Eoin looked at Collins and could see that he was having a hard time concealing a smirk. “I learned three things,” said Eoin. “He can’t wait to get out of here and to America.”
“Common knowledge,” said Tobin.
“He says I’m allowed to call him ‘Chief.’ And that I should read The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli if I want to go into politics.”
“Machiavelli!” roared Collins. “You’ve got to hand it to Dev. England has the Prince of Wales. Hamlet was the Prince of Denmark. Ireland has the Prince of Hoors! Machiavelli has nothing on Eddie de Valera.”
Collins was still shaking his head in total amusement when Tobin said, “Mick has something to tell you, Eoin.”
Collins immediately cut to the chase. “You’re going to work for Liam,” said Collins. He could see misapprehension in Eoin’s eyes. “You’re not being sent to a penal colony in Australia,” Collins added, trying to soften the blow.
“Eoin,” said Tobin, “you’ve done such a good job here at Bachelors Walk that we’re going to move the whole operation over to Crow Street.”
“We’re finally getting down to serious business,” Collins threw in.
Tobin was a tall, gaunt man who always had a sad look on his face. Eoin always thought he’d look good in a top hat working for Fanagan’s, the Aungier Street undertakers. But he was a good sort, Eoin knew, and Mick trusted him implicitly. “Our plan is,” said Tobin, “to channel all intelligence through the Crow Street office. Mick is now officially Director of Intelligence, and I’ll be his adjutant.”
“I feel we have to have a much more sophisticated operation,” said Collins. “For starters, we need to know everything about every man in the G-Division. Then we have to separate the bad apples from the good.”
“Good?” interjected Eoin.
“Yes,” said Collins, “there are good ones. Broy and Boynton, for instance. There are also men who do us no harm, so I don’t want to touch them.”
“And we want to leave the regular DMPs to themselves,” added Tobin. “If they don’t bother us, we won’t bother them. In fact, they can be helpful to us.”
“That’s Broy’s idea,” said Collins. “He says there are more nationalists in the peelers than any of us think. Our goal is to castrate their intelligence network here in Dublin.”
“Castrate?” said Eoin, feeling it in his bollocks.
“Intelligence is mostly in the brain,” said Collins. “Even stuff on paper is not that all that important. The brain is what we aim for.”
“If we eliminate the brain . . .” said Tobin.
“ . . . They cannot process the intelligence,” finished Collins.
Eoin was beginning to see what they were trying to do. “How is this ‘castration’ going to come about?”
“From your work,” said Collins.
“You’re going to shoot them, aren’t you?”
There was a moment of silence in the room. “If we have to,” Collins finally said.
“Are you alright with that, Eoin?” asked Tobin.
“I am,” he responded thoughtfully, almost in a whisper.
“Well, in that case,” said Collins, “start packing.”
Eoin was packing up the files that were going over to Crow Street when the telephone rang. “Mr. Kavanagh,” he answered.
“Ned Broy here, Eoin. Is Mick about?”
“He’s over at that special session of the Dáil at the Mansion House. There are some important Yanks in town, and they’re winin’ and dinin’ them.”
“I have to get in touch with him,” said Broy. “They’re about to lift him on that bench warrant from Sligo.”
“Shite,” said Eoin. He hung up the phone quickly and headed out to Dawson Street.
When Eoin got to the Mansion House, he found the Minister for Finance sitting at his appointed desk, drumming his fingers on the surface as someone at the podium droned on about something. “Mick,” he said, tapping Collins on the shoulder.
Collins spun around as quick as a top and began reaching into his pocket for what Eoin assumed was his trusty Colt pistol. “Jaysus, boy,” he said, flustered. “Don’t do that!”
“Sorry, Mick,” Eoin apologized. “But this is an emergency.”
He whispered into Collins’s ear what Broy had told him and was surprised when Collins said, “Is that all? Let’s have lunch first.”
