The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising

by Dermot McEvoy

  His grandmother had her own clique. She worked for years as a nurse at St. Vincent’s Hospital and gained some notoriety for her first book, GPO Nurse, which de Valera had banned in Ireland because of its deadly portrait of him and the Church. Dublin Archbishop John Charles McQuaid had denounced her from the pulpit of the Pro-Cathedral, making GPO Nurse the premiere souvenir that the Irish brought back with them from England and America.

  Her next book, Fenian Woman, had become an early feminist manifesto on both sides of the Atlantic and, by the late 1960s, had attracted a coterie made up by the likes of Germaine Greer, Kate Millet, Betty Friedan, and Gloria Steinem.

  As Eoin’s legend had it, he first came to America on a diplomatic passport from the Irish Free State. Eoin did not agree with the policies of W.T. Cosgrave, the Irish President, and Kevin O’Higgins, the Minister for Justice, who, together, had taken draconian measures against those who opposed the Treaty. Eoin believed that they were murdering hundreds of Ireland’s future leaders and opening political wounds that would take more than half a century to heal. Róisín was already working as a nurse at St. Vincent’s when Eoin resigned from Ireland’s American delegation and, being an unemployed revolutionary, found himself working as a “super” in the Village, cleaning houses and taking out people’s garbage. For someone who had been working at Collins’s elbow at 10 Downing Street only a few years before, it was a strange beginning to an American political career.

  Eoin knew the Village inside and out. On nearby Gay Street, he would point out building number 12 to the school-aged Johnny and remind him that his first American political mentor, Mayor James J. Walker, lived there. He was shoveling snow early one morning in 1924 opposite Walker’s house when New York City’s future mayor returned from a night on the town after dropping off his girlfriend, Betty Compton, just across the street. (Mrs. Walker, by the way, was safe and sound in her brownstone over at 6 St. Luke’s Place. Beau James was a master at domestic bliss.)

  “Good mornin’, Senator,” said Eoin to the president pro tempore of the New York State Senate.

  As Walker descended from his chauffeur-driven black Dusenberg, decorated with an embarrassment of chrome, he jerked his head at the sound of the Irish brogue. “Good morning to you,” he said with a big smile and a tip of his top hat before slamming his front door behind him. Suddenly the door to number 12 opened a peek. “Would you like a cup of tea—or perhaps a wee drop of the crather?” Walker called across the street. It was a little early in the morning for drink, but Eoin was not about to pass up such a prime opportunity. He slammed his shovel into a snow bank and bounded into the senator’s small townhouse. Walker poured Eoin a teacup full of Irish whiskey and then one for himself. “Bottoms up,” he said.

  “Sláinte mhaith,” replied Eoin, as he dropped the whiskey in one gulp. The warmth settled snugly in his chest. “It protects against the New York City winter.”

  Walker laughed. “So what do you think of our fair city?”

  “What kind of a country is this that would deny a man a drink?”

  “Rule one,” replied Walker. “New York City is not America. Rule two, New York City is the world. America the country still celebrates the Puritans!”

  “Puritans and Prohibition. They must love bootleggers!”

  Walker laughed. “A most humorless group—the Puritans I mean. What do you like most about America?”

  “Modern dentistry,” replied Eoin, and Walker laughed harder, knowing the Irish and their bad teeth. “Where do you fit in?” Walker raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen many of those in New York,” Eoin said, pointing at the mayor’s spats.

  Walker realized this was not your ordinary Village super. “Are you a registered Democrat?”

  “I’m not even a citizen yet.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” said Walker.

  “I was a Republican in Dublin,” laughed Eoin, “but I guess I’ll be a Democrat in New York.”

  “What did you do in Ireland?”

  “We were in the same racket,” Eoin replied.

  “How so?”

  “I worked for Mick Collins.” A smile brightened Beau James’s rogue of a face, and a beautiful friendship was born.

  “Sometimes it skips a generation,” said Johnny aloud. “Love, that is.”

  “What’s that, dear?” asked Diane.

  “I think the old man loved me.”

