The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (52 page)

 137

E
OIN’S
D
IARY

I
got an awful shock today
.

Yesterday, Christy Harte up at Vaughan’s Hotel rang to tell me that Uncle Charlie had been around looking for me. He told Christy he’d return today at five o’clock to see if he could catch me.

So I went up to Parnell Square this afternoon, and, as I was about to walk into Vaughan’s, I turned left and saw Lord Nelson up on his Pillar, over the rooftops, keeping an eye on me from Sackville Street. Somehow, I took it as a bad omen. When I entered the lobby, there was Uncle Charlie waiting for me. What shocked me was that he had Frank sitting beside him. I shook Charlie’s hand and gazed solemnly at Frank, who now looked like a young man, he had grown so much. I can be awkward in moments like this, and I didn’t know what to say to Frank. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, sorry that it had come out of my mouth. I have trouble lying, and that’s one of my problems. Even in clumsy situations, I tend to say the truth. Sometimes I should just keep me gob shut. “Of course, I’m happy to see you,” I finally blurted out. But my curiosity was on the march. “But what are you doing back in Dublin?”

Frank looked at the floor. “The rumor is there’s some kind of big job coming up, and I was ordered to town.” Frank looked up at me. “I hear you’re a big shot now,” he said, with a smile. “What the hell is going on?” I wanted to tell him nothing, either about my rank or the Customs House attack, which was planned for next week. “You still seeing that vixen from the canal? She’s a nurse or something, right?”

“Róisín is not a vixen. A vixen is a fox. Róisín is a lady. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” came the reluctant answer.

“You also ask too many fookin’ questions for a Volunteer. Do you understand that?”

Frank gave a contrite nod and then asked, “Mary and Dickie still in the orphanages?” I nodded and wished there was an orphanage I could put Frank in.

The three of us stood facing each other, none of us speaking, when the door burst open and Mick unexpectedly came rushing through, his trilby pulled over his eyes. He stopped in front of us, turned to Christy, and nodded. “The three of yous,” he said, gesturing with his attaché case, “upstairs!” We followed him up to the fourth floor. He stopped at the fire escape ladder opposite the door to his office. “If there’s a raid,” he said, gesturing, “up the ladder. Last man pulls the ladder with him.” He opened his office door, and the three of us went in with him. “You must be Uncle Charlie,” Mick said.

“I am,” Charlie confirmed quietly. “And you must be the bold Michael Collins!”

Mick laughed. “I am. Your ‘gifts’ were most welcome!”

Mick turned to Frank, who stood stiff as he saluted. “General!”

Mick looked bemused, and I was embarrassed. “Frank,” I began, but Mick would have none of it.

“Frank,” he cut me off, “what are you doing back in town?”

“General,” he stuttered, obviously shocked to be in Mick’s presence, “I was ordered to town.”

“Why?” Mick persisted.

“There’s a big job coming up. That’s all I’ve been told.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Frank,” Collins said with a laugh. He then turned to Uncle Charlie. “Mr. Conway, I hear you served in the British Army during the Great War.”

“I did, indeed,” said Charlie. “In the Royal Field Artillery.”

“Rank?”

“Corporal.”

“The oldest corporal in the British army!” chided Mick to my uncle, who was twenty years older than him.

“Considering,” Charlie replied, with a sly smile, “that I put twenty years in overall, I guess I was the oldest corporal in the field artillery.”

“Twenty years!” said Collins, clearly interested. “Tell me about your service.”

“There’s not a lot to tell.”

“There’s twenty years,” insisted Collins, and I could see that Mick had that look in his eye, like he had just stumbled on the Hope Diamond or something.

“Well,” began Uncle Charlie, “I first joined the Royal Dublin Fusiliers reserves in 1885, the year my dear father died. We needed the money.” This was all news to me, and I was fascinated to hear about my long-dead grandfather. “In 1888, I joined the regular British army, and they shipped me to India for seven years.”

“What did you do in the army?” grilled Mick, as if this were an interrogation.

“I made saddles and was a horse handler,” laughed Charlie.

“Ah,” howled Mick, “a Jackeen horseman!” It wasn’t that unusual, but it certainly wasn’t the image I’d had of my Uncle Charlie.

