The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (20 page)

54

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
F
RIDAY,
S
EPTEMBER
19, 1919

E
arlier this evening, Mick called a meeting at the Gaelic League at 46 Parnell Square. I met Mick at Vaughan’s Hotel with his daily intelligence brief, and then we walked down the street to number forty-six. “Take notes,” he said to me. This was heavy stuff. Mick’s two Dicks, McKee and Mulcahy, were there, and all the lads carried artillery: Vinny, Mick O’Donnell, Paddy Daly, Joe Leonard, Tom Keogh and Jim Slattery, among others
.

“One week ago today,” he began, “the British proscribed our
Dáil
.” Mick paused for effect. “They have also proscribed our National Loan.” Mick paused again. “Now we are going to proscribe them!” Mick said that he was forming an elite Squad to carry out “special assignments.” He said the Squad would take orders directly from him or, in his absence, from McKee and Mulcahy.

“Under no circumstances whatsoever,” he began, “are you to take it on yourselves to shoot anybody, even if we know he is a spy, unless you have to do it in self-defense while on active service.” He paused. “Remember, not all of the G-men are our enemies, and indiscriminate shooting might result in the death of friends. And believe me, we have more friends in the peelers than you might think.

“To paralyze the British machine, it is necessary to strike at individuals,” he continued. “Without her spies, England is helpless. It is only by means of their accumulated and accumulating knowledge that the British imperialist machine can operate.

“Spies”—Mick spat the word out—”are not so ready to step into the shoes of their departed confederates. And even when the new spy has stepped into the shoes of the old one, he cannot step into the old one’s knowledge. We will strike at individuals, and by doing so, we will cut their lines of communication and shake their morale.”

Mick paused and then asked, “Are there any questions?” There was stunned quiet in the room. “Very well,” he said, “let’s get to work.” With that, he gave me a nod and headed for the door. All the men in the room surrounded McKee and Mulcahy to get more information. We headed back to Vaughan’s Hotel. On the street he said to me, “Well, Eoin, are you ready to have some of your ‘fun,’ as you like to put it?”

“I don’t know, Mick,” says I.

Mick saw I was distressed. “Come on up into my office.” Once inside Vaughan’s, Mick was blunt in his questioning. “What’s bothering you? The shooting part?”

“I’m a Catholic, Mick.”

“So am I.”

“It’s the worst mortal sin. My mother would never forgive me.”

Mick snorted. “Your mother!”

“You knew her.”

Mick suddenly changed his tone. “I know it’s hard, Eoin. But we’re in a desperate situation. You know we can’t put an army on a battlefield against the British. You know we’re desperate for a few used revolvers and some rounds of bullets to put in them.” He went quiet for a moment. “You know we only have about eighteen months! If we do not free Ireland in that time span, she will remain a British colony forever!”

“Forever” sounded very frightening.

“You’re under no obligation,” Collins finally said. “Go back to Crow Street, and do your intelligence work. Keep helping me out on the National Loan in Harcourt Street.” He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. “You’ll know when your time to join the Squad is ripe. Until then, don’t desert me.”

I was shocked that he would say such a thing to me. “Never!” says I.

Collins smiled and without saying a word, fled the office. Within seconds, I could hear his clanker of a bike outside on Parnell Square, off in the Dublin night, like a whaling banshee in search of a G-man’s funeral procession.

55

“
I
’m so glad Grandpa didn’t join the Squad,” said Diane to her husband. Johnny gave a knowing grunt. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, my ass!” Johnny smiled at the mention of her delicious derriere, and Diane caught his sexual drift. “Don’t start!” she scolded.

“Remember “Afternoon Delight” back in the ‘70s?” Johnny suddenly said, referring to a hit song that was an ode to matinee fucking.

Diane laughed. “Johnny, you’re incorrigible! I haven’t thought of that dirty song in thirty years. As Maurice Chevalier used to say, ‘Yes, I remember it well!’”

“So do I,” said Johnny, turning nostalgic. “
Skyrockets in Flight!/Afternoon Delight!
I remember it playing on the radio while the sun shined in on us as we were screwing in that old rocking chair of yours.”

“Down, boy!” admonished his wife. “You’re quite the romantic—probably just like Róisín’s young Eoin.”

“Okay,” said Johnny, blushing, knowing he had been clearly caught in sexual hypocrisy. “You win.”

“Let’s get back to Grandpa. I’m glad he didn’t join the Squad, because he might have gotten himself killed.”

