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

by Dermot McEvoy

  Fire shot into Collins’s eyes, and he roared, “The fookin’, thievin’ hoors! Do you know how many pounds the British have taken out of this island since the Act of Union went into effect in 1801? Over four hundred million fookin’ pounds!”

  “Jaysus,” breathed Mulcahy. “that’s almost half-a-billion pounds!”

  “A half-billion pounds,” emphasized Collins, “from one of the poorest fookin’ countries in the fookin’ British Empire.”

  “It’s financial rape!” added Daly.

  “This is not rape,” said the Minister for Finance, “this is sodomy—the out-and-out buggery of the Irish nation!” Eoin looked at Collins and suppressed a smile. “Speaking of buggers,” said Collins, without missing a beat, “what’s the situation with Magistrate Bell?”

  “We’re ready to go,” Daly said. “We’ve been tagging him all week. Friday morning will be the day, if you give the go-ahead.”

  “You have my permission,” said Collins, standing up. He was about to go out the door when he stopped and turned around. “Don’t disappoint me,” he warned. “Ring up Bell so loud that the sound will reverberate all the way to Dublin Castle.”

  92

  Friday, March 26, 1920, dawned bright with the promise of a beautiful early spring day. Magistrate First Class Alan Bell came out of his house in Monkstown and went in search of the tram that would take him to the city centre. As he waited with the other commuters, he didn’t notice Eoin Kavanagh waiting with him or Charlie Dalton sitting on his bicycle across the road. When the tram came along, Bell got on, as did Eoin, who immediately went upstairs and took a seat in the rear of the open-top. Dalton jumped on his bike and pedaled ahead of the tram, bringing the news, two stops forward. “He’s on the next tram,” Dalton confirmed to Daly, McDonnell, Byrne, and Tom Keogh.

  As the tram pushed along Simmonscourt Road in Ballsbridge, Eoin got up and disconnected it from its electrical line. Down below, the primary Squad team entered the cab and sought out Bell. He was sitting between two women, wheezing and coughing away from a spring cold. “Come on, Mr. Bell,” Daily announced. “Your time has come.” Daly and McDonnell grabbed Bell by each of his arms and pulled.

  “No, no,” said Bell. “You’ve got the wrong man! The wrong man!” Bell, with a strength that belied his years, pulled himself free from McDonnell’s grasp, grabbed a pole, and held on, literally, for dear life.

  “Come on, ya shite,” said Vinny Byrne, as he slammed Bell on the arm with his Mauser. Bell let go of the pole, and Daly and McDonnell pulled him, shoulders first, out into the road. Then Bell began kicking like a showhall chorus girl. He would not go quietly.

  “Look what they’re doing to the poor ould man,” exclaimed one of the female passengers who had been sitting next to Bell. “Well, come on!” she told the other passengers in the cab. “It’s our moral duty to help the poor man!”

  Eoin came down the back stairs of the tram, his Webley in hand. Two women and a man were about to go to the rescue of Alan Bell. Eoin held the gun out in front of him, easy for all to see. It was important for them to see the gun, because then they always remembered the weapon, not the face of the man holding it. “Mind your own bloody business!” Eoin snapped. “Sit down, or you’ll need coppers for your eyes!” The rescue party moved tentatively backward. Joe Leonard, gun in plain sight, hopped on the tram and shouted, “Move! Now!” The three shrunk back into their seats. “God bless us, save us!” intoned the man as he made the Sign of the Cross and then blessed himself again to be sure.

  Bell was still fraying about, trying to kick his abductors. Byrne had had enough. He took one shot and hit Bell right in the bollocks, blood flooding onto the street. Bell screamed and hopped about as he grabbed his groin with both hands. “You castrated me!” he screamed.

  “That’s the least of your problems,” Daly said, as he shot him in the chest, which drove Bell to the ground. McDonnell came from behind, stuck his Colt under Bell’s chin, and pulled the trigger, the bullet exploding out of the top of Bell’s head. Keogh made sure he was dead with one more head-shot.

  “Let’s go!” shouted Daly to both teams. The two teams, eight in all, started run-walking back to the city centre. Here they were, out in the open, with no means of escape except their legs.

