by David Pesci
Tappan did not flinch. “I will not dignify a murderer, thief, and pirate with the satisfaction of sinking to his own level. The level of sewage.”
Ruiz drew back his fist but Hungerford and Gedney grabbed him and pulled him back.
Tappan shook his head paternally. “Gentlemen of the press, I think you can see what kind of man Mr. Pepe Ruiz, slave dealer, truly is.”
Hungerford spoke to Ruiz and Montes and then the three of them quickly left the lounge. Ruiz leveled a long stare at Tappan on the way out, but Tappan just smiled. After they were gone, he took a seat in front of the press, had a cup of tea, and continued to speak at length about the innocence of the Amistads.
Two days later, on the morning of Thursday, September 19, 1839, the Circuit Court of Connecticut began hearings on the Amistad case. The city was packed and crackled with a carnival air it had not witnessed since a triple public hanging nearly ten years before. Every hotel, rooming house, salon, and brothel was filled to capacity with guests. Dignitaries and society folk traveling from as far as Boston, Providence, and New York had tried to secure seats inside the courtroom. It was rumored that over one hundred members of the press were in attendance. On the green outside the Hartford courthouse more than three thousand people walked about or sat on blankets with picnic baskets. Vendors were hawking engravings of Nathaniel Jocelyn’s portrait of Joseph Cinqué, as well as lithographs and sketches of the Africans and the infamous slave-ship. A few days earlier a play titled The Black Schooner: The Pirate Slaver “Amistad” had opened at New York’s Bowery Theatre. It took in nearly $1,700 in its first week and would run throughout the fall to packed houses.
The courthouse, a proper two-story brick building with a peaked roof, sat just down the cobbled street from the State House. Inside the courtroom, the tribesmen had been seated behind their lawyers and in the jury box. Antonio, though indignant at being lumped in with the tribesmen, had also been commanded to sit with the Amistads. Ruiz and Montes sat across the aisle with Holabird and Hungerford. Gedney, Meade, appearing in full dress uniforms, and their lawyer, retired militia general Mark Isham, sat at a table near the far wall. Spectators and press filled the other seats and the gallery and overflowed into the aisles and out the courtroom door.
The presiding judge, the Honorable Smith Thompson, was also a U.S. Supreme Court justice. Seventy years old, pale and thin, white-haired, clean-shaven and immaculate in his flowing black robes, Thompson’s face was fixed in a look of sternness and skepticism that should be required of all high judges. Though he believed slavery to be a disgusting institution, Thompson was a steadfast proponent of legal precedent who would never let personal opinions interfere with the judgment of a case. Because it was a circuit court case, he would be serving as grand jurist and pronouncing the final judgment.
Joining Roger Baldwin in the defense of the Amistads were Seth Staples and Theodore Sedgwick. Staples, a tall, lean, well-dressed man not quite thirty with whiskey-colored hair and a broad Roman nose, was a Democrat from an affluent family and an admitted abolitionist. Sedgwick, also a known abolitionist, was a thick unkempt man with a ruddy complexion, fat and reaching sideburns, and a rapidly receding dark brown hairline. Closer to fifty and a resident of Philadelphia, Sedgwick was the son of a former slave trader and had worked as his assistant early in life before turning to the law. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, his frame strained against the fabric of his suit, giving him the appearance of a hardscrabble farmer or blacksmith wedged into the only set of Sunday clothes he had ever owned. His huge, beefy hands folded on the table in front of him looked like a twisted mound of gnarled, raw muscle being squeezed into submission.
Staples and Sedgwick were respected lawyers in their own right, but both knew Baldwin to be the superior litigator and agreed that he should lead their team. Baldwin’s reputation as a savvy and intelligent defense attorney was well established. A direct descendent of Roger Sherman – one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence and later a congressman who was instrumental in preserving slavery in the newly created United States – Baldwin had graduated from Yale at age eighteen and was admitted to the bar three years later. Soon after beginning his practice, he had won a writ of habeas corpus and eventual freedom for a runaway slave.
