The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (10 page)

23

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
F
RIDAY
, S
EPTEMBER
28, 1917

I
got to wear my Volunteer uniform for the first time today. It was for Tom Ashe’s funeral. Collins has taken care of all the arrangements. Ashe is lying in state at the City Hall just down the lane. Collins has planned every detail of the day. “If a Fenian has to die,” he said, rather coldly, “he might as well be used as a recruiting tool.”

After a pause, Collins muttered, “Syncope.”

“What?”

“Tom died of syncope,” he said, reading from the newspaper.

“What’s that?”

“According to Professor McMeeney, ‘death was due to syncope, arising partly from heart trouble and partly from an intense congestion of the lungs.’”

“Congested by porridge,” says I.

Mick shot me a look. “God, you can be blunt.”

“He’s Number Seventeen,” I noted.

“Seventeen?”

“Seventeen. Sir Roger was Number Sixteen.”

“I never thought of that,” admitted Collins. “The seventeenth rebel ‘executed.’ The Brits took thirteen months after hanging Casement. There will be more.” He became pensive. “We’re going to have to step up. Our intelligence is pitiful. We have to start targeting the ones who are crippling us, the RIC, the G-Division of the DMP, their touts.” I didn’t say anything, and Mick was again quiet for a minute. “It’s going to be brutal,” he finally said.

We left for the City Hall and escorted the coffin to the Pro-Cathedral for the funeral mass. After the mass, we marched behind the box all the way to Glasnevin. It seems I’ve spent more time in Glasnevin in the last year than I have in the Phoenix Park. It’s always a sad journey for me because I’m thinking of me Mammy and Charlie, who I miss a lot. Me brother and I were only two years apart in age.

The crowds were amazing. Some were saying it was the biggest funeral since Parnell’s. Others agreed it was even bigger than Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa’s funeral in August 1915, where Padraig Pearse gave his famous speech: “The fools, the fools, the fools, they have left us our Fenian dead.”

After the priest blessed the remains, three shots were fired over the grave by Volunteers. Mick stepped forward, resplendent in his new Vice-Commandant’s uniform, with its smart Sam Browne belt. As Mick was getting set to speak, I saw that there was a movie camera to record the event. All we need is Mick’s face in every cinema in Ireland for the next couple of weeks, making the G-men’s job easier. I left the grave and walked over to where the cameraman was. It said “British Pathé News” on the equipment. Your man was cranking the camera away at a furious pace as Mick stepped up to the grave. The camera was resting on a tripod. Mick was just about ready to speak when I grabbed one of the tripod legs and gave it a merry heave, sending camera and operator to the ground.

“Nothing additional remains to be said,” Mick began. “That volley which we have just heard is the only speech that is proper to make above the grave of a dead Fenian.” As we headed back to the city centre, I watched Mick weep for the first time.

Yes, Mick is right. It’s going to be brutal.

24

A
s Michael Collins crossed Golden Lane with Eoin, he saw the dank Piles Building. Inside, Joseph Kavanagh was happy for the company. “Good to see you, Mick. I just wet some tay. Would you like some?”

“I would, indeed,” said Collins, pulling up a chair at the small kitchen table. “How’s the family?” he asked, although he already knew the answers from Eoin.

“I had to put the babies, Mary and Dickie, in orphanages. They’re too young, and I couldn’t handle them.”

“How about Frank?” said Collins, looking in Eoin’s direction.

“He’s staying put,” said the father. “I’m having trouble keeping him in school. He’s a bit wild.”

“Break him.”

“Easier said than done,” replied Joseph.

Collins grunted. “Your son and I have a proposition for you.” Joseph looked up as he poured the tea into Collins’s cup.

“Proposition?”

“You need a job, and I need a barber.”

“Simple as that?”

Collins laughed. “Nothing is ever simple. I have a shop over in Aungier Street that would do nicely.”

“What would I have to do?” asked Eoin’s father.

“Besides cut hair?” Collins laughed. “You know what I do.”

“I do,” replied Joseph, “and I approve.”

“Thank you,” said Collins. “Let me be frank with you. Part of my job”—he then pointed to Eoin and added—”part of Eoin’s job too, is intelligence. If we are to best the British, we must have sound, up-to-the-minute intelligence.”

“But I’m not an intelligence agent,” protested Joseph, “I’m a hair-dresser.” He paused for a moment before adding, “a
master
hairdresser.”

“A hairdresser with
ears
!”

“Ears?”

“To listen to British agents and soldiers.”

Joseph perked up. “I see, the barber shop as front.”

“And right down the street from Dublin Castle,” added Collins. It was all becoming clear, and Eoin could see some light in his father’s eyes for the first time in a long time.

“We’ll need a good name for the shop,” Joseph declared. “How about Crown Hairdressers?”

Collins almost spat out his tea, and started laughing. “Joe, no, no.” He pulled out his handkerchief so he could clear his throat. “That’s too obvious. We need something more subtle.” Joseph nodded.

