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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Bloodthirsty buccaneers and buried treasure, fierce sea battles and cold-blooded murders, Barbary ducats and silver pieces of eight. Des Ekin embarks on a roadtrip around the entire coast of Ireland, in search of our piratical heritage, uncovering an amazing history of swashbuckling bandits, both Irish-born and imported. Ireland's Pirate Trail tells stories of freebooters and pirates from every corner of our coast over a thousand years, including famous pirates like Anne Bonny and William Lamport, who set off to ply their trade in the Caribbean. Ekin also debunks many myths about our most well-known sea warrior, Granuaile, the 'Pirate Queen' of Mayo. Thoroughly researched and beautifully told. Filled with exciting untold stories.
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Praise for The Stolen Village:
‘A harrowing tale that sheds light on the little-known trade in white slaves …’ BBC History Magazine
‘An enthralling read …’ The Irish Times
‘Do yourself a favour and read it’ The Arab Irish Journal
Praise for Hell or Some Worse Place
(previously published as The Last Armada):
‘Entertaining, chatty, and superbly researched, replete with fascinating anecdotes and tragicomic relief, this is popular history at its finest.’ Library Journal
‘Fascinating … lively and enthralling … Ekin is a wonderful guide through this engrossing tale.’ Sunday Times
‘What an extraordinary story’ The Pat Kenny Show2
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5
For Sally
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Contents
10
Ireland in the early 1600s, as charted in Pacata Hibernia: pirate clans controlled the west coast, and the labyrinth of islands and inlets of the southwest made an ideal base for freebooters from all over Europe.
Preface
In the dead of night, four pirates haul their longboat on to a deserted beach after hijacking a ship and killing almost everyone on board. On their way to shore they have left a trail of silver treasure across the seabed: their longboat was so laden down with pieces of eight that they were forced to jettison purseloads of the coins just to stay afloat. Now, watched only by the stars, they dig a deep trench in the sand and bury the remainder of their plunder.
At another beach, in a different century, a band of buccaneers steals ashore from a Caribbean ship on a midsummer evening. Witnesses say they are carrying so much stolen treasure in sacks and casks that they are bowed down under the weight. They divide up their spoil and vanish into the night.
Another harbour, another era. A pirate ship pulls in to a remote haven, its captain desperate to sell off his cargo. The local Admiralty official is duty bound to arrest them, but they offer him a bribe of a female African slave so, instead, he decides to look the other way.
Are these pirate tales from exotic Jamaica or Hispaniola? Sweat-stained Government reports from tropical Nassau or the Mosquito Coast? Or flights of fancy from modern Disney scriptwriters?
No, all these true-life episodes happened in Ireland. They are part of the little-known buccaneering history of the greatest ‘pirate island’ of all.
Ever since I was a child, I have been fascinated by pirates. But I’d always assumed that those colourful freebooters and privateers flourished only in torrid, overheated climates, in faraway places like Port Royal or Tortuga Bay.
When I was a youngster, eagerly devouring stories about Blackbeard and Capt’n Morgan, I always felt a little cheated that we didn’t have any 12pirates in the grey, cold, misty and unromantic seas around Ireland and Britain.
It was only years later, when I began research for my book The Stolen Village, that I discovered the astonishing truth. Not only did Ireland have a plenitude of pirates, and buccaneers by the boatload … but, for a period in history, Ireland was Pirate Central. It was one of the two bases in the western world where sea robbers operated with defiant impunity.
At one stage, the frustrated English authorities complained that there were two areas where pirates effectively ruled unchallenged. One was the notorious Barbary Coast of North Africa, and the other was the southwest coast of Ireland.
They complained that the latter area was effectively a pirate economy. English and Irish money was rarely seen in the district – the main currencies were pieces of eight and Barbary ducats.
The more I found out about Ireland’s forgotten pirate heritage, the more I longed to write a book about the subject. When the newspaper where I worked as political correspondent was hit by large-scale job cutbacks, I was suddenly free to take up the challenge. Like many people who find themselves unexpectedly adrift after many years of continuous employment, I felt rootless, terrified and yet, at the same time, liberated and exhilarated. Embarking on the ‘pirate trail’ seemed like a good metaphor for a scary new freedom and a new life.
I didn’t want to write a conventional history of piracy. Because pirates cover such a wide range, they have little in common. Like flotsam from a scuttled prize-ship, they are scattered randomly throughout history: scattered geographically; scattered chronologically; disconnected in their motives and in their methods. The great 1600s pirate admirals who menaced the southern Irish coast with thousands of men, and who seriously challenged the English King’s authority, had little in common with the opportunistic local coastal raiders of the 1400s and 1500s. The Viking raiders who founded entire cities were on a different scale to the small-time 13sea-muggers who lurked outside harbours to hijack fishing smacks. And men like America’s John Paul Jones, who fought for the liberty of nations, do not sit easily beside the Barbary corsairs of Baltimore fame, who captured women and children for sale on the slave markets.
