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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “Blood’s notebook. When I discovered Christy Harte was ‘vchrist’, I knew ‘williewick’ was Willie Dolan. Too many problems at the Wicklow Hotel.”

  “Yes,” said Collins, turning to Tobin. “Call up Paddy Daly and tell them to shoot Willie immediately.”

  The next morning, Willie Dolan was taking suitcases out of the boot of a taxi when Joe Leonard walked up behind him and dropped him with one shot to the head. Paddy Daly finished him off on the ground with another bullet, again to the head. Then Daly and Leonard mixed into the morning rush-hour crowd on Grafton Street as Dolan bled to death on the pavement.

  At Dublin Castle, Brendan Boynton heard the Sheik slam his phone into its cradle and then start pounding his desk with his fist. “Damn! Damn! Damn!” he heard Derek of Suez shout.

  “Sir,” said Boynton, “is there something wrong?”

  “Something wrong!” shouted Gough-Coxe. “Something wrong! Are you a fucking imbecile?” Boynton stood mute as Gough-Coxe plopped helplessly into his desk chair. “I’ve just lost Blood’s last contact with Collins.” Then he added, “We’re back to square one.” Gough-Coxe spun in his chair and stared out the window that overlooked one of the courtyards of the Castle. “This is the straw that broke the camel’s back,” he said. “Maybe this will get those politicians in London off their soft asses.”

  “Are they giving you trouble?” asked Boynton.

  “When Magistrate Bell was murdered, I pleaded with them for more help,” Gough-Coxe said. “I asked for some of the men who worked for me in the Middle East to be reassigned to Ireland. But they wouldn’t go for it.” The Sheik looked up and locked eyes with Boynton. “With this murder, maybe I’ll get my way.”

  “Your way?”

  “It’s about time some of my friends from Cairo joined me,” Gough-Coxe said, finally breaking a smile. “I think Michael Collins will enjoy these boyos.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re just like him—they don’t play by the rules.”

  “What’s bothering you?” Róisín finally asked.

  “Willie’s family,” said Eoin. “He had a wife and kids.”

  “Like Willie Dolan was worried about you and Collins and the rest of the lads in the Squad. Don’t believe all those human-interest stories they like to run in the Times about the poor ould ‘victims.’ ‘Victims,’ my arse!”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Róisín. You don’t have to set these guys up and then read the headlines.”

  “What are you more upset about? The informers or the headlines they create?”

  Eoin went to his attaché case and opened it. He took a piece of paper out of it and handed it to Róisín. “Read this.”

  She read the letter and then started laughing. “You’re jokin’!”

  “I am not.”

  “Willie Dolan’s wife asked for a pension for herself and the kiddies? What did Collins say?”

  “He gave it to her.”

  “He gave it to her! You’re kiddin’. He gave her a fookin’ pension?”

  “Mick said he didn’t want the family to know Willie was a snitch. He said, ‘The poor little devils need the money.’”

  “I’ll say this for Mick Collins,” Róisín said, grudgingly. “He’ll always surprise you.” Eoin plopped down on the sofa again, dejected. She put her arms around him and gave him a great hug. “You’ll be fine, Eoin. Mick will be fine. And Willie Dolan’s family will be fine.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because we’re growing a bizarre brand of revolutionary this year.” Eoin looked Róisín in the eye, and she gave him her dazzling smile.

  “You know, Róisín, this life is supposed to be about love, not hate and death. That’s what my parents taught me. What do I love? Ireland. Who do I love? My brothers and my sister. That’s it, and that’s not saying much.”

  “How about Mick?”

  “Yeah, Mick.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Eoin hesitated. “You—but I shouldn’t have told you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why? Because you’re a thick young Irishman?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I think we might make a match—eventually.”

  “You can do better than me.”

  “Of course I can, Eoin dear. But I think you might be worth the try.”

  “I’m liable to be dead by this time next year.”

  Róisín smiled and then said gently, “Mr. Fatalistic, that’s you.”

  “You can joke all you want, but it’s the truth.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Do you really think we could make a go of it?”

  “All depends,” said Róisín, “on what your definition of ‘go’ is!”

