by David Pesci
“Much better than that rickety fool, Colonel,” Tim snickered.
“Right. Now, as I sees it, yous, all a yous, are guilty, filthy murderers. However, the law is sometimes prejudiced and don’t sees things right. Politics an’ all. Your Mr. Tappan, with his almighty attitude and nigger-lovin’ ways, he swayed the courts and the papers. Hell, he bought ’em off with all his money – That’s a truth as sure as we’re standing here this night. So, as I sees it, someone ’round here has to dispense some justice. That someone’ll be me. Tim!”
Pendelton handed the man the musket. The man handed Pendelton a whip. The jailer cracked it in the air a few times and let out a creaky laugh.
“We flogs the attempted escapers ’round here. The way I sees it, you fellas are tryin’ to escape proper justice.”
He staggered forward a few steps and sent the whip into the three men. The first lash struck Grabeau on the back and Singbe in the neck. Pendelton swung the whip twice more, hitting Burnah as well, and then staggered around them, taking up a new stance just behind Singbe. He let out a yell and cracked the whip hard into them five more times.
“Stop yer moving, ya black sonsabitches,” Pendelton slurred, staggering a little to the left. He drew back his arm quick, catching the rest of his drunken body by surprise, especially the feet, which twisted, shook, and then flew out, sending Pendelton onto his back.
“Colonel! Colonel?”
The other man, Tim, ran over to Pendelton. The old jailer rolled over on his side and vomited.
“Tim,” he gagged. “Give ’em what for.”
Pendelton passed out. Singbe, Grabeau, and Burnah watched Tim take the lamp and help Pendelton out of the room. The thick wooden door slammed shut. The room’s darkness was complete. The only sound they heard was their own shaking, gasping breaths. About a half hour later Tim came back, holding the musket. He unlocked the chains and led them to their cells. A few days later, when one of the divinity students discovered welts on Grabeaus back, the story of the flogging was told. Tappan went back to Pendelton to ask what happened.
“They must’ve given someone a hard time,” was all the jailer would say.
Tappan promised an inquiry and charges.
“You can look into it, Mr. Tappan,” Pendelton said. “But I have a feeling nothing will be uncovered. Besides, how do you know them blacks didn’t get surly one night on my night guards and deserve a little flogging? We’d do the same if they were white.”
Tappan reported the incident to the committee, which decided to present a report to the New Haven City council. An inquiry was launched but the council found no evidence of mistreatment.
Secretary of State Forsyth paced in the White House parlor while President Van Buren sat in front of the fireplace puffing on a pipe. As Forsyth saw it, Judson’s decision was not the sudden enlightenment that the abolitionist papers were claiming. If anything, it was a shrewd ruling that walked a razor’s edge between judicial propriety and political expedience. He had granted the Amistads their freedom, but in no way had he granted them rights as persons under the U.S. Constitution. In returning Antonio to the heirs of Captain Ferrer, Judson was also affirming that foreign slaves could not look to the United States for asylum. Finally, in putting the Amistads in the care of President Van Buren, he had given the government control over their destiny. True, Forsyth admitted, the Administration had been officially charged with returning the blacks to Africa. But what happened after a ship left port and reached the open ocean was always a dicey proposition.
“A storm could blow them off course and force them into a nearby port for refuge, a port such as Havana, say,” he said. “Then again, everyone knows how upset the Spanish are about the entire incident. It is not unforeseeable that they would overtake the ship on the high seas, board it, and take all the blacks back to Cuba for trial. Certainly we would lodge a protest. But in the end, what could we do, especially if no American citizens were harmed and no ship was taken?”
“Are you suggesting we drop our appeal?”
“My sources tell me Tappan and his crowd would accept such a gesture if we promised passage for the blacks back to Africa.”
“Albeit with stipulations for verification of their safe delivery to Sierra Leone, no doubt.”
“I would expect so, yes sir.”
“That is a barrel of shit,” Van Buren said, slamming his fist down on his desk. “I will not make treaties with abolitionists, nor will I be seen as compromising on this issue. That would be disastrous to our Southern strategy in the fall.”
“To not do so might prove equally disastrous with the Northern contingent.”
“I believe Northern sympathizers will look at the court decision as the ultimate yardstick. They will know that we must cede to the judiciary’s demands.”
“I met with Minister Argaiz this morning.”
“That bilious little runt Argaiz. He has not stopped whining since Judson made his ruling in January.”
“Yes. He continues to lodge protests both with my office and in sympathetic newspapers. Although I have noticed a shift in content and tone. He has gone from calling the blacks ‘slaves’ to ‘murders and mutineers.’ No doubt the shift was inspired by Holabird’s advice on what will play better in the courts.”
“I’m less worried about the Spanish than the election. We need a court-sanctioned vindication for our position in this matter. It is essential. At the very least it will halt the gossip. Christ, look at the papers. It is April and they are still filled with Amistad and Cinqué.”
“That’s because the appeal will be heard next Monday.”
“Yes, and by Smith Thompson. He is no friend of ours, that’s for sure. Mark my words, John, this is headed for the Supreme Court.”
