Women of Courage (90 page)

If I were Michael Collins, he thought, I might just be interested in that.

‘Lord save us!’ Michael Collins’s voice boomed across the little room. Paddy Daly looked up curiously.

‘Whatever is it now, Mick?’

Collins waved a big hand impatiently. ‘Wait till I’ve finished. Then you’ll see all right!’ He laughed, drummed his fingers on his desk, and gave a whistle of pure amazement.

Sean watched, bemused. It was an impromptu meeting of the Dublin division of the IRA. He himself had brought in the letters, one of which Collins was now reading. The others in the little upstairs room in Bachelor’s Walk - Paddy Daly, Liam Tobin, Mick McConnell - sat around smoking or waiting patiently. Richard Mulcahy, the IRA Chief of Staff, was also there, as was Cathal Brugha, the Dail’s Minister of Defence.

Collins was always like this - restless, ebullient, so bursting with his own energy that no one could survive five minutes with him without being overwhelmed by the force of his personality. He worked twice as hard as other men, twice as fast; and with so much noise that no one else could do anything without being interrupted once a minute.

Now, as he sat at the desk reading a letter, a smile of pure delight shone out of his face like the sun; and was then chased away by a frown of deepest suspicion, equally theatrical. He finished the letter, and drummed his fingers again noisily on the table, deep in thought. Then he suddenly laughed, and threw himself back on his chair, so that it banged against the wall, resting on its two back legs. Collins was a big man, fifteen stone at least, and the flimsy chair creaked ominously under the treatment. He pushed his thick black hair away from his forehead, and beamed at the others.

‘Now listen to this, you lot!’

As if they could do anything else.

He flourished the letter dramatically, and began to read.

Lambert’s Hotel

Dublin

12 January 1920

Mr Michael Collins

Minister of Finance

The Mansion House

Dublin

Dear Mr Collins,

I write to you in the strictest confidence, and you will treat this letter accordingly, I trust. I had the honour, until November 1918, in the army of His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II, to be an officer. During the time of the war, I was to the General Staff attached, and met several times with your esteemed countryman Sir Roger Casement, he who later so tragically in London was hanged. As you know, Mr Casement was in Germany hopeful of recruiting Irish prisoners of war to fight in Ireland against the British; and also he wanted to buy many guns for you and your country in your war of national independence to use. Despite the needs of our own soldiers, we were able to provide 20,000 rifles which we from Russian prisoners had taken, together with 4 million cartridges, and 10 machine guns. Most unfortunately, these weapons did not reach you, because our Captain Spindler was forced to sink his ship, the Aud, near Cork to avoid capture by the British Navy.

I think perhaps you will share with me my belief, Mr Collins, that had these weapons reached you, the course of the war, and of your country’s history, might well changed have been. I say this as one who knows it well that you yourself fought against the British Imperialists in Dublin that Easter of 1916.

‘It’s a rum sort of English he writes,’ said Paddy. ‘All the words in the wrong places, somehow.’

‘Probably because the man’s a German,’ said Collins. ‘Or if he isn’t he wants us to think he is.’

I write to you now because, at the end of the war, into my possession there fell some 20 Maxim water-cooled machine guns, and one million cartridges. I do not have to tell you, perhaps, that these guns by far the most effective small-arms weapon were on either side during the entire war; on one occasion I myself witnessed two of them destroy a Scottish battalion in ten minutes.

Also, I have nearly one hundred Mauser Selbstladepistole C96, and some Parabellum Artillery pistols, which I can sell to you. You will understand, I suppose, that so far all in my power has been done these weapons out of the hands of the British and French armies to keep. However, I myself do not need them; whereas it occurs to me that perhaps you do. I, on the other hand, need money. As you are the Finance Minister in your government, it may be possible that we can do business.

For such a deal, I must meet you personally. I am resident in this hotel for the next week. If this idea interests you, please make contact. If not, you will destroy this letter, I trust.

Your most sincere and humble servant,

Count Manfred von Hessel.

‘There you are!’ Abruptly Collins slammed his chair forwards, stood up, and began to pace up and down, his hands in the trouser pockets of his thick suit. ‘Well, boys, what do you think?’