This posed a predicament. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to select some of Ireland’s biggest, most badass pirates, to summon their spirits up from the deep, and to bring them to life without letting clichés get in the way.
I decided to take to the road on my quest. My aim was to visit their birthplaces, their centres of operation and the scenes of their greatest triumphs and defeats. I hoped to assimilate the atmosphere, in order to better understand their lives. I drew up a plan to tour the Irish coast from north to south, from Rathlin Island and Dunfanaghy to the Wexford Saltees and Roaring Water Bay; and from east to west, from Dalkey Island near Dublin to Clare Island and Broad Haven in Mayo, seeking out the pirates’ stomping grounds, talking to those who knew their stories best, and trying my best to separate the myth from the reality.
As a former motorcyclist, my first instinct was to do the trip on a Harley Davidson with a Jolly Roger flag – somehow it seemed appropriate – but I abandoned that idea because (a) it was a bit too theatrical; (b) it might have been misinterpreted as a mid-life crisis, which of course it obviously, definitely, was not; but mostly because (c) The O’Brien Press did not take up my repeated hints and buy me the €25,000 Harley Heritage Softail Special I felt was necessary for the job. So mostly I travelled by car and on foot, but where it was necessary or just more appropriate, I went by ferry or sailboat.
This was also a journey in search of Ireland’s pirate ‘soul’. I can’t think of any other country outside Africa’s Barbary Coast where pirates have loomed so large in the national psyche. According to ancient annals, a race of pirates called the Fomorians played a major role in the island’s early history – that’s pure mythology, of course, but myths speak volumes about 14a nation. Legend also claims that our patron saint, St Patrick, was brought here by Irish pirates. Ireland’s capital, Dublin, was settled and shaped into a city by those most successful of all sea-raiders, the Vikings, who also founded Waterford and Wexford. For centuries, much of our coastline was controlled by four great pirate families – the O’Driscolls, O’Sullivans, O’Flahertys and O’Malleys. And for large chunks of our history, piracy became a valid form of political protest.
Yet this rich and varied historical landscape is in danger of disappearing under an avalanche of well-intentioned glamorising and myth-making. Take, for instance, the famous Grace O’Malley, or ‘Granuaile’. She was indeed a remarkable woman, but her towering status in legend tends to overshadow many other, more successful, pirates. In this book, I question some of the myths and try to put her extraordinary life into some perspective. And talking of women pirates … for such a small country, Ireland has supplied perhaps one-third of the world’s greatest female freebooters. Another, Anne Bonny from Kinsale, is celebrated in Pirate Pilgrimage the Sixth.
While those two names are reasonably familiar, there are other pirates, like George Cusack, William Marsh and Peter McKinley, who evoked terror in their own age but are little known today. Others, like William Lamport, are more celebrated in the Americas than they are at home.
Buccaneers know no boundaries, so this book will feature not only the Irish pirates who terrorised their homeland (Black Tom, Edward Macatter, Fineen O’Driscoll) and the Irish-born pirates who flourished abroad (Cusack, Marsh, Peter Roach), but also the overseas corsairs and buccaneers who were drawn to these shores – the likes of Henry Avery, Peter Easton and Claes Compaen.
This trip was a journey of discovery for me, too. I was quite surprised to learn that pirates weren’t always unwelcome when they sailed into Irish harbours. These freebooters had the power to transform the economies of 15places they visited, within hours. They often sold exotic goods for half-nothing, and then spent much of the money they earned, locally, on overpriced supplies, on drink and on tavern women. I found that some local chieftains, like Michael Cormick of Broad Haven, actually sought to lure pirates into their harbours with promises of feasting and dancing, and what we might now call ‘honey traps’. In other centres, like Killybegs and Baltimore, local officials looked on benevolently while freebooters rampaged and caroused around the streets like the buccaneers in a Pirates of the Caribbean theme ride.
When you discover that your local Admiralty officer, your lawyers and even your jurymen are actually pirate collaborators, all bets are off. At one stage, southwest Ireland had its own version of the expression ‘the law west of the Pecos’, naming the village of Leap as the frontier: ‘Beyond the Leap, beyond the law’. They weren’t joking.
I was also surprised to learn about the wide variety of pirate cargoes. True, they would bring ashore vast hoards of gold and silver coins, but they also made their fortunes from such unexpected items as goats’ gallstones (known as ‘bezoar stones’ and taken medicinally) and crushed beetles (cochineal, used as a dye). These were a fraction of the weight and every bit as valuable as coin, but don’t feature in any pirate shanty I’ve ever heard.
I’ve often wondered how much of the idiosyncratic character of the Irish has been moulded by our experiences of living alongside pirates. In small coastal villages, the approach of a strange sail could herald either death and destruction, or unimaginable prosperity, depending on the community’s reaction. These villagers were on their own, far from help, and ruled by corrupt officials. They had to live on their wits, their instincts, and – above all – their tradition of unquestioning hospitality. Perhaps the most recognisable Irish character traits of today – exceptional hospitality at a moment’s notice, friendliness with a core of steel, and the ability to 16strip a newly arrived stranger bare of all secrets within ten minutes while appearing to be nothing more than casually chatty – are actually legacies of many centuries of successful adaptation to this impossible situation.
