaginative portrait of the strategic value of caves during the revolution, see Chapter 4 for more discussion of the novel.

89 For more on Sans Souci and the memory of him see Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past, 31-69.

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Louverture’s idea of invading Santo-Domingo and to silence the French agent,

Louverture sent him to Dondon.90 Roume and his family spent nine months in prison

there.91 While nothing remains of the house in which Roume and his family stayed,

Dondonnais claim it is located near the Catholic Church on the route towards Matador.92

Dondon’s corridor is filled with multiple lieux de mémoire that recount events and people

from various stages of the revolution. Although some like Roume’s prison no longer

exist, others have become the focus of the community’s preservation efforts.

Local Memory Work: Historical and Ecological Tourism in Dondon

In 2006 residents of Dondon launched a tourism initiative with the goal of

regenerating the community.93 This was part of a larger national project to develop

Haiti’s tourism as a source of state revenue.94 The members of ADA and COTAD saw

the natural resources (mountains, waterfalls, and caves), historic sites, and local culture

as of potential interest to Haitians and foreign visitors. The first steps were to train local

guides, make an inventory of historic and natural sites, and secure funding. In 2008, the

Inter-American Development Bank offered support for tourism projects in the

Department of the North, which includes Dondon.95 Moreover, Dondonnais in the

90 Émil and Antoine, interview; Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview.

91 Joseph Saint-Rémy, Pétion et Haïti (Paris: Chez l’Auteur, 1855), 3:3.

92 Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview; Émil and Antoine, interview.

93 Émil and Antoine, interview.

94 Eustache and Eustache, “Dondon, un joyau.”

95 Émil and Antoine, interview; Eustache and Eustache, “Dondon, un joyau.”

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diaspora joined the efforts and provided additional funds.96 With international financial

help and national interest, the grassroots tourism project became a reality.

The town now organizes a series of commemorative events for for Dondon’s fête

patronale (11 November, St. Martin), the anniversary of Vincent Ogé’s death (25

February), and a weeklong ecotourism festival in July. An important element of all three

events is a seminar for the public. Several interviewees noted the didactic value of

seminars and speeches during holiday celebrations. The commemorations provide a

space to share knowledge with peasants or those who rarely attended school.97

In spite of these successes, the reality on the ground illustrates the challenges to

preserving Haiti’s history and politics of commemoration. First, the members of ADA

and COTAD are a privileged group in Dondon. They tend to have more education and

are employed as ministers, teachers, or government employees in Dondon, Cap

Haïtien, or Port-au-Prince. Employment does not mean that they earn a regular salary,

but it does distinguish them from the majority of Haitians who are either un- or

underemployed.98 In addition, Dondonnais in the diaspora are actively involved in the

projects and make up many of the tourists who return for events like the festival in July.

While they have funds to re-invest in the community, their eagerness to expand the

project is not always in tune with local needs and resources. For example, the first

96 Henry, interview.

97 Paul, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011; Daniel, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011.

98 According to the CIA World Factbook, accessed 12 April 2015, more than two-thirds of the labor force do not have formal jobs: https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/resources/the-world-factbook/geos/ha.html.

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ecotourism festival finally occurred in 2014.99 In my interviews weeks before the event

at least one resident expressed his reservations about having the festival when the town

still lacked necessities like power, water, and an improved road.100 Photos and

comments from the festival’s Facebook page confirm that even without these

necessities visitors enjoyed the week.101 Nevertheless, the doubts of Henry allude to the

problems of developing tourism without adequate infrastructure.

Second, the entire project rests on the argument that Dondon’s history and

environment are worth preserving. This is not a sentiment shared by all Dondonnais.

Two moments from my fieldwork illustrate the differing views held by those in positions

of power and local peasants, who are more concerned with producing beans and corn

for market than preserving the historic sites on their land. In June 2014, I accompanied

one of COTAD’s trained guides and friends to find a colonial border marker, or “borne

coloniale.” The marker (a large stone with carvings) dated from 1776/77 when France

and Spain signed a final treaty establishing the border between their two colonies on the

island of Hispaniola.102 After trekking up a hillside covered in corn, we were unable to

locate the marker and learned that a local farmer had broken it to use as a fence on his

land. Another portion was used in a Vodou ceremony, according to the farmer. My guide

and friend were quite upset with the farmer and his lack of knowledge or appreciation

for the historical object on his land. They referred to him as just a “paysan,” or peasant,

99 According to the Eustache brothers, the idea of a festival had been discussed since 2009, see Eustache and Eustache, “Dondon, un joyau.”

