Amistad

by David Pesci

  “An appointment to the court has been in my mind.”

  “And why not? You are certainly more than capable. The country would benefit greatly from your wisdom and fairness, especially in these troubling times.” Moss paused by the fireplace and stared into the flames. “However, this Amistad thing could challenge that ambition.”

  “Yes. I’ve considered the implications. They could be quite significant.”

  “Terrifying, if you ask me. Do you have any idea of how it will go?”

  “There is still more testimony to go. It is difficult to tell.”

  “Difficult to tell? Andrew, you’re the judge.”

  “Yes, and as the judge in this case it is my responsibility to render a decision that is sound and that will hold up under the scrutiny of an appeal. At the same time, I have a certain responsibility to my party and the President.”

  “The only responsibility you have is to yourself.”

  “In this case I believe one may be inextricably connected to the others.”

  Moss set down his glass on the small table and walked over to Judson’s desk. He raised the glass from one of the lamps, took a cigar from his jacket, and lit it on the flame. He turned and looked across the room at Judson and slowly began walking back to the fireplace.

  “Personally, I don’t care what decision you render, Andrew. I am a businessman first and a Democrat second. No matter from where the political winds blow, I make money and will continue to do so. But you are a political animal, and your advancement depends strongly on who is in power. So I have come to give you a bit of political advice. My contacts in Washington believe that Van Buren will not make it this fall.”

  “How can they say that? The election is more than ten months from now.”

  “True. But the President does not hold the confidence of the people. They don’t see him as a leader. This whole Amistad affair is proof of that, too. If the man had anything between his legs he would have shipped the whole lot of them back to Cuba on the first tide. Instead he fumbled and wavered. As a result, he’s got Tappan and the rest of those mad religious fanatics trying to whip up the country into some sort of frenzy over slavery. And all because of some wretched black murderers. Really.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Yes. Now. But it didn’t have to be. A man must look at the facts, assess the risks, and make a decision. Van Buren does none of those things. He vacillates, halfheartedly initiates, and then draws back and regroups. All the while he never gets anything done. Trust me, Andrew, the man and his administration are done for.”

  “I don’t believe it. But even if I did, what does the Amistad case have to do with all of it?”

  “What I said before about the court is true. I have been told that your name has been mentioned both by Democrats and Whigs. You have respect. But there are a lot of people who are concerned about the prospects of a decision which would grant a slave the right to challenge his captivity. Such a decision would cause tremendous unrest, even though I am sure it would ultimately be overturned by the Supreme Court. Furthermore, leveling this type of a ruling would almost certainly keep your dreams from becoming a reality.”

  “Regardless of how my decision goes, I strongly doubt that I would write it in such a way as to permit that interpretation.”

  “You tell me this in confidence but also in truth, yes?”

  “Yes. But I will also tell you that my decision will be based first and foremost on propriety under the law, party alliances notwithstanding. As any man with experience in these things will tell you, Thadeus, the only way to get on the Supreme Court is to have a sound record based on precedent, legal scholarship, and prudent judgment.”

  “No, Andrew,” Moss said, leaning in. “The only way to get on the Supreme Court is through presidential appointment.”

  The raw, grating cold continued to draw its brittle gray fingers tightly across the Northeast. No one could ever remember anything like it. Rivers and shallow bays froze solid. Snow fell nearly every other day. In many places the rails were impassable, halting trains and testing the wills of numerous towns and cities already short of food and coal. People stayed indoors if at all possible. Traffic along the docks of the seaside villages was nonexistent.

  So when on the morning of January fifth, two days before the trial was to resume, the USS Grampus made its way through the ice flows into New Haven harbor, it was a conspicuous event. The small two-masted ship was fresh from patrolling the western coast of Africa for illegal slavers and not outfitted for ice-breaking or frigid weather. Three shivering sailors stood at the bow rails with great pointed pikes pushing away ice from the hull.

