Pirates, Bloodhounds, and White Heirs: Catharine Maria Sedgwick’s Fictions of Haiti Mark Kelley “It should no longer be possible to write a history of the early American republic without mentioning Haiti, or St. Domingue,” Elizabeth Maddock Dillon and Michael Drexler note in their 2016 collection, The Haitian Revolution and the Early United States (1). Haiti’s revolution (1789–1804) fundamentally challenged the white-supremacist legacy of its US revolutionary counterpart (1775–83). What began in Haiti as a large-scale revolt against French colonial rule concluded with the hemisphere’s first free Black republic.1 In turn, US writers confronted the potential disruption of white hegemony in their own nation and across the hemisphere.2 Just as a Haiti-less US history is impossible, the same could be said of Catharine Maria Sedgwick’s literary career. At present, Sedgwick is only sparingly considered part of the subsequent “transatlantic print culture of the Haitian revolution” that Marlene L. Daut recounts in her 2015 field-shaping book, Tropics of Haiti: Race and the Literary History of the Haitian Revolution in the Atlantic World, 1789–1865 (3).3 Melissa Homestead has introduced the crucial idea that Sedgwick “insistently represented cultural and economic ties between the USA and the Caribbean,” but she stops short of further exploration and, I will show, casts those “ties” in overly neutral terms (“Shape” 192).4 The “ties” Sedgwick highlights include US wealth stolen from Haiti, diasporic culture imported from Haiti, antislavery sentiment powered by Haiti, and, most complicatedly, proslavery sympathies justified as a response to Haiti. Like us, Sedgwick knew that it was impossible to write her history without Haiti. In practice, she presents Haiti as too vital to repress yet too revolutionary to praise. Haiti subsidizes and unsettles Sedgwick’s vision of Jacksonian America. The full scope of Haiti’s revolutionary history, diasporic culture, indissoluble sovereignty, independent economy, and rejection of white hegemony is not to be found in Sedgwick’s fiction. From her perspective, this free Black republic [End Page 1] was primarily a source of American wealth, a shaper of its culture, and a threat to its prevailing white hegemony. Thus, she writes in the discourse of “manifest domesticity,” in Amy Kaplan’s term, wherein America is constituted via real and imagined domination over Haiti.5 This dynamic is strongest in a trio of works published in succession: the canonical Hope Leslie; or, Early Times in the Massachusetts (1827), the children’s story “Dogs” (1828), and the pirate novel-of-manners Clarence; or, A Tale of Our Own Times (1830). As I show, the underdeveloped pirate plot in Hope Leslie—in which a Tortuga-bound Chaddock and his piratical crew threaten to kidnap Hope—charges the historical novel’s climax with an unspoken fear: colonial violence could have begotten (or may yet beget) novel systems of enslavement or revolution centered in Haiti. Sedgwick’s removal of the pirate, I conclude, allows her to reject this multivalent Haiti in favor of colonial wealth’s transfer to white New Englanders. In “Dogs,” such heirs confess colonial powers’ denial of Haitian rights. Here, a New England family’s discussion of dogs’ moral training suddenly leads to a précis of bloodhounds’ violence against revolutionary Haitians; in the process, Sedgwick warns that dogged plantation violence or racial revolution may soon pierce US bodies. The solution, she implies, is to promote a more benevolent white hegemony. Sedgwick perfects this process in her subsequent novel. Set in 1820s New York, Clarence portrays a dog-wielding pirate’s threat to ostensibly blameless heiresses of fortunes derived from colonial Saint Domingue and Jamaica. Repeating the pattern established in Hope Leslie and “Dogs,” these white heroines’ rejection of immoral piracy coincides with their acceptance of colonial wealth. In total, Sedgwick implies that white Jacksonian heirs must insulate themselves from post-revolutionary violence while retaining pre-revolutionary spoils. As these readings begin to show, two figures embody Sedgwick’s ambivalent yet self-serving approach to Haiti: pirates and bloodhounds. As numerous scholars confirm, pirates are compelling devices for those seeking to portray national power, its limits, or its alternatives.6 The “bucaniers of Tortuga” in Hope Leslie (334), the Haitian bloodhounds in “Dogs,” and...