  Eoin chuckled. “You have a dirty mind!”

  “Just as dirty as yours.”

  “Can I stay the night?”

  “Yes,” Róisín teased, “but no tomfoolery.”

  “We’ve never had any tomfoolery,” Eoin said, exasperated. “In fact, I wouldn’t know tomfoolery if I tripped on it.”

  Róisín laughed. “Believe me, you’ll know tomfoolery when I perform it!”

  Eoin, for the moment, was glad he was alive.

  100

  We’re almost done with the National Loan,” Collins said to Eoin. They were going over the books in the Mary Street office. “I’ll have to write up a report for the Dáil shortly, but at least we can put this behind us and concentrate all our energy on intelligence.”

  “What should we say is the official final tally?”

  “Let’s mark it as £355,500.”

  “Impressive!” Eoin said, before adding slyly, “That should cover Dev’s American expenses.”

  Collins grunted. “I think of the Chief every goddamn day I do this bloody gruesome work.” He stood up and stretched. “The National Loan will certainly break my heart if anything ever will. I never imagined there would be so much cowardice, dishonesty, hedging, insincerity, and meanness in the world, as my experience of this work revealed.”

  “But you got the job done,” Eoin said. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Come on, Eoin,” Collins replied. “Let’s go for a walk. I got some interesting news from England this morning. I want to show you something.”

  They bounded out into Mary Street and walked in the direction of Nelson’s Pillar. They passed the burnt-out GPO and made the turn into Sackville Street. At Abbey Street, they passed the brand-new Eason’s Bookstore, which concealed the location of the Dump on the top floor, right on the corner. Standing in front of the building was a DMP on the beat. Eoin eyed him warily. As they went by the copper, he snapped off a sharp salute, which elicited a laugh out of Collins. “A queer thingeen!” he said to Eoin. They walked down the south side of the street, past the Abbey Theatre and into Beresford Place, where they stood in front of the bombed-out Liberty Hall. Collins surveyed the building, which looked like it just might fall down upon itself. “What a fookin’ mess,” he finally pronounced, then added, “God bless Jim Connolly.”

  Eoin was getting impatient. He hated standing around in the open, especially with the notorious Michael Collins. “You wanted to show me something?” he prompted.

  “Yes. We’re waiting for Fergus.” Eoin nodded, for he knew that “Fergus” was Dick McKee’s nickname. Passersby came and went, paying no attention to the Big Fella and his little friend. Finally, McKee showed up. “You’re late,” Collins chastised him.

  McKee gave him a look of desperation before saying, “I see you brought the Lieutenant along.”

  “Yeah,” said Collins. “We’re handing out officer commissions like communions on Easter Sunday morning.”

  Eoin was quiet for a moment, and then it hit him. “Lieutenant! What are you talking about?”

  “Congratulations,” said McKee with a laugh. “The Commandant-General thought you deserved a pay raise.”

  �
��But why?” asked Eoin. “I’ve never even drilled with the Second Battalion. I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it,” said Collins. “You’ve done everything I’ve ever asked of you—and more.” Collins, as he liked to do, immediately shifted gears. “Let’s go,” he said, and the three of them crossed to the Customs House and walked along the quay. “What are those reports from Limerick and Cork saying, Eoin?”

  “Irregulars have arrived and are brutalizing the citizenship.”

  “How are they dressed?”

  “Their uniforms are throw-togethers. They don’t match. Tunic and britches are different colors. They’re topped off with a Tam o’Shanter.”

  “And what are the citizens calling them?” demanded Collins.

  “The ‘Black and Tans,’” said Eoin and McKee in unison.

  “Let’s go meet them!”

  The three of them walked down the quay to the North Wall. There they saw the first Tans, destined for Dublin, disembarking from the channel boat. They were all business as they hopped into lorries. “Where are they going?” asked McKee.

  “The garrison in the Phoenix Park,” replied Eoin. “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

  “I want you to meet the enemy, Dick,” said Collins to McKee. “You are to do everything in your power to murder these bastards—before they murder us!”

  “A rough-looking crowd,” Eoin commented.