100 Henry, interview.

101 Dondon EcoTourisme’s Facebook page, 30 July 2014, accessed 1 Aug. 2014, https://fr-fr.facebook.com/Dondonfestival.

102 “Cartobibliographic notes,” Carte de Saint-Domingue, 1770, John Carter Brown Library, accessed 31 March 2015, http://jcb.lunaimaging.com/luna/servlet/s/td5fol.

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and positioned themselves as superior because they had more knowledge from school

or COTAD’s training. The exchange exposed differing views on the value of preserving

Haiti’s history and the basic need of providing food for one’s family and earning an

income. The conclusion of the borne story is ultimately positive and suggests a possible

compromise for future preservation efforts. A later expedition of COTAD members found

a piece of the borne, which is now encased in cement to prevent any more possible

destruction.103 Foreign researchers or local school children can now visit the marker and

learn about Haiti’s colonial history.

The case of the borne raises a larger question concerning the relationship

between private landowners, the Haitian state, and tourism organizations like COTAD

and ADA. In the northeast zone of the parish are the ruins of Vincent Ogé’s mother’s

coffee plantation. Discussed in Chapters 3 to 6 on historiography and imaginative

literature, Ogé was one of the early mixed-race leaders. The decline of the mulatto

legend in the twentieth century made Ogé an unpopular revolutionary figure.

Nevertheless, Dondonnais have adopted him as a hero because he was from the

parish. In discussions, they all pointed out this decision was made in spite of the fact

that he fought for the interests of his class, the affranchis, and not all Saint-Dominguans

of African ancestry.104 Beginning in 2008, COTAD commemorated the anniversary of

Ogé’s death with a pilgrimage and lecture at the ruins of his mother’s plantation.105

While the memorial talks continue, the ruins of Ogé’s mother’s house (Figure 7-1) are

103 Dondon EcoTourisme’s Facebook page, 11 November 2014, accessed 12 Nov. 2014, https://fr-fr.facebook.com/Dondonfestival.

104 Émil and Antoine, interview; Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview; Philippe, interview.

105 Jean Vilfort Eustache, “Réflexions autour de Vincent Ogé, un Dondonnais hors du commun,” 25 Feb. 2014, 2.

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unnoticeable to any who venture up the dirt road in the Matador district of Dondon

parish. They lie amidst corn and bean fields on the land of a local farmer. A Dondon

official explained to me that the parish or COTAD could do little because the ruins are

on private land. Moreover, he noted that the state has few resources to intervene and

help preserve the site.106

Land rights are not the only obstacles preventing the preservation of the Ogé

plantation. As Chapters 3 to 6 on printed representations demonstrate, identity politics

shape the commemoration of Haitian heroes. Moreover, the ruins are a former coffee

plantation and thus embody all that the revolution fought to end (slavery and

colonialism).107 However, as French historian Jacques de Cauna points out plantations

“are still a central reference point and have profoundly marked the people’s mindset.”108

In addition, as Jean-Claude concluded, “if we didn’t have bad, we could not have

good.”109 The preservation of plantation ruins is an avenue for confronting the legacies

of slavery and acknowledging the diverse voices of Haiti’s past. This confrontation

creates debate and dialogue as evidenced by a series of Facebook posts in reaction to

the 2014 Ogé memorial. Jean Eustache, in a self-published document on Ogé and the

history of the anniversary, contends that remembering Ogé is important because of the

106 Henry, interview.

107 For a more complete discussion of plantation ruins and scholarship on colonial heritage in Haiti see Jacques de Cauna, “Vestiges of the Built Landscape of Pre-Revolutionary Saint-Domingue,” in The World of the Haitian Revolution, ed. David Geggus and Norman Fiering (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), 21-48. Though not an equal comparison, the state of the Ogé ruins stand in stark contrast to the renovated fortress La Citadelle. Both are in the parish of Dondon, yet the Citadelle symbolizes the triumph of the revolution and accomplishments of former slaves—a narrative a new nation ostracized from a world dependent on slavery would want to commemorate.

