The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (22 page)

61

E
OIN’S
D
AIRY

I
was with Mick giving my daily intelligence brief in Joint Number One, as we now call Vaughan’s, when Paddy Daly and Vinny Byrne arrived. Vinny dropped a reel of film on the desk. “What’s that?” asked Collins
.

“The National Loan film,” said Vinny.

“Why’s it here?”

“Because of Blood,” said Daly, reaching into his pockets and emptying the detective’s wallet, notebook, Castle ID, badge, and gun onto the desk.

Collins picked up the Webley. “Good pickup,” he said, and placed it in the top drawer of his desk for safekeeping. Mick and I noticed that Daly looked particularly morose. “What’s wrong, Paddy?” he asked.

Paddy is a tough man and is rapidly becoming one of the leaders of the Squad. He’s from just down the way on Parnell Street. He’s tall and lanky with a great shock of hair and a ready smile. He’s so genial-looking that you wouldn’t know how tough and brutal he could be when it came to his duties. “Blood has made the Aungier Street connection.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“We were off to warn him this evening,” began Daly, “when he suddenly takes off for the Volta Cinema in Mary Street. Someone must have tipped him off that the Volta was playing the Loan reel at every showing.”

Collins grunted in discomfort before adding, “Shite.”

“Because just before Vinny clubbed him he said, ‘That’s the bloody kid from Aungier Street.’ Then he added, ‘So that must be Collins!’ “

Collins was quiet, and I was nervous. “That fookin’ film,” Mick finally said. Then there was nothing but quiet between the four of us.

Mick picked up Blood’s notebook. “Let’s see how good a detective he is,” he said as he flipped through the pages and then began to read aloud. “Here it is: ‘31 Aungier. Castle Barbers. Alleged Loyalist. Joseph Kavanagh, son Francis, about thirteen. Two strangers come and go. One might be another son. About eighteen or nineteen. Three-piece suit. Who is he? The Collins connection?’” Mick stopped and looked up. “He’s guessing.”

“He’s close enough,” I said.

“He still doesn’t know your name?”

“We hope.”

“Look at this,” Paddy finally said, handing Blood’s walking cane over to Mick. “Look at the handle.”

Mick ran his hand over the brass knob before looking at it intently. He held it out for all to see. “The ‘All-Seeing Eye,’” he said with a wicked laugh.

“A bloody Freemason,” Vinny chimed in.

Paddy, Vinny, and meself were seemingly mystified by the stick, which Mick moved around like a magic wand. “Secret organizations!” whispered Collins, before bursting out in another great laugh.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Vinny, who attends mass daily. “The Church is wary of secret organizations. You can be excommunicated for joining one.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mick, “the evils of ‘secret organizations’!” The three of us stood with our mouths open. “You bloody eejits!” He laughed again. “You’re all in the Brotherhood. What’s that?”

“A secret organization,” said Daly meekly.

“But that’s different,” I insisted.

“I’m sure it is,” added Collins, with a very dubious look on his face. “Paddy,” he finally said, “I want you to deliver Mr. Blood’s stick back to him at his residence.”

“And the message?”

“No message necessary,” Mick declared. “He’ll get the message—one way or the other.”

“What are we going to do?” I finally said, but I really meant: “What am I going to do?”

“There’s no immediate danger,” Mick replied. “Maybe he’ll take the warning and go the fook back to Belfast.”

“If he doesn’t?” asked Daly.

Mick looked annoyed. “Then we’ll ‘box’ him up and send him back to Belfast.”

“When will we know?” I asked.

“Soon,” said Mick. “But I’m worried about my office on the third floor over in Aungier Street.”

“I’m worried about me father and Frank,” I shot back.

Mick looked suddenly weary. “I know, Eoin,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“That bloody film,” I said.

“It had to be done,” said Mick. “The money is beginning to come in. And we had to warn Blood. We will not play rebellion by their rules any longer. We will not be intimidated by shites like Blood or anyone else. From now on, there will be consequences for the British.”

“Right you are,” echoed Paddy Daly, but Vinny remained quiet, as if he could read my mind, which was riddled with sudden, unrelenting fear. There would be consequences—and I wondered how hard they would come down on me and my family.

62

A
fter spending the night at Jervis Street Hospital and the next two days in his room at the Ivanhoe Hotel, Sebastian Blood finally showed up for work at Dublin Castle. He looked a mess. His head was still bandaged, with a spot of blood bleeding through. He looked like the flutist in A.M. Willard’s painting,
The Spirit of ’76
.

“What happened to you?” asked Brendan Boynton, as if he didn’t know.

Blood groaned. “Fucking Fenians,” was all he managed.

“You look awful,” commiserated Boynton, feigning concern and trying not to show how much he was enjoying the whole thing.

