Ayiti Toma

While perusing various readings pertinent to another project, we came across references to the land of Allada as Aizönu Tome or Aida Tome. Apparently, the tome part means something like "country of" or perhaps "land of." This, of course, reminded us of the phrase Ayiti Toma in Haitian Creole. I guess it's somewhat obvious and unsurprising, but this seems to be an example of the influence of Fongbe or related languages in Benin shaping Haitian Creole. But what explains the shift in Haitian Creole pronunciation of tome to toma? Another theory, included in J.B. Romain's Africanismes haitiens quotes an implausible notion that Ayiti Toma is derived from the Toma peoples of Guinea. This seems rather unlikely since it is unclear how many Toma ended up in Saint Domingue. Moreover, one would have to ask why a name for their particular ethnic group is attached to Ayiti. A link to the Fon language makes more sense given the evidence of that language on Haitian Creole and multiple aspects of Haitian culture. 

More on the Nago (Yoruba) and Haiti

Milo Rigaud's La tradition voudoo et le voudoo haitien includes this beautiful veve for Ogou Batala.

The Yoruba legacy in Haiti survives in some rather influential ways. For instance, Haitian Rara music appears to be at least partly influenced by the Yoruba. According to J.B. Romain's Africanismes haïtiens, the word rara is likely derived from Yoruba. Although it is culturally a fusion of different elements, the use of a name derived from the Yoruba language attests to the presence of Yoruba speakers among the enslaved. In addition, the "Nago" are remembered and some of their orishas are honored in Haitian Vodou tradition. In fact, some Haitians still used the name Nago as a family name well into the 19th century. This important legacy suggests the Nago were remembered in Haitian tradition for far more than facial scarification on their cheeks or a penchant for stealing, as Malenfant described them in the 18th century. 

Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou includes many examples of songs alluding to the Nago spirits. 

In Milo Marcelin's Mythologie Vodou (Rite Arada), numerous allusions to the Nago and Nago-derived lwa can be found. The Nago orishas are often subsumed in the category of Ogou (Ogun to the Yoruba), in various manifestations or forms. Thus, some, like Ogou Chango, are clearly a reference to Shango. Others, like Ogou Olicha, appears to be an allusion to a lwa whose name includes the word orisha. Considering the military leadership and skill needed for Haitian independence to materialize, one can imagine Ogou was a major lwa for many in Haiti.

Hector Hyppolite's Ogoun Chango.

Additional Ogous whose names refer to the Nago are Ogou Feraille, Batala (Obatala), Ogou Badagri, Olisha, and Ossange. Badagri, whose very name refers to the slave trade port of Badagry, is hardly a surprise as a Nago divinity. Batala is undoubtedly derived from Obatala of Yoruba tradition, while Ossange, a healer, is Osanyin. Unsurprisingly, the Nago appear to be associated with war, military prowess, and iron in Haitian tradition. Such a reputation can be seen in the role of Nago war leaders during the Haitian Revolution, such as Halaou and Gracia Lafortune. Yet Marcelin also reported that the Nago lwa Ogou Badagri was the father of the Haitian "mulatto." We are not sure if this association with "mulattoes" may be an allusion to mixed-race generals and military leaders during the Haitian Revolution. 

Igbo DNA Matches

One thing we have been interested in ever since our Haitian parent's 23andme results came in was the Igbo connection with Haiti. As we have indicated through our exploration of notarized records mentioning slave origins in the Sud-Est of Haiti, the "Ibo" were a consistent presence among the enslaved African population in Bainet in the 1700s. Perhaps many if not most were acquired via smuggling with the British in Jamaica, since the coast of southeastern Nigeria was not frequently used by the French slave traders of the 18th century. One also notices that Igbo matches are the most frequent sub-Saharan group for both our parent and myself. Indeed, my parent and I even share one Igbo match, the only sub-Saharan African we match with at least 20 cM of shared ancestry among our matches. Intriguingly, our Haitian parent likewise matched 4 members of a single Igbo family on Ancestry. 

An additional plus of Ancestry's match features is the ability to view posted family trees. Perusing these trees indicated that most of our parent's Igbo matches have roots in 3 parts of Igboland: Abia, Imo and Anambra. Unfortunately, some family trees were not public or were not posted at all, but the results are suggestive enough as is. These three regions, all contiguous or nearby each other, may suggest our Igbo forebears hailed from the same region. Of course, people have moved around since the 1700s and there could be other factors at play here. However, some of these matches appear to have deep roots in these areas, particularly 4 matches from a single family with roots in Abia. If their family tree, which seems to stretch back into the 1800s, is a reliable indicator, they likely have roots in this part of southeastern Nigeria in the 1700s. 

On 23andme, Our Haitian parent only had 5 Igbo matches we could find (plus 2 individuals whose surname suggests Ibibio origins). We foolishly did not keep a record of birthplaces for specific areas or regions of southeastern Nigeria, but the Ibibio matches appear to have roots in Akwa Ibom and were higher matches than any of the Igbo. We wonder if this could also indicate Ibibio ancestry, although we lack any matches with chromosome browser features to explore the connection. 

French and European Matches

Although we are mainly interested in the African origins of the Haitian people, it is so much easier to look into European or European-descended DNA matches. In order to explore the French ancestry of Haitians, we focused on shared French-descended (or French Canadian, Belgian, and one Dutch person who appears to be of Belgian or French origin) individuals on Ancestry and My Heritage. Sadly, Ancestry does not have features that allow one to see where exactly and on which chromosomes user are aligned with their matches. My Heritage, however, has that feature. One can even triangulate quickly and easy for shared matches on the same segment. Thus, using My Heritage, Gedmatch, DNA Painter, and Ancestry, we compiled a quick table breaking down the French-affiliated matches.

