The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (30 page)

77

L
iam Tobin and Eoin arrived at the Bailey Chop House for an intelligence briefing with Collins. The Bailey, on Duke Street right off Grafton, was one of the Big Fellow’s favorite places. He never used the bar, but management always kept a private room on the second floor available for his meetings.

When the two Crow Street agents entered the room, they were surprised to see that besides Broy and Boynton, Collins had also invited his two Dicks, Mulcahy and McKee. When the army was brought into it, you always knew that something was up.

“What’s this?” demanded Tobin. Eoin thought that his immediate boss was suddenly looking even more morose than usual.

“What?” asked Collins, defensively.

“You’re taking a lot of risk here,” the Adjutant Director of Intelligence replied sternly to his boss. “These four men,” he said, waving his hand at the G-men and the army men, “should not know each other. You’ve broken the cell.”

“Sit down and have a drink,” said Collins.

Collins pulled two new packs of Greencastle cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He opened one and began to light up. He offered the fags around the table, and they were greedily snapped up by everyone except Eoin.

“I thought you gave those up,” said Eoin.

“Only for tonight,” replied Collins, “so I can get through this bloody meeting.” He tore open the second package of fags and started carefully placing them in a silver cigarette case, oblivious to the looks he was receiving from the rest of the room.

A shopboy knocked at the door and took the drink orders. Usually, Collins ran drink-free meetings, but tonight he waived that rule. When the kid left, Collins stood up and addressed the room. “I’m aware that the cell has been broken, Liam. But we are moving on to another level, and I think it’s time that my trusted lieutenants knew each other. It’s only going to get more complicated from here on out. We will have to work intimately if we are to succeed at anything before this year is out.”

“It’s February already. We’re down to ten months,” said Mulcahy. “It will be almost impossible to succeed before the year is out.”

“If we don’t succeed within this year,” said Collins, “Ireland will never be free.” He looked around the room and added ominously, “It’s now or never.”

The shopboy knocked at the door again and brought in the drinks. The fag fog was so dense in the room by now that he could hardly see the faces of the men. Eoin’s pint of porter was placed before him, Collins had a small pony of sherry, and the other men had glasses of Jameson Irish whiskey, neat. When the shopboy left the room, Collins spoke up. “It’s time we go over the new Deputy Commissioner of Police for the G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, Derek Gough-Coxe.” Collins pronounced it “Cocks.”

“
Co-shay
,” meticulously mouthed Broy.

“I may be only a culchie in your eyes,” said Collins, “but I think I know a ‘cocks’ from a ‘Co-shay!’” The room erupted in laughter, the tension broken. “Liam and Eoin have compiled, over the last couple of weeks, a complete dossier on your man Gough-Coxe.” Collins began passing the newspaper clippings around the table. In the middle of almost every story was a picture of Gough-Coxe in full Arab regalia, right down to his puşi headdress. Headlines heralded “Derek of Suez.”

“Jaysus,” said McKee, “‘Derek of fookin’ Suez.’ I can’t believe they put this gobshite’s picture in the paper. That’s insanity on their part.”

“Hubris,” said Collins, as he turned to Eoin. “That’s a fancy word for pride or conceit.”

“Ah, you’d be knowin’, Commandant-General,” replied Eoin with a straight face. No one laughed, but knowing smirks filled the room.

“I’m a little uncomfortable here,” said Mulcahy, the army Chief-of-Staff. “Is this in Cathal’s territory?”

Although Cathal Brugha was the Minister for Defense, Collins constantly poached his portfolio. In Dublin City, in particular, the duties of the army, now known as the IRA, and Collins’s many projects in finance, IRB, and intelligence were constantly blurred.

“What about Brugha?” Mulcahy asked a second time.

“Let Cathal know what he needs to know,” said Collins cryptically. “Let’s get back to the Sheik.”

“The Sheik!” laughed Broy. “Oh, the boys in Brunswick Street would love that one!”

“Don’t you dare, Ned,” said Collins. He thought for a minute. “The Sheik. I like that. That will be our
nom de guerre
for Gough-Coxe. It fits so well.” He paused and looked intently at Tobin. “Liam, tell us all about our Sheik.”

“The Sheik is Eoin’s domain.”

Eoin opened up his folder and began reciting the facts. “He was born in 1888.”

Before he could continue, he was interrupted by Collins. “He’s two years older than me.”

Eoin ignored his boss and continued. “He was born in Wales. He is illegitimate.”

Eyes opened wide around the table. “Who’s the bastard’s mother?” interjected Collins.

“His father’s children’s nanny.” Collins grunted. “His father is Anglo-Irish and was the late Baronet of Roscommon. Grew up in Oxford. The rest is the usual, Eton, etc. Did post-graduate work at Oxford.”

“Not your usual British thug,” said Boynton.

“War record?” said McKee.

