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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “What’s that?” asked Eoin. He had noticed that a lot of the houses in Little Jerusalem had these little cylinders attached to the right side of their doorjambs.

  “That’s a mezuzah,” replied Noyek as he again touched his fingers to his lips, then to the mezuzah. “It contains parchment from the Bible, and it serves to protect and consecrate the home.”

  Eoin, imitating Noyek, touched his fingers to his lips, then to the mezuzah. “God bless all here!” he said, eliciting a smile out of Noyek. They got into Noyek’s car and headed to the Dublin Metropolitan Police Station in Great Brunswick Street. The apprehension showed on each of their faces. Life without Collins was unthinkable to both of them.

  28

  The hot young rebel, much to the amusement of the Royal Irish Constabulary, was cooling his heels in Sligo Gaol.

  Michael Collins was arrested in Dublin for making a speech “likely to cause disaffection” in Longford and imprisoned in Sligo while he awaited bail from Dublin. If nothing else, the British knew how to use Irish geography to slow up the rebel machine.

  For most of his stay in Sligo, Collins had the company of other rebels before they either made bail or were moved to another jail. It was all harassment by the British. They knew they didn’t have anything on these men, but they enjoyed disrupting the lives of the rebels and thus disrupting the movement itself.

  If nothing else, the time in Sligo had given Collins the time to think about what had to be done, and done immediately, when he got out and back to Dublin. He had already started organizing the Irish Republican Army in the countryside, but he knew the war would be won in Dublin. It would be brutal and dirty, and, for the first time in Irish history, Collins was going to take the battle to the British and their spies. In the countryside. he would begin eliminating the RIC as an entity of authority, and, in Dublin City, he would systematically begin dismantling the G-Division of the DMP. They would be warned, and, if they did not leave, they would be erased as brutally and efficiently as possible.

  The other thing he knew he needed was money. Collins was still figuring out how to do it, but he would have to float some kind of national loan right under the nose of the British. As Tip O’Neill, one of Eoin’s protégés in the U.S. House of Representatives, would say generations later: “Money is the mother’s milk of politics.” O’Neill was half right: Money is also the mother’s milk of revolution. Collins knew this, and he planned to protect the money of the new nation with the same tenacity and brutality that he would turn on the RIC and G-men. There was so much work to do, and here he was, stuck in gaol in the arse-end of Sligo.

  “Would you like a fag?” asked a young fellow dressed smartly in an RIC uniform.

  Collins got up from his bed and looked the lad up and down. “I would indeed,” he said. He walked over to the bars, stuck his hand between them, and pulled a Woodbine out of the package. He stuck it in his mouth, and the young Peeler applied the fire. “Go raibh maith agat,” said Collins in Irish as he blew blue smoke into the face of his nicotine benefactor, hoping to embarrass the young man.

  “Tá fáilte romhat,” replied the copper, piquing Collins. “How do you like our fair jail?”

  “Jail is for criminals, not patriots,” Collins said, and the young fellow smiled, as if to provoke him. “What’s your name?”

  “Brendan Boynton.”

  “What are you doing,” demanded Collins, “working for these fookin’ English hoors? A nice job you’ve got, spying on your countrymen. What sort of a legacy will you leave to your family, looking for blood money? Could you not find some honest work to do? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Maybe I am,” replied Boynton, capturing Collins undivided attention.

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Well,” said Boynton, “I’m transferring to Dublin next week. I’ll be going to work for G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. I was hoping to meet you when I got to Dublin, but you were nice enough to make the trip up here.”

  The sweet words did not seduce Collins. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I’m telling you the truth.”

  “You’re telling me what I want to hear. For all I know, you’re nothing more than a cheap British tout.”

  “How can I prove that I’m sincere?”

  “Go to Dublin,” said Collins, “get embedded with the rest of the G-men gobshites, and then get in touch with me.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “You have a piece of paper?” Collins wrote down a name and a number.

  “Ask for Mr. Kavanagh?”

  “He’ll be expecting your call.”

