Dennis Collins: Clonakilty’s other infamous Collins rebel.

Dennis Collins: Clonakilty’s other infamous Collins rebel.

On 22 August 1922 Michael Collins visited Clonakilty for the last time. He spoke with old neighbours, friends and relations before continuing on his tour further west.  That evening, on his return to Cork city as he journeyed towards an inconsequential crossroads known as Béal na Bláth, he was shot dead in an ambush. The date was forever more associated with Clonakilty’s most famous son, Michael Collins. But precisely ninety years before Michael Collins met his end, another of Clonakilty’s sons had found fame and infamy when he was tried for High Treason in Abingdon, Berkshire.[1] Some British subjects may have argued that Michael Collins was guilty of the same offence during the Irish War of Independence. And while it might be debated whether the two Clonakilty men committed the same offence, it couldn’t be denied that they shared the same surname. For more than five decades before Michael Collins was born, Clonakilty’s most famous treasonous son, was one Dennis Collins.

Most of what we know about the early life of Dennis Collins comes from an account which he reputedly gave to his solicitor. Collins was one of eight children of John Collins and Mary Savage. The former was a tailor apprenticed to an uncle at Upper Tawney just outside Clonakilty. The latter was the daughter of a local tobacconist. The couple set up home in Clonakilty and lived there for some 25 years before John Collins was implicated in a smuggling case and they were compelled to leave for nearby Ashgrove. Three years later they left Ashgrove for Templebryan South where Collins’ brother still farmed in 1832. Their time in Clonakilty was punctuated by grief at the deaths of five of their eight children. Born around 1776, Dennis Collins was briefly enrolled in Owen Carty’s school on Barrack Street but left the establishment an illiterate.[2] He was said to have suffered from what he called “ramping madness” an mental affliction which twice resulted in his being chained down in his father’s outhouse. His barrister described the condition as ‘delerium.’ This may have been invented by Collins to excuse his treason. Equally it may have been a real mental disorder which caused the afflicted to roam or ramble from home. In eighteenth century rural Ireland forcible detention may have been considered the only practical solution.

Two years after the onset of these attacks the twenty-year-old Collins left home ‘determined on seeking his fortune at sea.’ His father followed him to Cork hoping that he could dissuade the young man from naval service. He failed to catch up to him and Dennis Collins entered service aboard the brig HMS Sheerness, on 12 August 1797. A few days later he sailed for Plymouth and was drafted onboard HMS Canada. The ship was a two decked 74-gun war ship and Collins sailed with her to the south of France when she left Plymouth in January 1798. In March he manned the guns as she chased a French Frigette along the coast, and manned the pumps when Canada ran aground during the chase. Upon returning to port Collins was granted two months sick leave which he spent in a fever hospital. He returned to sea in June 1799 aboard Atlanta, a sixteen-gun sloop. He was promoted from Landsman to Orderly and cruised off his native Cork for a period that summer. Things were going well for Collins until Atlanta ran foul of another naval vessel in Cork harbour. On her return voyage to Plymouth the ship’s boom collapsed, falling on Collins and another of her crew. The Clonakilty man’s left leg was completely crushed and while he held out against its amputation for five days, the leg was eventually removed in a Plymouth hospital. Not long after entering his twenties, Collins was a cripple. After eight months in hospital, he was discharged from the navy and left to make his own way in the world.[3]

Collins received 14l pay for his last two voyages and was awarded a pension of 8l per annum. As a wounded man he was presented with an additional 4l. Within a month the money was gone and he presented for admission at the Greenwich Hospital. Strings were pulled by naval officers who clearly thought highly of him. He jumped the queue and was admitted ahead of some 300 others. He remained some four years at Greenwich. He was well behaved and complained of only once when he got in a fight with a coachman during the Lord Mayor’s visit. The coachman called the intoxicated Collins an ‘old goose.’ This seemingly harmless phrase was a derisive nickname used to describe Greenwich’s pensioners and was enough to see Collins challenge him to a fight. The one-legged ‘old goose’ apparently got the best of the exchanges and the Lord Mayor was said to be impressed by his boxing skills.  The incident may have triggered something in Collins for he found himself in trouble again shortly afterwards. This time he ‘collared’ and threatened a supervisor when he was attached to a work detail loading firewood on a warship. He was sentenced to wear the yellow coat (a badge of dishonour in the Greenwich establishment) for six months but wore it for only a month before applying for his out-pension.[4]

