The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (44 page)

 118

T
he three gunmen dipped their hands in Holy Water as they came out of St. Andrew’s, slipped by Sweny’s into Lincoln Place, and stood in silence on the mitre of Merrion Square, where the north and west sides joined. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and not a word was said. Lemass continued towards Baggot Street, while Kavanagh and Byrne entered Merrion Square Park, using the green to camouflage their route to Upper Mount Street.

They emerged from the park on Merrion Square East, where their backup team was waiting for them—Rory Doyle, Jamey Holland, and Bobby Malone, all of the Third Brigade, South Dublin IRA, personally chosen by Vinny. “This is Lieutenant Eoin Kavanagh,” Vinny said, introducing Eoin to the team.

Eoin felt even more nervous—his backup team was younger than he was. “How old are you, Jamey?” he asked the youngest-looking.

“Fifteen, sir, Lieutenant, sir,” Holland replied.

“Jaysus!” said Eoin, turning on Byrne.

“How old were you in Jacob’s?” returned Vinny, with a tight smile.

Eoin nodded wearily. “And forget that ‘lieutenant’ stuff,” Eoin told the group. “Vinny’s in charge here. Is that understood?”

The five of them crossed the road swiftly and turned into Upper Mount Street, a wide, handsome Georgian thoroughfare. It was quiet, as only a Sunday morning in Dublin can be. The lone sound on the street was the occasional squawk of a passing seagull, on its glide path away from Dublin Bay. At the end of the street was St. Stephen’s Anglican Church, which was known fondly by Dubliners as the Pepper Canister, because of its nifty dome. They had been warned by Daly, McDonnell, and Collins to get in and do their business swiftly, before the first Sunday service at St. Stephen’s began at ten o’clock. They didn’t need any innocent bystanders getting in their way or calling the authorities.

“Are ya ready, lads?” Byrne asked, and the wide-eyed returning stares showed how terrified everyone was. The clock of the Pepper Canister struck nine, and Byrne banged on the door. “Are Mr. Gough-Coxe and Mr. Ames in?”

Katherine Farrell, the scullery maid, opened the door and said, “They’re still asleep.”

She was about to close the door in Vinny’s face when Byrne stuck his foot in, and Eoin pushed the door wide open with the flat of his hand. “It’s alright,” said Vinny, “we’re friends of theirs.” The five men entered the building and shut the front door. Vinny held his gun up for show and asked, “Where is Gough-Coxe?” Katie Farrell thought she would faint, and the blood drained out of her face. She pointed to the door directly to the right, and the backup team pushed her to the side.

“Up!” Vinny shouted, as he entered the room. Gough-Coxe began reaching under his pillow for his .45 Colt automatic, but Byrne was on him too swiftly. Vinny put his Mauser to the Sheik’s head. “Now be a good lad, Deputy Commissioner.”

The Sheik looked at the two teenagers in his room and was forced to give a small smile. Any concern he may have had evaporated. Just a couple of mammy boys playing soldier. He thought he was protected by the authority that was the Crown. He thought wrong, for this morning, Michael Collins had changed the rules of the game forever.

“Get up,” Byrne told Gough-Coxe. The Sheik was wearing beautiful pajamas, his initials—DG-C—embroidered on the left breast pocket. “Where’s Lieutenant Ames?” Gough-Coxe pointed to a room at the back of the first floor. The Sheik slowly rose and nonchalantly picked up a stick that was propped against the bedpost. “Give me that,” said Vinny, as he snatched the cane out of Gough-Cox’s hand. Then he saw it—the “All-Seeing Eye.” “BeJaysus,” he said to Gough-Coxe, “where did you get this?”

“It belonged to a friend of mine.”

“Detective Blood?”

“Yes,” said Gough-Coxe, and his face turned ashen in a second. These boys, he suddenly realized, were not amateurs. They had done this before—and probably to Blood.

Vinny held the stick out for show and then tossed it to Eoin, who caught it with his right hand. Eoin shook his head in disbelief and then pushed the Sheik out of the room. With the aid of Blood’s cane to the back, he violently guided the Sheik to the back of the house. One of the backup team kept an eye on the maid, and the other trailed the two gunmen to the rear. Byrne pushed open the door and said, “Wake up, me sleepin’ beauty,” as Ames slowly opened his eyes, still groggy with sleep. Eoin pushed the Sheik into the room.

