The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (47 page)

 124

I
t took nearly thirty-six hours, but Eoin managed to get the three bodies to Fanagan’s without being pinched by the British. Eoin left Conor Clune at Fanagan’s, while he took McKee’s and Clancy’s coffins to the Pro-Cathedral in a lorry late on Wednesday evening. They parked in Cathedral Street and brought the boxes in by the side entrance. The church was eerily quiet and empty, except for several Volunteers.

Collins was waiting, the scowl on his face showing his disposition. “About time,” he snapped at Eoin.

Kavanagh looked Collins straight in the eye and replied, “Yes, Commandant-General.” Collins stared at his young lieutenant. Whenever Eoin referred to him as “Commandant-General,” Collins knew that the needle was being applied, either in humor or as a jeer.

“Let’s get to work,” said Collins, as the coffins were carried to the mortuary chapel.

By now, the British propaganda machine was in high gear. If you believed everything in the papers, all fourteen British agents were choir boys who spent their spare time looking for old ladies to help cross Sackville Street like the good Boy Scouts they were. And of course, McKee, Clancy, and Clune—now part of a legendary, historical Fenian Trinity—were psychotic murderers whom they were reluctantly forced to shoot.

“Open the boxes,” commanded Collins. The coffins were opened, and, at once, it was obvious from the battered faces that there was more to it than a mere “shot while trying to escape” going on here. “Strip them,” said Collins. Eoin helped remove the clothes from Clancy and McKee, revealing bullet holes and bayonet jabs.

“Jaysus,” whispered Eoin, shocked.

“Jaysus indeed,” echoed Collins. “Enough. Let’s get them properly dressed.” Two Volunteer uniforms were brought out, and the time-consuming work of dressing the two corpses began. “Let’s leave the coffins open for all the world to see,” said Collins.

“No,” said Eoin, “don’t do that.”

“And why not?” snapped Collins. “Why shouldn’t the world see what the British did to these brave soldiers?”

“Think of their families,” said Eoin, softly. “If they were your brothers, would you want to see them this way? Let’s remember them at their best.”

Collins knew Eoin was right. “Alright, close them up!” Eoin helped Collins place two tricolours on the caskets.

Eoin was exhausted. He had barely slept for the past three days. But he had no time for fatigue now—he knew how important these days were to the survival of the fledging Republic. He watched as Collins knelt in front of the two boxes and prayed. Finally the Big Fellow got up and took a seat in a nearby pew. Eoin went over and sat down next to his boss. Collins ignored him and stared straight ahead. “Time to get some sleep?” Eoin finally asked.

“Not tonight,” replied Collins.

“You have to sleep.”

“Not tonight. They can’t be alone. I must keep watch.”

“Well,” said Eoin, “I’ll keep watch with you.”

Collins turned to Kavanagh. “Please yourself.” Not another word was said between the two of them until sleep finally took them where they sat.

In the morning Eoin, felt the terror reach all the way to his groin—his Parnell retreated into its foreskin shelter, while his balls hid snugly inside him. He didn’t dare stick his head out the front door of the cathedral into Marlborough Street, for fear of being seen by one of the G-men. As they prepared to wheel the caskets from the mortuary chapel back into the cathedral for the funeral mass, Eoin pulled out his Webley and checked to see that it was in working order. If they tried to take Collins, he would be ready.

Eoin stood in the back of the church as the mass went on, keeping a lookout for any eager G-men or surviving Cairo Gang members hot for revenge. He was joined by Vinny Byrne and Paddy Daly of the Squad, which made him feel better.

At the end of the funeral mass, Collins got up and advanced on the coffins. Eoin saw him pin a note on the lead box, McKee’s. Later he would learn that it read: “In memory of two good friends—Dick and Peadar—and two of Ireland’s best soldiers.”—Mícheál ó Coileáin. They then wheeled the caskets down the aisle towards the front door. To Eoin’s amazement, Collins hoisted McKee’s coffin on his shoulder and started marching out of the cathedral.

Eoin leapt ahead of him and shoved his left hand inside his jacket, ready to pull his Webley out if necessary. Right in front, at the bottom of the cathedral steps, there was a brilliant flash and an explosion. At first Eoin thought someone had fired at Collins. But before he pulled his gun, Eoin saw that it was only a photographer from the
Evening Herald
. Eoin moved in his direction, but before he could collar him, the squirt dashed away, going full-blast, camera in hand, in the direction of Abbey Street. “Curse of God on ya,” spat Eoin. He wanted to get the photo man, but Collins’s safety was his first priority.

