Amistad Page 13
Forsyth also knew well the danger of letting any issue regarding slavery slip into the public arena. Still, he was not at all distressed after reading Holabird’s letter. It did seem like a simple case of property rights, and if handled quickly, this affair of rebellious Cuban slaves hauled into New London should dissipate by early September. But after his meeting at Cobble House with the Spanish ambassador Frederico Calderón, Forsyth realized that the Amistad situation must be resolved immediately, which is why he moved with a certain urgency as he walked down the White House halls toward the Oval office.
Forsyth laid out the basic details of the case to the President and read aloud parts of Holabird’s letter. Van Buren was attentive and interested. Like most Americans, he had been intrigued by the accounts of pirates appearing in newspapers during the summer. Discovering it was a wayward ship captained by rebellious slaves was less exciting, though perhaps more agitating, especially now that this ship had come to rest in an American port. However, it appeared that Holabird had the situation well in hand, and, as long as it was handled properly, Van Buren saw no far-reaching problems.
“It could get worse, Mr. President.”
“How so?”
“Just before coming to see you, I had a private lunch with the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Calderón. I wanted to make sure nothing existed regarding the Amistad that had escaped Holabird’s eye.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have come in here this afternoon on short notice unless you discovered something.”
“The slaves, sir. They are contraband Africans direct from the black market.”
Van Buren got up and walked over to the window. He looked through the glass out onto the rolling green lawn and the carriages traveling in the street far beyond. “Calderón is sure of this?”
“Apparently his office had been alerted some time ago that the Amistad was missing. A wreck had been suspected, but there have also been a number of slave uprisings over the past few years, so that type of thing could not be ruled out. When the reports of black pirates began reaching the newspapers, he began to have his suspicions. When I indicated what Holabird had seen on the New London pier, Señor Calderón came forth with the information.”
“Holabird has no knowledge of this?”
“No. Neither do the Navy officers who apprehended the ship. However, if the claim for salvage is pressed it will almost certainly mean a court date. That could take weeks to resolve. The longer those blacks are here, the more likely it is someone will discover their origins. And if that happens, well, sir …”
“… The Northern press will go berserk with the story,” the President said, finishing Forsyth’s thought.
“There are also the fringe groups to consider, sir, especially abolitionists. They would most definitely see this as a call to arms, so to speak.”
“Abolitionists. Christ. The last thing I wish is give those lunatic rabble-rousers an opportunity to assert any shred of legitimacy.”
Van Buren turned back to Forsyth and sat down. “God, we do not need this. Not now of all times. I can see it turning into so much shit and feathers.”
“I fully agree, sir,” Forsyth responded.
“Can we resolve this now, without the salvage trial or any other sort of public pageantry?”
“I believe, sir, that if we act quickly, we can turn the ship and its human cargo over to the Spanish immediately and expedite its passage back to Cuba. I will recommend to Señor Calderón that the salvage claims be handled quickly and privately.”
“Following that course will sidestep due process. The press will surely raise a row.”
“Regardless of the event, what can the press say once the ship and the blacks are gone? Besides, I believe we can claim that the actions of the blacks are covered under Pickney’s Treaty. Their taking of the ship can certainly be construed as an act of piracy. It appears on the surface to be a cut-and-dried case. And no matter what a man’s feelings about slavery, the facts as presented show that these savages killed the ship’s crew and held their white masters in a heinous state of captivity for nearly sixty days.”
“Unless it’s discovered that the rebelling slaves are actually freemen illegally pressed into bondage. Then, this whole thing could light a fuse that would burn very brightly.”
“Yes, and might well blow us all to kingdom come.”
“Agreed. Send a direct dispatch to Holabird directing him to stand down from having a hearing and avoid any legal proceedings. Inform him that this situation will be handled via diplomatic channels through the executive.”
“Yes, sir. Immediately.” Forsyth shifted, ready to act.
“Also, contact Señor Calderón and inform him of our intentions. I’m sure he will want to keep this transaction as quiet as we do, however, you may want to remind him of our desires toward maintaining complete discretion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Forsyth sent the message to Holabird via special courier. It arrived in New London the day after the hearing. Wilson Bright’s story had already run that morning. The headline mentioned only the hearing regarding the Amistad’s slaves. But in the third paragraph, Bright pointed to pieces of evidence that cast serious doubt on whether the blacks were slaves or freemen, “stolen from their homes and families, and enslaved against treaty and convention.”
The fuse had been lit.
Friends and Enemies
The line stretched out the door, around the building’s corner, and flowed out onto the New Haven green. A rough estimate put the number at more than one thousand people – men, women, and children, elite members of local society, farmers from the outlying communities, merchants, sailors, clergy, journalists from across the nation, and others. It was reported that some people were traveling more than one hundred miles by foot just to see this incredible sight. It was only 8:00 A.M. and, as it had done for the last two days, the line would surely grow longer.
