An armed revolt at Port-de-Paix, a century before the rising

Armed revolt broke out among the enslaved at Port-de-Paix in 1691. The colony was then a few years into life under a registered slave code and still small, a scatter of estates along the northern coast run by former buccaneers who had turned to indigo and sugar. The rising was put down. Carolyn Fick keeps it in the record for what it establishes about the century that followed. Resistance was present in Saint-Domingue from the opening of the plantation system, a hundred years before the night in August 1791 that most accounts treat as the start of Haitian history. The interval was filled with poisonings, arson, the sabotage of mills, and above all flight into the mountains, where maroon settlements held ground the colonial militia could not take back. A slave society that requires a standing armed force to keep operating is telling you what its labourers think of the arrangement. Port-de-Paix in 1691 is among the earliest entries in that long record.

Around the end of the seventeenth century the money in the Americas moved. For most of the two hundred years since Columbus, the wealth Europe drew from the hemisphere came out of the ground in Mexico and Peru, in silver dug by conscripted indigenous labour. By the 1690s the largest returns were coming from sugar grown on the Caribbean islands and along the coast of Brazil. Sugar demands land, mills, capital and an enormous supply of workers who can be compelled, and the plantation complex that supplied all four expanded through the Atlantic basin at once. This relocation is the reason the slave trade reached the size it did. Silver mining drew on indigenous labour drafts organised in place. Sugar drew on Africans bought across an ocean and shipped in, and it consumed them fast enough to require permanent replacement. Every feature of the eighteenth century Caribbean, including the colony that became Haiti, follows from the centre of gravity moving off the mainland mines and into the island cane fields.

Thornton uses the movement led by Dona Beatriz Kimpa Vita to show how far Kongolese ideologues could rework Christian material. Claiming to be permanently possessed by Saint Anthony, she set out to end the civil wars and restore the kingdom, and in defining her position she retold Christian history so that the nativity happened at Nsundi, the province traditionally tied to Afonso, which she named as Bethlehem, while the capital São Salvador became Jerusalem and the place of the baptism. Thornton's point is that Macaya's later description of the kings of Kongo, France and Spain as descendants of the Magi was not eccentric improvisation but an established Kongolese habit of mind. Kongolese, he argues, viewed kings much as northern European thinkers did, as necessary but potentially limited.

Eleven people on Andre Gomes de Medina's plantation in Bahia, and more in the neighbourhood around it, had died over the course of a year from illnesses nobody could name. In 1688 the enslaved people there searched the cabin of a man called Simao and found a pot of animal teeth and powders. Simao later told the Lisbon inquisitors it was made from the heads of snakes and served as a cure for venomous bites. Before that he was put through a boiling water ordeal, a judicial procedure closely resembling ones then in use in West Africa. Afterwards he was said to have confessed to killing other slaves. Three enslaved people, Domingos, Joanna and Ursula, heard the confession, and the slaveholder heard of it only at second hand. Domingos, about twenty five years old, gave evidence to the commissioner himself, and he and Joanna testified to finding the pot. The enslaved ran this investigation from beginning to end.