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

by Dermot McEvoy

  Eoin was about to leave when he turned and asked Collins, “Do Boynton and Broy know that they both work for you?”

  Collins gave a tight smile. “Not yet!”

  Eoin nodded his head. “I thought so.” He paused before adding, “I guess I should keep me gob shut.”

  “Yes,” said Collins. “We’ll introduce them to each other at the proper time. Remember,” he said, as he looked Eoin intently in the eye, “never let one side of your mind know what the other is doing.”

  Heeding that advice, Eoin discreetly met with Boynton at the Stag’s Head the next day and got as much information as he could on Blood, including the gem that he lived at the Ivanhoe Hotel over on Harcourt Street. Eoin reported back to Collins that night at the Wicklow Hotel. “Who is this hoor?” he asked. “Dick McKee told me he was questioning the local DMP on the beat—one of our ‘good policemen’—about your family. That’s report number four on this hoor. This is not a man we can ignore.” Collins went over the limited information that Eoin, with Boynton’s help, had compiled. “All we know,” Collins added, “is that he’s a Belfast man, an eager beaver, and a general pain-in-the-goddamned arse.” Collins stood up and paced the room for a good minute without speaking. “Let’s let him know we know.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Eoin.

  “It’s worth a try,” replied Collins. “He may be a freelancer, trying to impress his bosses with his initiative. Let’s rough him up and see how he likes it.”

  “If that doesn’t work?”

  Collins grunted. “We’ll cross that Ha’penny Bridge when we come to it. Tell Mick McDonnell to get a few of the lads from the Squad to say hello to Detective Blood.”

  If Sebastian Blood wanted to get Michael Collins’s attention, he had succeeded spectacularly.

  60

  Sebastian Blood’s snooping around 31 Aungier Street was beginning to pay off.

  He found that number thirty-one had two lives, one during the week and another on the weekends. During the week, there was Joseph and Frank—no surprise—occupants of the shop and the second floor. But he learnt that there was also a mysterious tenant working on the third floor, where Collins kept his newest office. On the weekends, he discovered there was a thin young man who came and went. He was always dressed conservatively in a blue three-piece suit and seemed to be in a rush, often with a briefcase in hand. Blood wondered if this was another son of Joseph’s, because he often sat in the shop and talked to the older Kavanagh. He had never seen this young man during the week, probably because he was never there early or late enough. All the activity was beginning to pique Blood’s fertile imagination.

  But Sebastian Blood wasn’t the only one with an imagination. Unknown to him, he had been “tagged” by the Squad—and he was “it.” Their orders were to stake him out and then rough him up. While he was staking out number thirty-one, he was being watched by members of the Squad, standing down Aungier Street in front of William Fanagan’s Funeral Establishment. For days, they patiently followed Blood around Dublin. After a full week, they knew his routine. Up early at the Ivanhoe Hotel—located right next to Sinn Féin HQ on Harcourt Street—he always headed over to Cuffe Street to check out the barber shop before he proceeded onto his office at Dublin Castle. He spent an extraordinary amount of time just observing the shop, probably throwing together a couple of hours a day at various times.

  The Squad had been working on their “methodology,” as Collins called it. Depending on the job, they would send out two to four men as the main attack column, covered by a backup team of the same number. The first group did the job, and the backups made sure the first group got away and were not interfered with by police or “innocent” bystanders.

  Two teams from the Squad were waiting for Blood when he left Dublin Castle just after 6:00 p.m. They expected him to head over to Aungier Street before he returned to his hotel. But Blood had other ideas. He walked straight down Parliament Street, crossed the Liffey, and started heading up Capel Street. Blood was on a mission, and the four Squad members looked at each other as Blood forced them to quicken their steps to match the frantic tapping of his walking stick.