“Largely responsible,” continued Eoin, “for rallying the Egyptians away from their Muslim Ottoman brothers. Is credited with keeping the Suez Canal in British hands, thus his nickname. ‘Went native,’ the press likes to say, dressing up in Arab clothing. Speaks the language. That’s the thumbnail sketch on your Sheik,” Eoin paused before adding, “Awarded the Companion of the Order of the Bath, Distinguished Service Order, and the
Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur
,” said Eoin, butchering the French.

“Jaysus,” said Mulcahy.

“Oh,” said Eoin, “I forgot the
Croix de guerre
.”

“
Croix de guerre
, my arse,” spat Collins, standing up. “Don’t get overwhelmed by this eejit. He isn’t here to go native in a Paddy-cap, hobnailed boots, and speak the Erse! He’s here to destroy us. This man is going to try and take out every man in this goddamn room.” He looked around the room, which was duly impressed with the Sheik’s resume. Too impressed, thought Collins. Collins voice went near a shout. “Is that understood? He is a master colonist. He knows how to treat the native. In Egypt, it was the carrot. In Dublin, it will be the stick. We underestimate this man at our own peril.”

Eoin continued to read in a monotone. “He’s a charmer, apparently. The press’s favorite word for him is ‘charismatic.’”

“Should we send a message and eliminate him right away?” spoke up McKee.

“No,” said Collins. “For now, he’s more valuable to us alive than dead. We will monitor him closely. We will not ‘tag’ him. That won’t be necessary. Ned and Brendan will see him daily. Let’s see where he leads us. Why run down the hill to fook one cow when we can walk down the hill and fook the lot of them?” The men looked around at each other, wondering what, in God’s name, had seized their master bull. “Where is he living?”

“38 Upper Mount Street,” said Eoin.

“Nice neighborhood,” replied Collins.

“He’s not the type, I think,” said Eoin, “to embrace the rebel Liberties!”

“Or Monto,” said McKee, to a roomful of laughter.

“Alright,” said Collins. “We now know what we’re up against. McKee and Mulcahy are here because the Sheik, in one way or another, will eventually become their problem. But not right now. Right now, Gough-Coxe is my problem. He’s Broy’s and Boynton’s problem. He’s Crow Street’s problem.” Collins picked up his small glass of sherry, thought about drinking it, then replaced it, untouched, on the table. “The Sheik is not really a problem,” Collins said to disbelieving ears. “In fact, the Sheik may be the man we’ve been waiting for. He may be the answer to all our prayers.” With that, the meeting broke as Collins put on his hat, grabbed his overcoat, and hurried out the door. Slowly the men stood and left. Eoin realized that he hadn’t touched his pint of porter. He sat down by himself and sipped slowly, wondering what Collins’s Sheik was doing right now, this minute, in his abode at 38 Upper Mount Street, an address that would soon change Eoin’s life—and the destiny of his nation—forever.

78

E
OIN’S
D
IARY

M
y phone rang and I picked it up. “You evasive bastard!” was the greeting, and I knew immediately who it was
.

“Who gave you this number?” I demanded.

“Cupid Collins,” she sang, and I knew I was in trouble.

It was Róisín’s way of telling me that we should get together for the weekend. I tried to tell her that I had to work, but she shot back, “Even those bloody Presbyterians in Dublin Castle take Sundays off!” She said she had it all planned out. We would take Mary and Dickie out of their orphanages for the weekend and bring them to the Zoological Gardens in the Phoenix Park, and then we could all sleep at her flat Saturday night before taking the children back to the orphanages on Sunday evening. I really miss my kiddies, and I was happy to go along with her. She had it all planned out like a Squad hit. She would pick Mary up in Sandymount, I would fetch Dickie in Cabra, and we would all meet up at the zoo.

I picked Dickie up, and, since it was such a nice day—a teaser of spring, it was—we decided to walk up to the park. He told me all was going well at the school, and, since my last visit there, he’s had no problems with Father Murphy. He even says that Murphy has been exceedingly nice to him. “Father Murphy’s my friend now,” said Dickie, and I smiled knowingly.

We caught up with Róisín and Mary. My sister has become quite the little young lady. She looks a lot like Mammy, with that long line of a Conway mouth. Her hair is so dark a brown that it appears black. Dickie and Mary embraced and took off together, the two playmates separated by terrible luck now reunited.

“Mary’s a woman now,” Róisín said to me. I was quiet, because every time I open my mouth about womanly functions, Róisín tells me what an eejit I am. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes,” I finally said, clearly exasperated.

“Good,” replied Róisín and, thank God, she didn’t bring up any more female mysteries for the rest of the weekend.

We had a wonderful time at the zoo, watching the monkeys and the tigers and the elephants, and we stuffed the kids with sweets and ice cream. We took the tram back into town and went to have a light tea at the DBC on Stephen’s Green. Then it was back home and bed. Mary and Dickie jumped together into Róisín’s bed, and she said she’d join them later. We then went into the parlor to talk.

