The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (27 page)

72

S
ebastian Blood was a creature of habit, which delighted the Squad members tagging him. Every morning, like clockwork, he would emerge in the dark from the Ivanhoe Hotel in Harcourt Street at seven and start his trek over to Dublin Castle, always via Aungier Street. He made it a point to go by the empty Castle Barbers, as if he was reliving, daily, one of the great moments of his life.

Normally, the Squad would have shot Blood dead in front of his hotel. It would be quick, and the getaway would be certain. But Collins wanted to telegraph this one to Dublin Castle, and Blood’s monotonous routine was only going to help them. “Let’s be on our toes,” reminded Paddy Daly. “The last time we hit this bastard, he broke his routine and we had to chase him to the movie house in Mary Street. Be sharp.”

The Squad cleared Blood’s calendar with Brendan Boynton, and it was decided to hit him on Monday, January 26. The morning dawned clear and cold, with a hint of dawn appearing over the east side of St. Stephen’s Green. Blood did not disappoint as he headed down Cuffe Street and turned into Aungier Street. As he walked by Castle Barbers, he was shocked to see the shop lit up in the early morning darkness. A man was standing in the back, dressed up in a striped barber’s shirt.

It couldn’t be Joseph Kavanagh
, thought Blood.
He’s dead
. And Blood didn’t believe in Fenian ghosts—at least not yet. He rubbed his eyes to clear his head and saw that the barber was too young to be Joseph Kavanagh. Then it hit Blood—this was Collins’s kid, the barber’s missing son, the one in the film, the one he had been searching for all over Dublin. Blood went to the door, and his hand stiffened in anticipation before he turned the knob and entered. Blood knew in his gut that this was the perfect conclusion to the Joseph Kavanagh caper. It had all been worth it.

“Eoin Kavanagh?” he said.

“Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood,” came the reply.

“Kavanagh,” Blood said, as he tapped his walking stick twice for emphasis, “you’re under arrest for sedition.”

Blood was so focused on Eoin that he did not see McDonnell and Daly coming up behind him. Blood stood in his tracks until he saw Vinny Byrne come out of the back room. Instantly he realized that he was trapped, and he reached for his revolver. Daly hit him in the back of the head with his Luger, and Blood dropped to the floor, groggy, but conscious. Eoin retrieved Blood’s newly reissued gun, ID, badge, notebook, and wallet. Daly and McDonnell picked Blood up and put him in the first chair by the window. Vinny Byrne came up to their prisoner with a cup of cold water and threw it in his face.

“Wake up, ya gobshite,” said Vinny, and Blood’s eyes flew open in terror. He looked out into Aungier Street hoping for some help, but all he saw was the backup team.

“I have a message for you from Michael Collins,” said McDonnell, who went face-to-face with Blood while Daly held him in the chair by the shoulders. “You’ve been convicted of the murder of Joseph Kavanagh, soldier of the Republic, and other high crimes against Ireland. Your sentence is death. Say your prayers.”

Blood couldn’t think of any prayers to say. He was so frightened, and his heart seemed to leap out of his chest with each beat. “I was only doing my duty,” was all he managed to say.

“Was your duty tormenting my Da?” said Eoin, cold as the Webley in his right hand. “Who the hell do you think you are to come into my country and tell me and my family what to do?”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Blood meekly replied, his solipsistic pomp gone flaccid.

“No, you’re not,” said Eoin, as he positioned himself on Blood’s right. “There’s nothing really to you, is there?” Blood made no reply in his defense. “May the Lord have mercy on your immortal soul,” said Eoin as he raised the gun, which had once belonged to Blood, even with the detective’s head. Daly released Blood’s shoulders and stepped back, as did the two other Squad members. Without hesitation, Eoin shot Blood once in the right temple. The detective’s blood splattered onto his barber’s shirt. Eoin walked away as Byrne came around and finished Blood off with a shot into his left ear. To complete the job, Daly pinned a note to Blood’s coat:

G-MEN
BEWARE!

McDonnell made sure to snugly position the Freemason walking cane between Blood’s stiffening knees, as Collins had instructed. Daly wished he had a camera, because this corpse was worth a thousand words to the British—it was dead proof that the gamesmanship was over, and the war had begun in earnest. Eoin stripped off his barber’s shirt as two cars pulled up in front of the shop. The primary team jumped into the first car, and the backups took the second. Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood sat in Joseph Kavanagh’s barber chair, as dead as he could be, with Queen Victoria looking down on him, a slight hint of dissatisfaction on her homely face.

Timmy O’Farrell was down the street on the roof of a four-story building on the corner of Aungier and Digges. He was a long way from his home in Coolshannagh, County Monaghan. In his hands he held a British-issued Lee-Enfield rifle—known as the “Sniper’s Friend” by the British army during the Great War—which he had been practicing with in the Dublin Mountains for the last two days. His orders from McKee were simple—take out the driver of the lead lorry of the first British convoy coming into the Dardanelles that morning. He was then instructed to take out the soldier in the passenger seat. He was also told to be sure to avoid hitting the hostage, sitting in his chair above the cab, at all costs.

