Amistad Page 11

  Another blast roared out of the deck gun, hitting the waves a little closer, but wide. The tribesmen were struggling to get the sails down. The Amistad was barely moving. Singbe and the others in the boat were less than one hundred yards away. He yelled with all his spirit for the men on the Amistad to throw down lines. In two minutes they were there. Burnah grabbed a line and tied it off in the center of the rowboat. The boat banged against the hull of the slow-moving ship.

  “Tie it off with one of the other lines!”

  As Singbe worked a knot, the others went up the dangling lines one by one. Singbe was able to tie off the rope, but now the little boat was slamming and bobbing against the hull even more violently.

  “Get up on deck. Go!”

  Burnah pulled himself up the line he had been holding. All the other men were out. Singbe undid the knot on the rowboat and pulled himself up the rope. There was a loud crack and the sea exploded less than ten yards away. As he got to the top of the rail, he saw the other ship across the deck, about thirty yards out, slowing, angling to come up right next to them. There was a man on the deck with a big hat, yelling through a megaphone. The ship had hatches all along its hull just above the waterline. Each hatch held a cannon. On the bow, a man stood at the deck cannon aimed right at them.

  The cannon shots had frightened most of the men. Many had gone down below. Others were running back and forth aimlessly on the deck, screaming and shouting madly. Grabeau was at the wheel, yelling out commands.

  “Get the sails down! We must get the sails down!”

  Burnah already had the men from the rowboat working on one of the sails. Singbe grabbed a man who was trying to get down the hatch. It was Ba, a Mendeman.

  “Ba! Help me with the sail.”

  “But Singbe …!”

  “Do it! Or be a slave again to the whites.”

  “Singbe!” It was Grabeau’s voice. Singbe turned. Whitemen were coming up over the railing. Six of them were already on deck and others were clamoring up the lines. The whites pointed their guns and yelled at the tribesmen. Burnah drew his pistol but one of the whites slapped it from his hand with the butt end of a musket and then swung the barrel around to his face. A loud crack of gunfire ripped into the air. Burnah jumped with the sound. But he was not shot. A tall white with a broad hat had fired his pistol into the air.

  “Stand off! Stand off, I say!”

  He dropped the pistol so it was even with Burnah’s face. There were more than a dozen other whites on deck now, all with muskets and pistols aimed at the tribesmen. A deep sagging ran through Burnah, as if something had reached into him and drained out all hope and spirit from his heart. He dropped his head and sank to his knees. One by one, the other tribesmen on the deck also fell to their knees.

  “No!”

  The man in the broad hat swung his pistol’s sight across the deck to the scream. He found Singbe, still standing, holding a machete.

  “Mr. Clifford! Mr. Cobb! Belay that man of his weapon.”

  Two sailors, muskets leveled, walked over toward Singbe. Singbe backed up as they came. He reached the railing and glanced down into the sea. The whites were nearly upon him now. One was yelling at him. Singbe held the machete out, both hands on the grip and swung wildly.

  “I will not be a slave! Never again! Never again!”

  Both the whites were yelling now. One of the sailors was less than four feet away. Singbe let out a loud war cry and threw the machete. The man ducked. The other man fired. Singbe went over the railing.

  “Man overboard!”

  “He’s off the starboard bow,” yelled the officer in the broad hat.

  By now the Amistad had been secured to the other ship with lines and drawn close. Three men had stayed in the longboat that had been used by the boarding party. They pulled around Amistad’s bow. Singbe was about one hundred yards away and swimming toward the shore. It was a land without slaves. If he could get there, he might be safe.

  “I want him alive, Mr. Jansens!” the officer yelled from the railing.

  “Aye, sir! Pull in front of him, lads! Cut him off from the shore!”

  Singbe did not look back, but he could hear the boat and the men yelling. The beach, though almost a mile away, looked close enough to touch.