“Faces against the wall, the two of you,” said Eoin, adrenaline pumping insanely. Ames, still half-asleep, tried to peek at his abductors.

“Eoin!” said Vinny in warning.

Eoin roughly stuck the gun in the small of Ames’s back and said, “Look at the fookin’ wall!”

“Eoin?” asked Gough-Coxe. “Eoin Kavanagh?”

“Shut the fook up,” Eoin snarled.

“So we finally meet,” said the Sheik, seemingly amused by the whole episode. Now, it all became clear. He had “worked backwards” to his own death.

“Where are your papers?” Eoin demanded.

“What papers?”

“Your intelligence papers, eejit,” said Byrne, as he cuffed the Sheik with his gun on the back of the head.

“In my bedroom.”

Vinny and his backup covered the two men as Eoin retrieved Gough-Coxe’s papers from the man’s briefcase.

“Got them,” Eoin said, as he returned to the back room.

“You men are guilty of spying and have been sentenced to death,” said Vinny. “May the Lord have mercy on your souls.”

“Save your Papist shit for someone else,” the Sheik spat.

They were to be his last words, as Byrne raised his gun and shot him in the back of the head once, dropping him in a heap to the floor. By this time, Ames was sobbing, and his knees were buckling. His terror was short-lived as Byrne floored him with a single shot, also to the back of the head. Eoin came around and leveled another round into each of them. He was reminded of what Tom Keogh of the Squad once said while administering the
coup de grace
: “For luck!”

Eoin quickly looked around the room to see if Ames had any other papers and found nothing. Vinny made sure to retrieve the guns of both victims, a bonus for the Squad. “Let’s go!” Eoin said, and they headed for the front door. But before he left, he turned and hurled, in an act of exorcism, the “All-Seeing Eye” through the back window and into the yard, like it was a javelin. By this time, Katie Farrell was crying, and Byrne gave the distraught woman one final warning: “You’ve been a great help, miss. Now keep ya gob shut!”

With that, Eoin and Vinny were out the door. Their backup team headed towards Merrion Square, while they headed in the direction of the Pepper Canister before turning right at the corner into Herbert Place. Their orders were to get out of sight for the rest of the day and sit tight. Vinny would report the results to Crow Street from the phone at Kehoe’s, the spirit-grocer public house across from his place in South Anne Street.

As they raced towards Baggot Street, they were surprised to see Jack Lemass and Charlie Dalton hustling towards them, at a full run. “Eoin,” Lemass panted, “take these. We’ve got to get the ferry across the river.” Eoin obligingly took both guns, which were still hot from being fired. He was weighed down with artillery.

Eoin rushed in the direction of the Grand Canal, while Vinny headed for his digs in South Anne Street. Eoin turned onto the Adelaide Road, walking as fast as he could to Róisín’s flat. As he advanced on Harrington Street, he pulled out the pocketwatch Collins had given him for Christmas a few years ago. It was exactly half-nine.

 119

M
cKee and Clancy sat on a bench in the guardroom of Dublin Castle as the Tan officer interrogated them. “You might as well tell me,” he said, “because things won’t get any easier when Commissioner Gough-Coxe gets here.”

McKee wondered what time it was. He couldn’t look at his watch because he was handcuffed from behind.

“What time is it?” he asked his guard.

“What?” said the Tan, confused.

“The time?”

“Too late for you, matey,” said the Tan, laughing. McKee stared straight at him. Finally, his guard sobered and looked at his watch. “Half-ten.”

McKee smiled.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing at ‘tal,” said McKee. “Nothing at ‘tal.”

So far, things hadn’t been that bad for McKee and Clancy. They had been pushed around and took a couple of punches, but, overall, they had experienced worse in the past. This late on Sunday morning, they knew that the day had been saved by Seán Fitzpatrick’s adopted sister, Florrie. As the British banged vehemently on the Gloucester Street door—thanks to Shanker Ryan’s tout—Florrie’s modesty became the paramount concern. “Let me put some clothes on—I’m in me nude!” Florrie’s procrastination began. Upstairs, McKee and Clancy were burning the papers that Eoin had typed from Collins’s dictation. By the time the British gained entrance, the memorandum was ash.

