by David Pesci
“I also have here a pieced-together copy of the Treaty of 1819. Let the record note that it is in such a state because the federal government has not as yet provided us with a complete copy of the treaty. However, I do have enough of the document’s content to have been following the prosecutor’s suggestions. He has cited certain passages repeatedly. Let me add to his notations. If he will look to the fifth paragraph in the second section, he will find that it clearly states that in order to cruise for slavers, the ship’s captain must be ‘instructed, commissioned, or authorized by presidential order.’ Mr. Gedney’s stated mission was to survey the coast. He had no written orders to detain suspected slavers or to chase down presumed pirates, for that matter. I wonder, Your Honor, when the United States’ Naval officers got into the business of chasing down wayward ships for other nations on a freelance basis?”
“That will be enough of that type of speculation, Mr. Baldwin,” Judge Thompson warned.
“Yes, Your Honor. But it is clear that this seizure of apparently free men is completely illegal. They were not seeking port as argued by the prosecutor when he pointed to Article eight of Pickney’s Treaty. They were not waylaid by pirates or enemies of state. They were in fact, exercising their natural rights to extricate themselves from illegal kidnapping. They were trying to return to their homeland.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Holabird said. “Documentation has shown that these slaves were legally paid for.”
“Your Honor,” Baldwin implored, “we have submitted the affidavit by a British seaman located by the Amistad Committee, a Mr. John Ferry, who is fluent in Congolese. He testified that these men did in fact speak an African language and not a Spanish-inflected dialect. The documentation submitted by the Spanish slave traders is obviously falsified.”
“Objection again, Your Honor,” Holabird cried. “The documents are clear and we are not here to impugn them. Also, Mr. Ferry’s affidavit further states that he was not able to communicate with the blacks beyond a greeting and a few cursory words. That does not constitute fluency of an African language by the slaves.”
“It is more than my clients know of Spanish,” Baldwin cried.
“Mr. Baldwin! Mr. Prosecutor! That is enough!” Judge Thompson said. “Mr. Holabird, your objections are sustained. Mr. Baldwin, you will remain true to the facts as they have been laid forth to the court.”
“I would like to, Your Honor, but the facts as laid forth before the court are not true.”
Many in the gallery broke out into laughter. Some even began applauding. Thompson slammed his gavel down repeatedly.
“Quiet in the court. And you, Mr. Baldwin. Once more, sir, and you will be cited for contempt.”
Baldwin apologized emphatically to Judge Thompson. He went on to reemphasize his points as carefully as possible. He also stated that, if anything, the trial’s location was wrong because the ship had been seized in waters off Long Island and thus should be tried in New York. Gedney had simply been trying to increase the value of salvage by bringing the ship to Connecticut. Isham objected, saying his clients took them to Connecticut because they believed it would be easier to get to the bottom of the incident without all the press scrutiny and public curiosity that would have surely befallen them in a larger port such as New York. Holabird also objected, knowing New York would provide the defense with a more sympathetic arena than Connecticut. But Thompson overruled them both and said he would take the matter under consideration. Baldwin finished by imploring the court to grant the writ of habeas corpus.
“Regardless of whether they are ruled property or not, these men, these children, are persons. They deserve the same rights as any person in this country as guaranteed by the Constitution. To do less is to deny any semblance of justice.”
Baldwin had sat down. Judge Thompson asked Holabird, Hungerford, Isham, and Baldwin to file closing briefs with the court.
“I will render my ruling on Monday,” Judge Thompson said. “Court adjourned until 8:00 A.M. two days hence. Monday, the twenty-third.”
As the weekend passed by, the city was abuzz with predictions on how Thompson would rule. But when he issued his judgment on Monday morning, the public was more miffed than anything else.
“Personally, slavery is as abhorrent to me as it is to any man here,” he began. “But I must, on my oath, pronounce what laws are subject to this case. As such, I can render little because the proper answering of the questions of property brought here are clouded by claims of murder and mutiny. Those are issues properly taken up in district court. That is where I will refer this case. Because of this I will not grant writs of habeas corpus for either the men or the children of the Amistad. I will rule, however, that they be kept in preferred incarceration, that the shackles be removed from Mr. Joseph Cinqué while he is in lock-up, and that the negroes be allowed regular outdoor exercise and visitors from the Yale Divinity School without barrier or surcharge. I am also ordering a surveyed measurement of the point of seizure to determine whether district court proceedings will be held in Connecticut or New York. That is all.”
Tappan stood up and immediately congratulated Baldwin and his team. Though they had not won, important points had been scored. And the prospect of bringing the trial to New York warmed them all. A few days later, however, the survey came back and diminished some of their optimism. It was found that the Amistad was taken more than a mile off the New York shoreline, and hence was in the open seas. According to maritime law, Gedney was within his right to bring his ship to a port of convenience and safety, in this case, New London, without affecting salvage claims.
