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

by Dermot McEvoy

  Eoin walked down Wicklow Street into Exchequer and entered number ten. He went to the top floor and opened the door. The Minister for Finance looked up and said, “Nice of you to finally show up.”

  “And hello to you, too,” Eoin replied. “Looks like we’re back where we started.”

  “The circle goes round,” said Collins. “This office was empty. We were still paying rent. So I commandeered it. I’m left alone here.”

  Eoin looked around at the familiar surroundings. “It seems like a century since 1917.”

  “It has been a century,” replied Collins. “At least for Ireland.”

  “It’s here you hired me,” reminisced Eoin. “You gave me your cufflinks. We planned Thomas Ashe’s funeral right here.”

  “That’s all ancient history,” Collins chided, always looking forward. “So, how did you two like America?”

  “Róisín loved it. I had trouble getting her to come back to dear ould Ireland.”

  “She’s a smart girl,” replied Collins. “If you had any brains at all, you would have stayed with her in New York. What did you find out about the Loan?”

  “It looks like there’s about $1,500,000 unaccounted for.”

  Collins grunted. “Marvelous.” Eoin could see that Collins was his cynical self, but he seemed distracted. “How’s Mister Devoy?”

  “Old.”

  “Does he still have his marbles?”

  “More than he needs.”

  “What does he think of Dev?”

  “He hates him.”

  “A wise ould Fenian, I think.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So,” Eoin pressed, “why did you call me back?”

  “The president has decided that I should go to London with Griffith to negotiate the treaty with Lloyd George.”

  “How did this come about? When I left for America, you were in Dev’s doghouse.”

  “Doghouse!” sniffed Collins. “With Dev, Brugha, and Stack, it was like the fookin’ Spanish Inquisition around here.”

  “What did you expect? You are, after all, a Fenian heretic.” Eoin gave a small laugh, and Collins looked at him, exasperation painted on his face. “I’m going to London because the Chief likes to lecture.”

  Collins was referring to the summer of 1921, when the British Prime Minister and the erstwhile schoolmaster did not get along. “Negotiating with de Valera,” Lloyd George had said, “is like trying to pick up mercury with a fork.”

  On hearing this, the president of Dáil Éireann responded: “Why doesn’t he use a spoon?”

  “These two eejits are having a pissing match,” said Collins to Eoin, “so I end up having to go to London with Griffith. They can take their fookin’ fork and fookin’ spoon and shove them where Jack stuck the rusty shilling!”

  “I take it,” Eoin said, after a long pause, “that that place might be a dark place?”

  Collins stared hard at Eoin before breaking out in a guffaw. “Only darker place,” Collins roared, “is my heart!”

  “I still don’t understand,” Eoin added, “why Dev won’t go to London.”

  “Well,” said Collins, a touch of exasperation in his voice, “Dev is claiming that as ‘president,’ he is superior to Lloyd George, who is only a ‘prime minister.’”

  “What?”

  “He would only go to London if Lloyd George agreed that he was the superior official. The prime minister, of course, said ‘no,’ and I don’t blame him.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out,” said Eoin, “how the Príomh-Aire became president in the first place.”

  “No one else knows, either,” said Collins. “He’s apparently made himself head-of-state too. He’s a combination of king and prime minister. Poor Lloyd George didn’t have a chance!”

  Eoin was forced to laugh. “But what does all this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to come with me to London as my aide-de-camp.”

  “Your aide-day-what?”

  “My bodyguard, you hopeless eejit.”

  Eoin smiled. “Whatever you say, Commandant-General.”

  Collins finally smiled. “I missed your cheek.” Collins gazed down at the floor and then finally looked back up at Eoin. “I have a bad habit—I visit my nastiness on my best friends.” Eoin nodded, a stern look on his smooth face. “What’s the matter?” asked Collins.

  “Something Devoy said to me.”

  “What?”

  “He said that de Valera was leading you and Griffith to London like a Judas Goat.” For a moment, Collins did not speak. Finally, Eoin asked, “Do you t’ink he’s right?”

