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

by Dermot McEvoy

  Boynton shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t like it. It was time to keep a closer eye on Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood.

  52

  EOIN’S DIARY

  “Would you like to go to the moving pictures tonight?” I asked Róisín when I got her on the telephone at the Mater.

  “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” she said in her gruff manner.

  “Jaysus, Róisín,” says I, “Mick is killing me with work.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  I explained to her that I was working in two offices and traveling all over the country checking on the local commandants. Mick likes to send me out to the countryside with communiqués and money because, apparently, I am a very innocent-looking lad, and he thinks the British won’t be suspicious of me. He laughingly calls me his intelligence “lamb,” whatever that is supposed to be.

  “It’s been two months,” Róisín reminded me.

  “And I think about you every day,” I told her truthfully.

  “You do?”

  “You know how much you mean to me.”

  “I don’t,” she said, “because you never tell me.”

  “I forgot,” I said sincerely.

  “Well, then,” she said sweetly, “you can tell me at the picture show.” Mick is having terrible problems publicizing the national loan. The British have just outlawed the loans, and we can’t even place ads in the newspapers because the British will shut the papers down. What he did was against my better judgment, but I have to admit that Mick, God love him, is fookin’ brilliant at times.

  One morning, he rang me on the phone in Crow Street and said, “Meet me at Exchequer Street. We’re going to spend the day out at Rathfarmham.” He was waiting for me in front of number 10, and we hopped a tram to Patrick Pearse’s old school, St. Enda’s, where he had gathered a lot of the relatives of the Fenian hierarchy—everyone from Pearse’s mother, Margaret, to Erskine Childers, Count Plunkett, Arthur Griffith, Grace Gifford Plunkett, and Kathleen Clarke—to make an advertisement to help sell the loan.

  Mick was in one of his more mischievous moods as we got on the tram and headed to the open top. “Well,” says he, “are ya ready to spend the day at the home of the creepy Pearse brothers?” My jaw dropped. I was shocked, because Padraig and Willie Pearse are spoken about only with great reverence. But Collins merely laughed. “Patrick Pearse,” he said, eyes twinkling, “would have made a wonderful Mother Superior!”

  “You better not say that in front of Mrs. Pearse,” I said, with great scorn.

  “Why not?” said Mick, who burst out laughing at my discomfort. “Ah, don’t worry, Eoin. I’ll be a good boy today for the all the family celebrities of our martyred dead.” We traveled through Rathmines and Tenenure, and it was like we were a hundred miles from Nelson’s Pillar, it was so rustic. I felt I could reach out and touch the foot of the Dublin Mountains. “Now can you imagine being stuck out here in the country with Mr. Pearse?” Collins asked. “Studying the Erse and hearing tales of the heroic Cuchulain? Do you think they liked girls—other than their mammy?”

  “What in God’s name has gotten into ya?” I asked Mick.

  “Bedivilment, Eoin. Absolute bedivilment. Without it, I would be howling tears.”

  We were the first on the scene, and Collins and I roamed around the empty school. “I bet you’d freeze your arse off here in the winter,” said Collins, as he surveyed the dorm. “I hear ould Pearse was tight with the coal.” He gave a filthy laugh that said I didn’t understand something.

  We went to the front of the school, and there was the block where they chopped Robert Emmet’s head off on in 1803. “Beheaded,” pronounced Collins, “and his head went a-rollin’ all the way down Thomas Street!”

  “Oh,” says I, “stop it!” Mick thought my displeasure was hilarious.

  “And maybe we’ll see the ghost of the courtin’ Robert Emmet at the Hermitage,” Mick added, not wanting to miss a chance to throw mud at another Irish patriot.

  A fellow with a camera showed up, and Mick began bossing him around like he was D.W. Griffiths and this was the Irish Birth of a Nation. I have a feeling that the only thing missing will be those lads in the white sheets; the Ku Klux Klan eejits. Mick told me to sit down at Emmet’s block and pick up a pen. “Now, don’t lose your head!” I was disgusted, and he could see it. He sat next to me and said, “You don’t like this, do you?”

