Dubois puts Bois-Caiman on the Sunday, not right after the meeting

Dubois handles the most contested night in Haitian history as a problem of evidence. Boukman, who had worked as a driver and then a coachman, was the most visible leader of the first days and was, it is believed, a religious leader, which would have earned him wide respect. Before the revolt he led conspirators in a ceremony in the woods at a place called Bois-Caiman, officiating alongside either an old African woman described as having strange eyes and bristling hair or a green-eyed woman of African and Corsican descent named Cecile Fatiman. Although the service is usually placed just after the meeting of 14 August, Dubois argues it probably took place on the following Sunday, 21 August, at a plantation halfway between Gallifet and Le Cap, which made it a convenient gathering point. Participants swore secrecy and vengeance over the blood of a black pig. Where this account departs from the standard one: Redates the ceremony to 21 August 1791, against the usual placement immediately after the 14 August meeting that other works in this batch adopt.

On 14 August 1791 Boukman gathered the conspirators at Bois Caiman, on the Lenormand de Mezy plantation, and made them swear loyalty before the rising. The ceremony was a blood oath. Under the branches of a mapou, with lightning crossing the sky and thunder over the silent assembly, a priestess made her signs and drove the sacrificial knife into the throat of a wild pig, then spread the entrails on ground flooded with blood. Boukman spoke the words in Creole. The good God who makes the sun, who lifts the sea and makes the storm rumble, is hidden in the cloud and sees everything the whites do. The god of the whites commands crime; ours asks for kindness and orders us to take vengeance. Throw away the image of the white god who thirsts for the water in our eyes, and listen to the liberty that speaks in all our hearts. Thirteen years of war followed, ending in the black state of 1804.

Girard's conclusion turns a linguistic profile into a political verdict. Born to Arada parents in a French Caribbean colony, Toussaint lived at the intersection of African, American and European worlds but did not weigh them equally. By pushing Ewe-Fon into the background, Girard argues, he buries pan-African interpretations of his career. Unlike the autonomist planters of the eighteenth century or Haitian nationalists today, he did not use Kreyol to assert creole pride, which cuts against readings of him as a proto-independentist. The language he preferred in writing, and often in speech, was the one he associated with social advancement: French, the language of a colonial system he never got out of. Girard characterises his French as laborious and almost ashamed, the French of a provincial arriving in the capital full of ambition and trying to hide his accent. Where this account departs from the standard one: Argues against both the pan-African and the proto-independentist readings of Toussaint, on the evidence of his linguistic choices rather than his politics.

Smith opens his account of Haitian regional ties before the Haitian nation existed. Within hours of the first shots of August 1791, refugees from the western half of Hispaniola set sail for Jamaica. At that stage they were mostly French planters, and they scattered across the Caribbean leaving durable marks: their contribution to the nineteenth-century development of Cuban coffee, and family names that survive in Jamaica such as Desnoes, Malabre and Espeut. Over the following century and a half the waves widened to include Haitians of every social class, political exiles, and nearly a dozen former heads of state who settled in Jamaica. Smith stresses that the traffic ran both ways, since a good many people from the British islands went the other way and settled in Haiti during the closing quarter of the century. His point is that regional integration long predated any treaty.