Free to make his way in the world again, Collins signed on as a cook aboard Mary, a merchant ship then carrying letters of marque (a licence to raid enemy shipping) from the King. Mary made her way to the west coast of Africa where she plied for slaves for the following four months. When she had imprisoned a sufficient number of Africans she departed for Suriname where she offloaded her human cargo. Collins seems to have had considerable sympathy for the plight of the slaves. His solicitor later claimed that ‘his description of the treatment of these unfortunate wretches is terrible to the feelings of freeborn sons of England.’[5] He seems to have had some compassion for those less fortunate than himself. On the outward voyage he allowed a ship’s boy who (as was common at the time) was expected top sleep on deck, the use of his hammock since they were on separate watches. Collins’ good deed didn’t go unpunished and his belongings were thrown overboard after the boy forgot to lash the hammock. This precipitated a row between Collins and the mate whom he was disciplined for assaulting.  On the homeward voyage Collins’ misfortune continued when he was struck on the head by a block which fell from the maintop. He was rendered ‘insensible’ for a period and seems to have been badly concussed. It was claimed that the incident left him ‘subject to giddiness and swimming of his head … which in all likelihood, excited by the beer he had taken on an empty stomach,’ led to the treason of which he was subsequently convicted.[6]

Collins lived hard and fast for the next several years. He developed a pattern of serving substantial voyages (Mary’s voyage was eighteen months) and then returning to England where he quickly spent his wages and accumulated pension. He served aboard the Brixton merchantman before receiving a cook’s warrant aboard HMS Barham. He then served as an able seaman on HMS Leader before hitching a lift back to England on Prince Adolphus. He then joined HMS Kangaroo and spent two years plying the French coast during the Napoleonic wars. He saw little action save that which he once again created for himself. This time he clashed with the captain when he claimed fat as perquisite. The row resulted in his being placed in irons for twelve days. The two men were subsequently reconciled and the captain used his influence to assist in having Collins’ pension raised from 7l to 14l. According to Collins his next ship was HMS Valorous from which he claimed that he ‘quitted’ the service.[7] Newspapers reported that he lost his cook’s warrant due to ill-discipline. Collins’ pension records indicate that he served aboard HMS William II for approximately one year after he left Kangaroo, and do not record any service aboard Valorous. This seems to be a clear attempt by Collins to hide the record of his service aboard William II, where it is likely that he lost his cook’s warrant due to ill-discipline. Either way, Collins was back in the hospital at Greenwich in October 1810.[8]

By this time Collins was married. His wife Anne probably lived near the hospital as was often the case with the wives of Greenwich Geese. Pensioners like Collins came and went from the hospital regularly and gained a reputation for rowdiness.[9] Yet another row with an officer on a work detail resulted in Collins being sentenced to wear the yellow coat. Yet again he refused it and was expelled from the hospital in May 1811.[10] He was also stripped of his pension and had to return to the merchant navy. He served aboard Thames, before taking a merchantman to North America. The return voyage saw him joining North Star where he remained until about 1817. At this point (although he didn’t mention it to his solicitor) he appears to have lost his cook’s warrant and petitioned to re-enter the hospital at Greenwich.[11] They granted his request but insisted that he wear the yellow coat in fulfilment of his previous sentence. Having served that sentence Collins took the pension which had been restored to him and returned to Ireland where he ‘stopped with friends’ for approximately twelve months.[12]

He returned to the hospital at Greenwich in July 1820 and was admitted as an in-pensioner for the fourth time. Following a predictable pattern (and one not unusual among the Greenwich Geese) he was expelled for one year after two assaults. Collins returned to the merchant navy and voyaged to America, the West Indies, and France before returning to England some five years after his one-year suspension had elapsed. He went back to Greenwich where a nasty surprise awaited him. As he had not returned after his one-year expulsion the hospital had somehow listed him as ‘dead’ on their records. Although Collins personally went to Hampton Court and petitioned the Duke of Clarence, who interceded on his behalf, his claim fell on deaf ears when it reached the Admiralty. He cited this as evidence of his harsh treatment by the authorities, but still told nobody of how he had lost his cook’s warrant aboard William II. [13]