  A reporter from the New Haven Herald managed his way out to the ship by walking on the bay’s ice while pushing a rowboat in front of himself. When the boat broke through the ice he got in it and rowed and sculled and drove the little craft until it came alongside the Navy ship. He was not allowed on board, though. All the commander would say was that the Grampus’s mission was subject to “special orders.”

  The orders, which were tucked tightly in the coat of the ship’s commander, Lieutenant John S. Paine, were personally signed by the President of the United States. But it was because of Paine’s concern and attention that their execution hadn’t been botched from the outset. The Grampus was chosen by Secretary of the Navy Pauling to ferry the tribesmen back to Cuba because of its previous mission as a slave catcher. What Pauling did not consider was that the Grampus was built for the chase rather than transport. As such it was small and had limited crew and cargo space. There was no way it could accommodate nearly forty prisoners and a full crew. Paine explained these facts in a dispatch after receiving his orders. The word came back to “store as many of the negroes below decks as possible and chain the rest on deck, rotating them above and below as he saw fit.” Paine was horrified and wrote another dispatch saying that, if the weather up north was as reported, it would be inhuman to have anyone on deck for a prolonged period of time. He added that if a storm was encountered, it could “produce a serious loss of life for the blacks on deck, as well as a potentially damaging political disaster for the President.” This last bit seemed to touch the proper nerves, for when Paine went ashore in New Haven he was met by Holabird with additional orders to “reduce his crew as he saw necessary so all the blacks could be accommodated below decks for the entire voyage.”

  But there was another problem. The warrant signed by the Attorney General instructed Paine to take the blacks on board, stipulating that it was for “apprehension of the defendants, Spanish negro slaves taken from the Amistad, currently on trial in Circuit Court.” With the proceedings occurring in district court, Paine was concerned that his warrant was invalid. He showed it to Holabird, who nearly fainted. The prosecutor summoned an express courier and charged him to go to Washington for a new warrant. Generally, the trip would take a full day by train. However, with the weather making passage questionable all the way down to the Carolinas, it was doubtful the courier could deliver the message before the trial reconvened. Holabird informed Judson, who assured him that Baldwin would probably take two or three days to simply present the final elements of his case.

  Court resumed on Monday, January 7, a sunny but frigid day. Despite the fact that the great coal furnace in the basement had been fired four hours earlier, the courthouse had yet to warm up. People entering the building could still see their breath in the air.

  James Covey had recovered, as had the lawyers for the opposition, and the gallery hummed with anticipation of what they would hear that day. They were not disappointed. As soon as Judson entered and convened the proceedings, Baldwin stood.

  “Your Honor, I ask that Joseph Cinqué be called along with the interpreter James Covey.”

  “Call Mr. Cinqué and Mr. Covey,” Judson said, “and let the record show that the court recognizes and accepts Mr. Covey’s ability as interpreter for the Amistad negroes.”

  Singbe walked up to the st
and and took the oath. He was dressed in black cotton pants, a plain checked shirt, tattered field boots without laces, and a thick wool winter coat that reached down to his knees. He also had on fingerless wool gloves and held a gray knitted wool cap in his hands.

  “Now, Joseph,” Judson said. “I know you’re not a Christian. But we expect you to be on your word here.”

  Singbe looked from Covey to the judge, nodded, and spoke in English.

  “I tell truth only.”

  A murmur went through the courtroom. Judson banged his gavel twice. Sedgwick winked at Staples, who had spent several hours of the last week helping Singbe to master the phrase he had just spoken.

  “Proceed, Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Cinqué, tell the court how you came to be here, in America.”

  Singbe told the tale of his odyssey that had begun nearly a year before. Sedgwick provided a rope so Singbe could show how he was tied by his captors. Later, when Singbe got on the floor and got into the half-sitting position that he held for most of his time on the nearly fifty-day voyage of the Teçora, the silence in the courtroom was tangible. Holabird objected, asking what bearing this had on the case, but Judson, who even appeared to be moved, overruled. Singbe also told of his time in the baracoons and how he was appraised by Ruiz.

