I didn’t want to get them in trouble, but I had to be honest with Mick. “Next time, send the full Squad.” Collins nodded that he understood. He looked down at the cuffs of my trousers, which were covered in Wilson’s blood.
“You’ve blood on your trousers,” he noted. I could hardly see it against the dark blue material. It was pure luck that I had escaped from the G-men over on the quay. “Go over to Fallon’s and get yourself a new suit. On me.”
And that’s what Captain Percival Lea Wilson’s death was worth to the Republic. A new suit from Thomas Fallon & Company, Republican haberdashers, over in Mary Street.
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“Eggs!” shouted the Sheik.
“Eggs?” replied a confused Brendan Boynton.
“Eggs! He can’t pronounce eggs!”
“Who can’t pronounce eggs?” put in Ned Broy.
“Collins!”
“Who told you that?” asked Boynton.
“Willie Dolan.”
“You mean the late Willie Dolan, don’t you?” highlighted Broy.
“I wonder why Collins can’t pronounce ‘eggs’” Boynton remarked. “Maybe . . .”
“Maybe he’s an eejit,” cut in Broy, just in time. Boynton was about to let slip that maybe the gap between Collins’s two front teeth was the reason the Big Fellow had trouble pronouncing “eggs.” With that precious piece of information, Broy was sure that the British army would be going around saying, “Smile!” to every male in Dublin.
“What are you two doing here?” demanded Gough-Coxe.
“We have a gift for you.”
“What?”
“How about a photograph of Michael Collins?”
Broy threw the photograph on the desk in front of Gough-Coxe. The Sheik scanned it. “Eamon de Valera, Arthur Griffith, Count Horace Plunkett,” he said, rattling off names, strutting his expertise. “Which one is Collins?”
Broy put his right index finger under the chin of the Minister for Finance. “That’s the hoor,” he said. “Right next to Cathal Brugha.”
“Sonofabitch!” Gough-Coxe exclaimed, and Boynton looked on in silent amusement.
“God, this is a tremendous coup,” Gough-Coxe marveled. Then he laughed. “He even looks like a thug!”
Little did he know that he had just been hoodwinked by what Liam Tobin called “a bit of Crow Street prestidigitation.” The Sheik had been after Broy and Boynton to come up with a photograph of Collins for weeks. Tobin and Eoin decided that it was safe to let them see a photo of members of the first Dáil. They already knew what de Valera, Plunkett, Griffith, Brugha, and the rest of the big shots looked like. What made this photo so appealing was that Collins was at his chameleon best—mouth shut, lips scowling, head cocked to the left. The photo revealed nothing—except what a superb actor Collins could be when he wanted to be. Tobin, Eoin, and Collins all agreed the photograph would make for a grand detour for the British.
“Let’s get copies made, pronto,” said Gough-Coxe, all of a sudden filled with good humor. “Great job, men,” he added. “Now it’s only a matter of time until this Fenian shit is dead. His time is limited.”
Standing in front of the Sheik, both Broy and Boynton thought exactly the same thing: But not as limited as yours.
103
EOIN’S DIARY
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1920
Something is going on. Mick has restricted me from the Squad indefinitely and assigned me exclusively to Crow Street.
It’s been a tough month for us. On the twelfth, Lord Mayor Terence MacSwiney was arrested. He’s presently in Brixton Prison in England and has started on a hunger strike. It’s obvious that Mick’s very concerned about his fellow Corkman. And just last week, the British introduced the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act. Already the good citizens of Dublin’s fair city are referring to it as the “Coercion Act.” Now the newly arrived Tans and Auxiliaries are beginning to flex their muscle around Dublin. The Tans have taken to shooting up the Dardanelles daily. They are sending a message, and Mick has heard it loud and clear.
McKee is trying to find a strategy to deal with the Tans, but Mick doesn’t seem to care that much. He is most concerned about the agents that the Sheik has started importing from the Middle East. We have started to refer to them as “The Cairo Gang,” and by happenstance, they like to hang out at the Cairo Café at the top of Grafton Street. It might be a coincidence, but Mick doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he thinks they are doing this to flaunt and jeer at us.
