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

by Dermot McEvoy

  This was unfinished business for Collins. Twelve attempts had been made on French in the last three months of 1919 alone. The last time the Squad had a shot at French, it turned out to be a disaster. In December 1919, Collins pulled together eleven Volunteers and Squad members—including Daly, Leonard, Byrne, McDonnell, and the Tipperary contingent of Breen, Treacy, and Seamus Robinson—and sent them to ambush French as he returned to Dublin by train from Roscommon. French was supposed to get off the train at Ashtown and proceed by automobile to the Viceregal Lodge in the Phoenix Park. The Squad knew it would be a two-car convoy, and they also knew that French always traveled in the second car. A roadblock was put into position. They let the first car through and planned to ambush the second. Unfortunately, French was in car number one, which they had allowed to proceed. A gun battle ensued with the second car, and Volunteer Martin Savage was killed. Breen was severely wounded, and two DMPs were also hurt in the skirmish. It appeared that French had a sixth sense, because that was the first time he changed routine and rode in the first car. He was not only good—he was lucky.

  The men spread out to various points around St. Andrew’s Church with four of them—the still-limping Breen, Collins, Byrne, and Eoin—planted down at the end of Trinity Lane, where Dame Lane starts. They waited for Paddy Daly’s sheer whistle, but none came. Collins pulled his pocket watch out and saw it was a quarter to twelve. “I think the hoor got lucky again,” said Breen.

  “We’ll wait,” said Collins, his eyes revealing that he knew he had been stood up.

  Eoin walked up to the Church and looked for Leonard, Daly, and Tobin. They were loitering in front of the pub, and Daly shook his head “no.” Eoin went back to Collins and Breen with the bad news. “We’re fooked, I think.”

  “We are indeed,” said Collins, letting out a breath. He took out his pocket watch and saw it was just noon. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Something’s not right.” Eoin signaled the other men, and the Squad disappeared into the narrow streets of Dublin.

  Eoin and Tobin walked together up Dame Street on their way back to the ADOI office. Suddenly, three British tenders came roaring down Dame Street from the Castle, heading in the direction of Trinity College. They stopped short in College Green and cut into Trinity Lane. “Mick was right,” said Eoin, as he observed the British soldiers scrambling about where the Squad had been just moments before.

  “Coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” replied Eoin.

  “Neither do I,” said Tobin.

  John Jameson had spent a busy day running around Dublin town. He left the Gresham Hotel and went shopping in Grafton Street before lunching at the Shelbourne Hotel. In his wake went young Charlie Dalton, who did a lot of the legwork for the Squad. When he was relieved at six o’clock, he scampered over to Crow Street to report.

  “Nothing special to him,” said Dalton. “He acted more like a tourist than a commie agitator.”

  “Maybe that’s what he wants us to think,” said Tobin.

  “When is he leaving Dublin?” asked Eoin.

  “I heard him tell the clerk at the Gresham that he would be checking out tomorrow evening and taking the boat from the North Wall to England.”

  “Who did he have lunch with?” asked Tobin.

  “A woman,” said Dalton. “A real lady, if you know what I mean.”

  “Maybe he fancies himself a Romeo,” Eoin sneered.

  Tobin smiled. “You have a very suspicious mind for a young man, Eoin.” Eoin grunted, and Dalton laughed. “Charlie, keep an eye on him all day tomorrow, up until he steps on that boat. Whatever you do, don’t lose him, or you’ll drive Collins mad.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dalton, who—unlike Eoin—was still awed by the great Collins.

  Eoin threw papers in his attaché case and headed out the door for his daily intelligence briefing with Collins. He walked up to Stephen’s Green and headed in the Baggot Street direction before turning into Ely Place, just east of the Green. At number fifteen, he stopped and knocked on the door. A maid in a black uniform and white apron answered the door. “Is Dr. Gogarty in?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Eoin Kavanagh.”

  “Mr. Kavanagh,” said the maid, “we’ve been expecting you.”

  Eoin was shown into a parlor, where Collins and Gogarty were enjoying a drink. Both men rose as Eoin entered the room, and Collins introduced Eoin to the good doctor. “Mick tells me you’re quite the man,” said Gogarty.

