Still confused, Lemass got up to leave. Frank looked at Eoin hard before he spoke. “You know you have no right to tell me what to do.”
“I have every right,” snapped Eoin. “You have never been anything but trouble. It’s all about you, Frank. You’re nothing but a narcissist. You do things just to spite me. If I was anti-Treaty, you’d be in the Free State Army right now.” Frank gave Eoin an idiot’s smile of acknowledgement. The next thing Frank felt was Eoin’s fist exploding against the side of his head, knocking him face-first into the floor, which was soon covered with Frank’s blood. “Pick him up and get him out of here.”
As Lemass and the sentry helped Frank to his feet the, intense hate between the two Kavanagh brothers was palpable. Hate that only the Irish can comprehend. Lemass saw a change in Eoin. He was no longer the idealistic boy he had known in the GPO. He figured it must have been from constantly working with Collins for the last five years. Lemass was a part-time Republican, called upon only when there was a job to be done. He knew the intense pressure Eoin had been under working for Collins, first in finance, then in intelligence. And Eoin was not one to shrink from duty. Not only did he find the bad guys, but he was also a freelance member of the Squad. If I had Eoin’s job, thought Lemass to himself, I’d probably hate Frank, too.
“I’ll get even. I swear,” muttered Frank, as he pressed a handkerchief to his bloodied face. “If it’s the last thing I do.”
“Get even in England,” said Eoin, now back to his usual calm. “Even better, get even from America.” And with that, Jack Lemass—more of a brother to Eoin than his own sibling—guided Frank Kavanagh out of Richmond Barracks.
155
July brought chaos to Dublin—and death was beginning to claim the players.
The anti-Treaty forces had taken to the streets, and bands of armed men in trenchcoats marched straight down Grafton Street in defiance of the Provisional Government. After the shelling of the Four Courts, the Irregulars—reinforced by the Cumann na mBan—had retreated to make their stand on Upper Sackville Street, taking over the Gresham Hotel and the areas adjacent to Parnell Street. Eoin had stood at the Westmoreland Street end of O’Connell Bridge with hundreds of other Dubliners and watched the scenario play out, as if in a film. “Where, in God’s name, were all these heroic shites when the Black and Tans were terrorizing Dublin City?” he said aloud, but no one was listening to him.
“Flush them out,” Collins had ordered, and the Free State Army systematically, building-by-building, finally pushed the rebels out of the city centre. Among the Irregulars in Sackville Street were de Valera, Austin Stack, and the Countess Markievicz. They had the good sense to escape. Cathal Brugha did not. On July 5, Brugha, pistol in hand like Billy-the-Kid, came out into Sackville Street firing. He was hit in the leg and died two days later from massive blood loss.
“Poor Cathal Brugha, R.I.P.,” wrote Kitty Kiernan to Collins from Longford. “A pitiable ending for a fruitless gain.”
“Good riddance,” was Eoin’s reaction, which made Collins wince.
“Show some respect for the dead,” said Collins quietly. “Because of his sincerity, I would forgive him anything. At worst, he was a fanatic. At best, I number him among the very few who have given their all that this country should have its freedom. When many of us are forgotten, Cathal Brugha will be remembered.”
Eoin was shocked by Collins’s words. He could not forgive Frank for his stupidity, yet Collins could forgive Brugha for his many transgressions. Eoin was embarrassed into silence by Collins and his seeming serenity in the face of tragedy after tragedy.
“I’m sorry,” Eoin said at last.
“That alright,” replied Collins. “We have to learn from all this. I don’t want this nation to be born in hatred.” In fact, Collins was showing the Irregulars that he would not be cowered by their belligerence, and, conversely, he hoped that his measured approach to provocation would be seen by the rebels as an opportunity for compromise, not as weakness. Collins even went so far as to contact Boland and make amends: “Harry—it has come to this!” he wrote. “Of all things, it has come to this. It is in my power to arrest you and destroy you. This I cannot do. If you will think over the influence which has dominated you, it should change your mind. You are walking under false colours. If no words of mine will change your attitude, then you are beyond all hope—my hope.”
