After talking with Róisín, Eoin couldn’t help but wonder what was going on behind closed doors with Collins and her ladyship. Even while in London, the rumors had started. The two of them were often seen riding together to a function, and the London press—brutally yellow long before the advent of Rupert Murdoch’s filthy pseudo-journalism—started referring to Hazel as Collins’s “sweetheart.” Kitty, back in Longford, was not amused, and Collins would try to joke his way out of his tight fix, always blaming the antagonistic English press. Although he would never tell Kitty, London afforded Collins a separation—and a sense of privacy—that a parochial city like Dublin could never provide. Soon Collins had nicknamed Hazel “Macushla,” and friends of hers, such as George Bernard Shaw, began referring to Collins as her “Sunday husband.”
But the compartmentalized Collins managed to stay several steps ahead of the rumormongers. They would have been shocked if they knew he had been trying his hand at poetry, directed not at his fiancée, but to Lady Lavery:
Oh! Hazel, Hazel Lavery:
What is your charm Oh! Say?
Like subtle Scottish Mary
You take my heart away.
Not by your wit and beauty
Nor your delicate sad grace
Nor the golden eyes of wonder
In the flower that is your face.
Years later, when asked about the Collins-Lady Lavery relationship by historians, senior statesman Eoin Kavanagh struck to the script. “Sure, General Collins was too busy working on the treaty. I was with him every minute, and I know there was nothing inappropriate. Everybody knows that. He was devoted to Kitty Kiernan.”
But if his interviewers had looked closely, they could have seen the jolly dance in Eoin’s eyes, for he remembered the very words of Michael Collins himself: “All poets are interested in only one thing—getting shagged!”
Although Kitty and Hazel may have preoccupied Collins’s heart during the negotiations, perhaps the most important female on his side that fateful fall was the wife of the Secretary of State for the Colonies, one Clementine Churchill. She was known to all as “Clemmie,” and she was one of the great beauties of her time. As she cared for the growing Churchill clan—without much help from Winston, who was constantly away on government business—she also kept up with the news, especially when it concerned her husband. The thing that caught her eye, interestingly enough, was the assassination of Alan Bell in 1920. Collins meant to send a telegram with news of this assassination, and, apparently, Western Union delivered it to the right people in London.
“This new Irish murder is very terrible,” Clementine wrote her husband.
“Really getting very serious,” Winston responded. “What a diabolical streak the Irish have in their character! I expect it is that treacherous, assassinating, conspiring trait which has done them in in bygone ages of history and prevented them from being a great responsible nation with stability and prosperity. It is shocking that we have not been able to bring the murderers to justice.”
Churchill’s career was marked by a visceral bellicosity. His first instinct was to always go to the whip. This had not served him well in Gallipoli, and it had not served him well in Ireland, where his solution to a popular revolution was to send in the Black and Tans and Auxiliaries, thereby exacerbating the situation, playing into the hands of Collins and rallying the Irish people behind their rebels. He ranted about revenge. “It is monstrous,” Churchill declared, “that we have some two hundred murders, and no one hung.”
Clementine was well aware of her husband’s sanguinary instincts, and she tried to temper him. “Do, my darling,” she wrote him, “use your influence now for some sort of moderation, or at any rate, justice in Ireland. Put yourself in the place of the Irish. If you were ever leader, you would not be cowed by severity, and certainly not by reprisals which fall like the rain from Heaven upon the Just and upon the Unjust. It always makes me unhappy and disappointed when I see you inclined to take for granted that the rough, iron-fisted ‘Hunnish’ way will prevail.” Churchill would huff and puff, but he could not fool his wife. “You know that if the situation was reversed,” she chided, “your heart would be with the rebels.” For once, Winston Spencer Churchill was speechless, for he knew his wife was right.