“What’s bothering you?” Róisín asked when we were alone.

“You know what’s bothering me,” says I.

“Blood.”

“The late Detective Blood.”

Róisín came over and sat down next to me on the sofa. “You were doing your duty.”

“Duty?”

“To your country—and your father.”

“It was terrible,” I told Róisín, and she took my hand. “I hope I never have to do that kind of thing again.”

There was an awful quiet for well over a minute before she finally said, “I hope you won’t let Mick down.”

I exhaled mightily and then got up and went over to stoke the fire. Róisín stuck her head into the bedroom and told the kiddies to go to sleep. When she came over to me, she had a pony of whiskey in her hand for me. “Drink this,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because it might loosen you up.”

“Why?”

“So I can take advantage of you, you thickheaded Jackeen!”

With that, she gave a great laugh. “The children!” I said. She took my hand and put it on her breast. “Róisín,” I protested, as we sat down on the sofa. I suddenly realized that me arse was down, but me willie was up.

“It’s about time you knew a little more about me,” she said. “Not a lot more, mind you, but a little more.”

I thought I heard giggling from Róisín’s bedroom, as if the children knew what was happening and were mocking me. But my throbbing willie made me ignore the phantom jeers.
I’m beginning to learn about women
, I thought. I shut me gob and did as I was told.

Sunday morning, I stuck me head into Róisín’s bedroom. She was still fast asleep between two wide-awake children. “Hush,” I whispered. “Let Róisín sleep.”

“How do you expect me to sleep with all these noisy kids around me?” she barked and started tickling them in a furious manner. The screams—for once—were screams of pure joy.

“It’s time for mass,” Mary said, and I told them to get dressed. As they were getting ready, I looked at Róisín, and she gave me a look that indicated she had no intention of going to any mass. As we were getting ready to head out to St. Kevin’s in Harrington Street, the kids asked her why she wasn’t going with us.

“Someone has to cook your breakfast,” she said. “Now, scoot!” As she let us out the door, she said, “Don’t forget to say a prayer for me!” Róisín is full of surprises.

St. Kevin’s was where I was baptized and where I went to mass every Sunday. It’s a grand old church on the edge of my dead parents’ neighborhood. The two children were very attentive, especially Mary. They knew all the responses, and when communion was given out, Mary devoutly received. “You?” I said, pointing at Dickie. He shook his head “no,” and I realized that he hadn’t made his First Holy Communion yet.

“You?” he pointed.

I shook my head. “Not today,” I said, and I was happy when Dickie didn’t persist.

We landed back at Róisín’s, and the smell of rashers, sausages, black and white pudding, fried tomatoes, fried eggs, and beautiful bread and butter overwhelmed us. Róisín poured tea for us all, and we chatted away. Suddenly, Mary asked, “Eoin, what do you do for a living?” Mary had succeeded in gaining our undivided attention.

“I work for an insurance company,” I replied, barely lying.

“Who wants to know?” asked Róisín, getting right to the interrogation.

“Oh, the sisters at school,” said Mary. “They were just curious.” I bet they were.

We spent the rest of the day walking along the Grand Canal and playing in St. Stephen’s Green, just like we had on that Easter Monday nearly four years ago. We watched children sailing boats in the pond and that, too, brought back memories of the day that changed all our lives. Soon, it was time to head back to their orphanages. Departing was such sorrow, none of it sweet, for me and Dickie. Once again he got all teary-eyed, and I promised him that Róisín and I would see him soon again.

“Why doesn’t Frank visit me?”

It was the first mention of Frank all weekend, strangely enough, and I told Dickie that Frank was away on holidays.

“Where?” asked Dickie.

“In the mountains,” I replied, without lying.

I met Róisín back at her flat in Walworth Street. “I thought it went well,” she said.

“Dickie finally asked about Frank. I told him Frank was taking a mountain retreat.” Róisín laughed. “I wonder why they didn’t ask about him before.”

“They don’t want to get attached to someone who will desert them, like your parents did.”

“Desert?”

“You know what I mean,” said Róisín. “They are afraid to love someone who will leave them forever. Children are fragile.”

“So unlike adults, like you and me.”

“We’re barely adults ourselves,” said Róisín, and there was more truth to the statement than she realized. I wanted to go out and see if the Sunday papers from Britain had arrived. “You’re going nowhere,” she said. “Come with me.” She brought me to her bedroom and announced, “I think you have earned the right to sleep in my bed with me.”

“Róisín!”

“You will be chaste,” she said seriously, “as I will.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We will wear night garments. There will be no tomfoolery,” she said sternly. “Do we have an agreement?”

“No tomfoolery?”

“No tomfoolery.”

And, true to her word, there wasn’t, but it was nice to have someone to embrace during the long Dublin winter night.