The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (41 page)

 108

E
oin was going over some intelligence papers, and Róisín was placing the hem on a dress, when there was a bang on her Walworth Road door.

“Shite,” Eoin swore, scooping the papers up. He wanted to throw them in the fireplace, but the fire had grown cold. Eoin finally pulled up the cushion of the couch and planted the papers underneath. The banging became louder. Eoin went to his coat and pulled out his Webley.

“For fook’s sake,” someone called from outside. “Open the door!” Another bang, before the voice added, “It’s Mick.” Eoin opened the door, and there stood the Minister for Finance. Eoin waved him in with his gun. “What are you doing with that thing?” Collins said.

“I was going to shoot you. You scared the shite out of us.”

“Ah,” said Collins, “the lovebirds.” His laugh made both Róisín and Eoin blush. “Can a man get a cup of tay around here?” The three of them headed to the kitchen, and Róisín began to wet the tea. “I’m actually here to see you, Róisín,” said Collins. Eoin looked at his boss and felt a ping of jealousy in his craw. “But I’m glad Eoin’s here, too,” added Collins, sensing the boy’s discomfort.

Collins envied Eoin and Róisín their young, contrary love. In the dark Dublin of 1920, at least they had each other. His Kitty was in Granard, County Longford. Not that far away, but it might as well have been Timbuktu, because Collins could not leave Dublin. He didn’t want her in Dublin because it was so dangerous, but he still longed for her. He wondered how Harry Boland could give up the lovely Kitty for Eamon de Valera and America. The thought of that exchange always made Collins smile. But he knew Harry and his sense of duty, and admired him for it. Even if it had made pursuing Kitty a lot easier. There was a lot to that old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” It was true. He looked at Eoin and Róisín and promised himself that the first break he got, he would be on the train to Granard and Kitty.

“How’s Dan Breen coming along?” he asked Róisín.

“He’s struggling, but he’s tough as nails.”

Collins laughed. “Well, at least you didn’t say he was ‘holding his own.’”

“The only people I see ‘holding their own’ at the Mater Misericordiae Hospital are those old priests who are always playing with their old dead willies, trying to get a rise out of the poor nuns!”

Collins and Eoin looked at each other, trying not to smile as the anticlerical Róisín started to redden in anger. “Yes, Nurse O’Mahony,” was all that Collins could muster. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small package. “Give this to Breen when you see him tomorrow.” Róisín took the package, and Collins said, “Just some medicine for the bold Daniel.” Róisín looked inside and found Breen’s favorite tobacco, Mick McQuaid, along with a baby bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. “That should hold him until I can sneak in there.”

“That’s not a very good idea right now,” said Eoin, as the three of them sat down at the kitchen table and Róisín poured the tea. She cut several thick pieces of her own soda bread and threw a tub of butter on the table.

“I know,” said Collins quietly. “It’s a hard time to be alive in Dublin City the past two days.” Collins seemed down in the dumps over Breen, and Eoin suddenly realized that the great Michael Collins was, like anyone else, capable of loneliness and doubt. “Well, Róisín,” said Collins, brightening, “where are you hiding Dan?”

“We move him around when the British come a-calling,” she said. “He’s a regular in the maternity ward.”

“And the ugliest one of the bunch!” said Collins, with a laugh.

“Any news on Kevin Barry?” asked Eoin. Eoin knew Barry casually and, like the rest of Dublin, was very concerned about his fate.

“I think the British are planning to make an example out of him,” said Collins.

“In what way?” asked Róisín.

“At the end of a rope,” replied Collins, matter-of-factly, the coldness of his statement chilling the kitchen.

“And only eighteen years old,” added Eoin.

“Listen to the old man!” said Collins, as he realized Eoin was only a year older than Barry.
My God
, thought Collins to himself,
I’m running an army full of children
.

“What’s the word on Lord Mayor MacSwiney?” asked Róisín.

“Not good,” replied Collins. “He can’t go on much longer. Maybe a couple more weeks.”

“Did you see what Churchill said at that dinner the other night?” said Eoin.

“No.”

Eoin got up and retrieved a paper from the sitting room. “He said: ‘It was during the silly season the Lord Mayor of Cork announced his determination to starve himself to death. After six weeks’ fasting, the Lord Mayor of Cork is still alive.’”

“That sonofabitch.” Then Collins grew quiet. “We’ll have to start planning the funeral.” Both Eoin and Róisín looked horrified, as if Collins was purposely tempting the devil with his statement. Collins looked at them and said, “What?”

“The man’s not dead yet,” said Eoin.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” shot Róisín.

Collins grunted. “No opportunity will be missed to worship our Fenian dead! We did it for Rossa. We did it for Ashe. They will do it for me.”

