by David Pesci
Forsyth met with Calderón earlier in the day. Coming from an authoritarian monarchy, the minister had a difficult time understanding how the legal maneuvering of a small group of political radicals and an impending hearing by some provincial tribunal could take precedence over the will of the country’s chief executive.
“If her Catholic Majesty or one of her ministers ordered prisoners to be delivered, then, by God, they would be delivered.”
Forsyth went on to explain the separation of powers within the government and how even an order from the President could not extricate a person or persons from the right to due process.
Calderón erupted into laughter.
“Well, certainly your Constitution is written in that way, but you do not mean to tell me that in reality it supersedes the will of your leaders?”
Forsyth explained that it did. When Calderón realized the Secretary of State was speaking in earnest and that the President of the United States was unable to intervene in such a piddling affair, he nearly stormed out. It was all Forsyth could do to calm him down.
“You know, it is just something like this that the British have been waiting for,” Calderón hissed. “They have had eyes for Cuba for many years now. If this gets out of hand …”
“Trust me, Señor Calderón, it will not. It should all be resolved within a few weeks.”
“A few weeks? Your papers are filled with stories about contraband Africans. Why are you not controlling that? Why isn’t your president forbidding such stories?”
“Unfortunately, the government cannot suppress journalists, no matter how reckless or irresponsible they become with conjecture and fabrication.”
“Preposterous! All of this is just preposterous. Why, in Spain, such denunciations would be handled immediately. This, this flaccid government of yours will be your ruin. Trust me, Señor Forsyth, you will never be a power in the world if you cannot impose the will of your leaders at home.”
Forsyth raised a single eyebrow. He was a man of great control and could usually restrain his temper, but right now it was all he could do to keep from slapping Calderón’s words back into his mouth.
“We call it democracy, Señor Calderón. And we much prefer it to the tyrannical ravings of a whimsical monarch, or in your case, a child queen.”
“Señor Secretary! You will apologize immediately for any disparaging comments you have just made to her Catholic Majesty or I will lodge a format protest with your government!”
Forsyth smiled. “Señor Calderón, I certainly did not intend to slight your queen in the least, nor did I in any way mean to imply that she was either a tyrant or whimsical. I merely pointed out that she, though certainly a most wise and beneficent ruler, is in fact a child. But if you find this fact disparaging, I certainly do apologize.”
Calderón measured the words in his head. They sounded sincere, and believed he had a fair comprehension of English. Yet he could not help but feel he had been insulted again. But before he could say anything, Forsyth spoke up.
“Now, with regards to the press. Though it is true we cannot control the newspapers, I believe we can use them to our mutual benefit.”
“How so?”
“My government’s aim is still to resolve this situation between ourselves, between the executive and your ministry,” Forsyth said. “I know it was in both our interests to keep negotiations on this hushed, but events have taken a very public turn. Thus, it might suit our purposes if we, too, added fuel to the flames of public conjecture.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it would be best if you composed a letter protesting the trial and the handling of the affair. Emphasize that the blacks are in fact Spanish subjects. Cite the Treaty of 1795, Pickney’s Treaty on sea commerce. We will let a copy of your letter fall into the hands of newspapers sympathetic to our cause. At the same time we will issue the administration’s position, which will be virtually identical. What the public will see is two different governments coming to the same conclusion on the issue. If we can create enough public perception that the Amistad incident is in fact covered under that treaty and is best left to the executive, then it will be easier for a judge to draw a similar conclusion.”
“Why don’t you simply instruct the judge how to rule?”
“I’m afraid the courts do not work that way. The lawyers for both sides have to make their arguments and precedents must be adhered to. However, the President asked a highly placed attorney to render a written opinion about the case. The attorney also focused on Pickney’s Treaty, the Treaty of 1819, and the fact that according to the documentation taken, the slaves are Spanish subjects. This will be the basis of our argument in court next week. It’s a strong case. We are very confident the judge will find favorably for our side. I’ve noted the salient passages.”
Forsyth passed a copy of the document to Calderón. The Spanish minister thumbed through the document and shrugged.
“This all seems like so much work for something that in my country could be done with just a wave of a hand. But I will do as you say.”
An hour later Forsyth met with the President.
“He is a whining, petulant little peacock.” Forsyth sighed. “But Calderón agreed to write the letter.”
“You did not mention that the opinion was written by the Attorney General?”
“Mr. Grundy’s name or title never came up, sir. I simply said it was the opinion of a high-placed lawyer.”
“How long before we receive Calderón’s protest?”
“I would think we shall have it by tomorrow at the latest.”
“You know, John, in addition to all the problems this case can cause domestically, I’m also worried about the British.”
“Señor Calderón expressed similar sentiments. He believes that if the slaves are found to be contraband Africans, it will be all the British need to begin an incursion in Cuba.”
“I agree. And you know, if they take Cuba, Texas will be next. We cannot grant Sam Houston statehood at this point, but I think it would be impossible to avoid involvement in the event of some sort of Anglo invasion. Not that this will happen tomorrow, but it certainly sets up all the pieces.”