Unsurprisingly, most are from France. And most of the matches were aligned on a segment of Chromosome 2 designated as "France" by Ancestry. Interestingly, this very same segment is something we share with a distant cousin whose ancestor was a brother or cousin of my great-great-grandfather. We suspect some of this French ancestry can be correlated with the Gaury or other free people of color who lived in Bainet in the 1700s. However, many of the other French matches shared a segment with us categorized as "Spain" by Ancestry. Most of these fell on Chromosome 4, a segment we also share with a Haitian with roots in the valley section of Bainet. We suspect the "Spain" category is misreading "France" but there is undoubtedly some overlap between Spain and France on these types of tests. What was more surprising was the presence of Belgian and a single Dutch match, although one can see genetic overlap between France and Belgium for myriad reasons.

Overall, the matches are usually small. But, this is to be expected when speaking of Haitians whose last French ancestors lived in the 1600s and 1700s. Since we share these matches with our Haitian parent, we assume most of these matches are Identical by Descent, too. Sadly, we lack something similar for African matches to fully explore that far more relevant and significant part of the Haitian origin story. Nonetheless, we have some theories now about the French ancestry of Haitians.

Francisque dit Omore of Borno

We are always on the hunt for more information on Borno and its Diaspora across the world, especially before the 19th century. Whilst perusing digitized French National Archive records of the 18th century slave and free people of color population living in metropolitan France, we encountered Francisque dit Omore. He was, by 1777, a free man, married to a white laundress, and working as a domestic in Paris for the marquis de la Solard. Unfortunately, piecing together more of his life and origins in Borno is difficult. However, it is exceedingly likely that he was a victim of the trans-Saharan slave trade. However, unlike many black Africans trafficked to Tripoli, he did not end up shipped to the Levant or Turkey. Instead, he was sold or transported to Malta, where a Frenchman, Pons-François de Rosset de Fleury, purchased him. This European man brought him to France by 1757, where he continued to work for Fleury until his death in 1774. By 1777, it is clear that Francisque was a free man, married to a European woman, and could sign his name. Intriguingly, he chose to sign it as Omor instead of Francisque or Francois. If Omor was an attempt at writing his name in Borno, perhaps Umar, then he still preferred to identify by his original name despite 20 years of living in Europe as a baptized man.

Sadly, trying to uncover more of Francisque dit Omore's Bornoan origins will be very difficult. His age is difficult to establish with certainty. If he truly was 39 years old in 1777, then perhaps he was born in 1738. Alternatively, if he was registered in 1762 as "Francois" of "Borno" as a "lackey" and slave of Fleury, he may have been born in or around 1734. It is probable that he was indeed from Birni Gazargamo, Borno's vast capital city with an even vaster district that encompassed many settlements. Regardless of when in the 1730s he was born, Francisque dit Omore was lived through troubled times in Borno. According to Nur Alkali, a drought that lasted several years coveredthe period of 1738-1753. With drought came famine, including one remembered during the reign of Dunama Gana (r. 1744-1747). Moreover, the drought led to population shifts of nomadic populations like the Jetko, Tubu, Koyam, and Fulani. Undoubtedly, a period of continued drought, famine, and pressure on both nomadic and sedentary agriculturalists probably triggered conflicts, including some that led to slave raids and kidnappings. When one considers the signs of weakness in the face of Tuareg and other raiders or the eventual loss of Borno control of the salt trade at Bilma by 1759, it is perhaps understandable how Francisque dit Omore of Birni Gazargamo may have been captured or sold into slavery during such an unstable time.

Bengal, Saint-Domingue, France

An example of how Asian Indians moved to colonial Haiti can be found in the life of a Bengal native, René Marie Antoine Zamor, Indien, du Bengale. France's National Archives contains digitized collections of the declarations of enslaved and free people of color in France, including a number of Saint Domingue blacks or mixed-race people. But let's return to the topic at hand. Only 14, the young Indian man was brought to France in 1773. He then went to Saint-Domingue, where his "owner" was in the military. He later returned to France in 1776. One can see here how Asian Indian slaves sometimes arrived in Saint-Domingue. 

Black Indians For Sale

Again, perusing the colonial newspaper of Saint Domingue can reveal some surprises. For instance, in 1786, when the Chevalier de Valmont announced he was departing for Europe, several "Black Indians" were put up for sale. Since other cases of "Black Indians" turned out to be Asian Indians, we suspect these domestics were similarly from India.

Bornoans in Saint Domingue

A map of colonial Haiti (Wikipedia)

We wanted to continue our method by applying it specifically to the "infinitely rare" Borno captives in Saint Domingue. The only detailed source on the Bornoan presence among Saint Domingue's African population comes from the French naturalist Descourtilz, who described those of the Rossignol Desdunes plantation in the Artibonite region. We are only told "plusiers" of this nation were present in the area. Checking the runaway slave ads posted in Saint-Domingue's newspaper only revealed 2 Borno captives, one of whom actually ran away in a group with 3 Hausa males. However, with very rough estimates based on the share of reported Borno maroons, we can perhaps get a clearer picture of their total numbers in the colony.

First, as only 2 out of 12,857 individuals reported in the press as runaways, we know Bornoans only represented about 0.015% of the maroons. If that proportion was similar to their share in the total population, we can estimate a total Bornoan population of about 78 to 124. Since their presence is only attested rather late in the colonial period, we prefer to base the estimate on the slave population in 1789-1791. Using an estimate of about 500,000 for the slave population in 1790 (although Geggus has suggested perhaps as many as 510,000) would mean that perhaps 78 were of the Borno nation. Of this estimate, it is probable that several died during the "seasoning" period of their adjustment to colonial slavery in the Caribbean. However, a total estimate of about 78 (possibly far less due to the paucity of documented Borno maroons) is at least somewhat plausible. After all, if a total of 153,057 slaves in the colony were imported on French ships from the Bight of Benin, 78 would represent less than 1% of that total. It is at least historically plausible that, in the second half of the 18th century, that 0.05% or so of the African captives from the Bight of Benin may have ultimately come from Borno. 

