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

by Dermot McEvoy

  I don’t believe in coincidences, either. I think it’s time I carry me Webley with me at all times.

  84

  A knock came at the door of John Jameson’s room at the Gresham Hotel. He opened the door to see Liam Tobin standing on his threshold. “Michael Collins wants to see you immediately.”

  “Oh,” said Jameson, “I have to make a phone call before I leave.”

  “No call,” said Tobin. “Let’s get going, now.”

  There was a taxi waiting in Sackville Street for them, and it took a left at North Earl Street and headed in the direction of Amien Street Station. At Amien Street, it pulled up to the J&M Cleary public house. Tobin got out of the cab and held the door of the pub open so Jameson could enter. “Upstairs,” he said, and was right behind Jameson as he climbed the stairs to the private room on the second floor. Inside the room sat Collins, alone at the large round table in the middle of the room. Paddy Daly sat in a chair to the right of the fireplace.

  “Mr. Jameson,” said Collins.

  “General,” returned Jameson, as he shook hands.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” Collins said. “I just wanted to check to see when you’ll have my guns.”

  “I can deliver the revolvers tomorrow.”

  Collins looked surprised. “Grand man, ya are!” he said, with genuine delight.

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Liam here will contact you and tell you where to bring them,” said Collins. “Don’t leave your room at the Gresham. You’ll be hearing from us.” Jameson gave a small laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “Your mustache,” said Jameson. “It’s beginning to fill in.” Collins did look kind of ridiculous when he grew a mustache. “Are you trying to disguise yourself from the British?”

  This fellow doesn’t know when to shut up, thought Collins but simply said, “Not at ‘tal.” He grinned mischeviously before adding, “I do it for the ladies!” With that, he stood up and started showing Jameson to the door. “How much will it cost?” added Collins.

  “One hundred pounds should cover it.”

  “Cheaper by the pound,” Collins joked. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Collins closed the door on Jameson and turned to his two cohorts. “If this gobshite has any guns, take them and pay him for them. Let’s see what happens after that. Maybe you should put out a little milk for the cat, Liam,” said Collins mischievously. “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t know,” Tobin remarked, thoughtfully. “I wanted to meet him so I could get a feel for him. He’s as smooth as aged whiskey.”

  “And well-named, too,” said Collins with a laugh. “Let’s get the hell out of here in case he’s ambitious.” Soon Collins was on his clanker, heading in the direction of Vaughan’s. Daly headed for the Dump in Abbey Street, while Tobin decided to return to Crow Street to catch up on his intelligence work.

  John Jameson was walking down Talbot Street, heading in the direction of Sackville Street and his hotel. He could see Nelson’s imposing pillar right in front of him, dead ahead. He thought that the old one-armed, adulterous admiral would be proud of him and his seduction of Michael Collins. Jameson was beginning to enjoy Dublin City, and he walked leisurely, in no hurry. Charlie Dalton and Joe Leonard were in no hurry, either, as they discreetly tagged him from the opposite side of the street, under strict orders from Collins not to let Jameson out of their sight.

  85

  Brendan Boynton had a new desk mate. His name was Alan Bell, and he had been in and out of Ireland since the days of the Land League and Parnell. His specialty was catching Fenians. “I’ve outlived more Fenians than any man in the RIC,” he joked to Boynton.

  Bell was a dapper, jolly little man with a tightly trimmed white mustache and an affinity for bowler hats. He was so common, so benign-looking, but so dangerous. He looked like a grandfather or a favorite uncle, but he was the kind of poison the British had been putting in the Irish well for seven centuries. He had been brought to Dublin to find the National Loan money, but there was more to this fellow than being a bank examiner. Boynton noticed that Gough-Coxe seemed very reverential to Bell and often sought his advice on matters. The lines were blurring at Dublin Castle. All of a sudden, here was Bell, a Resident Magistrate, First Class, sharing a desk with G-division detectives. Something was awry here, Boynton knew, and it frightened him.

