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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “Got it,” said Eoin.

  Collins got up from his chair and began to recite:

  “One: Number 28 Upper Pembroke Street. Major Dowling, Grenadier Guards; Leonard Price, M.C., Middlesex Regiment. These two are the main targets. There’s also a Colonel Woodcock, a Colonel Montgomery, and a Captain Keenlyside residing in the house. Take them out if they get in the way.

  “Two: Number 117 Morehampton Road. Lieutenant D.L. McClean of the General List, late of the Rifle Brigade. It says he’s now the Chief Intelligence Officer. He’s gotta go.

  “Three: Number 92 Lower Baggot Street. Subject: Captain W.F. Newbury of the Royal West Surrey Regiment.

  “Four: Number 38 Upper Mount Street, the Sheik’s house. Alright, in addition to the Sheik, we have Lieutenant Peter Ashmunt Ames of the Army General List, which could mean anything.”

  “Shite,” said Eoin.

  “What?”

  “We know him. He’s Cairo Gang.”

  “Make a note. He will not live. You and Vinny are going to have your hands full.

  “Five: Number 28 Earlsfort Terrace. Subject: Captain Fitzgerald. Take him out.

  “Six: Number 22 Lower Mount Street. Subjects: Lieutenant Angliss and Lieutenant Peel.”

  “We know Angliss,” said Eoin. “His real name is McMahon. He was just recalled from Russia to organize intelligence in the South Dublin area.”

  “Well,” replied Collins, “he’s going to die in South Dublin.”

  “Seven: Number 119 Lower Baggot Street. Subject: Captain G.T. Baggelly, barrister and Courts-Martial Officer. Oh,” said Collins suddenly. “This fook prides himself in prosecuting IRA men. Well, he’s guilty. Sentence is death.”

  “He’s the one,” added Eoin, “who shot John Lynch at the Exchequer Hotel in Parliament Street.”

  “Fook him,” said Collins. “He was after me Loan money.”

  “We better tag these guys as soon as possible,” said Eoin.

  “Also,” added Collins, “case the houses. Get craftsmen—you know, plumbers, porters, carpenters, telephone repairmen, whatever—to get inside these addresses starting today, if possible, so we know as much as can about the lay of the land. We don’t want to be going in blind if we can possibly avoid it.”

  “Noted,” said Eoin.

  “Alright,” said Collins. “Get back to Crow Street and get Tobin up to speed on this information, and then deliver the memos to the rest of the group.” Collins put his hat back on. “We’ll see who has murder by the throat. By God, we will.”

  115

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1920

  Collins’s memo to McKee: “Have established addresses of the particular ones. Arrangements should now be made about the matter. Lt. G is aware of things. He suggests the twenty-first. a most suitable date and day, I think. M.”

  116

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1920

  Dick McKee was restless, and Shankers Ryan was on the prowl.

  Collins had called a meeting at Vaughan’s Hotel to go over the final details for Sunday. Eoin thought they were insane to even venture near Vaughan’s. Tobin had been detained there by the British the previous week and was lucky to get away after being questioned. Vaughan’s was poison, but it didn’t stop Collins from going there.

  When McKee arrived, he stopped by the front desk to say hello to Christy Harte. Christy was engaged in conversation with a young man but looked up when he saw McKee. “Are you expecting Piaras Beaslaí tonight, Fergus?” he asked, using McKee’s nickname in front of the stranger.

  “I don’t know,” replied McKee. “I’m here for the meeting with the Big Fellow. Why are you asking?”

  “This lad is looking for him.”

  “I’m Conor Clune,” the young man replied. “I’m up from Clare to meet Piaras about some Gaelic League business.”

  “Sorry, son,” said McKee. “I don’t know if Piaras will be here tonight.” He turned to Harte. “Where are the boys?”

  “Upstairs.”

  There he found Collins, Tobin and Peadar Clancy of the Republican Outfitters, along with Frank Thornton from Crow Street.

  “Are we ready to go?” asked Collins.

  “All have been vetted by Frank,” said Tobin.

  “They are all accredited British Secret Service,” said Thornton. “We’ve covered each of them from the day they were born.”

  “Good enough,” said Collins. “I’m particularly interested in the Sheik and Ames in Upper Mount Street. These bums are on the top of the list. Eoin and Vinny will do the job.”

