Amistad

by David Pesci

  Baldwin smiled. “Not too loud, Theodore. If your words fell into the ears of the wrong people, this could turn into an even bigger nest of hornets than the case at hand.”

  But while the English lessons were going well, the conversion to Christianity was more problematic. The teachings were coming primarily out of the New Testament, and most of the tribesmen thought Jesus and his father were wise and benevolent, much like their own great spirit Ngewo who lived far above the clouds. They were puzzled, however, that Christian religion was devoid of lesser gods such as the ones that inhabited the jungle and rivers and earth. After all, it was through these gods and the spirits of dead relatives that the tribesmen communicated their concerns to Ngewo. How was it that the Christian God and his son allowed themselves to be petitioned directly by people of the earth who did not live in the spirit world? Despite this confusing discrepancy, most agreed that it was a good religion, and some, Burnah and Kinna in particular, had accepted Jesus Christ as their savior. But for most of the tribesmen, full conversion was being held up by one important point.

  “One wife?” Yaboi the Timmani tribesman laughed. “Some clans in Mende do such a thing. Singbe’s is one, I hear. But even that is a voluntary condition, and one that is not always followed. I myself think only taking one wife severely limits the benefits to the tribe. A man should be able to have as many wives and children as he can afford. It is much more generous.”

  “I used to think so,” Burnah said. “But Dr. Gibbs says it is a sin of the flesh and an abomination unto the Lord to have more than one.”

  “Perhaps it is because he doesn’t know any better.”

  “Perhaps. But I want to be a good Christian. I do not have any wives now, but when I return to Mende I plan to take only one.”

  “One is a good start,” Yaboi agreed. “But what if you prosper? It will be expected of you to take more wives and have more children. You can increase your prosperity by marrying into the right families. And the bloodline of a wise and prosperous man is continued and strengthened. It is the right way, the way of nature. Tell me, does not the strongest lion have the biggest pride?”

  “I understand all that. But it is different when you are a Christian. You follow the Christian ways. No. I will have one wife and many children. They will be Christians, too.”

  Yaboi wondered if Burnah was joking, but his face was sincere.

  “Well” – Yaboi smiled – “by taking only one wife, Burnah, perhaps in your own way you will be providing the women of Mende with a service.”

  As part of his inquiry regarding the documents for the Amistad trial, John Quincy Adams was able to have the President send the transcripts from the previous trials to the Congress so they might be entered into the official record. These would also be the official transcripts used by the Supreme Court as part of their evaluation of the case in the winter. The government printed over ten thousand copies. Interest in the case was so strong among the public that the copies sold out in a matter of days.

  However, a few weeks after the transcripts, jointly labeled “Document 185,” reached Congress, Adams discovered a serious discrepancy. On the Cubans’ original bills of sale, on the trespasses, and on other identity documents, the word landinos appeared in each referring to the disposition of the blacks. However, in all the documents prepared for the Document ISS, the word landinos had been translated to “sound negroes.” In the eyes of the law, and especially the Supreme Court, this translation would greatly weaken the claims of the defense. Adams was a savvy enough politician to know that this type of “error” was too convenient to be a product of coincidence. He strongly suspected tampering by the administration and expressed his views on the House floor. The White House issued a statement denying any involvement with “alterations or unforeseen discrepancies.” Adams was unconvinced and requested and received permission for a Congressional inquiry into the affair. With the election just ten weeks away, the opposition newspapers played the story up as big as they could, but there was little that could be written beyond speculation. And despite Adams’s best efforts, the inquiry produced little substance. The only smoking gun discovered was a proofreader at Blair and Rives, the printing firm that produced the documents. The committee was able to confirm that the man had made alterations to Document 185 before it was set in type. However, that was an acknowledged part of his job – to correct grammatical imperfections and spellings. He admitted as much to Adams’s committee. Yes, he had changed “landinos” to “sound negroes,” but only because that was what the word looked liked to him.