  The big office was now occupied by the new bossman, Gough-Coxe. He was very hands-on. He was beginning to reshape the G-division in his own image—he had brought new men in, mostly from the North, and he had shipped detectives out. If you didn’t cut the mustard, you might end up walking a beat in the arse-end of some misbegotten fishing village in Donegal. He would frequently come out to the bullpen area and check with his detectives. Of late, he was manic with anticipation, because he thought he had caught a sniff of the elusive Collins.

  “Gentlemen,” he told the detectives as they sat at their desks, “why can’t you find Collins? I will not rest until we get him. Getting Collins is the most important job this office is doing right now.” He paused and then resumed his tirade. “You are a bright lot! Not one of you has been able to get on to Collins’s track for a month. Is it clear to you yet? You were supposed to be looking, relentlessly, for Collins. You have been after him for months and never caught sight of him, while a new man, just over from England, met him and talked to him after just two days.”

  There was absolute quiet in the room, and Boynton wondered if they could hear his heart pounding away in his chest. “Resident Magistrate Bell,” said Gough-Coxe, pointing out his elderly colleague from England, “has an undercover agent who was in contact with Collins as recently as last evening.” Gough-Coxe surveyed the look of amazement on his detectives’ faces. “Our agent even reports that Mr. Collins is now wearing a mustache!

  “There is only one way we are going to get Collins—we have to hit the streets, ask questions, and pump up our touts. Collins is walking around Dublin every day—unmolested! Unmolested, do you hear me? Now get out of here. Get off your arses and hit the streets. NOW!”

  The room emptied in a matter of seconds. Boynton came out the side gate of the Castle and walked straight down Dame Lane, headed across South Great Georges Street, and went into the Stag’s Head. Silent Peadar Doherty was behind the stick, methodically shining glasses. Boynton leaned over the empty bar. “I need to get in touch with Eoin Kavanagh.” Doherty resisted his impulse to say, “Again?” He left the bar and went to the office in the basement. There, he called Eoin a block away in Crow Street and told him his young detective was looking for him again.

  Eoin arrived at the Stag’s Head within five minutes. The look on Boynton’s face told him that there was a disaster in the making. “Gough-Coxe says they have an agent who has been in contact with Collins within the last twenty-four hours,” Boynton began. “This guy is over from England. Works for a Resident Magistrate named Alan Bell, down from the North to find the National Loan money. They think they are close to both Mick and the money.”

  Eoin looked at Doherty and said, “What do you think, Peadar?”

  “You know what I think,” said the barman, a devoted IRB member and veteran of Easter Week.

  “We think alike,” replied Eoin calmly, adding a small smile.

  “Well,” said Boynton with some desperation, “what are you going to do?”

  “We’ll handle it.”

  “You don’t seem too concerned.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Be careful with this guy, whoever he is. I’m betting he’s MI-6. All of a sudden, everything is out of sync at the Castle. MI-6, Secret Service, Resident Magistrates, all milling about G-division. They’re upping the ante on Collins.”

  “We’ve graduated,” said Eoin.

  “From what?” asked Boynton.

  “From being harmless guttersnipe hooligans,” said Eoin. “We’ve gotten their attention.”

  “One other thing,” added Boynton. “Their ag
ent says that Collins is now wearing a mustache.”

  Eoin raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and then turned and walked out the front door without saying another word.

  86

  The Sheik knows Mick has a mustache.”

  Liam Tobin, looking more glum than usual, finally said, “Tell me more.”

  “Boynton says the Sheik was bragging that one of their Secret Service agents just over from England met Mick last night. The agent is being run by Resident Magistrate Alan Bell. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.”

  “Fucking Jameson.”

  “Fucking Bell,” said Eoin. “Mick will be delighted.”

  “Don’t bother with Bell for now. It’s Jameson who is the immediate threat. We have to neutralize him somehow.”

  “Do you really think he has the guns we need?”

  “My guess would be yes,” replied Tobin. “If he doesn’t have the guns, he knows we would drop him immediately—and he’d never get to Collins again.”

  “He’s not going to let us keep the guns—if he does, indeed, have them,” said Eoin. “If we meet him, he could be trying to trap us.”

  Tobin rubbed his lugubrious chin. “Why don’t we trap him?”

  “How?”