108 Jacques de Cauna, “Vestiges of the Built Landscape,” 21.

109 “si pa t gen mal pa t ap gen byen,” Jean-Claude, interview by Erin Zavitz, Grand Pré, Haiti, 27 June 2011.

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debate it fosters and the awareness it raises for increasing local history.110 The efforts of

Eustache and COTARD as well as social media debates and the commemorations have

helped garner attention for the Ogé site. For the 2015 celebration, a member of ISPAN

(Institute for the Protection of National Heritage) and the Bureau of Ethnology, Eddy

Lubin attended. Perhaps with collaboration from national associations, the Dondonnais

will be able to preserve their local historical sites.

Reciting the Revolution

The physical preservation of historic sites is one part of the commemorative

process. Equally important, as Chapters 3 to 6 show, are the narratives and myths

constructed around the sites. The final section turns then to the interviewees’ words. In

their accounts, we see local memories but also the filtering down of official discourse,

specifically the prevalence of the theme of unity.

In Dondon, a local mnemonic device was used when recounting the revolution’s

history that I term the tale of two Christophes.111 This strategy framed the speakers’

chronology because they knew to begin with the first Christophe, Christopher

Columbus, and to end with the second Christophe, Henry Christophe. With the two

Christophes, they also followed the common trend in historiography to present the

revolution as a three-century long anti-colonial struggle that began with the arrival of

Columbus. Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis were the first to employ this device in a

group interview. In their account, Christopher Columbus receives basic treatment:

“Columbus wanted to go to India, but Haiti is where he arrived. When he arrived he

110 Eustache, “Réflexions autour de Vincent Ogé,” 8.

111 Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview; Anïde, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 18 June 2014.

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planted a cross that represented the Christian religion. In the year 1492. December

5.”112 While Columbus reappeared in our discussion, these lines introduced the theme

of colonialism and the role of religion in that process. In addition, the arrival of

Columbus was one of the few dates individuals gave. Interviewees frequently recounted

the history of the revolution without dates. They ordered various events to form a

chronology, but without references to years. The exceptions were 1492 and 1804, the

beginning and, possible, end to the revolution.

From Columbus, the tale of two Christophes switched to Henry Christophe,

revolutionary general and Haitian head of state. The speakers wove a more elaborate

story about Henry Christophe. They focused on two main points. First, they pointed out

that Christophe was a migrant. He was born in Grenada. Yet, “his name is printed in

Haitian history books; he is also listed as a hero of this country.”113 Joeles, Jodley, Gary,

and Louis highlighted the theme of migration, which we have seen in Chapters 3 and

4.114 The brief biography of Christophe they offer demonstrates how African bodies

moved across the Caribbean, though it omits any discussion of who moved Christophe

and if he had a choice in the matter. What is more important for the four Dondonnais is

that Christophe became Haitian through his service in the revolution. Regardless of his

place of birth, he is a hero. Their account closes with a further example of Christophe’s

greatness, the Citadelle fortress. They asserted that the fortress stands as an example

112 “[Kolon] li te vle ale nan peyi End, men se Aytit li te rive. Epi lè li te rive li te plante yon kwa ki reprezante religion krisyanis,” Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview.

113 “Non li make nan liv istwa peyi Ayiti. Li klase tou nan lis ero peyi a.” Joeles, Jodely, Gary, and Louis, interview.

114 See my discussion of Pierre Flignau’s play, L’Haïtien expatrié in Chapter 3 and the biography of Joseph Saint-Rémy in Chapter 4.

