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

by Dermot McEvoy

  At the Mater, the presence of Collins started a buzz. Eoin saw the distraught Christine Reynolds and went to her. “Are you alright?” The handsome young woman, about the same age as Róisín, had closely cropped hair, sensitive yet lively eyes, and a smile that, when she felt like it, could dazzle. But right now, this minute, she looked like she was in shock.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Is there a place we can talk privately?” Collins interjected.

  She looked up at Collins and numbly stuttered, “Yes, yes, Sister Aloysius’s office.”

  Inside the office, Eoin said, “Now, Christine, tell me everything from the beginning.”

  She told them what she knew.

  “Anything else?” asked Eoin.

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Collins. He put his right hand to her elbow and, with his thumb and index finger, gently massaged her funny bone, as if to soothe. “I know it was a terrible shock to you, but was there anything else said between the three of them?”

  Christine pursed her lips in thought. “Stoneybatter,” she finally said.

  “Stoneybatter?”

  “‘To Stoneybatter,’ That’s what the gunman said to the driver. Then they left.”

  Suddenly Collins gave a bright smile to Christine, and she could see the gap between his two front teeth. “Christine,” the General said, “you’re brilliant!”

  “Not much in Stoneybatter,” said Vinny, not getting it.

  “Yeah,” said Eoin. “Nothing there but my Uncle Charlie, twenty-year British army veteran.”

  “He thinks Charlie is a fellow confederate,” said Collins.

  “I guess he doesn’t know,” replied Eoin. “As the man said—’to Stoneybatter!’”

  The three of them jumped in the Rolls and continued the journey to old Stoneybatter, one of the quirkiest neighborhoods in Dublin. Its history went back to the time of the Vikings—its narrow, winding roads and small one- and two-story buildings (it seemed that every building in Stoneybatter was off-balance and about to topple over) gave it the appearance that maybe, once, Lilliputians had lived there.

  Their destination was 47 Ben Edar Road. Ben Edar, Eoin knew, was the Irish for Howth, but this Howth was in Dublin’s inner city. As dusk fell, darkness began to blanket the Northside of Dublin. It was eerie being in this neighborhood, so close to Arbor Hill, where all the executed 1916 Kilmainham rebels shared one quicklime grave. It didn’t take long to get lost, as the streets wound into unexpected cul-de-sacs. Finally they came to a long, narrow street lined with small, one-story structures. In fancier neighborhoods, these would be called artisan cottages. Here, they were just working-class homes. Stoneybatter was especially popular with Guinness employees because of its easy access to the brewery via bicycle—a quick, downhill run across the Liffey to work.

  Collins’s car stopped at the bottom of the street. There was an old Ford parked in front of number forty-seven. “How are we going to handle this?” Vinny asked.

  “What’s the point of this?” Eoin wondered. “To hurt me? To hurt Róisín? And why would Uncle Charlie help him?”

  “He thinks he’s doing something that would embarrass the government,” said Collins. “That’s his point. Frank never plans anything out. He’s a kid with fantasies, and right now his fantasy is that he is some kind of heroic revolutionary out to bring the Provisional Government down. It’s not exactly biblical.”

  Eoin disagreed. “Oh, yes, it is!”

  “How so?”

  “Cain and Abel. And there can be only one result.”

  “Are you your brother’s keeper?” chided Collins.

  “Jaysus lads,” interjected Vinny, exasperation in his voice. “Let’s get Róisín out of there. Continue your Bible study later.”

  “Vinny’s right,” said Collins. “Let’s go get Róisín. I’ll go in first.”

  “You will not!” protested Eoin. “He could blow your brains out.”

  “Or I could blow his brains out.”

  As quick as that, Collins was out of his Rolls, heading for the house with Eoin and Vinny trailing behind. Eoin had seen this reckless behavior before. He remembered Collins defying the British by dressing in his general’s uniform at the Mansion House, and also the time when they were cornered by a British squad at Dr. Gogarty’s surgery. Collins seemed to relish these occasions of danger, rejoicing in the adrenaline high. Eoin did not. Collins was enjoying it all, Eoin realized. “Wait!” he called out.

  Collins stopped in his tracks. “What?”