  “Would you show us exactly what you mean?” Baldwin asked.

  “He will need a man,” Covey said. “To serve as a prospective slave.”

  “Mr. Holabird, would you care to volunteer?” Baldwin asked.

  “Certainly not, sir!”

  “Fine, fine,” Baldwin smiled. “I will submit. Appraise me as a prospective purchase, Mr. Cinqué.”

  Singbe got up from the stand and walked over to Baldwin. He stopped in front of him, reached out tentatively and gave the lawyer’s arm a soft squeeze.

  “Really, Mr. Cinqué. Is this representative?” Baldwin said. “Were the slave traders this gentle?”

  Covey translated. Singbe shook his head. Covey told him in Mende, “Show them. Show them how it was.”

  Singbe unbuttoned his coat and set it aside on a chair. He took a deep breath and turned Baldwin around so he faced the gallery. Singbe slapped the lawyers’ arms and back hard. He felt his legs and buttocks. Then he spun him around and inspected the teeth. The gallery gasped at nearly every move Singbe made. They were not used to seeing such practices, nor had they ever see a white man treated so by a black man.

  When Singbe was done, he turned to Covey and whispered a few words.

  “He says he is sorry, Mr. Baldwin, sir.”

  “Quite all right,” Baldwin said, though it was obvious he was somewhat unsettled by the experience.

  Singbe retook the stand and told about his time in the baracoons and how he had met the other tribesmen. He explained how after a few days they were loaded onto the Amistad.

  “And when did this occur?” Baldwin asked. “At what part of the day were you and the children moved?”

  “Late at night,” Singbe answered through Covey. “After darkness had fallen.”

  A great roar of unrest exploded through the spectators. Late at night! Late at night! It was unthinkable! Judson banged his gavel several times.

  “Quiet! Quiet! There will be order in my court! Mr. Baldwin. Does your client understand the question of time?”

  “Yes, he does, Your Honor.”

  “And it was after dark? Late at night?” Judson spoke now to Singbe.

  Covey relayed the message and repeated Singbe’s words.

  “Yes, sir,” Covey said. “Late at night.”

  The courtroom again was in turmoil. Judson slammed his gavel down again calling for order, but he knew what they were hearing was scandalous. Slavery was one thing, a horrible thing, but legal nonetheless. However, keeping children up late at night – why, in New England such a thing was widely recognized as an appalling, outright cruelty. Baldwin had scored a crucial point. More important, Holabird could not respond. Ruiz was not in attendance, for he still refused to take the stand, calling the proceedings a mockery. Until now, Holabird had not minded Ruiz’s and Montes’s absence, prefer-ring instead to work from the Spaniards’ sworn deposition. But there was nothing in there about what time the slaves were loaded, so there was no way to refute Singbe’s testimony.

  Singbe went on to tell of the mutiny, and that, yes, they had killed the captain and crew, but that it was in self-defense. The captain had fired upon them. Besides, they had been kidnapped, beaten, and tortured. Now they believed they were to be killed and eaten.

  “What would you have done if it were you?” he asked rhetorically.

  Baldwin also asked about his capture by the Navy. Were they in chains when they were boarded? “No.” Were Montes or Ruiz or Antonio in chains? “No. But they were under guard.” What did they intend to do with the captives if he could get Henry Green to pilot the ship? “Give them a long boat and point them toward land.”

  The testimony went the day. When Baldwin had finished, Holabird stood up to cross-examine, but Judson stopped him. “I think we have heard enough for today,” he said. “You may step down, Joseph.”

  Singbe looked to the judge and then to Baldwin. He stood, but then stopped and turned back to Judson.

  “Please. Me just want go home. Go Africa. Be with wife and childrens and fah-ter. Want be with Stefa and childrens. Please.”

  Sedgwick looked to Staples, who shook his head. They had not heard this before. Not in English, at least.

