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

by Dermot McEvoy

  I was sitting across from Mick, and I stared at him hard. Finally he spoke. “You’re right, Eoin. I should be more careful. Things are about to get rough shortly, and I have to keep my arse out of the lockup.”

  “And for fook’s sake,” I added for good measure, “will you stay away from bloody cameras? They’re poison. That’s why I tripped up that British newscamera at Ashe’s funeral. For all we know, those lads could be working for the G-men. Don’t make their work any easier. If you want to be Charlie Chaplin, go to America!” That got a laugh out of Mick, who said, “You are a fine observer of humankind, Eoin Kavanagh, but there was another reason I wanted to go to Longford.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I wanted to chat up Kitty Kiernan.”

  “You have a lot of energy.”

  “Funny,” he said with a straight face. “That’s what Róisín says about you!”

  “She didn’t!” I exclaimed and then realized he was codding me. Collins laughed with delight. “Fook you,” I said, and he laughed even harder.

  When the train pulled into the Broadstone Station, the same two G-men who arrested Mick on O’Connell Bridge were standing waiting for him. They weren’t going to arrest him, but they were in a harassing mood. Mick looked at me and smiled. “Don’t you dare,” I said to him. Mick nodded at me, and we strode right past the G-men without uttering a word.

  31

  “That fookin’ Long Hoor!”

  “I see you’ve seen the morning papers,” deadpanned Eoin, quietly amused at Collins’s nickname for de Valera. The day at 32 Bachelors Walk was getting off to a lively start.

  “No, I haven’t, but the newsboys are having a field day out there. I don’t know why I waste my time on him,” said Collins. “I warned him last evening he was going to be lifted, and what did he do? He let them lift him.”

  Eoin held up the front page of the loyalist Irish Times: DE VALERA ARRESTED: “GERMAN PLOT” REVEALED.

  “Where’d you stay last night?” Eoin asked.

  “Over on Exchequer Street. I slept on the couch. I’m avoiding Vaughan’s and the Munster Hotel these days. Too obvious, too dangerous.” Collins paused. “Who else did they get?”

  Eoin scanned the paper. “Griffith, Cosgrave, Count Plunkett, the Countess Markievicz . . .” Collins broke the recitation with a sigh. “They also lifted Kathleen Clarke, Tom’s widow.”

  “That poor woman,” said Collins. “What grief her whole family has gone through. People forget she lost not only her husband but also her brother Ned, who was in charge of the Four Courts during the Rising. And her children are so young.” He snatched the newspaper out of Eoin’s hands and gave it a perfunctory glance. “‘German Plot,’ my arse.”

  “What is it?”

  “Doesn’t exist,” said Collins. “They’re making shite up again. Fookin’ Huns can’t help themselves. You think they worry about the bloody Irish?” Collins was quiet for a few seconds before he blew up. “Fook this shite,” he said, his voice rising. “No more of this shite. No more. They know everything about us. They know where we work, where we live, what churches we attend. I bet they even know who prefers black pudding to white pudding.” Eoin had never seen Collins this angry, and it frightened him. “This shite is going to change.”

  “Well,” said Eoin, finally finding the courage to speak up, “look on the bright side.”

  “The bright side!” roared Collins. “What’s the fookin’ bright side? They basically lifted the whole Sinn Féin Executive. It may only be an ad hoc government, but, for now, it’s the government of the Republic.”

  “Exactly,” said Eoin coolly. “They’ve lifted the politicians, not the soldiers. Griffith, Plunkett, Cosgrave, Dev—all bloody politicians. Not a soldier among them.” Collins was about to defend his compatriots but kept mute, absorbing Eoin’s young sagacity. “Let Boland run Sinn Féin. You run the Volunteers. Remember, whoever runs the Volunteers, runs Ireland.” Eoin paused to let it sink in and then said, “Looks like you’re in charge now.”

  The slot in the door opened, and the morning post hit the floor. Eoin got up and retrieved it. He checked each envelope. All were addressed to Mr. Kavanagh, 2nd floor, 32 Bachelors Walk, Dublin. He checked the postmarks on the front and separated the letters between local Dublin mail and mail from the country, and those from England and America. He made sure there were no return addresses on the back. Security mattered most. He held the Dublin mail up. “Broy’s carbon copies.”