  “Break up,” said McDonnell to the men. “Go your separate ways. Scoot!”

  Eoin found himself on a solitary walk back to the city, moving as fast as he could, trying not to draw suspicion to himself. As he got closer to the Grand Canal, he saw ambulances coming from St. Vincent’s Hospital, charging out Ballsbridge way. Then the Crossley tenders came bolting from the city, full of Tommies.

  Eoin felt bad that he’d had to shout at the passengers to keep them in line, but there was no other way. He smiled as he thought of the man blessing himself, which he knew would surely amuse Róisín. But mostly he was surprised how innocuous-looking Alan Bell had been. Here was a man who had been gumming up the works of the Fenians for over forty years, and he could have passed for an ordinary haberdashery clerk. But he was anything but ordinary. His man Jameson had gotten close to Collins, and Bell himself had sniffed out the National Loan. But Eoin was surprised at the fuss Bell made at the end. He had been expecting the famous British “stiff upper lip,” but the little man only displayed sheer panic. And Eoin was surprised with himself—surprised that he had taken such keen satisfaction when Vinny gelded Bell, causing a bloody mess. Eoin smiled as he crossed the Grand Canal into the city, for he knew that Alan Bell’s Spotted Dick would be on the menu that night at Dublin Castle.

  93

  Boynton was showing Gough-Coxe what he had found out about Eoin Kavanagh. They were going over Eoin’s arrest card from Easter Week. The fingerprints were still pristine. “Where are the mug shots?” the Sheik asked.

  “No mug shots,” replied Boynton. “Things were so rushed and chaotic that week that few, if any, of the rebels were photographed.”

  “Bloody bad luck,” Gough-Coxe sighed.

  Broy had left his office in Brunswick Street and walked the several blocks to Nassau Street, where he would pick Alan Bell up near Grafton Street. Bell was usually on the nine o’clock tram, and then the two of them would walk over to Dublin Castle, via Dame Lane, favored by both the British and the rebels because of its anonymity. But there was no number-eight tram from Dalkey this morning. After waiting half an hour, Broy discovered that there were no number-eight trams coming through at all. Then it hit him. This must have been Magistrate Bell’s morning. Collins purposely didn’t tell Broy and Boynton what he was up to. Collins kept to his own time schedule; everybody else adjusted. Broy was suddenly filled with joy—and fear. He realized that he would be the one bringing the bad news to the Sheik up at the Castle.

  “What we need is a photograph of this boy,” Gough-Coxe said.

  What you need, thought Boynton, is a photograph of bloody Michael Collins.

  Just then, Broy busted in the door. He was in a huff. Gough-Coxe took one look and said, “Where’s Magistrate Bell?”

  “There are no number-eight trams this morning,” Broy said, breathless. “Something must have happened.”

  Gough-Coxe stood up and began pacing. Not a word was spoken between the three men. The Sheik picked up the receiver on his telephone and then replaced it with a sigh. There was really no one to call. He would just have to wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The phone soon rang. “Yes,” he answered and listened for a moment. “Thank you,” he replied, as he slowly replaced the receiver into its cradle. He looked up at the two G-men. “Alan Bell was murdered this morning out in Ballsbridge. He was pulled off the tram by fifteen or twenty men and murdered in the street.” After pausing for a few seconds, he added, “This is a disaster for us. First Jameson, then his handler Bell.”

  Boynton held up Eoin’s fingerprint card from Richmond Barracks. “About young Kavanagh,” he said.

  “Fuck young Kavanagh!” snapped Gough-Coxe. “We don’t have time t
o dance around Dublin looking for some kid who may or may not know where Michael Collins is. We are in a very precarious situation here. We are at the tipping point. London has no clue how bad the situation is here. We need more help. The Auxiliaries are arriving, but we need more. We need intelligence help. This Collins is not your typical Fenian—he’s good at what he does!”

  Gough-Coxe called his secretary into the room. “Get me a reservation on the mail boat this evening. I have to travel to London to straighten this mess out.”

  Boynton slid Eoin Kavanagh’s fingerprint card back into its folder. Collins had been right about Bell’s demise. Young Kavanagh wasn’t important to the Sheik anymore. What was important was Michael Collins—and only Michael Collins. And Gough-Coxe knew that he would never catch Collins using only the G-division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. He had to convince London that it was now time to bring in the cream of the British Secret Service from throughout the empire. He hated to admit it, but the Cork farm boy was more than he could handle.