“No member of the Squad,” replied Johnny, “ever died in action. They were pros.”

“But it was still safer sitting in some office.”

“No one working for Michael Collins,” said Johnny, “was ever safe, especially working intelligence and finance like Grandpa did.”

“Anything is better than being in the Squad. Being a murderer.”

“You think?” said Johnny.

“What are you saying?”

Johnny let a breath out. “There are defining moments in history. You know, George Washington at Valley Forge in 1777, Napoleon versus Wellington at Waterloo in 1815, General Grant at Vicksburg in 1863—and Michael Collins and his Squad in Dublin in 1920.”

“You’re making me nervous. Will you just spit it out?”

“My grandfather had a unique sense of history, be it here in Ireland or in America. He also had a determined sense of duty. Those two instincts, plus his total dedication to Michael Collins, might make him change his mind about the Squad.”

“Do you know this as fact?” asked Diane.

“No,” replied Johnny. “The old man only hinted at things. I remember meeting the
Taoiseach
, Seán Lemass, when I was a teenager. Grandpa was openly fond, even affectionate towards the
Taoiseach
, but, as we were leaving, he said to me, “Johnny, I love Jack Lemass, but, when I go out to do a job, I go with Vinny Byrne.’”

“Meaning?”

“What was Vinny’s job?”

“Collins’s enforcer.”

“Shooter,” replied Johnny. “Vinny was the supreme shooter. He killed more people than cancer.”

“Do you have anything else you want to share with me?” asked Diane, and Johnny shook his head. “Would a little ‘afternoon delight’ perhaps stimulate some other recollections?”

Johnny silently took his wife by the hand and headed for the upstairs bedroom. “
Skyrockets in Flight!
. . .” he began, as he started to climb the stairs.

“ . . .
Afternoon Delight!
” sang Diane in reply, adding her own deliciously dirty laugh to set the mood.

56

C
amden Street was turning into a British highway. Day by day, hour after hour, British military lorries, Crossley tenders, and armored cars came rambling through the old neighborhood, honking their horns, frightening children playing in the streets, drenching pedestrians with splashed rainwater—which would always evoke howls of derisive laughter from the Tommy in the driver’s seat.

They were coming from the Portobello Barracks, down past the Grand Canal, and their destination was Dublin Castle. They would range unmolested through the long, twisted thoroughfare that started out as Camden Street, then turned into Wexford, Aungier, and South Great Georges Streets. At Dame Street, they would make their safe left turn and find the front gates of Dublin Castle.

Unmolested.

The Second Battalion of the South Dublin IRA wanted to change that word.

It started with one hand grenade. The pin was pulled, and the grenade was tossed into a lorry, and soon the ambulances began arriving from the Meath Hospital.

There would be no more free passage down the middle of Camden Street for the British Army. There would be no more laughing at the locals—only nervous glances at the citizens in the street, wondering which one had a deadly grenade in his pocket.

The attacks became a daily occurrence. The British, so used to dealing with their local savages around the world, improvised. Soon the tops of lorries and tenders were covered with chicken wire. A grenade now bounced off and was returned to sender with a bang.

But the British weren’t the only ones who knew how to improvise. A fishhook made a nice catch on the wire mesh, and more ambulances would arrive from the Meath. The hunters had become the hunted.

Now, as they entered Camden Street, the proud British Army could hear the heckles of the street urchins: “Welcome to the Dardanelles, ya fookin’ English hoors!” Listen to the children, and you’ll know what the parents are thinking.

On other occasions, they would be serenaded by the same street kids, with the anti-British Great War ditty called “The Grand Ould Dame Britannia:”

What’s the news the newsboy yells?
What the news the paper tells?
A British retreat from the Dardanelles,
Says the Grand Ould Dame Britannia

The British just did not do well in the Dardanelles—Winston Churchill’s disastrous Great War misadventure—be it in Turkey in 1915, or in Dublin in 1919. The new Battle of the Dardanelles had begun, and the next move belonged to the Crown.

57

S
ebastian Blood couldn’t get Castle Barbers out of his head.

He found himself taking walks over to Aungier Street to see what was happening in the shop. There was nothing suspicious going on, but it just didn’t feel right. Blood saw the local DMP constable on the beat, flashed his badge, and asked about the family that ran the shop. Constable O’Shea was nearing his pension, and the last thing he needed was some eager Orangeman RIC eejit fucking up his said retirement. “Good loyal men,” was all O’Shea offered. “And your name, sir?”

“Blood. Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood.”