  Collins nodded and then turned turned to look out the window at the Liffey below. “Thank God for Broy,” he said as he turned away from the window and faced Eoin. “I need more Broys. I need more people inside G-Division and inside Dublin Castle.” Then Collins remembered. “Did you hear from a fellow named Boynton?”

  “No,” said Eoin.

  “I met him up in Sligo,” said Collins. “He’s in the RIC and was transferring down to the G-Division and wanted to help.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t know.” Collins absently rubbed his unshaven chin. “If he calls, get his information, but keep him at a distance. We’ll check him out before we do anything. We have to get more information.”

  The morning mail was sorted out in front of Eoin, and he systematically started opening letters and sorting them into folders. “How about all that information my father got at the barber shop?”

  “Yes,” said Collins. “I want that stuff put on index cards. When all that information is compiled on the cards, we’ll start finding out just what is happening at the Castle. There’s got to be some interesting telephone information there. We’ll have a who’s who before we’re finished.”

  “How about this stuff?” said Eoin, holding up a stack of letters. Collins punched his fist into the air in delight. “What?”

  “That’s it, Eoin.”

  “That’s what?”

  “Where are the British sorting the mail?”

  “Up in the yard of the Rotunda Hospital.”

  “Exactly,” said Collins. “How’s the security?”

  “I don’t know,” said Eoin. “But I certainly haven’t seen any extraordinary measures taken.”

  “There’s hardly any security,” said Collins. “They have a few shell-shocked Tommies standing around. I’ve seen them from the windows at Vaughan’s up on Parnell Square.”

  “They lifted our people . . .” Eoin began excitedly.

  “ . . . Now we’re going to lift their bloody mail,” said Collins, finishing Eoin’s sentence. “Let’s see exactly what Dublin Castle is being told by the RIC in the country and the big shots in London.” Collins slapped his hand on Eoin’s desk. “Let’s see how they bloody like getting their bloody arses whipped by the rebels.”

  “That be ripe shite,” deadpanned Eoin, and Collins lifted him out of his chair and gave him a bear hug that hurt.

  32

  Never accused of lacking initiative, the next morning Eoin was up with the May dawn and crossed Aungier Street, awaiting the first Glasnevin tram of the day. Eoin usually walked to work or sometimes took his bicycle, but, today, he was going to reconnoiter, from above, the rink at the Rotunda, where the British were sorting the Royal Mail. The tram arrived, and Eoin skipped up the back winding stairs to the top saloon. He was followed by the conductor. “Parnell Square,” said Eoin, and paid his fare.

  The tram bell clanged, and it began its slow journey towards the heart of Dublin City. It seemed that Eoin knew every nook and cranny of Dublin. They were now into South Great Georges Street, and, as the tram made its steep turn into Dame Street, he strained to see if he could see his Aunt Nellie outside her abode at 26 Temple Lane. It was funny how life was. Aunt Nellie and her family all remained healthy and alive—no disease, no revolution. It must be the bad luck of the Kavanaghs to have brother Charlie and his Mammy die within just two years of each other. Eoin allowed himself a chuckle. Rosanna Conway had once told her firstborn that there had been a great competition between hersel
f and Nellie over the hand of his father, who was deemed a fair catch of a bachelor. Aunt Nellie had even lied about her age— subtracting three years—to entrap the enticing Joseph Kavanagh. Eoin understood, because “spinster,” spit out by acerbic Dubliners, could be the cruelest of words. In the end, Rosanna, the younger and more beautiful of the two sisters, had won out. Eoin often wondered how his life would have been different if Aunt Nellie had ended up as his mother. It was a pretty stupid idea, he decided, because then he would be a totally different person.