  Eoin didn’t know if his leg was being pulled or not. “Thank you, Doctor,” he finally said.

  “Oliver will suffice.”

  “Thanks, Oliver.”

  “I’ll leave you men alone so you can do your business,” Gogarty said, as he left the room.

  Eoin placed his attaché case on the table, and Collins queried, “What’s the news?”

  “Today,” said Eoin, “the news is all about Jameson—or should I say the news is all about the lack of news on Mr. Whiskey.”

  “Did you tag him?”

  “Charlie Dalton had him under his eye all day. Says he acted like a tourist. Had luncheon with a fine lady at the Shelbourne and then went back to the Gresham.”

  “Shite,” said Collins.

  “We do have one bit of information,” said Eoin. “He’ll be leaving us tomorrow night at the North Wall.”

  “Maybe he’s going to get our guns in England,” said Collins, hopefully.

  “Maybe he’s planning your demise,” returned Eoin.

  “Maybe we should tag him to England.”

  “I have a better idea,” Eoin said, pausing.

  “Well,” Collins said impatiently, “maybe you’d like to share it with me?”

  “He seems to like the ladies, I think.”

  “So?”

  “Why don’t we tag him with an attractive female?”

  “Like who?”

  “How about Dilly?”

  “That’s dangerous.”

  “Not for Dilly, it isn’t,” Eoin countered. “She’s stolen the mail on the Irish Sea many times. She knows her way around. Maybe she can chat him up on his way to Liverpool. Have a couple of drinks with him.”

  “Smile sweetly,” said Collins. “Offer a little female companionship for the long crossing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Collins laughed. “You have a very wicked young mind, Eoin Kavanagh—but it’s a fookin’ brilliant idea.” And with that, he said goodbye to Gogarty, hopped on his clanker, and headed up to Mountjoy Street to do a little sweet-talking of his own to his pal Dilly Dicker.

  82

  Charlie Dalton met Dilly Dicker at the North Wall and handed off John Jameson to her. Dilly, carrying a cheap cardboard suitcase with one change of clothes, boarded the boat, never letting Jameson out of her sight.

  He immediately headed for the bar, which posed a problem for Dilly, because ladies weren’t usually served in such male bastions. Dilly had no intention of traveling the whole way to England and coming up empty. She charged into the bar, bellied up right next to Jameson, and asked for a pony of sherry.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry,” said the barman. “I can’t serve you at the bar.”

  “Why not?” demanded Dilly, creating a mini-scene.

  “You know very well, ma’am,” said the shocked barman.

  “Tell you what,” interrupted Jameson. “What if I got a sherry for the lady, and she drank it in the traveling lounge?” The barman nodded his head, just hoping to avoid confrontation. “Problem solved,” said Jameson, triumphantly. Dilly went directly to the lounge, and Jameson followed with her sherry. Dilly accepted her drink and took out her purse to pay for it. “I wouldn’t think of it,” said the chivalrous Jameson.

  “You are so kind,” Dilly gushed.

  “But not as kind as you are beautiful.”

  Dilly smiled sweetly at Jameson, thinking all the time, Boy, does this fellow work fast!

  “My name is John Char
les Byrne,” Jameson said, allowing the first crack.

  “My name is Madeline,” said Dilly, telling the truth. Her last name would remain a mystery.

  “Madeline, are you traveling back to England to visit family?”

  Dilly’s smile drooped. “Me poor ould granny is awful sick, and I’m on my way to Liverpool to take care of her.”

  “What a dedicated child,” Jameson praised her.

  “Yourself?” asked Dilly innocently, as she sipped her sherry and batted her eyelashes at her prey.

  “Myself?”

  “Why are you traveling to England?”

  “I’m returning to England on business.”

  “And what kind of business are you in?” queried Dilly, again pretending innocence.

  “I’m in the insurance business.”

  I’m sure you are, thought Dilly, but instead she said, “That must be interesting work.”

  “I’m taking a beating in Ireland.”

  “Are you now, Mr. Byrne?” Dilly asked. “Now, why is that?”