  A musket cracked. The volley whistled over his head and exploded into the water about ten yards ahead of him. Singbe turned. The longboat was right there, a man in the bow reloading. Singbe dove beneath the waves and swam away from the boat, away from the land. The water of the Atlantic was thick and green. He swam hard but could see nothing. It was peaceful, quiet, like a cold and heavy cloud all around. If he died here, deep under the sea, would his spirit be able to find its way to the sky, or would it be lost to wander with the fishes? Stefa and the children flashed into his mind. Even now, some part of him still believed he would see them again. He swam until the air in his lungs burned and clawed at his chest and throat to get out. He couldn’t hold it anymore. He kicked hard, breaking out of the surf, rising above the waves with a desperate gurgling gasp. He turned only to see the flat of an oar slapping into his temple.

  “Welcome to America, you pirate son-of-a-bitch!”

  In his mind, Singbe saw Stefa, then darkness. The sailors lifted his limp body into the boat.

  The ship, the USS Washington, had secured all tow lines on the Amistad. Its commander, Lieutenant Thomas Gedney, had listened to the well-spoken Spaniard, Pepe Ruiz, tell his teary-eyed tale about how the cargo of slaves had mutinied and murdered the captain and crew. Where were they headed? Ruiz was not sure. He thought perhaps they meant to find a slave-free port, or perhaps undertake piracy, but they were poor sailors, and if it were not for the other Spaniard – Montes – and his skill at the helm, they all would have been dead long ago. Thank the grace of God that the U.S. Navy had found them. Ruiz, who mentioned that he was schooled in Connecticut, said they were all starving and it would have been only a matter of days before they were dead of hunger. Ruiz also expressed interest in meeting with a representative of the Spanish counsel as soon as they were in port so he could arrange to get his slaves and what was left of the cargo back to Cuba.

  Gedney assured the Spaniards that everything would be taken care of when they were in port. He had slaves in the Amistad’s hold under guard, except for the leader, who had been chained and put in the Washington’s brig, and the children, whom he placed in Ferrer’s cabin. Gedney had also ordered his cook to provide full rations for everyone and as much water as they wanted. He gave his own cabin to Ruiz and Montes. It was near midnight before the Washington got underway.

  “Plot us a course for port, Mr. Tucker,” Gedney ordered.

  “Aye, sir. New York, sir?”

  “No. New London.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lieutenant Meade, Gedney’s executive officer, turned his back to the navigator and whispered, “New London?”

  “I know, Richard, it’s a little farther away. But I mean to claim salvage on this ship for us and the crew.”

  “We can do that in New York as well as Connecticut, Tom. I don’t understand the difference.”

  Gedney smiled. “How is salvage calculated?”

  “It’s a percentage based on the aggregate appraised value of ship and cargo.”

  “Right. That means if we tow her into New York, we lay claim to the ship and whatever is left in those crates in the hold. But if we tow her into New London, we can immediately increase the cargo’s value by a substantial sum.”

  “How so?”

  “Slavery is still legal in Connecticut.”

  A smile broke across Meade’s face and then they both began laughing like men who had just found themselves standing in a pile of gold.

  Part Two

  America

  The Fuse

  Andrew T. Judson believed himself a fair and reasonable man, and many people in Connecticut agreed with this assessment. Judson commanded great respect among civic leaders, politicians, his peers, and t
he press. He was a devout Congregationalist and rented a front pew at the great church on New Haven’s green for himself and his family. He was widely known to be a man of principle and respectable sternness, a man of great intelligence, and, when the situation demanded, a man of relentless perseverance. Judson was also a good Democrat, a rising star in the party which had held the White House for nearly eleven years now. Many attributed Judson’s ascension through party ranks in part to his smooth political sagacity and in part to Prudence Crandall.

  As people in Connecticut knew all too well, Prudence Crandall was the proprietor and sole teacher at a small private academy for girls in Canterbury, a close-knit village near the border with Rhode Island. Miss Crandall and her school were respected and welcomed members of the community; that is, until 1833. That year the school enrolled a new student, Sarah Harris, the daughter of Prudence’s housecleaner. Sarah was black. A few weeks later two more black girls from New York arrived at the school.