  Leave it to the British to pick the Rotunda to sort the mail. He was beginning to dread the sight of the old hospital and its terrible grounds. The movement had buildings all over Parnell Square, especially on the west side. Years later, Eoin would tell his grandson that if the British had a neutron bomb and dropped it on the Square in 1920, they would have wiped out the entire Republican movement, including Collins. That’s how concentrated the Square was with the Fenian hierarchy. Eoin hated the Rotunda because of his night there at the end of Easter week but also because the Rotunda was the beginning of the end of his mother, Rosanna. All the children had been born at 40 Camden Row, except Dickie. Eoin was only twelve when Dickie was born, but he remembered his mother not being well during the pregnancy. She went to the Rotunda to have the baby, and it seemed her health was never the same after she returned home. So the Rotunda had become a sign of loss to Eoin, but if he could figure out a way to pull off this mail hoist, perhaps things would change.

  The Rotunda Hospital was now dead ahead. Eoin nodded to Charles Stewart Parnell atop his monument and began to eyeball the Rotunda site as the tram turned left into Parnell Street. At Parnell Square West, it turned right, and Eoin stood up so he could get a better angle on the grounds as he passed the hospital buildings. In the area where the rebels were billeted after the Rising, Eoin could see temporary sheds and two horse-drawn mail vans. Eoin hopped off the back of the tram and went to the Gaelic League building at number forty-six. He banged on the door, and Conor, the porter, let him in. He scooted up the stairs to the top floor to see if he could get a better view of the rink below, situated behind the hospital buildings. He could see soldiers guarding the mail, but they did not seem very attentive to their posts. Eoin then walked down the street to Vaughan’s Hotel, nodded to the desk clerk, and went up to one of Collins’s offices on the third floor. From there, he had a straight view of Parnell Square North and the two mail carts. He saw that they would be exiting on the far side—the east side of the Square. Eoin commandeered a bicycle from the hotel and got ready for the chase.

  “Hey, Eoin,” came the shout as he exited Vaughan’s. It was Róisín, and she was cycling to work at the Mater. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “I’m always up early,” Eoin replied.

  “Or Mick will roast your arse, right?”

  “Right,” Eoin agreed with good humor. He looked at Róisín, but she did not seem right. “Are you alright?”

  Róisín blew out an exhausted breath before saying, “I’m okay. Just tired. We’ve been swamped at the Mater with influenza. The damn thing killed me Mammy, and it will probably kill me.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Eoin, before adding, “What else is wrong?”

  “I’m upset that they arrested Connie.”

  “Connie?”

  “The Countess Markievicz.”

  “Oh,” said Eoin, finally figuring out how the Cumann na mBan ladies addressed their leader.

  “She was lifted with Mrs. Clarke and the others.”

  “I know.” Eoin tried hard not to smile, because Róisín was truly upset. And he had no intention of telling her what Collins had said about Markievicz and Maud Gonne MacBride, who was also lifted with the others: “Poor tee totaling Kathleen Clarke, locked up with those two boozing snobs of the Ascendancy!”

  “I haven’t heard anything about Connie. She’s been terribly ill with measles. I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “What?”

  “She’s alright,” assured Eoin.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know,” said Eoin, not revealing Broy, the source. Eoin put his index finger to his lips. “She’s on her way to London. She should be there by now. She’ll be at Holloway Prison, along with Mrs. Clarke and Maud Gonne.” Eoin paused to chuckle. “That’s a trio that might bring the British prison system to a standstill.”

  “Don’t be jeerin’ me friends!”

  “I wasn’t jeerin’ them. I was congratulatin’ them!”

  Róisín could see the concern in Eoin’s eyes and smiled. “I know you were. We’re all overworked, that’s all. This war gets harder by the day.”

  “Come on,” said Eoin. “I’m working on something for Mick.” They walked the length of the north square with their bicycles and stood in front of the Findlater’s Protestant Church.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The mail.”

  “The mail?”

  “Yeah,” said Eoin. “I’m trying to steal it. Want to help?”

  “Sure,” replied Róisín. “I’m early for work. I have time.”

  “There are two mail vans down there,” he said, gesturing towards the rink, “and I want to see what time they leave at and where they’re going.”

  “What’s so important about them?”

  Eoin smiled. “Sometimes you ask too many questions.” Róisín looked annoyed but liked the way Eoin was beginning to speak his mind.