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of what Haitians can accomplish.115 Their narrative does not include any mention of how

Christophe built the Citadelle, with forced labor, or the thousands who lost their lives

constructing it. Rather, similar to the nationalist narratives of the revolution that are “too

respectuful,” the Citadelle has an epic story which, as Michel-Rolph Trouillot, argues

silences dissent.116

The juxtaposition of Columbus and Christophe serves to raises several important

themes and delineates the chronology of the revolution. Yet, the strategy can also

create confusion. During a trip to the Citadelle from the Dondon-side, my guide Anïde

recounted the history of the fortress and Christophe. As she built her narrative the tale

of two Christophes interjected itself. She stated that Henry Christophe was Italian.117 I

paused and politely questioned her about the statement. In Anïde’s account, the

Christophes had become one. In one sentence Henry Christophe was the King of Haiti

and in the next was Italian. While we could dismiss Anïde’s story because of her factual

error, the scene is valuable for understanding the oral transmission of history and the

creation of myths and legends. Anïde’s memory condensed the two historical figures of

Christopher Columbus and Henry Christophe. This may have been a unique instance.

Nevertheless, with the Haitian state’s increased focus on tourism, guides like Anïde may

be the only contact individuals have with Haitian history and culture. COTAD’s

grassroots effort to train guides is a start, though it also exposes the problems of

decentralized historical tourism. Should the state or an institution like ISPAN regulate

115 Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview.

116 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995), 105 and 69.

117 Anïde, interview.

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the training of guides? Or how do we account for various recitations of Haiti’s history?

Anïde is not to blame here. Rather, her story illuminates additional questions for

research on popular memories of the revolution.

The tale of two Christophes was a specific device interviewees in Dondon used.

More generally, throughout my interviews the familiar binary of unity/division emerged.

Similar to printed commemorations, individuals all stressed the importance of unity.

They expressed the theme through the phrase, “mete têt ansam” (put heads together),

a Kreyòl equivalent to the national motto, “L’Union Fait la Force.”118 As the speakers

elaborated on the need for unity, they revealed how legacies of the revolution could

divide Haitians as well as unite them. Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis addressed the

lack of collaboration through common proverbs such as “man betrayed man since

Africa.”119 They argued that the proverb created a mentality of distrust and continued to

be used to divide Haitians. Consciously or not, they implied the issue of discord in the

revolution, to which this proverb also refers, continued to impact Haitian society in the

twenty-first century. Other interviewees offered myths of discord such as “every Haitian

is a president.”120 Jacques explained that independence stood as an example of what

united Haitians could achieve. To prevent further radical movements, foreigners initiated

the myth that every Haitian could be president to divide the population. In contrast to the

proverb, Jacques’s myth locates the source of discord outside Haiti and argues that

118 Tham, interview by Erin Zavitz, Darbonne, Haiti, 23 July 2011.

119 “depi nan ginen nèg te trayi nèg,” Joeles, Jodley, Gary, and Louis, interview. Other versions of this proverb and their literary representations are discussed in Chapter 6.

120 “chak grenn ayisyen se yon prezidan,” Jacques, interview by Erin Zavitz, Gros Jean, Haiti, 21 June 2013.

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foreigners are responsible for social divisions, a theme common to the both the mulatto

and black legend.

In addition to proverbs that demonstrate the divisive legacy of the revolution,

heroes are problematic too. Two interviewees in the central town of Darbonne

advocated that commemorating one hero above others was a detriment to collaboration

and a cause of discrimination. Saint-Fleur and Tham told me that they did not have a

favorite hero. Instead, they celebrated the success of all revolutionary heroes because

only as a united group that worked together did they achieve independence.121 A very

diplomatic answer, this dissertation proves their explanation. Revolutionary heroes

remain a controversial topic and a symbol of tumultuous Haitian identity politics.

The work of this final chapter is preliminary in nature because it relies upon

infrequently used sources and methodologies in the study of Haitian history. The

conclusions I draw thus are tentative and with additional research will become more

conclusive. Overall, the Vodou songs and oral histories illuminate a more popular

process of commemorating the revolution. Through songs, stories, historical tourism,

local lectures, and holidays Haitians have constructed narratives of the revolution and

defined their own meanings of independence. At times the written history of books is a

distant thought. For the farmer in Dondon who saw no value in a rock with words carved

on it, Haiti’s colonial and revolutionary past are not a concern. And, although Vodou

songs reference revolutionary figures and construct a pantheon of heroes, the majority

of songs address proper rituals and service to the lwa. Haiti’s epic founding is a side

note. The absences do not mean that the revolution is not a part of popular memory. As

121 Saint-Fleur, interview by Erin Zavitz, Darbonne, Haiti, 23 July 2011; Tham, interview.

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Jacques in Gros Jean declared, the Haitian Revolution is the mother of all

revolutions.122 Yet, in popular commemorations history of the revolution blends with

contemporary Haitian reality to inspire and support the majority of the population that

remains underemployed, undereducated, undernourished, and excluded from the

political sphere. The greatest memory of the revolution for the Haitian majority is its

continuation through their daily struggle to achieve a more equitable life.