  “We need a plan here,” said Eoin.

  “Somebody has to go through the door first,” Vinny counseled. “Then the shooters follow, ready to shoot.”

  “I’ll go first,” Collins repeated.

  “No!” Eoin protested again.

  “I’m the biggest,” Collins insisted. “I can take someone down and clear the way for you lads.” Eoin was in agony. He wanted to save Róisín without losing Collins.

  “That’s an order—and that’s that!”

  They instructed the chauffeur to stand back and make sure there was no escape. Eoin decided that he would do the talking. He rapped hard on the door and waited. “Who’s there?” came a voice from behind the door.

  “Eoin Kavanagh.”

  They could hear bodies moving around inside. The door opened a peek, and Collins put his shoulder to it and flung it wide open, almost tearing it off its hinges. He knocked Charlie Conway to the ground and bulled straight ahead to Frank, who stood there with his gun in his hand, pointed straight at Collins. He never got a shot off as Collins, running like a Gaelic footballer possessed, hit him squarely in the chest with his head. The gun flew into the air, and Frank landed squarely in the middle of the floor. While Frank was still looking up at the ceiling, Vinny Byrne cast a shadow on him as he put the nozzle of his Mauser semi-automatic flush in the center of Frank’s forehead. “You move, and you’re dead,” Vinny said calmly, as if he had done this before.

  Eoin had his Webley trained on Frank’s confederate, who was sitting on the couch next to Róisín. She was tied and gagged. “What’s your fookin’ business?” he said to the young fellow, who was maybe sixteen years of age.

  “I want to die for Ireland!” he said excitedly, which elicited a great laugh out of Collins.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Seamus Crowley.”

  “Hit the floor, Seamus, and I may let you live.”

  Seamus did as he was told, and Róisín was red in the face as she struggled with her gag and rope. Collins went over to her and patted her on the head, like a favorite pet. “Cat got your tongue?” he said to her, as he removed the handkerchief from her mouth.

  “I’m going to kill you, Mick Collins!” she said, much to the amusement of the General. As soon as the rope was removed from her hands and legs, she advanced on Frank, who Vinny had cornered in a corner. She hit him with a roundhouse blow to the face, which knocked him onto the floor, spilling blood. “You fucking eejit!” she said. “And if you ever touch my breasts again, it will be the last teat you’ll ever touch in your life!” Vinny’s look turned dark, and Frank began to wonder if he would make it out of Stoneybatter alive.

  “Are you alright, Captain Conway?” Collins asked Charlie.

  “Captain!” spat Frank.

  “National Army, you fookin’ eejit,” said Eoin to his brother.

  “Now, Frank,” said Collins, “if you want to be a successful Irregular, I suggest you not enlist one of my trusted advisers.”

  “We didn’t have a chance,” muttered Seamus Crowley with disgust.

  “Since when?” asked Frank.

  “Since March,” said Charlie. “General Collins convinced Guinness to give me a leave of absence so I could train Free State troops at the Royal Barracks. It’s a short commute for me,” Charlie added, with a sly smile.

  “You should have told me,” said Frank, blood running down
his chin from Róisín’s battering.

  “Frank, son,” said Charlie, “you had the gun. I didn’t think the truth was the correct option for Róisín and meself at the moment.”

  “Rope, Charlie,” said Collins. “Give me rope, lots of rope.” Within minutes, Frank and Seamus had their hands tied behind their backs. “Frank,” said Collins, “you’re a mess! And you, Seamus Crowley, should get some sense.”

  “Yes, General Collins,” Seamus said, meekly.

  “Vinny, they’re all yours. I’m sure you have enough room at Richmond Barracks for these two wee lads.” The two young Irregulars were marched outside to Collins’s Rolls-Royce. “No, not this one,” said Collins. “I don’t need Frank’s blood all over my brand-new Silver Ghost.”

  The two were marched back to the car they had come in. “I’m sorry, Eoin,” said Frank, blood still dripping onto his shirt.

  “No, you’re not,” replied Eoin. “And the one you should be apologizing to is Róisín.”

  Róisín stepped forward and instinctively reverted to nurse. She put her fingers to his split lip and nodded. “You’ll live,” she said, before adding, “you little shite.”

