A crime that captivated Ireland

IN THE spring of 1766, Dublin found itself captivated by one of the most sensational criminal cases of the 18th century. Four sailors, Peter McKinley, an Irish boatswain; George Gidley, a Yorkshire-born cook; Richard St Quentin, an Englishman; and Andreas Zekerman, a Dutch seaman, stood accused of murder and mutiny on the high seas, crimes that struck at the heart of maritime law. Their trial and execution would echo through Irish folklore, but the events that placed them there were all too real.

Voyage laden with temptation

The story began aboard The Earl of Sandwich, a merchant vessel commanded by Captain John Cochrane. The ship had departed Tenerife, bound for England, carrying a valuable cargo that included 250 sacks of Spanish gold seized during Britain’s ongoing conflict with Spain. Among those on board were: First Mate Pinchent, a young cabin boy, Benjamin Gillespie and a notable passenger, Captain Glass of the British Navy, accompanied by his wife, daughter, and servant boy.

What should have been a routine homeward voyage soon devolved into treachery.

Murder on the high seas

Somewhere between the Canary Islands and the Irish coast, a plot was formed. The vast cache of gold proved irresistible. As the vessel neared Waterford, the conspirators struck. Captain Cochrane, the Glass family and several others were murdered and cast

overboard. With the officers dead, the mutineers seized control of the ship, steering it toward the Irish coastline.

Dragging as much gold as they could ashore, they buried portions of the treasure on the beach before scuttling The Earl of Sandwich in hopes that the sea would

conceal their crimes.

Suspicion ashore

Fate, however, had other plans. The wreck eventually washed up on the Waterford coast, its damage betraying clear evidence of foul play. Meanwhile, the mutineers, who had made their way to Fishertown, began spending Spanish gold with conspicuous enthusiasm. At a local inn, they paid with glittering coins far beyond the means of ordinary sailors. Reports soon spread of four rough-looking men ‘throwing Spanish gold about New Ross,’ prompting authorities to act.

With freshly purchased pistols and hired horses, the men rode to Dublin and lodged at the Black Bull Inn on Thomas Street. But the Sheriff of Dublin was already alerted. McKinley and Zekerman were arrested first; both confessed, implicating Gidley and St Quentin, who were captured the next day on the road to Cork.

Trial, condemnation and the gallows

On March 1, 1766, crowds packed the courtroom as witnesses described scenes of mutiny, theft, and brutal murder. The evidence was overwhelming. The jury returned swift guilty verdicts and the Admiralty pronounced its harshest punishment: hanging, followed by post-mortem display in chains, a grim warning to any who might defy the King’s authority at sea.

The execution took place at St Stephen’s Green, a familiar site for public hangings. Yet even death did not end their sentence. Two bodies were taken to the Piles below the Poolbeg Blockhouse; the other two were suspended along the New South Wall near McCarrell’s Wharf.

Public outrage and a final resting place

The display on the South Wall caused immediate public outcry. Dubliners walking the promenade recoiled at the sight of decaying corpses swaying in the sea winds. After petitions on the matter, authorities quietly removed the bodies on April 1 and transported them to the Muglins, a small rocky island off Dalkey. There they were rehung in fresh irons, far from polite society, but still visible to sailors entering Dublin Bay. Eventually, the remains were interred on the island, where they lie to this day.

Echoes along the Irish coast

Though more than two centuries have passed, the tale of The Earl of Sandwich continues to surface, literally. Beachcombers on the Waterford coast occasionally uncover silver coins, snuffboxes, clasps, and other fragments of the ill-fated voyage. These relics hint at the vast treasure once aboard the vessel and fuel speculation that not all the Spanish gold was ever recovered.

Somewhere beneath shifting sands, or beyond the tide, may still lie the final traces of a mutiny that shook Ireland in 1766.