  “I don’t,” I told him directly. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’ll be more dangerous if we don’t raise money for the nation. No money, no Ireland.” He saw how I was worried about his safety. “It’s alright, Eoin,” he said, punching me hard in my arm. “I’m going to make you a movie star!”

  “Me and fookin’ Charlie Chaplin,” I said. Mick looked fearsome for a moment, but then he laughed and began ordering people around. One by one, the Fenian celebrities came up and pretended to buy National Loan bonds from Mick or me. Mick was chatting them up and smiling for the camera, while I kept my head down. We filmed for about a half and hour, and then we were done.

  “We’ll edit this down to five minutes,” Mick told me, “and put in some information on how to purchase the bonds, and then we’ll hit the cinemas.”

  The reason I’m so against making this film is that I don’t want Mick’s face in front of the public. The newspapers always make the British out to be so smart, but they’re not. And we shouldn’t be helping them. They were in such a rush to execute and imprison us in 1916 that they lost control of themselves. My own circumstances were very similar to the rest of the rebels. All they know about me is that I used to live in the Piles Buildings, and they have my fingerprints. Everyone loves to talk about the importance of fingerprints, but unless I turn into a cat burglar, those fingerprints aren’t going to help them much. What they didn’t do, in their rush, was take pictures of us. They don’t have my mugshot, and they don’t have Mick’s. In fact, I’m told that they didn’t even take photos of the rebels they shot. So, with Mick lifting his photo from the DMP HQ in Brunswick Street, the British are completely in the dark—and we should keep them that way.

  So last night was the tryout. I met Róisín in the lobby of the Volta Cinema in Mary Street. She gave me a big smooch and brushed the hair off my forehead. “You look wonderful,” she said to me, and I kissed her as my hand found its way to her hip. She didn’t brush my hand away, and the ould willie was about to speak out. Then I heard coughing behind me. It was Vinny Byrne and Paddy Daly.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Vinny, blushing. “Róisín,” he said, “nice to see you again.” He turned to me and said, “Do you have it?” I handed the big, bulky bag containing the reel of film over to Vin, and he and Paddy disappeared into the crowd.

  “What are they doing here?” she asked.

  “They’re big Lillian Gish fans,” I lied.

  We bought some sweets and then sat in our seats, waiting for the feature to begin. The lights went down, and I was wondering how the boys were doing with the projectionist. I was told by Mick to sit out here and see the reaction of the audience. The boyos with the artillery would do the heavy lifting. The Gish film, Broken Blossoms, began, and I kept fidgeting in my seat. “What’s wrong with you?” asked Róisín, but I couldn’t tell her what was bothering me. I knew Paddy and Vinny were “persuading” the projectionist to put on the Collins film, and my heart was pumping in excitement.

  All of a sudden, the screen went white, and the next thing on it was big block letters that declared FREE IRELAND—INVEST IN THE NATIONAL LOAN. Then there I was on the screen, sitting next to Collins, and the house went wild. “It’s Mick Collins!” someone yelled out, and the foot-stomping began in earnest.

  All of a sudden, the piano player started a rousing rendition of “A Nation Once Again.” I couldn’t believe it. I looked over and was shocked to see that the pianist was Dilly Dicker, one of Mick’s agents. She had a big smile on her face, and I thought I was going to die.

>   “Jaysus,” said Róisín in shock, “it’s you and Mick!” She put her hand inside my arm and squeezed me tight. “This is amazing! You’re a cinema star!” she said as I sank lower in my seat.

  “I’m a fookin’ eejit,” I said, hoping no one would recognize me. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” I had to pull Róisín out of her seat, she was so mesmerized by the screen. We trekked to Capel Street and then across the Liffey, heading for the Stag’s Head.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I said I was busy.”

  “This is fantastic,” Róisín said. “This will put you on the map.”

  “I’m a revolutionary. I don’t want to be on the fookin’ map,” I said. “It’s dangerous enough, the work I do. I don’t need to be recognized.”

  When we got to the Stag’s Head, I asked her what she wanted. “You know what I want,” she said, crinkling the freckles on her nose as she broke out in her gorgeous smile.

  “For now,” says I, somewhat wearily, “you’ll have to settle for a whiskey and porter.”