The figure of 78, again, is only a very rough estimate. But it might be consistent with perhaps a handful of large continents of Bornoans being sold to Europeans on the coast. Alternatively, the number could also be the result of small numbers of Borno captives being sold to traders at Porto Novo or Ouidah or Badagry over a long period of time. Once one takes into account the high mortality rate among African slaves, this general estimate of 78 could be significantly reduced to possibly as low as 39 or even fewer Bornoans, split among slaveholders in the Artibonite region and other parts of the colony.

Mozambiques and East Africans in Colonial Haiti

Trying to find details on the "Mozambiques" and East Africans in colonial Haiti is, rather difficult. They were largely imported into the colony during the last 2 decades of colonial rule, often being imported at Le Cap, Saint-Marc, and Port-au-Prince. While Jesuit historian Charlevoix mentioned an early presence of Monomotapa and Madagascar slaves in the colony, they were not considered desirable slaves by the French. However, the development of the Mascarenes and the insatiable need for labor in Saint-Domingue made East Africa and Mozambique a supplier of over 20,000 captives to the colony from 1773 until the 1790s. As the above maroon case indicates, some of these "Mozambiques" had even been enslaved in the Mascarenes for a while, learning French (and presumably, Mauritian Creole?) before being brought to Saint-Domingue. 

Michel, a Macoua (Makua) 

Trying to determine the "nations" of the Mozambiques in Saint-Domingue is difficult. The only two "nations" we have seen explicitly mentioned in the colony are Makua (Macoua, Maquoua) or Maconde (of Tanzania and parts of Mozambique). Despite the appellation, many of the "Mozambiques" came from diverse areas in Southeastern Africa. The Makua may have been a larger proportion of the total, but if the composition of the "Mozambiques" in the Mascarenes is a reliable indication, Saint-Domingue may have included Mondjavoas, Senas, Moussenas, Yambanes, Mouquindos, Maravis, and Niamoeses in addition to Makua and Maconde. This ethnic heterogeneity seems to have been completely lost in the eyes of Saint-Domingue's slaveholders, who should have known the "Mozambiques" were quite different from other Africans yet not a singular group in themselves.

A Mozambique who spoke Portuguese and Spanish

It also appears that some of the "Mozambiques" had spent substantial time in the Portuguese colony or among Lusophones. For instance, the above case of a runaway demonstrates how some "Mozambiques" could speak Portuguese and Spanish. This may explain why some of the "Mozambiques" encountered by Descourtilz were also devout Catholics (in his eyes). They, like some of the "Congo" in Saint-Domingue, were influenced by Roman Catholicism and may have added to the already Christian (or partly Christianized) segment of the enslaved population. Unfortunately, it is difficult to say to what extent these Catholic "Mozambiques" formed a significant part of the "Mozambique" population in Saint-Domingue, but they were conspicuous enough to be noticed by Descourtilz.

4 runaway Makuas. Perhaps the large concentration of "Mozambiques" in some areas favored marronage as they found people from the same or similar ethnolinguistic backgrounds to escape with.

A runaway slave of the Maconde "nation" appears here.

As for East Africans, purchased from Kilwa, Mombasa, Monfiat and Zanzibar, Saint-Domingue received a little over 2000. Vidargent, of the Malingue nation, may be an example of this East African (Tanzanian) presence. The French slave trader, Morice, used the word Malingue to refer to captives purchased from Kilwa. The name may be a corruption of Maningo or Machinga, peoples from the hinterland of Kilwa or the Tanzanian interior. Malingue could also refer to a completely different African "nation" in West or Central Africa, but we thought it interesting that Morice used the same word in the 1770s and an African of that "nation" appeared in the colony around the same time. This presence of captives purchased via the Swahili Coast was on a much smaller scale and, alas, the "nations" of these groups in the colony of Saint-Domingue are not clearly specified or listed in the archive. We know from Moreau de Saint-Mery that captives purchased from Montfiat, Kilwa, and variosu spots on the eastern coast of Africa could be found, including from some closer to the Cape of Good Hope (Natal Africans?). 

Sadly, our only somewhat detailed account of "Mozambiques" in colonial Haiti remains the work of Descourtilz. For example, he conversed with a Mirault who owned many Mozambiques, including one who allegedly consumed human blood. Again, it is via Descourtilz that we learn that some of the Mozambiques were Catholics through Portuguese influence. Even more useful is Descourtilz's brief and problematic description of the "Vaudoux" of the Mozambiques. According to him, their "Vaudoux" practice consisted of imploring their "serpent" or "vaudoux" for the favor of their masters, the acquisition of money, to find love or for other wishes. He even described a Mozambique "Vaudou" reunion which allegedly occurred at the Pelerin habitation in Saint-Louis. According to him, the Mozambiques met in a secret spot and as part of their ritual, a child was beaten or severely injured. Since Descourtilz did not witness some of the things he described, he must be used cautiously here. Nonetheless, we may be reading a very biased, incomplete account of diviners and spiritual practices of southeastern African peoples. 

After Haitian independence, the presence of "Mozambiques" was noted for some time. For example, a colonel named Louis Mosambique was killed by Petion in Saltrou for what may have been an attempted conspiracy or revolt in 1816. In terms of cultural legacy, it's possible their presence in Haiti was comparable to that of Brazil. They came in large numbers, but far smaller than other groups and therefore their cultural impact may be minimal. Instead, they were more likely to become part of the established culture among the enslaved. Nonetheless, it is both fascinating and horrifying to see the links between the Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean for the slave trade to the Mascarenes and the Caribbean. 

Bambara Runaways in Saint-Domingue

 

Samba, runaway "Bambara" in 1767. Samba as first name may be more indicative of a Fula or perhaps other Senegalese origin. Actual "Bambara" origins may be more likely when paired with a description of runaway slaves bearing evidence of facial scarification.

