The marines sail and leave behind an army they trained themselves

The last United States marines sailed from Haiti on 14 August 1934, closing nineteen years of military occupation. The Americans had built roads, bridges, hospitals and schools, piped clean water into Port-au-Prince and strung telegraph line between the main towns. They had also killed more than two thousand Haitians putting down the Caco rebellion, revived forced labour through the corvée, shut the Black majority out of political life, and left the mulatto elite holding the economy more securely than they had found it. The institution that mattered most was the national guard, trained and armed by the United States. Every strongman of the next half century reached for it first. No part of the political system had been reformed, and the poverty produced by the French indemnity and a century of bad government was untouched. Two organisations founded that same year, the Ligue Féminine d'Action Sociale and the Haitian Communist Party, are the better measure of what came out of 1934.

Speaking in Nelson on the subject of the Negro, James condemned the British Empire for the racism it fostered not only in the colonies but in the metropolis itself, stressed the achievements of African civilisation, and was reported as saying that there would one day be a tremendous revolt in Africa. Hogsbjerg places the lecture at the point where two commitments converge. James had returned to Britain earlier that year having concluded that European civilisation was doomed, had made an independent study of Marxism and decided to become an organised revolutionary, and his new militant Pan-Africanism developed alongside that. The editor treats the combination as the political engine of the play, which he says is panoramic in its treatment of the revolution and spreads eleven scenes across three acts. Hogsbjerg adds that the same year saw the first play written and directed by a Jamaican woman staged in London, changing what a British theatre audience might expect.

The mountains that became the commune of Kenscoff were thin country under the French. The large sugar planters held the plains, and the estates up here belonged to men like Robin de Kenscoff and Lefebure de Fourcy, with few installations and few slaves. Most of those slaves came from the Lower Congo. Some had come from further up the river and been sold on the lower stretch, which is why a small settlement near Furcy was still called Nan Congo in 1937, and why a distinctive type of hut was found there. Many of them had arrived recently and were proud of having been born in Africa. In the lineage cemeteries of the region the inscriptions read like this: the person's name, the word African, a date of birth and a date of death. After the revolution some of their descendants obtained state grants of sixty to ninety acres and farmed them as owners.

Sténio Vincent named Tuesday 21 August 1934 the day of the second independence. Nobody waited for it. The balls started on the 18th at the Cercle Bellevue, carried on the next night at the Port-au-Princien, and the country went into days of bamboche. At midnight on the 20th a gun sounded from Fort National and the cheering ran from Bel Air to Morne l'Hôpital. In the morning monsignors Conan and Le Gouaze sang a Te Deum where the clergy stood white and the altar boys Black. Then the president drove through the city scattering freshly printed gourde notes into the crowd, laid wreaths at the statues of Toussaint Louverture and Dessalines, and ran up the colours himself at the barracks. At the review that followed, a new Garde Présidentielle appeared under Major Durcé Armand, a relative of the president. Colonel Calixte led the officers in an oath of personal loyalty to Vincent. The oath the Americans wrote had bound them to the constitution.