  “Of course, he loved you.”

  Johnny laughed. “You still don’t know anything about the Irish, do you?”

  “Don’t start,” Diane said, suddenly mad. “Don’t start pulling any of that Irish crap on me.”

  “John Millington Synge!” shouted Johnny, teasing her about being the only Protestant in the whole family.

  “William Butler Yeats!” she screamed in reply and laughed heartily, her anger dissipating. In reply, Johnny hissed his three-name Catholic response: “Patrick Henry Pearse! Oliver St. John Gogarty! Joseph Mary Plunkett!” He paused for a moment, guffawing. “Come here,” said Johnny, and he stood and kissed her.

  “What are you reading?”

  “About how Congressman Kavanagh hated my father.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “I think he did,” said Johnny. “But there’s a silver lining.”

  “What?”

  “45 Christopher Street.”

  “Where we met!”

  “Yes, where me met and fell in love.” They embraced and kissed for the longest time, embarrassing Bridie, who pretended she did not see or disapprove of such behavior. even though Diane and Johnny had been married for thirty years.

  “I’ll never forget meeting Grandpa for the first time,” said Diane.

  “In the elevator at 45?”

  “Yes, I was visiting my brother, and Grandpa said to me: ‘My God, who is this beautiful woman?’ “

  “Grandpa could really shovel it, couldn’t he?”

  Diane stuck her tongue out at her husband and then pretended to ignore his comment. “Soon he was telling me about his Purple Arse and his ‘eejit’ grandson.”

  Johnny laughed with delight. “The old Purple Arse! Now that was brilliant politics.”

  The “Purple Arse” was Eoin’s way of telling his constituents about his GPO arse wound, a clever way to let the district’s Irish know that he was in the GPO and had been wounded, while at the same time playing on the prestige of America’s Purple Heart.

  “I don’t think your grandmother approved of the Purple Arse.” Diane paused. “And what’s so funny?”

  Johnny thought of another famous Dubliner, Samuel Beckett. A foreign interviewer had once asked Sam the innocent question, “You are British, correct?”

  “Au contraire!” Beckett had replied.

  Johnny had always loved Beckett, a great heroic figure and the bridge between Collins’s time and the modern Dublin. “Au contraire!” said Johnny with relish. “After all, it was the Purple Arse that brought Róisín and Eoin together in the first place.”

  19

  EOIN’S DIARY

  “Put Him In to Get Him Out.”

  That’s the slogan Mick came up with to win the Longford election. I had to put Róisín off, and I think she’s cross with me. I went up to the Mater to tell her I had to go out of town on business with Mick for a few days, and, before I could explain, she blurted out, “So, you’d rather spend time with Mick Collins than with me?”

  I told her she knew better, but Mick is all excited about this County Longford election. There’s an open MP seat at Westminster, and Mick feels it’s important to “show the flag” and prove to the British that we’re serious about taking back our country. He’s determined to put our reluctant Sinn Féin candidate, Joe McGuinness, in there, whether he likes it or not. Róisín eventually came around and told me she would meet me at the Traitor’s Gate next Sunday. I finally coaxed her address out of her. She lives on Walworth Road in Portobello, in the heart of Little Jerusalem. I’m already beginning to see that her bark i
s definitely worse than her bite!

  I met Mick and Harry Boland at the office, and we took a taxicab up to the Broadstone Station—a rare treat for me, riding in a taxi. I know Harry because he’s always popping into the office on business or just to say hello. I’d say that he’s Mick’s number-one mate. Harry’s a right man, always on top of it and ready for bedevilment.

  The train ride to Longford was raucous, with Harry and Mick trading barbs, left jabs, and headlocks. It’s what Mick calls getting his “piece of ear.” Mick is obsessed with this election. He’s spent a lot of time in Longford in the last month, and Election Day is just around the corner.

  Our biggest problem is our candidate, Joe McGuinness. Joe is still locked up in Lewes Prison in England because of his 1916 activities. Mick calls him his “felon candidate.” De Valera doesn’t want him to run. He sent a note to Mick saying he “considers it unwise.”