148
On Christmas Eve 1941, Congressman Eoin Kavanagh was trying to get out of Washington and catch the train back to New York so he could have a quiet dinner with Róisín and their son. But as he was leaving the office, he got a call from the White House. The operator asked him to hold, and Kavanagh was surprised when the president himself got on the line. “Eoin,” said FDR, “could you possibly drop by this evening for a drink? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Eoin’s heart sank. “Of course, Mister President.” He immediately called Róisín and told her he would catch a later train.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Róisín snapped on the phone.
“I know,” apologized Eoin, “but it’s the president, and this is a time of war.”
“It’s always a time of war with this family,” returned Róisín, as she hung up the phone. She was terribly disappointed, because Eoin Jr. had just enlisted in the United States Navy, and this might be the last Christmas they would ever spend together as a family. Silently, she cursed FDR and all the famous people they had known through the years. Power, she decided, just brought misery, especially to this family.
Eoin knew exactly what the president was up to. Everyone was talking about it. Winston Spencer Churchill had taken the nation’s capital by storm. The prime minister was in town for a strategy conference with the president about the priorities of the war. In their meetings over the years, Eoin had told FDR all the stories about the treaty negotiations between Collins and Churchill, and, now, thought Eoin, the president was going to have a little fun at the expense of the British prime minister and the representative from New York’s seventh congressional district.
When Eoin arrived at the White House, he was shown to the president’s private quarters on the second floor. The president was in high spirits, playing bartender to the prime minister. His wheelchair was in high gear, shifting between the bar and the couch where the PM was planted. The room was filled with smoke from Churchill’s big Cuban cigar and the president’s holdered cigarette. Ah, the fog of war, thought Eoin to himself.
“Congressman Kavanagh,” beamed the President, “I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”
“Nollaig Shona Duit! Mister. President and Prime Minister Churchill. Happy Christmas to both of you. But you, Mister President, are in Róisín’s doghouse.”
The President laughed. “I’ll make a note to personally apologize to the beautiful Mrs. Kavanagh. Now, I want you to meet our special guest. Winston, you remember Eoin Kavanagh, don’t you?” said the president mischievously, as he raised an eyebrow.
The prime minister rose and took Kavanagh’s hand to shake. He looked at the young man, who now wore a brilliant red beard. Eoin stood mute. The ball was in Churchill’s court. “Ah, you look familiar,” said Churchill. “But I can’t place you. Should I know you?”
“How’s Lady Deametrice?”
“Lady Deametrice?” repeated Churchill, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Lady Deametrice is fine.”
“What an intriguing name, Deametrice,” interjected FDR.
“My cousin,” said the PM. “But I still can’t place you, young man,” Churchill conceded.
“Downing Street, December 1921.”
“Twenty years ago,” snorted Churchill. “What was going on twenty years ago this month?” Suddenly it hit him. “The Irish treaty delegation! General Collins! You were his little bodyguard, were you not? Captain Kavanagh!” Eoin nodded his head.
The only difference in Eoin’s appearance in the last twenty years was the red beard, which he had worn since he arrived in America. The contrast between it and his dark brown hair—almost black—was stunning. Eoin thought Churchill very sharp to have re
cognized him. “Yes, Prime Minister, I was Mick Collins’s bodyguard and general factotum.”
As he sat with two of the most famous politicians of the twentieth century, the last days of the treaty negotiations seeped back into Eoin’s mind. Things had not been going well, and it was decided that Griffith—despite his poor health—and Collins would break into subgroups and try to hammer out some kind of compromise to the stickiest problems: whether the Royal Navy would still have control of the Irish ports; the question of tariffs; the partition of Ulster; what part the new Irish state would play in the British Empire; how much Ireland would contribute to Britain’s war debt (a sore point with the Minister for Finance, already outraged that Britain had been super-taxing the impoverished island for centuries); and the trickiest problem of all—the question of allegiance to the king. Sitting with his martini, and with the smoke of the president and prime minister almost smothering him, it came back in all clarity— Churchill’s townhouse in Sussex Gardens, Hyde Park, London.