“Good evening to you, Detective Sergeant,” said O’Shea, making a note to tell his nephew, Matty O’Shea, Second Battalion, South Dublin, IRA, about this nosey RIC detective.

Blood’s other obsession was this Mick Collins fellow, the one the kid in the shop seemed to think was so smart. Boynton told him the Collins file was over at the DMP station in Brunswick Street. Blood called for an appointment and was met at the front desk by Ned Broy. He took Blood to his office. “Tell me all you know about Michael Collins,” was his first demand.

“Michael Collins,” began Broy, “is the
Dáil
’s Minister for Finance.”

“What’s his background?”

“Cork farm boy,” Broy said, ticking each item off on his outstretched fingers. “Worked in the postal system in London between 1906 and 1915, fought in the GPO in 1916, served time in Wales, and has been involved in running candidates for the
Dáil
in the past couple of years.”
That was enough
, thought Broy.
Let Blood figure the rest out
.

“Could I see his file?” Broy took Blood to the same Fenian room where Collins had spent the night and unlocked the door.

“Be my guest,” said Broy. “His file is in here someplace.”

“Not very efficient,” offered Blood.

Broy grunted. “You’re in Dublin now, not Belfast.”

Blood was left alone in the room, and he finally came across Collins’s file. He saw there was a warrant out for his arrest for jumping bail in Sligo. He was dismayed that there was no photograph of the mysterious Minister for Finance.

Blood returned to Broy’s office. “Why hasn’t this bench warrant been enforced?”

“Collins is elusive,” said Broy diffidently.

“Or maybe you Dublin boyos are incompetent.”

There was a stony silence between the two men. “Have a good day,” said Broy, as he returned to examining the papers on his desk.

It was rush hour as Blood started heading up Grafton Street on his way to his lodgings at the Ivanhoe Hotel on Harcourt Street, off Stephen’s Green. Just before he was to cross Cuffe Street, he decided to take one more look at Castle Barbers before he called it a day. It was nearly half-six, and he could see Joseph Kavanagh sweeping the floor and tidying up for the next day’s work. Joseph finally pulled the shade on the door and went outside so he could enter his flat from the doorway on the left, and Frank was right with him. But Frank said something to the father and started walking down Aungier Street. At the corner of York Street, he entered the Swan Bar.

Blood couldn’t believe his luck. A fourteen-year-old kid going for a drink. The barman pulled the pint of porter and placed it in front of Frank. Blood threw a coin on the bar and said, “That’s with me.”

Frank looked up to see who his benefactor was. He was shocked to see that it was Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood. Flabbergasted, all he could muster was, “Thanks.”

“I’ll take one of those, too,” Blood said to the barman, suddenly full of camaraderie. When his pint was delivered, he lifted it and clinked Frank’s glass. “To the Crown!” he said softly, in a conspirator’s tone.

“The Crown,” Frank feebly replied as the barman walked away casually. But the man was as alert as a parish priest hearing a mortal sin in confession, so he perked his ears up to catch all that was going on.

Blood pulled the porter silently into his mouth before saying, “Francis, can I have a word with you?” Frank nodded, but he was annoyed that a stranger would call him “Francis.” Blood lowered his voice. “There’s much Fenianism in this neighborhood. Can you help me out here? It’s like the Dardanelles out there. No one is safe.”

Frank’s pint sat untouched before him. He wished that his father or his brother were here. What he really wished is that Mick Collins was here to tell him what to do. “I don’t know anything,” he finally said. “You know too much in this neighborhood, you could end up in a box with a rosary wrapped around your hands.”

Blood gave a tight smile. “Well,” he finally said, “think about it. Any help you can provide will be appreciated and compensated.”

Frank didn’t understand the word. “Compensated?”

“There’s money in it for you and your father.” Frank, stunned at the offer, numbly nodded his head. Blood smiled and put his hand on Frank’s arm. “Remember,” he said delicately, “there’ll always be an England.”

Just then, there was a terrific blast as another hand grenade of the Second Battalion found its mark in the middle of a British tender. Blood leapt up and headed out the door. Frank finally picked up his pint and dropped it in one long gulp. He nodded at the barman, who looked at him warily. Outside the bodies of three British soldiers lay in Aungier Street, dead. Blood was leaning over them, too late to help. The pint hit Frank nicely in his teenaged brain, and he smiled woozily. He suddenly realized that he had been saved from Detective Sergeant Blood’s touch by the bold citizen soldiers of Michael Collins’s IRA.