  “On my oath, sir, I did not think I was making a change in meaning,” the proofreader testified. “The documents were written in a bad hand. I thought it said ‘sound negroes.’ And to be honest, Mr. Adams, sir, I never heard of the word ‘landinos’ before in my life.”

  Adams produced the original court documents for the committee. The word ‘landinos’ was clearly legible as such wherever it appeared. The proofreader was unshakable. Adams didn’t believe the man, but there was nothing to disprove his story, nor could any kind of trail be found that led to the White House. The best Adams could do was send a formal letter to the Supreme Court, calling their attention to the error and issue a public notification as well.

  Tappan remained very hopeful that the Supreme Court would find for the blacks, but he was not abandoning his plan for a quick evacuation in case something went awry. He had also been approached by Antonio with a request. Since Ruiz had fled the United States, Antonio had been forced by the court into incarceration with the tribesmen. The tribesmen still disliked him, though they were not mistreating him. Mostly they just ignored him. For his part, Antonio continued to believe that the Africans were contemptible because they were not, in his words, “as well-bred or civilized” as he was. But while Antonio saw that these men might be able to return to the place of their birth, he had no desire to do the same.

  “I do not want to return to Cuba,” he said. “I do not want to go to Africa, either. I see the free blacks in America and I decide that I do not want to be a slave anymore. Is there anything you can do for me, Mr. Tappan? Please.”

  The boy asked the question nearly every time Tappan visited the jail. Privately, Tappan was positive something could be done. Antonio could he smuggled off to Canada in a heartbeat. But he would not attempt such a thing until after the Supreme Court hearing. He was also wary about Antonio’s motives. It could well be that his plea was inspired by Holabird, someone in the Van Buren administration, or even the Spanish Minister. Perhaps someone promised him his freedom if he could get Tappan or another member of the committee to expose the abolitionists’ contacts with the underground railroad. It would bring down a net of criminal charges on Tappan and the others and most certainly scuttle the Amistad case. For these reasons, Tappan sadly shook his head each time Antonio asked, telling that they would have to let the law dispense freedom and justice.

  As summer turned to fall, Tappan became increasingly concerned with the trappings of a Supreme Court bearing. The abolitionists were still widely perceived as religious extremists by most people in the country. Tappan believed that it was essential for their credibility to have a nationally known and respected man arguing their case. Though both Sedgwick and Baldwin were exceptional, neither carried the kind of standing Tappan craved. He wanted someone whose presence would, in his own words, “infuse their cause with an immediate tremor of awe and legitimacy.”

  Tappan’s first choice was Daniel Webster, the best known and perhaps most respected lawyer in the nation. Webster, a native of Massachusetts, had presented cases before the Supreme Court over thirty times. Having him argue the Amistad case would be an incredible coup. But though he had no love of slavery, Webster desperately wanted to be president one day. Taking up the defense of this case would be an unwise step for anyone who would eventually need to forge a coalition between Northern and Southern states. Though he did not trust or like abolitionists and believed their agenda would ultima
tely divide the union, he had a sneaking admiration for Tappan and his abilities. And when Tappan approached Webster personally, it seemed as if the abolitionist’s powers of persuasion might win out. But Webster stood firm and sent a note along a few days later that expressed regrets at not being able to take up the case due to a full schedule. He assured Tappan, however, that in Baldwin and his team, the Amistads had outstanding representation.

  Tappan next turned to Rufus Choate, another lawyer with an impeccable reputation, anti-slavery sentiments, and experience before the Supreme Court. But Choate had no desire to become involved with the abolitionists or their extreme beliefs. Always gracious, Choate turned down Tappan’s advances with a letter that claimed his health would not permit an “undertaking of such a formidable, though no doubt honorable, task.”

  Tappan had seen these men as his best chance for making a national statement and generating extensive press coverage two things his instincts told him were essential to furthering the abolitionist cause. But with both Webster and Choate refusing to become involved, Tappan believed that there was only one other man who commanded both the notoriety and the legal ability needed for this case.

