Amistad Read online

  Amistad

  David Pesci

  To my parents

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Part One The Atlantic

  Singbe

  Shaw

  Havana

  Amistad

  East and West

  Landfall

  Part Two America

  The Fuse

  Friends and Enemies

  Circuit Court

  Counter-Offensives

  Judson’s Court

  The Friend

  Mr. Adams and the Court

  The Gentlemen

  Home

  Epilogue

  Sources and Resources

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  I couldn’t have written this book without time, support, and guidance from numerous people, and I need to express to them my most sincere gratitude.

  The reference staff at the Homer Babbidge Library at the University of Connecticut in Storrs was extremely helpful in answering my many questions and making a variety of resources available.

  Special thanks to my unbelievably patient and wise proofreaders, Nancy Kelleran, Russ Malz, and Susan Campbell. They fixed the typos, offered suggestions, and provided moral support and encouragement from start to finish. Extra special thanks to Carol Hobbs, Esq., who not only proofed many chapters, but offered legal advice on the passages of this novel that dealt with the court trials.

  Thanks to my uncle, Don Pesci, the best writer I have ever known. Your suggestions, moral support, and help were invaluable and indispensable throughout this project.

  Thanks to Keith Lashley for the introductions and for his belief in the importance of this book. Thanks also to Raúl da Silva for the title suggestion, the introductions, and his enthusiasm.

  Thank you to Roberta Flack for her interest and kind words.

  Deep and heartfelt appreciation to my agent, John White. Your enthusiasm, suggestions, editor’s eye, and drive made the publication of this book a reality. Thanks again.

  Finally, to my family – my parents, to whom this book is dedicated, my sisters, my brother and his family, my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. All of you have constantly supported me with your encouragement, prayers, and pride. It is a debt I can never repay. Thank you always.

  —David Pesci

  Part One

  The Atlantic

  April 1839

  Singbe

  A cold touch woke him from a dreamless sleep. It was the hand of the boy lying next to him, tossed by the roll of the ship in the night sea. The palm was cold, the fingers stiff. The boy was dead.

  Singbe lightly pushed the hand away and shifted his body to face the boy. He could not see him in the darkness of the ship’s hold. Groping with his left hand, he found the boy’s chest, rigid and still with the lifeless cold. The chain running between Singbe’s wrists was connected to another running between his feet and did not let his hand move up any farther. He shifted his body again and reached with his right hand. The manacle grated into his wrist as he stretched it forward. He found the boy’s eyes, open. Singbe tried to pull the lids down with his fingertips, but they were fixed and would not move. He said a short prayer and turned away, leaving the dead boy to stare into the darkness.

  Singbe closed his own eyes and tried to picture Stefa, and Ge-waw, Klee, Baru, and his father, all together, happy and real. He saw his hut and his farm, the broad field that he and Stefa and his father had worked so hard to clear. They had planted well. The weather had been kind, the sun warm and the rains soft and measured. The birds and small animals had been kept away. There were no locusts or worms. The rice would soon be ready for harvest. After it was in, Singbe would take Ge-waw on his first hunt.

  The images were bright and strong. But for the past few weeks, Singbe was finding he could not hold them long in his mind before others began to creep in. At first it was the lion, coming upon Stefa, Klee, and Baru at the river while they were drawing water for the day. The lion gave way to a pack of hyenas, sharp-toothed, quick and bloodthirsty, descending upon Stefa and Father and the children as they tended the fields. But lately these images had yielded to a new one – a man.

  He was not a man Singbe had seen before. At first, his features and movements were so thin and sketchy that he was little more than a shadow in the background, barely noticed or seen. But in the past few weeks the face and form had grown clearer, more defined and strong, so that he had become familiar. Confident and smiling, the man moved as one with Stefa and the children, looking back at Singbe with a leering grin as he lay down with Stefa or shared the hunt with Ge-waw. He lived in Singbe’s home, sat in his place at mealtimes, and walked his lands. Father was gone.

  Each time the man appeared, Singbe saw the light of his own presence in the eyes of his wife and children fade a little more. It had been so long already. How much time would it take before all that was left of him in their minds was a memory living with the ghosts of the dead?