McKee and Clancy spent the night in a cell. By eleven a.m., it was apparent something was wrong. Important men, like the Sheik, couldn’t be reached. Reports were coming in from the DMP that bodies were arriving at hospitals around the city, many from the residential areas adjacent to St. Stephen’s Green. McKee and Clancy could hear the murmurings of the G-men and some of the Tans and army men. They looked at each other and nodded.

Abruptly, the door swung open, and the kid from Clare, Conor Clune, also cuffed, was thrown into the room. “Sit down and keep your gob shut!” snapped the G-man, before leaving the room. Young Clune was clearly terrified.

“How did they get you?” asked McKee.

“They came into Vaughan’s and arrested the lot of us,” replied Clune. “They think I’m in the IRA. They’re adamant about it.”

“Well,” asked Clancy, “are you?”

“I am,” admitted Clune, “but I’m more interested in the Gaelic League.”

McKee looked at Clancy and rolled his eyes. “Stick to your story,” Clancy advised the kid.

As the morning wore on, the atmosphere of the Castle began to change. McKee and Clancy could see the looks of concern on the Crown personnel, and they knew the Squad and the Dublin Brigade had been successful. The stink of fear had permeated the Castle.

At noon, the door flew open, and Auxiliary Captain Simon Hardy pounced into the room. McKee and Clancy immediately recognized Hardy. When he had first arrived in Dublin, the Squad had attempted to assassinate him, but they ended up only wounding him. Today, he would exact his revenge. Hardy knew the famed Secret Service had been destroyed. Many were dead, and the survivors would be of no use; they were all too frightened. Collins had rendered him—and the Crown—completely impotent.

“Who are they?” asked Hardy.

The Tan pointed at each of three and identified them: “Woods, Cleary, and Clune.”

“Wrong,” corrected Hardy. “Dick McKee and Peadar Clancy, how are ya?” Both sat mute. “Commandant and vice-commandant of the Dublin Brigade.”

“The kid’s from Clare,” spoke up McKee. “He has nothing to do with us. He’s just a Gaelic Leaguer.”

Hardy laughed. “I guess this is his unlucky day.
Slán agat
,” he said to the terrified Clune. McKee and Clancy knew the game was up.

 120

R
óisín’s day was horrific. By ten a.m., they’d started bringing in the first casualties from the Gresham Hotel in Sackville Street, a Captain McCormack and a fellow named Wilde. There was no rush; they were dead on arrival. The Mater was soon swarming with British soldiers, DMPs, and Tans rushing about in a near panic. Rumors began to fly about mass killings of British agents, most of whom lived in the area just east of St. Stephen’s Green—the neighborhood, Róisín thought, where the money was.

At six p.m., as the Angelus bells lugubriously rang throughout damp, dark Dublin, Róisín mounted her bike and started heading back to her flat in Portobello. Eoin had suggested that maybe she should take this Sunday off, and now she thought she knew why. As she came down Parnell Square, she could see that the British were stopping and searching every tram, car, and cart. Traffic in Sackville Street was at a standstill. There were throngs of soldiers around the front entrance to the Gresham Hotel. Róisín didn’t like the look of things and decided to go down Parnell Street all the way to Capel, then make her way across the Liffey from there. She was stopped at the bridge by a soldier who made her open her coat and her pocketbook before waving her across to Parliament Street. She was shocked to see a panicked phalanx—they looked like families, to her—queuing up with their possessions at the front gate, trying to get into the Castle. The terrified look on their faces told Róisín that gaining access to the Castle was a matter of life and death to these people.

Róisín was tired from the long day and winded from her bike ride, and she couldn’t wait to settle down and have a cup of tea. The flat was dark when she entered. As she lit the paraffin light in the small sitting room, she was shocked to see Eoin there, sitting quietly, his Webley in his hand, resting on his left leg. She leapt with fright. “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” she yelped.

“How are ya, Róisín?”

“Were you trying to frighten me to death?” Róisín looked at Eoin and immediately realized he was in shock. He had been sitting in that chair for nine solid hours. On the table before him were the guns of Lemass, Dalton, and the two dead Secret Service agents. “Are you alright?” Eoin gave a crooked smile and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Róisín went to him and saw the blood on his jacket. She quietly removed the gun from Eoin’s hand and put it on the table with the others. “It’s over,” she said.

Eoin shook his head, and tears began to drop one by one from his eyes, so slow you could count them. “I’m nothing but a fookin’ murderer,” he said. “A fookin’ murderer.” Róisín cupped his head to her breasts and held him tight as her own tears dropped onto his beautiful dark-brown hair. “I’m supposed to be on the side of the angels,” he said, “but how can that be?”