And as bloody July turned into an even bloodier August, Eoin received a phone call at the Portobello Barracks that turned his stomach. Harry Boland was dying at St. Vincent’s Hospital after being shot up by Free State troops in Skerries.
“Do you want to go and visit him?” asked Eoin.
“I don’t think this is the time or the place,” said Collins. “I think the last face the Boland family wants to see right now is mine.”
Collins sat at his desk and stared straight ahead, not seeing anything. “Remember,” Collins suddenly said, “the Joe McGuinness campaign up in Longford? The three of us stealing that election?”
Eoin had fond memories of his first adventure outside of Dublin, chauffeured by Boland and Collins, his two big Fenian brothers. “Yes,” said Eoin smiling, “our ‘felon candidate.’”
“Put him in to get him out,” laughed Collins. “That was a long time ago.”
By this time, Collins and Eoin were spending close to twenty-four hours together. Kitty was up in Longford, and the Dublin situation was not a salubrious one for her. The passing of Harry Boland had intensified the feelings of Kitty and Collins, with Boland serving as the unlikely catalyst. “Last night I passed Vincent’s Hospital and saw a small crowd outside,” Collins wrote to Kitty. “My mind went out to him, lying dead there, and I thought of the times together; and whatever good there is in any wish of mine, he certainly had it. I thought of him only with the friendship of the days of 1918 and 1919. They tell me that the last thing he said to his sister Kathleen before he was operated on was, ‘Have they got Mick Collins yet?’ I don’t believe it so far as I’m concerned, and, if he did say it, there is no necessity to believe it. I’d send a wreath, but I suppose they’d return it torn up.”
“Naturally I feel Harry’s death,” Kitty replied to Collins, “but I would never have believed that I could feel it so much. The whole thing’s so tragic that today I almost wished I had died, too. Poor Harry, may he rest in peace. I murmured little aspirations all day yesterday to Our Lord, to have pity on the dying. I had an idea he might die, strong and all as he was. When the hour comes, Oh! Vain is the strength of man. I realize I have lost a good friend in Harry—and no matter what, I’ll always believe in his genuineness, that I was the one and only. I think you have also lost a friend. I am sure you are sorry after him.”
Death or not, after the Battle of Dublin, Collins concentrated on pacifying the countryside, particularly in the south, where the Irregulars had control of what they called the “Munster Republic.” He sent Commandant Paddy Daly, erstwhile leader of the Squad, to Kerry, and can-do General Emmet Dalton was put in charge of subduing Cork. And he did just that, with a miraculous amphibious landing. Things were beginning to look up. On August 12, Collins and Eoin were in Tralee when the telegram came that President Griffith had died of a stroke. He had been in poor health since the Treaty negotiations and, against the stern advice of his physician, Dr. Gogarty, had worked himself to death. Gogarty was bitter, saying Griffith’s death was caused by “envy, jealousy, and ingratitude.”
Collins looked like somebody or something had pulled the guts out of him. “There seems to be a malignant fate,” he told Eoin, on their way back to Dublin, “dogging the fortunes of Ireland, for, during every critical period in her story, the man whom the country trusts is taken from her.”
Now, Collins stood alone, the only man capable of stopping complete chaos. He instinctively knew that this was not the time to show fear. So, on the morning of President Griffith’s funeral, he looked powerful and utterly handsome in his General’s uniform. The supreme actor in Colli
ns had taken over. He would play to the Pathé Newsreel cameras and reassure the nation. That morning, at Government Buildings on Merrion Street, he talked on the phone to his various commanders in the field and prepared to travel to the Pro-Cathedral for Griffith’s solemn requiem high mass. As they rode to the cathedral in Marlborough Street, he told Eoin, “After we’re done with Arthur, we will be traveling to Cork to see how Dalton’s doing down there. He seems to have the situation in hand.” He paused before mysteriously adding, “I hear that Dev might be in the area.”
Fook Dev, Eoin thought to himself, as he reached into his pocket and handed Collins a letter. “This came this morning from 44 Mountjoy Street,” he said.