  The ship rolled and the boy’s hand touched him again. Singbe pushed it away angrily. He closed his eyes again and tried to think of a way to get back home.

  Moans and cries, thumps of wood on wood, and a cold gurgle of chains shook Singbe awake. A whiteman held a musket in one hand and slid open the square wooden portholes with the other. Dull morning light filtered in and salt air slowlv began to mix with the hold’s rancid stink. Two other men, one white and one a light-skinned black, both bare-chested and shoeless, walked down the aisle yelling in that foreign tongue of theirs. They unlocked the links that bound wrists to ankles, then grabbed the wrist chains and pulled the tribesmen to their feet.

  Another, a yellow-haired whiteman, stood in front of the deck-hatch ladder, watching. He was tall and lean, sinewy at the neck and forearms, and his skin was whiter than the other whitemen on the ship. He was dressed more completely than the others, wearing a bright white shirt, striped pants, and polished black boots. He had a hawklike nose and wore his thick mane of yellow hair tied behind his head. In his left hand he held a black, sharp-ended walking stick with a dog’s head carved in the gold handle. A pistol stuck out from his belt. Singbe looked away from the men. These were the ones who always came in the morning.

  The light-skinned black was moving toward him, and Singbe shifted from his side to a sitting position. When the sailor was two men away, Singbe nodded his head to the left.

  “The boy is dead. He is dead.”

  Singbe knew the sailors did not speak Mende or any languages of the tribesmen, but maybe he could get the sailor to understand. The man was over him now. Singbe repeated his words and nodded again. The man unlocked the middle chain, pulled Singbe up hard and pushed him forward from behind the head.

  “Shut-up that gibberish and move, Congo.”

  The push twisted Singbe’s feet around the ankle chain and sent him hard to the floor. He started to get up and saw the sailor pull up on the boy’s chains. The lifeless body jerked forward, the feet coming off the floor, the head bouncing off the sailor’s chest, shit dripping onto his feet. The sailor jumped back.

  “Bloody hell.”

  He threw the boy’s body hard, smashing his head against the bulkhead. The eyes, still open, stared back, glazed and vacant.

  Singbe jumped to his feet and swung his wrist chains at the sailor, hitting him square in the side of the neck. The man fell sideways, the deck coming up hard on his elbow. The other sailor pulling up tribesmen exploded with laughter.

  “That one giving you some attitude, Paolo?”

  “Je-sus!”

  The sailor jumped up and struck Singbe with the back of his hand, knocking him face first to the floor. He fell on Singbe’s back and grabbed his hair. He pulled it
back hard and then smashed Singbe’s face into the planking. Singbe felt his head come up again. He rolled his body, hitting the man hard in the side of the face with the wrist chains. He tried to raise his leg to kick, but the manacles snapped it back. He turned and drove his knees up into the man’s groin. The man let out a howl. He drew a knife from his belt. Singbe slapped his chains into the man’s hand, sending the knife flying. The man shoved his palm up into Singbe’s jaw and pressed his knees into the manacled arms. He grabbed Singbe’s throat with both hands, thumbs digging deep into the neck, and squeezed.

  “Die you bloody-shit nigger! Die!”

  Singbe struggled but he could not loosen the man’s grip. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t breathe. There was a cracking in his throat. And then, quite suddenly, the sailor stopped squeezing.

  “No, Paolo.”

  The yellow-haired whiteman held a pistol to the sailor’s temple.

  The sailor smiled weakly. “But, Señor Shaw, this nigger …”

  The hammer drew back with a metallic click. The man pressed the pistol deeper into the sailor’s temple.

  “Carries a cash value. More than you’ll get paid for this voyage. More than you’ll ever be worth yourself, I daresay. Leave off and get up. Now.”

  “But, Señor Shaw, sir. He pushed me to the floor. Surely he is not to get away with it?”

  The sailor started to rise. Shaw kicked him back to the floor.

  “I’ll warn you now not to second guess me or my motives with my property. Your job is to do as you’re told. Period.”