  “Someone has to go and negotiate this thing,” said Collins. “It takes two to dance, and it takes two to negotiate.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s my duty.” Eoin stood mute. “What do you think?”

  “I t’ink the second mouse gets the cheese.”

  Collins stared long and hard at Eoin and then grunted, for he smelled a rat.

  143

  Collins and Eoin arrived in London on October 10, Eoin’s twentieth birthday.

  Although Collins was deputy chairman of the delegation, he stayed at 15 Cadogan Gardens, while the rest of the delegates—Chairman Arthur Griffith, Robert Barton, Gavan Duffy, Eamonn Duggan, and the delegation’s secretary, Erskine Childers—stayed at 22 Hans Place. This was Collins’s way of showing that he would not be intimidated by de Valera and his merry band of Inquisitors, Brugha and Stack. Collins also brought his own staff, which, besides Eoin, included Liam Tobin and Ned Broy, now cashiered out of the DMP. Crow Street remained intact. Ironically, as Collins moved east, Harry Boland, on assignment from de Valera, was traveling to New York. Collins suspected that Harry was carrying a message from de Valera—forever the Machiavellian pessimist—warning the American Irish that hostilities were about to resume after Griffith and Collins failed in London. Meanwhile, Kitty Kiernan remained in County Longford, in love with Collins but still dealing with the quixotic Harry, who just wouldn’t let go.

  The delegation’s orders from the Dáil were rather simple: “As Envoys Plenipotentiaries from the Elected Government of the REPUBLIC OF IRELAND to negotiate and conclude on behalf of Ireland with the representatives of his Britannic Majesty, GEORGE V. a Treaty or Treaties of Settlement, Association and Accommodation between Ireland and the community of nations known as the British Commonwealth.”

  It was colder than a banshee’s yowl inside the conference room at 10 Downing Street when the two delegations met for the first time on October 11. Both delegations were deeply distrustful of each other. Prime Minister David Lloyd George greeted and shook hands with each member of the Irish delegation. The British delegation remained stoic, refusing to shake hands with the murderers from Dublin. And, of course, the one murderer they couldn’t take their eyes off was the man once again wearing his terrible mustache: Michael Collins.

  Eoin was with Collins as they entered Downing Street but was shown to a side room shortly after they arrived. He figured he would be there for a while as the two delegations got to know each other. He sat down at a desk and found a piece of stationery. In the upper right-hand corner was the simple address:

  10 Downing Street

  Whitehall, S.W. 1.

  Eoin heard himself laugh out loud. He couldn’t help himself, and he took his fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket—on station right next to his Webley—and scribbled:

  My Dearest Róisín,

  Look at the address!

  Can you believe it!

  Save this so we can show it to our grandchildren.

  Love,

  Your Eoin

  He took an envelope and wrote the Walworth Street address on it and reminded himself to post it immediately.

  “It’s breaking up,” a man said, sticking his head in the door. “You Eoin?”

  “I am.”

  “The Irish delegation will be leaving shortly, and Mr. Collins wants you to get his car.” Eoin rose and slid t
he letter into his pocket. “I’m Detective Sergeant W.H. Thompson,” the man introduced himself. “I work for Mr. Churchill.”

  “Scotland Yard bodyguard?”

  “Just like you,” replied the older man.

  “I have a bigger target,” said Eoin, and the detective smiled.

  “We both have big targets,” returned the copper. “Let me show you out so you can get the car.” As they were leaving the room, Thompson turned and suddenly said, “I bet you’re a Webley man.”

  “And I t’ink you t’ink that this wee Fenian is going to give you an answer.” Thompson laughed, and Eoin made note of it. “But you knew Jameson,” he suddenly said, and Thompson stopped in his tracks.

  “How did you know?”

  “I know your phone number—Whitehall-1212.” Thompson turned silent, having misjudged his young adversary.

  The chauffeur brought the car to the front, and Eoin opened the rear door when he saw Collins coming through the door, swinging his square attaché case with intent. Collins shot into the backseat as the photographers blinded the crowd with their explosive flashes, and Eoin jumped in right behind him. He had no intention of questioning the boss right now, but he didn’t have to, because Collins was heated.