  “All the deaths around town,” said Jameson.

  “So you insure the locals?”

  “Mostly I insure the British army,” Jameson admitted, before adding, “God bless them.”

  “Their work is legendary,” replied Dilly.

  “It’s tough work,” added Jameson, standing. “Can I get you another sherry?”

  “No, thank you,” said Dilly. “I want to read my newspaper, if you don’t mind.”

  Jameson headed back to the bar and did not return. Dilly did not take her eye off him the whole trip. As they came closer to Liverpool, she went into the ladies’ room and got to work. First she scrubbed all the makeup off her face. Then she combed her hair tight and wound it into a bun. She opened her suitcase and took out her outfit, which she last used when she robbed the mail boat out in Kingstown. She slipped off her dress and pulled on her britches. She also wore a bulky sweater to cover up her bosom. Lastly, she pulled a cap over her hair and frowned at herself in the mirror. She was ready.

  Jameson had had his fill at the bar, and Dilly stuck close to him as he made his way to the London train. He rode in the first-class carriage, and so did Dilly. He dozed most of the way to his destination. At Euston Station, Jameson got off the train and hailed a cab. Dilly jumped in the next cab and said, “Follow that taxi!”

  “Bloody hell!” said the hackie. Dilly waved a ten-pound note under the cabbie’s nose. “Yes, sir!” came the reply.

  The cabbie was good at his game and damn near tailgated Jameson’s taxi. “Not so close,” barked Dilly in her deepest voice.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Jameson pulled up in front of Whitehall Place and entered Scotland Yard. Dilly didn’t get out. She gave the cabbie Artie O’Brien’s address and relaxed for the first time in nearly a day. Dilly knocked on O’Brien’s door, and Artie was surprised to see a young man in front of him. “Yes?” he asked, confused.

  “I’m Dilly Dicker,” she said. “Mick Collins gave me your address.”

  Dilly pulled off her cap, and O’Brien realized it was a very attractive young woman standing in front of him. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve heard Mick speak about you.”

  “You have?” asked Dilly, surprised.

  “Yes,” said Artie, “he says you’re a bonnie lass!”

  “I’m here to use your phone. I have to report back to Dublin.”

  O’Brien watched her with some bewilderment as Dilly waited for the long-distance connection to go through. “Mr. Kavanagh,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

  “Eoin, it’s Dilly.”

  “What have you got?”

  “He says his name is John Charles Byrne, and you can reach him at Whitehall-1212.”

  “Scotland Yard!” said both Eoin in Dublin and O’Brien as they recognized the famous phone number.

  “Good job!” added Eoin, and Dilly hung up the phone.

  “You should be more careful about whom you recommend to Mick Collins,” Dilly admonished O’Brien. “You’ve helped create a mess in Dublin.”

  Artie was the head of Sinn Féin in London, but London pulled no rank in Dublin. He was dumbfounded by this beautiful agent from Ireland. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “Get me a taxi,” said Dilly curtly. “So I can get back to Euston Station and get the hell out of this bloody country.”

  Fearing the wrath of Michael Collins, Artie O’Brien did exactly as he was told, praying that the taxi would arrive swiftly.

  83

  EOIN’S DIARY

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1920

  It’s a leap year, and Mick is leapin’ all over me today.

  “Have you seen these fookin’ hotel bills from New York?”

  I think Mick is cross with Dev, but he’s taking it out on me.

  “Have you seen these bills from Devoy in New York?” Mick repeated, now stuttering, as he got red in the face. “I can’t believe them!”

  John Devoy is a favorite of Mick’s. We’ve been getting a lot of mail from him since Dev went to America. I’d never heard of him before, and when I innocently inquired into who he was, I was berated by Mick for my ignorance. He informed me that Devoy was one of the greatest of the Fenians. He had fought in the uprising of 1867, did time in Kilmainham, and went to America, where he organized Clan na Gael into an organization that brought attention to the cause of Irish freedom. He also got Fenians out of an Australian penal colony on a daring rescue mission, employing an American ship called the Catalpa. As the Royal Navy bore down on the Catalpa, with the escaped Fenians on board, the captain hoisted the stars and stripes, frightening away the British. I think Mick likes Devoy so much because he is like an older version of Collins himself.