  “Forgive and forget!” joshed Collins.

  “You fookin’ men are all alike,” Róisín fumed.

  They sat Frank and Seamus in the back seat of the Ford, with Vinny riding shotgun next to Collins’s chauffeur. As they drove off towards Richmond Barracks, Collins said, “Let’s get a drink, the four of us.”

  “Not me, General,” said Uncle Charlie. “I have to be at the Barracks at reverie.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Collins headed to his Rolls. “Who’s going to drive?” asked Eoin.

  “I am,” said Collins.

  “Since when do you drive?”

  “Since spending my youth in London. I’ve been driving for more then ten years.”

  “Your talents amaze me,” said Róisín, not amazed at all, as she needled the man who had rescued her. Her cynicism quickly turned to terror as Collins, despite the now-blinding fog, put the car into third gear and tore down the Northside quays before crossing the Liffey at Gratton Bridge.

  Ten minutes later, they were parked outside of the Stag’s Head. Silent Peadar Doherty was delighted to see them and offered them the back room.

  They made their way past stunned patrons at the bar. Every eye was on Collins. Life was odd, thought Eoin, as he made his way through the bar crowd. Two years ago, no one knew what Collins looked like. Now everyone in Dublin knew his mug. He was, without a doubt, Dublin’s biggest celebrity.

  Once seated, Doherty took their order. “Pony of Jameson,” said Róisín, and Eoin and Collins asked for the same. When the whiskeys arrived, Collins proposed a toast. “To Róisín, one of our bravest!”

  Róisín responded to the General. “To Michael Collins, who gave us our country!”

  Eoin, exhausted and thankful that Róisín was unharmed, added a third toast, “To our comrades, living and dead.”

  “Even those who went against the Treaty,” said Collins, as he sipped his whiskey. “Just think,” he added, “two years ago, we’d be looking over our shoulders for the Cairo Gang. Now Dublin Castle, just down that lane, is populated with people dedicated to our new Irish nation.”

  “It’s really a miracle, when you think of it,” said Eoin.

  “Well,” Collins replied, “Let’s hope we have a few more miracles left in the bag. Maybe I can track down Dev in Cork next week and perform the miracle of miracles . . .”

  “Yeah,” interjected Róisín, “turn him into a true patriot, and stop this fookin’ insanity.”

  “We’ll see,” said Collins good-naturedly, before turning serious. “You know what I hate?” he asked. “I hate Glasnevin Cemetery. I couldn’t believe I was up there yesterday burying another patriot, Arthur Griffith. I went by the Republican Plot and saw the fresh graves of Harry Boland and Cathal Brugha, and I didn’t know what to make of it. All I could think was, ‘Who’s next’?” The three of them sipped in silence. “Do you know what Bishop Fogarty said to me yesterday after we planted the president? He said, ‘Michael, you should be prepared—you might be next.’”

  “That clerical sonofabitch,” said Róisín, rising up from her seat. “How dare he!”

  “It’s alright, Róisín.”

  “He had no right,” snapped Róisín. “No right at all.”

  She plopped back down in her seat, and the three of them sat in silence, the air gone out of their balloon. Róisín looked down at the table and was suddenly filled with guilt. She remembered her earlier threat, “I’m going to kill you, Mick Collins!” Even as a figure of speech, it seemed threatening, because Ireland was filled with people who really wanted to kill Mick Collins. The queue was growing by the day, and Collins knew it. As the three of them finished their whiskeys, they knew who was going to be next. It was only a matter of time.

  157

  The next morning, Eoin was up especially early, so he could figure out what to do with Frank. After sleeping on it, he had decided that Frank had to go—to America.

  The first thing he did was wire John Devoy in New York that Frank would be visiting soon and that he should take care of him. Eoin took a car from the Portobello Barracks to Dublin Castle and secured a passport—one of the new Free State passports—for Frank. “He’ll need a photograph,” the clerk had said.

  “I’ll use his mugshot,” replied Colonel Kavanagh.

  From the Castle, he pulled up to Cook’s Travel Bureau, where he had transacted a lot of travel business for Collins and himself in the past. “When’s the next boat to New York from Cobh?” he asked.