  “I hope they’re up to it,” put in Thornton.

  “They’re a good team,” cut in Collins. “They’ll do the job.”

  ““They’d better,” replied Thornton.

  Collins gave him a glare, which immediately cut off any further negativity. “I’m also hot for Baggelly in Baggott Street. He’s the hoor who was after that £23,000 in National Loan money that Lynch delivered to me just before they murdered him in Parliament Street.”

  “We have information that this was definitely Baggelly’s job,” said Tobin.

  “Good work,” replied Collins. “Who gets this one?”

  “Jack Lemass and Charlie Dalton.”

  “They don’t miss,” said Collins.

  Christy Harte stuck his head in the doorway. “Tans on the street. I think, sirs, ye ought to be going.”

  “Come on, boys,” said Collins, “quick!”

  The five men rushed out of the room and headed for the skylight on the fourth floor. A ladder was already in place, and they went up, led by Collins. The last man, Clancy, pulled the ladder after him, rendering the group safe. They traversed the roofs along Parnell Square and dropped down into number thirty-nine. Collins wanted to have a final word with the Crow Street men, Thornton and Tobin. McKee and Clancy hit the street and sought beds for the night.

  Outside, people were queuing up for trams, because it was getting close to curfew. Standing in line was John “Shankers” Ryan, Dublin Castle tout. As the Tans and G-men were rushing into Vaughan’s, Ryan was watching the rest of the block, assuming that the boyos would get away again. He was not to be disappointed. When he saw McKee and Clancy coming out of number thirty-nine, he started imagining how he’d spend the reward money.

  McKee and Clancy headed towards Parnell Street and started walking east. They turned into Sackville Street for a block before turning left into Gloucester Street. They were close to home for the night.

  Shankers Ryan shadowed discreetly behind them. The two Fenians may have been close to home, but this was home to Shankers. To most, it was the forbidden Nighttown, Monto, or the Kips—Dublin’s Red Light District. Here, whores serviced the high and mighty—the Prince of Wales, and later King Edward VII—and the lowly, like a young student/writer named James Joyce and his friend, Oliver St. John Gogarty, now one of Collins’s agents over in plush Ely Place.

  As they walked further into Nighttown, Ryan felt no danger. He knew every street and dead-end alley in these parts. He knew every whore in the Kips, and why shouldn’t he? Wasn’t his sister, Becky Cooper, one of the great Madams of Nighttown? Becky and her talking parrot were known to one and all in Monto. And business had been very good of late, with the British army pouring more and more men into Dublin. “God bless the rebels,” Madam Becky was often heard to say. “They know the importance of commerce in the streets of dear ould durty Dublin.” There was a touch of the bard in the dirty bawd.

  Yes, Shankers Ryan was in his comfort zone. He watched as McKee and Clancy went into 36 Lower Gloucester Street, home of another rebel, Seán Fitzpatrick. The door slammed, and Shankers walked another block to Becky’s whorehouse in Railway Street, where he used her telephone to call Dublin Castle. It was now early Sunday morning, November 21, 1920.

  117

  EOIN’S DIARY

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1920

  Saturday night, we decided to stay at the Dump.

  We went next door to the Oval Pub, had a
nightcap, and then hit the hay. In the morning, Vinny Byrne and I went to eight o’clock mass at St. Andrew’s on Westland Row. As we went into the church, we saw Jack Lemass, and the three of us sat in a pew together. We were subdued, thinking about the terrible work we had to do this morning.

  “Introibo ad altáre Dei,” the priest began the mass, and the three of us, by instinct, replied, “Ad Deum qui laetificat juventútem meam.”

  But I am really paying no attention. The mass is rote to me this morning. My mind is on the business of the day, which will start in just an hour. St. Andrew’s is a wonderful old Church. It was built right next to Westland Row railroad station, and I think about meeting Mick on the street that Christmastime while I was working at Sweny’s Chemists down the way. Sometimes it is hard to hear the priest, as the rumble of a train drowns out his chants. We are sitting near the mortuary chapel, where Willie Pearse’s sculpture, Mater Dororosa, Christ’s sorrowful mother, rests. It reminds me of the Pearse brothers, who lived just a few paces from here on Great Brunswick Street. They were baptized in this church and probably made their First Communion here, too. I can still see them that Saturday morning of Easter Week, when they came into our dwelling in Moore Street and then went out to surrender. It didn’t take the British even a week to murder both of them.