  “Ten thousand fookin’ dollars!” shouted the Minister for Finance. “He’s trying to bankrupt the Republic at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York!”

  I had to suppress a smile at all this. Mick is going daft trying to buy a few guns and bullets off a shady character like Jameson, and Dev is parading around America like a king. But there’s something about the names of the hotels that digs at Mick. His main target is the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, but the Copley Plaza in Boston, the Bellevue-Stratford in Philadelphia, the Blackstone in Chicago, and the Wardman Park in Washington, D.C., also get a rise out of him. “Isn’t a B&B good enough for the First Minister?” he asked me.

  “Well,” says I, innocently as I can, “he’s not the Príomh-Aire anymore. He’s now the august President of Ireland!” That’s how he had signed the register at the Waldorf upon his arrival in New York, which Devoy had duly informed us about. I loved that Dev had invented a new title for himself, and I knew just the mention of it would drive Mick to distraction.

  “He thinks he’s Brian fookin’ Boru,” said Mick, as he tossed the hotel bill into a pile of other American bills de Valera and Boland had run up.

  “What should we do with Dev’s bills?”

  “Pay them.” Mick picked up one of the bills again and ran his finger down the charges. “I see we’re paying for Kathleen O’Connell all these months.” I told Mick that Kathleen was only Dev’s secretary, and that he had a dirty mind. “Indeed I do,” he bragged. “With poor Mrs. de Valera slavin’ away, taking care of the kiddies out in Greystones, and Dev gallivanting around America. Maybe I should have a chat with Mrs. D and see if she’d like to join Dev in America? He’s already renting a suite big enough for ten.” Mick gave me a laugh and a devilish wink.

  It was getting too hot in the Harcourt Street offices, so Mick has rented another office at 22 Mary Street. This is where we now do most of the business of the National Loan. Like he had turned a page, Mick instantly forgot about Dev’s largess and turned to more deadly matters. “The British have been snooping around the banks,” said Mick. “I was in the Munster & Leinster Bank in Dame Street yesterday, and the manager told me his books had been summoned to the Police Court at Inns Quay by someone named Alan Bell.”

  “Wh
at does it mean?”

  “They’re beginning to examine the books. They’re looking for the National Loan money.” We have National Loan money hidden in bank accounts all over Ireland, and in England and America, too.

  “What can we do?”

  “Dead men don’t count,” snapped Mick at me. “Get a dossier on this fellow. The manager said he was in his mid-60s, so he’s been around. Check with Broy and Boynton. This takes priority—do you understand?”

  “Even over Jameson?”

  “Even over Jameson,” replied Collins. “After all the trouble I’ve gone through with this money, no old English bastard is going to snatch it away from me.”

  “Jameson is due back in Dublin tomorrow,” says I. “Joe Leonard and Charlie Dalton went over to England to tag him.”

  “Good move,” said Mick. “Make an appointment so I can meet with him on Monday.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous? This fellow works for Scotland Yard, maybe one of the British Secret Services. Maybe he’s a double-agent?”

  “Don’t be getting too excited about all that Scotland Yard stuff that Dilly discovered,” he said matter-of-factly. “He told us he was organizing the police into a union. Maybe that’s what he was doing there.”

  I just shook my head. Sometimes I think Mick is naïve, but I never think that for long. I think he secretly loves danger, whereas it terrifies me. I think Mick gets a rush from it. “Do not underestimate Jameson,” I finally cautioned. “Or I’ll be reading an oration over your grave at Glasnevin.”

  “I know that, for fook’s sake,” snapped Mick, looking at me with disgust. “But if he has some guns, maybe I can get them off of him before we send him on his way.”

  “We have our hands full,” I conceded, wondering what would happen next to gum up the works.

  “First Jameson,” said Mick, “now Bell. I don’t believe in coincidences. I bet these guys are connected somehow. You’re right. Whatever we do, we cannot let either of these men out of our sight.”