  The rumblings in Canterbury started very quickly. How dare Prudence Crandall teach blacks side-by-side with whites? Such a thing was unheard of, and in the eyes of many, an outright abomination. And who gave her the authority to teach blacks, male or female, to read, write, and cipher? Who did she think she was, anyway – bringing this kind of controversy and trouble into a good, industrious, Christian town like Canterbury? Surely the town was as tolerant and liberal as any other in the state, but everyone knew that educating blacks with whites would just bring trouble. Never mind the local parents and community leaders who would not stand for that kind of reckless disregard for the natural order of things – what about the others, the people whose anger and righteous indignation would carry them for miles and days from other towns and other states to Canterbury, to right something that was so clearly wrong? At the worst they would bring a level of violence with them. At the very least, the town would be vilified, a soiled mark on the map where few would want to settle or do business.

  Prudence Crandall listened to the objections, at first whispered in private, later spat right at her on the streets, and finally shouted at full volume during a packed town meeting. Crandall attended the meeting and spoke – something women rarely did since they were not permitted to vote or hold office. She argued that if the blacks were freemen coming from states that had outlawed slavery, then they had a right to learn and be treated as equals. More abominations! Besides, others countered, if the blacks came from states where they were free, then they should get their education there in black training schools. Prudence could see where all this was going, and she knew the townspeople would never agree to let her continue teaching black alongside white. So she made a decision.

  Now, throughout Canterbury, Prudence Crandall was known as a stubborn woman, principled and resolute in her ways. So, when she stood up at the end of the meeting and publicly declared that she would give up her practice of teaching the black students together with whites, more than a few people were surprised. Many broke into applause. Prudence remained standing and waited until the clapping died down. Then she took a took a deep breath and asked to finish her piece. Everyone assumed she was going to apologize to the town for her thoughtless, mule-headed actions of the past few weeks. Instead, she informed them that her academy would now be open exclusively to free black girls from anywhere in the United States.

  The outrage that followed flowed out of Canterbury and across the state. Before she could begin enrolling students in her new academy, Connecticut, at the urging of Canterbury’s state representative, passed a law forbidding the teaching of students who were not “citizens and inhabitants” of a town. Prudence moved to sidestep this requirement by giving her new students residence in her own home. The state immediately sued. The state’s district prosecutor, who was also the same representative from Canterbury, argued that “the founding fathers never intended to include blacks under the term citizens.”

  Two trials, including one before the state’s supreme court, ended in hung juries. The citizens of Canterbury decided not to wait for an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Instead, they broke into Prudence’s house, and destroyed everything they could get their hands on. There were threats of lynchings and more violence. In fear for her life and the lives of her students, Prudence sent the black children back to their families and moved out west, finally settling in Kansas. She never returned to Connecticut.

  The legislator and prosecutor, the zealous proponent and some would say manipulator of the law, the man who had repeatedly told representatives from the press that he was a reasonable person, one with no animosity toward the black race but simply a man who believed deeply in natural laws as God and the founding fathers of this great country had intended, was Andrew T. Judson, now a federal district judge appointed by President Martin Van Buren. He was also the man sitting in the wardroom of the USS Washington, conducting a hearing about a curious case of a band of black pirates who had been captured off Montauk Point.

  Judson had been summoned by the federal district attorney, William S. Holabird, also an appointee of President Martin Van Buren. Holabird was a nervous, prudent man with a broad, ruddy face, thick, curly hair and a stout, pear-shaped body. He was a competent lawyer, excelling in cases where firm legal precedent had been set and could be cited. His distress was obvious then, when word came regarding the capture of the black-crewed pirate schooner that had been written about in the papers for the last few weeks. He immediately became agitated over why the Navy had brought the ship to his district when the New York office was so much better suited for this type of thing. After all, pirates!? There certainly were laws and cases referring to this type of thing but – for the love of God – pirates had not been an issue in these parts for more than a hundred and fifty years. However, after meeting Lieutenant Gedney and listening to the two Cubans, Holabird felt somewhat relieved. It wasn’t piracy at all, simply a claim of property rights.

