PROLOGUE

To commit the care of a minor to him who is the next in succession to him is like committing the lamb to be devoured by the wolf.

SIR JOHN FORTESCUE, 1471¹

The crier’s elegy echoes in the bleak evening air, as the barefoot boy darts off in the direction of Christ Church. Across Ormond Bridge, where fluttering oil lamps cast a feeble glow, to Wood Quay on the south bank of the River Liffey. Damp cobblestones likely slow his pace ahead of Pudding Row. No street urchin knows the waterside better, its wide quays, market stalls, and gabbard-men. A winding passage, strewn with rubbish, empties past the sign of the Palm-Tree into Winetavern Street, the heart of Dublin’s old city. Catching his breath, Jemmy climbs Cock Hill to reach the cathedral grounds, anxiously pushing past a sparse crowd that has gathered for his father’s funeral.²

On the night of November 16, 1727, less than twenty-four hours after his sudden death, mourners inter the remains of Arthur Annesley, fourth Baron Altham. Only thirty-eight, he died, with his mistress by his side, early that morning in bed. Coughing uncontrollably and unable to stand, he began to lose his sight while a servant cradled his head. “Lord have mercy on my soul,” he at last muttered, “I am going into another world.” ³

The ceremony bears little resemblance to a traditional Irish wake. No fiddles or ballads or whiskey to lighten hearts. Instead, somber footmen with torches lead the bereaved, draped in mourning scarves, from a still column of coaches. In recent years, the city’s Protestant aristocracy has adopted the English fashion of staging nocturnal funerals. These occasions are smaller and more private, and, as such, have the virtue of being less expensive. A lone chaplain, attended by a verger, presides. The darkness lends an element of solemnity absent from much of the baron’s life.⁴

A massive Romanesque edifice dating from the high Middle Ages, the Church of the Holy Trinity, popularly known as Christ Church, sits atop a summit overlooking the Liffey as it flows through the city toward the sea. “A venerable Gothic pile,” in the words of an eighteenth-century writer. The cathedral, a favorite place of worship for the country’s lord lieutenant, the king’s preeminent representative in Ireland, has become a bastion of the Anglo-Irish establishment. That alone, however derelict Altham’s own attendance, makes the church a natural resting place.⁵

It is not Jemmy’s young age—twelve years—that gives him away, nor his dress. Long ago, his feathered hat and scarlet jacket were abandoned for tattered breeches and a soiled coat—not unlike the ragtag garb of “blackguard boys” drawn that night by curiosity to the church. More revealing is the youth’s weeping, rare among others in attendance, including the baron’s younger brother, Richard. “My father, my father,” Jemmy finally blurts out as pallbearers descend narrow steps to place the coffin inside the church’s ancient crypt. So stunned is a mourner that she quickly spins the boy around, begging to know his identity. Lord Altham’s son, he declares; and with that, he is off, tears streaming from his eyes all the way to Phoenix Street and the abode of John Purcell the butcher.⁶

For more than three years, Jemmy Annesley has roamed old Dublin’s maze of by-lanes and crooked streets, with their rows of red brick houses capped by roofs of blue slate. Although Ireland is predominantly Catholic, the capital is two-thirds Protestant and the stronghold of the country’s ruling elite. It is also a flourishing port, boasting ninety-two thousand residents in 1725, second in the British Isles only to the population of London. Dublin, nonetheless, still has the physical appearance of a large European town. Its area, a contemporary estimates, comprises just one-third of London’s vast expanse. And unlike the broad swath cut by the Thames, the Liffey, whose shallow channel does not permit ships with freight beyond the customs house at Essex Bridge, measures fewer than 170 feet in breadth. With some exaggeration, a visitor observes, “Dublin is like a large market town in England where everyone knows and is known by everybody.” ⁷

George Grattan, South View of Christ Church Dublin, ca. 1805. Christ Church Lane passes before the nave of the cathedral, with the ruins of the Four Courts on the right.

