Amistad Page 12

  “We shall try. Mr. Meade.”

  Meade asked the question and several others at Judson’s request. Singbe appeared to listen intently to Meade but offered only silence in response to each question.

  “I do not think he is being recalcitrant, your honor,” Meade said. “It appears he does not understand a word I am saying.”

  Judson stood up and walked over to Singbe. He began speaking slowly and loudly.

  “Do you know where you are? Do you understand what is happening to you? Why did you rise up against your masters?” Judson swept his arm broadly across the room and pointed to Ruiz and Montes. “Why did you lead the other slaves in rebellion?”

  Singbe stared at Judson. Judson let out a little laugh and turned to go back to his seat.

  “No slave! Singbe no slave. Africa!”

  The room froze. Judson turned slowly.

  Singbe pointed his hand to his chest, rattling the chains. “No slave! Africa! Africa!”

  “You speak English? Does this one speak English?”

  “No, Your Honor. Well, perhaps he learned some on board,” Ruiz smiled nervously. “There was a slave who spoke a little English. But he died a few days after the rebellion.”

  Judson stepped closer to Singbe.

  “You speak English? Eh? Come on now, speak your piece. Speak.”

  “No slave. No slave.”

  Judson prodded him for more, but it was all of the whiteman’s language Singbe knew.

  “That’s it, is it? Well, you are a slave, my friend, despite your attempts to the contrary. And what you just said sounds like an admission of a rebellion to me. It will be noted for the record. You will have to pay for your crimes.”

  Judson pointed to the chains and then to Ruiz and Montes. “Do you understand, Joseph Cinqué?”

  A sarcastic smile broke across Singbe’s face. He pointed to himself and then drew a finger across his throat.

  “There, you see,” Judson said, returning to his chair and smiling. “He understands well what he has done, what this hearing is about. And I dare say he understands the probable consequences he will meet when he gets back to his country.”

  Singbe stepped toward the judge. A sailor lowered his musket, stopping the advance. Singbe began speaking loudly in Mende.

  “I am a free man, a Mendeman. I will not be a slave again. You can bind me with chains, you can whip my back and my feet until my skin is gone and my blood has run from my body. But I will not be a slave again! I will not be a slave to any man! You will have to kill me first.”

  If the outburst shook Judson, he made no indication. He stared at Singbe a moment, and then took a pinch of snuff and began writing calmly.

  “Right. Mr. Gedney, please have your men take the slave leader below with the others. Mr. Ruiz, Mr. Montes, I believe your participation in this hearing is finished. Lieutenant Gedney tells me you possess some Spanish currency. There is a bank in town which can make an exchange for you. I will have the federal marshal take you over. The Willow House is a fine inn, and Mr. Barsted, its proprietor, sets out an excellent meal for his guests. It will probably be the most comfortable place for you until we go back to New Haven. The Spanish consul is coming down from Boston and will meet you there.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Ruiz shook Judson’s hand several times. “Thank you very much.”

  “God bless you, gentlemen,” Judson said. “You’ve been through more hell than any men should ever have to endure.”

  The Cubans left the wardroom. Judson continued the hearing, taking statements from Gedney, Meade, and a few of the crewmen. Holabird tried to persuade Gedney that claiming salvage might unnecessarily prolong the process, and perhaps it would be better to pursue the claim privately and seek recompense from Ruiz and Montes directly. Gedney refused, saying he knew of many men who had tried to settle salvage outside the courts, only to see nothing come of it. He would stick with the proper legal channels.

  After they finished, Meade decided he had to add one more thing. “Your Honor. Mr. Holabird,” he said. “There is a curious element regarding the slaves.”

  “What would that be, sir?”

  “None of them know their own names, Your Honor.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “After we had gotten them all on board and I had the ship’s manifest, I began calling out names to catalog which of the original cargo had survived. Lieutenant Gedney and I wanted to use this information and compare it with the purchase price of each black to add it to the value of the full cargo so we could calculate the salvage percentage for ourselves and the crew. However, as I called out the names, no one responded, man or child. I went through the manifest three times. I might as well have been speaking Greek.”