After lunch with several Irish-Americans—they were going on to the Paris peace conference to lobby President Wilson into recognizing the Irish Republic—Collins had a brainstorm. “Go over to Exchequer Street, and bring me my uniform,” he told Eoin.
“Your uniform?”
“My new uniform,” repeated Collins.
“Mick,” said Eoin. “Don’t.”
“Get movin’, lad,” commanded Collins. “The G-men will be here soon!”
With his stomach churning, Eoin made his way to Exchequer Street and returned to the Mansion House with the uniform, only to find the place surrounded by the British Army, 250 strong, with G-men standing about waiting for their quarry to be hauled out into Dawson Street. But nothing happened. Fifteen minutes after Eoin arrived, the Brits left, apparently sans Minister Collins.
Eoin entered the Mansion House and saw that the place was in a frenzy. “Where’s Deputy Collins?” Eoin asked Count Plunkett, the new Foreign Minister and father of Joseph Plunkett, executed in 1916.
“He’s disappeared,” said Plunkett, spittle landing on his beard in his excitement. Men were animatedly talking to each other about the British raid and the sudden disappearance of the Minister for Finance.
Eoin headed for the basement with the uniform box still under his arm. There he saw Collins calmly reading the Irish Times. “Give me that,” said Collins as he started undressing in front of Eoin. Soon Collins was adjusting the collar on his new Commandant-General’s uniform. “How do I look?” he asked.
“Like Lord Fookin’ French!”
“Johnny French never looked this good,” winked Collins. “Come on,” he said, “let’s give the Yanks a show!”
Collins strode into the chamber, strutting like a peacock, and stopped at the podium. “Was anyone in here looking for me?” he said to the assembled deputies and guests. Applause broke out, and cheers filled the room. “By this time,” spoke up Collins, “everybody should know that it is by naked force that England holds this country.” The Yanks, in awe of the audacious Irishman, looked on, slack-jawed.
At first, Eoin was cross, but, then, watching Mick work the room, he couldn’t help but admire his boss. It was just Collins being Collins. It wasn’t really conceit. It was Collins trying to prop his country and his people up against the British. He was like the little street imp with his thumb to his nose, wagging his fingers at the local bully—then sticking his tongue out at the same time for good measure. The Irish were just as good as ould Britannia—and Collins would personally prove it to his downtrodden people. But it still bothered him that Mick could be so reckless on a moment’s notice, be it by allowing his picture to be taken or taunting the British up in Longford. In his heart, Eoin knew that Collins’s relentless—yet systematic—recklessness would eventually free Ireland. But, conversely, it might be the death of him yet.
49
Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood needed a haircut and, being new in town, asked around the office at Dublin Castle for a recommendation. It was unanimous—Castle Barbers was the place to get tonsured.
Blood made his way down Aungier Street and had no problem finding number thirty-one. He entered the shop and felt right at home seeing Queen Victoria looking down on him. “Can I help you?” asked Joseph Kavanagh.
“Could I get a trim?”
“Take a seat.” Blood stuck his cane in the umbrella bucket, placed his arse in the chair, and Joseph threw a sheet over him. Frank was shaving a customer in the adjoining chair.
Joseph started both clipping and small-talking. “Nice weather for this time of the year,” he commented.
“I have a great reverence for authority,” said Joseph, and Frank bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Did you hear about us up at the Castle?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Blood. “You’re well thought-of up there.”
“We try to please,” said Joseph. “You can sign up for our specials, reserved only for Castlemen.”
“I’d like to do that,” said Blood. “Do the locals give you any trouble?”
“Only the occasional catcall,” replied Joseph. “The DMP on the beat keeps an eye out for us.”
Blood reached under his sheet and presented Joseph with his card. “If any of the Fenian scum ever threaten you, give me a ring.”
Joseph took the card and simply said, “Thank you.”
“It won’t be long now,” said Blood as Joseph removed the sheet. Blood stood tall and preened for himself in the mirror.