  “Fook ‘em,” Collins scoffed. “This is a present from the Prime Minister. Lloyd George has no idea what he has done. He’s put the match to the Irish dynamite. If you think the country’s united now, give these bastards six months, and the country will rise up and act as one!”

  “This,” said McKee, pensively, “isn’t going to be easy.”

  “No, it’s not,” replied Collins, “but your boys can handle them.”

  “They can, indeed,” McKee agreed, coldly.

  “Dick,” Eoin said suddenly, “how’s my brother Frank?”

  The question caught McKee by surprise. “He’s fine. I have him working in . . .”

  Eoin held up his hand. “I don’t want to know. God knows what Blood told the Sheik about Frank. The less I know, the better. Just as long as he’s alright.”

  “He is,” replied McKee.

  “Well, Dick, don’t let me hold you up,” said Collins, brusquely letting McKee know that he was finished with him. Dismissed, McKee spun and headed west along the quays towards O’Connell Bridge.

  “I better be getting back to Crow Street,” said Eoin.

  “Not yet,” Collins objected, and the two of them headed for Butt Bridge. They crossed over to Tara Street, along Brunswick Street, and around Westland Row until they found themselves in Baggot Street. They crossed the Grand Canal and entered Mespil Road, stopping in front of number five. “Batt O’Connor just acquired this place for me. No one—do you hear me?—no one is to know about this place, not even Tobin.”

  “But he’s my boss,” protested Eoin.

  “And I’m his boss,” shot back Collins. “I want you to know because you’ll have to meet me here once in a while with the daily intelligence brief. But this place must be kept a secret. I can’t get any work done with everyone wanting a piece of me. The finance department, Crow Street, IRB, IRA—they’re driving me daft. I need quiet so I can concentrate. That’s where this place comes in. Understood?” Eoin understood perfectly. “Fine,” said Collins. “Now you can go back to Crow Street.”

  And newly minted Lieutenant Eoin Kavanagh did exactly that, via Leeson Street and St. Stephen’s Green.

  101

  EOIN’S DIARY

  AUGUST 15, 1920

  Just got back to Dublin after a heart-wrenching twenty-four hours in Gorey, County Wexford. Captain Percival Lea Wilson is no more.

  I took the late train down there last night and was met by Mickey Coffey, who was my classmate at the Christian Brothers School in Synge Street when I was a lad. Mickey was the class poet, and all the neighborhood lassies were mad for him. We went to Coffey’s house and met up with dapper, mustachioed Seán Mellor, the local IRA commandant, and Big Neil O’Granger, some local IRA muscle who has a simple, homely mug that only a mother could love. The sight of the three did not fill me with confidence. I explained to them that Collins wanted them to do the job, since this was their territory. I didn’t tell them that Collins thought they were a bunch of slacking shites because things were too, too quiet in Wexford. The Commandant-General wants action.

  Wilson is now a district inspector for the RIC. He’s come a long way from that night in the Rotunda grounds when he made sport of humiliating Seán MacDiarmada and old Tom Clarke. The boys have been tracking him for months and have his routine down pat. I explained the set-up to them—that we’d work in two teams, two men apiece. Mellor and O’Grady will be the shooters, and Coffey and I will be the backup team, making sure no eager, pain-in-the-arse, innocent civilians come to Wilson’s rescue and interfere with the business of the shooters.

  Today dawned beautifully. We have an old Ford motorcar as a ruse and getaway vehicle. A local IRA lad, Rory, will be the driver. Wilson, who dresses in civilian clothes, walks from his RIC barracks every morning. We parked the car halfway on his route, near the railway station, and opened the bonnet to make it appear that we were having engine trouble. Rory poked around inside the engine as the rest of us kept an eye out for Wilson.

  Just before half-nine, the lads pointed him out about two blocks away. He was walking with an RIC man. “What if the constable gets in the way?” asked Coffey.

  I thought of how Collins would react, and I had no intention of being battered by Mick for being timid. “We’ll shoot both bastards,” I replied, and Coffey looked terrified.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered under his breath.