Forsyth sensed the opportunity to take a new course. It was something he had been hoping for. “What would you like me to do, Mr. President?”
Van Buren paused. He had read Grundy’s opinion and was confident that the circuit court would rule in their favor. But he also knew that courtrooms held no guarantees. However, if he and Forsyth began discussing alternatives, it would certainly lead them down a path of dark shadows. It was not a direction the President wanted to take. At least, not yet.
“Don’t do anything. Let the hearing go on and let us remain confident that justice will take its proper course.”
Circuit Court
“Singbe! Singbe!”
The tribesmen sat in wagons under the rising morning sun. The sky was blue and clear, but the air held a crisp fifty-degree chill. It was much cooler than any of the tribesmen were used to. Many shivered under the prison blankets they had wrapped around their bodies. But the sight of Singbe, though he was chained and manacled and flanked by two armed jail guards, lifted their spirits and warmed their bodies. It was the first time they had been reunited with their leader since coming to New Haven more than two weeks before. Many feared he had been executed, tortured, or sold as a slave. Seeing him emerging from the jail, proud and defiant, was like seeing hope. Their cries and greetings quickly broke into loud cheering. It infected the thousand or so spectators who had gathered by the jail to watch the prisoner transfer and soon they were cheering and yelling “Cinqué! Cinqué!” The half-dozen guards stood nervously, but the federal marshal was unimpressed. Singbe smiled and waved as he was led to an empty wagon. The marshal motioned for him to sit on the floor. As he did he was surrounded by four armed guards.
The caravan of wagons would make the short trip across the city to the canal locks and the tribesmen would be p
ut on a barge for the forty-mile journey to Farmington, a small town just outside Hartford. From there wagons would bring them to the Hartford jail where they would wait two days until the trial began.
Within a half hour they were on the barge and away from the landing. Two mules pulled the flat wooden hull up the canal at a pace of about three miles per hour. Along the way they would pass through sixteen different sets of locks. In all, it would take them nearly twelve hours to reach the Farmington landing.
The marshal let Singbe sit with the others during the canal ride. It was a move of convenience rather than leniency as the deck of the barge could barely hold all of them. The tribesmen surrounded him and told of their days since they had been brought to the jail. Singbe was saddened to hear that two of the tribesmen, Fulwie, and Kinae, had died of the fever during the week. He told the others that he had been well fed and, except for the chains, believed he had been treated fairly. He did not mention the beating. Grabeau sat across from Singbe but said little for the first few hours. He was just happy to see that his friend was safe. But after a lunch of bread and beans, most of the tribesmen were napping on the deck. Grabeau thought it was a good time for a few questions. He slipped down next to Singbe and kept his voice low.
“What do you think this is about?”
“I do not know. When I saw all of you in the wagons, I thought for sure they were taking us out to be executed. But we have been on this boat now for more than half the day. It seems like a lot of traveling and effort for a killing.”
“I agree. The whitemen with the black books brought a tribesman into the cells with them yesterday.”
“Yes. They brought him to me, too. Congolese?”
“I think so. I tried to speak Mandingo with him, but he only knew a little, and only the northern dialect. Still, I think he said something about judgment or laws.”
“You understood more than I did. I only know how to say hello in that language. And I know no Congolese.”
“I have learned a few words in the language of the whites. All of us have. But it is difficult.”
Singbe watched the lush Connecticut countryside pass by. The cool September nights had already begun to breathe touches of yellow, red, and orange into the leaves of some of the larger trees.
“If it is a trial, then what will that mean?” Singbe asked. “How can we defend ourselves if we cannot speak the language of the whites? The slave traders will tell their lies and that will be all.”
“I have thought the same thing. But not all the whites seem to be on the side of the slave traders. Perhaps some will speak for us.”
Singbe shrugged and dropped his head. “How can they speak for us when they don’t know our story?”
A few miles from the canal locks in New Haven, the Edna Louise, a two-level back paddle steamboat, had just departed for a trip up the Connecticut River to Hartford. On board were Lieutenants Meade and Gedney, Pepe Ruiz, Pedro Montes, their lawyer William Hungerford, and District Attorney Holabird. They had all ensconced themselves in the ship’s lounge to sip drinks and hold an impromptu conference with the more than three dozen journalists from newspapers across the nation who were also on board. It was a smiling, self-congratulating, laughing affair, with Pepe Ruiz exuding great charm and conviction as he told again the tale of the rebellion, and of the courageous rescue by the gallant U.S. Navy.
“I thank the United States for giving me and my friend Señor Montes our lives. My only wish now is that we are permitted to return home with our property.”
“And my only wish, sir, is to see you thoroughly prosecuted and hanged for piracy, kidnapping, and murder.”
The booming voice burst across the lounge, turning the loose chatter and laughter into silence. There at the doorway stood Lewis Tappan and several members of the Amistad Committee.