  “You can depend on me.”

  “I hope so,” said Collins, hoping against hope that he would not have to eliminate the G-Division’s fresh, young Officer Boynton.

  29

  “Conscription pricks at my conscience—what’s left of it, anyway,” Eoin wrote in his diaries.

  “What’s this conscription stuff?” asked Diane. The two of them were in bed, Johnny Three naked and Diane topless. Johnny did not move in response to the inquiry. Diane’s well-placed elbow made the difference.

  “Jesus,” said Johnny.

  “Pay attention to me,” she demanded.

  Johnny turned towards his wife and grunted out: “It’s the draft. The military draft.”

  “Oh.”

  Johnny looked up and spied his wife’s beautiful breasts. He liked to call them his “Criminal Pair.” They were not large, but firm and round. What made them special was that Diane’s nipples were as large as a child’s pacifier. A quick suck doubled their size. “Any milk left in those trophies?” he asked.

  His query was met with another elbow. “They’ve been dry for years—as you well know, Johnny Kavanagh! For God’s sake, our kids are all in college. Of course, they’re dry.”

  “I never give up hope!” He wasn’t going to give up that easily. “Would you like a mercy suck?”

  “No! Don’t you think about anything but sex?” Johnny looked like a little boy whose adventure in pursuit of the “nookie jar” had gone awry. Diane had begun going through Eoin’s diaries herself, and she had many questions about Irish history and the many nuances that she didn’t understand. She was completely mystified by the Irish Civil War. “You mean the rebels finally get the British out of Ireland, and then they go to war with each other? But why?”

  Johnny smiled. “Because they’re Irish!”

  “Very funny.”

  “It’s true.” Diane looked skeptical.

  “Why does conscription prick at Grandpa’s conscience?”

  “Because, in Ireland, he was against it, but, in America, he was reluctantly for it. Mostly, he was for Roosevelt.”

  The lives of FDR and Eoin had been intertwined for nearly two decades. They had met for the first time in 1928 when FDR, Governor Al Smith, and Mayor Jimmy Walker were all present at the dedication of the new Tammany Hall on Union Square. All the Tammany pols were resplendent in their mourning coats and top hats. Eoin felt that the only thing missing from the ceremony was the corpse. Still adhering to Collins’s sartorial rules, Eoin was dressed in his usual three-piece blue suit. Eoin knew he was surrounded by Tammany anachronisms. If things were to change, Tammany would have to change—or become extinct.

  Roosevelt couldn’t stand Tammany, but it was an election year—Smith running for president, FDR for governor—so it was time to politically kiss and make up. Eoin was there as the precinct captain of the Ninth Ward, and Walker had introduced him to FDR. “Jimmy thinks the world of you,” beamed Roosevelt, his left hand leaning on a cane and his right hand clutching his son Jimmy’s arm in what looked like a death grip. Eoin could see the pain and discomfort of Roosevelt—it reminded him of another polio victim, the crippled Seán MacDiarmada—and when he saw that million-dollar FDR smile, his admiration for the man grew. “We’ll have some ‘adult’ soda pop over at the Old Town on 18th Street after this is over,” s
aid Roosevelt. “Won’t you come and join us?”

  And join FDR he did. In the back room on the first floor of the sacred saloon, they had placed a heavy curtain for privacy. FDR was sitting there in a wheelchair, holding court, a huge martini in front of him. “Eoin,” he said with a wave of the hand, “would you like some lemonade?”

  “How about a cold beer?” Eoin replied as he loosened his necktie.

  “Done!” said FDR as he waved Eoin to a seat next to him.

  So much for Prohibition, thought Eoin. Over the next hour, they talked local and state politics. FDR wanted to know Eoin’s opinion on everything.

  “It’s going to be a Republican year,” he told Roosevelt, not missing the irony of the statement.

  “And Governor Smith?” asked FDR.

  “He’s going to get killed.” Roosevelt was used to hearing facts sugarcoated, but Kavanagh shot straight from the hip. “The country’s not ready for a Catholic yet—and I doubt it ever will be.”