Part of the problem with gathering precise information on "Bambara" captives in Saint-Domingue is that the French themselves didn't seem to know much about them. They appear to have learned that there was indeed a "Bambara" language but runaway ads like the one above express confusion. We suspect "Mandingue" was meant instead of Bambara, particularly since Mandingues and Bambaras spoke related tongues.

Yet another example of the ambiguity of "Bambara" and other nations in Saint-Domingue. If the Tacoua were Nupe, then it seems unlikely for a Nupe person to speak "Bambara." If "Bambara" here is interpreted broadly as a Mande-related language, then it is possible for a Nupe woman to have also spoken or learned a language related to "Bambara." But it raises questions about the accuracy of labels like "Tacoua" and "Bambara" in the colony.

Another example of the ambiguity or perhaps broad meaning of "Bambara" can be seen in the case of a runaway named Fevrier. His nation, Saufo, probably Soso (Susu), a group present in the colony in larger numbers than we think, is described as a "type of Bambara." This suggests any group of peoples speaking languages similar to Bamana and probably non-Muslim could become a "Bambara."

Another ad for a runaway includes someone who spoke both Bambara and Thiamba. If Thiamba referred to the broader cluster of Gur peoples, then it is possible this man spoke Mandingue or Bambara. 

Even free blacks in Saint-Domingue called themselves Bambara. The case of Jacques dit Bambara is an interesting one, since he owned slaves and property near Mirebalais. 

Other "Bambara" runaways appear with Islamic names. Moussa, or Musa, could have been from another of different ethnic groups. We have encountered Bambara runaways with names like Boucary (Bakari) and Mamadoux.

Another ambiguous case involved a Bambara runaway who supposedly spoke Nago (Yoruba). If accurate, this is rather remarkable unless the "Bambara" maybe learned Nago in Saint-Domingue? The runaway ads also include one for a Bambara who spoke Mine, which is a bit more plausible.

Madagascar and Haiti

 

Thomas, a Madagascar captives listed in a notarial record from Jacmel, 1739. He may have arrived in Saint-Domingue on the ship, Saint-Michel, which imported 267 slaves into the colony in 1735.

One of the more interesting facets of the horrid annals of the French Slave Trade is the movement of over 20,000 captives from Southeast Africa to Saint-Domingue in the 18th century. Although only a fraction of the total imported slave population to colonial Haiti, this late 18th century trade (since most of the captives arrived from 1773-1792, though about 534 "Madagascar" captives were imported across the 1720s and 1730s on two voyages), the trade connected Haiti and the Atlantic with France's Indian Ocean trade and colonial interests in the Mascarenes. Unsurprisingly, most of the East African and Southeast African captives purchased by the French during the 18th century were destined for the Mascarenes, which even included a sizable enslaved population of Indians imported (which explains the tiny Asian Indian population in Saint-Domingue, too). 

Maroon Ali, a Griffe of Madagascar, posted in 1785.

The trade with Saint-Domingue was quite connected with this, however, as French ships traveling to India purchased goods that were then used to acquire slaves on the coast of Africa and Madagascar. Some of these ships then purchased captives from different parts of the Indian Ocean coast, sometimes acquiring captives from both Mozambique and Madagascar, before continuing into the Atlantic. Other ships, according to Jean Mettas's Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises au XVIIIe siècle, even stopped at the Cape of Good Hope (purchasing things like vine) or on the coasts of Angola to acquire slaves for sale in Saint-Domingue. The full story of the role of the Mascarenes as a base for the French slave traders active in both the Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean is a story worthy of attention, as it fully connects the trade in bonded labor in both oceans/worlds while also presaging the later movement of indentured Indian labor and "liberated" Africans in postemancipation years.

Runaway ad for 2 Madagascar Africans, 1785.

Let us return to Madagascar, however. The fascinating thing is that, despite their relatively early appearance in the colony the Trans-Atlantic Database at slavevoyages.org only has 534 captives from Madagascar arrived in Saint-Domingue. Charlevoix, the Jesuit historian who wrote a history of the island in the 1730s, also mentioned small numbers of "Monomotapa" and Madagascar slaves in the colony, but neither group were highly esteemed in the colony. This may indicate that some of the 534 captives imported over the course of the 1720s-1730s included people who were later called "Mozambiques" or perhaps slaves purchased in Madagascar but from the mainland. A study of the Sakalava state and its role in the supply of slaves to Europeans in the period would be potentially fruitful for understanding the origins of Madagascar captives in the Americas. Regardless, the presence of Southeast Africans was clearly very minor in the first half of the 18th century. Perusing the notarial records for different parishes of the colony may reveal more of their numbers, as our example of Thomas, an enslaved person in the Jacmel area illustrates. Some free people of color in the colony were also reputed to be descendants of Madagascar slaves, such as the Roumat of Jacmel. Perhaps Jacmel received a disproportionate share of "Madagascar" slaves in the 1720s and 1730s? If they were not highly desired, some of the indigo and coffee planters in the Jacmel quarter may have been more desperate and willing to accept them?

Runaway ad for Zephir, a Malgache with an Indian accent, 1788.

However, with the rapid expansion of the slave trade with Southeast Africa in the last 2 decades of the 18th century, the Madagascar captives reappear. And this is in spite of the overwhelming majority of captives from this region being acquired from Mozambique. According to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade database, 15,280 "Mozambiques" were disembarked in Saint-Domingue with another  2644 purchased from the area of Kilwa. Clearly, for the Malagasy to reappear in Saint-Domingue during the final 2 decades of colonial rule, some must have been acquired from the Mascarenes, unspecified ports, or ships that purchased captives at multiple areas in Southeast Africa. Consulting the work of Mettas provides a few examples of slavers that did exactly this, purchasing some captives in Madasgascar and the Mascarenes but bringing cargos mainly consisting of "Mozambiques" to Saint-Domingue. One particular example, La Victoire, picked up around 80 captives at Bombetoc before continuing its voyage toward the Atlantic in 1785. We suspect this may have occurred more often than recognized or detectable from surviving sources, particularly given the large Madagascar component of the enslaved population in the Mascarenes during this era. Perhaps a decent chunk of the 1,449 slaves from unspecificied Southeast African ports were Malagasy.

