A Port-au-Prince editor calls the peasantry the nation's enemy

Auguste Magloire owned one of the two daily newspapers of the Haitian republic. In an editorial of 11 October 1919 he wrote that people he classed as declasses and vagrants made up the huge majority of the population, and that Haitian society was obliged to treat them as its enemy. He meant the rural population that was then fighting the American occupation. The year gives the sentence its weight. Marines were burning caco camps across the north and centre, and Charlemagne Peralte had been shot dead by two of them in disguise a fortnight after the editorial appeared. A popular song of the period made the same split from the other side, saying that some people preferred the cacos to the treaty. Jean Casimir uses the editorial to date something more durable than one man's contempt: the moment the Haitian urban elite openly aligned itself with an occupying army against the majority of the country it claimed to lead.

The pan-African movement of the 1920s and 1930s grew in North America and the Caribbean out of a shared experience of colonial rule and racism. Marcus Garvey, who never set foot in Africa, founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association and preached Africa for the Africans and the removal of Europeans from it. Garveyism was eccentric in places, and it reached the young men who would lead African independence movements in the 1940s and 1950s. In French-speaking Africa the same current produced negritude, argued most publicly by the Senegalese poet Leopold Senghor, later the first president of Senegal, which asserted Black self-respect and the antiquity of African civilisation. I keep this on a Haitian timeline because Haiti sat in the middle of the traffic. The marines were in Port-au-Prince while Garvey was speaking in Harlem, and the Haitian writers who answered the occupation were reading the same material as the men who would govern Dakar and Accra.

Across Africa the colonial administrations wanted the same three things. They wanted revenue, raised by a tax levied on every head or every hut, which for most Africans was the first plain evidence that they no longer governed themselves. They wanted labour, and a tax payable in cash was the instrument for producing it. They wanted cash crops and minerals moving outward. Schools and clinics stayed in missionary hands into the 1920s and the state itself was absent from most of daily life. What it did build was transport. Railways and roads tied the continent to the world economy, and Reid calls that the deepest thing colonialism left behind. During the 1920s a good many Africans thought the arrangement might work for them, since organised violence had fallen off, cash crops and migrant wages were available, and populations were recovering from the disasters of the previous thirty years. The Depression closed that opening. By the middle of the 1930s officials were complaining about the aimlessness and the brutality of their own system.

The plan for the night of 31 October 1919 was that Conzé would attack Grande Rivière while Péralte waited at Masère in the river gorge. The marines knew both halves of it. Meade brought gendarmes and a machine gun section quietly into the barracks at Grande Rivière, and blocking positions went out on every trail from Saint Raphaël to Vallière. Hanneken took eighteen picked gendarmes and Lieutenant William Button, dressed them as Cacos in worn denim, and blacked his own face and Button's with burned cork. Seven hundred Cacos filed past their ambush and Péralte was not among them. Jean-Edmond François then brought word that Péralte was waiting in camp for a detachment to fetch him in. Hanneken's party became that detachment and climbed through six Caco outposts using the password General Jean, chosen as a compliment to Conzé. At the last one a sentry tried to inspect Button's automatic rifle and Button snapped at him in Creole and pushed on. François pointed out a man in a blue shirt beside a small fire. Hanneken shot him twice through the heart.