Collins went to Deptford where he lived onshore and, regaining his warrant, worked as a cook aboard Driver and Havannah. He worked there almost three years before he was re-admitted to Greenwich Hospital for the fifth time. Newspapers later claimed that this was ‘a degree of forbearance almost unprecedented after the flagrant misconduct which stands recorded against him.’[14] If that were true one might expect Collins to tactfully lay low but he didn’t seem capable of that kind of discipline. At some point over the next eighteen months he began to believe that the hospital’s governor, Sir Richard Keats, was on the take. This belief had its roots in Collins being fined for attempting to take up the provisions of an absent messmate. He claimed that inmates had always been allowed to do this in order that they could ‘take care of it’ for the absent man. When Keats’ subordinates took the provisions back into hospital stores and fined Collins for his attempt at appropriating them, he formed the opinion that Keats was pocketing the money and articulated same to several of his fellow inmates. With this suspicion festering, he then clashed with a boatswain regarding the sweeping of a ward. The boatswain had ordered another man to sweep the ward when Collins interceded and stated that it should only be swept once a day. He was formally complained and later claimed that several of his messmates had borne false witness against him during the subsequent hearing. Around the same time he clashed with another boatswain who asked him to move away from the main cookhouse. This resulted in another hearing which he failed to attend, claiming that he hadn’t been informed of it by the boatswain. This was the straw which broke the camels back, and Collins was finally expelled for ‘creating a disturbance in his ward, advising the wardkeeper to disobey orders, and for using violent and improper language.[15]

Having been expelled from the hospital Collins’ pension was stopped, he was forced to subsist by begging and was jailed for vagrancy several times. Growing increasingly desperate he petitioned the Lords of the Admiralty and the King. He was passed from one office to another, none of which would assist him, until his final refusal came from the King. Collins had his post delivered to the Admiral Duncan pub in Soho and on 9 May 1832, the landlady informed him that she had correspondence for him. Being illiterate, Collins had the letter read to him in the bar. The King’s final refusal of his pension was thus disclosed to him in a very public manner.

Two weeks later Collins struck out for Ascot Races. He travelled via Salt Hill and Windsor sleeping rough and begging as he went. He also seems to have had an altercation with Admiral Sir Charles Rowley as he went, though he later claimed to have met him by coincidence. Collins spent two more nights sleeping rough in the vicinity of Ascot and Windsor before heading for the race grounds on 22 June. Collins spent much of the day drinking and begging and later claimed to be disappointed by the money he had made, particularly from the gentlemen who attended the races in cars. At some point he gathered three stones and placed them in his pocket. The Lancaster Gazette reported what happened next:

Yesterday was the first day of Ascot Heath Races and it will be memorable from a most atrocious assault which was committed upon the person of his Majesty while standing at the window of the Grand Stand, in the presence of her Majesty, and a brilliant assemblage of friends and guests, by whom their Majesties were attended. The first race was a match. To this the Royal party was particularly attentive, and at the moment of its conclusion were standing in conversation at the centre window, which was thrown up, when the utmost consternation was created by a MOST WANTON ASSUALT UPON THE KING AND QUEEN, By an old Greenwich pensioner, named Dennis Collins, who had been discharged for some misconduct, and who by way of righting himself, threw two stones at the King and Queen. One of the stones struck the hat of the King, and then fell on the Queen’s arm, who was standing near him; the other flew past both, and was attended by no ill consequences to any of the attendants. The King, on receiving the blow, was not aware of the cause and exclaimed in much alarm, “Oh! God, I am hit!” and reeled a little back, but was supported by Lord Frederick Fitzclarence, who stood behind him. The King and Queen immediately retired, surrounded by the noble personages that composed their suite – while the miserable old man was laid hold of by a Captain Smith, of the navy, who saw him throw the stones and took from him another that he was about to fling. The police then came up and the prisoner was carried before … the county magistrate in attendance. He was afterwards sent to Reading Gaol.[16]

Upon being seized by Smith, Collins reportedly articulated his grievance at the withdrawal of his pension and his desperation at being entirely without means. It was claimed that he said ‘he might as well be shot or hanged as remain in such a state.’[17]