  “Is there a point to this information, sir?” Holabird asked, closing up his valise.

  “Well, sir, I think so. No matter how obscure the field dialect, one would think that a man would know his name, the name he has been called by his masters since birth.”

  “But what bearing does that have on any of this?” Holabird persisted.

  “I think Lieutenant Meade is just doing his duty as a fine officer and giving us complete information. I appreciate your thoroughness and it will be noted, sir,” Judson said.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. But I think that perhaps …”

  “I think that is enough for now, gentlemen,” Judson said, standing up. “Since you are adamant in your claims for salvage, I will rule that this is a case of property and must be heard in circuit court. I will set a date and notify you directly. The federal marshal will take the prisoners to the New Haven jail since I believe it is the only one in the state large enough to accommodate so many captives.”

  “Circuit court! Your honor, isn’t it possible we could hand over the ship and cargo to the Spanish officials in the interim and begin the extradition procedures?”

  “Not with a property claim by U.S. citizens involved, Mr. Holabird. But we can discuss that later. I’m sure our friend from the press is anxious to go and begin writing this most exciting story, and these brave men from the Navy are probably equally eager to enjoy a little shore leave.” Judson moved in close to Holabird and took his arm. “I would appreciate it, Mr. Holabird, if you would walk with me to my carriage.”

  Holabird tried to renew the conversation about extradition but Judson stopped him until they were at the carriage. At that point Judson asked Holabird to join him inside for a moment.

  “William, did you receive any instructions regarding this case from superiors in New York or Washington?”

  “I sent a dispatch to Secretary Forsyth when the ship made port, but I have not received a reply yet. Why?”

  Even though they were in a closed carriage, Judson lowered his voice. “Do you know what Lieutenant Meade may have been implying when he spoke about the blacks not knowing their names?”

  “I would venture that he simply found it quite curious and thought it prudent to mention on the record. As you said, Andrew, he was just being thorough.”

  Judson went silent for a few seconds. He took out his pocket watch and began flipping it over and over in his hand. “I am considering sending a dispatch to Secretary Forsyth myself, William. Are you familiar with the Anglo-Spanish Treaty of 1819?”

  Holabird pretended to think for a moment. “No, I can’t say that I am.”

  “You should look it up. It may prove to be interesting reading, especially in light of recent events.”

  “Why? What are we considering here, Andrew?”

  “If I am correct, we are considering much more than any of us may be able to handle.”

  What Judson did not realize, and what, in his haste to quickly end the hearing he had failed to consider, was that another man in the Washington’s wardroom understood exactly what Meade may have been alluding to. However, if Judson knew Dwight Janes’s background and political beliefs, it is absolutely certain that the judge would have never permitted him to serve as court recorder for th
ese proceedings. But Janes did not discuss his political ideas readily with others, especially with men such as Andrew Judson. After all, in 1839, abolitionists were considered occupants of the radical fringe, religious zealots bent on destroying the natural order of things, and, some would say, tearing the United States apart. Publicly proclaiming such sentiments could do damage to a man’s career, especially a man who made his living in the courts. So whenever he was asked about slavery or the rightful treatment of freed blacks, Janes smiled and feigned indifference.

  But Janes’s convictions were deep and strong, and he knew very well the substance of the Anglo-Spanish Treaty of 1819. He also had seen and heard enough to strongly suspect this cargo of slaves was not what Ruiz and Montes would have everyone believe. He wasn’t positive, but his heart and mind were ready to jump to conclusions. And now, running down the docks, he was even more ready to help someone else do so as well.

  “Mr. Bright! Mr. Bright!”