He was bodyguarding both Collins and Griffith that day, as the work at 10 Downing Street crept towards the evening. Everyone was tired. Finally Churchill said, “Let’s go back to my place and have a drink.” Before he realized it, Eoin found himself piling into one car with Collins and Griffith, while Lloyd George, Lord Birkinhead, and Churchill piled into another. When they arrived, the prime minister and Griffith headed upstairs, while Collins, Churchill, and Birkinhead remained in the sitting room on the first floor. Eoin, along with Detective Sergeant W.H. Thompson, headed for the kitchen.
“Want a drink?” asked Thompson.
“I’d better pass,” answered Eoin. Thompson and Eoin had worked with each other for more than a month now, and they had an easy relationship. Thompson was old enough to be Eoin’s father, but he never treated him as a subordinate. They had a professional relationship, and Thompson knew how dangerous Eoin’s job was. Few wanted to shoot Churchill; it seemed everyone, English and Irish, wanted to take a shot at Collins. Privately, he worried about Eoin’s safety, because he knew how dedicated Eoin was to the General.
The kitchen door opened, and Churchill’s head popped in. “Ice,” he said, “we need ice!” Seeing Eoin, he stepped into the kitchen. “You’re General Collins’s bodyguard,” Churchill said, pointing at him.
“I am, Mr. Churchill.”
“Well, my lad,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “you’re doing a fine job, because he’s still breathing and causing trouble—both here in London and, from what I hear, back home in Dublin!” A maid filled a bucket with ice and was about to exit the kitchen when Churchill stopped her. “Give that to me, Elizabeth. I’ll take it back out.” But he placed the bucket on the kitchen table and advanced on Eoin. “I hear you’re a Webley man.” Eoin nodded. “Can I ask where you got it?”
“It belonged to a spy.”
Churchill laughed. “Any particular spy?”
Eoin’s eyes turned cold. “The spy who murdered my father.”
Churchill was taken aback, embarrassed that he had asked the question. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “Was your father a rebel?”
“On occasion.”
“I see,” said Churchill, as if he had just learned something important. “Did you shoot the spy to get the gun?”
Eoin thought. “No, I didn’t.” As soon as he spoke, he was sorry he had replied to the enemy’s interrogation.
Churchill picked the ice bucket up and headed for the door, but turned before he went through. “Did you ever shoot anyone?”
This time Eoin did not answer.
“Alan Bell?” asked the minister. Churchill was still obsessed with the Crown’s unlucky bank examiner.
Eoin remained mute but allowed a small smile.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Churchill finally said.
“Mr. Collins,” Eoin said deliberately, “has all the answers you want.”
“Ha!” Churchill retorted. “You’re as hard to pin down as General Collins.”
“Thank you,” Eoin replied.
Churchill shook his head. “Tough little sonofagun, Tommy,” he said, with a wink to Thompson as he exited, clutching the ice bucket like a rugby ball.
Thompson laughed. “I think the minister likes you.”
“How can you tell?”
“You have the ‘rogue factor.’”
“The rogue factor?”
“The minister loves men of action,” said Thompson, “and I think he thinks you are one, otherwise you wouldn’t be here protecting the General. After a few drinks, he can’t stop talking about his adventures in the bloody Boer War.”
“Well,” Eoin replied, laughing, “he has the head rogue at his disposal this evening. I t’ink we’re in for a long night.”