So please, grab your canvas kit-bag, sign your X on the parchment, and join me for this exciting journey into a fascinating aspect of our history. This is not a travel book, and it’s not an academic history book either. It’s more like a wandering odyssey, providing a series of glimpses into an intriguing and colourful world that has largely been forgotten.
And if you think I’ve omitted some pirates and some locations, you’re absolutely right. We have to leave some for the next expedition!
A quick note about the text: This is a work of non-fiction. Everything is sourced, and nothing has been made up. Phrases in standard quotation marks are an accurate quotation from a source. Where I use a Continental-style quotation dash, it signifies an indirect quote: that is, an honest reflection of what was said, but not the exact words. I use the term ‘piracy’ to mean robbery at sea, whether attacking another ship or stealing the ship you’re already on. While words like ‘freebooters’ and ‘buccaneers’ once had separate and specific historical meanings, I use such terms interchangeably, in the popular modern sense, to mean pirates.
Part I
East by Sou’-East
1
Pirate Pilgrimage the First
Dalkey, Tramore, New Ross, Dublin
A journey of a thousand sea-miles begins with a single step.
Just a few minutes’ stroll from my home in south Dublin lies a beach of grey, black and brown shingle. It’s unimpressive in itself, but it commands one of Ireland’s most spectacular views. A couple of miles away, the craggy outcrop of Killiney Hill, dark green and vibrant yellow with wild gorse, is set against a sky that, on this sunny afternoon, is as startlingly blue as a Chinese porcelain vase. The hill rolls chaotically down towards the sea, where, just across a narrow sound, you can see two distant rocky islets 19inhabited only by seabirds, rabbits and feral goats. The inner one is Dalkey Island. The outer one is known as The Muglins, and it has a special place in pirate history.
It’s a fine day for a walk: breezy and cool, yet blessed with brilliant sunshine that gifts the everyday colours with an unnatural sparkle and glow. I amble along Killiney strand and up a punishingly steep stone stairway from Whiterock beach to the Vico Road. Here, surrounded by road-names rich with the resonance of Italy, I sit on a stone wall to catch my breath. Bramble, heather and furze tumble down the rocks towards Killiney Bay, a sweeping, mezzaluna-shaped inlet that has been compared to the Bay of Naples.
Nearly everyone in Dublin wants to live here. Only the richest do. Nicknamed ‘Bel Eire’, it is home to such stars such as Bono and Enya, people so famous they don’t even have to use two names.
From the Vico Road, I wander into tiny Sorrento Park, a rocky crag offering a fine view over Dalkey Sound and its islets. The sun is now low in the sky behind, but while everything around me is in deep shade, the islands remain brilliantly lit up, as though deliberately spotlighted in a son-et-lumière display. Behind the main island lies the low-slung Muglins islet, with its red-and-white, torpedo-shaped lighthouse. Three centuries ago, however, this island was used for another, more grisly, form of warning. The hanged corpses of two notorious pirates were suspended here, in chains, as a chilling reminder to passing seamen that piracy would not pay. These buccaneers – Peter McKinley and George Gidley – will feature in my first true-life story.
I wander along the coastal road to Coliemore Harbour, a tiny port facing Dalkey Island. It is petite but disarmingly pretty, with brightly-painted rowboats scattered along an ancient stone slipway to a harbour not much larger than a sizeable room. It’s hard to imagine that this once served as Dublin’s main harbour, with merchant ships anchoring in the bay 20and ferrying their cargoes in by boat. Now, on sunny days, the sailors are outnumbered by the tourists, the anglers and the amateur painters.
Right now, with the little Dalkey Island archipelago vividly illuminated by what seems like its own internal glow, the colours are almost hyper-real: the island’s granite rocks, covered by millennia of moss and lichen, blaze bright in a vibrant honey-mustard colour; the grass varies from a shimmering lime-green to a deep, rich emerald; and the stonework of a ruined church provides its own solemn bass chorus of grey and brown.
Dalkey Island has a long and strange history. Archaeologists once dug up a Bronze Age skull that, on burial, had been ritually filled with shellfish – no-one knows why. In the Viking era, a Christian bishop held prisoner on the island tried to swim across the sound to freedom, but drowned in the attempt.
I find a viewing-telescope and scan its shoreline. Half-a-dozen grey seals lie on the island’s rocks, dozing and stretching as lazily as Sunday afternoon teenagers. Two feral goats stand on the horizon, their shaggy beards and warped, gnarled horns giving them a Pan-like aura. Gulls fight for space, occasionally flying up in an angry flurry to chase away a rabbit, and in the shallows, terns with vivid orange beaks forage for dinner.
