The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising
Page 1
This book is dedicated to five extraordinary writers from the old Lion’s Head saloon on Christopher Street in New York City—Joe Flaherty, David Markson, Lanford Wilson, Frank McCourt, and Pete Hamill.
Thank you.
Copyright © Dermot McEvoy 2014
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
eISBN: 978-1-62873-923-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-162636-561-2
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PART 1 OCTOBER 2006
Chapter 1
PART 2 EASTER WEEK, 1916
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
PART 3 1917
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
PART 4 1918
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
PART 5 1919
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
PART 6 1920
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
PART 7 1921
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
PART 8 1922
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
PART 9 EPILOGUE NOVEMBER 2006
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank all my Dublin cousins for their help in the writing of this book, as their knowledge of the city was invaluable: Maura and Gerry Bartley and their sons, Declan, Father Kevin, and Brendan; Terry O’Neill and his wife, Mary; and Monsignor Vincent Bartley on this side of the Atlantic.
I want to especially thank Collins’s biographer, Chrissy Osborne, and her husband, David. I don’t think anyone knows more about Michael Collins’s Dublin than Chrissy. Her books opened new doors to me, and there’s nothing more exciting than traveling with Chrissy to the houses Collins used around Dublin town to get a feel of what it must have been like to be a wary rebel in Dublin during the War of Independence.
A big thank-you to Irish Independent columnist Mary Kenny for her generous help on the Collins-Churchill friendship, which she portrayed so brilliantly in her play Allegiance, and for introducing me to the seduction of Black Velvet—Guinness and champagne—at the Horseshoe Bar in the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin.
One of the characters in the book, Charlie Conway, was my great-uncle. I want to thank Seán Connolly of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers Association for finding Uncle Charlie’s military records. I also want to thank Eibhlin Roche of the Guinness Archive, who was most helpful in obtaining Charlie’s employment record at the brewery between 1902 and 1932. Their work breathed new life into Charlie, at least as a fictional character.
T
hanks to my hardworking editor, Jenn McCartney, and publisher, Tony Lyons, who have always encouraged me in my insanely quixotic writing quests.
Special thanks to Rosemary Mahoney and Mike Coffey for their editorial suggestions.
And a heroic thank-you to the only two people who read the book as I wrote it: Marianne Fagan and Jack Hornor. Their suggestions and encouragement made my complicated task easier.
“You will not get anything from the British government unless you approach them with a bullock’s tail in one hand and a landlord’s head in the other.”
—Michael Collins
Ballinalee, County Longford
October 7, 1917
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For seven hundred years the British occupied Ireland, stealing its land, looting its meager wealth, enacting extraordinarily punitive taxes, and imposing a famine on its inhabitants.
On Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, a handful of rebels commandeered buildings around Dublin City and fought the British army to a standstill for nearly a week.
Almost immediately after their surrender, fourteen of the leaders were shot in the breaker’s yard of Kilmainham Gaol. Sixteen men in all were executed for their uprising against the British.
With the elimination of the 1916 leaders, another generation of revolutionaries rose to take their place.
This cadre was led by Eamon de Valera, a senior commandant who escaped execution because of his natural-born American citizenship, and Michael Collins, who would soon rise to hold the positions of Minister for Finance in the first Dáil and Director of Intelligence for the Irish Republican Army.
Collins’s reign as a revolutionary was short—a lively six years, between the Easter Rising and his death in an ambush on August 22, 1922.
But during that short period of time, he led a bloody guerrilla war that is now textbook for all emerging revolutionaries, much studied by the likes of Mao Tse-Tung and Yitzhak Shamir, who would later become the seventh prime minister of Israel. (Shamir’s nom-de-guerre, interestingly enough, was “Michael.”) For the first time, the British became the hunted—and they did not like it. Michael Collins, against impossible odds, had beat the British at their own game of intimidation.
One of Collins’s cohorts and co-conspirators was a fourteen-year-old Dublin boy he met in the General Post Office during Easter Week.
His name was Eoin Kavanagh.
This is their story.
Dermot McEvoy, Jersey City, New Jersey, 2014
“And David put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and slang it, and smote the Philistine in his forehead; and the stone sank into his forehead, and he fell upon his face to the earth.”
—1 Samuel 17:49
OCTOBER 2006
1
“Johnny Three,” an ancient, gravelly voice said. “It’s time to come get me. Now.” Then the phone went dead.
Eoin Kavanagh III—known as Johnny Three to everyone—knew it was his grandfather’s way of summoning him back to Dublin for the final farewell. “I have to go to Dublin,” Kavanagh said to his wife, Diane. “I think I should go alone.”
“I’m coming,” his wife said, and Kavanagh was smart enough not to argue this time.
When the flight from New York landed, they headed to the old man’s house in Dalkey. “I don’t like this,” Johnny Three remarked to his wife as their taxi swung to the southside of Dublin Bay.
“Why?”
“It’s October 16th.”
“So?”
“Michael Collins’s birthday,” replied Johnny. “You know the old man.”
“He’s picked his death day,” Diane exclaimed, shocked.
“Yes, he has.”
When they arrived at the house, Bridie, his grandfather’s longtime housekeeper, opened the door. “I shouldn’t have,” she said, then repeated, “I shouldn’t have.”
“Are you alright, Bridie?” asked Johnny Three as Diane took the distraught woman by the arm.
Johnny Three heard a ruckus from the bedroom above. He knew that his grandfather, the original Eoin Kavanagh, would not go out quietly. “Bless my ancient HOLE,” he heard his grandfather say.
“I shouldn’t have called the priest,” said Bridie as a curate, purple stole flying about him, came running down the stairs.
“He’s incorrigible,” the harassed man said as he removed the stole and kissed the cross on the back.