“It would appear so, Mr. President. However, if that proves true, all the better. No doubt we shall finally see proper justice done.”
“Yes, yes. But in all likelihood the court wouldn’t take it up until its winter session. The election is in November. I want it gone now. We have too many other distractions to deal with.”
“Mr. President, trust me. This Amistad affair is not affecting any sort of drag on your election prospects. Win or lose, you have been doing the right thing in the public’s eye. Any unrest out there is solely hitched to the state of the economy.”
“The economy has been improving slowly and steadily since last October. I wish someone would take notice of that.”
“Some people have taken notice, sir. But you know how perception always trails reality.”
A heavy sigh hissed out of Van Buren. He stood and walked over to the window near his desk.
“Do what you can to strengthen our cause with the Amistad case. If the appeal does not go our way, I shall take Holabird off the case and order Attorney General Gilpin to present it before the Supreme Court. We will prevail in this matter, John.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
Ten days later, on a cool and foggy Washington morning, a well-dressed man stopped another man on the street, a proofreader from a local print shop, and said, “Excuse me, my good man. I’m wondering if you can help me?”
“Sir?”
“I wonder if you could take a look at this?”
The man handed the proofreader an envelope. Inside was a hundred dollars. The proofreader had never seen so much money in one place.
“You see this word?” the man said, holding up a small sheet of paper with the word landinos on it.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will see it in your work in the next few weeks. It is a typographical error. I would like you to substitute these words instead,” the man said, holding out another piece of paper. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all. The money is for your troubles. Of course, if you do not fix the error, I will have to send a friend to retrieve the cash.”
“Oh no, sir. That won’t be necessary.”
“I’m sure it won’t. But I will know if
the errors are corrected, so pay close attention to your work in the next few days.”
The proofreader looked down at the envelope and gently fingered the money, still not believing. His voice came out almost as if in a dream. “You can count on it, sir.”
The proofreader looked up, but the man was gone. He looked up and down the street. There were dozens of men walking to work. Any could be the one who had just handed him the envelope. The proofreader turned and quickly stuffed the envelope into his pocket and went off to the print shop where he worked.
The defense team had been working hard to put together their case for the appeal and perhaps beyond. The task was made more difficult because Staples was being pulled away by work for other clients. He declared that after the appeal he would have to leave the Amistads. Sedgwick and Baldwin did not feel any animosity toward Staples for this. Both men had a number of cases that they were also working on besides Amistad and could sympathize with the young lawyer. But Sedgwick had pledged to stay until the end despite the minimal pay. For Baldwin, who had still not taken a cent for all his work, there was never a question of whether he would remain with the case. For him it was a cause of virtually religious proportions.
The defense was still receiving no help from Washington in getting copies of government documents. Still in England, Arthur Tappan had acquired a copy of the Treaty of 1819 from the British and sent it over in the U.S. ambassador’s diplomatic pouch, but the Secretary of State’s office informed the Amistad Committee that the copy had somehow been lost between the ocean voyage and the pouch’s arrival in Washington. The process of sending word back to England for a second copy, getting it made, and having it brought to the United States would take another six or seven months. By then a hearing before the Supreme Court might be over. Baldwin wrote a letter to his friend William Storrs, a Congressman from Connecticut, to see if any pressure could be brought to bear on the executive from more formal channels. Storrs turned to John Quincy Adams who, in addition to being a former President of the United States and a current member of the House of Representatives, had also been Minister to England when the treaty was written. In fact, Adams was the architect of much of the treaty’s original text. Despite having not worked in the executive for nearly twenty years, Adams maintained a few contacts within the State Department. He sent a note to Baldwin saying simply: “With regards to securing documents for your case with the Amistads, I will see what I can do.” Baldwin stared at the note for a few moments. It stirred something in his mind, a reminder of something he thought he should remember. But nothing came forth, so he put the note in a file and carried on with his work, hoping something would come of Adams’s efforts.
A few days before the appeal opened, Senator John C. Calhoun, a Whig from South Carolina, proposed a resolution that in part read:
If a ship should be forced by stress of weather or other cause into a port, she and her cargo, and persons on board, with their property, will be accorded all the rights belonging to their personal relations as established by the laws of the state to which they belong, and would be placed under protection of the laws of nations which are extended under such circumstances.
The resolution, which was worded vaguely enough to include any such incident, was clearly aimed at the Amistad case. It passed in the Senate 99 to 0. Meanwhile in the House of Representatives, John Quincy Adams put forth a resolution specifically stating that the blacks of the Amistad were being detained unlawfully by the U.S. Government and should be returned immediately to their home state in Africa. The resolution failed miserably.
On April 21, Smith Thompson opened the appeal of the U.S. government by hearing the presentation of William Holabird, who was now also representing the interest of the Spanish government in the case. Holabird’s opening was followed by Baldwin’s motion to dismiss the federal appeal on the grounds that the U.S. government’s representative, Holabird, had no right under the Constitution or international law to represent the interest of Spain or any other foreign nation. Thompson was unimpressed with both Holabird’s appeal and Baldwin’s motion to dismiss. After four days of hearings, he ruled in favor of Judson’s decision, declaring that the case properly belonged in the docket of the U.S. Supreme Court for ultimate resolution. The Court would bear the case during its winter session, which began in January, 1841.