  “Fookin’ eejit,” Collins said to me after reading Dev’s letter. “I don’t care what Dev thinks, because this is not going to be a Sinn Féin operation—it’s going to be all IRB.” Mick is always careful to separate the business of Sinn Féin with the business of the Brotherhood. “I admire Arthur Griffith, but where he came up with that Hungarian monarchy shite as a model for Irish independence is beyond me.”

  As soon as we got off the train in Longford, we went to a rally in the town square. Mick gave a rousing speech for the silent candidate and the crowd went wild. Harry and I were sent out into the crowd to urge them on. I was shouting, “Up Sinn Féin! Up Sinn Féin!” I should have been yelling “Up the IRB! Up the IRB!”

  Afterward we retired to the Grenville Arms Hotel, which is run by the Kiernan family. At night, we sat around and had a few drinks and a sing-song. There are many Kiernan daughters, all of them very handsome. I don’t know a lot about women—in fact I don’t know anything about girls, as I’m sure Róisín will vouch for—but both Harry and Collins seemed to have their eye on Kitty, who is lovely.

  Everyone was made to sing, and Mick and Harry were jeerin’ me so much that I got up and sang “Dr. John,” one of my Da’s favorite songs:

  Oh, doctor, Oh, doctor, Oh dear Dr. John

  Your cod liver oil is so pure and so strong

  I’m afraid of me life I’ll go down in the soil

  If my wife don’t stop drinkin’ your cod liver oil

  The song was well received, and I got a big loud clap from the folks when I finished. Then it was Mick’s turn, and he sang “The Virgin, Only Nineteen Years Old.” There was quiet in the room as Mick described a young man’s wedding night, as he watched his bride undress—then begin disassembling every part of her anatomy—from popping an eye out to unscrewing her wooden leg! The mood of the room soon went from apprehension to laughter as the folks realized the song wasn’t as dirty as they thought it might be. By the end, Mick had the whole room, including the modest Kiernan sisters, belting out the chorus:

  Singin’ hi-yi-ye the Virgin only nineteen years old

  Only nineteen years old, only nineteen years old . . .

  Election Day dawned full of tension. The Irish Parliamentary Party’s candidate is Patrick MacKenna. Collins believes we have to make an example out of the IPP and their leader, John Redmond. Mick is still cross at Redmond for promising Irish lives for Britain’s adventures in France. “Who the fook does he think he is?” Mick has asked several times about Redmond.

  I told Mick that a Mr. Molloy, a friend of my father’s, said he would “go to hell and back” with John Redmond.

  Mick didn’t miss a beat. “I’d not trouble about the return portion of the ticket!” he said with a wink.

  We spent the day getting people out to vote. Reinforcements in motorcars arrived from Dublin so we could get some of the old folks to the polls. Mick personally went into the pubs and promised free drinks to anyone who would vote. He said they should vote and get a drink voucher from the Sinn Féin man after the polls. Collins knows how to buy a vote from the common man.

  We had dinner at the hotel, and then Mick and I walked down to the City Hall, where the votes were being tabulated. “Doesn’t look good,” Harry told us. “I think we’re short.”

  “We will not be short,” said Collins coldly, before adding, “Bring me to the tallyman.”

  The three of us entered a small room in the back, and Collins gestured to me to shut the door and block it. Your man had just finished his counting and was about to declare the IPP candidate the victor. Mick said to him, “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  “Certainly,” your man said.

  “My name is Mick Collins, and I run the National Aid Society Association in Dublin. May I ask your name?”

  “Thaddeus Lynch” was the reply. He was a little man with a wee mustache, and he wore the same old-fashioned winged collar that my own Da was so fond of. Tiny wire spectacles were perched on the end of his nose.

  “Mr. Lynch, I represent the Sinn Féin candidate, Joe McGuinness, who is still in jail for being a patriot.”

  “Yes,” said Lynch, oblivious. “Put him in to get him out.”

  “Exactly,” said Collins. “What’s the tally?”