The occurrence of such a line, a line that quickly formed in the first hours after the new prisoners’ arrival and that had grown steadily since, was equally incredible. It was, after all, a jail, one that had seen its share of murderers, thieves, corrupt politicians, and wrongly accused men. But no one in Connecticut could ever remember having a chance to see a sight such as this – Africans! Men as black as a moonless night, people said, and fresh from the wilds of Africa.
The story in the New London Gazette detailing the hearing had reached New Haven before the tribesmen, and the idea that the slaves might actually be Africans caught the eye of both the New Haven papers’ editors and their readers. The excitement that followed spread quickly throughout the community. That Connecticut was a slave state did nothing to dampen the public’s interest. Slavery was legal, but also was in the process of being grandfathered into extinction. The sale of slaves had been forbidden in 1795, and when the last of the approximately forty slaves left in the state died, so would slavery. Connecticut also had about 350 free blacks living within its borders. But these people were lighter skinned than the Amistad blacks and spoke English as well as any natural-born Yankee. In fact, free blacks were just as interested as their white neighbors in seeing ‘the Amistads,’ as they were being called. From what people said, it was quite clear that the prisoners from the mysterious ship were unlike anyone who had ever been seen in these parts within memory.
The jailer, Stanton Pendelton, a state militia officer who insisted on being called “Colonel Pendelton,” was a perpetually grumpy man with a limp that seemed to grow more pronounced with stormy weather or his own personal level of aggravation. He claimed the limp was the result of a battle wound from the war of 1812; in reality, he received it several years after that conflict when he took an ill-advised step on a rickety ladder after one too many pints.
Pendelton was upset that he would have to care for so many prisoners without so much as a day’s forewarning to prepare. He was peeved that the federal marshal spent several minutes reinforcing that these prisoners must receive no treatment that would e
mbarrass the United States government. He was angered that none of his new charges could understand a word he said. But most of all, he was outraged that federal payment for the prisoners’ food and comfort would not begin arriving for another two weeks.
Pendelton limped hard around the jail and instructed his men to do what they could under the circumstances. They decided to split the Amistads into four large cells. There were no cots, but every captive was given a blanket and each of the rooms was equipped with four chamber pots. The chains and manacles were removed from all the blacks, and they were allowed to walk freely within their cells; visiting from cell to cell was not permitted. In all, the Africans were to be locked down but kept comfortable and well fed until their extradition to Cuba.
The only one excluded from this treatment was Singbe, who had been deemed by Judge Judson “a cunning, dangerous, and deadly murderer.” He was placed with the prison’s general population and remained in wrist and leg irons.
When the line began forming, Pendelton saw no reason why the general public, who were mostly county taxpayers, should not have an opportunity to view the strange new captives. And yet, Pendelton reasoned, these were extenuating circumstances. People had never queued up before to see anyone in his jail. This could possibly lead to a need for extra security, and would most certainly mean more work for him and his men. Pendelton decided the only proper thing to do was charge admission. Twelve and a half cents; or “one New York shilling,” in the slang of the day. People would be allowed to file by the cells and pause for a few moments. They would also be allowed to see the murderous, savage leader, Joseph Cinqué, in chains among the jail’s general population. On the first day the colonel had collected nearly $65; but the second day this had increased nearly sevenfold, a tidy sum considering that Pendelton’s salary for a month was only about $45.
The tribesmen were troubled by the steady parade of people staring into their cells. They were sure it meant they would soon be executed. It was all Grabeau could do to keep everyone calm, especially the children, who kept breaking into tears at the sight of black-frocked clergy members, who they were sure were executioners of some sort.
“It is a lot like being in the cage back in the other city of the whites,” Burnah said to Grabeau after the first day. “They feed us well, people stop and stare, point and talk. I even had one old white woman offer me a piece of bread.”
“Yes, but the feeling is different. We are not among other tribesmen. This is not a slave market. It is a prison of sorts. Between you and me, I do not have good feelings about our future. And I wish I knew where Singbe was.”
Antonio sat in a corner of the cell, occasionally pointing and laughing at the tribesmen. Every once in a while he would rattle off a long stream of Spanish, berating the Africans and saying, “Wait until we get back to Havana. I will smell your flesh burning in the fires.” No one could understand him and, for the most part, they ignored him. Later that day, Ruiz was able to convince the marshal to entrust Antonio to his care and the boy was released.
On the second day, a group of whites, mostly young men, entered the cells and began talking to the tribesmen. They carried thick, black, leather-covered books and a few held up small pieces of crossed wood and iron. They made long emotional speeches, not a word of which was understood by any of the tribesmen. They also smiled a lot and often reached out to touch the tribesmen on the tops of their heads.