A 1773 runaway ad for a Malgaffe, or Malgasse, slaves. 1773 is also the year of the earliest known direct slave imports from Mozambique to Saint-Domingue. A baker in Leogane also posted for sale a Madagascar domestic, Bourbon, in 1775.

As the above runaway ad illustrates, the reappearance of Madagascar slaves in Saint-Domingue coincided with the year of the first documented slave ship bringing captives from Mozambique to the colony. Since the return of Malagasy captives to Saint-Domingue happened at the same time as the larger scale trade in Mozambique captives to the Mascarenes, ethnic groups appearing there likely indicate the same origins of Madagascar slaves in Haiti. Madagascar natives enslaved in the Mascarenes were drawn from the following groups and areas: Antateimo, Betsileo, Hova, Sakalava, according to Baron d'Unienville. Allen, citing a 1817 slaves register on Mauritius, lists the following groups found there: Ambanivolo, Amboalambo (Merina), Andrantsay, Antaisaka, Antalaotra, Antanosy, Antatsimo, Betanimena, Maninga (sic), Marvace (sic) and Sakalava. Although these are the known ethnic groups for 19th century Malagasy slaves in the Mascarenes, one is probably on safe ground to suspect that it was similar in its ethnic distribution in the late 18th century. Interestingly, we do not see the Bara people listed, a group who, per the speculative reasoning of Jean Fouchard, may have provided the name or at least influenced Haiti's national dance. 

The sale of a Madagascar slave sailor who could speak very good French, in 1786.

To what extent these Malagasy peoples contributed to the formation of Haitian culture is unclear. Their numbers were far smaller than those of "Mozambique" origin, and the "Mozambiques" do not appear to have bequeathed too much to Haitian culture. However, genetic studies of the Haitian population undoubtedly reflects Southeast African ancestry, as a survey of Haitian African matches by the Tracing African Roots project indicates. Nonetheless, an African person of Madagascar origin was the subject of a Haitian newspaper article in 1839. Named Lundi, this Madagascar native was a slave and master sucrier on the Santo habitation in the Croix-des-Bouquet area. Apparently, he saved the estate 3 times during the tumultuous years of the Haitian Revolution and post-1804 conflicts. The article, published in L'Union, praises Lundi while also lamenting the demise of Haiti's sugar production. Due to the class biases of the author and the interests of some of the journal's contributors in reviving large-scale plantation agriculture, one should probably interpret the story of Lundi very carefully. However, it is one of the few accounts mentioning people of Malagasy origin in 19th century Haiti. 

A Correction...

A correction is in order. In an old post for this site, we wrote about the tiny population of Asian Indians in Saint Domingue. In that brief foray into the slave trade of Asian Indians and their presence in the pre-19th century Caribbean, we repeated what we have recently learned is most likely an error about one of those exceptional voyages that allegedly carried captives from India to Saint-Domingue. Well, consulting the sources that are accessible has clarified the matter. 

In brief, we relied on Richard Allen's scholarship for insights on the nature of slavery and the slave trade in the Mascarenes. His work was invaluable for beginners like us who were (and are) still struggling to make sense of the Indian Ocean World and its ties to important Atlantic World colonies like Saint Domingue. Nonetheless, it appears like Jean Mettas, whose Répertoire des expéditions négrières françaises au XVIIIe siècle is an excellent source of information on the French Slave Trade, made a mistake with regards to at least one slave ship. This was La Cibele, or Cybele, a ship which arrived in Le Cap after a long voyage from the Indian Ocean. According to one archival source cited by Mettas, La Cybele reached Saint Domingue from the "coasts of India." However, Mettas or Allen did not consult Saint Domingue's newspaper for details on the human cargo of the vessel. 

According to Affiches americaines, the 400 or so slaves were actually acquired from Mozambique, not India. This is more logical and fits with the pattern of French slaving voyages to Mozambique, Madagascar and the Mascarenes acquiring goods from India for the purchase of slaves in Africa, then bringing said African captives to the Americas. The ship was also carrying Indian merchandise, so it likely did travel to India (or purchased the goods in the Mascarenes?). But the approximately 400 African slaves brought to Le Cap were, at least according to the press, from Mozambique. 

This suggests that ships which did travel from India to Saint-Domingue and brought slaves from the subcontinent were probably more akin to the cases we found in our past exploration of the newspaper. One at least 2 occasions ships coming from India to Saint Domingue included slaves for sale (40 and 16), but it is still not entirely clear said captives were actually from India. However, it is probable that some were, as the appearance of "Negro Indians" and references to specific regions of India for some runaway slaves or slave sale advertisements suggest. "Blacks" from the Malabar Coast, Bengale, the Coromandel Coast, or "black Indians" from Mauritius (Ile de France) and Bourbon or Madras undoubtedly prove the presence of said Indians in the colony. 

Rough Estimates for the "Nations" of Jacmel Slaves (c.1782)

Another crude method of calculating somewhat plausible numbers for the "nations" of the Jacmel Quartier's enslaved population is to use the numbers from the 1782 Census. While probably an undercount or plagued by inaccuracies, it does provide a total number of the slave population, which means one can use the numbers from Roseline Siguret's study of the quartier's indigo and coffee estates from 1757-1791 to crudely approximate the possible distribution of "nations" in the popular of the region. While very imperfect, doing so gives the numbers above for the "nations" in Siguret's table. 