This intimate, bustling metropolis—its familiar ways and customs—Jemmy has come to know firsthand after being turned out, at age eight, by his father in the spring of 1724. For several months, father and son dwelled north of the Liffey on Phrapper Lane, just to the west of Green Market. A neighborhood school offered instruction in English and Latin. But once the baron, together with Miss Gregory, removed to the suburban village of Inchicore, the boy was put to board on the south side of the river. “Over the water,” as a person later says. In the shadow of Dublin Castle, the residence of the lord lieutenant, Jemmy lives on Little Ship Street, just the first of several stops in coming months.⁸

No one spot keeps him for long. Once, he makes the short journey on foot to Inchicore, only to be turned away at his father’s door. By Christmastime, Jemmy has returned to Phrapper Lane, where he occasionally sleeps in the hayloft of a playfellow’s home. Then, for nearly two years, he works as a shoeboy along Inns Quay, employing a mixture of lampblack and eggs for polish and a rag or tattered wig for a cloth. He also runs errands as a “scull” for students at Trinity College, despite his rumored notoriety as a nobleman’s son. “You little rogue, you often say you are Lord Altham’s son,” a young scholar scolds one day. “Now you tell me [the] truth—are you, or are you not?” “Indeed, indeed, I am my Lord and Lady Altham’s son,” Jemmy protests. Nights find him sleeping in a doorway or curled beneath a vendor’s stall, like hundreds of other destitute children in Dublin’s streets. “Whole swarms of bastards,” rails a writer, that “should be shipped off to the wildest of our plantations abroad.” ⁹

Crypt of Christ Church, n.d., photograph by Peter O’Toole. Dating to the twelfth century, the crypt remains Dublin’s oldest surviving architectural structure.

When taxed for his gross neglect, Altham blames his mistress, to whom the profligate baron has become indebted in the amount of £500. “That bitch will not suffer me to do any thing for him,” he protests to a confidant. In the spring of 1727, three years after leaving Phrapper Lane, he does, at last, arrange for Jemmy to lodge with an old acquaintance, Dominick Farrell, a humble linen dealer. Within two months, however, Jemmy again is forced to fend for himself. The peddler’s wife cares little for the baron, who owes Farrell a debt, or, consequently, for his boy.¹⁰

So it is fortunate that Dominick should encounter his friend John Purcell one Wednesday afternoon three weeks later. The butcher resides with his wife two blocks north of Arran Quay; and though they already have a son, the couple is anxious for another. The two men find Jemmy in Smithfield cattle market—“all in rags and tatters” with a sugán (straw rope) around his waist as he leads a horse for sale. Asked his name, he responds, “James Annesley, son to Lord and Lady Altham.” Once Purcell invites him to join his household, the boy drops to his knees in gratitude. “I’m almost lost,” he mumbles. Taking the boy’s hand, the burly butcher replies, “Well, Sir, have a good heart.” ¹¹

Hugh Douglas Hamilton, A Shoeboy at Customs House Gate, 1760. Standing by a gate leading to the Liffey and Essex Bridge, a youth cradles a pot of black polish, with rags wrapped round his waist, as a younger shoeboy, to the right, tends to a customer.

Home lies a short distance away. “There is a present for you,” Purcell announces to his wife. “I desire you will take care of him, for he has no friends to do it.” That evening, on being scrubbed “head to foot” in a kitchen tub with a wedge of soap, water, and bran, Jemmy is put to bed in a clean shirt. “While I have a bit of bread for my own child,” Mrs. Purcell promises, “you shall never want.” ¹²

An affable man, Purcell follows a rough trade. Butchers are a stout lot, whose ranks dominate the neighborhood bordering the slaughterhouses of Ormond Market. Mostly Catholic, they frequently battle the city’s Protestant weavers. Only constables and bailiffs, with whom both butchers and weavers scuffle, inspire greater hatred.¹³