  Judson grunted and pointed with his gavel toward the other tribesmen. “Get back now with the others, Joseph. This court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Judson banged the gavel hard on the pallet and got up and walked out quickly.

  Later that night, Tappan sat in his hotel room, worried. Surely the Van Buren Administration wouldn’t be so bold as to kidnap the Africans. But why, then, was the Grampus riding at anchor in the harbor? He had asked Baldwin and the others if there was any chance the blacks could be spirited off by the government.

  “Highly unlikely,” Staples said, “unless, of course, the President wants to ignore the U.S. Constitution and deny the blacks their right of appeal.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a president has thumbed his nose at the Constitution,” Tappan said.

  “Yes, but they try not to do it publicly in an election year” – Sedgwick chuckled – “not unless it can win them votes.”

  “Which getting the blacks out of here and back to Cuba certainly would in many quarters,” Tappan said in exasperation.

  “Perhaps Van Buren is ready to concede and provide the Amistads with passage back to their homeland,” Staples sneered.

  Baldwin laughed and assured Tappan that there was nothing to worry about, that the ship was nothing more than some sort of scare tactic, perhaps to get the abolitionists to make a rash move.

  “What kind of a move?” Tappan asked.

  “There’s been talk that the underground railroad may be employed to move the Amistads,” Baldwin said. “You wouldn’t know anything of that, would you, Lewis?”

  “Now, Roger. Do you think I would endanger the case with such a folly?”

  “No. So why should the government make the same mistake, especially when it appears they may have the case won?”

  “What happens after we leave the courtroom, that’s what has me worried,” Tappan said.

  Baldwin waved his hand as if to dismiss the whole idea of a conspiracy. But Tappan remained concerned. Jocelyn’s plan to get the blacks out to an underground railroad station depended on passable roads or seas. The frozen bays and inlets, and snowed-over roads made a quick, inconspicuous escape improbable. And a diversion would be nearly impossible if the blacks were seized by the government in the courthouse at the conclusion of the trial. Tappan considered trying to make a break that night, getting the Amistads out on sleighs and taking them north to a barn of a sympathizer in Farmington. But Jocelyn talked him out of such
rash action.

  “The government would never do such a thing,” Jocelyn said. “It would be beyond scandalous. It would be the downfall of Van Buren’s presidency. They want this affair to disappear, but to kidnap the blacks and deprive them of the rights under the Constitution? Why, it would create a deafening public outcry. No, Lewis, they will keep it in the courts. Remember, there is an election this year. Van Buren covets vindication in the eyes of the law as much as we do.”

  What Tappan and Jocelyn did not know was how close the trial had come to ending that day. Isham had met with Holabird, Hungerford, and Judson after court was adjourned and offered to drop Gedney and Meade’s claims if the trial were immediately discontinued. Isham did not say so, but the Spanish government had offered to pay the two officers $20,000 in lieu of a salvage claim. The arrangement would be dubious in the eyes of the law but all involved felt comfortable enough as long as a certain level of discretion was maintained.

  Holabird and Hungerford knew of the Spanish offer, though Judson did not. Isham insisted to the judge that his clients were having second thoughts and did not want to impede their government’s desires to resolve the issue of the blacks. Judson nodded and said that if the Navy officers wanted to withdraw their claims, he would allow it, but that it would probably not accelerate the case since Henry Green still had a claim pending. This pronouncement caused Isham to immediately back down on his offer, saying he would only tender it if the judge could guarantee a cessation to the trial. Judson said that the trial would go on unless Green withdrew his claim as well.

  Holabird moved quickly, trying to work as an intermediary for the Spanish. He met with Ellsworth that night and explained that cash could be found for Green as well if his claim was withdrawn. Ellsworth, however, refused to even hear of such things, knowing that if a secret deal were discovered by the press, it would mean political disaster. The Spanish decided to withdraw their offer to Gedney and Meade when they saw it would not produce the desired results. It was a disappointment to the Spaniards but no great loss. The Grampus still rode at anchor in the harbor.