“I shouldn’t have come in today,” said Blood.

“Good thing you did,” said Boynton. “Lots of brass around. Military and G-Division meeting to see what we should do about the Dardanelles.”

The military contingent was led by the Viceroy, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Supreme Commander of the British Army in Ireland: Lord John French. French was one of those people who physically matched his occupation. If you were to say to a Hollywood casting director, “Send over a Great War British Field Marshal,” Johnny French would appear, pressed and shined up. He was also one of the first people to define what would become known as the Peter Principle: “In a hierarchy, every employee tends to rise to their level of incompetence.” A failure in the trenches in France, he was sent to Ireland to put down the rebels, eventually becoming Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was also known as Viscount French of Ypres. The ultimate incompetent, he had more titles than battle victories.

The quiet in the detective offices was broken by a shout: “Everyone to the Day Room. Now!” Blood and Boynton looked at each other, and Boynton shrugged. In the huge room, around the long table, were RIC commissioners, superintendents, and inspectors, along with Johnny French and his merry men. Boynton noticed Ned Broy from Brunswick Street, who he knew by sight but had never been introduced to. Broy noticed Blood in the companion of a young detective and wondered if the kid was another Protestant eejit from Belfast.

Perfunctory introductions were made to the G-Division detectives. French rose to speak first. “We have to suppress what is happening on the streets of South Dublin.”

Good luck to ya
, thought Boynton, but he kept his mouth shut and his ears open.

“In the last week alone,” said French, “the Shiners have bombed five lorries, completely destroying three of them, and killed four soldiers. And last week was an average week compared to the last month. This has to stop.” French looked around the room, apparently expressing his
gravitas
. “I now want to introduce you to Derek Gough-Coxe, who just arrived this morning from London.”

Gough-Coxe was dressed in civilian clothes and wore an old-fashioned, high hard-collar which made his head appear to jump off his shoulders. “I, would just like to correct the Viceroy,” began Gough-Coxe. “I, unfortunately, haven’t been in London in two years. I am
en route
to London from the Middle East, where I have just concluded my business there.”

The Middle East
, thought Boynton, getting it all down in his head for Collins and realizing that the British were showing their first signs of desperation. Across the room, Broy was thinking the same thing.

“I am not up to speed yet,” Gough-Coxe continued, “and I will not be returning here until the first of the year, but I wanted to sit in and meet all of you and see what thoughts you had on this problem with the terrorists. Is there anything anyone wants to say about the Camden Street chaos?” There was quiet in the room. The G-men didn’t know who this Gough-Coxe fellow was, but they would not be surprised if he showed up as their new boss in January 1920. “No comments?” said Gough-Coxe again.

A few throats were cleared, and feet shuffled. Finally Blood had had enough. He tapped his cane twice. “We should be making the rules in the Dardanelles,” he spoke up, “not playing the victim. Let the Fenians play the victims.”

Gough-Coxe looked at Blood and could see from his bandage that he had been to the fight. “Your name?” Gough-Coxe asked.

“Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood. G-Division. DMP.”

Gough-Coxe could hear the Belfast accent. “You’re not from here.”

“Neither are you or Lord French,” Blood snapped, before adding, “And believe me, that’s a good thing, because things tend to get very cozy in Dublin town.” Boynton began to realize that Blood hadn’t quite gotten the message the Squad had tried to convey to him a few nights ago. In fact, he seemed more ambitious than ever.

Lord French was not impressed, but Derek Gough-Coxe was. “What is
your
solution to the Camden Street problems?”

“The reason the rebels are succeeding in the Dardanelles is that they have the people behind them,” said Blood. “If the people want to support the Fenians, there should be a price to pay.”

“Such as?” asked Gough-Coxe.

“Let’s make the citizens put their lives on the line, not our soldiers and policemen.”

“How would you do that?”

“Hostages.”

A murmur swept across the room. “That is a simple solution,” said the equally gormless Lord French.

“Simple,” shot back Blood, “but effective.” The room went quiet. “You will not beat Fenian terrorists without radical thinking,” stated Blood, now cocksure. Broy suppressed a smile, because he realized that Blood and Collins thought exactly alike about their enemies.

Gough-Coxe liked this man Blood. All the other detectives seemed to be followers; this man was a leader. “Detective Blood, you seem to have all the answers.”

“Better than that,” replied Blood, beginning to enjoy the attention he was getting in the room, “I have a candidate.”

“A candidate for what?” asked French.

“Our first Dardanelles hostage.”

Broy and Boynton looked at each other across the room, and their eyes locked for a second. They both felt isolated and alone among all the brass and the other G-men, many of whom had been recently brought in from the North. They couldn’t wait to tell Collins what was going on in this room.

“Gentlemen,” said Lord French, “I’m happy that we could have this meeting. We will consider this problem, and I think we will have a solution shortly. Thank you for your time.” He paused. “God save the King!”