After his ruling, Thompson was approached by Seth Staples with a motion to set bail for the Amistads.
“Motion denied. These blacks shall remain within the custody of the law until this case is decided by the Supreme Court.”
“But by Judge Judson’s ruling they are free men.”
“No, Mr. Staples. By Judge Judson’s ruling they are residents of Africa and remanded to the president for return to their native land. This disposition has been appealed by the government, and thus, ultimately, the rights regarding freedom will have to wait until the Supreme Court issues a final ruling.”
“Your Honor, this is unprecedented. Are you telling me that if these men were declared by Judge Judson to be citizens of France or England, you would hold them in jail pending the appeal?”
“If they were citizens of France or England, I would issue writs of habeas corpus, Mr. Staples. However, they are not citizens of those or any other such nations, nor can American law in its present incarnation view them in such a light. Such as the Amistads are, they will have to remain in custody.”
“Because they are black, correct, Your Honor?”
“Because of the way the law is written, Mr. Staples. I can honestly say I wish it were not so, but it is. And I must follow the law. Court adjourned.”
The next day, Baldwin went with Tappan to the jail to explain what had happened to the tribesmen. Singbe, Grabeau, and the others listened carefully. When Baldwin had finished they sat silently for a few moments until Burnah stood and spoke.
“So we not be hanged yet?” he said in English.
“Not ever, if we can help it, Burnah,” Tappan said.
“How many more court have to hear case?” Grabeau asked.
“Just one more,” Baldwin said. “No other court can rule above them. Their word is final and must be carried out.”
“President no change court’s word?” Grabeau persisted.
“No,” Baldwin said. “The Supreme Court has power over the President in this case.”
“Why not we go to this court first, then?” Burnah asked.
Baldwin stood and smiled. He knew the tribesmen’s English wasn’t good enough to comprehend an explanation of the American judicial system. He nodded to Covey who stood up and began translating. When Baldwin was done, he asked for questions. None of the tribesmen said anything. Either they fully understood the progression of the case through the courts, or more likely, they didn’t care. Finally, Singbe stood.
“Mr. Tappan. When we go home?”
Tappan looked at Singbe for a moment and then forced out a smile.
“The Supreme Court will consider our case in the winter.”
“It spring now. Why they wait so long?”
“I am afraid that’s just how things are done, Joseph.”
Later, after they had finished their afternoon exercises on the lawn outside the jail, Singbe sat with Grabeau on the grass listening with the group to a sermon by one of the Yale Divinity students.
“I was taken on the road to Kawamende two springs ago,” Singbe whispered in Mende. “Now Mr. Tappan says the high court won’t hear our case until next winter.”
“I know. We have been a long time among the whites.”
“I am confused by the white’s system of justice. One judge is overruled by another. Why not just have a council of judges whose word is final, like in Mende?”
“I do not know,” Grabeau said. “It is odd, though, you are right. There is much about the whites that makes me think their culture is not well developed. But at least we are being allowed another chance at receiving our freedom.”
Singbe nodded and said nothing for a l
ong while. When the sermon was done, the divinity students split them into groups and began the reading lessons. Before he joined his group, Singbe turned to Grabeau again.
“I know I will return to Mende, but I fear Stefa will be with a new husband. She must think I was killed or taken as a slave. Either way, I am dead to her. She is long past the mourning period. She has a new man, now. I am sure of it.”
“Singbe, you must not think that way. You must keep your mind and heart filled with hope.”
Singbe smiled a little and nodded, but Grabeau could see a tired despair in his friend’s eyes.
“I will return to Mende, Grabeau. We all will. That is my hope. Anything more is just a dream.”
“Singbe …”
Singbe walked away and sat down with a small group of others who were reading from a first-grade primer.
Since the trial, the tribesmen had been receiving more intensive instruction in English and Christianity. This was at Tappan’s request. He agreed with Dr. Gailaudet and others at the Yale Divinity School that the tribesmen were delivered to America’s shores by the Lord God Himself in an act of divine providence so that the full Christianization of Africa might begin in earnest. When the case was resolved and, in Tappan’s mind, when justice prevailed and the blacks were set free and allowed to return to their homeland, they would do so as shining examples of Christianity and civilized culture.
“I want them to all become God-fearing, devout Christian gentlemen,” Tappan said. “They shall become missionaries to the cause, much like the Apostles themselves, enlightening the dark continent from shore to shore with the words of Jesus Christ.”
The English lessons were going well. The tutors were particularly impressed with Burnah, Kinna, and Ka-le, whose reading and writing skills were progressing rapidly. One day, after being treated to a demonstration of the progress made by the tribesmen, Sedgwick took Baldwin aside.
“What do you think old Andy Judson would say if he knew these Yale boys were doing exactly the type of educating of blacks that he ran Prudence Crandall out of the state for?” Sedgwick said with a big grin on his face. “And doing it all under the auspices of judicial orders from himself.”