  “Easy,” said Tobin, as he picked up the phone and got the Gresham Hotel on the line. “Mr. Jameson,” said Tobin, easily. “Do you have the guns?” Tobin nodded to Eoin in the affirmative. “That’s grand. I have the money. Meet me at the New Ireland Assurance offices at 56 Bachelors Walk. That’s right on the corner of Sackville Street, in the building where Kapp & Peterson have their tobacconist shop. I’ll meet you there in a half-hour.” Tobin hung up the phone and said to Eoin, “Let’s go. Bring your gun.”

  They charged out of Crow Street and headed for the Ha’penny Bridge. They crossed the Liffey and headed straight towards Bachelors Walk. At number thirty-two, Tobin turned to Eoin and said, “Go up to the office and wait for me. I shouldn’t be long.” Eoin did as he was told. Tobin continued to the end of the quay and went up to the offices on the third floor. The New Ireland Assurance offices were another Collins front. They had been frequently raided, but there was nothing of importance there. Tobin pulled up a chair and waited for Jameson.

  Jameson was lugging a portmanteau of Webley revolvers down Sackville Street, and they were heavy. The leather case was so burdensome with the twenty guns that he never saw Joe Leonard and Paddy Daly trailing him. He led them to Bachelors Walk, and they let him enter number fifty-six. “Must be on his way to sell the guns to Liam,” Leonard observed, and Daly nodded in agreement.

  In the office, Jameson proudly opened his suitcase and showed the Webleys to Tobin. They were in mint condition, and Tobin was secretly delighted. He counted out the one hundred pounds and took the guns, placing them in a secret hiding place in the back of a broom closet.

  “They’ll be safe here,” he told Jameson.

  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” Jameson replied. “I hope I can be of assistance to General Collins in the future.”

  “The General,” said Tobin, “may want to meet with you later today. Will you be available?”

  “I will, indeed,” said Jameson. “I’m going back to the Gresham, and I’ll stick close to the phone for the rest of the day.”

  “Grand,” Tobin said. “I have some paperwork to do now, but I’ll relay your regards to General Collins.” With that, Jameson turned and left the office. Tobin listened as his steps descended to the street. He then went to the closet and retrieved the bag of guns. He dropped the three stories two steps at a time and rushed out into Bachelors Walk, turned right, and walked the few paces to number thirty-two. In seconds he was in Collins’s secret office. “Let’s hide these things,” he said to Eoin. The two of them moved a couch, and Eoin pulled up a secret trap door that had been built by Batt O’Connor for such a contingency. The guns fit snugly. They replaced the sofa. “Come on,” said Tobin, “—let’s see what happens next.”

  The two of them went out and headed back to the Ha’penny Bridge. When they got to the south side of the Liffey, they headed back towards Aston Quay, which gave them a panoramic view of all the buildings on Bachelors Walk. Tobin pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The two intelligence agents leaned on the parapet of the wall running off O’Connell Bridge. Eoin played with the balusters, trying to wedge his shoe into them. Neither man spoke as they kept an eye on number fifty-six.

  Forty-five minutes into their wait, two British army lorries pulled up, and the Tommies charged into the building.

  “The cat took the milk,” said Tobin.

  “And licked the saucer dry,” Eoin replied gleefully. “That’s the final nail in Jameson’s coffin.”

  “Let’s get back to the office,” Tobin decided. “I have to tell Mick to shave that bloody mustache off.”

  87

  At six o’clock, Collins met with Tobin, Eoin, Daly, and Leonard in the second-floor parlor of the Stag’s Head. He had just returned from a shave in Capel Street, and his upper lip was as pristine as a baby’s bottom. Tobin relayed the events of the day as Collins silently listened. “That’s it,” the Big Fellow finally said. “He’s got to go. Tonight.” He turned to Daly and Leonard. “Tell him I want to see him. Then take the shite out and shoot him.”

  “Should we leave a message?” asked Daly.

  “Pin a note on the shite,” said Collins. He paused, thinking, for a few seconds. “I think all of you did a terrific job on Jameson,” he praised them. “Our intelligence was superb from Dilly to Dublin Castle, to the work of Crow Street. The Squad did a great job keeping an eye on him. Now let’s finish it up. Let’s not fook it up at the last minute!”