For a moment I am blinded by a blast of pure white as a yacht sails by. It passes, and I tilt the telescope towards the separate Muglins islet, where the two grotesque cages containing the pirates’ bodies once swung and creaked dismally in the wind, day and night, night and day, until eventually the metal rusted into powder. Some part of them must remain there, dust of men intermingled with rust of metal, in the earth of this island.
As the afternoon sun disappears, the islet loses its sunny glow and becomes dark, shadowy and melancholy. Two black cormorants stand motionlessly on the rock, their wings grotesquely outstretched, seeming to stare directly at me.
It’s a good thing that I’m not superstitious.
21
On the Trail of McKinley’s Gold
6 December 1765. Tramore, off the southeast coast of Ireland.
The vessel that shimmered eerily in the sea-mists might have been a ghost ship.
Half floating, half submerged, she wallowed so deep in the water that the waves touched her deck-rails and only her sails were visible to the approaching merchant trader.
The master, a Canadian named Captain Honeywell, later reported that he would have smashed straight into her if he hadn’t spotted her and changed course at the very last minute.
Honeywell, who was on his way to Waterford, hove-to and inspected the mystery vessel. He noted in his log – dated 6 December 1765 – that the stricken ship had three masts and that her top sails were still billowing in the wind, as though straining to free her from the shackles of the immense weight of seawater that filled her hold. Honeywell was also struck by the fact that all her deck-boats were missing and ‘not a living creature could be seen’. Yet the ship remained intact. She had not been wrecked.
A day or so later, eight boats left Wexford to investigate, but the mystery only deepened. The unfortunate ship – the Earl of Sandwich – was already breaking up, and the rescuers were unable to board safely. The vessel 22was ‘a very rich ship’, they concluded, and had carried not only a valuable cargo of wine but also some well-off passengers. Yet there was not a soul to be seen, alive or dead.
The boatsmen caught their breath when they spotted a black, corpse-like object floating on the waves nearby. When they rowed around to reclaim the ‘body’, they found that it was merely a capuchin – a long, hooded cloak of the type worn by women of quality. It was clear that the victims of this mystifying disaster included at least one affluent female passenger.
It would be another hundred years before the name Mary Celeste became notorious as a symbol of a ship that had been inexplicably forsaken. In the meantime, for those few days in December 1765, the baffling case of the Earl of Sandwich was on everyone’s lips.
As time passed, the sea yielded up some of Sandwich’s cargo. The wine from the dozens of casks that washed up on shore was identified as Madeira, which meant that the vessel had probably sailed from the mid-Atlantic. But what had happened to the women on board? Or the captain? Or her crew?
The investigation took on an even grimmer aspect when an embroidered sampler turned up amid the flotsam. ‘Kathleen Glass,’ it was signed. ‘Her work, finished in the tenth year of her age.’
As exhaustive inquiries continued, the authorities reached their grim conclusion: someone had ‘murdered the crew, and afterwards scuttled her’.
Sandwich disintegrated a few months afterwards, and told its secrets only to the sea. Only four crewmen knew what had happened on board that ill-fated vessel. Their names were Peter McKinley, George Gidley, Richard St Quintin and Andres Zekerman. These men were very much alive – and they were carrying a fortune in stolen pirate silver and gold.
Three days earlier – 3 December 1765
The four pirates had so much treasure stowed in the rowboat, it almost dragged them to a watery death. As they rowed away from the sinking and bloodstained hulk of the Sandwich, its dead weight was like the hand of a dead man, a ghostly avenger pulling them deeper and deeper into the grey-green waves. It seemed to draw and suck the very ocean over their gunwales, into the bilge of their boat, until the ice-cold seawater was rising around their feet faster than they could bail it out.
24The shore was still far away. McKinley, Gidley, St Quintin and Zekerman looked at each other. All seasoned seamen, they did not need to do the calculations. Unless they jettisoned some of the treasure, their corpses would join it all on the seabed, so deep down into the grim bladder of the ocean that no light would ever glint off the precious coins scattered uselessly among their bones.
With hearts as heavy as the purses they lifted, they began to scoop out handfuls of coins and hurl them into the sea: Spanish silver dollars, the legendary ‘pieces of eight’ of pirate lore. These casually-tossed handfuls were worth more than they could earn honestly in years, and they were chucking out dozens of them, scores of them, each blighted coin tainted with the blood of the innocent people they had murdered.
Eventually the boat lightened until it rode over the waves instead of ploughing through them. They had lost much of their money, but the trade-off was that they just might survive to spend the remainder.
The coast of the Waterford estuary, at first grey and miasmic in the winter mist, began to resolve and assume a shape. Rocks and trees. Greyish-brown sand. Grey-green grass. It looked grim in the winter night, and yet never had any land seemed so welcoming.
Straining at their oars, they pulled hard against the current until they felt the first rough kiss of the shingly sand against the sea-beaten wooden bow. They hauled the craft up to safety and looked at each other in disbelief. They were exhausted and soaked to the skin. Two of them were bleeding from sword wounds. Yet they had done it. They had stolen a fortune, a king’s ransom, a Midas’s hoard. Bags and bags of milled Spanish silver dollars, of golden ingots, of gold-dust. They had stolen so much that they couldn’t even carry it all away.