  94

  EOIN’S DIARY

  Ilet meself into Róisín’s flat in Walworth Road and sat down at the tiny kitchen table. Out of me pocket, I retrieved both of Sebastian Blood’s notebooks, collected by the Squad at the Volta Cinema and meself the day of his execution. Blood was not a great note-taker. Mostly there were scribbles about the Kavanagh family and the notation, “Eoin/missing son.” That, for some reason, made me smile. I keep going through these books because I think I’m missing something. The notes are so rudimental that I’m wondering what kind of detective Blood really was. He was either fookin’ brilliant, or he was a dunce. My gut tells me that Blood could not have cut the Colman’s at Crow Street. There’s nothing in them, except for one quizzical notation: “williewick.”

  What the fook is a williewick?

  Also on the same page was the entry “vchrist.”

  Williewick and vchrist.

  Something to do with candles and church?

  I was just sitting there looking at the books when Róisín let herself in, just off work. “Jaysus!” she exclaimed. “You gave me an awful fright!” She punched me playfully in the shoulder and added, “Don’t scare me like that! What are you doing?” I don’t stay with Róisín that often. I find it safer to keep moving. Last night I slept at Dr. Gogarty’s over in Ely Place; tomorrow it will probably be the Bartleys up in Phibsborough. And there’s always the couch over in Bachelors Walk.

  I told her I was trying to figure out what a “williewick” was. She blurted out, “Isn’t that the thing between your legs?”

  I looked up and shook my head. “You have a durty mind,” I said to her. “Do you know what a ‘vchrist’ is?”

  “Maybe a victory for Christ?” Róisín suggested. “Maybe playing with your williewick is somehow a victory for Christ.”

  “You’re a big help,” I told her.

  “Williewick,” she whispered in my left ear, then did the same into my right ear, adding a diabolical laugh.

  Now my willie was getting hard. “Róisín,” says I. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  “I do, indeed!”

  “You’re a terrible tease,” I acccused, as I stood up from the table and pushed her against the sink. I ground my hips into hers, and she could feel my banger. “I’m hungry,” I said.

  “A fry-up?”

  “How about bangers and mash?”

  She laughed and pushed me away. “You know the rules.”

  “No tomfoolery.”

  “No tomfoolery,” she confirmed. “Not yet, anyway.”

  She guided me back to the table and Blood’s two notebooks. I looked down at the pages. “Williewick” still didn’t mean anything to me. Róisín threw her black frying pan on the stove and pulled some sausages from a cooler box on the windowsill. “Eoin,” says she. I turned and saw she was holding a banger by its tip, letting it hang out for me to see all its glory.

  “That’s about the size of it,” says I.

  “You wish!” Róisín said, laughing. She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom, where I knew my frustration would continue to grow—Blood’s “williewick” now driving me mad at both ends.

  95

  Eoin’s diaries were having an effect on Diane and Johnny’s relationship. The more brutal 1920 became, the less they spoke to each other. Their long marriage was often like that—quiet. While Johnny was writing, he was often uncommunicative, stuck in his book for long periods of time. Diane had come to accept the behavior of her husband, which she noticed he had inherited from his grandmother, Róisín. Diane knew Roisin during only the last decade of her life, but she was writing and publishing books—and causing controversy—until the day she passed.

  “Is there any good news coming out of those diaries?” asked Diane, as the two of them sat in their Dalkey living room watching the RTE news.

  “Good news!” said Johnny. “Mayor Walker has returned to America, and, thanks to Grandpa, he has a job.”

  Diane brightened. “Now that’s what I want to hear! I do like Mayor Walker.”

  “So did Grandma,” said Johnny. “I think Grandpa could have stayed away from Jimmy Walker, but Róisín insisted he get him a job.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Well, they were living at 45 Christopher Street, and, according to the diary, one Sunday night, Grandpa went out to get the Daily News at eight o’clock in the evening and bumped into Jimmy as he was hailing a cab to take him home.”