  53

  DETECTIVE SMYTH DIES, mourned the headline in the loyalist Irish Times.

  “It’s about fookin’ time,” said an irritated Michael Collins, as he threw the paper on his desk at Bachelors Walk. Eoin was gathering the intelligence mail and about to return to Crow Street. “We fooked the whole job up,” said Collins.

  After sending letters to G-men telling them to cease and desist from all political activity, the more eager ones—the true believers—were often taken aside and given a physical warning. Some were roughed up or tied to fences as a final warning that there would be no further warnings. Detective Sergeant Patrick Smyth continued steadfastly in his work. His testimony put Collins’s friend Piaras Beaslaí behind bars for a longer sentence than his political offense called for. Collins had had enough. He assigned a group of Volunteers to go to Drumcondra and shoot Smyth dead as he headed home from work. Armed with .38s, the Volunteers did shoot Smyth, but he managed to live for weeks before expiring.

  “No more .38s,” said Collins. “We’ll have to acquire more .45s. We need man-stoppers! No more body shots. Just head shots from now on.” They were on a learning curve, but they were learning fast.

  “He leaves a big family,” said Eoin.

  “Fook him,” snapped Collins.

  “His son said we were cowards to shoot him in the back.”

  Collins turned white in anger, his blue eyes sharp as darts. “That fook Smyth has been playing with us since the rebellion began. He made sport of pointing out IRB men after Easter Week. He was warned by letter. He was warned in person, but he persisted in putting Piaras away for a long time. That bastard got what he deserved.” Eoin sat quiet. “Do you feel sorry for him?” Collins suddenly quizzed.

  “No,” said Eoin, “but I feel sorry for his family.”

  “Feel sorry for your own family,” shot back Collins. “Do you think Smyth cares about your family, or my family, or Vinny Byrnes’s family? Like shite he does. Mark my words,” continued Collins, “Patrick Smyth is the first—but he won’t be the last.”

  “You’re right,” Eoin finally agreed. “We have to be more effective.”

  “Let’s get a meeting together,” said Collins. “Check with McKee and Mulcahy. Let’s get some men who can do some real heavy lifting.” He paused. “This is the rough stuff I’ve been promising you, Eoin. It won’t be nice.”

  “I’d like to be a part of it.”

  Collins raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised at young Kavanagh’s response. “I’ll give you that opportunity,” said Collins, throwing on his trilby. He was about to go through the door when he stopped. “I will give you a chance, Eoin, but God help you, that chance may end up destroying your life.”

  54

  EOIN’S DIARY

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1919

  Earlier this evening, Mick called a meeting at the Gaelic League at 46 Parnell Square. I met Mick at Vaughan’s Hotel with his daily intelligence brief, and then we walked down the street to number forty-six. “Take notes,” he said to me. This was heavy stuff. Mick’s two Dicks, McKee and Mulcahy, were there, and all the lads carried artillery: Vinny, Mick O’Donnell, Paddy Daly, Joe Leonard, Tom Keogh and Jim Slattery, among others.

  “One week ago today,” he began, “the British proscribed our Dáil.” Mick paused for effect. “They have also proscribed our National Loan.” Mick paused again. “Now we are going to proscribe them!” Mick said that he was forming an elite Squad to carry out “special assignments.” He said the Squad would take orders directly from him or, in his absence, from McKee and Mulcahy.

  “Under no circumstances whatsoever,” he began, “are you to take it on yourselves to shoot anybody, even if we know he is a spy, unless you have to do it in self-defense while on active service.” He paused. “Remember, not all of the G-men are our enemies, and indiscriminate shooting might result in the death of friends. And believe me, we have more friends in the peelers than you might think.

  “To paralyze the British machine, it is necessary to strike at individuals,” he continued. “Without her spies, England is helpless. It is only by means of their accumulated and accumulating knowledge that the British imperialist machine can operate.

  “Spies”—Mick spat the word out—”are not so ready to step into the shoes of their departed confederates. And even when the new spy has stepped into the shoes of the old one, he cannot step into the old one’s knowledge. We will strike at individuals, and by doing so, we will cut their lines of communication and shake their morale.”