Their landfall was merely a temporary stop. They knew there was an English fortress at Duncannon, a little further into the estuary, and they had no wish to be stopped and searched by a naval patrol while carrying 25two tons of pirate silver. Under a canopy of stars, the four men hauled 249 sacks of coins further up the beach, beyond the high-water mark, and buried the bulk of the treasure – not too deeply, but just enough to hide it for a few days. They took careful note of the location – a lonely cove near Broomhill Point on the eastern shore. Then they combed the sand across until it seemed as though the beach had lain undisturbed forever.
The four pirates took the remaining bag of treasure and launched their boat. They headed north towards Waterford, but ultimately had their sights set on Dublin and a new life.
For a few years in the late 1700s, the name of Irishman Peter McKinley ranked alongside those of the world’s most infamous pirates. Today, he is almost unknown, although every year, thousands of day-trippers gaze across the rushing waters of Dublin’s Dalkey Sound towards the island known as The Muglins, where his body was hanged in chains as a grisly memento mori.
Little is known about McKinley’s background. He was reportedly a northern Irishman, and his name certainly suggests links with Donegal’s prominent McGinley clan. He began as a mariner, and by the 1760s rose to the rank of boatswain, or deck foreman. As bo’sun, McKinley would plan the day’s work schedule, sending some seamen aloft to the rigging and despatching others to clean the decks or crank the windlass. Each piercing note from his bo’sun’s pipe, rising high above the roar of wind and crashing sea, was a coded order that would send men leaping to their tasks.
As he sailed across the world’s sea routes, McKinley must have watched with envy as vast fortunes were made by the wealthy merchants, sitting comfortably in their Dublin or Liverpool mansions, while the seamen risked their lives and their freedom. Not for them, the risk of losing a leg 26in a terrifying plunge from the yardarm, or the sickening fear of ending up as a Barbary slave. The seamen sweated blood, and the rich took all the rewards.
In the course of many long and muttered conversations, McKinley discovered that he had a kindred spirit in a Yorkshire seaman called George Gidley. As a ship’s cook, Gidley must have seen how the crew’s food was often tainted and inedible on delivery. Crooked suppliers would cut corners to maximise profits, and the men sickened and suffered as a result. The whole system was every bit as rotten as the supplies. In this corrupt world, it was every man for himself.
In the summer of 1765, McKinley and Gidley joined the crew of a brigantine that was due to sail from London to Santa Cruz in Tenerife with a cargo of baled goods, hardware and hats. It seemed like a standard journey, with a very ordinary cargo. They had no way of knowing that under the blazing sun of the Canaries, the Earl of Sandwich would be caught up in a dramatic rescue mission, and that she would sail towards home rich with treasure. Their moment was about to come.
Summer, 1765
As the Sandwich sailed away from England, heading southwards through the Atlantic swell, a Scots adventurer named George Glass languished in a Tenerife prison cell, accused by the Spanish of being a spy. Perhaps he was a spy, because his seafaring career up to that point was reminiscent of a rip-roaring novel by John Buchan or Patrick O’Brian. Certainly, Glass was a pirate – or at least one of the State-sponsored variety known as privateers.
Glass had begun life as a ship’s surgeon, but had swapped his scalpel for a cutlass to become a freebooter, licensed to attack his country’s enemies. The war between England and France brought him both good 27fortune and bad luck. He had taken a French merchantman, but was subsequently captured by a French naval vessel and thrown into some West Indies hellhole. Freed in a diplomatic transfer, he returned to privateering and reportedly amassed a fortune valued in the thousands of pounds. It hadn’t been easy: the irrepressible Glass had survived a mutiny and seven spells in jail, each time emerging more fired-up than ever. This was a Glass-half-full kind of man.
It all went wrong when he decided to join an early version of the scramble for Africa. He tried to develop trade on the Guinea Coast, but was rebuffed by the locals and soon ran out of provisions. He left his ship lying offshore and sailed in an open boat to the Canaries to restock. However, the Spanish authorities didn’t buy his story. This hombre was clearly an English spy. They decided he belonged in prison. Glass was not the sort of man to languish in prison, however, or indeed anywhere. He wrote a plea for help on a hard biscuit, using charcoal as a pencil, and tossed it blindly into the street. He was in luck: the message was picked up by a foreign seaman and passed on to the commander of an English vessel.
The visiting English captain demanded Glass’s release, only to be thrown in prison himself as a suspected accomplice. When word reached London, the English diplomats protested vigorously to the Spanish. Separately, Glass’s distressed wife sold her possessions and set off from London to the Canaries with her twelve-year-old daughter Kathleen.