Despite being an ardent supporter of abolition, he was respected throughout the state’s political circles as an articulate, principle, and fair-minded man. He had been a state legislator from New Haven since 1834 and many people agreed that if he chose to throw his hat into a statewide political race, he would be a daunting challenger to any opponent. It was also widely believed that he was the best defense attorney in the state and could be a very wealthy man if he opted to take more cases involving clients of means. But Baldwin was a man of firm morals and strong convictions, and though he did handle cases which brought him fair compensation for his services, he took many more that involved, as he put it, “pronounced injustice and injury perpetrated against the downtrodden and less fortunate.” By their nature, these cases paid little or nothing. Regardless of the fee, Baldwin was a relentless defender and rarely lost in court.
Despite their legal prowess, the case of the Amistads would be a difficult challenge for Baldwin and his team. Along with having to fight the resources of Holabird, Hungerford, Isham, and the Van Buren administration, they were facing the prospects of defending a politically charged case that was devoid of any established legal precedents which could work in their favor. Baldwin agreed with Tappan that the primary objective would be to try to win the Africans’ freedom. Short of that, the defense team would use appeals and any other legal maneuvering they could muster to keep the plight of the Amistads in the public eye for as long as possible.
The moment court was declared in session, Holabird stood and made a request that surprised no one.
“Your Honor, I move that this case be immediately dismissed on the grounds that the disposition of the Amistad and its cargo are covered under Articles eight through ten of Pickney’s Treaty of 1795. As such, ship and cargo should be turned over to the President of the United States promptly for delivery to a representative of the sovereign nation of the ship’s occupants, in this case, Spain. I have prepared a brief to that end and will submit it to the court.”
Baldwin was already standing.
“I oppose this motion, Your Honor. The Treaty of 1795’s coverage of this event is dubious at best and should be subject to trial within the auspices of the court. I further object to the blacks being referred to as ‘cargo.’”
“The black slaves are mutineers, thieves, murders, and Spanish subjects,” Hungerford, also rising to his feet, countered. “As such they should be turned over to the crown representative of Spain for trial under the laws of that country.”
“Gentlemen,” Judge Thompson said, raising his voice. “It has already been ruled that the case will be heard before this court.”
“What about my other objection, Your Honor, to referring to my clients as ‘cargo’?”
“Mr. Baldwin, the disposition of your clients’ condition will comprise a substantial part of this tribunal’s inquiry. However, I, too, dislike the terming of men as ‘cargo’, even if they are the legal property of another man. Therefore, from hence forth in this case, when referring to the blacks taken with the ship Amistad, all parties involved speak of them as ‘blacks,’ ‘negroes,’ or ‘the colored occupants of the Amistad.’ Now, let us proceed.”
“Then before going any further, Your Honor,” Holabird said, standing again, “I request that if the court finds the black slaves subjects of Spain, they be handed over to the President for prompt delivery to the Spanish authorities. Alternately, if they are found to be free men, I request that they be handed over to the President’s care so they may be safely transported back to their homeland.”
“I will take these requests under advisement, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“I most strenuously object, Your Honor!” Baldwin cried.
“To what,
now, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Mr. Holabird referred to my clients as slaves. Yet, I believe we are still in a country where men placed before judgment are innocent until proven guilty. I presume that to mean all men, Your Honor. I therefore submit that my clients should be considered freemen until proven otherwise. To that end, I petition the court for a writ of habeas corpus for the blacks taken from the Amistad when it was boarded by the crew and officers of the Washington.”
“Your Honor,” Hungerford protested, “these negroes are certainly slaves, legally purchased and paid for in the slave market of Havana. My clients have the documentation to prove it. A writ of habeas corpus would only be an invitation for them to flee prosecution for their crimes of mutiny, murder, and thievery, prosecution for which should rightly take place back in Havana.”