Tobin has me checking the manifest of every boat that has arrived in Dublin during the month of August. Charlie Dalton and I have been checking the registration cards of Dublin hotels that have guests over from England and who are planning on an extended stay. Tobin has even started to tag the Sheik, when he is not at the Castle under the watchful eyes of our own G-men.
As I was giving Mick his intelligence briefing tonight in Mespil Road, he said to me, “They are getting close, Eoin.” He paused for a minute, and I could feel the terror in the pit of my stomach. “But we are getting close, too.”
I think this is the battle Mick has been planning for the last four years. It’s going to come down to him and the Sheik. Funnily enough, it kind of reminds me of those American Cowboy & Injun movies that are so popular over here. I went to see one with Róisín last week at that cinema in Camden Street, just around the corner from the house I was born in. Somehow I always find myself rooting for the Injuns, because they are the underdogs. It was their land, and the Yanks went in and stole it from them—just like the British did to us.
Well, the British cavalry has arrived in Dublin in the guise of the Tans, the Auxies, and the Cairo Gang, and I’m waiting to see just how crazy our own Crazy Horse, Michael Collins, TD, will be when the conclave finally convenes.
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Spokes!”
Derek of Suez had become obsessed with the reinvention of the wheel. “Work backwards” was obviously last month’s mantra. He had convinced himself that the secret to the capture of Collins laid in the structure of the bicycle wheel. Collins was at the hub, and all spokes led to the elusive Minister for Finance.
Boynton’s spokes—along with Eoin Kavanagh—included Dan Breen. Broy’s was Seán Treacy. Each G-man had been assigned several rebels, and their jobs were to bring rebel heads on a platter to Derek Gough-Coxe at Dublin Castle.
“I will not be defeated by Collins,” the Sheik told his detective minions softly. “I have had it up to here,” he continued, “and I will not be made a fool of by Collins, McKee, Mulcahy, Breen, Treacy, and the rest of the murdering lot.” He paused, before adding, “We are getting close again. Our reinforcements have arrived, and more help arrives from the Middle East by the day.”
Collins was most interested in this Middle Eastern help, and he had both Boynton and Broy monitoring how Gough-Coxe was orchestrating his special agents. All information was passed onto Liam Tobin, who had it counter-checked against the data that Eoin and Charlie Dalton had collected at hotels and rooming houses around the city. Boynton and Broy could see the stress on Gough-Coxe—his face had broken out in a rash. Bell’s assassination still tormented the Sheik, because it had basically put an end to his search for the National Loan. Collins had been right—bank examiners in both Britain and Belfast had not been lining up to come to Dublin to look at the books. Alan Bell’s corpse revealed their unhealthy future. The Loan was history to Gough-Coxe, but getting Collins would make everything right.
Now the Sheik was concentrating on certain fugitives from the country who were close to Collins. And none were closer than Breen and Treacy. Their reputations on the streets of Dublin had strangely protected them, for the Tans and the G-men knew that the Tipperary duo, the heroes of Soloheadbeg, were armed and had no intention of being taken alive. They would fight to the end, and certain G-men were rethinking just how important their pensions were to them. Boynton had Breen’s pug of a face taped to the wall in front of him. Through Eoin, Boynton had been abl
e to warn Breen away from certain “safe” houses that were about to be raided. Broy had warned Treacy, through Eoin, to get rid of his high riding boots, but Seán had resisted, because he was so fond of them. It was things like boots and the way Collins pronounced “eggs” that the British were counting on and that, by the day, brought them closer and closer to the fugitive rebels.
“Your spokes will lead you to Collins,” the Sheik had reassured. What he didn’t realize is that spokes could work both ways. For Collins was now concentrated on the Sheik’s spokes, which were leading him to the most dangerous men in Ireland: the elite of the British Secret Service, Derek Gough-Coxe’s Cairo Gang.