Meanwhile, McKinley and Gidley were sailing around the mid-Atlantic on the Sandwich. The captain, John Cochrane, delivered his goods in Santa Cruz de Tenerife and collected a cargo of Madeira wine, silk and a dye named cochineal (made from crushed beetles) that was much in demand. When Mrs Glass arrived, she sought Cochrane out and tearfully 28pleaded for his help. Cochrane pledged to do everything he could to bring her husband home.
Exactly how Glass made his exit from prison is not clear. Was it a jailbreak? Bribery? Or a diplomatic fudge, with Spanish eyes deliberately averted to enable an escape and get everyone off the hook? Whatever the circumstance, Glass ended up on board the Sandwich as a free man.
The Sandwich left the Canaries with a truly remarkable cargo. Somehow, together with all the silk and wine and powdered beetles, the ship had manage to acquire ‘a large quantity of Spanish milled dollars, some ingots of gold, some jewels, and a small quantity of gold dust’. The milled Spanish dollar – with its edges mechanically patterned to prevent illicit trimming – was the trusted currency of the mainly Hispanic New World. These silver coins were the equivalent of eight smaller money units (‘reales’), and were known to the English as ‘pieces of eight’ because they were literally cut up into eight ‘pieces’ or ‘bits’ to provide change. (Even today, Americans sometimes call a quarter dollar ‘two bits’.)
The Sandwich carried at least 250 sacks of these Spanish dollars, and possibly more. All told, the ship’s treasure was worth £100,000 in 1765 money – in modern terms, anywhere upwards of €12.2 million.
How, exactly, had the Sandwich obtained such a breathtaking fortune? This is one of the great mysteries of the saga. It couldn’t all have come from trading goods. It was almost certainly part of the fortune that Glass had amassed during his buccaneering career. One contemporary source says the Sandwich’s treasure included ‘what Captain Glass had shipped on behalf of himself and his partners’.
Perhaps recent experience had persuaded Glass to cash in his assets and return home to a life of respectability. Or possibly the treasure had been released from its bank vaults and hidey-holes by Mrs Glass in a bid to buy his freedom, and only part of it was needed. One theory, although never proven, is that Cochrane and Glass had been partners in an earlier 29privateering business. Whatever the truth, there was undoubtedly something unusual about the Sandwich and her cargo.
None of this bothered George Glass and his wife as they set out on their long voyage to London in November 1765. Even less so, their daughter Kathleen – she of the embroidery sampler – who was described as a very winsome child, and rapidly charmed everyone with ‘her beauty and fine accomplishments’. As far as they were concerned, the Sandwich was their salvation, and its crew were their shining knights. All their problems were over – or so it must have seemed to the rose-tinted Glasses.
McKinley and Gidley had other ideas. Even before the ship had left the Canaries, the bo’sun and the sea cook were already plotting to steal the treasure. Cold-blooded murder was being planned and plotted in McKinley’s nasal northern drone and Gidley’s gruff Yorkshire accent. Two other crewmen agreed to join the conspiracy: a Dutchman named Andres Zekerman, and another Yorkshireman called Richard St Quintin. After heated discussion, they decided they needed to go to the most extreme lengths to secure the fortune that lay so enticingly in the hold. They ‘entered into a conspiracy to murder all the persons on board’. That meant a death sentence on eight innocent people: Captain Cochrane; the ship’s mate Charles Pinchent; the mate’s brother James; the cabin boy Benjamin Gallipsey; and all four passengers – Captain Glass, Mrs Glass, their daughter Kathleen, and their unnamed servant boy.
It was planned as the perfect crime. With everyone dead, there would be no risk of a witness turning up years later. The Sandwich would simply disappear, scuttled to the bottom of the ocean. Her cargo would be written off, and everyone would assume that the cruel sea had claimed yet another ship with no survivors.30
They struck one hour before midnight on the last day of November. The timing was careful and deliberate: the Sandwich had left the open sea and was preparing to pass the southern coast of Ireland, McKinley’s homeland. As bo’sun, he had altered the schedule to ensure that all four conspirators were on night-watch.
‘Gidley grabbed an iron spike, raised it high and stove in his skull’: a typical pirate mutiny on board ship, as depicted by an artist in 1903.
McKinley knew that Captain Cochrane made his last rounds at 11pm. As Cochrane paced the deck, absorbed in his inspections, the two ringleaders pounced. McKinley seized the captain and pinned him down. Gidley 31grabbed a heavy iron spike, raised it high and stove in his skull. They hefted him on to the gunwale and tossed his body into the sea.
One of eight dead.
The noise alerted two loyal crewmen – the mate Charles Pinchent and his brother James – who sprang out of their bunks and rushed up on deck. We can imagine the surprise and horror on the brothers’ faces as they recognised the attackers as their own shipmates. They didn’t have a chance. The iron bars rose high and plunged down on their unprotected heads.
Three of eight dead.