  Blood made a right onto Mary Street. “He’s heading to the Volta,” said Paddy Daly to Vinny Byrne, the number-one team who were going to do the roughing up. The four Squad members broke into a trot in an attempt to get ahead of Blood. Byrne and Daly did just that, leaving their two comrades to trail Blood. Byrne and Daly bought tickets and went into the lobby. “He’s after the film,” said Vinny. Daly nodded. Somehow Blood had been tipped that the Volta Cinema was cooperating, showing Collins’s National Loan trailer at every showing. Byrne and Daly waited until Blood entered the lobby, then turned discreetly until he passed them. The movie had already begun, and they watched Blood go down and grab an aisle seat. Right in the middle of the movie, the screen went white, and Collins and Eoin appeared.

  Sebastian Blood stood up and started talking to himself. “That’s the bloody kid from Aungier Street,” he said aloud, waving his cane in the air. “So that must be Collins!” He said it loud enough that Byrne and Daly could hear him, because they were seated right behind him. “This,” Blood called out to the theatre, “is an illegal film.” That was the last thing he said before Daly threw an abandoned overcoat over his head and Byrne hit him a vicious blow with a policeman’s blackjack, forcing Blood to drop his cane. Vinny liked to refer to his baton work as “Paddywacking” someone. He gave him a couple of shots in his upper arms, and Blood’s body began to go numb. Byrne and Daly pulled Blood into the aisle. The backup team stood guard, discouraging any “help” from arriving. “Stay out of politics, yer hoor,” warned Daly, “or we’ll take yer fucking head off the next time.” They rolled him over and took his badge, notebook, wallet, and more importantly, his Webley revolver. As an afterthought, Daly also retrieved Blood’s walking stick. The four Squad members left Blood barely conscious on the floor as Collins and Eoin continued to sell the National Loan on the screen.

  61

  EOIN’S DAIRY

  I was with Mick giving my daily intelligence brief in Joint Number One, as we now call Vaughan’s, when Paddy Daly and Vinny Byrne arrived. Vinny dropped a reel of film on the desk. “What’s that?” asked Collins.

  “The National Loan film,” said Vinny.

  “Why’s it here?”

  “Because of Blood,” said Daly, reaching into his pockets and emptying the detective’s wallet, notebook, Castle ID, badge, and gun onto the desk.

  Collins picked up the Webley. “Good pickup,” he said, and placed it in the top drawer of his desk for safekeeping. Mick and I noticed that Daly looked particularly morose. “What’s wrong, Paddy?” he asked.

  Paddy is a tough man and is rapidly becoming one of the leaders of the Squad. He’s from just down the way on Parnell Street. He’s tall and lanky with a great shock of hair and a ready smile. He’s so genial-looking that you wouldn’t know how tough and brutal he could be when it came to his duties. “Blood has made the Aungier Street connection.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “We were off to warn him this evening,” began Daly, “when he suddenly takes off for the Volta Cinema in Mary Street. Someone must have tipped him off that the Volta was playing the Loan reel at every showing.”

  Collins grunted in discomfort before adding, “Shite.”

  “Because just before Vinny clubbed him he said, ‘That’s the bloody kid from Aungier Street.’ Then he added, ‘So that must be Collins!’ “

  Collins was quiet, and I was nervous. “That fookin’ film,” Mick finally said. Then there was nothing but quiet between the four of us.

  Mick picked up Blood’s notebook. “Let’s see how good a detective he is,” he said as he flipped through the pages and then began to read aloud. “Here it is: ‘31 Aungier. Castle Barbers. Alleged Loyalist. Joseph Kavanagh, son Francis, about thirteen. Two strangers come and go. One might be another son. About eighteen or nineteen. Three-piece s
uit. Who is he? The Collins connection?’” Mick stopped and looked up. “He’s guessing.”

  “He’s close enough,” I said.

  “He still doesn’t know your name?”

  “We hope.”

  “Look at this,” Paddy finally said, handing Blood’s walking cane over to Mick. “Look at the handle.”

