A NOTORIOUS AMERICAN PIRATE
The notorious sea-robber of whom we are to speak in the following chapter
has an especial interest for English and American readers, from the fact
that he was a member of the _Chesapeake_ during her historic duel with
the _Shannon_. This Charles Gibbs was born in the State of Rhode Island
in the year 1794. From the sulky, refractory character which he exhibited
as a child any reader of human nature could have guessed that his career
promised none too well, and when his full powers had been developed he
developed finally into a singularly cruel robber of the sea. From one
cruelty to another he sunk lower and lower until the inevitable gallows
were ready to put an end to his atrocities.
Possessed of that roving spirit which was ever an early characteristic
of those who were destined to become pirates, he threw up his work as
farm-hand at the age of fifteen, ran away from home and signed on as one
of the crew in the United States sloop-of-war _Hornet_. Off the coast of
Pernambuco this ship was in action and captured H.M.S. sloop _Peacock_.
The commander of the former was Captain Lawrence, and on his return
he was promoted to command the _Chesapeake_, and to that ship Gibbs
accompanied him. When the _Shannon_ emerged from the fray victorious,
the survivors were taken as prisoners and imprisoned in Dartmoor, among
them being Charles Gibbs. When prisoners were exchanged, he returned to
Boston, Captain Lawrence having fallen in the engagement.
For a time Gibbs now abandoned the sea and set up in business, but he
was unable to lead a respectable life ashore, so back he went to sea,
this time on board a privateer belonging to Buenos Ayres; but a quarrel
arising between the officers of the one part and the crew regarding the
division of prize-money, there ensued a mutiny. The mutineers won the
victory and took possession of the ship. They proceeded to the coast of
Florida, landed some of the ship’s company, and thence sailed to the
West Indies to perform their piratical exploits, and in a short time had
captured more than twenty ships and murdered about four hundred human
beings, Havannah being used as the port where they could conveniently
dispose of their plunder. It is difficult to speak of a man like Charles
Gibbs in cold blood. He was not a mere pirate, but a blackguard and
murderer of the vilest type. Of him it may be said in very truth that
with his death the world lost nothing, but was the gainer. A pirate who
in the heat of the moment, when he is being violently opposed by another,
kills his aggressor, is a criminal whom we can understand though not
acquit. But a human fiend who, for no particular reason, unnecessarily
sheds blood and bereaves women of husbands and children of fathers, is a
devil incarnate. Such was Gibbs.
In the year 1819 he departed from Havannah and returned to the United
States, his accumulated wealth, as a result of so many piracies,
amounting to about £6000. After passing some time in New York and Boston
he sailed for England on the _Emerald_, but in 1826 was back again in the
United States. Hearing of the war between Brazil and the Buenos Ayres
republic, he sailed from Boston to fight, if possible, on behalf of the
republic. He made himself known to Admiral Brown, and presently received
a lieutenant’s commission, being assigned to a 34-gun ship. For four
months he served in this ship, and then, as a result of his satisfactory
conduct, he was given command of a privateer schooner which carried
two 24-pounders and forty-six men. Sailing from Buenos Ayres he made a
couple of successful privateering cruises, and then was able to purchase
a half-share in a Baltimore schooner. But after putting to sea he was
captured seven days out and taken into Rio de Janeiro, where he remained
until the declaration of peace and eventually returned to New York.
There followed another year’s interval in roaming about from place to
place, and then the French campaign against Algiers attracted him, not
to fight on behalf of the French but for the pirates. He accordingly
embarked on a ship that landed him at Barcelona, whence he crossed to
Port Mahon and tried to make his way to Algiers; but the vigilance of
the French fleet prevented him from getting any nearer than Tunis, and
at last returned from Marseilles to Boston. A few days later he went
to New Orleans, and there he signed on as one of the crew on board the
_Vineyard_ brig. Up till now he had led a restless, wandering, wicked
life of self-indulgence. He had robbed and murdered. But now we come
to the climax and decline of his career. The details which follow are
essential to the story, and they indicate better than any number of words
the type of character to which Gibbs belonged.
The skipper of this brig was William Thornby. She sailed away from New
Orleans, bound for Philadelphia, with a valuable cargo of cotton, sugar,
molasses, as well as over £10,000 in dollars. When the ship was about
five days out from her port the crew began to talk about the money on
board, and some of them, including Charles Gibbs, made up their minds to
seize the ship. Before attaining this object they realised they would
have to kill the captain and mate. On the night of the 23rd of November,
soon after midnight, the opportunity for putting this dastardly deed
into action arrived. One of the crew named Dawes was at the helm. As the
brig was ploughing her way over the lonely sea, rolling her masts across
the star-specked sky, the steersman suddenly saw the steward emerge from
below with a light in one hand and a knife in the other. He set down the
light, and then, taking the top of the pump, struck the captain on the
head. The latter cried “Murder!” but he was then seized firmly by Gibbs
and the cook at the head and the heels, and without further delay hove
overboard.