  And this morning, I can’t get me Da out of me mind. I can see him in my mind’s eye, as if he were here before me. I can see him as the British returned him to the barbershop in Aungier Street, beaten and broken from a day riding around the city in one of their tenders, the perfect solution to their ambush problems. I remember that he was beaten and tortured for seven straight days, and, on the seventh day, he died, sitting in his big chair, trying to get some warmth from a few pieces of coal.

  I can see me Mammy and my brother Charlie, too, killed by this whore of a country, stolen from its own people by a mercenary race, the most selfish race in the world. They are all before me this morning, as if I am at the Fenian Resurrection Day—the Pearses, MacDonagh, MacBride, Plunkett, Connolly, Clarke, and dear MacDiarmada. The list seems endless, but, today, there will be a sense of revenge, a sense of renewal—for, this morning, we will even the playing field in a way the British never imagined.

  “Credo in unum Deum,” the priest began, “Patrem omnipotentem, factórem coeli et terrae, visibílium ómnium et invisílium . . .”

  “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.” I couldn’t help but smile, because this very morning our little rebel army, until this day invisible to the British, will rise up and show them the brutality they have unthinkingly reigned on the Irish nation for seven hundred years.

  “Lavado inter innocentes manus meas: et circúmdabo altáre tuum, Dómaine.”

  “I wash my hands in innocence, and I go around Your altar, O Lord.” My hands have not been innocent since the elimination of Detective Blood, but if I must surrender my soul, I will give it for my country and the memory of those who loved and nurtured me, in the hope that this terrible day will give birth to a new generation of free Irishmen.

  “Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccáta mundi, miserére nobis.”

  “Lamb of God, You Who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.” I patted the Webley in my coat pocket. I think maybe it hit us all at the same time, the terrible things we must do. I check my pocketwatch and see that it is going on twenty to nine, and we must get moving—Vinny and I to Upper Mount Street, and Lemass to Lower Baggot Street, only a block apart. “Nine o’clock sharp,” Collins had commanded. “These hoors have got to learn that Irishmen can turn up on time.” We get up, step out into the aisle, and genuflect to our God, who is sitting just a few yards in front of us.

  As we head for the door, we hear: “Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proelio; contra nequítiam et insídias diabolic esto praesídium.”

  “Holy Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

  The three of us looked at each other and shivered. Collins’s Apostles, on our way to meet the divil himself.

  118

  The three gunmen dipped their hands in Holy Water as they came out of St. Andrew’s, slipped by Sweny’s into Lincoln Place, and stood in silence on the mitre of Merrion Square, where the north and west sides joined. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and not a word was said. Lemass continued towards Baggot Street, while Kavanagh and Byrne entered Merrion Square Park, using the green to camouflage their route to Upper Mount Street.

  They emerged from the park on Merrion Square East, where their backup team was waiting for them—Rory Doyle, Jamey Holland, and Bobby Malone, all of the Third Brigade, South Dublin IRA, personally chosen by Vinny. “This is Lieutenant Eoin Kavanagh,” Vinny said, introducing Eoin to the team.

  Eoin felt even more nervous—his backup team was younger than he was. “How old are you, Jamey?” he asked the youngest-looking.

  “Fifteen, sir, Lieutenant, sir,” Holland replied.

  “Jaysus!” said Eoin, turning on Byrne.

  “How old were you in Jacob’s?” returned Vinny, with a tight smile.

  Eoin nodded wearily. “And forget that ‘lieutenant’ stuff,” Eoin told the group. “Vinny’s in charge here. Is that understood?”

  The five of them crossed the road swiftly and turned into Upper Mount Street, a wide, handsome Georgian thoroughfare. It was quiet, as only a Sunday morning in Dublin can be. The lone sound on the street was the occasional squawk of a passing seagull, on its glide path away from Dublin Bay. At the end of the street was St. Stephen’s Anglican Church, which was known fondly by Dubliners as the Pepper Canister, because of its nifty dome. They had been warned by Daly, McDonnell, and Collins to get in and do their business swiftly, before the first Sunday service at St. Stephen’s began at ten o’clock. They didn’t need any innocent bystanders getting in their way or calling the authorities.