Dennis Collins found overnight fame and his deeds were covered by newspapers throughout the British Isles. His wooden leg and the clothes he wore were even sold to French lady who presented him with new garments and a prosthetic for his trial.[18] His smart new look was of little consequence when he was convicted of one count of High Treason ‘for having compassed and devised some bodily harm to the King, tending to maim or wound his Majesty.’ Luckily for him he was acquitted of the more serious count of ‘intending to destroy his Majesty.’ His luck may not have been immediately evident though as Collins was sentenced to be ‘drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution, where you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead; your head is then to be severed from your body, which is to be divided into quarters, and to be disposed of as his Majesty shall think fit.’ It was a sentence from a former era and one that was not likely to be carried out. Nonetheless the judges reminded Collins that mercy was not in their remit and that the King was the only person who might commute his sentence. For his part, Collins was said to be stoic and later declared; ‘If my priest … would give me the sacrament today I would a great deal rather go and be executed tomorrow than be turned out into the world, to undergo all the misery and starvation that I went through for the six months before this happened.’[19]

By the early 1800s the British public had lost their appetite for the death penalty. Consequently, death sentences were routinely commuted to ‘Transportation for Life.’ This meant that a convict would be sent to one of those colonies that would eventually comprise Australia (or perhaps Bermuda or Gibraltar) for the remainder of his life. Having served some time in penal establishment in the colony the convict would then be assigned to labour for one of the Free Settlers. Should his behaviour continue to be satisfactory he could eventually earn his Freedom on ‘Ticket of Leave’ an early form of probation which allowed him full freedom, save that freedom to leave the colony. Collins was returned to Reading Gaol and two days later the authorities were informed that his sentence should be ‘respited until further signification of HM’s pleasure.’[20] On 16 July 1832 he was placed aboard the convict hulk Justita at Woolwich. The hulks were old decommissioned ships which served as detention centres for convicts awaiting shipping. They weren’t conducive to good health among the convict population but neither were the overcrowded city and county gaols from which they had come. Collins spent eight months aboard the Woolwich hulk where he was described as having a ‘furious and irritable temper.’[21] His sentence was formally commuted to transportation for life on 4 March 1833 and on 28 March he was transferred to the Emperor Alexander convict ship. The ship sailed for Van Diemen’s Land on 6 April and the old Clonakilty mariner embarked on his final voyage.[22]

The hulk’s surgeon didn’t record any observation of Collins’ health before he left the hulk.  But during Emeperor Alexander’s four-month voyage signs of mental affliction began to manifest themselves once again. The ship’s surgeon reported the changing personality that had afflicted Collins all his life:

Conduct for the first 6 weeks most disorderly insubordinate, refractory and that of a madman subsequently quiet, tractable and submissive. Surgeons Special Rept. Though this man has been troublesome, insubordinate and even refractory for a time his conduct at other times and particularly subsequently has been better.[23]

The ship arrived at Port Arthur on the South Coast of Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) on 12 August 1833. Within two months of his arrival Collins was once again demonstrating his characteristic recalcitrance. He was sentenced to seven days solitary confinement on bread and water for refusing to work. Immediately upon finishing that sentence he continued to refuse work and was returned to the solitary cells for another week. The reason for his refusal however, may have been more apparent when he died three weeks later. Collins refusal of work may have had more to do with illness of body than illness of temper or mind. Cormac Lowth discovered Dennis Collins’ name on the burial register for the Wesleyan Church in Port Arthur. He may also have identified the plot where Collins was laid to rest, far from his native Clonakilty.[24]

In 2009 Richard Davey revived the memory of Dennis Collins when his play The Man Who Threw a Stone was performed on the Port Arthur site. At that time Collins was quoted as having said that ‘he would neither do the King’s work, nor eat the King’s bread,’ before he died at Port Arthur. The origins of that quotation probably lie in the historical record that he did indeed refuse to perform prison labour, and a rumour that he had also refused prison food. The rumour originated in a letter written to the Hobart Town Courier shortly after Collins’ death and might shed some additional light upon his final weeks. The letter was written by an anonymous source identifying themselves as ‘Veritas’ and claiming knowledge of the Port Arthur Colony. They corrected a previous report which had announced Collins’ death in mid-November and stated:

Dennis Collins did not die last week as stated by you but on the 1st November in consequence of a fixed determination to refuse all necessary nourishment, although the best diet that the settlement could afford was daily offered to him. [25]

As the 1st November was indeed the date of Collins’ death, the letter was almost certainly written by somebody associated with the penal colony. We can only speculate whether Collins had really died as a result of a hunger strike, but we can say that the letter claiming he did, has some credibility.