And a long night it would be. In the sitting room, the drinks were poured, and the chatter had nothing to do with the business of the Treaty. Churchill hated Collins before he had ever laid an eye on him. To him, he was a guttersnipe and murderer. It was only after he saw him in action around the conference table at 10 Downing Street that his opinion began to shift. He saw a big, handsome farm boy, self-educated, who was not afraid to mix it up with the scions of Eton and Oxford. He gave as good as he took, and could facilely display either great contempt or extraordinarily good humor in making his arguments. He soon realized that Collins was not a ruffian after all, but a brilliant tactician in guerrilla warfare. Churchill thought him the sharpest tack in the room. From the moment of that epiphany, he always referred to Collins as “General,” and, years after his death, whenever speaking about the Big Fellow, it was always “General Collins.” Clementine Churchill also had great influence in changing her husband’s attitude. Her comments about “Hunnish” behavior on her husband’s part had also hit the mark with Winston. Before, he was part of the Irish problem; now, he tried to be part of the solution.
Collins’s initial reaction to Churchill was also one of contempt. He knew that Churchill was instrumental in getting the Auxies and Black and Tans into Ireland—and keeping them there. Collins wrote that Churchill “will sacrifice all for political gain . . . Inclined to be bombastic. Full of ex-officer jingo or similar outlook. Don’t actually trust him.” But he soon found that he could work with him, that he was a fascinating raconteur and drinking partner, and that he was a man who, like himself, knew how to make a deal.
“Now, General,” said Churchill, refilling Collins’s glass, “how did you save yourself?”
“What?”
“How did you save yourself? How did you avoid capture? Was it sheer luck?”
“Not at ‘tal,” said Collins modestly. “I had some very good people watching out for me. You can’t match the Dubliner for loyalty.”
“There must be more to it than that?”
“I always watch the other fellow,” said Collins, “instead of letting him watch me. I make a point of keeping the other fellow on the run, instead of being on the run myself. That is the secret of success that I have learned during the past year or two.”
“Extraordinary,” exclaimed Lord Birkinhead, who was taking it all in.
“Well,” said Collins, “I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because if we don’t get this Treaty done, I’m going to be on the run again—and this time, I don’t think I’ll be that lucky.”
“We will get this Treaty done,” proclaimed Churchill, “and you will live to be an old man—both of us will live to be old men!” They clinked snifters. “More cognac?”
“Indeed,” said Collins. “Do you have any Curaçao?”
“Curaçao?” repeated Churchill. “My God, man, you do have a sweet tooth!”
Collins laughed. “As me big hoor of a belly will attest to.”
The three men shared a laugh, but the cognac and Curaçao shortly began to cast a black spell over Collins. “What, General, do you think will be the big sticking point on the Treaty—if we ever get it done—back in Dublin?”
“Allegiance to the king,” said Collins, without hesitation.
“Hmmm,” mused Churchill, glancing at Birkinhead. “That will be a sticking point on our side too, I’m afraid. I don’t see us shifting much on that one.”
“Well,” said Collins, “you better find a way to ‘shift,’ as you say, or there will be no Treaty.”
Collins suddenly turned on Churchill in such a threatening manner that Churchill, years later, wrote that, “He was in his most difficult mood, full of reproaches and defiances, and it was very easy for everyone to lose his temper.”
“After seven hundred fucking years,” shot Collins, “you’d think you people would come to your senses—or, out of simple guilt—would just get the fuck out of Ireland.”
“Now, now, General,” said Churchill, “there must be a way to resolve this problem.”
But Collins was having none of it. Eoin could hear Collins’s voice rising, and he looked at Thompson with trepidation. He got up without saying a word and peeked through the kitchen door, which gave him a clear view of Churchill and Collins going at each other.
“You hunted me day and night!” Collins shouted, gesticulating with his snifter. “You put a price on my head!” Birkinhead was afraid that blows were about to be struck.
“Wait a minute,” countered Churchill, “you are not the only one.” With that, Churchill took Collins’s wrist and pulled him from his chair. He walked him to the other end of the living room and pointed out a framed poster on the wall. Collins put his nose almost to the glass. It was a poster from the Boer War for the recapture of one Winston Churchill. “At any rate, it was a good price—£5,000. Look at me—£25 dead or alive. How would you like that?”
Collins was silent before shouting out, “£5,000 my arse! It was £10,000!”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 48
