The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (39 page)

 101

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
A
UGUST
15, 1920

J
ust got back to Dublin after a heart-wrenching twenty-four hours in Gorey, County Wexford. Captain Percival Lea Wilson is no more
.

I took the late train down there last night and was met by Mickey Coffey, who was my classmate at the Christian Brothers School in Synge Street when I was a lad. Mickey was the class poet, and all the neighborhood lassies were mad for him. We went to Coffey’s house and met up with dapper, mustachioed Seán Mellor, the local IRA commandant, and Big Neil O’Granger, some local IRA muscle who has a simple, homely mug that only a mother could love. The sight of the three did not fill me with confidence. I explained to them that Collins wanted them to do the job, since this was their territory. I didn’t tell them that Collins thought they were a bunch of slacking shites because things were too, too quiet in Wexford. The Commandant-General wants action.

Wilson is now a district inspector for the RIC. He’s come a long way from that night in the Rotunda grounds when he made sport of humiliating Seán MacDiarmada and old Tom Clarke. The boys have been tracking him for months and have his routine down pat. I explained the set-up to them—that we’d work in two teams, two men apiece. Mellor and O’Grady will be the shooters, and Coffey and I will be the backup team, making sure no eager, pain-in-the-arse, innocent civilians come to Wilson’s rescue and interfere with the business of the shooters.

Today dawned beautifully. We have an old Ford motorcar as a ruse and getaway vehicle. A local IRA lad, Rory, will be the driver. Wilson, who dresses in civilian clothes, walks from his RIC barracks every morning. We parked the car halfway on his route, near the railway station, and opened the bonnet to make it appear that we were having engine trouble. Rory poked around inside the engine as the rest of us kept an eye out for Wilson.

Just before half-nine, the lads pointed him out about two blocks away. He was walking with an RIC man. “What if the constable gets in the way?” asked Coffey.

I thought of how Collins would react, and I had no intention of being battered by Mick for being timid. “We’ll shoot both bastards,” I replied, and Coffey looked terrified.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he whispered under his breath.

Luckily for the RIC man, he left Wilson before they reached us. Wilson, however, continued right towards us, reading a newspaper as he walked, oblivious to everything around him. He was getting closer.

“Is that him?” Mellor asked, wanting me to make the definitive identification. There was no doubt. The four years since the Rotunda had not improved Wilson’s looks.

“That’s the bastard,” I confirmed. “He’s all yours.”

Mellor and O’Granger immediately started walking towards Wilson. I pulled my Webley out of my pocket and got ready. Coffey looked on with his mouth open. “Get your gun out,” I told him, but he was stiff with fear. “Come on,” I said, more urgently. Coffey pulled his old Luger out and held it out in front of him. “By your side, you bloody eejit,” I hissed, and he lowered it by his pants’ leg. “Let’s go,” I said, and we started tracking the gunmen about ten yards behind the shooting team. My knees were stiff with apprehension. It didn’t help that Coffey had started reciting The Act of Contrition: “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee . . .”
Coffey will need a Perfect Act of Contrition if he keeps this up
, I thought. I knew there would be no contrition from Collins if we missed this bastard. There wasn’t another person in sight, thank God.

“Captain Wilson,” Mellor called out, and Wilson looked up from his newspaper. O’Granger brought his gun shoulder-high and fired, hitting Wilson in the upper torso. Mellor shot and missed. He fired again and hit Wilson in the leg this time, blood spouting all over the street and splattering Mellor and O’Granger as they lowered their guns and observed their prey.

Suddenly Wilson was up and limp-running down the street. “For fook’s sake,” I complained to Coffey. It looked like the son-of-a-bitch Wilson was heading right back to the RIC barracks. “Fook this,” I spit out, and ran at full speed towards Wilson, easily overtaking him. “Fook you, Wilson” I yelled. He turned to look at me, fright in his eyes. I shot once and hit him in the jaw, dropping him to the road. He was bleeding profusely, but he was still alive and alert. “You should have let me have that malted milk tablet,” I said. His eyes were wide, and I think that, with the mention of the malted milk tablet, he recognized me as the kid in the Rotunda Garden. “That was for Tom Clarke,” I said. “This is for Seán MacDiarmada.” I pulled the trigger and hit him in the forehead. Then I bent down and shot him solidly in the back of his head. The job was done.

The motorcar drove up, and the four of us piled in, buzzing by the barracks before anyone knew what had happened. “Good job,” I lied to the lads. We headed north, and I caught a province bus for Dublin.

The bus pulled up to its terminus in Aston Quay, and I looked out the window to see what was going on. We were only a few blocks from the DMP barracks in Brunswick Street, and I could see that several of the G-men were watching the people getting off the buses from the country. I had my Webley in my attaché case, and I was tempted to get it out and put it in my jacket pocket. But I pulled my trilby hat over my eyes, adjusted my necktie, straightened my waistcoat smartly, and got off the bus like I did it every day. I walked right past the G-men and headed up Bedford Row and into Anglesea Street. Collins was right—you could get away with murder if you wore the right suit. I made my way to Grafton Street, turned right at the corner of Wicklow Street, and walked into the lobby of the Wicklow Hotel, now safe with the demise of Willie Dolan. I asked the new porter—a trusted IRB man this time—if the boss was around. He shot his eyes towards the back room. I didn’t even knock, I was so revved-up. Collins was inside with Joe Leonard.

“How was Gorey?” asked Collins, anxiously.

“Gory,” I replied. “But it’s done.”

Mick slapped his hand on the table and crowed, “We got the bastard, Joe!”

“
I
got the bastard,” I corrected, annoyed. “He almost got away.”

“You’re sure he’s dead?” asked Collins.

“Three in the head from me alone.”