  “Sunday evening,” came the response. “RMS Celtic of the White Star Line.”

  “I’ll take a steerage ticket.”

  “They don’t provide steerage anymore,” the clerk replied. “It’s now called ‘third class.’ “

  “Whatever,” replied Eoin, and the deed was done.

  He took the car to Government Buildings to meet up with Collins. “So,” said the General, “what are you going to do with Abel?”

  Eoin shook his head at the Biblical reference and Collins’s attempt at humor. “I’ve decided, with your permission, to send him to New York. I’ve already wired Devoy to take care of him.”

  “Thanks for waiting for my permission,” said Collins, lightly.

  “The ship leaves from Cobh on Sunday evening. There’s a boat going down to resupply General Dalton on Saturday, and I think I’ll hitch a ride for Frank and myself. Then I can put Frank on the ship at Cobh and meet up with you in Cork City. I can’t trust the roads or the rails with the way the Irregulars have been behaving.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Collins.

  “It’s the best I can do. After this, I’m finished with the little bugger.”

  Collins gave a staccato laugh. “You are never finished with people like Frank. They are the family gift that keeps on giving.”

  Saturday afternoon, Eoin arrived at Richmond Barracks to pick up Frank.

  “I’ve sent for him,” said Vinny Byrne. “How do you want to have him ‘dressed’?”

  “In handcuffs and leg-irons,” Eoin responded without hesitation. “Tight ones,” he added.

  Vinny laughed. “You really have it in for the lad, you do.”

  “Believe me, Vincent, if I didn’t have the power of Collins behind me to do this, I’d just shoot the bastard. I have had enough. Can you spare two men?”

  “Anything you want,” said Vinny. “Are you getting used to your new uniform?”

  Eoin looked warily at the sleeve of his military tunic and laughed. “I hate the fooker. If it wasn’t for Mick, I never would have put it on. I miss my blue three-piece suit. I feel like an eejit in this thing.”

  “I’m with you,” said Colonel Byrne. “Only for Mick would I do this.”

  With that, Frank entered the room. “Oh, it’s you,” he said to Eoin, as causal as could be.

 
“Handcuffs and irons,” Byrne said to the two soldier escorts. “This time we’re going to make sure Frank Kavanagh leaves the country.”

  “What do you mean ‘leaves the country’?”

  “You’re a lucky man, Frank,” said Eoin. “You’re about to embark on an all-expenses-paid trip to New York.”

  “But I don’t want to go.”

  “Too bad,” replied Eoin. “You’re going.”

  The restraints were brought in, and Frank found himself handcuffed with a chain running down his front from his cuffs to his leg-irons. He looked like the most dangerous man in the world.

  A car took them to the North Wall, where supplies, including artillery, were being loaded on an old tramp steamer that the Free State had chartered. During the ride, Eoin told Frank the facts of life and warned him that this was his last chance. “Devoy won’t put up with any of your shite. He’d shoot you as quick as look at you. They’ll find your body floating in the Hudson River,” Eoin told his brother. Frank had a look on him that showed he might actually be listening for a change. The two Free State soldiers brought Frank to the hold, where they took turns guarding him.

  The journey down the Irish coast was slow and monotonous. The only amusement for Eoin was Frank’s screech when a rat ran across the hold. Tough ould Frank, thought Eoin, and a laugh followed. As they approached Cobh Harbor, Eoin took in the sights—from the high tower of St. Colman’s Cathedral to the surreal quiet of Spike Island, still full of British soldiers and Royal Navy personnel. As part of the Treaty, Britain got to retain several Irish ports for use by the Royal Navy. It infuriated Eoin, but he realized it was all part of Collins’s master plan for the future of Ireland. The RMS Celtic sat anchored in the middle of Cobh harbor. To Eoin, it was a mini-Titanic—not as big, but bigger than anything he had ever seen before. It had two smokestacks and the pronounced Harland & Wolff bow that was common on all White Star liners.

  The old steamer tied up at the dock, and Eoin, Frank, and the two escorting soldiers made their way to the Celtic’s tender, which would take them out to the ship. As he prepared to board, Eoin buttoned the collar on his tunic and pulled his hat over his eyes. When he got on deck he said, “Take me to the Captain.”