The crowd was packed around the cathedral gates. It was a dangerous situation. There were many of the locals from the Kips and Summerhill. This was great entertainment to them—a celebrity funeral. Eoin knew that somewhere in the crowd, hidden by the local Dicey Reillys, were G-men and touts. He was right. Shankers Ryan was hiding behind that stout one over there to the right.

Eoin pushed his back against the crowd, trying to hold them back. Paddy Daly was doing the same on the opposite side. Collins was front and center, his vision still blinded by the bright explosion of the photographer’s flash. “BeJaysus, look,” said one of the ould ones from the neighborhood, “there’s Mick Collins!”

Collins jerked his head away from McKee’s coffin, caught the woman’s eye, and through the rictus that had become his mouth said, “You bloody bitch!”

He pushed the box into Fanagan’s glass hearse, and, as soon as Clancy’s body was placed in its own hearse, the procession began up Cathedral Street to Sackville Street, bound for the Republican Plot at Glasnevin Cemetery. Collins hopped in a car, and Eoin was right behind him. “What are you doing here?” Collins demanded.

“Keeping an eye on you, Commandant-General.”

Collins almost smiled at his cheeky lieutenant, finally seeing some humor in this awful day. “Please yourself,” he said.

 125

A
fter dinner at Batt O’Connor’s house in Donnybrook, Collins and Eoin found themselves back in the city centre as darkness fell and bodies on the streets of Dublin became scarce. It was if the city were exhausted and numb from the events of the week. Only the insane were out on a night like this.

They walked in the front door of the Stag’s Head, and Peadar Doherty jerked his head at them, indicating that they should head to the back room. As they passed him, he threw a copy of the
Evening Herald
at them.

“You take a lovely picture,” said Doherty.

Collins looked at the photo of him carrying McKee’s box and simply muttered, “Shite.”

“I’m going to knee-cap that bastard the next time I run into him in Abbey Street,” said Eoin, referring to the photographer.

Collins read the headline and then looked at Doherty. “A large Jameson for me, and a pint of porter here for my new bodyguard.”

LAID TO REST

BURIAL OF PEADAR CLANCY

AND RICHARD MCKEE

IMPRESSIVE SCENES

The drinks were brought, and Doherty, his own Jameson in hand, joined them for a toast. “To Dick McKee and Peadar Clancy . . .” Collins began.

“ . . . And Conor Clune,” Eoin interrupted.

“ . . . And Conor Clune,” Collins agreed. “Three superb Fenians.”

Eoin looked at the paper and asked, “What are we going to do about this picture?”

“A gang of the lads,” replied Doherty, as he readjusted his white apron, revealing the outline of a revolver under it, “have already visited the
Evening Herald
and smashed the plates. Black Terry and the other newsboys are also going around, along with some Volunteers, rounding up any available copies.”

“Black Terry,” said Collins appreciatively, as he sipped his Jamey. Doherty went back to his bar, which had only a few customers in the snugs.

“I may never get over this week,” said Eoin, before adding, “or my guilt from Mount Street.”

“Forget your guilt about Mount Street,” snapped Collins. “You acted as a soldier and did your duty.”

“But I still feel guilty.”

“By their destruction, the very air is made sweeter,” Collins said testily. “That should be the future’s judgment on this particular event. For myself, my conscience is clear. There is no crime in detecting and destroying in wartime the spy and the informer. They have destroyed without trial. I have paid them back in their own coin.”

“You make it sound like it’s over,” said Eoin.

“It
is
over,” replied Collins. “I know it’s over. Lloyd George knows it’s over. No one will admit it until next summer, but it’s over. It will take that time to birth the new nation, but when we do, there will be an Irish nation until the end of time.” Eoin gave a small laugh as he swiped the suds off his lip with his coat sleeve. “And what’s so funny?”

“Dev will be back from America soon.”

“How do you know?” asked Collins.

“Because it’s over.”

“My God,” said Collins, “you have a twisted vision.”

“I learned from the best.”

“I,” said Collins, finishing his whiskey, “am going to try and get a good night’s sleep. You should do the same.”

Eoin shook his head. “I still have work to do.”

“What?”

“I’m going back to Fanagan’s down the road.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to take Clune down to the Broadstone Station in the morning for his train back to County Clare, and I don’t think he should be alone tonight.”

Kavanagh got up to leave. “Eoin, do you mind if I watch with you?”

“Please yourself, Commandant-General.” And with that, the two rebels went out of the Stag’s Head together, anxious to keep the hapless Conor Clune company on his last night in Dublin City.