Back in Ireland the National Maritime Museum blogged Lowth’s Collins essay in 2009.[26] But in Clonakilty the memory of the town’s most famous treasonist has been supplanted by that of a more famous namesake and fellow rebel – Michael Collins. The lack of genealogical material means that we can only speculate on whether these two famous sons of the same area were related to each other. It seems unlikely that they were closely related as the male names in Michael’s family (Michael, John, Patrick, Thomas, Maurice Jeremiah) are not (excepting the common name, John) very similar to those which we know ran in Dennis’s family (Dennis, William, John). Nonetheless, the forename ‘Ellen’ is common to both families (though in Michael’s case it is likely to have come from his mother’s side) and in a small rural area it is very possible that the families had some distant connection. But even if they didn’t share a blood connection, the two men had an intellectual commonality in their dislike of British Kingship.

  1. Saint James’s Chronicle, 23 August 1932. Some texts have recorded Collins’ trial as occurring on 23 August. However numerous newspapers, including the foregoing, record that the trial began on 22 August 1832.
  2. Collins’ age is established by reference to English Chronicle & Whitehall Evening Post, 30 June 1832.
  3. NLI, The Trial of Dennis Collins for High Treason Before the Hon. Mr. Justice Bosanquet and the Hon. Mr. Baron Gurney at Abingdon August 22nd Also a Narrative of his Life communicated by himself to his solicitor with a portrait, JP3608.
  4. IBID
  5. IBID
  6. IBID
  7. IBID
  8. TNA, Greenwich Hospital pensioners 1704-1869, ADM73/066 (https://www.findmypast.ie/transcript?id=GBM%2FGREP%2FNAVY%2F00859946&tab=this) (Accessed 18 Feb 2025).
  9. TNA, Greenwich Hospital pensioners 1704-1869, ADM73/066. For an account of the Greenwich Geese Pensioners see the Royal Maritime Museum’s website @ https://www.rmg.co.uk/stories/topics/greenwich-pensioners.
  10. TNA, Greenwich Hospital pensioners 1704-1869, ADM73/066.
  11. English Chronicle and Whitehall Evening Post, 30 June 1834.
  12. NLI, The Trial of Dennis Collins for High Treason,
  13. IBID
  14. Morning Post in Saunders Newsletter, 3 July 1832. See also; English Chronicle and Whitehall Evening Post, 30 June 1834.
  15. NLI, The Trial of Dennis Collins for High Treason,
  16. Lancaster Gazette, 23 June 1832.
  17. Essex Standard, 23 June 1832.
  18. North Wales Chronicle, 4 September 1832.
  19. Saunders Newsletter and Daily Advertiser, 27 August 1832.
  20. TNA, Home Office, Criminal Entry Books, HO 13/60 @ancestry.co.uk. The sentence appears to have been commuted by the King before Collins’ petition reached the Home Office.
  21. Tasmanian Archives, Convict Department, CON 31/1/7.
  22. TNA, Home Office, Convict Hulks, HO 8/35 & Criminal Entry Books HO 13/62 @ ancestry.co.uk. For an account of the convict system and its associated hulks and depots see Cal McCarthy & Kevin Todd, The Wreck of the Neva: The Horrifying Fate of a Convict Ship and the Women Aboard, Mercier Press, Cork, 2013.
  23. Tasmanian Archives, Convict Department, CON 31/1/7. See also; Australian Joint Copying Project. Microfilm Roll 90, Class and Piece Number HO11/9, Page Number 35 (19) @ https://convictrecords.com.au/convicts/collins/dennis/23087.
  24. Cormac F Lowth, The One Legged Sailor and the King, @https://www.mariner.ie/dennis-collins/ (retrieved 25/02/2025).
  25. Hobart Town Courier, 20 December 1833. See also; Hobart Town Courier, 29 November 1833 & Maureen Withey’s contribution @ https://convictrecords.com.au/convicts/collins/dennis/23087
  26. IBID
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