  “They’re a cold bunch of hoors!” he spat.

  “Cold?”

  “Iceberg cold,” said Collins, his blue eyes on fire. “This is not going to be easy. Now I know why I’m here. I have been sent to London to do a thing which those who sent me know had to be done but had not the courage to do themselves. The Long Hoor wants no part of this. But I’ll warm them up. They’re not dealing with de Valera now, you know.” Then he went quiet and didn’t say another word until they returned to Cadogan Gardens. Somehow, Eoin almost felt sorry for the British delegation.

  144

  “We have a problem with Mick,” Liam Tobin said to Eoin.

  “What happened?”

  “This morning he went off by himself before anyone in the household realized he was gone.”

  “That’s dangerous,” said Eoin.

  “Your job is to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Be discreet.”

  “Aren’t I always?” Eoin’s response fractured the stoic-undertaker look on Tobin’s gloomy face.

  The next morning, Eoin rose at five and was dressed and ready before the rest of the staff awoke. He checked Collins’s room, and the light coming from under the door told him the boss was up and already working. Eoin left the house and carefully surveyed the sidewalk. Over at Hans Place, someone had painted COLLINS THE MURDERER in red right in front of the building. The culprit probably thought that Collins was staying with the rest of the delegation and didn’t know about the Cadogan Gardens site. As far as Eoin was concerned, no paint was good news. He crossed the street and stood in an alley as he waited for the dawn.

  At half-six, he saw Collins come out, again alone, and start walking at an invigorating pace. Eoin trailed way behind, wondering where the Big Fellow was going alone at this early hour. The forced march ended in Maiden Lane, when Collins entered Corpus Christi Roman Catholic Church.

  Collins went to the front nave of the church, genuflected, and stepped into a pew, where he knelt and blessed himself. Eoin went to the back on the opposite side and sat alone as a few parishioners arrived for the seven o’clock mass. The bell rang, and the priest came out to begin the mass. Eoin saw Collins rise, and he automatically rose in his seat. Collins went towards the altar and slid inside the altar rail to the sanctuary. He was going to serve as the priest’s lone altar boy. Collins was soon ringing bells and belting out answers in Latin, and Eoin plopped back into his seat, a smile on his face.

  Eoin kept a close eye on the handful of parishioners. They were an older, working-class lot, with women outnumbering the men. They were not what he was looking for. What he was looking for was MI-5, the British domestic intelligence service. A man had taken a seat behind Collins when he first arrived. Well dressed. Eoin kept a sharp eye on him, and soon the secret was revealed—your man was not a Catholic. He didn’t know when to stand, sit, or kneel. Mass was grand exercise, Eoin always thought, and this guy couldn’t keep up with the cadence.

  Eoin rose from his seat and walked to that side of the church, taking a seat directly behind the confused mass-goer. The man never took his eyes off Collins, and Eoin knew he had a member of MI-5.

  “Dóminus vobiscum,” said the priest.

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” replied Collins.

  “Ite, Missa est.”

  “Deo grátias.”

  The parishioners began to shuffle out of the pews, but not the man in front of Eoin. Collins walked off with the priest to the sacristy. Five minutes later, he returned and headed to the back of the church, where a statue of St. Patrick proudly stood. The man stood up and slowly followed. Collins knelt in front of St. Patrick, and after dropping a copper, lit a candle. By now, the man was just a few paces from Collins.

  Eoin thought it was time to stand and deliver. As the man approached Collins, Eoin picked up speed and gave him a terrific bump, knocking him to the floor and gaining the attention of Collins. “Oh,” said Eoin, extending a hand to help the man to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” As Eoin pulled him up with his left hand, he allowed the right side of his coat to open, revealing his Webley. “Sorry about that,” continued Eoin. “Next time, tell your boss to send a Catholic.” Eoin stood his ground, and the agent, revealed and embarrassed before the assembled faithful, meekly retreated.

  “What was that all about?” asked Collins.

  “MI-5,” was the succinct reply.