122 “se li menm ki maman tout revolisyon,” Jacques, interview.

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Figure 7-1: Ruins of Vincent Ogé’s mother’s coffee plantation, Matador, Haiti, personal

collection, June 2014.

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CHAPTER 8 CONCLUSION: REVOLUTIONARY FUTURES

Pow! Pow! The sound of gunshots ricochets through the central square near

Haiti’s Bureau d’Ethnologie (Bureau of Ethnology). People start running followed by a

white mist. Tear gas. I quickly learn from the Haitians standing at the same corner there

are anti-government protests occurring throughout Port-au-Prince. They offer me a

packet of water to help with the stinging in my eyes. I explain that I’m waiting for my

moto-driver. More people are on the move. Pasteur calls my cell and asks “ki kote

mwen ye?” He’s at the Bureau d’Ethnologie, but can’t find me. I scan the crowd and

see Pasteur with his bike at the corner. I rush over and hop on the back, securing my

helmet strap as he accelerates. We quickly ride up from downtown to the wealthy area

of Pétionville. We pass the remains of more protests, I learn, many of the men and

women are out in support of a new group KOD, Dessalines Coordination.

KOD is one of many Haitian political groups. In newspaper accounts they define

themselves as a progressive political party committed to combatting imperialism and

protecting the Haitian masses.1 Their acronym means rope (kòd) in Kreyòl and the

party’s slogans create a play on words. KOD will tie up the president, the UN forces, or

imperialists.2 The name could suggest more sinister actions such as hanging. It may

also derive from the colonial era conflation of the KiKongo term “kanga” and the French

verb “amarrer.” David Geggus explains that both meant to “bind or tie” but came to

1 Kim Ives, “The Dessalines Coordination Launches Itself as a New Party,” Haïti Liberté 7, no. 31 (Feb. 2014), accessed 13 Jan. 2015, http://haiti-liberte.com/archives/volume7-31/The%20Dessalines%20Coordination.asp.

2 Ives, “The Dessalines Coordination.”

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signify the use of supernatural forces to bewitch or render harmless.3 Whether or not

KOD members are turning to Vodou to combat their enemies, the reference to tying up

corrupt politicians alludes to the colonial usage of the verb in slave chants. The name

may illustrate how the black masses have adapted the language of slave resistance to

new struggles. Unmistakably, it serves as a warning to politicians who understand the

additional meanings of the name.

In this 2013 protest, KOD members and others who had joined, declared “yo pral

kay Pétion.” They are going to Pétion’s house, meaning Pétionville the wealthy

city/suburb up the hill from heat and stench of Port-au-Prince. Founded by mixed-race

president Jean-Pierre Boyer in honor of Pétion, Haiti’s first president and revolutionary

hero but also a conspirator in Dessalines’s assassination. The protestors continued,

“Dessalines yo vle pale.” The command could be translated as Dessalines wants to talk.

Yet, the Kreyòl yo leaves open several interpretations. Yo is both the third person plural

“they” or plural article. Thus, perhaps the rallying call was “The Dessalines want to talk”

meaning that all the protestors became Dessalines that day.

The invocations of Haiti’s revolutionary heroes on the streets of Port-au-Prince

condense the two hundred and eleven years that have passed since the declaration of

Haitian independence. The revolution is still alive as are Dessalines and Pétion. The

heroes take on or perhaps possess new bodies and come to symbolize new struggles

and divisions. The wealthy, educated, French-speaking Haitians of any hue signfy

Pétion, as do their air-conditioned SUVs, generators, and gated houses. The

3 David Geggus notes that in eighteenth-century Saint-Domingue, the French noun amarre had a supernatural meaning derived from the Kikongo word kanga (Geggus, “Haitian Vodou in the Eighteenth Century: Language, Culture, Resistance,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte Lateinamerikas 28, no. 1 (1991):28-29.