He knew it was a letter from Kitty, and Collins hungrily tore it open. Eoin saw him nodding his head and heard him grunt once or twice. Then he gave a quick laugh, which was quickly shut off as he thought again about what Kitty had written to him. “Do you know what she said to me?” Collins said, gesticulating with the letter. “She said, ‘I am always thinking of you and worrying, and, just tonight, somebody said that, if you go to the funeral tomorrow, you’ll be shot, but God is very good to you.’”
“Jaysus,” said Eoin, the concern on his face.
“Don’t worry, Eoin. Remember what Kitty said. God is very good to me.”
“I don’t like stuff like this.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Collins, “I don’t think I’ll die today.” Then he suddenly laughed. “There will be plenty of time to die tomorrow or the next day. And as my ould daddy used to say, ‘You’ll be a long time dead.’”
“You will, indeed.”
“I will,” echoed Collins, as he climbed out of his limousine, pulled on his leather gloves, and waited for the coffin of his friend Arthur Griffith to arrive. As he greeted mourners and well-wishers in front of the cathedral, only one thought kept running through Michael Collins’s mind: Whose coffin would be next?
156
Róisín had just finished her shift at the Mater Hospital on the day after President Griffith’s funeral. It was four p.m., and, although the day was still bright, it had begun to turn cold, unusual for this time of August. It was the harvest, but the weather was beginning to feel more like November. She paused to say hello to her fellow nurse, Christine Reynolds, who was running late for her own shift. As they exchanged quick pleasantries on Eccles Street. an automobile pulled up in front of them.
“Róisín!” the voice called out.
Róisín peered into the car. “Frank,” she said, surprised. “Is that you?”
“It’s Eoin, Róisín,” Frank said. “He’s been shot. He sent me to get you.”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Róisín, suddenly flushed and aggrieved as she gave a quick wave goodbye to Nurse Reynolds. Then it hit her. “What are you doing in Dublin?”
With that, Frank pulled out a Mauser and said, “Shut ya gob and get in.” He gave her a good shove in the back with the gun, and Róisín, infuriated, did as she was told. “To Stoneybatter!” Frank said to the driver, as he got into the back seat alongside Róisín. The car pulled out with a screech, and Christine gasped at what she had just witnessed.
“Sister, Sister,” Christine said to the white-habited Sister Aloysius, the head nurse, as she entered the hospital. “Róisín’s just been kidnapped!”
All day, Collins had been holding meetings at Government Buildings with his various commanders and the proposed new president of the Dáil, William T. (Willie) Cosgrave. Although Cosgrave was only forty-two years of age, he looked older because of the way he dressed. With his signature bowler hat, winged collars, and little mustache, he looked like an aged version of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp. Collins and Cosgrave made an odd couple, Eoin decided. Cosgrave was holding onto the nineteenth century with his old-fashioned dress, while Collins was advancing as fast as he could into the twentieth century with his beautifully cut suits and military uniforms. Collins had served time with Cosgrave in Frongoch after the Rising and apparently trusted him. Eoin wasn’t as sure. He knew that Ireland was going to miss Arthur Griffith and miss him tremendously. Little did Eoin know that fifty-two years later, Cosgrave’s son Liam, the new Taoiseach, would indict him for running guns to the Provisional IRA in the North.
Collins came out of his office with Cosgrave and suddenly said, “Willie, do you think I shall live through this? Not likely.” Suddenly, he turned on Eoin. “How would you like a new boss?”
“Mick,” said Cosgrave, “stop. Don’t frighten the boy.”
“He’s no boy,” replied Collins. “He’s a commandant-colonel in the National Army.”
Cosgrave exited, and Eoin winced. Collins was putting the finishing touches on his plan to visit Cork the following week. After exchanging telegrams with General Dalton in Cork, Eoin didn’t think it was wise to venture south. “The situation is stabilizing down there,” he told Collins, “but it’s still somewhat unpredictable. The security is perilous.”
“What are you saying?” asked Collins.
“I don’t think you should go.”