  Collins chuckled. “Yes, I picked him out right away.”

  “Well,” snapped Eoin, “why didn’t you do something?”

  “Do what? He was only watching me.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “What are you doing here anyway?” quizzed Collins.

  “Tobin and Broy were worried about your safety.” Eoin paused as he looked upon the man the Tory press was headlining as IRELAND’S FOREMOST MURDERER. Collins turned and dropped another coin, grabbing a wick stick. “Now what are you doing?”

  “Lighting another penny candle for Kitty.”

  Eoin grunted, and Collins ignored him as he returned to pray before St. Patrick. When he was finished with his devotion, the two men headed for the exit.

  “A candle for Kitty?”

  “Yes,” said Collins.

  “Why?”

  “Because we’ve come to an arrangement.”

  “Arrangement?” asked a puzzled Eoin.

  “We’re engaged.”

  “Congratulations!” Eoin exclaimed, slapping Collins on his shoulder.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why?”

  “Harry.”

  “Tough decision?”

  “For her it is,” Collins said, exasperated. “Harry’s absolutely mad about her, but she says she doesn’t love him.”

  “Well, what’s the problem then?”

  “I think I sometimes frighten her.”

  Eoin laughed. “I’m sure you do!”

  Collins cocked his head, disturbed by Eoin’s retort. “I love her.” He paused, before adding, “I think.”

  “You t’ink?”

  “Oh,” said Collins, “now you’re the man who knows all about love.”

  “You want my advice about love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next time,” Eoin said, “light a candle for yourself.”

  145

  “Why do I have to go to this thing?”

  “Eoin,” Collins explained, with great but gentle solicitation, “we are now in the public relations business. We are trying to make friends for Ireland. This is one of the ways we do this. There are an awful lot of influential people going to these things, so try to be pleasant. Being nice to them may make it easier at the conference table when we get down to the nuts and bolts of the treaty. Have a few drinks. Enjoy yourself!”
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br />   The two of them got out of their taxi and advanced on the Bloomsbury townhouse of Lady Deametrice Churchill. A butler answered their knock, and they entered the foyer, where they were helped out of their overcoats. Eoin opened his coat to make sure his Webley was snug, and the butler’s eyes grew wide. Collins gave himself a quick chuckle. He was delighted to be back in London.

  The butler advanced to the entrance of the grand ballroom. “General Michael Collins and Captain Eoin Kavanagh of the Irish Delegation.” All eyes fell on the Big Fellow and his pint-sized bodyguard. The room fell silent for a moment, but that was eclipsed with a great outburst of applause. Eoin looked at Collins and watched the General switch on his dazzling smile. He was immediately engulfed by admirers, who only a year before were calling him the most vicious murderer since Jack the Ripper.

  Years later, Eoin would look back at that first cocktail party and smile. “Oh, how the rich and famous love their terrible terrorists,” Eoin liked to remind the practitioners of “Radical Chic.” He loved that wonderful phrase, coined by Tom Wolfe in 1970 about the cocktail parties that smug liberals like Leonard Bernstein used to give for members of the Black Panthers Party. “Old Lenny had nothing to worry about,” Eoin once told his friend Joe Flaherty, as he bellied up to the bar at the Lion’s Head saloon on Christopher Street, “because those clueless shites couldn’t start a revolution if all they had to do was bang their hollow balls together!” Eoin’s comments became front-page news in that week’s Village Voice when Flaherty wrote it up: KAVANAGH: PANTHERS LIKE EUNUCHS.

  “Joseph,” Eoin said to Flaherty on the phone after the article was published, “you fucked me.”

  “I did, indeed, Deputy Kavanagh,” said Flaherty, and the laughter on both ends continued for several minutes.

  “Well, Joseph,” Eoin said to the funniest man he had ever met, “I didn’t mean it quite the way you put it. If I was black, I’d be in the Black Panthers too, but these guys are not interested in real revolution—they only want to be on the television. Remember, the Irish Republican Brotherhood was a secret organization. You don’t win revolutions by going on TV and telling the enemy your carefully crafted plans.”