“Thank you, Father,” said Bridie.
“Incorrigible,” said the priest to Johnny and Diane.
“Contrary,” corrected the grandson.
“Whatever!” the priest said as he exited the house.
Johnny chuckled at the priest’s distress and hit the stairs, followed by his wife. “How are you, grandpa?”
The old man looked up, and his eyes brightened as he surveyed his only grandchild. “Not good,” he said, motioning the couple toward his bed, which had a panoramic view of Dublin Bay and Dalkey Island.
The younger Kavanagh reached down and kissed his grandfather on the forehead. “Did you make your peace, grandpa?” he said.
“Peace my arse,” said Eoin. “Bloody priests never change.” The grandfather shooed his grandson away and motioned for Diane to come to him. “How are you, dear?” he said as he kissed her hand and then patted her gently on her round Presbyterian rump.
“Oh, grandpa,” she said and started to cry.
“There, there,” he said and patted her bottom again as he looked at his grandson and smiled. Johnny Three turned away so his wife wouldn’t see him smile. Death was banging on the door, but the old rebel kept petting Diane’s caboose.
The old man was crazy about Diane Kavanagh. Even after bearing three children, she was still a remarkably beautiful and fit woman. She had gorgeous brown hair, dancing blue eyes, and one of the most remarkable bottoms God had ever created. “How did an eejit like you end up with a woman of that caliber?” he liked to chide his grandson.
“She fell in love with you,” he replied with some truth, “but she married me.”
“Grandpa.”
“Yes, son.”
“Should I follow your wishes?”
“Yes,” said Eoin. “To the letter.” He looked intently at his grandson. “I have a surprise for you.”
“You’re leaving me the house?”
“Who else would I leave it to? You’re the last real Kavanagh.”
“How about the Church or the State?” A negative smile gave the answer. “What’s the surprise?”
“You’ll see.” With that, the old man serenely laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
“Is he?” asked Diane with concern.
Johnny Three was a little more cynical. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said.
Suddenly Eoin’s eyes shot open, and he urgently motioned the grandson to his side.
“Yes, grandpa.”
“Fook,” he said, suddenly having trouble forming words.
“Fuck?” repeated Johnny.
“Fook Eddie de Valera.”
The old man was defiant to the end. Then, by a blink of his eyes, he asked his grandson to come closer. “How did he do it?” he said in a whisper.
“Who?” said Johnny.
“How the fook did Mick Collins pull it off?”
“I don’t know, grandpa.”
“Neither do I, son.” A single tear rolled down Eoin Kavanagh’s cheek. “My God, I loved that man.” His eyes slowly closed.
“Oh, Johnny, he’s gone.” Johnny took his wife in his arms and hugged her as hard as he could. “He’s gone,” she said again. With that, Diane heard the loudest laugh she had heard in a long time. Johnny Three was doubled over. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving the old man,” he said, catching his breath, “the sendoff he deserves.”
EOIN KAVANAGH, TD, DEAD AT 105
WAS LAST SURVIVING GPO REBEL
Johnny Three read the Irish Times headline and smiled. He handed it back to the army officer the Taoisea
ch, the Irish prime minister, had sent over to set up the viewing in the rotunda of Dublin’s City Hall.
Eoin Kavanagh lay in a simple box. He was dressed in his Volunteer’s uniform. The man hadn’t gained a pound since 1916.
“Can I have a moment alone?” Johnny asked the officer. He straightened the tricolor on the bottom half of the coffin and looked at his grandfather. The old man still wore a beard, and his head of Paul O’Dwyer-esque white hair—the closest thing to an Irish halo—was still full. He had insisted on being viewed in the City Hall because that was where his boss, Michael Collins, had lain in state after he was killed in 1922. You couldn’t mention the name of Eoin Kavanagh without people saying that he was The Big Fellow’s personal bodyguard—or perhaps something more. Sometimes, with an unsettling gleam in his eye, Eoin would refer to himself as “Mick’s Thirteenth Apostle,” never elaborating. The old man knew his place in history, and even in death, he wanted to be sure he got all he had coming to him—right down to the twenty-one gun salute at Glasnevin, where he would be buried in the army cemetery, right next to General Collins.
“I think I need a drink,” said Kavanagh to the officer. “I’ll be back in a while.” Johnny went down the front steps of the City Hall into Cork Hill. He swung into Palace Street at one of the Dublin Castle side gates and headed down Dame Lane, which would take him across South Great Georges Street and into Dame Court. He and the old man had walked this narrow street many times as Eoin told him how he and Collins would often case English touts to the gates of the Castle itself, then retreat to the Stag’s Head for a drink.
At night, the Stag’s Head was a madhouse, but, in the daytime, it was serene—one of the most beautiful Victorian pubs in Dublin. Johnny Three was first brought there by his grandfather during his summer visits in the late 1960s and ’70s.
The death of Jack Kennedy had taken a lot out of the old man—for a while. It was like losing Collins again. Eoin Kavanagh was the only member of Congress to travel with Kennedy on his trip to Ireland in 1963. They had sat with the Taoiseach, Seán Lemass, and regaled Kennedy with stories of 1916, the War of Independence, and being Michael Collins’s personal bodyguard. Although Kavanagh and Jack Lemass had been on opposite sides in the Irish Civil War, they had remained friends, even after Kavanagh left Ireland in 1922 and went to America. During World War II, Congressman Kavanagh served as Lemass’s personal intermediary with Eoin’s long-time friend, Franklin Roosevelt, during Ireland’s “Emergency.” Kennedy had marveled at the close relationship between Lemass and Kavanagh and noticed that the Congressman never uttered a word to President de Valera, Lemass’s mentor, who was sitting on the same dais. It brought a smile to Kennedy’s face—he knew all about the Irish and their grudges.