  Wilson Bright had been walking slowly, reviewing his notes and mentally organizing the story in his head. He was twenty-four and had worked for the Gazette for six years, the last two as a reporter. This was by far the biggest story he or anyone else had ever handled for the paper, and he was eager to get back and begin writing. He had composed a story two days earlier, when the Washington had towed the Amistad into port, that was based on interviews with a few of the Washington’s sailors. They had told him that the black slaves were traveling with the families who owned them and had killed every soul, twenty-six white men, women, and children, as well as the ship’s captain and crew. Before the Washington’s crew had apprehended the blacks in pitched battle, the Amistad’s buccaneers had spent the last three months on a pirating spree along the eastern seaboard, pillaging, murdering, and sinking unsuspecting ships. The story had run in a special edition of the Gazette and was still being picked up and reprinted by papers all over the country. Now that he had heard the facts directly from Ruiz and Montes, Bright was anxious to write the next chapter of this story, as well as set the record straight.

  “Mr. Janes. Fascinating hearing, eh?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Absolutely. Especially so in what was not said.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the young reporter.

  “By Lieutenant Meade, I mean.”

  “I’m still not following you.”

  “Well, the blacks. It’s obvious they are Africans.”

  Bright began laughing. “You don’t say? Is that where those fellows come from?”

  Janes stepped in front of Bright, blocking his path. “What I’m saying, Mr. Bright, is that’s exactly where they come from.”

  Blight’s laughter trickled down and then stopped suddenly.

  “You mean they’re Africans directly from Africa?”

  “That’s my meaning exactly.”

  “But ain’t that illegal?”

  “For nearly twenty years, I believe. And as you might have noticed, there were certainly more than a few of those men who looked less than twenty. Not to mention the children.”

  Bright began to write again with his pencil. “Which means …”

  “Which means first of all that I am not a source for this information. And if I see my name in print, Mr. Bright, I will deny ever having spoken with you and pursue a suit of slander against you and your paper.”

  “Certainly, certainly. Being that you are, shall we say, anonymous …”

  “Anyway, you don’t need me. You have all the facts. Look at how none of the blacks responded to their names despite repeated questioning by Lieutenant Meade. And that language that the leader inveighed His Honor Judge Judson with, that wasn’t any amalgamation of Spanish, dialect or not.”

  “Well, it sure didn’t sound anything like the Spanish Mr. Montes and the cabin boy spoke, that’s for sure.”

  “Look at how dark the blacks were, black as coal, not like any home-bred stock I’ve ever seen.”

  “No. No, me neither. Well, that is to say, I’ve never seen but two blacks in my whole life, being from these parts and all. But this lot was much darker, you’re right.”

  “And finally, consider the black leader, this Joseph Cinqué, and his proclamation in broken English, ‘No slave, Africa.’ The man learns but a few words in English and this is what he chooses? Certainly that combined with a desperate rebellion points to something more that what we saw represented today.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, sir.”

  “Mr. Bright, if these are Africans fresh from Africa, then there may be an even bigger story behind this than your writings about pirates a few days back.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure there, Mr. Janes. Pirates was a big story. The biggest we’ve ever seen around here. But there may be a point to what you are saying here.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Right, sir. Right. I’ve gotta go. Good talking with you, Mr. Janes.” Bright turned and ran down the dock and went up the road to the Gazette office. Janes went around the corner, in the other direction, and headed to his office. He needed to write a letter as quickly as possible.

  The tribesmen had been receiving food almost from the moment of their capture. Many were sick, and nearly all were suffering from malnutrition. The night after the hearing they were given a meal of fish stew, corn on the cob, and as much water as they could drink. Many of them had been wearing only loincloths when the ship was taken. The marshal saw to it that each was given at least a pair of pants and a shirt; some bright country dresses had been found for the girls. On the morning after the hearing, the captives were given a breakfast of biscuits and gravy. Then the men were chained together and seated in three open wagons, the girls remained unshackled and were allowed to sit up front with the drivers. The forty-mile journey to New Haven would take nearly all day.

  From his seat, Grabeau could see Singbe alone in the fourth wagon, the lead wagon, not only wearing manacles, but chained to a ring in the wagon’s floor, as well. Across from Singbe sat a white man wearing a thin-brimmed hat and holding a long musket. Despite the chains, Singbe sat straight, defiant. From time to time he would look back at the other wagons and smile as if they were going on some sort of picnic. His bravado warmed Grabeau’s heart, but at the same time he couldn’t help but think that soon they would all be dead.