  “But,” Tappan said to Jocelyn, “he is probably too old and wise a fox to throw his lot in with us.”

  Still, Tappan decided to try his powers of persuasion one more time. He got in touch with a friend, Ellis Gray Loring, who was also a friend of the man in question. Within a few weeks, a meeting in Boston between the three had been arranged.

  It was not an easy sell. The man had been following the case in the papers and thought it was a most noble and just cause. He wished Tappan and his defense team well, and believed that Baldwin was a most capable presenter. However, the man continued, he had no wish to become personally aligned with the abolitionist movement.

  “I believe in the ideas that constitute the foundation of your cause, Mr. Tappan, and would love to see slavery abolished in this country this very instant. But I also believe that the methods of the abolitionists as a whole have been dangerously close to sedition on a number of occasions. There are those among your ranks who are dangerous and would gladly see this country split in two.”

  He also spoke of his advancing age – he was nearly seventy-four – and a busy schedule that got him up at dawn every day and kept him working until nearly twelve each night. The man listed reason after reason why he should not and could not take the case.

  Tappan listened closely. But instead of hearing reasons why the esteemed man couldn’t take the case, Tappan was hearing excuses, the kind of excuses a person makes when he is trying to convince everyone in the room of his point, and trying to convince himself most of all. Tappan saw the opening, and he knew if he could lay things out just so, the excuses would crumble beneath the weight of the man’s true desire to take up the case.

  Tappan took his time, going back and forth with the man. Each excuse was refuted. When the man pointed to his age, Tappan pointed to the man’s daily schedule – one that would quickly put much younger men in the grave. When the man suggested that it was outside of his interests, Tappan listed achievements and current work by the man that were directly related. When the man mentioned that he had not appeared before the Supreme Court for more than thirty years, Tappan said no one doubted his legal acumen or skills of oratory. Tappan further assured him that statements would be made letting the press know unequivocally that the man’s involvement was in no way an endorsement of the abolitionist cause. The sole intent was to achieve justice for the Amistads. After four hours like this, the man finally consented, saying he hoped his involvement would not do the Africans’ case harm. Tappan, barely able to contain himself, assured the man that his involvement was exactly what the Amistads needed.

  On the way back from Boston, however, Tappan was forced to consider how to solve another problem. Bringing on the new lawyer meant Baldwin would no longer be senior counsel.

  Three weeks later, on November 17, the defense team was called together in New Haven for a special meeting. The new senior counsel was coming to the city to meet the Amistads, the committee, and his new colleagues. Tappan had broken the news to Baldwin soon after returning from Boston. If Baldwin was upset at being dropped as senior counsel, he did not let on. After being informed of the situation, Baldwin’s first response to Tappan was, “What a great stroke of luck for our cause.” He went on to compile an exhaustive brief on the case to bring the new counsel up to date. However, Tappan suspected that Baldwin was extremely disappointed. After all, it was Roger Baldwin who had brought the case farther than anyone could have dreamed possible. But Tappan knew that Baldwin’s desire to win the case, his unapproachable professionalism, and his high regard for the lawyer coming on board had helped to temper his discouragement.

  On the day of the New Haven meeting, Staples had stopped by Baldwin’s office to drop off the last of the files he was working on. As of today he would be officially off the case. Staples could have sent the files over with an assistant, but he was hoping for a chance to meet the distinguished guest in person.

  As Staples came in, Sedgwick and Baldwin were discussing a point about one of the trespassos issued to Ruiz. Baldwin asked Staples to hand him the copy of the trespassos from a file on the shelf near the door. Staples opened the file and began looking for the document. As he did, he came across a short note in the hand of their “Friend.” Staples glanced through it, realizing it was not one he had seen before. However, when his eyes reached the end, his heart nearly stopped. Instead of the familiar signature “A Friend,” this one had a name.