“After India, I also fought in the Second Boer War before I came back to Dublin in 1902 and went to work for Guinness.” I looked at Mick, and his eyes gave me a knowing look. The tales of Gogarty came to mind. Was Uncle Charlie one of Becky Cooper’s clients back in 1902?

“Weren’t you a little old for the Great War?” I asked.

“A wee bit,” said Charlie. “My wife and your dear mother thought me daft, but I thought it was my duty to my country. I had to fight to get in. At first, they didn’t want me.”

“So you know what it takes to be a soldier,” said Collins.

“I know too well,” Charlie replied in a quiet voice.

“Where did you serve?”

“Gallipoli, and all over France.”

“Gallipoli. Heavy lifting,” said Collins. “Mister Churchill’s adventure.”

“Hernia heavy lifting,” my Uncle Charlie said, dryly, before adding, “Churchill’s adventure—our misfortune.”

A knock came on the door. I pulled on the front of my jacket, revealing my Webley in its holster. “Yes?” I said.

“It’s me, Christy.”

I opened the door, and Christy had tea, cakes, and sandwiches. I closed my jacket but not before I caught the looks on Frank’s and Charlie’s faces. They were shocked that I was armed. The tray was placed on Collins’s desk, and the tay was poured.

Collins, tea cup in hand, turned to Frank. “And what kind of soldier are you, Frank?”

Frank stood mute for a moment, before replying, “I hope I’m a soldier good enough and capable enough to die for Ireland!”

“Jaysus!” I spat. Uncle Charlie was obviously distressed at such fatalistic talk.

“Hush,” snapped Collins in my direction. “I don’t want any of my soldiers dying for Ireland,” said Collins, pointing his index finger at Frank. “No one ever won a war by dying for his country, is that understood?”

“Yes, General,” Frank said, meekly.

“Are you staying with Charlie up in Stoneybatter?”

“Yes, General.”

“Is he giving you any trouble, Charlie?”

Charlie bit his lip before saying, “No, he’s been a good lad.” Charlie, like me, is a lousy liar. It must be a Conway trait.

“Well,” said Collins, “if he gives you any problems while he’s in town, let me know. I’ll straighten it out.” Frank was looking the most contrite I’d ever seen him. “So you’re in town for the so-called ‘big job,’” said Collins.

“I am, General.”

“Well, remember, a good soldier should be seen and not heard. Is that understood?”

“Yes, General.”

Mick turned to my uncle. “Charlie, I was talking with Eoin about asking you for a favor, soldier-to-soldier.”

“Don’t you mean general-to-corporal?”

Collins smiled. He was beginning to appreciate Charlie’s ultra-dry sense of humor. “I always need ‘safe’ houses. You may have read in the papers recently how we lost two important offices, in Mespil Road and Mary Street. Would you be willing to help me out?”

“I might.”

“Now,” continued Collins calmly, “I know this must be a hard decision for you, being a member of the Dublin Fusiliers for these many years, but this is a very important time for Ireland.” He paused to let it sink in to Charlie that he really needed his help. “Why did you give me those guns?”

“Because I don’t like bullies,” said Charlie. “That’s why.”

“I don’t like bullies, either,” said Mick, turning on that charming smile of his.

“Mr. Collins, I was willing to give my life for the Crown in two wars. I’m shocked at what they have done to my city. Half of it is rubble, and it’s not safe to walk the streets without being searched by Auxies or Tans. I was regular British army. We were not thugs. I didn’t fight in two wars to be a prisoner in my own city.”

“We need the help of men like you,” said Collins, and Uncle Charlie nodded his head.

“I was shocked when the Rebellion took place,” Charlie whispered. “I didn’t agree with the leaders, but they were men of conviction, and I admire that. I was a great admirer of John Redmond and the Irish Parliamentary Party.”

“Good Jaysus,” muttered Collins under his breath, trying not to reveal the full extent of his scorn for Redmond and his IPP.

“I was particularly upset over the hangings this past March,” continued Charlie. “Especially young Whelan, who they say shot Derek of Suez. Everyone says he was innocent.”

I cut in on Uncle Charlie. “He was.”