By this stage, it was impossible to ignore the noise. George Glass ran up from his cabin, took one look at the carnage, and bounded back to get his sword. Glass – described as ‘a very powerful man’ – posed the greatest threat. He was an expert swordsman, and had once quelled a mutiny single-handed simply by facing down the rebel crewmen and asking who wanted to be first to be skewered on his blade. McKinley knew that a frontal attack would be fatal. Instead, he lurked in the shadows by the companionway and grabbed Glass from behind, pinning his arms.
– Kill him, he yelled at Zekerman.
The Dutchman circled cautiously, his eyes on Glass’s sword. Somehow, Glass managed to free his arm from McKinley’s grip and thrust his blade toward Zekerman, slashing his arm and drawing blood. Gidley and St Quintin dived in to help, and as McKinley held on grimly, the three others managed to wrestle Glass on to the deck. In the process, Glass stabbed McKinley in his left arm. Finally they used his own sword to run him through, not just once but several times. His body was tossed into the increasingly bloody sea.
Four of eight dead.
The captain’s wife and daughter were hauled out on deck.
—Have mercy, Mrs Glass implored, falling to her knees. Please don’t kill us.32
Zekerman was unmoved.
—Prepare to die, the Dutchman growled.
Mrs Glass pointed to her daughter.
—Kill me if you must, she pleaded. But this child has done you no harm.
—To the devil with you, snarled McKinley.
Sobbing helplessly, mother and daughter hugged in a last embrace. Impatient at the display of affection, McKinley and Zekerman lifted the two and threw them overboard, still alive and still locked together. They would not survive for long in the icy winter sea.
Six of eight dead.
Held captive during the Sandwich mutiny, Mrs Glass pleads with the pirates to spare the life of her little daughter. ‘To the devil with you,’ snarled Peter McKinley, throwing them both overboard.
33The servant and cabin-boy weren’t attacked, but if they thought they were being shown mercy, they were wrong. The mutineers ignored them only because they had to correct a ship that was wallowing out of control. They hauled on the wheel and adjusted the sails, pointing the Sandwich’s bow towards the southeast coast of Ireland.
The attack had begun just before midnight on Saturday, 30 November, and ended in the early hours of Sunday, 1 December. Thwarted by contrary winds, they had to tack back and forth all through Sunday, Monday and Tuesday morning, before finally approaching the sea estuary leading towards Waterford, some thirty miles away, early that afternoon. At this point, the four men decided to abandon the ship.
The conspirators launched the ship’s longboat and loaded it with the sacks of Spanish dollars, the gold ingots and the gold dust. They didn’t want to leave any behind, but yet they must have felt uneasy as they watched the two tons of metal push the longboat deeper and deeper into the water.
The last of the thugs smashed the Sandwich’s seacocks, allowing the seawater to pour into the ship, before leaping into the longboat. The men rowed off frantically, aware that their boat might be sucked under by the downward force of the sinking brigantine.
—Help! Bring us with you!
The plaintive cry came from Benjamin Gallipsey, the cabin boy. Along with the Glasses’ servant, he had been callously left to drown on the sinking ship.
The four men ignored him and concentrated on their oars.
The cabin boy hurled himself into the grey winter sea. He was a strong swimmer and, with vigorous strokes, soon managed to catch up with the pirates. He clung to the boat’s transom and held on for dear life. His courage didn’t impress the four pirates. Grabbing one of the oars, they battered the boy mercilessly until he was forced to let go. He soon went under, and ‘was immediately drowned’.34
Seven of eight dead.
That left only one witness alive – Captain Glass’s servant boy, who was still on board the sinking ship. There are conflicting accounts of his fate. The pirates, testifying later, claimed to have seen him washed overboard by a wave and ‘soon drowned’. Another version maintains that, as they rowed off, the pirates watched him climb up the mast until at last he faded from view. This version maintains the boy survived – because the Sandwich obstinately refused to sink. The combined force of a landward sea-current and a brisk wind shunted her closer towards land until she became wedged on a sandbank just off Tramore, County Waterford. The story goes that the boy shouted for help until he was rescued. A few days later, as he was recovering on land, Captain Honeywell sailed past in his Canadian ship and almost struck the Sandwich. By a miracle of wind and current, a vital element of McKinley’s plan – that the ship should sink without trace – had failed to materialise. The crime was revealed. And the manhunt for the murderers began.
They still might have got away with it. If they had handled things right, they could have lain low, negotiated a midnight crossing to England, and lived quietly and unostentatiously until the heat died down and they could reclaim their haul.
But delayed gratification was not a concept these men embraced to any great degree. After burying their treasure, they rowed further up the estuary with one simple plan in mind. They wanted to get dry, get fed and get drunk, in that order. Eventually, after they’d sobered up, they would travel to Dublin and enjoy all the delights that awaited newly rich men in the big city.
When they sailed unchallenged past the English naval fort at Duncannon, they relaxed. This region was renowned as a haven for pirates. 35Wherever men could be bought with gold and could be trusted to keep a secret, the murderers felt they would be safe. Their vast riches would make them invulnerable.