“What won’t be long?” asked his barber.
“We’re winning this war,” responded Blood. “It will all be over soon.”
“That might be news to Mick Collins,” said Frank, sorry as soon as the words escaped his lips.
“Collins?” said Blood.
“The Fenian guttersnipe,” said Joseph, before Frank could dig himself in deeper, “who’s always shooting off his gob in the papers.”
“Yes, Collins,” Blood mused.
“Thanks for the card,” said Joseph, holding it up for show. “I’ll put your name down. The first one is always on us.”
“Thank you,” said Blood. “What’s your name?”
“Joseph Kavanagh, and this is my son, Francis.”
Blood nodded and gave Joseph a two-bob tip. “Thanks again,” Blood said, tapping his cane twice before he exited into Aungier Street, an unsteady thought already beginning to percolate in his brain.
50
It was meticulous work, gathering intelligence. Three Crow Street had J.F. Fowler Printers on the ground floor. One flight up was the “Irish Products Company.” In reality, it was Michael Collins’s main intelligence office. Eoin always started his day with every Dublin newspaper. He was interested in the general news of the day—what Inspector So-and-So of Dublin Castle had to say about the latest rebel atrocity—but he found his meat-and-potatoes in, of all places, the society pages. Who got engaged? Who was getting married? What child was being christened? What happened at that Church of Ireland charity gala at the Gresham Hotel last night? How did the annual meeting of the retired veterans of the Boer War go at the Shelbourne? There, in those mundane items, was where the intelligence nuggets were found.
Sergeant Joe English of the RIC attended his cousin’s wedding out at Foxrock Monday morning. Who was Sergeant English? Check the cards. Joe English was supposed to be down in Tipperary. What was he doing in Dublin? Crosscheck the Tipperary cards. Get in touch with Broy or Boynton. What was Sergeant English really doing in Dublin? Keeping an eye on Fenian fugitives? It’s not that long a way to Tipperary, Eoin Kavanagh was learning. A man out of his element, Eoin knew, was a dangerous man.
“If we ever win this war,” said Eoin to his coworkers, “I’m getting a job as a gossip columnist.” He knew more about Dublin high society than anyone else in the movement.
His most important weapons in this job were his scissors, paste, and index cards. If the British knew who was buying up all the index cards in Dublin City, they could easily crack this intelligence operation in a morning.
His phone number had been transferred from over in Bachelors Walk, and he was still Collins’s “Mister Kavanagh.” And he still visited number thirty-two every day to pick up his post. It was getting more complicated, but Collins and Tobin liked it that way. If it was confusing to the men running the intelligence scheme, it might be nearly impossible for the British trying to crack what was going on about them.
Like some of the other lads working in Crow Street, Eoin had his own portfolio. Eoin’s was transportation. Trains, buses, Dublin taxis, ambulances, even hotel doormen fell into his domain. He spent an immense amount of time bicycling around Dublin, meeting relatives and friends of men and women in the movement. So-and-so has a cousin who’s a doorman at the Shelbourne Hotel, and he wants to help. Eoin would meet your man and instruct him to keep an eye out for Englishmen and visitors from the North. They would check the registration book, and Eoin would know that Dublin Castle had an important visitor in from London or Belfast.
Taxi drivers reported who was arriving at Kingsbridge Station and what hotel they were staying at. Province bus drivers were keeping an eye on well-dressed gentlemen visiting some bog in Connaught, and the local boyos were alerted. It was frustrating work, but it was all coming together, piece-by-piece.
The phone rang, and Mr. Kavanagh answered it. “This is Minister Collins,” shouted the voice on the other end of the line. “Get your arse over to number six pronto.” Eoin threw on his hat and started the quick walk up to Harcourt Street. Number six was the HQ of Sinn Féin, but it was more than that. Collins kept several independent offices there, and now he was about to start one of his biggest. He found the boss on the top floor.