  Secretary of State Forsyth left Cobble House, the little tavern in Georgetown, and told his driver to take the carriage to the White House at a quick pace. As he rode, Forsyth’s hand twice absently reached up to the pocket inside his suit jacket, the pocket that held Holabird’s letter.

  In his late fifties, Forsyth cut an impressive figure in Washington. He was well-dressed and handsome with sharp, chiseled features, thick hair still mostly dark, and long sideburns that nearly reached his chin as was the style of the times. A former member of the U.S. House of Representatives and governor from Georgia, he had also served as U.S. Minister to Spain from 1819 to 1829. He had been a key adviser to Martin Van Buren during the election of 1836 and appointed Secretary of State soon after the contest was won. Outwardly he was hailed as an excellent addition to any social gathering, a good Christian man, and, being single, a dandy with the ladies. Political insiders knew him to be a shrewd negotiator and a prescient political mind. John Forsyth was also an owner of slaves and a staunch advocate of slavery and state’s rights.

  In many ways, President Martin Van Buren’s career had mirrored Forsyth’s, though Van Buren’s progress had been achieved along a higher plane. Also in his late fifties, Van Buren, too, had served in the Congress, but as a senator. He had also been elected governor of his state, in this case, New York, the most populous and economically powerful state in the Union. He had served as Secretary of State during Andrew Jackson’s first term, later resigning to become ambassador to Great Britain. But he was refused confirmation by an increasingly truculent Senate. Jackson responded by making Van Buren his running mate in 1832.

  Four years later Van Buren had ridden to the White House on a p
romise to continue staying Old Hickory’s course of democratic reforms and bold individualism, as well as a vow to implement a laissez faire policy toward business. However, the economy soured in early 1838, taking the country into a deep recession. The inevitable scattered political scandals that seem to accompany every administration took their toll, as did growing charges of soft leadership and a lack of vision for a growing nation. These factors, coupled with the increasing popularity and vocal denunciations of the new Whig party led by Henry Clay, were quickly eroding popular support. Van Buren’s chances in the next election, less than a year away, were troubled at best. Still, he was a strong campaigner and knew the power of the presidency. If he could navigate through the next few months without encountering any serious disasters, and if the economy showed a little life, he was confident he could retain the White House in 1840.

  With regard to slavery, Van Buren publicly walked a careful line. Though he was accused by many anti-slavery proponents as “a Northerner with a Southern heart,” he professed no strong opinion one way or the other to the holding of slaves, saying only that it was totally up to each state to decide the legality and propriety of the issue. There were events in his administration, however, that on the surface would cast doubt as to where his own sympathies lay.

  One involved the American consul to Havana, Nicholas Trist, who had been accused of accepting cash payoffs in exchange for allowing foreign ships sailing with African-born slaves to sail under the American flag. American flagged ships were rarely hailed or detained by British and American anti-slaving patrols. Though there was substantial evidence implying guilt, Trist denied any such involvement. Not only did Van Buren support him, he also permitted Trist to retain his post despite the controversy.

  Van Buren had also instructed Forsyth to avoid involvement in a joint Anglo-French effort to conduct regular, coordinated patrols of Africa’s western coastline as a way of suppressing illegal slave trading. The refusal to join the effort was controversial since American ships were already involved in this type of activity via the Treaty of 1819. However, the Anglo-French agreement would permit mutual search rights and Van Buren did not want to cede any maritime rights of sovereignty onboard American-flagged ships. He also didn’t want to risk an incident where an American ship was found carrying contraband Africans. That would certainly cause a very public debate at home about slavery, an issue that was rapidly becoming more heated and emotional. This more than anything was the crux of Van Buren’s stance. Whatever his personal sympathies toward slavery may have been, they were greatly outweighed by his certainty that an event which thrust the question of slavery directly into the public spotlight would be akin to putting a match to a powder keg. Slavery was an issue that Van Buren was sure could shake the Union to its very core, and one he would do almost anything to keep at bay and muted during an election season, if not throughout his presidency.