  “Roger, when did you get this?”

  “What is it? Is it the trespasso?”

  “No, it’s a note. From him. Only it’s signed!”

  At that moment, the door of Baldwin’s office flew open. Tappan walked in over the threshold with Jocelyn, two professors from Yale, and the new senior counsel.

  “Mr. Baldwin, Mr. Sedgwick. And Mr. Staples! Good to see you, sir.” Tappan beamed. “Gentlemen, it is my most sincere and honored pleasure to introduce our new senior counsel. The Honorable John Quincy Adams.”

  “It’s our Friend!” Staples cried waving the note. “Roger, Theodore! It’s Him! Our ‘Friend.’ The one who’s been helping us all along!”

  Mr. Adams and the Court

  John Quincy Adams was a man of high intelligence, strong convictions, and ideas that were well ahead of their time. He was also a man of action who lived by his words, a philosophy that had more than once put his life in danger.

  Son of the second president of the United States, he was fluent in German, French, Latin, and Greek, in addition to English. He lived in Massachusetts and was elected to the U.S. Senate as a Federalist at age thirty-five. He later served as Ambassador to Russia, Ambassador to London, and was the Secretary of State under James Monroe. As such, he was responsible for acquiring Florida and drafting the Monroe Doctrine and the Treaty of Ghent, as well as the Treaty of 1819.

  In 1824 he was elected President of the United States in a tight race that, because of no clear electoral majority, was decided in the House of Representatives. As president he worked to implement such policies as uniform currency, a national banking system, a national university, and a nationwide federally funded canal and highway system. Two years after losing the 1828 election to Andrew Jackson, Adams was elected to the House of Representatives. He had been reelected every term since and spent much of his time working for civil rights, public works, the advancement of science, and was instrumental in the founding of the Smithsonian Institution.

  Though not an abolitionist, Adams was a vehement opponent of slavery and became the prime crusader against the “gag rule,” a parliamentary order passed in 1836 by the House that forbade discussion of slavery on the House floor. Adams argued that the rule was an abomination upon the Constitutional rights of not only the members of the House, but also of their constituents. His stance on slavery and the gag rule won him respect in the North and a level of
hate in the South generally reserved for abolitionists. It also nearly got him censured from the House and brought him several threats of injury, violence, and death – the most recent coming just before he took up the Amistad case. Adams had received a framed portrait of himself with a fresh bullet hole shot through the head. The portrait had been anonymously posted from Georgia. Adams hung it on the wall behind his desk.

  Adams’s reputation as a gripping orator was unequaled – this in a nation whose residents regularly turned out to hear lectures and debates that ran two to four hours. He loved to speak publicly and could do so on a variety of subjects, often going from one to the next easily and without notes. In fact, after visiting the Amistads, their lawyers, and members of the Amistad Committee, Adams gave a free lecture to a standing-room crowd in New Haven’s great Congregational Church on “Society and Civilization.” But despite his great legal mind and speaking abilities, Adams quickly began wondering if he had taken up more than he could handle with the Amistad case. He had been following the proceedings closely since news of the black schooner had first hit the papers. His keen insight into the case was witnessed by the anonymous notes he had penned as “A Friend” and sent to Baldwin’s team from Boston, Washington, and through his close friend Loring. Although not being intimate with all the court documents associated with the case, Adams’s attention to the details as reported by the papers and friends had been so sharp that the nearly two hundred-page brief Baldwin sent him offered few new facts to consider. Still, an argument before the Supreme Court was not something to be taken lightly, especially when it was on behalf of a case that carried so much controversy and potential for far-reaching actions. If able to give all his time, or even half of it, Adams was confident he could, as he put it, “carry his portion of the load.” But Congress would soon be back in session, sapping up much of his time and energy. And he was frequently heard to remark that his aging constitution was slowing him down, though he still managed to work eighteen hours a day, rising at dawn to walk the mile from his house on F Street to Congress and returning by the same route each night.