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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “And,” said Lloyd George, “who is Michael Collins?”

  Before Gough-Coxe could commence his carefully prepared presentation, Lord French cut in: “Collins is a murderer who has become a folk-hero on the streets of Dublin,” he said, his voice rising. “According to the local legend, he is the Fenian Pimpernel, supposedly fearless, conniving, cunning, and ruthless.” French stood up. “He has attempted to assassinate me several times without success.”

  “He has to succeed only once, Field Marshal,” said Gough-Coxe, and French returned to his seat. “Michael Collins,” Gough-Coxe continued, “is the Dáil’s Minister for Finance—but he’s more than that. He is a Commandant-General in what is becoming known as the Irish Republican Army. He is also the president of the terrorist Irish Republican Brotherhood. Many think he is behind the string of assassinations we have been experiencing in Dublin since last September.”

  “Think?” teased the Prime Minister.

  “He is quite the mysterious figure,” said Gough-Coxe.

  “A bounty may remove the mystery,” interjected Wilson.

  “He sounds like a street thug to me,” offered Macready.

  “Nothing more, nothing less,” agreed the smug Johnny French.

  “It’s not as simple as that,” said Gough-Coxe. “I suspect that Michael Collins is the equal to anyone here in this room.” Gough-Coxe had suddenly caught everyone’s undivided attention, as four pairs of eyes targeted him.

  “What do you propose to do?” asked Lloyd George.

  “I propose to smoke him out,” said Gough-Coxe. “Not only will G-Division be reorganized, but I propose we start sending a series of agent provocateurs to draw Mr. Collins out of his shell.”

  “Why don’t you just arrest him?” asked Wilson.

  “We don’t even have a good photo of him,” replied Gough-Coxe. “Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood was getting close to Collins when he was murdered. Collins is ruthless.”

  “As ruthless as we are going to be?” taunted Wilson.

  Gough-Coxe laughed at the Field Marshal. “How ruthless should we be?” he asked, tossing the ball back into Wilson’s court.

  “Disgustingly brutal,” came the reply.

  “I can do that,” said Gough-Coxe calmly. “I know how to handle opponents of the Crown—as my record indicates.”

  “So when do you propose to begin?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “Immediately,” said Gough-Coxe. “I’ll be leaving for Dublin on the mail boat tonight. My agent provocateur will be joining me shortly.” He laughed again.

  “And what amuses you?” asked Churchill.

  “The name of my agent—a name the Irish will surely embrace.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jameson.”

  There was laughter around the table as the builders of the disaster in Ireland felt sure they had found the right man to lead them out of their Irish quagmire in Derek Gough-Coxe, the new Deputy Commissioner of Police for the G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

  76

  Róisín was on her way to work, cycling by the Black Church at Mountjoy Street, when a voice called out her name. She stopped and turned around, surprised to see Collins standing in front of the Munster Hotel at 44 Mountjoy Street. He was carrying a pillowcase, weighed down with its contents.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded, stopping her bike right in front of the inauspicious-looking hotel.

  “Picking up my laundry,” replied Collins.

  “Your laundry!” Róisín couldn’t imagine that the most wanted man in Ireland was fetching his laundry in front of her very eyes.

  “I don’t wear dirty knickers, like someone told me you do!”

  “Who told you that?” Collins smiled mischeviously, and Róisín realized her goat had just been captured by the Minister for Finance.

  “You’re daft to even be close to the Munster,” Róisín lectured. “The British are always looking for you here.”

  “No,” replied Collins, “it’s alright. I leave my clean clothes at Vaughan’s and change there.”

  Róisín noticed that Collins’ face was puffy from fatigue. “Are you getting any sleep?”

  “Oh, the hours wasted in sleep! I’ll sleep when I die.”

  “The headlines have been gruesome,” said Róisín. “Especially the news from Camden Street. I see the boys finally got that clown, what was his name? Blood?”

  “He’s the one who murdered Joseph Kavanagh,” said Collins.

  “Go way!”

  “Eoin plugged him,” Collins said matter-of-factly.

  “No, he didn’t!”