  “How about me?”

  “You’ll sneak by.”

  Roosevelt laughed. “How will Greenwich Village’s Ninth Ward go?”

  “The votes are counted already,” said Eoin, with a sparkle in his eye, and FDR roared in delight.

  “I hear you’re an expert in vote counting.”

  “I learned from the best.”

  “Michael Collins?”

  “Like I said, Mr. Roosevelt, the best.”

  After Roosevelt’s election in November, Eoin was summoned to meet the new Governor in Albany. He returned to the Village as FDR’s eyes and ears on the ground in Tammany territory. It was a sticky situation for Eoin politically, but he had been in worse jams in Dublin. The year of 1929 brought the stock market crash, and, by the following year, the Democrats were beginning their takeover of government. In 1932, FDR ran for president. One of the unpleasant duties Eoin had during that hot summer was greasing the skids for his old friend, Jimmy Walker. The mayor was in hot water, and FDR had no intention of losing a race for president because of Jimmy Walker’s expensive lifestyle.

  “Jimmy,” said Eoin, “it’s time to go.”

  “But Eoin, I made you. You can’t do this to me.”

  “I already did, Jimmy. Do yourself a favor and take a vacation in France.” It killed Eoin, this dirty side of politics, but it had to be done. Beau James heeded the advice and waved au revoir to New York for several years.

  With Walker out of the way, FDR came to power heading a ticket that swept one Eoin Kavanagh into office as the representative of Manhattan’s Seventh Congressional District, running on the west side from the Battery to just below Harlem. After so many years of railing against the establishment, Eoin found himself in the odd predicament of being the establishment.

  In August 1940, Congressman Kavanagh was summoned to the White House for cocktails. The President gave him a cold beer and cut directly to the chase: “Eoin, I need your vote on the draft bill.”

  “I have problems with that one, Mr. President.”

  “Because of conscription in Ireland?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, because of conscription in Ireland.”

  “This is different, Eoin,” the President insisted. “The British were drafting Irishmen out of their own country. We are Americans conscripting Americans. We must be prepared. Hitler is ruthless.” Eoin nodded, not giving anything away. “Do you think if Hitler invaded England that it would be good for Ireland?”

  “Not at’tal,” replied Kavanagh. “We saw what the Nazis did to Poland and Belgium. How long would Eire be free? As you know, we have our own Nazi problem with the Blue Shirts. Whatever color their shirts, their politics are always pornographic.”

  “Very perceptive,” agreed the President. He reached into his desk and pulled out a folder. “Unfortunately, Eoin, I have some bad news for you about Ireland. Take a look.”

  The cover label was stamped TOP SECRET, and the title of the document was UNTERNEHMEN GRÜN. “What’s this all about?” asked Eoin.

  “We got this from our military attaché in Berlin,” said the president. “It’s the Nazi invasion plans for Ireland.”

  “It’s in German. What does it mean?”

  “The English translation is OPERATION GREEN.”

  A chill ran through Eoin as he flipped through the pages. “What’s the gist of all this?” he asked the president.

  “The Nazis will land in the southeast of Ireland, in Wexford, head north, and then try and cross the Irish Sea into Britain.”

  “When will this happen?”

  “As soon as the Battle of Britain comes to a conclusion,” FDR replied.

  “Is this a diversion to throw the British off?”

  “We don’t know,” the president, admitted. “But we know the purpose of the Battle of Britain is to eliminate the RAF. That done, they should have a free hand invading Britain or Ireland.”

  “That’s an insult to the Royal Navy,” said Eoin.

  “Do I hear a bit of a rooting interest for the sudden success of the Royal Navy?” laughed the President.

  “This is terrifying,” said Eoin. “I still have family there.” Then he went silent. “And so many of my Jewish friends would be murdered.” He thought of Bob Briscoe and Mike Noyek and shook his head. “I know what these Nazi bastards are up to since Kristallnacht. Thank God Rabbi Herzog went to Palestine,” he said absently.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Mr. President. I was just t’inking of my Jewish friends in Dublin.”