105
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1920
It was to be a busy day for the University College Dublin student. He was up early cramming for his pre-med exam at UCD that afternoon. After mass, he met up with a few of the lads in Bolton Street and was briefed on their raid, which was to take place outside Monks’ Bakery on North King Street. They had done this many times before, and there shouldn’t be any trouble pulling this one off. They knew a lorry full of British troops stopped by the bakery every day to bring bread back to their base in Collinstown. Today, members of Auxiliary C Company of the First Battalion of the Dublin Brigade would relieve them of their weapons. What could go wrong?
Everyone was in position when the troop truck arrived. Instead of a swift lift-and-retreat, a firefight broke out. The UCD student was firing away with his .38 when the gun jammed. He managed to unjam it and continued firing, only for the Parabellum to jam again. The fire was heavy, and the young man hit the deck and crawled underneath a nearby lorry for cover. He was so preoccupied with his faulty gun that he did not see the rest of IRA lads retreat. The next thing he heard was someone shouting, “There’s a man under the lorry!”
The game was up. The British had their man—an eighteen-year-old Volunteer named Kevin Barry.
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After Collins, Dan Breen was the most wanted man in Ireland. Unfortunately for Breen, he had none of the chameleon-like qualities of the Big Fellow. While Collins could physically be all things to all people, Breen was terrifyingly distinctive: five-foot-seven inches tall, over twelve stone, and with a block of a head that could not be mistaken for anyone else in any part of the world. His “wanted” poster was in every government office in Dublin, touting his “sulky bulldog appearance.” It had gotten too hot for Breen in Tipperary, and he hoped the relative bigness of Dublin could save him. The G-men, the Tans, the Auxies, and the local Tipperary RIC patrolled Dublin in search of Breen and his buddy, Seán Treacy. For these two rebels, there would be no arrest and detention. Their warrants read DOA.
Breen was leading the typical life of an “on-the-run” rebel—a different, strange bed every night, which guaranteed only a half-sleep as the eyes closed and the ears stayed on alert, a loaded revolver sleeping on the chest. Breen’s life on the run was more difficult than that of Collins or Eoin. At least they had friends and family in the city whom they could rely on. Collins also had many offices that could offer a couch when the pinch was on. For Breen, it was one strange bed after another, night.
Of all the rebels Eoin dealt with, the only one who frightened him was Breen. He was a great rebel, but Eoin hated being seen in public with the second-most-wanted man in Ireland. Collins would often have Eoin meet Breen, to give him either orders or money. They would usually meet up in pubs around the city; the Stag’s Head one time, and Kirwan’s, Collins’s “Joint Number Two,” on Parnell Street at other times. Another favorite of Breen’s was Shanahan’s on Foley Street in Monto, Dublin’s red-light district, Nighttown.
On Eoin’s nineteenth birthday—October 10, 1920—he was sitting in Shanahan’s with Breen when a couple of DMPs stepped into the pub for a midday drink. Eoin reached into his coat pocket to get ahold of his Webley, but Breen slowly put his hand on Eoin’s arm to calm him. Both rebels looked straight ahead, their eyes steady on their drinks.
The coppers placed their spiked helmets on the bar and ordered a couple of pints of Guinness. One then turned to the two rebels. “Is that me bould Dan Breen?” Breen, who had his hand in his own gun pocket, smiled tightly. “Well, what sort of a gun are you using at present?” the cop insisted.
“I like the Colt best of all,” said Breen, as he pulled the gun out of his pocket for show.
The DMP nodded. “You’re in luck, then; these will suit,” he replied, pulling bullets out of his tunic and dropping them on the bar.
“Thanks,” Breen said, as he scooped them up and put them in his trouser pocket.
“I have to be going,” Eoin said, standing up, but keeping his eyes glued on the two policemen. He headed for the door.
“Young man,” the DMP called out, and Eoin froze in his tracks and slowly turned around. “Say hello to the Big Fellow for me.”
Eoin stared at the copper and realized it was the same one who had saluted Collins in front of the Dump on Abbey Street. Eoin nodded and then slipped out the door. He had a rendezvous with Róisín to celebrate his birthday and was looking forward to an evening away from revolution in her quiet flat on Walworth Road. It would be the last quiet night the two of them would enjoy for the next two months.
