Carlton E. Spitzer
Perhaps the most reviled practical joker in Maryland’s history is Jacob Gibson, who pulled off his notorious stunt almost 200 years ago to frighten the 300 inhabitants of Saint Michaels during the War of 1812.
A blacksmith by trade who’d acquired land and become a plantation owner on Sharp’s Island, Gibson was shunned by the elite gentry whom he disdained as, “those stiff-necked, down-your-nose scholars.”
Gibson’s speech was brusque, his manner caustic, and he belittled anyone who disagreed with him. His frequent letters to the editor of The Republican Star criticized his neighbors, local leaders and national figures with equal passion. Some were so vitriolic the editor refused to publish them.
His defense was a cynical smile, a hearty laugh, and a perverse sense of humor. Had his reputation not preceded him on April 18, 1813, Gibson might have received much sympathy from the people in St. Michaels, for the feared British Fleet Commander John Borlase Warren had invaded Sharp’s Island and kept Gibson captive for five days, while permitting his men to take from Gibson whatever they chose. But no person was injured and no building was destroyed. Upon his release, Gibson was paid a handsome sum in British Bank Notes to compensate for the cattle and sheep and other possessions Warren’s men had taken before they returned to their ships anchored in the Chesapeake.
Alone and brooding, Gibson drank a copious amount of rum as he devised his greatest practical joke. He continued to imbibe from kegs his slaves rolled aboard a barge as they set sail up San Domingo Creek toward St. Michaels. Gibson took off his red bandana and hung it on the mast. At his slurred command, slaves rapped a muffled drum roll on the top of empty rum kegs.
On patrol that day, Captain Robert Banning was greatly alarmed to see a barge flying what he thought was the dreaded Union Jack, with muffled drums signaling attack. He rushed ashore, alerting citizens who dashed house to house, farm to farm. Farmers fled their fields and drove off their livestock to keep them from the British. Militias were assembled. Arms were loaded. Families summoned slaves to pack wagons hurriedly, preparing to flee.
But when the barge came into view, drums beating more loudly, someone yelled out from shore that it was a barge recently built by Captain Richard Spencer of Beverly, and that the crew was a group of ragged slaves under the command of a sloshed Jacob Gibson whose red bandana was tied to the mast.
Dragged ashore, Gibson was manhandled and roundly cursed. Had not militia officers intervened, there is little doubt he would have been seriously injured.
Holding him fast, people screamed in his ear: “Did he not appreciate the dire consequences of his ruse? Look around you, Gibson. Wagons are packed. Children are crying. Livestock must be rounded up.”
Laughing and slapping his knee, Gibson bellowed, “Can’t you good people take a joke?” When they closed in to pummel him again, he protested plaintively with wringing hands that he intended no harm, and was only trying to spare them the fate he himself had suffered.
Gibson’s story was rejected, his joke despised, and the people left him there in a heap in his torn clothing torn and bloody nose.
A young man smiled down at the prankster, assuring Gibson with a bright smile that he was on his way to give a full report to the editor. Gibson could read all about his practical joke in The Republican Star.
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