First, the Creole preponderance is undeniable, although it may have been even higher if slave imports at the port of Jacmel were low, as was the case in 1786. Slaveholders would have had to rely on smuggling or the intra-colony slave trade to provide new captives, probably a mix of both. The next striking feature is how, assuming our crude estimate is somewhat close to the reality, the huge Congo and Central African presence was. The "Congos" and Mondongues plus smaller numbers of other groups who appear to be from Central Africa (Maiemba, for instance) were about 24% of the total slave population. That said, one is shocked by our estimate for the still reasonably high numbers of Senegalais, Mandingues, Bambaras, and other Upper Guinea "nations" in the region. Furthermore, the Ibos, in our estimate, were over 9% of the total slave population. 

Overall, the trends from our estimate reveal a plurality of Creoles with a substantial "Congo" presence and Ibo presence. The persistence of African nations from the Bight of Benin as well as Upper Guinea (perhaps around 8%) illustrates a great diversity of slave imports continued well into the late 18th century. The huge Creole population, too, very likely descended, perhaps to a greater degree, from Africans purchased from the Slave Coast and Upper Guinea, too. Of course, these estimates are likely to be very inaccurate for the smaller nations, such as several whose numbers in Siguret's survey were only 1 or 2. In addition, some of the slave population's "national" identity may have switched over time, as some became another "nation" or later captives from that same background were "reconceived" as belonging to a new or different "nation" instead. Thus, the above table is meant only as a very "rough" idea of what the ethnicities of slaves in Jacmel, Bainet and Cayes de Jacmel may have been like in c.1782.

An Overview of "Nations" in the Jacmel Quarter (1718-1739)

Although our amateurish attempts to tally the number of each "nation" among the enslaved in the Jacmel Quartier is only just beginning, here are our results from our perusal of the Saint Domingue Notariat, particularly the amazing resource, Minutes notariales, 1704-1803. We decided to focus on the years from 1718-1739 for now since that period covers the early transition to coffee in the region during the 1730s. Utilizing the archive's collection of records by the following notaries, Neys, Delorme-de-Boissy, Fouquet, and Laville, we scoured the digitized collection on the Family Search website. We would have loved to have begun earlier, but we do not know which records survive that would cover the slave imports in this part of the colony from c.1698-1718. Perhaps they would have been similar in origin to slaves in Grand-Goave and Leogane, where some of the early Bainet and Jacmel planters moved from. Or, alternatively, some were those imported by the Compagnie de Saint-Domingue via the Slave Coast and West Central Africa (as well as those smuggled via English or Dutch traders, as suggested by the appearance of a few English Creole slaves).

Furthermore, in our collection of the data, we focused on inventories, leases and documents naming at least 10 adult slaves. We also focused on documents that actually gave the "nations" of most of the enumerated bonded persons. Some notaries did not record this information, sadly, so we left the information out. It is a shame, since they sometimes recorded "exotic" slaves of "Indian" origin in 1719 but did not provide the "nations" of other captives.  Nonetheless, due to the difficulty of reading some documents and the occasional inclusion of slaves without a specified "nation" in other contracts, we still ended up with a rather large number (16) who are not of a clear "nation." For a similar reason, we omitted the number of children since their precise "nation" is either not provided, although we suspect that in several cases they were born in the colony or arrived at such a young age they would have been "Creolized" more quickly than adults. In addition, earlier records also use names for "nations" that disappear in the 1730s, perhaps reflecting changes in the pattern of slave imports or the complex creation of new "nations" within the colonial context. Last but certainly not least, we could not always precisely state what type of plantation the aforementioned captives labored at. Many of the records mentioned indigoteries, barrels of indigo and similar information about the specifics of the plantations, yet it is likely that some planters invested in indigo and other crops. 

Let us return to the numbers. Our sample of 243 adult slaves over a period of nearly around 20 years represents only a snapshot of what the "nations" of the quarter's 2532 slaves may have been in the 1739 census. Nonetheless, it is interesting to note that it already seems close to the patterns in Siguret's table of "nations" for the Jacmel quartier for the period 1757-1791. Already, the two largest "nations" may have been "Creole" and "Congo" by 1739. And one would suspect the Creoles, even larger when counting children, were often the children of captives from the Slave Coast, Senegambia and Congo brought to the colony in the early 1700s or late 1600s. We suspect the name Loango was dropped in favor of "Congo" to reflect what may have been additional sources of Central African captives in the colony. Furthermore, the increase in the Bambara population in Siguret's data might reflect the growth and decline of Bamana states like Segu over the course of the 18th century, producing additional "Bambara" captives sold on the Senegambian coast. We similarly imagine that the high number of Aradas was also connected with Dahomey's expansion and conquest of Ouidah and Allada, probably producing more "Arada" slaves (although "Arada" almost certainly encompassed many different peoples sold on the Bight of Benin) in the 1720s and perhaps, 1730s. The early appearance of the Barba (Bariba) also suggest some captives from areas north of Dahomey and Oyo were being sold on the coast.

When broken into larger regions of Upper Guinea, Lower Guinea and Central Africa, one sees that the "Upper Guinea" captives were a much smaller proportion of the slave population. The Bambara, Mandingue, Senegal, and other possible "Upper Guinea" nations represent only a small fraction of the total, probably less than 10%. Since some of the "unknown" nations and perhaps a decent fraction of the Creoles were children of slaves from Upper Guinea, their influence in the region might have been stronger than detectable from the limited data available. Nonetheless, they were clearly smaller in numbers than those from Central Africa and Lower Guinea. When reviewing the notarized records, some of the Senegal slaves may have retained their names (including one woman named Fatima) and aspects of their culture probably contributed to the formation of an early Creole "slave culture" in the region.

