It is not quite easy, altogether, to estimate the character of a man so contradictory as Paul Jones. Had he been born in another age and placed in different circumstances, there is no telling how illustrious he might not have become. He was certainly a magnificent seaman and fighting man, but over and above all he was an adventurer. Idolised as a hero both in America and France, he struck terror in Britain. His latest biographer has stated that the skull and crossbones never fluttered from his masthead and that he never sailed with a letter of marque. But that being so it can only be a mere quibble which can save him from being reckoned among the most notorious pirates of history. A pirate is a person who performs acts of piracy. It seems to me that it makes little difference whether he hoists the conventional black pirate flag or not. It is not the flag which makes a pirate, but the deeds and intentions of which he is responsible. And if his biographer is correct in saying that Jones was never commissioned as a privateer, that is still one more proof that in raiding Whitehaven, the coasts of Scotland, Ireland, England; capturing and burning merchant or fishing craft on the seas; taking their crews into bondage,—he was acting without any shred of legality, and therefore a pirate pure and simple.
A pirate—and a very daring pirate—he certainly was, though he was primarily a sailor of fortune. As one can see from his life his devotion of adventure was far superior to his devotion to nationality—Scotch, English, French, American or Russian. He was willing and anxious to go wherever there was fighting, wherever glory could be obtained. He was a man who despised those who did not keep their word, and in the incident of his fulfilment of the promise made to Lady Selkirk in respect of the family plate, we have, at any rate in the life of Paul Jones, a proof that sometimes there is honour among thieves. But his death in abject poverty is but another illustration of the tragic ending which was customary in the lives of many notorious pirates.
CHAPTER XVIII
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.