“These men have committed no crimes and your client’s documentation is spurious at best,” Baldwin snapped back. “And we will show conclusively that there is no possible way that these men or the children could be legal slaves of Cuba or any other country subject to the Treaty of 1819. Furthermore …”
“Enough!” Thompson’s gavel slammed down on the wooden pallet. “Mr. Baldwin, Mr. Hungerford, Mr. Prosecutor. Each of you will he allowed to make your opening statements to this court and present your cases accordingly. I shall overrule Mr. Baldwin’s objection regarding the disposition of the negroes. I will rule, however, that this court will entertain petitions for a writ of habeas corpus. Now, let us get on with procedures. Mr. Prosecutor, please, present your opening statement.”
Holabird stood and delivered an opening statement that lasted nearly three hours. Forsyth had provided a copy of the opinion written by U.S. Attorney General Felix Grundy and Holabird followed it to the letter. He pointed out how the “rescuing” of the Amistad, whether from pirates, a mutiny, or damage due to weather and malevolent seas, was covered under Articles 8, 9, and 10 of Pickney’s Treaty. These articles permitted the rescuers to claim fair compensation for their efforts based on the appraised value of ship and cargo. They also granted power to the executive to return the ship, crew, and cargo to the care of the country of origin, in this case Spain, for prosecution of whatever crimes may have been committed by its subjects on the open seas. The treaty was clear, and thus the Amistad, its cargo, and the negro slaves, should be surrendered to the President so that all may be properly delivered to the Spanish minister.
In addition, he cited the case of the Antelope, a slaveship bearing the flag of a Spanish colony, La Plata, that had been taken by the U.S. Coast Guard off the coast of Florida. The Coast Guard suspected the slaves were to he sold illegally in the U.S. They demanded prosecution under the treaty of 1819 and salvage of the ship and slaves. A legal battle ensued regarding the disposition of the slaves and the right of salvage. Eventually, however, the slaves on board the Antelope were surrendered to the Spanish government under Article 8 of Pickney’s Treaty. Because the conditions surrounding the Amistad appear to be nearly identical, the same provisions should apply. Holabird closed by saying that issuing a writ of habeas corpus was ill-advised because it would pave a road for escape, a road that would most certainly lead these slaves away from proper justice under the laws of their homeland, Cuba.
Isham stood. He stated that he agreed with Holabird and went on to repeat virtually all of the prosecutor’s assertions. He then paused and began an impassioned description of the brave and daring actions of Gedney, Meade, and the crew of the Washington in apprehending the wild, dangerous, renegade blacks. His long, often wandering, soliloquy presented numerous accounts of unrelated acts of naval heroism and seemed as though it would never end until, as if suddenly prodded, he said:
“So in conclusion, my clients seek their full rights of salvage on the ship and all its cargo as delineated by its manifest, bills of sale, and other documentation presented here-with to the court.”
After this performance, Hungerford’s opening came off as refreshingly focused and brief. Though he shared many of the same points as Holabird, his argument was more impassioned. The blacks were clearly the property of his clients, Ruiz and Montes. They had rebelled against their masters, murdered the captain and crew practically while they slept, seized the ship, and forced the defendants, free whitemen, into bondage. During the ensuing journey they perpetrated torture upon Ruiz and Montes, including regular beatings and deprivation of food and water. The slaves were Spanish subjects and committed their crimes on board a Spanish-flagged ship upon Spanish citizens. Thus they should be tried and judged under Spanish law. Granting a writ of habeas corpus would be denying rightful justice, as well as opening the door for mass escape, a course the slaves certainly would pursue in light of their previous actions of murder and mutiny.
As to the question of salvage, Ruiz and Montes heartily thanked the bravery and intercession of Lieutenants Gedney and Meade and the crew of their ship. However, the salvage claims of $40,000 were exorbitant since most of the manifested cargo had been destroyed or hefted overboard by the mutineering slaves. Amended documentation would be presented and it was hoped the judge would decide on a fair figure that was more representative of the ship’s value at the time of boarding.