  Collins got up and went on his way, but the other four men walked across the road to the office in Crow Street. Tobin picked up the phone and called Jameson at the Gresham Hotel. “General Collins wants to meet you tonight. He’ll send a car for you at eight o’clock.”

  “Vinny Byrne is tagging him,” said Paddy Daly. “I think the three of us can handle him without a backup team. We don’t want Jameson to get suspicious.”

  A taxi driven by a Volunteer pulled up in front of the Gresham Hotel, and Jameson came bounding out, full of good cheer. Leonard got out of the back seat and allowed Jameson to pop in. Daly was on the extreme left, and, when Leonard got back into the car, they made a nice sandwich out of Jameson. Vinny got into the front seat alongside the driver.

  “Great day, today,” Jameson said to Daly, whom he knew from his meeting with Collins in Amien Street. “I hope General Collins will put those guns to good use.” Just then, Joe Leonard began searching Jameson. “Gentlemen,” said Jameson with a chuckle, “I am unarmed.”

  “You won’t be seeing Mick Collins tonight,” said Daly. “Or ever again, for that matter.”

  “You have been found guilty of spying against Ireland,” said Leonard. “The sentence is death.”

  “Gentlemen,” protested Jameson, suddenly nervous. “There must be some misunderstanding. I’ve been helping General Collins. I delivered the guns to his agent this morning.”

  “And then you sent the British army to take them back,” replied Daly. Finally, there was silence as the motorcar headed up Parnell Square, past Vaughan’s, on their voyage north. Vinny Byrne drew his Mauser and held it steady on Jameson. “By the way,” said Daly, “Collins shaved his mustache off this afternoon.” Jameson realized that they had him. “Who are you working for in Dublin Castle?” asked Daly.

  There was no answer.

  “What branch of the Secret Service do you work for?”

  Again, there was no answer as the car sped into the dark Dublin night, on its way to a lonely cul-de-sac in Grangegorman. After another ten minutes, the car came to a dark spot and stopped. Vinny got out first and covered Jameson as he came out of the back seat. Both Daly and Leonard had their guns drawn as they led Jameson down a narrow path. “Say your prayers,” said Vinny.

  “I don’t beli
eve in God,” replied Jameson. “I was only doing my duty.”

  “As are we,” said Leonard.

  “I know,” replied Jameson, letting out a deep breath. “God bless the King. I would love to die for him.”

  With that, Vinny Byrne came around and shot him once in the right temple. Jameson dropped to his knees with a thud, as if in prayer, his eyes frozen open. Leonard came around and shot him right between his unseeing eyes. Daly made sure with a shot to the heart. Leonard then pinned a note to his coat:

  SPIES BEWARE!

  “Lucky bastard!” said Byrne.

  “Lucky?” asked Daly.

  “How many of us,” said Byrne, “get our dying wish fulfilled immediately?”

  “You’re a twisted one, ya are,” Leonard said, wryly.

  The three Squad members jumped back in the taxi and were driven home to the Dump, their filthy, but essential, work finished for another day.

  88

  John Jameson, aka John Charles Byrne, was found early the next morning by a man walking his dog. The “stop press” in the Irish Times proclaimed ATROCITY IN GRANGEGORMAN. Collins read the headline from the hand of the Blackpitts Terry O’Neill, known to one and all as “Black Terry” on his paper route, which stretched from the top of Grafton Street all the way to Parnell Square. Terry, stationed in front of Bewley’s Oriental Café in Westmoreland Street at high noon to catch the dinnertime crowds, was one of Collins’s army of urchin newsboys. They served Collins and his intelligence staff as touts, often pointing out and physically detouring Secret Service who patrolled the streets of Dublin. As he passed Black Terry, Collins was delighted that the Times had another one of their ATROCITY headlines, which they were so fond of. “Mr. Mick! Mr. Mick!” the twelve-year-old, red-haired, freckled kid yelled as Collins took a paper and gave the lad two bob. “Keep the change, Terry,” said Collins, as he laughed and patted the top of the newsboy’s Paddy-cap. “Me t’inks they’re having conniptions in D’Olier Street,” Terry said, referring to the location of the Times’ offices. “Just got out of the ‘Joy!” Terry proudly declared.