On a fall afternoon, barely three weeks before Lord Altham’s death, a gentleman pays the Purcells a visit. To augment their modest living, the couple keep a tippling house, and the stranger, who arrives with a fusil and a setting dog, requests a pot of beer. Do you, he asks the butcher, have a boy in the house named James Annesley? Yes, replies Purcell, calling the boy, hesitantly, from the fireside, once and then a second time. Stricken with fear, his eyes beginning to moisten, Jemmy whispers to “Mammy,” Purcell’s wife, “That is my Uncle Dick.” ¹⁴

“So, Jemmy,” questions Captain Richard Annesley, “how do ye do?” Bowing, the boy replies, “Thank God, very well.” In fact, he has just recovered from smallpox, and his face still bears a red rash. “Don’t you know me?” inquires the gentleman. “Yes” comes the reply, “you are my Uncle Annesley.” “Jemmy,” continues Richard, “I think Providence was very good to you to put you into such hands to take care of you.” More questions follow. Does Purcell intend to keep Jemmy as an apprentice? No, the butcher replies. Being “bred to such a slavish business himself,” he does not think it proper “to take a gentleman’s son” to “make a butcher.” Instead, he expresses the wish that father and son might be reunited. (On a separate occasion, Jemmy himself has told Purcell that he yet hopes to succeed his father.) ¹⁵

Nor, in response to Richard’s query, will Purcell accept money for the boy’s board. Finally, after pledging to inform Lord Altham of Jemmy’s circumstances, Uncle Dick departs. What if anything is reported, we do not know. Tempted himself to visit Altham, Purcell is strongly discouraged by friends. “They told me he was a passionate little man, and by reason of the whore he kept in his house, he would not matter to shoot me.” ¹⁶

It does not appear that Jemmy and his uncle speak at the baron’s funeral. No eyewitness reports even a cursory exchange. Clearly, however, the boy’s sudden appearance at Christ Church makes a deep impression on the small gathering of mourners, not least on Richard Annesley himself—who, not incidentally, seeks to be enrolled in his brother’s place as Baron Altham. Afterward, during a heated meeting in Dublin Castle, the king at arms, the country’s senior herald, initially refuses to certify the title, an essential step before the lord chancellor can grant a writ of summons to the House of Lords. Owing to the boy’s “great noise” at the funeral, it seems to many that the late lord has left a son, and a legitimate heir at that. Over the next few days, any mention of the funeral elicits a torrent of invective from Richard, who rails that the boy is a vagabond and an impostor. Ever since, Richard complains, he cannot “make his appearance at the Castle, or anywhere, but that he was insulted.” An attorney counsels forbearance. If the boy is a bastard, he will be found out. If a vagrant, he might be shipped as a servant to America.¹⁷

Except for a few patches of sunlight, December brings gray skies, rain, and fog. It is during the first week that an unfamiliar servant appears one morning on Phoenix Street. Jemmy, he says, is summoned to Ormond Market by his uncle. Can he come right away? A cudgel in one hand, John Purcell hoists the lad by the other. A short walk brings them to the George, a tavern in Bow Lane, where Richard, newly titled Baron Altham, stands inside with the owner, Mr. Jones. Joining them in the cramped alehouse are a constable and several “odd-looking fellows.” Removing his hat, the butcher bids them good morning. “How do you do, Mr. Purcell,” replies the uncle. Still in mourning, he is dressed totally in black. Then, pointing to Jemmy, he instructs a figure by the door, “Hark you sir, take that thieving son of a whore!” ¹⁸

Before anyone can act, Purcell presses Jemmy between his legs. Striking the constable with the cudgel, he vows, “Whosoever suffers to do him mischief, by all that’s good, I’ll knock his brains out.” Furious, Richard insists that the boy will be transported to the colonies. “By God he shall not stay in the kingdom, I will send him to the devil.” But no one dares test the butcher’s mettle. Then, with his eyes fixed on the baron, Purcell declares, “You make a good appearance of a gentleman, and I am surprised that you should show so much revenge and so much malice as to say that you will destroy this poor creature.” It is a remarkable outburst for a humble tradesman. Grasping his sword, Richard swears that he will “stick” Purcell “to the wall,” but a band of butchers, hearing the fracas, arrives outside, scattering the baron and his men. “I have more friends here than you have,” warns Purcell.¹⁹