“Don’t waste bullets!” snapped Collins.

I couldn’t believe he said that. I felt like a pricked balloon. “Fook you, Mick!” came out of my mouth. He had cut me to the quick.

Mick got up from the table and came over to me. He embraced me, and my head fell onto his chest. “You did well, lad. Well.” It was his way of making up to me. “How were the Wexford lads?” he finally asked.

I didn’t want to get them in trouble, but I had to be honest with Mick. “Next time, send the full Squad.” Collins nodded that he understood. He looked down at the cuffs of my trousers, which were covered in Wilson’s blood.

“You’ve blood on your trousers,” he noted. I could hardly see it against the dark blue material. It was pure luck that I had escaped from the G-men over on the quay. “Go over to Fallon’s and get yourself a new suit. On me.”

And that’s what Captain Percival Lea Wilson’s death was worth to the Republic. A new suit from Thomas Fallon & Company, Republican haberdashers, over in Mary Street.

 102

“
E
ggs!” shouted the Sheik.

“Eggs?” replied a confused Brendan Boynton.

“Eggs! He can’t pronounce eggs!”

“Who can’t pronounce eggs?” put in Ned Broy.

“Collins!”

“Who told you that?” asked Boynton.

“Willie Dolan.”

“You mean the
late
Willie Dolan, don’t you?” highlighted Broy.

“I wonder why Collins can’t pronounce ‘eggs’” Boynton remarked. “Maybe . . .”

“Maybe he’s an eejit,” cut in Broy, just in time. Boynton was about to let slip that maybe the gap between Collins’s two front teeth was the reason the Big Fellow had trouble pronouncing “eggs.” With that precious piece of information, Broy was sure that the British army would be going around saying, “Smile!” to every male in Dublin.

“What are you two doing here?” demanded Gough-Coxe.

“We have a gift for you.”

“What?”

“How about a photograph of Michael Collins?”

Broy threw the photograph on the desk in front of Gough-Coxe. The Sheik scanned it. “Eamon de Valera, Arthur Griffith, Count Horace Plunkett,” he said, rattling off names, strutting his expertise. “Which one is Collins?”

Broy put his right index finger under the chin of the Minister for Finance. “That’s the hoor,” he said. “Right next to Cathal Brugha.”

“Sonofabitch!” Gough-Coxe exclaimed, and Boynton looked on in silent amusement.

“God, this is a tremendous coup,” Gough-Coxe marveled. Then he laughed. “He even looks like a thug!”

Little did he know that he had just been hoodwinked by what Liam Tobin called “a bit of Crow Street prestidigitation.” The Sheik had been after Broy and Boynton to come up with a photograph of Collins for weeks. Tobin and Eoin decided that it was safe to let them see a photo of members of the first
Dáil
. They already knew what de Valera, Plunkett, Griffith, Brugha, and the rest of the big shots looked like. What made this photo so appealing was that Collins was at his chameleon best—mouth shut, lips scowling, head cocked to the left. The photo revealed nothing—except what a superb actor Collins could be when he wanted to be. Tobin, Eoin, and Collins all agreed the photograph would make for a grand detour for the British.

“Let’s get copies made, pronto,” said Gough-Coxe, all of a sudden filled with good humor. “Great job, men,” he added. “Now it’s only a matter of time until this Fenian shit is dead. His time is limited.”

Standing in front of the Sheik, both Broy and Boynton thought exactly the same thing:
But not as limited as yours
.

103

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
25, 1920

S
omething is going on. Mick has restricted me from the Squad indefinitely and assigned me exclusively to Crow Street
.

It’s been a tough month for us. On the twelfth, Lord Mayor Terence MacSwiney was arrested. He’s presently in Brixton Prison in England and has started on a hunger strike. It’s obvious that Mick’s very concerned about his fellow Corkman. And just last week, the British introduced the Restoration of Order in Ireland Act. Already the good citizens of Dublin’s fair city are referring to it as the “Coercion Act.” Now the newly arrived Tans and Auxiliaries are beginning to flex their muscle around Dublin. The Tans have taken to shooting up the Dardanelles daily. They are sending a message, and Mick has heard it loud and clear.

McKee is trying to find a strategy to deal with the Tans, but Mick doesn’t seem to care that much. He is most concerned about the agents that the Sheik has started importing from the Middle East. We have started to refer to them as “The Cairo Gang,” and by happenstance, they like to hang out at the Cairo Café at the top of Grafton Street. It might be a coincidence, but Mick doesn’t believe in coincidences, and he thinks they are doing this to flaunt and jeer at us.

Tobin has me checking the manifest of every boat that has arrived in Dublin during the month of August. Charlie Dalton and I have been checking the registration cards of Dublin hotels that have guests over from England and who are planning on an extended stay. Tobin has even started to tag the Sheik, when he is not at the Castle under the watchful eyes of our own G-men.

As I was giving Mick his intelligence briefing tonight in Mespil Road, he said to me, “They are getting close, Eoin.” He paused for a minute, and I could feel the terror in the pit of my stomach. “But we are getting close, too.”

I think this is the battle Mick has been planning for the last four years. It’s going to come down to him and the Sheik. Funnily enough, it kind of reminds me of those American Cowboy & Injun movies that are so popular over here. I went to see one with Róisín last week at that cinema in Camden Street, just around the corner from the house I was born in. Somehow I always find myself rooting for the Injuns, because they are the underdogs. It was their land, and the Yanks went in and stole it from them—just like the British did to us.

Well, the British cavalry has arrived in Dublin in the guise of the Tans, the Auxies, and the Cairo Gang, and I’m waiting to see just how crazy our own Crazy Horse, Michael Collins, TD, will be when the conclave finally convenes.