After a long time, Róisín bought Eoin into her bedroom. “We’ve got to get those clothes off,” she said. “You’re covered in blood.”

Eoin grunted. “Crown evidence,” he said in a small voice, not without humor. “That’s the second suit I’ve ruined with blood.”

Eoin’s left arm, his shooting arm, was covered with the victim’s blood, right down to his French cuffs. “Off with the clothes. We’ve got to get rid of them, or you’ll be swingin’ in Mountjoy by the end of the week.” Róisín stopped in her tracks. Suddenly, her own safety popped into her mind. “Does anyone know you’re here?” Eoin shook his head.

“How about Mick? Vinny?”

“No one.”

Soon he was down to his longjohns. The chill began to seep into him, and he started to shiver. “Jaysus,” Róisín said, as she headed for the fireplace. Eoin plopped down on the bed as Róisín started throwing pieces of coal into the fire. Soon there was a bit of warmth in the November room.

Róisín went to the kitchen and poured a glass of Jameson’s into a tumbler. “Here,” she thrust it into his hand, “drink this.” Eoin did as he was told and downed the whiskey in one gulp. Róisín, fully dressed, slid into the bed and pulled the eiderdown up over them. Sleep soon overtook Eoin, but Róisín remained awake for a time. It wasn’t long before Eoin shot up in the bed, eyes wild, shouting, “Don’t miss him, Vinny!”

Róisín soothed him in a calm voice: “It’s alright, Eoin. It’s over. Vinny got him.”

“Thank God,” said Eoin, as he slid back, calm and relieved, into a deep sleep.

“Yes,” repeated Róisín, “thank God.”

When Eoin awoke later that evening, he was alone in the bed and momentarily didn’t know where he was. Then Róisín entered the room, fresh from her bath, with a towel wrapped around her body as she dried her hair with another towel.

“How are ya?” she asked, as if it were any Sunday of the year. “I just had a grand wash. It seems I can never get that hospital antiseptic smell off me.”

“It was awful,” was all Eoin could muster.

As Róisín dried her hair, her towel dropped to the floor. Eoin’s eyes grew as hot as the burning coals in the fireplace. Róisín looked at him and could only laugh. “It’s a hairy ould oyster, isn’t it, Eoin dear,” she said, without embarrassment.

“I didn’t know.”

“Know what? The hair? Did you think I had a cauliflower down there?”

“Could I see . . .”

“See what?”

“Your bottom.”

“My
derriere
!” Róisín laughed, turned around, bent over, and stuck her rump out. “Best arse in Dublin City!” she called over her shoulder.

“I know,” said Eoin.

Collins was wrong. In the GPO, he said Róisín had an arse on her like “that of a skinny thirteen-year-old boy,” but it wasn’t small and boney at all. In fact, it was very shapely, with plenty of buoyancy to it. Eoin’s willie approved. “Come here,” he said, the staccato of his voice showing his nervousness. “My Mammy always said, ‘Modesty is the best policy.’”

“Your Mammy was
wrong
,” she replied, and, this time, Eoin agreed. “When I’m naked,” continued Róisín, “it’s the only time I really feel free.” She stood there, in her glorious nude, her arms defiantly on her hips. “Everyone on this terrible planet deserves one special person they can be naked with.” She then went to Eoin and pulled his willie free of his longjohns. “Ah,” she exclaimed, “the elusive Parnell! Little Big Fellow! Or is it Big Little Fellow?”

“For once,” replied Eoin, “leave Collins out of it.” This elicited a laugh from Róisín. She moved in and kissed Eoin full on the lips. “You’re my Big Fellow now, and you always will be.” Then Róisín was on top of Eoin, passionately kissing him. “I’ve wanted your shoes under me bed for a long time now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The time had to be right.”

“Is this a sin?” asked Eoin, uncomfortably.

Róisín was about to say, “Believe me, this is the least offensive sin you’ve committed today,” but this time, she caught herself. The boy had been through enough. “Only if you don’t get me off!” she laughed. Eoin gave a feeble grin as his newly christened Parnell stood at attention, climbing over his belly button, waiting for her. “Now, I want you to sin like you mean it,” whispered Róisín, as she prepared to end Eoin Kavanagh’s day in love, so far removed from the hate in which it had begun.