“God save the King!” the room shouted in unison as they all jumped out of their seats like Pavlovian jack-in-the-boxes. Broy was still staring at Boynton, aware that his lips did not move and had risen slowly, even reluctantly. He made a mental note to see who this young G-man was.

Derek Gough-Coxe kept his eye on Sebastian Blood as the detective left the room, easy to spot with his head bandage and tapping cane. He was the man with the plan, and Gough-Coxe wanted to know more about him and his plan. “Detective Blood,” he called out. Blood stopped in his tracks to see who was calling his name. He was delighted when he realized it was Gough-Coxe. Blood stuck out his hand to shake, and Gough-Coxe suddenly realized that Blood’s knuckle was brushing the back of his hand. It was the Freemason’s secret handshake. “You are a man of many surprises,” said Gough-Coxe. Blood held the knob of his walking stick up so Gough-Coxe could see it. Gough-Coxe saw the Freemason’s “All-Seeing Eye” engraving and smiled. “Detective Blood,” Gough-Coxe said, “come and tell me all about your hostage candidate and the situation in the Dardanelles.”

63

O
n Collins’s orders, Eoin called both Broy and Boynton and told them to meet the bossman after work at 32 Bachelors Walk. Collins and Eoin were going over the daily intelligence brief when Broy arrived. “How’s it going, Ned?” asked Collins.

Broy threw an envelope on Eoin’s desk and said, “I thought I’d save the postage this time.” Broy hung up his overcoat and then asked, “What’s up?”

“We’re still waiting for someone,” said Collins. With that, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out.

Brendan Boynton entered, and Broy jumped to his feet. For a second, Boynton thought he had entered the wrong office and was in the process of turning around to get out when Collins said, “Detectives! I thought you lads should meet each other.” This statement was followed by a loud Cork laugh. “Detective Sergeant Broy, meet Detective Constable Boynton.” The two men stood looking at each other for a second. “You can shake hands if you like,” Collins finally said, and the two men gave a rather reluctant and suspicious shake.

“I saw you across the room with Blood,” said Broy. “I thought you were his mate.”

“God save the King!” laughed Boynton, which prompted a smile from Broy. “Blood and I do not get along,” he said. “He’s interested in your man here,” Boynton said, pointing at Collins, “so I sent him over to you to check out the file.” Boynton paused for a second before adding, “I wish I had known about you before. I could have been more effective.”

“Well,” cut in Collins, “you know now. The time is now right for you two to know about each other. I had to be sure I could trust both of you.”

“Are there any more of your men in G-Division?” asked Broy.

Collins smiled. “Let’s get down to the business of the day—Detective Blood. What are we up against?”

“He’s a persistent prick,” said Boynton.

“Even after the beating he took the other night?”

“More so,” said Boynton, and Broy nodded in agreement.

“You should have seen him in that meeting with Johnny French,” said Broy. “Had a grand idea about how to clog up the Dardanelles.”

“His solution?” asked Collins.

“Civilian hostages,” said Boynton.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” snapped Eoin. “He’s thinking of my family.”

“How do you know?” asked Collins.

“Who the fook else in Dublin does he know?” said Eoin. “He hasn’t been in town more than six weeks, and, from reports, he’s obviously obsessed with that fookin’ barbershop. What can we do?”

“For the moment, Eoin, nothing,” said Collins. “We have to see what he’s up to.”

“He’s got the ear of the new man in town,” said Broy. “An agent named Derek Gough-Coxe.”

“Gough-
Co-shay
,” laughed Collins. “Another fancy-name eejit. How do you spell that?”

“G-O-U-G-H-hyphen-C-O-X-E.”

“Cocks!” roared Collins.

“
Co-shay
,” corrected Broy.

Collins rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe it. What’s this eejit’s story?”

“Don’t know much about him,” said Boynton. “Just in from the Middle East.”

“Middle East,” spat Collins. “When they start bringing people in from the Middle East and India, you know they are getting ready to give us a good royal fooking.” Collins got up from his chair. “Eoin, let’s find out about this Gough-Coxe, and let’s find out quick.” Collins turned to Broy and Boynton. “Find out all you can about this shite. A full rundown. Coordinate with Eoin.” The detectives nodded affirmatively. “Eoin, buckle down. We’ll have to see how this develops. Don’t tell your Da or Frank. A warning to them will only make things worse. Right now, innocence is their best weapon.” And, with that, Collins got up, threw on his overcoat and hat, and left the room, leaving his three intelligence agents to themselves.

Innocence is their best weapon
, thought Eoin, rehashing Collins’s departing words, knowing full well that innocence was in short supply in a dank Dublin City awaiting what would surely be an exceptionally cold winter.