  Luckily for the RIC man, he left Wilson before they reached us. Wilson, however, continued right towards us, reading a newspaper as he walked, oblivious to everything around him. He was getting closer.

  “Is that him?” Mellor asked, wanting me to make the definitive identification. There was no doubt. The four years since the Rotunda had not improved Wilson’s looks.

  “That’s the bastard,” I confirmed. “He’s all yours.”

  Mellor and O’Granger immediately started walking towards Wilson. I pulled my Webley out of my pocket and got ready. Coffey looked on with his mouth open. “Get your gun out,” I told him, but he was stiff with fear. “Come on,” I said, more urgently. Coffey pulled his old Luger out and held it out in front of him. “By your side, you bloody eejit,” I hissed, and he lowered it by his pants’ leg. “Let’s go,” I said, and we started tracking the gunmen about ten yards behind the shooting team. My knees were stiff with apprehension. It didn’t help that Coffey had started reciting The Act of Contrition: “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee . . .” Coffey will need a Perfect Act of Contrition if he keeps this up, I thought. I knew there would be no contrition from Collins if we missed this bastard. There wasn’t another person in sight, thank God.

  “Captain Wilson,” Mellor called out, and Wilson looked up from his newspaper. O’Granger brought his gun shoulder-high and fired, hitting Wilson in the upper torso. Mellor shot and missed. He fired again and hit Wilson in the leg this time, blood spouting all over the street and splattering Mellor and O’Granger as they lowered their guns and observed their prey.

  Suddenly Wilson was up and limp-running down the street. “For fook’s sake,” I complained to Coffey. It looked like the son-of-a-bitch Wilson was heading right back to the RIC barracks. “Fook this,” I spit out, and ran at full speed towards Wilson, easily overtaking him. “Fook you, Wilson” I yelled. He turned to look at me, fright in his eyes. I shot once and hit him in the jaw, dropping him to the road. He was bleeding profusely, but he was still alive and alert. “You should have let me have that malted milk tablet,” I said. His eyes were wide, and I think that, with the mention of the malted milk tablet, he recognized me as the kid
in the Rotunda Garden. “That was for Tom Clarke,” I said. “This is for Seán MacDiarmada.” I pulled the trigger and hit him in the forehead. Then I bent down and shot him solidly in the back of his head. The job was done.

  The motorcar drove up, and the four of us piled in, buzzing by the barracks before anyone knew what had happened. “Good job,” I lied to the lads. We headed north, and I caught a province bus for Dublin.

  The bus pulled up to its terminus in Aston Quay, and I looked out the window to see what was going on. We were only a few blocks from the DMP barracks in Brunswick Street, and I could see that several of the G-men were watching the people getting off the buses from the country. I had my Webley in my attaché case, and I was tempted to get it out and put it in my jacket pocket. But I pulled my trilby hat over my eyes, adjusted my necktie, straightened my waistcoat smartly, and got off the bus like I did it every day. I walked right past the G-men and headed up Bedford Row and into Anglesea Street. Collins was right—you could get away with murder if you wore the right suit. I made my way to Grafton Street, turned right at the corner of Wicklow Street, and walked into the lobby of the Wicklow Hotel, now safe with the demise of Willie Dolan. I asked the new porter—a trusted IRB man this time—if the boss was around. He shot his eyes towards the back room. I didn’t even knock, I was so revved-up. Collins was inside with Joe Leonard.

  “How was Gorey?” asked Collins, anxiously.

  “Gory,” I replied. “But it’s done.”

  Mick slapped his hand on the table and crowed, “We got the bastard, Joe!”

  “I got the bastard,” I corrected, annoyed. “He almost got away.”

  “You’re sure he’s dead?” asked Collins.

  “Three in the head from me alone.”

  “Don’t waste bullets!” snapped Collins.

  I couldn’t believe he said that. I felt like a pricked balloon. “Fook you, Mick!” came out of my mouth. He had cut me to the quick.

  Mick got up from the table and came over to me. He embraced me, and my head fell onto his chest. “You did well, lad. Well.” It was his way of making up to me. “How were the Wexford lads?” he finally asked.