Roused by the unwonted noise on deck, the mate now came up the hatchway,
but, as he approached, two others of the crew named Atwell and Church
were waiting for him, and struck him over the head just as he was asking
for the reason of the noise. The mate then rushed back into his cabin,
followed by Gibbs, who, by reason of the darkness, could not find him.
So the murderer ran on deck, fetched the binnacle light, with the aid of
which the helmsman was steering, and returned below. This time he found
his victim, and two others of the crew knocked him down and then dragged
him on deck. Dawes, since he could not now see his compass to steer by,
left the helm to see what was going on. And as the other men were hauling
the mate along, they called to Dawes to assist them. In a few moments the
mate was thrown over the side alive and was even heard to cry out from
the water twice. He was never picked up, so must have been drowned.
Dawes was terrified beyond expression at these two incidents, so that he
scarcely knew what to do. The confederates then ordered him to call a man
named James Talbot who had declined to take part in the plot. Talbot was
in the forecastle saying his prayers. He came up, and the confederates
did not instantly put him to death, as he had quite expected, but, on
the contrary, gave him some grog. The captain and mate being now out of
the way, the confederates then got up a keg containing dollars. They
then divided the captain’s clothes, the sum of eight pounds, which he
possessed, and a gold watch. Dawes was ordered to go back to the helm and
to steer for Long Island, while Talbot was likewise compelled to do as he
was told. The next day several more kegs of specie, amounting to £1000
each, were divided and the specie placed into bags and sewn up. After
this the money was divided up without counting it.
Gibbs had been acting as captain ever since the two murders, and when
they arrived about fifteen miles south-south-east of Southampton Light
the ship’s boats were ordered out, half the money was placed in each, and
the survivors got in. Before doing so, however, the ship was scuttled and
set fire to in the cabin, so that before long she would founder and so
not exist as possible evidence against the assassins. But after the boats
had rowed away towards the shore, soon after daylight, they stuck on the
bar. One of them was saved by throwing overboard about £1000 in dollars,
but the other was seen to fill and founder as the men in her vainly
sought to cling to the masts of the craft. Those in the other craft,
however, were more fortunate and landed on Barron Island, buried the
money in the sand and soon afterwards fell in with a man who took them to
the only house on the island.
But justice, if delayed, advanced with sure and certain steps. In the
month of February 1831, Charles Gibbs and a man named Wansley, who had
been one of the confederates, were brought up for trial in New York
on a charge of murdering Captain Thornby. Wansley was a negro and was
found guilty and condemned to death. Gibbs, in his defence, said that
when the ship started out from New Orleans he was a stranger to all on
board excepting Dawes and one other. He pretended that it was not he
himself who first suggested taking the money, but that after the subject
had been discussed for some days he agreed to join in the plot. He even
protested, he alleged, that it would be better to give up the plan, as
it was a serious thing to take human life and commit piracy. This, be it
remembered, was Gibbs’ version of the affair, but having regard to his
past record there is every reason to suppose that he was now adding lies
to his other guilt. Three days later, he averred, the murder took place,
and all that he did was to help throw the captain’s body overboard after
he had been struck, when he presumed he had been killed. He protested
further that he was innocent of the mate’s murder.
But the judge pointed out that even if Gibbs had not actually done
the deed, he was there strongly instigating the murderers on without
stretching out a hand to save them. “It is murder as much to stand by
and encourage the deed as to stab with a knife, strike with a hatchet
or shoot with a pistol. It is not only murder in law, but in your own
feelings and in your own conscience.” So spoke the judge, and he who
had spent a life of licence and piracy, marked by murders with only
occasional legitimate fighting, was condemned to the scaffold. To the
end Gibbs, while admitting his guilt of piracy, yet insisted that he was
innocent of the charge of murdering the captain, although “it is true I
stood by and saw the fatal deed done, and stretched not forth my arm to
save him.” Wansley, however, frankly admitted the justice of the sentence
and died penitent. We need say no more, but if there are any to-day who
have still a secret affection for the pirates of yesterday, we can only
suggest that although few of these pirates were cowards yet there is not
one who showed himself little more than a vulture in human form. Very
rare indeed does one find instances of these rude fellows giving mercy.
There is now and again such an occasion, but it is like the stray blade
of herbage in a wilderness. Personal vanity—the determination to get rich
at all costs—has brought many a crime in its wake, and if men are still
dishonest in other ways, we can at least be thankful that the wholesale
murders of the days of the pirates have long since ended.