Charlie had this look on his face, which prompted Collins to say, “Just take it as fact from someone who positively knows, Thomas Whelan had nothing to do with Bloody Sunday.”

“So Thomas Whelan was a scapegoat,” said Charlie, slowly.

“And there’s no scapegoat,” added Collins, “like a dead scapegoat.”

Charlie looked at Collins, and another queer look crossed his face. “Hanged,” he began. “I never liked that word. Pictures are hanged. It’s such a refined word. So dainty. ‘Hung’ shows the necessary violence. In that word alone, you can hear the snap of the rope.” Collins stared at Charlie, and Charlie stared back. “This is hard for me to comprehend,” Charlie said at last. “These are not the fair English ideals I fought two wars for.”

Collins got up from his chair and bent down over the sitting Charlie. “I hope you know that Ireland, not Britain, is now your country. Let that sink into your heart.”

“You’re right,” Charlie agreed. “You can use my house anytime you need it.”

“Thank you, Charlie Conway.”

“Thank you, Commandant-General.” Collins gave a loud laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s nice being referred to as ‘Commandant-General’ by a member of your family who isn’t jeerin’ me!” I blushed and stared at the floor. Collins stood up. “It was lovely meeting the two of you,” he announced, letting them know the impromptu meeting was over. “If you ever need anything, Charlie, let me know. You too, Frank.”

“Yes, Commandant-General.”

“Keep ya gob shut and follow your orders!” The two of them got up. We shook hands all around, and they left.

Mick sat down at his desk. “I like your Uncle Charlie. He’s an honourable man. A straight shooter.”

“My Mammy loved Uncle Charlie,” I said. “She named my kid brother after him.”

“As for Frank, he’s a difficult child.”

“He’s a pain-in-the-arse,” I replied.

“Ah,” Mick exclaimed, “brotherly love!”

“Shite,” says I. “Can you get him out of the Customs House job? He’s not ready. He’ll get killed.”

“I can’t do that, Eoin. Things have changed. I’m not running this thing. Dev and Brugha are. I have to be a good soldier. I have to do my part.”

“And what part will that be?” I asked.

Collins gave a feeble smile. “I’m still trying to figure that out. They insist on using the Squad, and I don’t want them compromised. It’s insanity. Everyone in the Squad knows the inner workings of Crow Street. It’s insanity to let any member of the Squad be exposed to or captured by the British. It would be a death knell to our whole intelligence operation.”

“Well,” says I, “why don’t you put your foot down and say ‘no’?”

“I can’t. If I don’t play along with this insanity, they will think I’m bucking them and the
Dáil
. I’m still figuring out what to do.”

“A rock and a hard place,” says I. “And you have only a week to figure it out.”

“I don’t know how to play this. I’m lost.”

I was frightened. If Michael Collins was lost, so was Ireland.

 138

W
EDNESDAY
, M
AY
25, 1921

M
ichael Collins had personally sent out orders forbidding any member of the intelligence staff from participating in the Customs House operation. This put Eoin in an awkward position, because he was the only member of Crow Street who also worked with the Squad, albeit on a freelance basis. He took his case to Paddy Daly, the Squad’s leader.

Eoin knew the Squad would be assembling at the Dump, so he went over to have a chat with Daly. “What are you doing here?” was the first thing out of Daly’s mouth when Eoin came in the door.

“I thought I was part of the operation,” Eoin replied, as innocently as he could.

“You know the orders,” snapped Paddy.

“What orders?”

“Mick Collins’s orders, backed up by Liam Tobin’s orders—no one from Crow Street is to be part of this caper.”

“Can I come along?”

“Eoin,” said Daly, “you’re a great soldier, but do you know what Collins and Tobin would do to me if you were captured? I’d be shot!”

“Oh,” replied Eoin, “I don’t t’ink it would be
that
bad.”

Daly was forced to smile. “Against my better judgment, you can tag along, but stick close to me. And, for God’s sake, don’t tell Mick!”

Well, at least Frank was safe enough, thought Eoin. He had kept after Collins, and the Big Fellow had had a chat with Oscar Traynor about Frank. It was decided that Frank would join the contingent that was to guard the Tara Street Fire Brigade, making sure they did not leave their side of the Liffey and put out the fires in the Customs House. It was a simple holding operation, and much less dangerous than what would be going on just across the river.