  “There!” she said as the first cart, drawn by two horses, pulled out into Parnell Square East.

  Eoin took out his notebook. “What time is it?”

  Róisín opened her nurse’s cape and read the time off an upside-down clock on her left breast. “Ten after seven.”

  Eoin jotted the information down and noted that there was a driver and a mail handler in the back with the bags of mail. He also noted that there was no military escort.

  “There’s the other one,” said Róisín, and Eoin saw it follow the first, which was about fifty yards ahead of it.

  He stepped out into North Frederick Street and saw that both vans turned right onto Parnell Street. “I bet they’re headed for Capel Street.”

  “Dublin Castle!” exclaimed Róisín.

  “Tell the world!” laughed Eoin.

  “Why do you always jeer me?”

  “I’m only defending myself!”

  “From who?”

  “The Great Róisín O’Mahony!” Róisín reached out to punch Eoin, but he was too quick. “Which one do you want?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you take the first one. Follow it until it crosses the Liffey at Capel Street, see which way it goes, and then wait for me at Parliament Street.”

  Róisín saluted. “Yes, sir!” Then she hopped on her bike and tore after the first mail van. Eoin mounted his bike and casually peddled after the second. The vans were now into Parnell Street, and their only possible destination was to go down Capel Street and then head for the Liffey. Róisín was so far in front of him now that Eoin couldn’t see her. As Eoin passed Dominick Street, he thought that it would make a perfect place for an ambush. The carts were soon into Capel Street, and their mystery would be revealed by which way they went when they met the River Liffey.

  Eoin’s van was in no rush, so he decided to catch up to Róisín. He sped to the top of Capel Street, and he could see Róisín waiting at the foot of Parliament Street on the south side of the river. “There she goes,” she said of her cart. “All the way to Dublin Castle.”

  “Let’s see where this hoor is going,” said Eoin. “What do you t’ink? Richmond Barracks, Kilmainham, or Arbor Hill?”

  “None!”

  They stood astride their bicycles as the second cart crossed Gratton Bridge, did not turn, and headed straight up Parliament Street. “Damn!” said Eoin. “I would have sworn only one was going to the Castle.”

  “Well,” said Róisín, with superiority, “you were wrong!
”

  “That’s lots of fookin’ mail there, Róisín.” Then he turned serious. “Not a fookin’ word about this to anyone, understood?”

  “Yes, my little man,” said Róisín. “I understand.”

  “And stop calling me your ‘little man.’ I’m not that little.”

  Róisín smiled and kissed Eoin on his forehead. “I’ll take you at your word—until I know otherwise.”

  Eoin blushed, and then he heard the distinctive sound of the high nelly “Clanker.” The kiss hadn’t even dried when a voice rang out: “Hundreds of Hail Marys, dozens of Our Fathers, and bushels of Acts of Contrition!” The penance was punctuated by laughter as Michael Collins bicycled by on his way to another twenty-hour workday.

  “I don’t know why the British can’t find him,” said a flustered Róisín. “We can’t seem to avoid him.” Then, as if to earn Collins’s penance, she gave Eoin a deep kiss, pushing her tongue against his teeth. It was obvious that Róisín’s hormones were ahead of Eoin’s terrified teenage ones. Eoin didn’t know what it all meant, but like the Sinn Féin executive a few nights ago, his willie was suddenly lifted.

  33

  EOIN’S DIARY

  I’m fed up with Collins.

  And I’m also up to my sore Irish arse in the Royal Mail. I have three bags here in Bachelors Walk, and there’s another three bags over in Exchequer Street. Now Mick is talking about renting more offices, but I’d prefer more hands to open all this stuff. Liam Tobin, Mick’s main intelligence man, is going through every piece of paper with me as I open them. Liam finally said he was going to bring in a few Cumann na mBan women to help us out. As we go through the letters, they are catalogued and put into individual folders, depending on importance. I am jotting every name down on index cards for future reference. About an hour into the operation, Liam turned to me and simply said, “Eoin, this is a bloody gold mine.” I guess we hit the jackpot with my little scheme.