This first skirmish ends in a draw; but Annesley’s business is not done. Jemmy’s anxiety only deepens over the winter. Before, he ran errands, but on most days he now lingers inside the Purcells’ home. More than once, strangers are seen lurking outdoors. One even attempts to enter the tiny yard, only to bolt “like a buck” upon the butcher’s approach. In early February, nearly nine months after his arrival, Jemmy makes off, increasingly fearful of being abducted. For a short spell, he resides as a servant at the nearby home of Richard Tighe, a prominent attorney. Perhaps the boy gambles that Tighe’s home will afford the safer haven. If so, he miscalculates.²⁰

The early days of spring see strong gusts, hail, and drenching rains. The swollen Liffey tops its banks, flooding homes and workshops. Mud, tree limbs, and animal carcasses lie everywhere. But brightening skies in April draw Jemmy outdoors, prompted by his master’s inattention. For more than a month, Annesley’s servants have scoured likely haunts, including Smithfield on the north side of the Liffey and College Green and Newmarket to the south. Then, on April 30, a Monday, the boy is sighted in Ormond Market not far from John Purcell’s empty “shambles” (butcher’s stall), nabbed, and brought, once again, to the George.²¹

The baron has left little to chance. Along with servants, he commands two constables, each promised half a guinea. Richard alleges that the boy has stolen a silver spoon. Neither constable bears a warrant, but their presence gives the abduction a whiff of legality. “Do this job for me,” Richard promises one, “and I will make a man of you all the days of your life.” Even so, the market is unfriendly terrain, and by now Jemmy is crying uncontrollably, certain that he will be either murdered or transported. As they force their way on foot toward the quay, a crowd of people has formed in the bright sunlight, their numbers growing by the minute. This is “the mob”—laborers, tradesmen, and servants—that so frightens Dublin’s respectable classes. Nor do such folk have any fondness for kidnapping, an occasional expedient employed by ship captains to fill their holds.²²

It is a short walk to the north end of Essex Bridge, where, in front of a dilapidated watchhouse, the constables bundle the boy into a coach. Still the curious throng follows, across the Liffey to Custom House Quay and Temple Bar, ultimately as far as George’s Quay, over half a mile downriver, where convicts and indentured servants customarily embark for the colonies. “What is the matter?” ask several persons in the crowd.²³

For all of the commotion, none, in the end, interferes; nor does anyone in a position of authority step forward. These, after all, are deeply troubled times, the impetus for Jonathan Swift’s sardonic proposal to cannibalize the babies of starving paupers. The economy lies in ruins, and Dublin all of a sudden faces an influx of vagabonds, with boys no older than Jemmy already transported for their poverty. Housebreakings and street robberies are spreading. Recent crop failures across much of the country have triggered fresh fears of famine, never far from an Irishman’s mind. Given the presence of constables, the commotion on George’s Quay, at least to some onlookers, must appear less like a kidnapping than punishment sanctioned by a court—probably none too soon.²⁴

Uncle Dick is the first to descend the stone steps of the slip to the longboat, followed by the two constables and Jemmy. Exhausted from crying, the boy falls silent as the men begin to row toward Ringsend, a tiny fishing village perched on a tongue of land barely a mile to the east. There, riding at anchor, where the Liffey enters Dublin Bay, is the James, a ship of one hundred tons, loaded with servants. Once abreast, Jemmy’s uncle escorts him aboard and returns, minutes later, to the waiting boat. A large buoy bobs in the distance, with mighty Howth Head lying just to the northeast. As night comes on, the James prepares to make its way over the bar with the shifting tide.²⁵