Silence fell on the three of them, and the only sound was teaspoons swirling tea. “Don’t talk like that, Mick,” said Róisín finally.

“It will come to that,” said Collins. “I know it in my bones. That’s why I’m in such a hurry. I don’t have much time left, and neither does Ireland.” Eoin reached out his hand for Collins’s, but then pulled back. Collins noticed and smiled. He took a slice of the soda bread, lathered it with the daisy-yellow butter, and chopped off a chunk, showing the split between his two front teeth. “Hmmm. Delicious, Róisín. You can cook, too!” Róisín didn’t know if Collins was jeering her or not, so she remained quiet. “God, I wish I had a battalion of Dan Breens and Seán Treacys. I’d win this war in a week. What’s the intelligence saying?”

Eoin got up and went to the couch to gather his papers. “It’s coming together now,” he began. “From what I can piece together from the morgue and Boynton at the Castle, Breen and Treacy took out thirteen.”

“Thirteen!” said Collins, delighted. “That’s more than the papers said.”

“Don’t always believe what you read in the
Irish Times
,” Eoin chided him. He would remain suspicious of the media until the day he died. “I don’t think their propaganda machine wants anyone to know what Breen and Treacy did—and then got away scot-free to boot.”

“Jaysus,” said Collins, “it was a slaughter! Who were the dead? Mostly Tans?”

“Tans, regular British army. Also, some of the Sheik’s friends from Cairo,” said Eoin.

“Tell me more.”

“One fellow was Major G.O.S. Smyth.”

“Any relation to that Smyth we shot up last September?”

“No. It’s worse than that.”

“In what way?”

“This fellow,” said Eoin, “is the brother of Colonel Smyth.”

“The hoor from Listowel?” Eoin nodded. “That’s some fookin’ family tree.”

Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Smyth was the notorious RIC Divisional Commissioner for Munster, who knew exactly how the rebels should be handled. His advice to the RIC was infamous: “If persons approaching carry their hands in their pockets, or seem to be suspect characters, shoot them down. You may make mistakes occasionally, and innocent persons may be shot, but that cannot be helped. The more you shoot, the better I shall like you, and I assure you that no policeman will get into trouble for shooting a man.”

Smyth’s words turned into his own death warrant. He had the tables turned on him when a Cork IRA volunteer caught up to him in the street: “Your orders were to shoot on sight. You are in sight now. So make ready.”

“And gunned down in my own County Cork,” Collins bragged.

“This is serious stuff,” Eoin insisted.

“It’s all serious stuff,” replied Collins.

“No,” said Eoin, “this is
very
serious stuff. I’m working with Boynton and Broy on what all this Cairo stuff means.”

“Tobin says you are tagging quite a few,” said Collins.

“They are living among the people,” said Eoin. “They stay in by day and go out by night.”

“These men are more dangerous than the Tans and Auxies combined,” Collins agreed.

“Our Major Smyth is a friend of the Sheik, Boynton and Broy report. He came to Ireland to avenge his brother’s death. Smyth and the Sheik kicked the ball around in Egypt. Now they are kicking the ball around in Dublin.”

“I’m tired of my balls being kicked,” Collins said, not trying to be funny. “I think it’s time we kicked back. These bastards come into our country, persecute the impoverished gentry, we kill them—and they take affront! Well, fook them. Those days are over. We won’t kick back until we have all the facts, all the names, all the addresses. Everything.” Collins stood up, drained the tea from his cup, and said, “I’d better get going. I still have to find a bed for myself.”

“Stay here,” said Róisín.

“And disrupt the love nest!”

Róisín reddened, until she realized that Collins was teasing her goat. She smiled. “You’re welcome any time.”

“I appreciate that, Róisín. And I’ll remember,” said Collins. “But I think I’ll stay with Dr. Gogarty tonight. He’s got a better liquor cabinet than you do,” he teased, with a chuckle. “It’s only a short walk across the Green.” As Collins went out the door, he said, “I can’t believe how bad it’s gotten.”

Little did he know that it was about to get a lot worse—and as soon as the next day.

 109

D
erek Gough-Coxe slammed the phone onto the receiver and raced to his office door. “Broy, Boynton! A man wearing riding boots was just spotted entering the Republican Outfitters in Talbot Street. Move your arses!” Boynton and Broy sprang to their feet and, followed by a half-dozen other G-men, charged out the door. Seán Treacy’s boots had caught the attention of a Dublin Castle tout.

The funeral for Major G.O.S. Smyth—compliments of Dan Breen—was scheduled for Thursday, October 14. There was a rumor that Johnny French, and maybe even General Macready, would be showing up for the grand sendoff. They were scheduled to have a procession down the quays as they prepared to return their martyred dead to England.