  “Yes,” said Collins, wearily, “he did.”

  “How could you let him?”

  “It was his decision.”

  “You bastard!”

  Collins put his laundry bag down on the sidewalk and took Róisín by the hand. “It’s getting serious now, Róisín. This is the year.”

  “The year for what?”

  “The year we drive the British from our shores.”

  Róisín shook her head violently. “We’ll destroy the British, and we’ll destroy ourselves!”

  “Eoin needs your attention.”

  “I never see him. He blames you, the amount of work you put on him.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” admitted Collins. “I work the lad to death. He’s the best I have. I hate to admit this, but I’ve come to depend on the cheeky little bastard.” Róisín smiled, and Collins added, “He’s about the only one who will tell me the truth and challenge me.”

  “Eoin is a great kid,” said Róisín.

  “Do you love him?” Collins queried, out of the blue.

  Róisín stared at the ground before finally looking up. “I might,” she finally said.

  “Then keep an eye out for him. He’s homeless right now. One night sleeping in the Bachelors Walk office, the next night in Vaughan’s, the night after that on someone’s sofa. It’s a tough life.”

  “I can’t even get in touch with him. He gave me a number over in Abbey Street but told me not to call it.”

  Collins knew it was the phone at the Dump, but said nothing. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and jotted a number down. “Eoin never breaks the cell,” said Collins, “but I do! You can reach him at this number. Ask for ‘Mr. Kavanagh.’ If he gets annoyed at you, tell him you got the number from the Minister for Finance.”

  “Thanks, Mick. I will call him.”

  “This week?”

  “Promise.”

  “Grand lassie ya are!” he said, as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

  Róisín mounted her bike and continued on her way to the Mater Hospital. Collins looked up at the appropriately named Black Church, which cast an intimidating shadow on this cul-de-sac part of Mountjoy Street. The local legend says that if you run around the Black Church three times at midnight, the devil himself will appear. Collins smiled, for the Church and all its blackness would not win out today. The chat with Róisín had revived Collins’s spirit, and her touch reminded Collins how lonely he was for female companionship. Kitty was still up in Longford, and Collins was glued to Dublin. As Róisín cycled out of sight, Collins picked up his laundry bag and walked straight across the road to 30 Mountjoy Street, hoping that Dilly Dicker might offer him some breakfast.

  77

  Liam Tobin and Eoin arrived at the Bailey Chop House for an intelligence briefing with Collins. The Bailey, on Duke Street right off Grafton, was one of the Big Fellow’s favorite places. He never used the bar, but management always kept a private room on the second floor available for his meetings.

  When the two Crow Street agents entered the room, they were surprised to see that besides Broy and Boynton, Collins had also invited his two Dicks, Mulcahy and McKee. When the army was brought into it, you always knew that something was up.

  “What’s this?” demanded Tobin. Eoin thought that his immediate boss was suddenly looking even more morose than usu
al.

  “What?” asked Collins, defensively.

  “You’re taking a lot of risk here,” the Adjutant Director of Intelligence replied sternly to his boss. “These four men,” he said, waving his hand at the G-men and the army men, “should not know each other. You’ve broken the cell.”

  “Sit down and have a drink,” said Collins.

  Collins pulled two new packs of Greencastle cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He opened one and began to light up. He offered the fags around the table, and they were greedily snapped up by everyone except Eoin.

  “I thought you gave those up,” said Eoin.

  “Only for tonight,” replied Collins, “so I can get through this bloody meeting.” He tore open the second package of fags and started carefully placing them in a silver cigarette case, oblivious to the looks he was receiving from the rest of the room.

  A shopboy knocked at the door and took the drink orders. Usually, Collins ran drink-free meetings, but tonight he waived that rule. When the kid left, Collins stood up and addressed the room. “I’m aware that the cell has been broken, Liam. But we are moving on to another level, and I think it’s time that my trusted lieutenants knew each other. It’s only going to get more complicated from here on out. We will have to work intimately if we are to succeed at anything before this year is out.”

  “It’s February already. We’re down to ten months,” said Mulcahy. “It will be almost impossible to succeed before the year is out.”