During the openings, Staples and Sedgwick had taken notes furiously. Baldwin, on the other hand, had sat straight and still, watching the presenters and the judge, and only writing down a few occasional lines. The tribesmen, sitting under guard to the left of their defense team, also sat quietly, although many looked back and forth among themselves, as well as to the Yale Divinity students sitting in the gallery. Lewis Tappan, for his part, had made a few well-timed yawns and sighs during the opening, not at a volume to draw the wrath of Judge Thompson, but certainly loud enough to make his presence, and his views toward specific points, well known.
The court recessed for lunch after Mr. Hungerford had finished. When they returned, Baldwin was allowed to make his statement.
He began by stating that the defense would refute the claims made of the applicability of both Pickney’s Treaty and the Antelope case. He questioned the government’s warrant for the arrest of the blacks as runaway slaves guilty of mutiny and murder based solely on the testimony of two slave owners. He also challenged Gedney’s move of bringing the Amistad to Connecticut when it was taken in waters off New York, saying that it was an attempt to bend the law in order to satiate aspirations of greed. Finally, Baldwin pressed the point of habeas corpus.
“I find it extremely odd, Your Honor, that we hold these men prisoners as presumed slaves even though when they were found by the U.S. Navy, none were in shackles and each was in command of his own liberty. It was solely due to the darkness of their skin that Mr. Gedney immediately presumed them as property, as slaves and criminals who were perpetrating nefarious acts. He did not even wait for corroboration of this fact from Mr. Ruiz or Mr. Montes. No, Mr. Gedney, seeing their black skin, presumed them wayward property and immediately imprisoned them until they could prove otherwise. In essence, Your Honor, these men are being held captives so that we may ascertain if they are free.
“But as the Court ponders this wretched irony and injustice, let it consider another question of equal if not greater injustice. If these men are property – and we dispute this point wholeheartedly – are they as property no longer men? Please look at them, Your Honor, Mr. Prosecutor, Mr. Hungerford. Everyone in this courtroom, please look at the blacks held under guard. They have human form, they wear clothes, they speak a language, though certainly not Spanish or some sort of contrived ‘field dialect.’ They have thoughts and emotions. They walk and talk and breathe and feel in the same manner as every other person in this room. They are persons, men. And yet, the court has asked that we petition to see if they be granted the basic rights of men as guaranteed under the law. The federal government holds them captive until they can prove they are free. The law holds them as beasts, as property, until they can prove they are men. I say that justice has been perverted here from the outset, validating wit
hout question certain prejudices against the color of a man’s skin. But we shall make it right, Your Honor. Rest assured. We shall make it right.”
At the conclusion of Baldwin’s statement, Thompson adjourned the court until 8:00 A.M. the next morning.
That night Tappan and Jocelyn met with Baldwin, Staples, and Sedgwick in the lounge of their hotel.
“I must admit, Lewis, that it is highly unlikely that the judge will issue a writ for the blacks,” Baldwin said. “It is too politically charged. Thompson certainly realizes that if we get a federal court to admit that these men have rights as guaranteed by the Constitution, and if Holabird succeeds in proving they are slaves, the precedent set would strike at the very heart of slavery. Ostensibly, such a ruling would create legal grounds to grant Constitutional rights to every slave in the nation.”
“What a glorious thing that would be,” Tappan mused.
“Gloriously impossible,” Sedgwick said with a sigh. “Holabird would appeal in a second.”
“That may be as it may be,” Tappan continued, “although an appeal will suit us just as well, since it will keep the case in the public eye.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Tappan, that we will likely be the party filing an appeal,” said Staples. “As it stands, now our case is rather thin.”
“Nonsense,” Tappan cried. ‘Not a one of those blacks speaks a lick of Spanish. That should be proof enough. And what of the man from the Congo, Mr. Ferry? Won’t his testimony validate that they are, in fact, Africans?”
“Mr. Ferry’s affidavit won’t hold as much validity as the ship’s papers, I’m afraid,” Sedgwick said. “The documentation they have is legally stamped and verified by Spanish officials. As corrupt and falsified as they may be, those papers carry weight in a court and with a judge. They grant possession of the blacks as property to Ruiz and Montes, and in the eyes of the law, possession weighs heavily, despite what Thompson said about burden of proof.”