Later that night some of the journalists would speculate on the possibilities of such a coincidence: the claimants and prime sympathizers of the defendants ending up on the same boat for the nearly five-hour trip upriver, especially when ample rail and stage service to Hartford, as well as other steamers, were readily available. However, if they knew him at all, the journalists would have been assured that Lewis Tappan never left events to the chances of coincidence, especially when substantial representation from the press was guaranteed.
“I would further assert that you, Mr. Ruiz, and your compatriot, Mr. Montes, are the most contemptible, cowardly, and vile breed of criminals,” Tappan continued. “For by your actions, by knowingly trading in African slaves – and do not deny that you were unaware of their true origins – you perpetuated a chain of events that is so completely immoral and unjust that all the consequences, including the tragic subsequent occurrence which transpired during your ill-fated voyage, rest firmly on your shoulders.”
Hungerford, a portly and distinguished looking man of about fifty, spoke to the room, rather than directly to Tappan, through a bemused grin.
“Mr. Tappan’s indignation has obviously affected his cognitive abilities and clouded his grasp of the facts. My clients were not contracting in any actions that are illegal. Slavery, as all of you in this room know, is completely legal in Cuba, as well as several states in this country, including Connecticut. It was the black miscreants who perpetrated mutiny, murder, and the repeated torture of my clients during a harrowing voyage of more than eight weeks.”
Ruiz laughed and held out his drink saluting Tappan. “A toast, to the madhouses of the world. May their doors soon be secure, and their inmates not allowed to roam so freely.”
Laughter rippled through the room but Tappan’s voice rose above it. “The whiteness of a man’s skin or the misguided customs of his land do not exonerate him from hideous deeds, no matter how they have been rationalized and legislated into feigned legitimacy. But since the law has been broached, let us talk of the legality of stealing people into captivity. Let us consider that the Amistad blacks, though cast as Spanish subjects living in Cuba for more than twenty years, speak not one word of that language. How is that so? They have been on American soil for less than two weeks, and yet my friends from the Yale Divinity School tell me that many of the blacks have already learned to speak a few words of English. If they were slaves in Cuba for twenty years, certainly they would at least recognize the barked orders of their masters. But the transcripts of the hearing showed that none could even answer to his name. How do your clients explain this simple fact, Mr. Hungerford?”
“This is not a court and my clients do not have to answer to you or your ridiculous theories, Mr. Tappan.”
“A refusal to answer the truth is as good as a lie,” Tappan quipped with a grin. “Take note, gentlemen! If you ever commit a crime and wish to avoid just prosecution, Mr. Hungerford is the man to see. It is obvious that he views the truth not as indelible fact, but rather as a malleable suggestion which can be twisted, manipulated, and shaped to fit his own needs or the needs of his clients.”
Hungerford forced out a laugh. “Mr. Tappan seems to view himself as someone to whom confessions should be made. Perhaps, sir, it is time for you to join the papist Catholics and fulfill your life’s true aspiration of dispensing forgiveness and penance at your own leisure and discretion.”
“My life’s aspiration is to not rest until the noble blacks of the Amistad are freed and returned to their native soil, and your clients are made to pay the highest price for their transgressions against God and the natural right of all men to maintain their own freedom.”
“He is mad,” Ruiz said, draining another glass of whiskey. “It is a shame you have to put up with such ridiculous persons in your country. In Cuba we have sanitariums for such slack-witted fools.”
“The only fools in this room are you and your co-conspirator if you think you can avoid judgment of your crimes.”
“The only ones to be judged are those savage, insane staves, the ones you call noble,” Ruiz countered.
“They will be judged in Havana and burned at the stake, I dare
say.”
Ruiz was smiling, but there was a slight tremble his voice, a tiny spark of anger being held back by an awareness of propriety and appearances in front of the press. But Tappan heard the tremble, he could feel the heat, and his heart leapt at the opportunity to draw out a flame.
“If there is any more death, any more blood spilt or men killed, it will be produced by your hands, Mr. Ruiz, as has been all the carnage and cruelty of this affair. After all, you knowingly bought Africans on the black market. You perpetuated a series of illegal actions that enslaved free men. And because of your ignorance, greed, and malicious, arrogant disregard of the law, the captain and crew of your ship are dead. Thirteen innocent blacks are dead. And now you would have the lives of the others snuffed out merely to satiate your own personal indignation. You are less than a man, sir, less even than a vile gutter leech. You are simply filth and evil without restraint.”
The Cuban’s glass flew across the room. Tappan ducked. The glass shattered on the wall behind him. In three quick strides Pepe Ruiz was standing within inches of the abolitionist.
“I was practicing a trade that is completely legal in my country, as well as yours. I followed the laws of my country to the letter and did nothing wrong. Nothing! The blame and all the punishment should lie where it rightly belongs – with that blood-thirsty brute Cinqué and those other black beasts whom you call ‘noble.’ If you take issue with that, then you can settle it now as a man with me.”