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undereducated, underemployed, politically disenfranchised, Kreyòl-speaking urban

masses are Dessalines. Nevertheless, as Chapter 5 shows the institutionalization of the

black legend in twentieth-century Haitian historiography has made Dessalines a hero for

all.

Weeks before KOD’s protest, current Haitian president and former music star

Michel Martelly held a memorial service for Dessalines on the anniversary of his

assassination 17 October.4 Following a tradition begun over one hundred fifty years

earlier with the first memorial service to Haiti’s founder in 1845, Martelly employed the

memory of Dessalines to demonstrate his connection with the black majority. Weeks

later Dessalines became the masses’ symbol. In both cases, the original man Jean-

Jacques Dessalines was lost to the myths that had emerged over the centuries after his

death. The uses of Dessalines’s memory capture the complexity of Haitian identity

politics and the power of the black legend decades after the fall of the Jean-Claude

Duvalier. Dessalines had remained a slave until the revolution, unlike Toussaint

Louverture who was an elite slave who eventually earned his freedom. Yet, Dessalines

became a property-owner and even emperor. He is both a representative of the masses

and a former head of state As the protests of KOD and the memorial service of Martelly

illustrate, Dessalines’s memory retains the contradictions of his life and represents the

legacies of slavery and the revolution in present-day Haiti.

On 1 January 1805, Jean-Jacques Dessalines celebrated the anniversary of

Haitian Independence Day. The performance re-enacted Haiti’s founding fête and

established a ritual that remains to this day. For Dessalines, the ceremony justified his

4 Robenson Geffrard, “Pour Dessalines, Martelly veut tourner le dos à la confrontation,” Le Nouvelliste, 18 Oct 2013.

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rule and legitimated Haiti’s existence. Over two hundred years later, Dessalines is still

the focus of commemorations. Martelly’s memorial service for Haiti’s founder illustrates

the central place ritual and memory have in Haiti. Remembering Dessalines has

become a necessary action for heads of state. As Chapter 2 elucidates, this was a

tradition developed in the nineteenth century. Through the invocation of his memory,

Martelly legitimates his presidency just as Nord Alexis, Lysius Salomon, or Louis Pierrot

did. Yet, commemorating Dessalines does not create change, rather it reinforces the

burden of never forgetting. Martelly is able to employ the memory of Dessalines

because of two hundred years of myth-making, which this dissertation documents.

The Haitian Revolution was epic. Michel-Rolph Trouillot’s notion of the revolution

as “unthinkable” symbolizes this characteristic.5 The revolution established a series of

radical firsts: racial equality, emancipation, and a black state. With these firsts came the

challenge of narrating and explaining the complicated and violent struggle that produced

such liberatory results. Haitian authors had the additional task of defending their

country’s founding and existence, a littérature de combat. Initially, Haitians turned to a

variety of genres to both narrate and legitimate the revolution. In Chapter 3, I explored

the first four decades of Haitian publications. While authors developed competing

national visions (mulâtriste and noiriste), they all agreed on a functional definition of

Haitian independence: freedom from slavery and an end to French colonial rule. The

early iterations of mulâtrisme and noirisme gave way to the formation of a mulatto

legend. The legend explained Haiti’s founding in terms of the contributions of mixed-

race men. These men represented the perfect balance of an African biological heritage

5 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press), 73.

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and European cultural traditions. They not only guided the revolution and achieved

independence, they were also the best leaders for independent Haiti. Narratives of

mixed-race accomplishment served to legitimate mixed-race rule.

The mulatto legend triumphed briefly in the mid-nineteenth century, I argue in

Chapter 4. Yet, its dominance was soon questioned by a new generation of black and

mixed-race authors who revived the early noiriste interpretations of Louis-Félix

Boisrond-Tonnerre and Baron de Vastey. At first, the black legend was primarily a

political statement. Noiriste authors narrated the revolution to celebrate black leaders

and by extension contemporary black power. Two waves of cultural nationalism,

indigénisme, expanded the myth and incorporated (or co-opted) elements of black folk

culture. The black legend thus became a narrative of black generals, Vodou priests, and

maroons. The contribution of each of these groups varied between authors. However,

the common argument was that the revolution was the work of black Saint-Dominguans.