The news got worse. The district court date was set for November 19 in New Haven. The presiding judge would be Andrew T. Judson.
Counter-Offensives
A frosty October wind blew off the water, curling its icy fingers quickly around the posts and planks and corners before rushing off along the docks and into the city. Josiah Gibbs tucked his chin down deeper into the high collar and angled his broad-brimmed hat so that it covered more of the back of his neck. He followed the wind, walking away from the French freighter and toward the public house the sailor had mentioned. In the distance, the graying skies had already begun to burn and smolder with the setting sun.
The pub, known as The Hold, was about three blocks up from the bowery docks on a narrow dirt side road, an alleyway really, that was framed on both sides by low and sad, sagging clapboard buildings that looked like they couldn’t stand another minute of the stiff winds that had been blowing all day on the New York City waterfront. There was no sign hanging outside and Gibbs almost passed the place but he noticed the chipped and faded yellow door, which the sailor said marked the spot. Gibbs turned the knob, thinking to knock only after he had opened it halfway. But the dark faces inside, and the immediate silence that his own appearance caused, told him he was in the right place.
Since the end of the circuit court trial, Gibbs had been wandering ports and waterfronts from Boston to Bridgeport. Baldwin and Tappan were sure that if they could find a translator for the Africans, they would stand a much better chance in the district court proceedings. Gibbs had learned only shreds of the tribesmen’s language over the last few weeks, but he figured it was enough to find someone who was fluent in the tongue. Both he and Baldwin agreed that the best bet would be to scour the docks of major ports. Certainly there would be a sailor, probably a black one, on some ship, that spoke the language as well as English or some other dialect of the west. Gibbs had spent nearly all of the last four weeks along the water or in seaside pubs for “Negroes Only,” looking for such a man, but to no avail. The trial was less than a month away and he was starting to lose hope at the prospect of finding anyone who could help.
Gibbs shut the yellow door. About a dozen black men, some smoking pipes and cigars, stared at him from the tables scattered through the narrow dim room. A few lanterns burned with a smoky oily smell. In one corner, two black women wearing very little clung to a huge black man in
a striped jersey. Gibbs smiled weakly and walked quickly over to the bar. The dirt floor was uneven and soggy in spots. The bar itself was nothing more than rough planks crudely hammered together. A few bottles sat on a shelf along with two dark wooden casks. The bartender, a rotund light-skinned man with two small gold rings in one earlobe, a fresh, broad scar scratched across the bridge of his nose and a crooked grin on his face, stood back near the bottles with his arms crossed.
“My good man, I’m wondering if you can help me. I am looking for a man who speaks an African dialect.”
“Sorry, constable, we gots none a them here.”
“Oh no, sir, I’m not a constable. I’m a college professor,” Gibbs said.
The bartender raised one eyebrow and snorted.
“And … and a minister, as well,” Gibbs added quickly. “I wish this man no ill will. In fact, I don’t even know who he is. You see I am in need of a translator.”
“Translator? For what?”
“Well, I do not know exactly what language, but I believe it is a western African dialect, though not Congolese. We have attempted that. Perhaps Mandingo.”
“We gots none a them here, Mr. Minister, sir.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I asked around? You see my need is rather urgent as I am working with the blacks taken with the Amistad. Perhaps you’ve heard of them.”
The bartender stepped forward until his great stomach was touching the bar. “You been with the slaves of the Amistad?”
“Yes. I and my colleagues are trying to communicate with them. We hope to …”
“Phillip! Jean-Paul! This man spoke with the slaves taken off the Amistad!”
“No! It is not true!”
“He says so. And he is a minister. You are telling us the truth, yes?”
“Absolutely.” Gibbs smiled. “I have met with the men several times trying to learn their language and teach them ours, as well as trying to introduce them to Christianity. Our discourses were daily until about three and half weeks ago. That is when I began searching for a translator who could speak in their tongue.”
“Will they be hanged?”
“Do you think the government give them back to Spain?”
“Is it true that Cinqué is a king?”
“I hear one of them is a fierce cannibal.”
“Gentlemen. Gentlemen,” Gibbs said. “I can see you are interested and well informed. Let me see what I can add to your knowledge. No. There is no cannibal among them, although there is one who certainly has sharp, terrifying teeth. But he has proven to be quite tame and friendly. We do believe their leader, Joseph Cinqué, is a tribal chief or prince of some sort, although we cannot confirm this because we cannot make ourselves understood to him. As for the government, all I can say is that we have assembled the finest defense team for the Amistad blacks. Our attorneys will pursue every avenue that may help these fellows. However, we know we can present a better case if we can get the Africans’ side of the story. To that end, gentlemen, do any of you speak an African dialect in any degree of fluency?”
The men looked at each other and then about the room. They all shook their heads. Gibbs sighed. He thanked them and turned to leave.
“Mr. Minister.”