  Holabird was sympathetic to the plight of Ruiz and Montes and the distress their rebellious slaves had caused them. The men had obviously been brought to hell’s very gates by these crazed blacks. In fact, Ruiz had assured him that if it wasn’t for their superior intelligence and savvy, both he and Montes would have been long dead.

  Legally, the case seemed fairly straightforward to Holabird: a formal hearing, depositions for the record, and then the ship and cargo would be turned over to the Spanish consul in Boston for safe passage back to Havana and eventual prosecution of the slaves under Spanish law. However, because foreign nationals were involved, and because Lieutenant Gedney had mentioned salvage, and most important, because Holabird was a extremely careful man, he decided to send an immediate dispatch to John Forsyth, the U.S. Secretary of State. He informed Forsyth of the situation as it had presented itself, mentioned that Judge Judson (whom Forsyth knew well) had been summoned for a hearing, and requested additional instructions regarding international law pertaining to a case of this nature.

  Attending the hearing on board the ship were officers of the Washington; Wilson Bright, a reporter from the New London Gazette; and Dwight P. Janes, a recorder for the court. Judson began by taking the statements of Ruiz and Montes. Though Ruiz’s English was excellent, Judson asked Lieutenant Meade, who was fluent in Spanish, to translate for Montes. It would ensure a higher level of credibility for the record. Not that Judson considered that another side to the Cubans’ story even existed. The black slaves were after all apprehended in command of the ship. But the judge was an adherent of proper protocol and wanted that to show in the record.

  Ruiz and Montes told essentially the same story. Both men had been awakened by screams early on the morning of July 3. They came on deck to find that the slaves had rebelled and killed the captain and were fighting the crew. Montes and Ruiz joined in and fought valiantly but were overpowered by the sheer numbers of their attackers. Montes had been able to convince the blacks that he was a skilled seaman and was permitted to navigate at night. He had steered north hoping to come upon Florida or t
he Carolinas, but the blacks thwarted every attempt at freedom. It was only by their wits and the vigilance of heaven that they weren’t killed on several occasions during their ordeal. The slave cabin boy, Antonio, who also spoke Spanish, echoed the words of Ruiz and Montes.

  “It is as they said,” Antonio claimed. “They are a bunch of plantation slaves who killed my captain and went wild. They tortured us during the voyage and threatened to kill us almost every day.”

  “It is only by God’s grace and the bravery of the United States Navy that we are alive,” said Ruiz.

  Judson nodded gravely. He dismissed the boy but asked the two Cubans to stay.

  “Bring me the leader.”

  Two sailors escorted Singbe from the brig. Chained and manacled hand and foot, he still wore the red shirt and duck pantaloons. As he came before Judson, he turned and stared at Montes and Ruiz. Ruiz began laughing and spoke to Singbe in Spanish.

  “Still think you are the big chief nigger, eh? Well, Mr. Chief, we shall see how exalted you feel when your black carcass is being burned at the stake in Havana.”

  Judson looked at Singbe, who stood proud and tall despite the chains, and then spoke to Ruiz.

  “For the record, what is this one’s name?”

  Ruiz’s mind reeled through the names on the manifest. He could only remember one.

  “Cinqué. Joseph Cinqué.”

  “Lieutenant Meade, for the record, ask Joseph Cinqué why he rebelled against his white masters and murdered the Amistad’s crew in cold blood.”

  “Your honor, I am afraid these blacks all speak an obscure field dialect,” Ruiz said quickly. “It is a crude amalgamation of Spanish and African. I doubt they will be able to understand Lieutenant Meade. I can’t even understand them myself.”