  “If we don’t succeed within this year,” said Collins, “Ireland will never be free.” He looked around the room and added ominously, “It’s now or never.”

  The shopboy knocked at the door again and brought in the drinks. The fag fog was so dense in the room by now that he could hardly see the faces of the men. Eoin’s pint of porter was placed before him, Collins had a small pony of sherry, and the other men had glasses of Jameson Irish whiskey, neat. When the shopboy left the room, Collins spoke up. “It’s time we go over the new Deputy Commissioner of Police for the G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, Derek Gough-Coxe.” Collins pronounced it “Cocks.”

  “Co-shay,” meticulously mouthed Broy.

  “I may be only a culchie in your eyes,” said Collins, “but I think I know a ‘cocks’ from a ‘Co-shay!’” The room erupted in laughter, the tension broken. “Liam and Eoin have compiled, over the last couple of weeks, a complete dossier on your man Gough-Coxe.” Collins began passing the newspaper clippings around the table. In the middle of almost every story was a picture of Gough-Coxe in full Arab regalia, right down to his puşi headdress. Headlines heralded “Derek of Suez.”

  “Jaysus,” said McKee, “‘Derek of fookin’ Suez.’ I can’t believe they put this gobshite’s picture in the paper. That’s insanity on their part.”

  “Hubris,” said Collins, as he turned to Eoin. “That’s a fancy word for pride or conceit.”

  “Ah, you’d be knowin’, Commandant-General,” replied Eoin with a straight face. No one laughed, but knowing smirks filled the room.

  “I’m a little uncomfortable here,” said Mulcahy, the army Chief-of-Staff. “Is this in Cathal’s territory?”

  Although Cathal Brugha was the Minister for Defense, Collins constantly poached his portfolio. In Dublin City, in particular, the duties of the army, now known as the IRA, and Collins’s many projects in finance, IRB, and intelligence were constantly blurred.

  “What about Brugha?” Mulcahy asked a second time.

  “Let Cathal know what he needs to know,” said Collins cryptically. “Let’s get back to the Sheik.”

  “The Sheik!” laughed Broy. “Oh, the boys in Brunswick Street would love that one!”

  “Don’t you dare, Ned,” said Collins. He thought for a minute. “The Sheik. I like that. That will be our nom de guerre for Gough-Coxe. It fits so well.” He paused and looked intently at Tobin. “Liam, tell us all about our Sheik.”

  “The Sheik is Eoin’s domain.”

  Eoin opened up his folder and began reciting the facts. “He was born in 1888.”

  Before he could continue, he was interrupted by Collins. “He’s two years older than me.”

  Eoin ignored his boss and continued. “He was born in Wales. He is illegitimate.”

  Eyes opened wide around the table. “Who’s the bastard’s mother?” interjected Collins.

  “His father’s children’s nanny.” Collins grunted. “His father is Anglo-Irish and was the late Baronet of Roscommon. Grew up in Oxford. The rest is the usual, Eton, etc. Did post-graduate work at Oxford.”

  “Not your usual British thug,” said Boynton.

  “War record?” said McKee.

  “Largely responsible,” continued Eoin, “for rallying the Egyptians away from their Muslim Ottoman brothers. Is credited with keeping the Suez Canal in British hands, thus his nickname. ‘Went native,’ the press likes to say, dressing up in Arab clothing. Speaks the language. That’s the thumbnail sketch on your Sheik,” Eoin paused before adding, “Awarded the Companion of the Order of the Bath, Distinguished Service Order, and the Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur,” said Eoin, butchering the French.

  “Jaysus,” said Mulcahy.

  “Oh,” said Eoin, “I forgot the Croix de guerre.”

  “Croix de guerre, my arse,” spat Collins, standing up. “Don’t get overwhelmed by this eejit. He isn’t here to go native in a Paddy-cap, hobnailed boots, and speak the Erse! He’s here to destroy us. This man is going to try and take out every man in this goddamn room.” He looked around the room, which was duly impressed with the Sheik’s resume. Too impressed, thought Collins. Collins voice went near a shout. “Is that understood? He is a master colonist. He knows how to treat the native. In Egypt, it was the carrot. In Dublin, it will be the stick. We underestimate this man at our own peril.”