  Shaw stuck his pistol in his belt and pulled Singbe, still gasping for air, to his feet. He gently turned Singbe’s head and inspected his neck and bloody nose. Singbe stared at Paolo.

  “Get me a wet cloth, Paolo.”

  The sailor grabbed a bucket of seawater and pulled out a rag. Shaw rung it out and swabbed the blood from Singbe’s face.

  “I am to say how these blacks are handled. I will give orders for punishment or not. You are to follow those orders. Above all, you are also not to damage my property. Understand?”

  “Si, Señor.”

  The yellow-haired man pointed to the line of tribesmen going up the hatch and nodded to Singbe. Singbe understood. He stared at Paolo for a second longer and then turned and got in line.

  “This black’s got strength and spirit,” Shaw said. “And that’s exactly why I am in this business. The African blacks work longer and better in the fields. They make better breeding stock. That’s why we can get twice for any one of these what they get for Creoles. We have already had excessive losses on this voyage. I’ll be lucky to break even. What I do not need is some stupid shitfaced scab as yourself busting on my healthy cargo. Now, no harm better come to that particular black unless I order it. If I see a cut to his body, a bruise to his face, if he gets sick, if he catches a bloody cold, it’ll be out of your pay. And I can assure you, you useless mulatto scum, it will be out of your hide. Understand?”

  ‘Si. Si, Señor.’

  Shaw took one step toward Paolo, who took one step backward.

  Shaw smiled, “Cross me, Paolo, and you will live no longer.”

  The other sailor, Miguel, had been walking down the line and now had all the tribesmen on their feet and walking toward the hatch. He reached down and dragged the dead boy’s body to the aisle.

  “Another one, Señor Shaw.”

  Shaw moved to the boy and poked him in the ribs with the walking stick.

  “Take an ear and drag him up with the others once these are on deck, Miguel.”

  ‘Si, Señor Shaw.’

  Shaw walked down past the line of tribesmen and the sailor with the musket and went up the ladder. Miguel pulled the dead boy onto the pile. There were twelve bodies plus the boy. Paolo picked up his knife off the floor and began cutting off the left ear of each dead tribesman and putting them in the burlap bag Miguel held.

  “I’m gonna kill that Inglese son-of-a-bitch. I’m gonna kill him and his precious nigger.”

  “He’s not Inglese, he’s American. And if I were you I’d let it go, Paolo. Señor Shaw may walk and talk like some highborn gentleman, but he will kill you or any other man who crosses him. He’ll do it without a thought.”

  “He’s a dead man walking.”

  On deck, Singbe followed the other tribesmen, shuffling to the railing where they were urinating into the sea. All of them were naked, and despite the warm air brought by the ship’s southern latitude and the growing strength of the morning sun, their bodies shook with chills. Three whitemen with muskets stood close by. Two others were on the raised deck in the stern.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  The words came from a tribesman along the railing, Grabeau, a Mende man like Singbe, with the ceremonial marks of Poro on his back. Many on board were Mende. But there were also Mandingo, Gissi, Timmani, Balu, Bandi, and even Gula. Singbe said nothing.

  “Is it not enough that the blackman with the white blood in his skin hates the tribesmen? He would gladly kill any of us. But now you have gone and given him reason to want to kill you, especially.”

  Singbe stared out at the sea.

  “We are in a world of shit.”

  “Yes, Singbe, it is true. But would you rather be dead?”

  “The Gods have not kept me alive through all this just to die.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps they just haven’t gotten around to killing you, yet.”

  “No. I don’t believe that. I will return home to my wife and my children and my father.”

  Grabeau let loose a small laugh and spat into the sea. “How, Singbe? The water is everywhere. The ship leaves no trail in it. We do not even know where the factory or Mende or anywhere is anymore.”

  A sailor yelled at them. They had been on the ship long enough to know they were being told not to talk. Singbe looked back to the ocean and lowered his voice.

  “The ship sails away from the sun in the morning and into it in the afternoon.”

  “So?”

  “So, we need to move toward the sun in the morning and away from the sun in the afternoon.”