  Walker was returning from the Tamawa Democratic Club that Carmine De Sapio had just opened on Seventh Avenue South. “Mr. Mayor!” said a surprised Eoin.

  “Congressman Kavanagh!” returned Walker, genuinely happy to see the person who had issued him his walking papers.

  “What are you doing down here in sinful Greenwich Village? I heard you were strictly an uptown man since your return from Europe.”

  “Sinister Carmine,” laughed Jimmy, “wanted me to launch his new club with a speech to inspire.”

  “Thinking of making a comeback?” nudged Eoin.

  “You never can tell!”

  Eoin grabbed Walker by the elbow and walked him across Grove Street to Jack Delaney’s saloon, a former speakeasy. “I’m calling Róisín,” Eoin declared, and, five minutes later, the three of them were bellying up to the bar.

  “Mr. Mayor!” said Róisín, as she kissed Walker on his cheek.

  “My lovely Róisín,” charmed the Mayor, “you get more beautiful by the year!” Walker took her hand and kissed it, and Róisín blushed in his admiration.

  “Funny,” intoned Eoin, “when I say that kind of stuff to her, she wants to know what I did wrong!”

  Walker laughed. “Well, Eoin, everyone knows the sins of Jimmy Walker!” Walker, of course, was right. He had returned to New York in 1935, when the Justice Department decided they had nothing on him. He and his new wife, Betty, had tried many business schemes and had come up short. “For a guy who was supposed to have stolen City Hall,” said Walker, “I’m flat broke.”

  “Have you heard from the president?” asked Eoin.

  “Not a whisper.”

  “Well,” Eoin said, “he told me he was delighted by your defense of him against grumpy Al Smith during last year’s election.”

  “The president could have called Jimmy,” insisted Róisín.

  “Busy man, the president,” added Walker. The Mayor finished his drink and put on his hat. “I have to get going.”

  “It was great seeing you again, Jimmy,” said Eoin.

  “Pass my regards on to the president,” Walker replied.

  “Will you and Betty come down to dinner at our home?” asked Róisín.

  “I will, indeed,” Walker agreed. “If your cooking can match your beauty, it will be a gourmet feast!”

  “Where’d you find that shovel, Mr. Mayor?” Eoin teased, and the three of them roared.

  Walker made his way to the door, glad-handing patrons on his way out. “He’s one
of a kind,” Eoin remarked.

  “Why don’t you ask FDR if he has a job for Jimmy?” pushed Róisín.

  “You never give up, do you?” responded Eoin.

  But knowing that the motto, “Happy Wife, Happy Life,” was true, he did ask FDR the first chance he got. “I’ll see what I can do,” said the president. “Maybe Fiorello has something for him.”

  “Why would Mayor LaGuardia want to help Jimmy Walker?” asked Eoin of the president.

  “Because, Congressman, he’s Jimmy Walker!”

  Eoin arranged for Walker to meet the president and then brokered a meeting with LaGuardia. As Walker emerged from his meeting with the Little Flower, reporters asked what they had talked about. “We were trying to find out if Diogenes was on the level!” replied Beau James.

  And it wasn’t long until LaGuardia came up with a job: “Czar” of Industrial and Labor Relations in the Women’s Coat-and-Suit Industry, one of New York’s signature commerces. FDR signed off, and Walker found himself making a cool $25,000 a year. Not bad in 1938. Asked exactly what he did in his new job, Jimmy quipped, “They are always buttonholing me!”

  “That’s a wonderful story,” Diane marveled.

  “Jimmy Walker must have been quite a guy,” Johnny agreed. “Even his enemies loved him. They figured he did his penance, so why not reward him?”

  “Róisín could be quite feisty, I see,” said Diane.

  “Eoin and Róisín were separate moons, rotating around the same planet,” said Johnny.

  “In what way?”

  “Well,” Johnny explained, “even as a kid, when I moved in with them, they led separate lives. Grandpa would be in Washington, and Grandma would be writing books in New York and running salons for all her crazy women friends.”

  “Watch your step, Mr. Kavanagh!” warned Diane.

  “Well,” said Johnny, “they were all crazy. It was a Who’s Who of the feminist movement running through that apartment. Half of them thought I had no right to live there!”