“What’s my title?” asked Collins.
“Director of Intelligence, Director of Organization, TD, President IRB, Commandant-General of the IRA. Did I miss anything?”
“Minister for Finance,” said Collins. “This will be my most important job—after intelligence. A nation without a treasury is a fraud. We cannot be at the mercy of any new gombeen men.”
The gombeen men were the notorious monetary predators of the famine years. They were Ireland’s Shylocks, despised by all. One hundred years after Collins, they would be replaced by banks and credit card companies. The human obsession with greed was dangerous, and Collins would be meticulous in protecting Ireland’s money—which he had yet to raise.
“Where’s it going to come from?” asked Eoin.
“From you, from me, from America, England, Canada, Australia—wherever Irishmen roam.”
“How?”
“In the form of a national loan,” replied Collins. “The Republic will sell bonds, and, when they mature, the holder will collect interest.”
“Will this work?”
“It better,” replied Collins, slightly annoyed. Collins had started out working in the British postal system in London in 1906, so he knew about the mails, but, more importantly, he knew about communications, for the postal system also included the telephone and telegraph exchanges. Communications were changing rapidly in the early twentieth century, and it was important for the movement to keep up with them. If they could compromise Britain’s communication system, it would be a masterstroke for Collins’s intelligence network.
After working in the post office, Collins moved on to the Guaranty Trust Company of New York’s branch office in London. He studied banking and accounting and had even attended an economic seminar given by Vladimir Lenin in London in 1915. “For a communist,” Collins told Eoin, “the man could count!”
Collins was still perplexed by Eoin’s “Will this work?” comment. “Look,” said Collins, “I’ve been authorized by the Dáil, as Finance Minister, to float £1,000,000 in bonds—£500,000 to be immediately offered to the public for subscription at 5 percent—and you’re going to help me.”
Eoin was flabbergasted by the immense figure. “Where do we start?”
“Well,” said Collins, “I finally have the prospectus written—but I’m not happy with it.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to guarantee the Fenian loans of the 1860s, but I couldn’t get Dev to go along with it. Dev is one of those people who agonizes over every dotted ‘I’ and crossed ‘T’—so nothing ever gets done!”
“Well,” replied Eoin, “he’s in America now.”
“Thank God!” laughed Collins.
Eoin looked at Collins intently and was disturbed that he could read him so well. “You don’t like this job, do you?” he finally asked.
Collins looked up, surprised. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, Eoin. You know that old Bible saying, ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil’? Well, it is, but without money, Ireland cannot exist as a nation. I’ll just have to keep a sharp eye out for avaricious bastards disguising themselves as patriots!”
“Avaricious?”
“Greedy, Eoin, greedy.”
Eoin smiled, already feeling pity for the eejit who might be thinking of playing the gombeen man with Michael Collins’s money.
51
“Have you ever been to Castle Barbers?” Blood asked Boynton.
Boynton was about to lie but thought better of it. “Only once. I had a shave.”
“They’re a curious little couple,” said Blood. “The father and the boy.”
“Only met the father,” said Boynton.
“The boy is very handsome,” said Blood, and Boynton raised an eyebrow. “He’s also opinionated. I said something about cleaning up this Fenian mess in short order, and he said that it would be ‘news to Mick Collins.’ What do we have on Collins?”
“Your Belfast roots are showing,” said Boynton matter-of-factly. “He’s the Dáil’s Minister for Finance.”
“Is that all he does?”
Boynton suppressed a smile. “He’s also a TD.”
“That’s their MPs, right?”
“You’re learning.”
“Where’s the file on him?”
“Over at DMP headquarters in Brunswick Street.”
“I’ll have to check it out,” said Blood.
“Why the big interest? He’s just another ruffian.”
“But why did that kid in the barbershop think he was so important?”
“He’s only a bloody kid,” said Boynton. “What does he know?”
“Out of the mouths of babes, Boynton,” replied Blood. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 17