Gibbs turned back. The words came from the corner. The big man in the striped shirt was now standing, though his broad black hands still clung to the two women’s scantily clad breasts.
“What language these men speak?”
The man’s words were thick with an accent that Gibbs had never heard wrapped around the English language.
“I do not know. But I know a few words.”
“Speak them, then. We see if they too are my words.”
Gibbs gathered himself and took a deep breath.
“E-tah, feh-lee, saw-wha, na-nee?”
The black man asked to hear them again, slowly. Gibbs repeated. The black man sat back down shaking his head.
“I am sorry. I know those words not.”
Gibbs smiled. He thanked them all and walked to the door. As he opened it, a black man from the street was reaching to grab the knob. He almost fell into Gibbs. The black man smiled for a second at the moment. But then, as the realization washed through him that Gibbs was white and was coming out the yellow door of The Hold, the black man straightened and moved out of Gibbs’s way with an air of servitude and a flicker of fear. Gibbs tipped his hat politely and was nearly past the man when he stopped and turned quickly.
“E-tah, feh-lee, saw-wha, na-nee?”
“Thlano, thataro, shupa, hera-mebedi,” the man replied matter-of-factly.
Gibbs grabbed the man by the arm.
“One, two, three, four!”
“Five, six, seven, eight,” the man said, now backing up.
“Praised be God!” Gibbs cried. “Praised be Our Father in Heaven!”
The man turned into the bar, only to see all the men in there rushing at him. He wrenched his arm free from the little whiteman and began to run down the alley. Gibbs and several men from the bar took off after him, yelling into growing darkness for the man to stop.
Seth Staples poured over the more than two dozen notes that Baldwin had received over the past few weeks. Each was short, at most only a few lines, and contained a suggestion or question for the defense team to ponder: “How could the government justify holding the blacks for piracy and murder?” “What grounds existed within the law to hold the children since they had been declared witnesses and not perpetrators?” “How could the court hold the blacks simultaneously as property and criminals?” “If the blacks were in fact slaves accused of murder and piracy, then the law required forfeiture of property on the part of the owners.” Other notes pointed out passages of the Treaty of 1819 that might aid their case and talked about contributing factors of state that might affect the President’s overall strategy. All the notes had been posted from either Washington or Boston. All were written in a flourishing, educated hand and bore the same simple signature: “A Friend.”
The most recent of the series had arrived yesterday and cautioned Baldwin to note well the comments being made by the Spanish Ambassador in official documents and the newspapers. ‘He has repeatedly expressed himself in terms that clearly identify the blacks as people rather than property. This disposition may be used effectively against the Federal Government’s case in court.”
Staples had been systematically exploring the implications of the suggestions. As he did, he found for the most part that each was extremely well reasoned and insightful. Neither he nor Baldwin nor Sedgwick knew the identity of their “friend,” but it was apparent that whoever it was had a considerable grasp of the workings of the state department and the presidency, as well as a sharp legal mind.
“Perhaps it is old Van Buren himself.” Sedgwick had laughed. “He’s giving us the keys to the kingdom through the back door so that we may tidy up this mess and end the public spectacle.”
Staples had actually spent half a night and a few glasses of wine considering that very proposition. He was sure that the administration was growing increasingly agitated with the publicity the case was drawing, and they had to know that the defense would do everything they could to draw the proceedings out, no matter how dismal the prospects for a victory looked. The best thing for Van Buren would be for this whole thing to go away as quickly as possible. But helping the defense toward this end seemed ludicrous. It would mean a very public loss for the President and risk raising new questions about slavery on the domestic front. Not in an election year, Staples concluded. Not ever, if Van Buren could help it.
All of which left him puzzling as he continued to research the clues being provided: Who was sending the notes?
It was a sunny day in London, an occurrence that Arthur Tappan had discovered was not as rare as the city’s reputation would have most people believe. He still much preferred Manhattan and America, though, and in that order.
Tappan had been in England nearly three months and h
ad found most of his time had been used productively. He was working to create distribution, import, and export arrangements with a number of manufacturers. The negotiations were going slowly, but progress was being made. He was certain that by the end of his trip, The Tappan Dry Goods Company would have exclusive export customers for dozens of different specialized American products, from finished fabrics and women’s hats, to steam boilers and precision instruments. He also anticipated that his store would become the premier place in New York City to find the finest in British and European fashions, fixtures, and notions.
However, his dealings and discussions on English soil had not been limited to business. He had been invited to several discreet meetings with various upper-level British government officials to discuss slavery in America and the abolition movement. The British seemed to be greatly interested in supporting efforts aimed at destabilizing and ultimately eradicating American slavery. The parliamentarians and ministers he met with almost immediately broke into long moralistic tirades about the evils of slavery and the need to abolish it worldwide. They would invariably point with pride to their own advances, how slavery was no longer permitted in the Empire, and how so many blacks had been “reclaimed” through Christian education and schooling in the trades.