The Amistad Rebellion (33 page)

The Amistad Committee, who had organized the tour, was stung by the critique and felt compelled to respond. One of its members, in all likelihood Lewis Tappan, answered that the committee had considered all of the issues the critic had raised. He admitted that the
Amistad
Africans initially resisted the idea of performing “before the public to exhibit their improvements,” but once it was explained to them that the events were necessary “not only to raise funds for their support and education, but to raise a fund to aid in their return to their native land,” they agreed to do them, and did them cheerfully, the organizer maintained. Yet Tappan’s answer did not entirely satisfy even himself, for he continued to feel uneasy about the matter. At an exhibition in November, he apologized to the crowd “for having the duties of ‘showman’ devolve upon him.”
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The social composition of the
Amistad
campaign and the larger
abolitionist movement of which it was a central component was reflected in the decision to hold six meetings in fundamentally proletarian locations: one was held in a factory and another five were held in African American churches made up mostly of poor but extremely interested people. The
Amistad
Africans visited the cotton mills of the Boott Corporation in Lowell, Massachusetts, where they inspected the machinery and fabrics and met their fellow textile workers, who spontaneously and collectively gave $58.50 to the “Mendi Fund.” Other venues included the Reverend Amos Beman’s African Methodist Episcopal Church in Boston, where it was “impossible for all to get in” to see the program; the Reverend James Pennington’s Talcott Street Church in Hartford, Connecticut; and the Reverend C. W. Gardner’s “Colored” Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia. Pennington’s flock contributed a hard-earned $8 to the
Amistad
cause, which may have been a greater portion of their collective income than any other church visited on the tours.
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The two meetings held at the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church at Church and Leonard streets in New York seem to have had special qualities and meanings, for both the abolitionist organizers of the events, who were, for the most part, African American, and the “Mendi People.” The church was a large one, into which a massive crowd consisting mostly of black people jammed themselves. A correspondent for the
New York Journal of Commerce
noted, “A more compact mass of human beings was perhaps never seen in a church,” while another, for the
Colored American
, added, “We do not recollect of ever having seen a larger assemblage of our people upon any occasion.”
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In the black churches, the content of the program changed. Tappan and Booth made briefer comments as the leaders of the black community—the Reverend Christopher Rush; the Reverend Timothy Eato (a founder of the New York African Society for Mutual Relief); and William P. Johnson—made the meeting their own. Dr. James McCune Smith, the first professionally trained African American physician in the United States, offered a series of resolutions, which were
seconded by Charles B. Ray, publisher of the
Colored American
and a founder of the New York Vigilance Committee. Other leading black activists who took part in the resolutions were Philip A. Bell, George Downing, Junius C. Morel, the Reverend Theodore S. Wright, and John J. Zuille, all of whom were active in one way or another in the Underground Railroad.
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The resolutions affirmed the revolutionary implications of the
Amistad
rebellion and the larger struggle against slavery. The assembled resolved that in “their resistance against the captain and crew of the Amistad,…the Mendi people did no more than exercise that natural resistance against tyrannical oppression, which the consent of all ages of mankind, and the example of the American Revolution has sanctioned as both right and lawful.” They also resolved that the
Amistad
case, based on a “just and righteous decision” by the Supreme Court, “has a powerful influence on the question of human rights, not only in this country, but throughout the world.” It represented “the faint glimmering of a more auspicious morn, which will usher in that bright and glorious day, when the judges of our land, and men high in power, will be compelled by the force of reason and truth, to throw aside the bigotry and prejudice which too often soils the ermine of justice, and boldly declare that property in man cannot be held, wither by inheritance, purchase, or theft.” The “Mendi People” embodied the revolutionary force of reason and truth.
⁵²

When it came time for the Africans to speak, James Covey joined the program. Having studied with missionaries in Freetown after his liberation from a slave ship in 1834, he “made an admirable address, which drew tears from nearly every eye, and the manner in which he quoted and illustrated Scripture was amazing, and would serve as quite a lesson to a learned divine.” Covey also described his relationship with the
Amistad
Africans, especially their joy on meeting him and discovering that he was a Mende speaker. He and the other “Mende People” were, in the Zion Church, more expansive and “more interesting, we [the
Colored American
] thought, than at any of the previous meetings.” Kinna greeted the audience with “you are my brethren,
the same color as myself.” He “seemed to feel himself at home, and his address was exceedingly concise, distinct and happy.” A joyous pan-African mood animated the occasion.
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Mission to Africa

At the May 17 meeting at the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church, the Reverend Theodore S. Wright resolved that “in connection with the ardent desire of these people to return to their own country to communicate the truths of the gospel, a favorable opportunity is providentially presented to the friends of missions, to unite for the evangelization of Africa.” According to Lydia Maria Child, who attended the event, this resolution “rejoiced the hearts” of the African Americans who heard it, for it promised a “pure mission,” in contrast to that of the detested American Colonization Society, which had “joined hands with the slaveholder” and accepted his money for the racist removal of black people to Africa. “Not a cent from those who bought or sold human beings would ever be allowed to pollute” the funds of what would become the Mende Mission. The project to establish a mission in southern Sierra Leone was gaining strength and momentum.
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The origins of the idea lay in conversations that took place in the New Haven jail. An anonymous visitor described an interaction between teacher Benjamin Griswold and the
Amistad
Africans in late November 1839. When Griswold suggested that the captives might go home to Mende country, they responded with joy. The teacher then pointed to himself and then to them, saying, “I, you, you, Mendi!” They did not understand his meaning. Then he said, “You, me, Mendi, go!”—or, “I will go with you to Mende country.” The Africans all agreed, yes, yes, but Griswold apparently thought the response tepid. He put on a stern look, rose from his seat, folded his arms, and walked away, indicating “neglect and ill-will.” They in turn extended their arms “as if embracing some object of affection, clasping it to their bosom,” insisting that they did want him to go. One man made a gesture of eating, promising that they would feed him in Africa, adding
“you Merica man,
yandinguo, yandinguo
” (good, good). Griswold’s students then gathered around him, warmly grasping and shaking his hand, to emphasize the truth of their pledge.
⁵⁵