  Eoin continued to read in a monotone. “He’s a charmer, apparently. The press’s favorite word for him is ‘charismatic.’”

  “Should we send a message and eliminate him right away?” spoke up McKee.

  “No,” said Collins. “For now, he’s more valuable to us alive than dead. We will monitor him closely. We will not ‘tag’ him. That won’t be necessary. Ned and Brendan will see him daily. Let’s see where he leads us. Why run down the hill to fook one cow when we can walk down the hill and fook the lot of them?” The men looked around at each other, wondering what, in God’s name, had seized their master bull. “Where is he living?”

  “38 Upper Mount Street,” said Eoin.

  “Nice neighborhood,” replied Collins.

  “He’s not the type, I think,” said Eoin, “to embrace the rebel Liberties!”

  “Or Monto,” said McKee, to a roomful of laughter.

  “Alright,” said Collins. “We now know what we’re up against. McKee and Mulcahy are here because the Sheik, in one way or another, will eventually become their problem. But not right now. Right now, Gough-Coxe is my problem. He’s Broy’s and Boynton’s problem. He’s Crow Street’s problem.” Collins picked up his small glass of sherry, thought about drinking it, then replaced it, untouched, on the table. “The Sheik is not really a problem,” Collins said to disbelieving ears. “In fact, the Sheik may be the man we’ve been waiting for. He may be the answer to all our prayers.” With that, the meeting broke as Collins put on his hat, grabbed his overcoat, and hurried out the door. Slowly the men stood and left. Eoin realized that he hadn’t touched his pint of porter. He sat down by himself and sipped slowly, wondering what Collins’s Sheik was doing right now, this minute, in his abode at 38 Upper Mount Street, an address that would soon change Eoin’s life—and the destiny of his nation—forever.

  78

  EOIN’S DIARY

  My phone rang and I picked it up. “You evasive bastard!” was the greeting, and I knew immediately who it was.

  “Who gave you this number?” I demanded.

  “Cupid Collins,” she sang, and I knew I was in trouble.

  It was Róisín
’s way of telling me that we should get together for the weekend. I tried to tell her that I had to work, but she shot back, “Even those bloody Presbyterians in Dublin Castle take Sundays off!” She said she had it all planned out. We would take Mary and Dickie out of their orphanages for the weekend and bring them to the Zoological Gardens in the Phoenix Park, and then we could all sleep at her flat Saturday night before taking the children back to the orphanages on Sunday evening. I really miss my kiddies, and I was happy to go along with her. She had it all planned out like a Squad hit. She would pick Mary up in Sandymount, I would fetch Dickie in Cabra, and we would all meet up at the zoo.

  I picked Dickie up, and, since it was such a nice day—a teaser of spring, it was—we decided to walk up to the park. He told me all was going well at the school, and, since my last visit there, he’s had no problems with Father Murphy. He even says that Murphy has been exceedingly nice to him. “Father Murphy’s my friend now,” said Dickie, and I smiled knowingly.

  We caught up with Róisín and Mary. My sister has become quite the little young lady. She looks a lot like Mammy, with that long line of a Conway mouth. Her hair is so dark a brown that it appears black. Dickie and Mary embraced and took off together, the two playmates separated by terrible luck now reunited.

  “Mary’s a woman now,” Róisín said to me. I was quiet, because every time I open my mouth about womanly functions, Róisín tells me what an eejit I am. “Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes,” I finally said, clearly exasperated.

  “Good,” replied Róisín and, thank God, she didn’t bring up any more female mysteries for the rest of the weekend.

  We had a wonderful time at the zoo, watching the monkeys and the tigers and the elephants, and we stuffed the kids with sweets and ice cream. We took the tram back into town and went to have a light tea at the DBC on Stephen’s Green. Then it was back home and bed. Mary and Dickie jumped together into Róisín’s bed, and she said she’d join them later. We then went into the parlor to talk.