  “The Germans,” FDR continued, “will use 50,000 troops. They will commandeer their supplies from the gentry, be it food, livestock, fuel. Listen to this: They even have the addresses of all the gas stations throughout the province of Munster.”

  Eoin shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I think you should be rooting for the RAF and Winston Churchill.”

  Eoin gave that a knowing, empty laugh. The conversation had drifted away from the purpose of the meeting, the draft bill. “What do I get for my vote?”

  The president was momentarily stunned and then threw his head back and laughed. “You drive a hard bargain. What do you want?”

  “Input on Ireland,” Eoin said. “Remember, I know Churchill. I was there when Collins negotiated the treaty in 1921.”

  “Yes,” said FDR. “I had forgotten.”

  “I just want some input into what Churchill has in mind for Ireland. I don’t want Ireland invaded by the Germans—or the British. Churchill hates de Valera, and vice versa. He could deal with Collins because Mick was fearless and would make a deal. De Valera likes to let other people make the hard decisions and then play Pontius Pilate.”

  “Pontius Pilate!” roared the president, sticking a cigarette in a holder and lighting it. “I will seek your input, Congressman—you can be sure of that.”

  “I can be more helpful than that,” reminded Eoin. “I still have friends in the Irish government. Jack Lemass, de Valera’s minister for supplies, is an old friend and the smartest man in the cabinet. I can find out what’s really going on. I just want to keep Ireland neutral—and unoccupied.”

  “Yes, Congressman,” replied the president, “neutral and unoccupied by either side, in this case, at this time, is helpful.”

  On August 12, 1940, the House of Representatives voted 203-202 to pass the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940. Representative Eoin Kavanagh (D-NY)—thinking that this conscription bill might actually save both the independence of his birth country, his adopted country, and even his erstwhile enemy, Britain—cast the tie-breaking vote.

  “So that’s what all of that conscription stuff is about,” said Diane to her husband.

  Johnny laughed as he draped his left arm around the small of Diane’s back. “Nothing with the Irish or this family is ever simple! Come here, you gorgeous woman.” Johnny’s hand deftly slid Diane’s underwear down her legs, and they held together in a long, sensuous kiss.

  “Do you want to take a Viagra
?”

  “No,” said Johnny, “I don’t think I need it tonight.”

  “Grandpa would be so proud of you!” Diane exclaimed, as she worked her way on top of her husband. Johnny hung on to her buttocks for dear life.

  “I feel like I’m being conscripted,” he said.

  “You are.”

  30

  EOIN’S DIARY

  “Are you some kind of fookin’ eejit?”

  Collins looked up at me in surprise. He was looking out the window, watching the countryside go by as the train made its way to Dublin. “What’s bothering you?”

  “You are,” says I.

  “Why?”

  “Because of your recklessness.”

  “Recklessness?”

  “You had to take a victory lap, didn’t you? You couldn’t go straight back to Dublin after I bailed you out of jail in Sligo. You had to go to Longford to rub it in the Brits’ noses.”

  “I wasn’t . . .” began Collins, but I cut him off.

  “Yes, you were,” says I. “You had to act the big fellow, didn’t you?” Collins was silent, which in itself was a victory for me. “Do you know that the organization in Dublin came to a standstill while you were in prison? Do you realize that when they passed the conscription bill last week, everyone was turning to you to know what they should do? You keep acting like this, and you’ll end up the new de Valera.”

  Collins laughed. “The new Dev?”

  “Yeah,” says I. “You’ll be back in gaol, happy and contented as a clam—just like Dev. Dev would rather have a good protest in prison than change things on the outside. In fact, half the dunces in Dublin thought you shouldn’t post bail—just there sit there in jail to show the Brits you didn’t recognize them.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous,” I agreed, “but that’s the kind of Sinn Féin thinking we’re dealing with here. We’re not dealing with IRB here.”