  Mick ran his hand over the brass knob before looking at it intently. He held it out for all to see. “The ‘All-Seeing Eye,’” he said with a wicked laugh.

  “A bloody Freemason,” Vinny chimed in.

  Paddy, Vinny, and meself were seemingly mystified by the stick, which Mick moved around like a magic wand. “Secret organizations!” whispered Collins, before bursting out in another great laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Vinny, who attends mass daily. “The Church is wary of secret organizations. You can be excommunicated for joining one.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mick, “the evils of ‘secret organizations’!” The three of us stood with our mouths open. “You bloody eejits!” He laughed again. “You’re all in the Brotherhood. What’s that?”

  “A secret organization,” said Daly meekly.

  “But that’s different,” I insisted.

  “I’m sure it is,” added Collins, with a very dubious look on his face. “Paddy,” he finally said, “I want you to deliver Mr. Blood’s stick back to him at his residence.”

  “And the message?”

  “No message necessary,” Mick declared. “He’ll get the message—one way or the other.”

  “What are we going to do?” I finally said, but I really meant: “What am I going to do?”

  “There’s no immediate danger,” Mick replied. “Maybe he’ll take the warning and go the fook back to Belfast.”

  “If he doesn’t?” asked Daly.

  Mick looked annoyed. “Then we’ll ‘box’ him up and send him back to Belfast.”

  “When will we know?” I asked.

  “Soon,” said Mick. “But I’m worried about my office on the third floor over in Aungier Street.”

  “I’m worried about me father and Frank,” I shot back.

  Mick looked suddenly weary. “I know, Eoin,” he said quietly. “I know.”

  “That bloody film,” I said.

  “It had to be done,” said Mick. “The money is beginning to come in. And we had to warn Blood. We will not play rebellion by their rules any longer. We will not be intimidated by shites like Blood or anyone else. From now on, there will be consequences for the British.”

  “Right you are,” echoed Paddy Daly, but Vinny remained quiet, as if he could read my mind, which was riddled with sudden, unrelenting fear. There would be consequences—and I wondered how hard they would come down on me and my family.

  62

  After spending the night at Jervis Street Hospital and the next two days in his room at the Ivanhoe Hotel, Sebastian Blood finally showed up for work at Dublin Castle. He looked a mess. His head was still bandaged, with a spot of blood bleeding through. He looked like the flutist in A.M. Willard’s painting, The Spirit of ’76.

  “What happened to you?” asked Brendan Boynton, as if he didn’t know.

  Blood groaned. “Fucking Fenians,” was all he managed.

  “You look awful,” commiserated Boynton, feigning concern and trying not to show how much he was enjoying the whole thing.

  “I shouldn’t have come in today,” said Blood.

  “Good thing you did,” said Boynton. “Lots of brass around. Military and G-Division meeting to see what we should do about the Dardanelles.”

  The military contingent was led by the Viceroy, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Supreme Commander of the British Army in Ireland: Lord John French. French was one of those people who physically matched his occupation. If you were to say to a Hollywood casting director, “Send over a Great War British Field Marshal,” Johnny French would appear, pressed and shined up. He was also one of the first people to define what would become known as the Peter Principle: “In a hierarchy, every employee tends to rise to their level of incompetence.” A failure in the trenches in France, he was sent to Ireland to put down the rebels, eventually becoming Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was also known as Viscount French of Ypres. The ultimate incompetent, he had more titles than battle victories.

  The quiet in the detective offices was broken by a shout: “Everyone to the Day Room. Now!” Blood and Boynton looked at each other, and Boynton shrugged. In the huge room, around the long table, were RIC commissioners, superintendents, and inspectors, along with Johnny French and his merry men. Boynton noticed Ned Broy from Brunswick Street, who he knew by sight but had never been introduced to. Broy noticed Blood in the companion of a young detective and wondered if the kid was another Protestant eejit from Belfast.