  “Are ya ready, lads?” Byrne asked, and the wide-eyed returning stares showed how terrified everyone was. The clock of the Pepper Canister struck nine, and Byrne banged on the door. “Are Mr. Gough-Coxe and Mr. Ames in?”

  Katherine Farrell, the scullery maid, opened the door and said, “They’re still asleep.”

  She was about to close the door in Vinny’s face when Byrne stuck his foot in, and Eoin pushed the door wide open with the flat of his hand. “It’s alright,” said Vinny, “we’re friends of theirs.” The five men entered the building and shut the front door. Vinny held his gun up for show and asked, “Where is Gough-Coxe?” Katie Farrell thought she would faint, and the blood drained out of her face. She pointed to the door directly to the right, and the backup team pushed her to the side.

  “Up!” Vinny shouted, as he entered the room. Gough-Coxe began reaching under his pillow for his .45 Colt automatic, but Byrne was on him too swiftly. Vinny put his Mauser to the Sheik’s head. “Now be a good lad, Deputy Commissioner.”

  The Sheik looked at the two teenagers in his room and was forced to give a small smile. Any concern he may have had evaporated. Just a couple of mammy boys playing soldier. He thought he was protected by the authority that was the Crown. He thought wrong, for this morning, Michael Collins had changed the rules of the game forever.

  “Get up,” Byrne told Gough-Coxe. The Sheik was wearing beautiful pajamas, his initials—DG-C—embroidered on the left breast pocket. “Where’s Lieutenant Ames?” Gough-Coxe pointed to a room at the back of the first floor. The Sheik slowly rose and nonchalantly picked up a stick that was propped against the bedpost. “Give me that,” said Vinny, as he snatched the cane out of Gough-Cox’s hand. Then he saw it—the “All-Seeing Eye.” “BeJaysus,” he said to Gough-Coxe, “where did you get this?”

  “It belonged to a friend of mine.”

  “Detective Blood?”

  “Yes,” said Gough-Coxe, and his face turned ashen in a second. These boys, he suddenly realized, were not amateurs. They had done
this before—and probably to Blood.

  Vinny held the stick out for show and then tossed it to Eoin, who caught it with his right hand. Eoin shook his head in disbelief and then pushed the Sheik out of the room. With the aid of Blood’s cane to the back, he violently guided the Sheik to the back of the house. One of the backup team kept an eye on the maid, and the other trailed the two gunmen to the rear. Byrne pushed open the door and said, “Wake up, me sleepin’ beauty,” as Ames slowly opened his eyes, still groggy with sleep. Eoin pushed the Sheik into the room.

  “Faces against the wall, the two of you,” said Eoin, adrenaline pumping insanely. Ames, still half-asleep, tried to peek at his abductors.

  “Eoin!” said Vinny in warning.

  Eoin roughly stuck the gun in the small of Ames’s back and said, “Look at the fookin’ wall!”

  “Eoin?” asked Gough-Coxe. “Eoin Kavanagh?”

  “Shut the fook up,” Eoin snarled.

  “So we finally meet,” said the Sheik, seemingly amused by the whole episode. Now, it all became clear. He had “worked backwards” to his own death.

  “Where are your papers?” Eoin demanded.

  “What papers?”

  “Your intelligence papers, eejit,” said Byrne, as he cuffed the Sheik with his gun on the back of the head.

  “In my bedroom.”

  Vinny and his backup covered the two men as Eoin retrieved Gough-Coxe’s papers from the man’s briefcase.

  “Got them,” Eoin said, as he returned to the back room.

  “You men are guilty of spying and have been sentenced to death,” said Vinny. “May the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

  “Save your Papist shit for someone else,” the Sheik spat.

  They were to be his last words, as Byrne raised his gun and shot him in the back of the head once, dropping him in a heap to the floor. By this time, Ames was sobbing, and his knees were buckling. His terror was short-lived as Byrne floored him with a single shot, also to the back of the head. Eoin came around and leveled another round into each of them. He was reminded of what Tom Keogh of the Squad once said while administering the coup de grace: “For luck!”