The potential for new narratives, though, was lost with the institutionalization of noirisme

and the legend in the 1950s. Chapters 5 and 6 demonstrate that this impacted

historiographical and fictional representations differently. Nevertheless, as I contend in

these chapters on twentieth-century print commemorations, Haitian authors have yet to

to record their country’s founding in an inclusive manner.

The competing black and mulatto legends and their respective political

nationalisms—noirisme and mulâtrisme—have trapped the revolution’s narrative in an

ideological bind. Yet, potential solutions emerge in the fiction of Marie Vieux Chauvet or

Jean Fignolé, authors who chose to take a stance against the dominant, official

interpretation of Haiti’s founding. In historiography, Michel-Rolph Trouillot’s Ti dife boule

364

sou istwa Ayiti demonstrates first that the language of the Haitian majority, Kreyòl, can

be used to narrate their history. And second, his Marxist analysis exposes social

divisions with the hopes that confronting discord may be the route to actually finding

unity and re-building the Haitian nation and state on more equitable grounds.

Chapter 7, though, suggests that Trouillot may not have the support of the

masses. As suggested by the example of the farmer in Dondon who had little concern

for the colonial border marker on his land, the masses may not be interested in

historical debates or deconstructing the epic of Haiti’s founding. The farmer

commemorates the revolution through living and providing for his family. His lack of

respect for the past or, as my interviewees believed, “ignorance” may be a challenge to

the myths of the state and intellectuals. Ironically, when I asked individuals about

celebrations of Independence Day, the elaborate festivities I had read about in

newspapers were rarely mentioned. Moreover, during a fieldwork trip of 1 January, I

found the streets eerily empty and quiet. Instead, interviewees explained that they pass

the day at home with family eating soup joumou (pumpkin soup).6 On January 1, I

followed the tradition and ate soup with a friend’s family in the hills outside of Port-au-

Prince. During a return trip, we talked more about the tradition. Sara, Jacques, and

Mackencia explained that during slavery their ancestors were not allowed to eat

pumpkins.7 Thus making pumpkin soup was an alimentary declaration of independence.

While the details of who made the soup a national dish are unclear, it has become a

6 Jean-Claude, interview by Erin Zavitz, Grand Pré, Haiti, 27 June 2011; William, interview by Erin Zavitz, Dondon, Haiti, 28 June 2011; Pierre, interview by Erin Zavitz, Petavy, Haiti, 8 July 2011; Sara, interview by Erin Zavitz, Gros Jean, Haiti, 21 June 2013; Jacques, interivew by Erin Zavitz, Gros Jean, Haiti, 21 June 2013.

7 Mackencia, interview by Erin Zavitz, Gros Jean, Haiti, 21 June 2013; Jacques, interview; Sara, interview.

365

popular expression of independence. The soup commemorates the individual’s labor

and right to his or her own profits, in this case agricultural produce. It also illustrates the

importance of family and gathering together in spite of the hardships one may face.

Thus, perhaps soup joumou is a starting point for an alternative narrative of the

revolution from the perspective of the Haitian majority.

366

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Erin Zavitz grew up in Albuquerque, NM. In search of green grass and a

stimulating university experience, she attended Earlham College where she received a

B.A. in history in 2002. A study-abroad trip to Haiti in May of that year piqued her

interest in the island’s history. Undecided about graduate studies, she returned home to

Albuquerque and spent a year as an Americorps Member in a local middle school.

Realizing that she wanted to continue her studies, she completed an M.A. in

comparative literature and cultural studies at the University of New Mexico in 2006. For

the next year and a half, Erin returned to the public schools leading youth leadership

programs for New Mexico Voices for Children, a local non-profit. In 2008, she left the

mountains and deserts of New Mexico behind and moved to Florida. There she

completed a Ph.D. (2015) in history and a certificate in Latin American Studies.

Erin has accepted a position as an Assistant Professor of History at the

University of Montana-Western and looks forward to returning to the Mountain West.