  Mick paused and then asked, “Are there any questions?” There was stunned quiet in the room. “Very well,” he said, “let’s get to work.” With that, he gave me a nod and headed for the door. All the men in the room surrounded McKee and Mulcahy to get more information. We headed back to Vaughan’s Hotel. On the street he said to me, “Well, Eoin, are you ready to have some of your ‘fun,’ as you like to put it?”

  “I don’t know, Mick,” says I.

  Mick saw I was distressed. “Come on up into my office.” Once inside Vaughan’s, Mick was blunt in his questioning. “What’s bothering you? The shooting part?”

  “I’m a Catholic, Mick.”

  “So am I.”

  “It’s the worst mortal sin. My mother would never forgive me.”

  Mick snorted. “Your mother!”

  “You knew her.”

  Mick suddenly changed his tone. “I know it’s hard, Eoin. But we’re in a desperate situation. You know we can’t put an army on a battlefield against the British. You know we’re desperate for a few used revolvers and some rounds of bullets to put in them.” He went quiet for a moment. “You know we only have about eighteen months! If we do not free Ireland in that time span, she will remain a British colony forever!”

  “Forever” sounded very frightening.

  “You’re under no obligation,” Collins finally said. “Go back to Crow Street, and do your intelligence work. Keep helping me out on the National Loan in Harcourt Street.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. “You’ll know when your time to join the Squad is ripe. Until then, don’t desert me.”

  I was shocked that he would say such a thing to me. “Never!” says I.

  Collins smiled and without saying a word, fled the office. Within seconds, I could hear his clanker of a bike outside on Parnell Square, off in the Dublin night, like a whaling banshee in search of a G-man’s funeral procession.

  55

  “I’m so glad Grandpa didn’t join the Squad,” said Diane to her husband. Johnny gave a knowing grunt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my ass!” Johnny smiled at the mention of her delicious derriere, and Diane caught his sexual drift. “Don’t start!” she scolded.

  “Remember “Afternoon Delight” back in the ‘70s?” Johnny suddenly said, referring to a hit song that was an ode to matinee fu
cking.

  Diane laughed. “Johnny, you’re incorrigible! I haven’t thought of that dirty song in thirty years. As Maurice Chevalier used to say, ‘Yes, I remember it well!’”

  “So do I,” said Johnny, turning nostalgic. “Skyrockets in Flight!/Afternoon Delight! I remember it playing on the radio while the sun shined in on us as we were screwing in that old rocking chair of yours.”

  “Down, boy!” admonished his wife. “You’re quite the romantic—probably just like Róisín’s young Eoin.”

  “Okay,” said Johnny, blushing, knowing he had been clearly caught in sexual hypocrisy. “You win.”

  “Let’s get back to Grandpa. I’m glad he didn’t join the Squad, because he might have gotten himself killed.”

  “No member of the Squad,” replied Johnny, “ever died in action. They were pros.”

  “But it was still safer sitting in some office.”

  “No one working for Michael Collins,” said Johnny, “was ever safe, especially working intelligence and finance like Grandpa did.”

  “Anything is better than being in the Squad. Being a murderer.”

  “You think?” said Johnny.

  “What are you saying?”

  Johnny let a breath out. “There are defining moments in history. You know, George Washington at Valley Forge in 1777, Napoleon versus Wellington at Waterloo in 1815, General Grant at Vicksburg in 1863—and Michael Collins and his Squad in Dublin in 1920.”

  “You’re making me nervous. Will you just spit it out?”

  “My grandfather had a unique sense of history, be it here in Ireland or in America. He also had a determined sense of duty. Those two instincts, plus his total dedication to Michael Collins, might make him change his mind about the Squad.”

  “Do you know this as fact?” asked Diane.

  “No,” replied Johnny. “The old man only hinted at things. I remember meeting the Taoiseach, Seán Lemass, when I was a teenager. Grandpa was openly fond, even affectionate towards the Taoiseach, but, as we were leaving, he said to me, “Johnny, I love Jack Lemass, but, when I go out to do a job, I go with Vinny Byrne.’”