Griswold reported this conversation to Lewis Tappan, who construed it as an African request for the teacher to go home with them, as he wrote in a letter to abolitionist John Scoble on January 20, 1840: “Mr. Benjamin Griswold of the Theological Seminary was…strongly solicited by the Africans to accompany them home.” Tappan visited the captives in jail and asked “if they wished to have teachers go with them to Mendi.” They answered yes. Tappan then asked, more specifically, if they wanted Griswold to go with them. The teacher then interjected his own question: “I asked them what they would do to me, if I should go?” Cinqué, Griswold reported, expressed “a willingness to do whatever I should wish & all assured me that they would take care of me & not let any one injure me.” As the leader, Cinqué vowed to take responsibility for any missionaries who might accompany them to Mende country. Griswold trusted the response: “I think I have the certain confidence of these men & I believe they would defend & protect me at all hazards.” In a war-torn land he would certainly need protection.
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It is not clear how the
Amistad
Africans thought about this proposition. Did they understand the difference between a teacher and a missionary, especially in a time when communications remained difficult? The two roles were in many respects inseparable to the Christian abolitionists as they ministered to pagans, but the Africans probably held a different view. Did they support the idea for instrumental and strategic reasons, because they thought the arrangement would increase the likelihood of their eventually returning home? Is this why Cinqué declared his willingness to do whatever Griswold wanted? If so, his judgment was sure, for in the coming months the prospect of establishing a mission in Sierra Leone would become a leading motivation of many associated with the
Amistad
case, including a significant number of African American Christians. The mission idea became part of the working misunderstanding in the alliance between the
Amistad
Africans and the abolitionist movement.

As Tappan and others continued to think about a mission, a new initiative came from another quarter of the abolitionist movement. As Farmington attorney and abolitionist John Hooker later recalled,

At a large public meeting held at the Talcott Street Church (“1st Colored Congregational Church”) in Hartford on May 5, 1841, Pennington expressed “his sense of the obligations of Christians, colored Christians, to do something in relation to carrying the gospel to Africa.” Pennington challenged the members of his congregation, saying that unless “our whole people, and this church particularly” should do something, “I don’t know but that I shall have to go myself.” Many of the world’s greatest enterprises had “small beginnings” like their own. Deacon James Mars spoke about the “providential arrival, defence and deliverance of the Mendi people of the Amistad,” and hoped that young missionaries would accompany them home. The African Augustus W. Hanson, who had briefly served as a translator for the
Amistad
Africans, added that “the destiny of a portion of his brethren in the country, was ultimately connected with the regeneration of Africa.” Those attending the meeting resolved that because “Divine Providence has now, in the case of the citizens of Mendi, (late Amistad captives,) most evidently opened a wide door for access to the heart of that country” and that “a mission should be established in
the interior [of Africa].” They decided to hold a larger meeting in August 1841 to unite all evangelical groups in the cause.
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The call for the missionary convention was reiterated and publicized in the
Colored American
in July 1841. Although directed primarily at the African American community, the message was come one, come all: “Let the artist forsake his studio, and the merchant his counting-room; let the student forego the fascinations of literature, let the mechanic quit his workshop, and the husbandman his rural domicil and healthful occupation.” It was of special importance that “something should be done by us for the land which our fathers loved as the land of their nativity.” The call quoted Mark 16:15 as its mandate from God: “Go into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.”
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Crisis

As the plans for a mission developed, the “Mendi People” were living in Farmington, under the care of abolitionist John Treadwell Norton, studying hard, cultivating fifteen acres of land, and hoping to go home. They still had no idea when, how, or if their ultimate goal would be achieved. The Amistad Committee had petitioned the administration of President John Tyler for the funds to pay their way back to their native lands, but the request had been unceremoniously denied as being without legal precedent. Getting thirty-six people across the Atlantic and back to their homelands was a complex and expensive proposition still under discussion in abolitionist circles. As the debate dragged on, several of the
Amistad
Africans began to despair.
⁶⁰

One of these was the normally bright and cheerful Foone, a rather short man at five feet two inches, with a “Herculean frame” and athleticism: he was an excellent swimmer. When news arrived from people knowledgeable about the Gallinas Coast that warfare might make it difficult for the “Mendi People” to find their way to their inland homes, the effect was demoralizing: “Nearly all of the Mendians became sad & became indifferent as to work or study,” recalled A. F. Williams, who was helping to oversee their time in Farmington.

Foone in particular was hit hard by the news. He “lost all activity of body & mind,” he became gloomy, and on several occasions he was seen weeping profusely. When asked what was the matter, he answered, “
He was thinking about his Mother
.” He felt he would never see her again. When Foone said he was going to swim (and bathe) in the Farmington River on Thursday, August 7, several of his comrades tried to talk him out of it, saying it was the same day of the week on which Mr. Chamberlain had drowned and was therefore unlucky. Foone was determined to go and was finally joined by two teenage members of the group. Soon after he went in, he sank in ten to twelve feet of water. His smaller mates, panic-stricken, tried to save him but could not. They climbed out of the river and cried for help. Grabeau and Burna came running and dove into the water to search for Foone. After Burna surfaced with his friend’s limp, muscular body in tow, a local doctor tried to revive him, without success.