On a hot night in the middle of August 1791, in a wooded clearing in the mountains above the northern plain of Saint-Domingue, men and women gathered where the lanterns of the great houses could not reach them. They came on foot through the cane, slipping away from plantations whose owners counted them as property and nothing more. Some had crossed the ocean in chains and still carried the names of African towns in their mouths. Others had been born on the island and knew only the cane, the whip, and the work that killed a grown person in a handful of years. They spoke different languages, and before that night, many of them had prayed to different spirits, but now they came together in the dark. As a storm blew in, the drums began.

What happened in that clearing has been told and retold for more than two centuries, until the oral legends passed down nearly swallowed the truth. The place is now known as Bois Caïman, or Alligator Wood, and the man at its center is remembered as Boukman, an enslaved coachman and religious leader. Beside him, in most accounts, stood a woman named Cécile Fatiman. A pig was sacrificed, an oath was sworn, and within days, one of the richest colonies in the world was burning.

Historians still argue about the details, and they are right to do so, because almost everything later generations think they know about that night comes from people who were not there or from enemies of those who were. The most vivid details reached history books only decades afterward, set down from things old men remembered. The argument over the ceremony has obscured something that is, however, not in doubt - the men and women who rose against the plantations of Saint-Domingue did not rise as a mob but as a community, and the thing that bound that community together, across languages and nations and the wreckage of the Middle Passage, was a shared spiritual world. Outsiders later gave that thing a name they spat like a curse: voodoo.