‘We could surely do with them,’ said Richard Mulcahy. A lean, fit, intense young man, he had led by far the most effective action outside Dublin in 1916. Unlike everyone inside the city at that time, Mulcahy had believed in a war of speed and movement. His brigade had attacked the British, engaged them in small, destructive actions, and then got away - as the Boers had done in South Africa. It was a strategy he and Collins favoured for all units now. There were to be no more grand symbolic martyrdoms.

Cathal Brugha looked at him sarcastically. A man of undoubted bravery, Brugha found it hard to maintain friendly relations with his more energetic colleagues. ‘The pistols, maybe,’ he said. ‘But not Maxim guns, surely? Have you seen the size of those things? Where are you going to fire them - down O’Connell Street?’

‘I was thinking more of the country,’ said Mulcahy patiently. ‘With a weapon like that, our lads in west Cork and Wexford could take on a whole company of British troops and hope to beat them.’

‘Sure, and then they’d send over four more regiments,’ Brugha snapped back. ‘I’ve told you before, what we need is to send someone over the water to kill Lloyd George and the British Chief of Staff. That’ll bring it home to them. And we won’t do that with a heavy machine gun.’

‘But we could have done with one at Ashtown!’ Collins burst in irritably. ‘By God, if we’d had one of these things there, young Martin would still be with us, and Johnny French would not!’

‘We could that,’ Paddy Daly agreed, glancing at Sean. The young man should not really be in on this discussion, he thought. But I’d trust him with my life; it cannot do much harm. ‘What troubles me,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘is two things. First, how much does the fellow want for them?’

‘A lot, I should think!’ said Collins. ‘That’s why he wants to talk to me. Minister of Finance, do you not see it here, at the top of the letter? The man thinks he’s writing to a Rockefeller!’

‘Well, that’s right. We’ve not collected all the poor folk’s savings just to hand them to some German count. But there’s another thing, now, Michael. Is this fellow genuine at all?’

‘And how does it matter if he’s not? Do you think I’ll be signing him a cheque just for a pretty picture in a catalogue? No guns, no pay, it’ll be, Paddy!’

‘I know that, Michael. But does it not strike you too that this is just the sort of pretty fly the British might float on the water to see if we bite? Twenty big Maxim guns would take a deal of carrying. If this man is not all he seems, we’ll be leading our lads into one hell of a fine ambush when we take delivery.’

‘That’s for us to arrange when we’re convinced he’s got them,’ Collins said. ‘But first you’re right: we need to know if the fellow’s genuine. What do you make of the letter?’

He passed it round.

‘It’s proper hotel paper,’ said Mulcahy. ‘And the English is funny, as Paddy said. That could mean he’s German.’

‘Or it could mean he just wants us to think he is.’

‘Why Lambert’s Hotel, of all places?’ said Brugha suddenly. ‘That’s a favourite with old lady dowagers from the colonies, isn’t it? If he speaks English as badly as he writes it, he’ll stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that.’

‘That’s true.’ Collins sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing his face thoughtfully with the palm of his hand. ‘But I don’t have to meet him there. Look, this is what we’ll do. I’ll write to the fellow and agree to a meeting in a couple of days. Paddy, you go to see him, and if you think he’s the genuine article, fix up a time and place. You can take young Sean here and keep watch on him. Find out where he goes, what he looks like, who he meets. That shouldn’t be too hard, even in Lambert’s. Do you think you can find time in your love life for that, young Sean?’

As always when Michael Collins smiled at him, Sean felt warmed by an inner fire. Despite the man’s overbearing ebullience and rowdiness, there was a blaze of energy within him that drew all the Volunteers towards him like moths round a flame. He knew all their names, what they had done, where they came from. His mastery of detail incorporated not only his financial work, his intelligence service, and the administration of the Dublin Volunteers, but also the humanity of the young men and women who worked for him. Those whom he valued he would work into the ground; but they always knew that Collins himself was working harder. If one man can ever gain Ireland’s freedom, Sean thought, he can.