They landed near Fisherstown, just south of the bustling river port of New Ross. After securing their longboat, they headed straight for the welcoming lights of the Ballybrazil village inn. The locals must have spluttered into their tankards of ale as these strangers burst in, filthy, wild-eyed, blood-spattered, two of them suffering from recent arm-wounds and all four smelling rankly of sweat and seawater. But when they threw some silver dollars on the counter, they became the most welcome customers in the world.
The night of Tuesday, 3 December, passed in a blur as the pirates enthusiastically fulfilled their immediate ambitions. They ‘refreshed themselves at the alehouse’, says one account. They became so refreshed that one opportunist relieved them of a purse containing 1,200 silver dollars, and they didn’t even notice until the next morning.
On Wednesday, the four hungover fugitives packed up what remained of their treasure and set off towards Dublin. They made it as far as New Ross, just four miles away, where they did just about everything they could to arouse suspicion. When a landlady turned them away from her inn, McKinley solved the problem by giving her a handful of Mrs Glass’s jewellery. They were later to give even more lavish gifts to the maid – she got a necklace, gold earrings and thirty-six Spanish dollars.
A local moneychanger was able to change 1,250 of their pieces of eight – but only by pulling in all the gold available in town. McKinley and Gidley were decidedly annoyed that he couldn’t change more. Within a few hours, they were the talk of the entire area.
On Thursday, they set off for Dublin with six hired horses and two guides. Their obliging landlady had sewn them separate purses to carry their coins. After another overnight stop, they arrived on Friday.36
By this time, local authorities were starting to connect the Sandwich murders with the reports of the four newly rich revellers. They located their abandoned longboat at Fisherstown, and found a few pieces of eight in nooks and crannies. Sloppily, the four men had neglected to clean up. They had left damning evidence, directly linking them to the Sandwich.
Questioned, the guides who had taken the four men to Dublin revealed the pirates’ whereabouts in the city. They had moved into lodgings on the western fringe of Dublin – on Thomas Street, in an inn known as the Black Bull.
The area around Thomas Street was, at that time, a place close to a pirate’s heart. It was the first stop for the draymen hauling grain from the countryside. This raw material, combined with fresh water from a local river, had made the district the beer production centre of Ireland. Just six years beforehand, a young upstart named Arthur Guinness had opened a new brewery at No. 1 Thomas Street. Meanwhile, a distillery pumped out the hard stuff, and there were plenty of pubs where a thirsty man could enjoy both products to his heart’s content. The name of one street – ‘Cut Purse Row’ – spoke volumes about its reputation in that era.
McKinley, Gidley, St Quintin and Zekerman must have felt that they were home and dry as they settled in to their new lives. Within a day, they had exhausted the New Ross cash and needed to change more. A visit to a nearby goldsmith earned them another £500 and – as it turned out – also sealed their fates.
On Sunday, two days after the pirates’ arrival, investigating officers arrived in Dublin with arrest warrants. The two lesser conspirators, Zekerman and St Quintin, were the first to be seized. Interrogated separately, they identified the goldsmith who had changed the money. He in turn 37told them McKinley’s whereabouts and warned the investigators that they were about to lose Gidley – the ship’s cook was at that moment frantically bouncing along the rocky road to Cork in a fast carriage behind four horses, with plans to flee to England on the first available ship.
The officers quickly nabbed Peter McKinley, but when they searched all three prisoners, the only items they found were ‘a few guineas, an ingot of gold, and a small parcel of gold dust’. Creepily, the three men had also retained ‘some toys’, which they must have taken from Glass’s daughter. Undeterred, the investigators scoured the area and confiscated all the pieces of eight they had spent.
Meanwhile, mounted officers were riding flat-out to intercept Gidley. They caught up with his carriage in the midlands, and threw him into Carlow jail. The cook proved to be wealthier than his colleagues – a search revealed fifty-three guineas, some silver and a valuable Portuguese coin, a moeda de ouro.
The manhunt was over. It was time for retribution.
The pirates didn’t have to travel far from the Black Bull Inn to their less salubrious quarters in the city’s notorious jail at Newgate, just off the same street. Early in March 1766, all four appeared in court, charged with multiple murder. By this time, there was public outrage over the thugs’ merciless treatment of Mrs Glass and her child. The fact that the killings had taken place within hours of Kathleen’s birthday somehow made the story more personal and tragic. The trial provided a focus for the citizens’ fury and the streets were thronged with an angry baying mob.
The guilty verdict was as unsurprising as the sentence of death was inevitable. After the trial, the authorities’ main worry was that the men would be torn apart, limb from limb, before they reached the gallows at 38St Stephen’s Green. They had to provide a formidable army escort of cavalry and infantry to protect the men they were about to kill.
On Monday, 3 March, the four ragged and chastened figures were taken on their last journey to the Green, where the gentry in the newly fashionable houses around the perimeter could get a prime view of the execution of the decade. The four pirates mounted the scaffold, and eight feet kicked empty air. The executioners announced to the cheering crowd that the McKinley gang’s reign of terror was over.