  “Bad news for Mr. McGuinness,” said Lynch. “He won’t be getting out of the gaol anytime soon. It’s the IPP by 25 votes.”

  “You miscounted,” says Mick.

  “No, that’s the correct count.”

  Mick then pulled a revolver out of his coat pocket and said, “You don’t understand, sir. You miscounted.” He then pulled the hammer back. Lynch got even smaller, and I thought he was going to faint. “Harry, do you have those ‘missing’ votes?” Harry handed them over. “Start counting!” says Mick.

  “37 new votes for Sinn Féin!”

  “Nice work,” says Collins. “Now go out front and announce it. And that’s that.” Mr. Lynch was only too happy to comply. I can hardly wait to see the papers in the morning, with the headlines declaring a Sinn Féin victory.

  “You cheated,” I said to Mick later, as we enjoyed a drink before bed. Mick eyed Harry, who was chatting up Kitty Kiernan on the far side of the room.

  “No, Eoin,” said the big fellow, with a tight grin. “Sometimes you have to help democracy along a little bit.” He took his eyes off Kitty and looked at me. “You think the British fight fair?” He raised his glass of whiskey and clinked mine, smiling. “Always remember, Eoin, the old Fenian adage: ‘Vote early, vote often.’ “

  20

  Eoin paced back and forth nervously in front of the Traitor’s Gate, waiting for Róisín. She was five minutes late, and he wondered if he had been stood up. The nervousness left his face as soon as he saw her coming down the side of the Green.

  “Did you t’ink I forgot you?” was her greeting.

  “I didn’t know,” said Eoin honestly.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you,” and she punctuated the remark with a peck on the cheek.

  “Come on,” said Eoin, gently taking her by the elbow and heading into the park.

  “So how was your trip with Collins?”

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “What?”

  “Jaysus, Róisín, the bloody Longford election.”

  “That was yours?”

  Eoin wanted to say yes, but he decided to tell the truth. “It was Mick’s project.”

  “So the Big Fella is finally earning his pay!”

  “Mick earns his pay every day,” said Eoin, defending his friend and boss, turning red in the process.

  Róisín looked at the boy and smiled. “Great work in Longford—you and Mick!”

  “Thank you,” said Eoin. “Would you like an ice cream?”

  “I’d rather have a bloody drink,” she replied.

  “I know where we can go.” Eoin grinned as he took her hand and reversed course, leaving the Green and heading towards Grafton Street.

  “You know a place where they’ll serve a woman in this goddamn town?” Róisín queried.

 
“I do.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Always on a Sunday!”

  They walked in silence until they bumped into Vinny Byrne. “Eoin,” he said, “great work in Longford!”

  “Jaysus, Vin, don’t tell the world!” Vinny vigorously shook Eoin’s hand and then spotted his companion. “Vinny, this is Róisín, who took care of me in the GPO.”

  Vinny bowed gallantly, getting a laugh out of Róisín. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Where are you two off to on this beautiful spring day?”

  “For a fookin’ drink, I hope,” replied Róisín, shocking the innocent Vincent Byrne. “Would you like to come along?”

  Eoin was worried that he might have competition, until he spied Byrne’s Pioneer Pin. “Sorry, ma’am, I’m a follower of Father Matthew.”

  “A miser man, God help ya,” said Róisín, but it flew right over Byrne’s head. Róisín obviously had no time for the man she would one day refer to as “Ireland’s patron saint of Prohibition.”

  “I’ll see you, then,” said Vinny, clapping Eoin on the shoulder. “Say hello to the boss man for me.”

  Róisín looked at Eoin and didn’t say a word. “What?” he finally said.

  “You really like Vinny, don’t you?”

  “Yes, we were in Jacob’s together and then in Richmond Barracks. He’s the one who got me into this mess.” Eoin allowed himself a small laugh.

  The couple continued down Grafton Street until Eoin stopped at Weir’s Jewelry Shop on the corner of Wicklow Street. “I wish I could buy you something beautiful, Róisín.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because you saved my life.” Róisín blushed, and Eoin squeezed her hand tight. Their eyes locked on each other.