Central Africa, whose "Congos" produced the largest African "nation" in the quarter, were of major demographic importance. At least 61 were from Central Africa, meaning at least 25% were from this region of Africa. It was possibly higher if one considers some of the "unknown" or ambiguous "nations" to be Central Africa. Overall, the Congos were undoubtedly a major presence in the area. The expansion of coffee plantations in the 1730s may have favored an even larger increase of their numbers since coffee planters are said to have favored Congos, according to Geggus. Unfortunately, the lumping together of so many Central Africans (Congos) and the few Mondongue and Loango homogenizes them. Nonetheless, some were undoubtedly from the Kongo kingdom or nearby areas. One Congo was even named Miguel, while others retained their African names (Macaya, Zomby). As speculated by others, Kongo Catholicism may have been a factor here in spreading or at least shaping local Christian practices.

Last, but certainly not least, Lower Guinea. The majority of the enslaved population appears to have roots there, as seen in the high numbers of Mines, Ibos, and Aradas. Adding the few Nagos, Oueda and Jouda to this suggests a proportion of at least 37% of the total. Again, the Creoles likely included many whose parents hailed from this region, too. As several scholars have long noted, the predominance of a cultural influence from Aja-Fon peoples likely dates to this period era in the colonial slave trade. Like other parts of the colony, the Jacmel quarter seems to have also been very much populated by captives from the Slave Coast. In addition, a significant number of Ibo and Bibi also point to the Bight of Biafra as an important source of captive labor. Arada, Nago and other groups from this period remained an important part of the slave population in the period from 1757-1791, too. Siguret's study of indigo and coffee plantations found a pronounced Ibo and Arada presence, a pattern we have also noted in Bainet in 1791.

Unfortunately, much of ANOM's collection has not been digitized and we are missing pre-1790s Bainet notarized documents. We may continue this little project by reviewing Delorme-de-Boissy files from the 1740s, which could give us better insights into the nature of the coffee boom. Its impact on slave demographics and the patterns of "nations" in the colony may challenge or support our current thinking on this matter. Data from Grand-Goave and Leogane would also be worth reviewing for a broader regional approach, beyond the southeastern corner of the colony. 

Nupe in Saint Domingue

The Nupe, known in Saint Domingue as Tapa or Taqua, the former derived from a Yoruba appellation for them, also had a presence there before the 1770s. The above example, from the corpus of runaway notices on this excellent site, indicates that by 1766, an enslaved Nupe (or Atapa) man, Jupiter, had run away. This early appearance of the Nupe coincides with the appearance of a Gambery (Gambary) maroon the same year. While we need to find evidence of Nupe and Hausa in Saint Domingue from earlier plantation records and sales, this does suggest that people from areas north of Oyo were being sold along the Slave Coast. In small numbers, yes, and still referred to by the label known via Yoruba-speakers, but illustrative of how the slave trading network of Oyo intersected with both the Atlantic and the northern regions. Oyo, in exchange for horses, slaves and other goods, was an intermediary the Nupe and Hausa to the north would have engaged with for access to European goods from the coast (although European products were also crossing the Sahara via the trans-Saharan trade routes). 

What is particularly interesting about the Nupe in Saint-Domingue is the mention of "Nago-Taqua" captives in 1773 and 1778 in the runaway slave ads posted in Affiches américaines. Bringing to mind the pattern in 19th century Cuba where Lucumi-Jausa, Lucumi-Tapa and other combinations appear in the archive, this almost certainly reflects the centuries-long interactions between Nupe and Yoruba groups. It could also reflect, perhaps, a Nupe person who had been enslaved in Oyo for some length of time before being sold on the coast. It makes one wonder if some of the people categorized as being of the "Nago" nation in Saint Domingue may have been of Nupe, Bariba or Hausa origins.

Saint Domingue Slave Imports in 1786

Another gem from ANOM's collection of digitized census rolls and similar information from Saint Domingue includes a 1786 document on slave imports and the colony's enslaved population. This is interesting in that it records only 2 slave ships visited the port of Jacmel that year, unloading 312 captives. The port was clearly of marginal importance for the slave ships visiting the island from Africa. Unsurprisingly, this indicates that the majority of the slaves in Jacmel must have been purchased from Port-au-Prince, other parts of the island, or smuggled illegally.

Indian Slavery, or Captives of Conquest

For all interested in learning about the origins of enslaved indigenous peoples in the Spanish circum-Caribbean, Woodruff Stone's Captives of Conquest: Slavery in the Early Modern Spanish Caribbean is an enlightening read. Captives of Conquest demonstrates how central Indian labor and the commodification of their very lives was to the process of Spanish colonial expansion from 1492-1550. It also highlights how the Caribbean laid the foundations for Spanish America through the role of slave raiding, slave auxiliaries, and slave trading for Spanish exploration and travel to new parts of the Americas. The often weak authority of the Spanish Crown and the evolving discourse on Indian rights, labor regimes, and "race" can be seen in the pivotal half-century or so in which hundreds of thousands of Indians were, voluntarily or involuntarily, participants in the creation of European colonialism in the western hemisphere. 

Our interest in reading this work was mainly with regard to the degree or extent foreign Indian slaves intermarried and interacted with local indigenous populations of the Caribbean and the increasingly important African population of the Greater Antilles. Citing various colonial records on the trade in Indians from Tierra Firme, Mexico, Brazil, Central America, Florida, and beyond, Woodruff Stone presents clear evidence for a vast scale of slave trading that brought more Indians to Hispaniola, Puerto Rico, Cuba, and Jamaica. Thus, despite the dwindling local indigenous population in Hispaniola or Puerto Rico, the slave trade of Indians from throughout the circum-Caribbean introduced thousands more. Their labor was essential for Spanish sugar plantations, gold mining, and domestic service, especially since African slaves were more expensive. Despite their numerical significance, high mortality rates and the lack of sufficient records (after all, many Indians were victims of illegal Spanish slave raids, including against allies of the Spanish in Venezuela), they continued to be important ever after 1542. Indeed, this proves that some of the colonial reports of Hispaniola or Puerto Rico lacking Indian populations after 1550 were partly inspired by officials eager to hide their continued enslavement of indigenous peoples. 