The whitemen were members of the Yale Divinity School in New Haven. When one of the school’s professors, Dr. Gallaudet, had read that native Africans were being brought virtually to the school’s gates, he was immediately convinced that this was a sign from God to not only Christianize the poor souls, but to begin a crusade of bringing Christianity to the entire continent of Africa, as well. Other faculty members and the school’s students agreed with his appraisal and appealed to Colonel Pendelton to permit them access to the blacks immediately. Being a God-fearing Christian man, Colonel Pendelton held great sympathy for the sentiments of Dr. Gallaudet and his students. Pendelton agreed to allow them daily access to the Africans, and for a reduced rate of only three cents per man per day.
Accompanying the members of the Divinity School into the cells was Dr. Josiah Gibbs, a renowned Hebrew scholar and philologist. Though he also wished to save the Africans’ souls, his immediate interest was focused on their tongues. In addition to English and Hebrew, Gibbs was fluent in Latin, Greek, French, and Italian. He also had a passing knowledge of Spanish and six other foreign languages. And yet, as he listened to the blacks speaking among themselves, he heard nothing, not a shred, which sounded familiar.
Gibbs watched and listened for more than an hour. He noticed that the blacks on the whole seemed respectful of their visitors. Though they obviously could not understand what was being said, they remained quiet and attentive, sitting on their blankets and listening as the students and faculty members spoke. After a particularly stirring sermon by one of the students on the redemption of wayward souls, Gibbs picked out the black whom he thought the most intelligent looking of the lot, sat down in front of him, and held up a single finger.
“One.”
Gibbs drew a line in the dirt floor.
“One.”
He continued for a nearly five minutes, holding up the finger, pointing to the line on the floor, and holding out an apple.
“One.”
Grabeau looked back at Gibbs, a little whiteman wearing a crisp black small-brimmed hat and spotless linen jacket. Gibbs’s smiling, gentle face was framed by bristly, wild-looking white sideburns that reached almost down to his mouth. Grabeau held up one of his own black fingers slowly.
“Wwwone?”
“Yes! Yes, one! One! One! One!”
Grabeau took the apple from Gibbs hand and bit it.
“One.”
Gibbs pointed to his own mouth and then to Grabeau.
“One?”
Grabeau chewed the sweet meat of the apple, swallowed it, and smiled.
“E-tah.”
“E-tah?”
“E-tah.”
Gibbs held up two fingers and said, “two.” Grabeau repeated the word a few times and then held up his two of his own fingers.
“Feh-lee.”
Gibbs and Grabeau sat there repeating each other’s words over and over. Burnah walked up and sat next to Grabeau.
“What are you doing?”
“I am teaching this whiteman how to count in Mende and he is teaching me the same in the white language.”
“Why?”
“He seemed bored.”
Burnah moved to get up.
“From the numbers we can go to things and thoughts,” Grabeau said. “If we can speak to these men, perhaps we can convince them that they should not kill us.”
Burnah nodded. Soon he was counting along with Gibbs and Grabeau.
After nearly an hour Gibbs decided to see how many of the other blacks spoke this language. He stood up and walked over to one of the other tribesmen, Ka-le.
“E-tah. Feh-lee. Saw-wha. Nah-nee. Thlano. Thataro. Shupa. Hera-Mebedi.”
Kale looked with amazement and then fell to his knees. “This whiteman speaks Mende! This white speaks Mende!”
All the men in the cell immediately jumped up and ran to Gibbs, everyone yelling and screaming. The spectators outside the cell thought that Gibbs was being attacked and began yelling and screaming, as well. It took nearly fifteen minutes for Gibbs and Grabeau to calm everyone down and explain.
Singbe sat in the back corner of the general prisoners’ cell. Night had fallen and the crowds of whites that had filed by all day, looking at him like some captured animal waiting for the slaughter, had at least temporarily disappeared. Only the barest hint of light crept into the cell, flickering wisps made by a single lamp in the hallway. But now that light was gone, too.
“Hey, nigger.”
Singbe looked up. Two hulking forms stood over him.
“Nigger, we’re talking to you.”
Singbe slowly began to stand, sliding his back up against the wall.
“We heard you killed a bunch a white folks. Hacked them to death with long knives. Is that right?”
“You musta thought you was a pretty damn high and mighty nigger to do somethin’ like that, eh?”
“Yeah, well he don’t look so mighty now. He just looks like a scared to shit nigger to me.”
“I wouldn’t know, Jack. He’s so black, all I can see of him is the whites of his eyes.”
Singbe saw one of the forms twitch. He ducked and felt the wind of a fist go by his ear. The man screamed as his hand slammed into the wall. A kick came up and caught Singbe in the jaw knocking him back into the wall. He began swinging the chains on his wrists wildly from side to side. The iron sang with the cries of the attackers each time the chain found its mark. The other prisoners, about a dozen or so, were screaming and pushing the attackers and Singbe back into each other.
“What the hell is going on here!?”
The cell was filled with light. Three guards stood inside the bars, pistols and muskets drawn and cocked.
“It was the African nigger, Mr. Colton! I swear!” said a big man lying on the floor. His face was splattered with blood from the gashes that the chain had made.