Dick McKee, Peadar Clancy (the vice commandant of the Dublin Brigade and McKee’s adjunct), Seán Treacy, and members of the Squad met at the Republican Outfitters, located at 94 Talbot Street, just a short jog from Nelson’s Pillar. It was Clancy’s place of business. It was also a place that Eoin liked to avoid if he could. He thought it was insane to declare to one and all your sympathies above the door in three-foot letters. He thought the same thing about all those British Secret Service agents over from Egypt who were hanging out at the Cairo Café on Grafton Street. He wondered if either side was retaining any common sense anymore.

Collins and Tobin had kept Eoin glued to his seat in Crow Street, but, with Dublin heating up, Eoin often found himself hitting the streets again, Webley in hand. Tobin told Eoin to meet McKee at the Outfitters for the quay job and to deliver some intelligence papers to Treacy. They drank cups of tea in the rear of the shop as they waited for word about whether the big shots would be showing up for the funeral. Word finally came that the desirable targets would not be making themselves available for assassination, and the men dispersed. Eoin was walking towards the Pillar when the first shots rang out.

Instinctively, he pulled his gun and headed back towards the shop. He knew Treacy was still there when he left, and he was concerned for Seán. As Eoin headed back down Talbot Street in the direction of Amien Street Station, he saw that a lorry of Auxies had pulled up in front of Outfitters. Eoin went to the north side of the street so he could see what was going on. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Treacy came running towards Eoin, his gun at his side. A burst of fire came from the Auxies’ lorry, and Seán spun into a crouch to return fire. Eoin saw one Auxie fall as Treacy continued to fire his Luger.

Eoin ran back up the street and was within feet of Treacy when he heard the dull, rapid
pop-pop-pop
and saw bullets rip into Treacy’s torso. Eoin knew immediately that he was mortally wounded. All Eoin could think about now were the intelligence papers he had just delivered to Treacy. Returning his own fire, Eoin advanced to the fallen Treacy and pulled the papers, now bloodied, from Treacy’s inside jacket pocket. Eoin could hear bullets buzzing by his head as he advanced to the south side of the street and ran as fast as he could for Sackville Street and the safety of its crowds.

The G-men from Dublin Castle finally pulled up. Dead civilians were lying in the gutter, along with Auxies and the fallen Treacy. Broy, gun out, went to Treacy and turned him on his back. He was dead. Boynton arrived right behind him and asked, “Is it Treacy?” Broy nodded a “yes.” Boynton looked down at his secret comrade, and all he could say was, “Those fucking boots.”

When Eoin got to Nelson’s Pillar, he was shocked to see Charlie Dalton commandeering a car right in front of the GPO. “Get in!” Dalton shouted, and Eoin did as he was told.

“What’s going on?”

“The British have surrounded the Mater,” replied Dalton. “I’ve been ordered to get up there quick. Breen’s in danger.”

Charlie was jamming the driver in the ribs with his revolver. “Faster!” he commanded.

“For God’s sake,” said the terrified driver, “take the car and drive it yourselves.”

Eoin looked at Dalton, and, even in this terrible situation on this terrible day, he was forced to suppress a smile—neither of them knew how to drive a car. “Just keep driving,” said Dalton. “Get us up to Eccles Street.”

When they arrived down the street from the Mater. they jumped out. Dalton warned the driver to keep his gob shut, and the reluctant chauffeur drove off as fast as he could. Eoin and Charlie saw some other Volunteers and ran to them. They could see the British in front of the hospital, standing by their tenders. An armored car was circling the block every five minutes. The Volunteers decided they would be safer in a pub, and they were soon joined there by Dick McKee.

“Seán Treacy has been shot,” he told one and all.

“He’s dead,” confirmed Eoin. “I took the intelligence papers off him.”

“This is a fucking disaster,” said McKee. They looked out the window of the public house in despair, as the British continued to clog up the other end of Eccles Street.

“Why don’t we rush them?” asked Charlie Dalton.

“No!” snapped McKee.

“But—”

“No,” McKee repeated, this time more quietly. “We’ve lost enough good men today.” Eoin took a sip of his porter, and, at that very second, the British came out of the Mater, empty-handed. He looked at McKee and, for the first time that day, saw some hope in his comrade’s eyes. “Eoin,” he finally said, “go visit Róisín.”

Eoin wiped the suds off his mouth and headed for the hospital. Inside he found Róisín, who had a look of exhausted terror on her face. “Dan’s fine,” she said. “He’ll be ready to give birth any minute now.”

“Thank God,” Eoin breathed.

Róisín could sense something was wrong. She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Treacy?”

“Shot dead in Talbot Street less than an hour ago.”

“This can’t go on, Eoin. It has to stop.”

Eoin knew she was right. It was now October, and Collins had said throughout the year that they had only until the end of 1920 to win Ireland’s freedom. They were down to ten weeks.