Drawing on pre-contact Caribbean mobility, trade, and cultural networks, Captives of Conquest establishes that the indigenes of the region had long-established connections. However, it appears that the rapid influx of thousands of foreign Indians from places as disparate as Florida and Mexico or the Yucatan and the interior of Venezuela may have further weakened Taino caciques. If local caciques, whose authority was already eroded by the repartimiento of 1514 on Hispaniola and rapid population declines and dislocations caused by the Spanish, were also losing authority because of the introduction of thousands of foreign Indians, then we are inclined to think locals had to reconceive local political and social traditions. Even if foreign Indians were slaves and locals part of an encomienda system, in practice the distinction between a free and an enslaved Indian might not have meant much. Thus, we are inclined to think foreign Indians who survived may have joined local Indian communities and helped create new identities. Evidence of this can be seen in Yucatecan and Taino marriages in colonial Cuba. According to Captives of Conquest, some of these populations also intermarried with Africans, thereby adding more cultural diversity. 

Our guess is that Puerto Rico experienced something similar as local Indians intermarried or formed new communities with those from the Lesser Antilles, the Bahamas, Yucatan, and Tierra Firme. Perhaps this may explain why the cacique of Mona, for instance, was a native of Tierra Firme living in San German during the 1590s. If non-local Indians could rise to positions of authority, and the Taino were always mobile and engaged in long-distance trade, perhaps foreign Indians were more assimilable than we can detect from the Spanish accounts. Thus, perhaps the enslaved Indians enumerated in the de Lando census of 1530, who already outnumbered "free" Indians in Puerto Rico, may have included people who adopted local Indian practices or joined their communities. Or later did so, possibly contributing to the maintenance of Indian communities and practices that were later adopted by all the free peasantry of the island.

Saugrain Habitation in Bainet (Anse à Canot)

The Saugrain habitation in early 18th century Bainet is actually one of the indigoteries for which we have some data on its enslaved workforce. Much of our interest in the Saugrain comes from Alexis Saugrain, the son of Francois Saugrain and a woman named Barbe. Alexis, Charles, and Francois were the sons of these two and all three appear to have been born in Saint-Domingue (in Grand-Goave). Their father, who remarried a few years before his demise, expired in 1719. Their father was presumably from Normandy, as the Jacmel parish registers indicate in his marriage to a Marguerite Francq. The parents of Alexis and his brothers appear in the 1735 testament of Francois Saugrain, naming Alexis as his heir. Charles Saugrain also gave some of his property (including 3 slaves) to Alexis in that same year...

Alexis Saugrain's brother's testament from 1735 names their parents. Yes, I know...3 different generations of men named Francois Saugrain. Alexis had a brother named Francois, father called Francois, and a grandfather named Francois...

In 1720, the property of the Saugrain habitation was listed and can be found on among the Saint-Domingue Notariat from Jacmel in the 1720s. Luckily, FamilySearch's website included it among their limited Saint-Domingue Notariat records. We have produced a crude table illustrating the enslaved population by its "national" origins. The Creole predominance this early in a Bainet plantation is a little striking.

Nation		Quantity
Arada		5
Creole		20
Senegalois		1
Minne (Mine)		4
Nago		1
Mamou		3
Mondongue		1
Loango		1
Samba?		1
Adouri?		1
Jouda		1
Oueda		1

From 1703, when the Saugrain household only included 8 slaves in the census, their habitation increased to 40 enslaved laborers by 1720. Half of their human "property" consisted of Creoles, mostly children and born in the colony. Suzanne, the woman we suspect to be the same slave of the Saugrain who gave birth to a daughter who married a Gory in 1738, was the only Creole born outside of Saint-Domingue. The other notable feature of the data is the weak presence of Central Africans. The ubiquitous "Congos" are only represented by 2 Central Africans, 1 Mondongue and 1 person who probably came from or via Loango. The Senegalois presence is also limited, despite the Senegambia region probably providing a more sizable portion of Saint-Domingue's slave population than in later decades.

Thanks to ANOM, we know Francois Saugrain married a Marguerite Francq in 1717, whose father was from Jamaica. Baptisms recorded for other children of Jean Francq refer to him as a slave of Francois Saugrain...

In this sample, clearly the Slave Coast and Gold Coast were the major sources of Africans. The Minne or Mine represented 10 percent of the total. If one combines Arada, Jouda, Nago, and Oueda, then 20 percent came via the Slave Coast. Allada, once the dominant kingdom in today's Benin, claimed suzerainty over Ouidah during the period before 1720 and powerful Oyo to the north also contributed to the provision of captives through its slave trade. Of the African-born population on the plantation, 40 percent appear to have been from the Slave Coast. If the identification of the ambiguous "nations" could be confidently asserted, then the Slave Coast proportion might have been even higher. Unfortunately, we have no idea what to make of the Mamou, Samba (?) and the other unknown nation. Google searching brings up a Mamou in Guinea, which probably isn't what we are looking for. The other 2 are unknown to us and Debien has not provided any clues. It is interesting to note that none of the adult males were Creoles. Supposedly the Saugrain did own an adult Creole a few years before 1720, a native of Jamaica named Jean Francq. But he must have been freed since his children were freed by the Saugrain. 

We cannot decipher the "nation" or ethnic background of Andre.

Naturally, we cannot ascertain how representative the Saugrain habitation was for Bainet or Jacmel in the 1720s. Indigo plantations must have differed from other types, and we know the Compagnie de Saint-Domingue was still the main (legal) source of slaves. Perhaps smuggling (such as a slave from Jamaica and a slave from Curacao) provided much of the laborers? We would have to find inventories, deeds, and testaments for other parts of Bainet or Jacmel for a more representative sample of Bainet's African population in the early 1700s. Yet it is still interesting to know what one early Bainet plantation looked like and the world one of our (probable) enslaved ancestors experienced.