He was a little embarrassed that Collins knew of his affection for Catherine. Collins had met her at the Gaelic League, even given her a great big hug when he heard how well she spoke the language. But then Collins did not know, of course, that she had visited him in his new room; and for all his bluff physical heartiness Sean was not sure how Collins would take that. After his experience with the priest, he didn’t want to find out.

So he blushed, grinned back boldly, said: ‘A few minutes, Michael, maybe. I’ll fit it in while the lady’s doing her hair.’

Collins growled at him and gave him a mock punch in the chest. ‘It’s more like a few days this is going to be, Seaneen! You joined up to be a soldier, not a love-sick poet, you know! I want you to find that German and watch him like he was the Countess Cathleen herself - or Mata Hari, if that’s what you young fellows prefer. If your young lady’s lonely the while, send her to Uncle Michael - I could do with some lessons in the Gaelic. Now clear off out of it - we’ve serious business to discuss!’

15. The Lambert Hotel

A
S MICHAEL Collins had said, the Lambert Hotel was not the sort of place where Sinn Fein supporters often stayed. Neither was it a place well known to officers of the British Army - people who might know Andrew by sight, and be surprised to see him addressed as Manfred von Hessel. It was, in fact, a moderately genteel establishment favoured by the elderly. There were several permanent residents, old ladies and gentlemen who tottered in and out amongst the potted palms and giant aspidistras that were a feature of the place. They had their own set routine: coffee each morning in the heated conservatory, where the proprietor’s pet canaries were allowed to flutter freely in the luxuriant foliage overhead, bringing back reminiscences, for some, of younger days in Malaya and Burma; their own tables in the dining room, with the best views of cold winter streets outside; and evenings for bridge and whist each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.

The owners of the hotel, in their sixties themselves, cherished these ancient residents just as they cherished the plants, the antique, polished furniture and the exquisite arrangements of dried flowers and stuffed birds that were everywhere under bell jars, to keep them free of dust. Their other clientele - middle-aged commercial travellers, and foreigners visiting the city for the races, perhaps, or the theatre - were treated with a detached, gentle courtesy that made it clear to them that they were guests in a unique establishment with unchanging traditions and a quiet, restful charm all of its own.

After a day or so, most guests either decided that they liked it, or left, shaking their heads in despair.

Andrew - as Manfred von Hessel - liked it very much.

He liked it for several reasons. First, no one who knew him as Andrew Butler would ever come to a place like this. Second, it was highly improbable that there were any active Sinn Feiners on the hotel staff. The staff were mostly too old, and lost in a dreamy backwater, to care about such matters. So his room was unlikely to be searched, or his movements spied on. And third, he hoped the hotel would appear to Collins as a plausible, if slightly eccentric, choice for a foreigner who wished to avoid the unwelcome attention of the authorities. Hotels used by Sinn Feiners might at any time be searched by the police or army, and Manfred von Hessel would naturally want to avoid any risk of that.

But the fourth reason was that it was only five minutes’ walk from his own town house, in Nelson Street.

Apart from an elderly housekeeper, Mrs Sanderson, who came in once a week, the house was empty. The solitude pleased him. In the evenings, he sat alone by his fire, brooding, and listened to the occasional shout or clatter of sound from the street. He felt a little like a ghost, and relished the thought.

He had had a second key made, for Radford.

Andrew hated the idea of cooperating with Radford at all. But if it had to be done, they would have to meet face to face - telephones or letters were impossible. And so the house in Nelson Street was a godsend.

He had met Radford there twice in the past week - once to explain his plan, once to take delivery of a leather bag with two oilskin packages in it. The second time he had shown Radford his letter to Collins before it was sent. They had agreed to meet tonight at eight o’clock, to discuss the response, if any. Andrew hoped someone would have got in touch with him before then.

The first approach came at four o’clock. He was sitting in the conservatory of the Lambert Hotel, sipping tea. There was an animated discussion at the table opposite him, about the relative merits of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, and the Imperial in Colombo. Andrew listened with amusement. The canaries flitted to and fro in the shrubbery, and he wondered what would happen if they dropped something unpleasant in the old people’s tea.