“Yerra,” Collins snapped, “they’ll never shoot me in my county.”
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Eoin acquiesced, not feeling right about the whole thing. As he sat at his desk, his phone rang. “General Collins’s office,” said Eoin.
“Eoin?” said a female voice. “Is that you?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“It’s Christine Reynolds. I work at the Mater with Róisín. Are you alright?”
“I am, Christine,” said Eoin, confused. “And why wouldn’t I be alright?” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Christine, are you still there?”
“Your Róisín’s been kidnapped,” she finally blurted out.
“What?”
“Two men in a car took her at gunpoint.”
Eoin was stunned into silence. He managed to compose himself as Vinny Byrne went by. “Vinny, wait!” Then he returned to the phone. “Christine, did you know who these guys were?”
“No, but Róisín knew one of them. She addressed him as ‘Frank.’”
A cold chill went through Eoin, and Vinny noticed that he had turned as pale as a newly whitewashed wall. “Frank?”
“Yes,” replied Christine. “A young fellow. Couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. Very handsome.”
“Christine, I’ll be up there as soon as I can. Don’t go anywhere.”
“What’s up?” asked Vinny.
“Róisín’s been kidnapped.”
“My God!”
“By Frank.”
“Frank?” asked Vinny. “I thought he was out of the country.”
Eoin didn’t say a word. He got up and walked across the room, retrieving the thin Dublin phone directory, which really wasn’t anything more than a glorified pamphlet. He hit the Ls and searched for J.T. Lemass of Capel Street. He relayed the number to the operator, and, finally, the voice said, “Hello, J.T. Lemass, Hatter and Outfitter. How may I help you?”
“Can I speak to Jack Lemass?” It took a moment, but Jack got on the phone. “Jack, it’s Eoin. I have a question for you. Did you put my brother Frank on that boat to England?”
“Yes,” replied Lemass, “I did as you told me. I bought the ticket and gave him the rest of the money. I saw him get on the boat.”
“Well, he apparently got off again.”
“How do you know?”
“He just kidnapped Róisín at the Mater Hospital.”
“Mother of God. I’m sorry, Eoin, I’m awfully sorry. I should have waited until the boat sailed.”
“It’s not your fault, Jack. The little shite is always up to no good.”
“Can I help?”
“No, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I don’t think you want to be seen with Free Staters like me and Vinny.”
“Well,” said Lemass, “God speed to you. If I hear anything from my side, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll handle it fro
m here.” With that, he hung up the phone. “Let’s get a car and get up to the Mater,” he said to Vinny. “I’m going to kill him if I have to.” He went to a coat rack and put on the holster that held his Webley.
“Who are you going to kill?” asked Collins, entering the room. Since their trip out west to Kerry, Collins had been ill. His stomach was at him, and he was having trouble keeping food down. Eoin also noticed that he was listless. A lion for work, Eoin saw him shuffling papers without interest. The robust rebel now looked like he was going through the motions. He had managed to pull himself out of it for Griffith’s funeral, but he was playing to the cameras, the supreme actor-politician he was. Somehow, impossibly, Ireland had sucked the energy out of Michael Collins. Eoin was distracted by Collins’s appearance, and, once again, the General asked him, “Who are you going to kill?”
“My imbecile brother Frank.”
“What did he do now?”
“He kidnapped Róisín at the Mater.”
“Well,” said Collins, “let’s get moving.”
“Hold on, Mick,” said Eoin, holding up his hand like he was stopping traffic. “Me and Vinny will handle this. You have no business getting involved in something like this. The Irregulars see you on the street, and someone will take a shot at you.”
“I will not be held captive in my own country,” snapped Collins. “I’m the General. You two are colonels. A general still outranks two colonels. And that’s that. Let’s go.” It seemed that Róisín’s kidnapping had pulled Collins out of his phlegmatic state.
Eoin found himself in Collins’s Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost automobile with Vinny and the driver. Even with all the Free State troops stopping traffic at security checkpoints, they got to the Mater in record time. It was amazing how the presence of Michael Collins could expedite things.
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