  Perfunctory introductions were made to the G-Division detectives. French rose to speak first. “We have to suppress what is happening on the streets of South Dublin.”

  Good luck to ya, thought Boynton, but he kept his mouth shut and his ears open.

  “In the last week alone,” said French, “the Shiners have bombed five lorries, completely destroying three of them, and killed four soldiers. And last week was an average week compared to the last month. This has to stop.” French looked around the room, apparently expressing his gravitas. “I now want to introduce you to Derek Gough-Coxe, who just arrived this morning from London.”

  Gough-Coxe was dressed in civilian clothes and wore an old-fashioned, high hard-collar which made his head appear to jump off his shoulders. “I, would just like to correct the Viceroy,” began Gough-Coxe. “I, unfortunately, haven’t been in London in two years. I am en route to London from the Middle East, where I have just concluded my business there.”

  The Middle East, thought Boynton, getting it all down in his head for Collins and realizing that the British were showing their first signs of desperation. Across the room, Broy was thinking the same thing.

  “I am not up to speed yet,” Gough-Coxe continued, “and I will not be returning here until the first of the year, but I wanted to sit in and meet all of you and see what thoughts you had on this problem with the terrorists. Is there anything anyone wants to say about the Camden Street chaos?” There was quiet in the room. The G-men didn’t know who this Gough-Coxe fellow was, but they would not be surprised if he showed up as their new boss in January 1920. “No comments?” said Gough-Coxe again.

  A few throats were cleared, and feet shuffled. Finally Blood had had enough. He tapped his cane twice. “We should be making the rules in the Dardanelles,” he spoke up, “not playing the victim. Let the Fenians play the victims.”

  Gough-Coxe looked at Blood and could see from his bandage that he had been to the fight. “Your name?” Gough-Coxe asked.

  “Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood. G-Division. DMP.”

  Gough-Coxe could hear the Belfast accent. “You’re not from here.”

  “Neither are you or Lord French,” Blood snapped, before adding, “And believe me, that’s a good thing, because things tend to get very cozy in Dublin town.” Boynton began to realize that Blood hadn’t quite gotten the message the Squad had tried to convey to him a few nights ago. In fact, he seemed more ambitious than ever.

  Lord French was not impressed, but Derek Gough-Coxe was. “What is your solution to the Camden Street problems?”

  “The reason the rebels are succeeding in the Dardanelles is that they have the people behind them,” said Blood. “If the people want to support the Fenians, there should be a price to pay.”

  “Such as?” asked Gough-Coxe.

  “Let’s make the citizens put their lives on the line, not our soldiers and policemen.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “Hostages.”

  A murmur swept across the room. “That is a simple solution,” said the equally gormless Lord French.

  “Simple,” shot back Blood, “but effective.” The room went quiet. “You will not beat Fenian
terrorists without radical thinking,” stated Blood, now cocksure. Broy suppressed a smile, because he realized that Blood and Collins thought exactly alike about their enemies.

  Gough-Coxe liked this man Blood. All the other detectives seemed to be followers; this man was a leader. “Detective Blood, you seem to have all the answers.”

  “Better than that,” replied Blood, beginning to enjoy the attention he was getting in the room, “I have a candidate.”

  “A candidate for what?” asked French.

  “Our first Dardanelles hostage.”

  Broy and Boynton looked at each other across the room, and their eyes locked for a second. They both felt isolated and alone among all the brass and the other G-men, many of whom had been recently brought in from the North. They couldn’t wait to tell Collins what was going on in this room.

  “Gentlemen,” said Lord French, “I’m happy that we could have this meeting. We will consider this problem, and I think we will have a solution shortly. Thank you for your time.” He paused. “God save the King!”

  “God save the King!” the room shouted in unison as they all jumped out of their seats like Pavlovian jack-in-the-boxes. Broy was still staring at Boynton, aware that his lips did not move and had risen slowly, even reluctantly. He made a mental note to see who this young G-man was.