The Squad left the Dump in twos and threes, covering each other as they made their way down Lower Abbey Street to the Customs House. They were to strike at exactly 12:45 p.m.

The Squad was to be nothing more than glorified concierges, covering the doors of the Customs House while members of the Second Battalion did the burning. They were to round up all personnel and visitors and keep them at bay. They would allow people into the building occasionally, so that no one would know what was going on until the place was actually on fire. Once the fires were started, they would shoo everyone in the building out and make their own escape.

It was a simple plan—and much too good to be true.

Eoin, Vinny, and Paddy Daly took the door on Beresford Place, opposite the bombed-out Liberty Hall, and, at once, Vinny was commandeered to go upstairs and help torch the place. Already things were going awry. Eoin was waving his Webley around to get people’s attention and, happily, no one wanted to be a hero. Volunteers came in with cans of paraffin and rolls of cotton to start the blazes. Eoin stood by and detained individuals as they came through the door on their business. Eoin eyed his hostages warily and kept sniffing the air for smoke. “For Jaysus’ sake, Vincie, hurry the fook up!” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh shite,” Daly suddenly swore. Outside, a lorry full of Black and Tans stopped on Beresford Place. “Eoin,” Daly shouted. “Come on. Get out!” He hated to leave Vinny, but, in this case, discretion was indeed the better part of valor. They put their guns away and casually walked out, looking as innocent as possible. The Tans were now standing in the lorry and getting ready to hit the pavement.

“Fuck this,” said Daly, and he walked directly to the truck. He put his hand in his pocket, withdrew a hand grenade, pulled the pin, and dropped it into the back of the lorry. Then he took off at full speed, Eoin right behind him, and, as they approached Abbey Street, there was a terrific explosion that shot Tans into the air like acrobats.

Crowds were forming at the end of Lower Abbey Street, and Eoin and Daly blended into them, quickly making their way as far west as the Abbey Theatre. Then they made their way down Marlborough Street to the Pro-Cathedral and started moving back, advancing up Talbot Street towards Amiens Street Station. At Gardner Street, they turned right and came back down to the Customs House. Like the crowd in St. Peter’s Square during a Papal Conclave, they looked eagerly for the white smoke, but were disappointed. “No
Habemus Papam
!” said Eoin, and even the dour Daly was forced to smile.

Inside the Customs House, on the second floor, Vinny Byrne was piling ledger books in the middle of the floor and pouring paraffin over them. He was supposed to wait for a whistle to start the fire. None was forthcoming, so Vinny reached into his pocket and withdrew a box of matches. A quick strike, and the place was an instant inferno. He scampered down the stairs and made his way to the Beresford Place exit. He was barely out the door when he was pulled aside by one of the Tans.

“What’s your fucking business?”

“I’m a carpenter. I’m installing bookshelves here,” Vinny replied.

The Tan slugged Vinny to the ground, and as he lay there, searched him for a gun, which Vinny had wisely left behind upstairs. “Get up,” he commanded. “Stand over here.”

“Yes, sir!” said Vinny, trying to sound contrite.

He was set in a line with other men. Tans, with hammers pulled back on their Webleys, looked for an excuse to murder someone. Soon an officer came to question each individually.

“What’s your business here?”

“I’m a carpenter,” Vinny repeated. “I was hired to build bookshelves.”

“Prove it!” Vinny put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper with wood measurements on it. He also had a tape measure in his pocket. Vinny never left home without the two; it was part of his cover in case he got stopped. The Tan officer looked at Vinny’s pink cherubic face, his ever-present Pioneer pin, and finally said, “Get going.” Vinny started walking north towards Gardner Street and soon caught sight of Daly and Eoin.

“Jaysus, am I glad to see you lads!”

“You lucky sonofabitch,” said Daly, and the three of them gave a huge laugh of relief. They looked at the smoke beginning to creep out of the second-floor windows and chimneys. There was no sign of the Tara Street Fire Brigade, and Eoin felt a certain amount of pride in his brother Frank. “Let’s get the fuck out of here while the going’s good,” said Paddy Daly, and no one dissented.