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EOIN’S DIARY
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1920.
It’s been a murderous two days.
After meeting Breen on Sunday, I spent the day with Róisín as we quietly celebrated my birthday. We had a few drinks at the Stag’s Head, picked up some grub at the local chippers, and spent the rest of the night at Róisín’s place. I was expecting big things after we got through with the cod. I thought that maybe Róisín might give me a special present on my nineteenth birthday, but it was all a cod—the cold kind. There was no tomfoolery of any kind. Róisín said it was her time of the month, and that I was lucky that she shared her fish and chips with me. I am mystified by Róisín’s behavior. One day she’s hot, the next day she’s not. As for me, I am always hot. I just don’t understand women. Happy Birthday to me!
I left her in the morning, picked up the papers, and headed over to Crow Street. I got there just after half-six, and Liam Tobin was already on station. I knew something was wrong.
“Breen’s been shot,” was the first thing he said to me.
I put the papers down on my desk and took a quick look. There was no STOP PRESS. “Nothing here,” says I.
“It was late, after curfew.”
“How’s Dan?” Tobin was quiet, which disturbed me. I was forced to pop the awful question. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” replied Liam. “He’s badly shot up. He was with Treacy, but there’s no sign of Seán. Maybe the British have him. Breen’s in a safe house on the North Side. If we don’t get him into a hospital soon, he’s going to die.”
“The Mater Misericordiae.”
“You’d better have a word with your girl.”
Róisín’s shift started at eight o’clock, so, at half-seven, I waited for her to come out of South Great Georges Street on her bicycle. She was right on time and was shocked to see me standing on the corner of Temple Lane, waiting for her. I pulled her into the alley, and we huddled in front of my Aunt Nellie’s house. I cut to the chase. “Breen’s been shot up. He’s badly wounded. We’re going to get him into the Mater somehow. Be on your toes.” Róisín didn’t say a word—she just gave me a very serious, wet kiss.
Just then the door to my aunt’s house opened, and me first cousin Richard Gallagher stepped into the lane. He took one look at Róisín and me, and his eyes grew large. I didn’t say a word to Róisín—I just gave her the high sign, and she hopped back on her bike and continued up Dame Street without saying a word.
“How are you, Richard?” Richard was one of those names that kept reoccurring in the family. The original Richard Conway was our grandfather, who died before I was born. He was a talented cabinetmaker, my Mammy told me. And Mammy said that her daddy taught her how to be a French polisher, fini
shing off his workmanship. It seems furniture was the Conway family business. My Mammy loved her daddy and called our youngest brother Dickie, after her dead father. And Aunt Nellie added to the Richards with her own son. But Richard Gallagher was always “Richard,” never “Dick” or “Dickie.” He was a couple of years younger than me, but he was already much taller and gangly. A really handsome boy, the lassies would say.
“How are you?” Richard asked me. He really wanted to know how I was doing in the IRA.
“The usual,” I replied, noncommittally.
“I really want to join, you know?” I stood mute. “I want to die for Ireland.”
I looked at him like he was daft. “I don’t,” I replied.
“But me daddy won’t let me.”
“Die for Ireland?” He nodded. “Your daddy is right.”
Richard stood there awkwardly, and I wondered what was going through his head. He had the body of a man and the mind of a child. He was having a childhood crush on ould Cathleen Ní Houlihan. Hide the Yeats and save the child. I knew the feeling, and I felt sorry for him. He has no idea what’s going on in the streets of Dublin. Our odd conversation was interrupted by the honking of an automobile horn. I looked around, and it was McKee, motioning to me to get into the car. “Richard,” I said, “I gotta go.”
There were several Volunteers in the car, including Charlie Dalton. “We’ve got to move Dan and get him to hospital,” McKee said, and I immediately knew it would be a tricky job. As I got into the car, I watched Richard solitarily walking down Temple Lane, in the direction of the Liffey. Maybe, I thought, he’ll find another way to serve Ireland.
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 34