He had heard two shots behind him on Aungier Street and knew that the first job of the day had been done. Now it was his turn. He carefully took aim as the truck came through Wexford Street and sweetly pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Private Alphie Constance in the mouth and traveled through to his spinal cord, killing him instantly. The lorry jerked to the side of the road. His mate, Corporal Ian Stamp, leaned over his friend in terror and never felt the bullet that ripped off the top of his head.

Out of the doorways of Wexford Street came members of the Second Battalion, South Dublin Brigade of the IRA, to untie the hostage and haul him to safety. Soldiers were shot as they sat in their lorries, and hand grenades devastated all eight lorries in the convoy. And, as swiftly as they has descended, the IRA vanished, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Timmy O’Farrell left his post on the roof, impressed with the Lee-Enfield, and wondered who Dick McKee wanted him to shoot next. This was easier, he decided, than shooting jackrabbits in the Monaghan countryside.

73

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
26, 1920

A
fter the job, the car dropped me off in Dame Street, as they thought I was going to the Crow Street office. But on impulse, I decided to catch the 8:00 a.m. mass at Saints Michael and John’s. I don’t go to mass much during the week. It’s strictly a Sunday thing with me. I think I went there because I wanted to be near my parents, who were married there in 1900. I needed their support after the awful events of the morning
.

At the beginning of the mass, I felt nothing. I didn’t feel happy about killing Blood, but I didn’t feel particularly bad about what I did, either. I didn’t even feel a sense of revenge—just the satisfaction of doing my duty.

I love the mass, and I know the Latin by rote. I was an altar boy down at St. Kevin’s in Harrington Street, and, out of habit, I still mouth the responses to the priest. The Church, like my Fenianism, runs deep in my gut.

I was fine until the
Confiteor
intruded on my numb reverie:

“Confiteor Deo omnipoténti, beátae Maríae semper Virgini, beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joánni Baptistae, sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus Sanctis, et tibi, Pater: quia peccávi nimis cógitatióne, verbo, et ópere.”

“I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the Saints, and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed.”

And, suddenly, it hit me that I had, indeed, sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and, especially, deed. It struck me particularly hard when he mentioned
Michaéli Archán
g
elo
, and I realized that I had basically begged my own Michael for this job, and now I think I regret it. I don’t know if I can do this again.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa. Ideo precor beátam Mariam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joánnem Baptistam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te, Pater, oráre pro me ad Dómiunum Deum nostrum.”

“Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault,” said I, as I hit me craw three times hard. “Therefore I beseech Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the Saints, and you, Father, to pray to the Lord Our God for me.”

My Most Grievous Fault.

What would my dear, gentle Mammy think? Would my Da approve, even though I did this awful shooting to give him some kind of awkward justice? What kind of a son did they raise?

Now I am just lost, and I wonder if I should even be doing this intelligence work, which will only cause more death and destruction.

The priest ended the Confiteor by saying:
“Misereátur vestri omnípotens Deus, et dimíssis peccátis vestries, perdúcat vos ad vitam aetérnam.”

“May Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to life everlasting.”

Mercy, forgiveness, life everlasting.

I wonder if God will have it in his power to bestow these sacred, precious gifts on me, a sinner of the worst kind.

I picked up the newspapers, including the British Sunday papers, on my way back to Crow Street. Only Liam Tobin was in the office. “How did it go, Eoin?” he asked gently, and I told him Blood was dead, efficiently, with the use of only two bullets. Without asking, he brought me a cup of tay, and patted me on my back when he put it down in front of me. My conscience was still pricking at me when I started to go through the classifieds of the London papers. It didn’t take long to be brought back to reality by the neat little advertising box:

EX-OFFICERS WANTED. Seven pounds a week,
free uniform and quarters. Must have first-class records:
to join Auxiliary Division, Royal Irish Constabulary:
12 months guarantee—apply, with full particulars,
service, age, to R.O., R.I.C., Scotland Yard, London S.W
.

“Jaysus, Liam,” says I, “come look at this!” Tobin was reading over my shoulder in seconds. “Scotland Fookin’ Yard! What does it mean?” I asked.

“It means we’re in for the fight of our lives,” said Tobin. “They’re going to send a boatload of Sebastian Bloods to Ireland. That’s what it means.”

“A boatload of Sebastian Bloods to Ireland.”

My melancholy began to lift as my blood began to boil.

“Make sure Mick sees this in his intelligence brief tonight,” Liam said.

Yes, it was important that a certain Irish
Michaéli Archángelo
saw what the British had in mind for Ireland in 1920. And I began to wonder how long it would be before the Squad needed my services again.