  “And how are we to do that? Slip over the side and walk?”

  “No. We take this ship and sail it ourselves.”

  Grabeau smiled broadly. “I see that mound of shit black-whiteman must have knocked the mind from your head. Have you forgotten these?” He shook the chains lightly. “Or the whitemen on this boat with their guns?”

  “I count only twenty-four whitemen on this boat. Even with all the dead they’ve thrown over the side, there still must be more than three hundred tribesmen in its belly. They bring us up sixty or more at a time. Sixty tribesmen against twenty-four whites. That is more than enough. Guns or not. And all of the whitemen do not have guns all the time. We surprise them, we kill them. The boat will be ours.”

  “Maybe if we were not in chains or starving or if so many of us were not sick, I might agree with you. But trying it as we are … It would be madness. Slaughter.”

  “No. Spending the rest of our lives in chains, living as slaves at the end of a lash-that is madness. That is slaughter.”

  The crack of a whip hit the deck a breath away from Singbe’s feet.

  “No talking! Shut up. Shut up and walk.”

  A sailor with a musket pushed them forward and they began to walk, slowly, following the railing and the riggings, around the deck. They would do this for an hour then be given a handful of rice and a cup of water, which they had to eat and drink while watched by sailors and the yellow-haired man. It had been this way every day since the second morning, except for the three days and four nights of wind and rain and boiling, heaving seas. On those days they ate below. Many got sick, spilling their food up from their stomachs onto the floor. The stench of that and human waste and the dead drew the food out of most of the others.

  Just above the stern, the sun had begun to glow brighter behind the morning mist. Singbe looked out at the sea. He still found it hard to bel
ieve its size, that they could sail for so many days without seeing land. Forty-three days so far by Singbe’s count. Thirty-five before that in the slave factory at the mouth of the Gallinas River. Thirty-two before that chained in a pen in Genduma. And it was twelve mornings before being brought to Genduma that he was captured by tribesmen on the road.

  It was on the road to Kawamende, a Mende village a half day’s walk from his farm, where he had gone to look at some goats he might want to trade for. Singbe had never seen the man who stopped him. He was not a Mendeman but he spoke the language and asked Singbe if this was the way to Mawkoba. Singbe was suspicious of the stranger and watched him carefully as he answered. When he finished, the man thanked him and turned up the road toward Mawkoba. It was then that Singbe was hit on the head from behind. The blow was sharp and caught him by surprise. He fell to the ground but he did not lose consciousness. He rolled and then lunged at the man who hit him, tackling him at the knees and striking him on the face. But then others fell upon him and beat him senseless.

  When he regained consciousness, he found himself tied to a tree. The men were eating around a fire. Singbe yelled to them but they paid him no mind. After they finished eating, one man came over and tied a rope around Singbe’s neck, looped it out to his right wrist, and tied another knot leaving about ten feet of slack hanging. Then he tied another rope around Singbe’s neck and freed him from the tree. Singbe stood slowly. A hot, thick throbbing pulsed through his head. His body ached and burned from the beating. Suddenly, one of the men pulled at the rope around his wrist. The noose tightened at Singbe’s neck, choking him so hard he couldn’t stand. The men all laughed and then pulled him up by tugging on the other rope around his neck. They walked him through the jungle like this. Any time Singbe tried to resist or slow down, they pulled hard at the rope on his wrist, dropping him to his knees, breathless and choking.

  Singbe did not know the men. He thought they were Vai, or perhaps Genduma, both neighboring tribes that the Mende had warred with off and on for hundreds of years. It didn’t matter. He knew what was happening. Men taking other men as slaves was as old as the tribes. It was practised in war, as a payment for debts and crimes, and, if it could be arranged, as a way to acquire men’s lands, animals, or women. Some slaves were sold and taken away. They could end up as close to their homes as a few days’ walk, or be put on caravans and taken halfway around the globe, never to be seen again. In some tribes, slaves could work themselves out of slavery, eventually joining the tribe as an equal, able to take a wife and hold property. In others, the slaves were worked until they died. Singbe had never owned a slave, but he knew plenty of Mende men who did.