“How about Castle Barbers?” asked Eoin.

“Castle Barbers,” repeated his father.

“That’s it, Eoin,” said Collins. “Castle Barbers. Is it a deal?”

“It is, indeed,” replied Joseph.

“Eoin will take you over to 31 Aungier Street tomorrow morning. The shop is totally vacant. Lay it out as you want. Make a list of equipment, and give it to Eoin; we’ll have this place up and running within a fortnight. We’ll meet before you open and go over things. Also, there are lodgings on the second floor so you, Frank, and Eoin can get the hell out of this fookin’ place. I’ll keep an office on the top floor. Is that alright with you?”

“I must be dreaming,” said Joseph, ready to turn the page on the nightmare his life had become.

1918

25

C
ollins had just returned from an IRA recruiting trip to Munster and decided to check on his latest investment. He came out of the Exchequer Street office and walked towards his new barbershop. As it came into view, he noticed a crowd gathering around the barber pole right next to the front door. Collins couldn’t get by the crowd, so he tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Free shaves for Castle personnel.”

Collins almost swallowed his tongue. “What?”

“Free shaves, but this week only!”

Collins pushed his way to the front of the phalanx and read the sign in the window:

SHOW CASTLE ID
GET FREE SHAVE
THIS WEEK ONLY

There was Joseph Kavanagh in his striped barber’s shirt, wrapping a steaming towel around one of His Majesty’s Castlemen. Frank Kavanagh, similarly attired, was shaving another. Eoin was checking IDs and writing down names. He looked up and saw Collins, now almost purple, staring at him from the window.

“It’s about time,” said one of the men to Collins.

“What?”

“It’s about time Dubliners showed us the respect we’ve earned,” said the man. “Since the Rising, all you hear are catcalls from the local guttersnipes. This is a welcome respite.”

Collins nodded. In the window was a poster of Lord Kitchener doing his “I Want You” pose, which was soon to be mimicked by Uncle Sam. Next to the poster was a Union Jack. Inside on one wall was a portrait of the King, on the other a picture of homely Victoria, the Famine Queen. Collins again caught Eoin’s eye and this time was greeted with the happiest wink he had ever seen.

Eoin came into the office an hour later. Collins was still steaming. “Who the fook came up with that brilliant idea?!”

“I did,” said Eoin. “You interested in these signatures?” He threw them on Collins’s desk, and Collins looked at them quickly, realized their importance, and carefully went through the thirty-four names on the list. “That’s a day’s work,” Eoin added.

“Fookin’ brilliant,” said Collins. Before him he had names, addresses, and occupations of Dublin Castle insiders. “How did you get this stuff out of them?”

“A free shave.”

“Did you hold a gun to their heads?”

“No, I just asked them if they would like to be on our mailing list for future free events at Castle Barbers.”

“You’re a brilliant fookin’ rascal, do you know that?” said Collins as he ruffled Eoin’s carefully combed hair. “But be careful.”

“Careful?”

“Yes, you know I can’t intervene if there’s any trouble from the neighbors. That would give the whole job away. It’s a rebel neighborhood. You may have some ruffians throwing bricks through the front window.”

“I understand.”

“How do you like your new lodgings?”

“Supreme,” said Eoin. “We’ve never had such comfort.”

“The office on the top floor will be occupied shortly,” said Collins. “I’ll be keeping my distance. We’re beginning to branch out. The days of feeling our way are over. It’s time we start confronting the British both here in Dublin and in the countryside.” Collins paused. “But Dublin is the key, Eoin. Whoever controls Dublin holds the fate of the Irish nation in their hands.” Eoin nodded, thinking that the climate in Dublin City might be getting a wee bit tropical in the months to come.

26

E
OIN
’
S
D
IARY

I
met Róisín at Nelson’s Pillar, and we took the tram out to Sandymount where my sister Mary is living in the Star of the Sea convent. Sunday is orphanage day for Róisín and me. Last Sunday, we went up to Cabra to visit Dickie, and it broke my heart
.

I brought Dickie sweets and some coppers and introduced him to Róisín, whom he took an instant liking to. By the time we had to leave, he was holding onto Róisín’s trousers, and his howling had me in tears as well. He says he’s lonely, and some of the boys and staff are cruel to him. When Róisín heard that, she wanted to know all about it. Finally, Dickie spit it out: “Father Murphy caned me.” He’s such a sweet boy, he didn’t want to snitch, even on his tormentor.

“He did, did he?” said Róisín. “He didn’t touch you in your genitals, did he?” Both Dickie and I looked at her blankly. “Your genitals,” she repeated in exasperation, pointing below my belt. “Oh,” I finally said. I whispered into Dickie’s ear, “Did he touch your willie?” Dickie looked at the floor and shook his head no. I couldn’t believe what was going on. After we said goodbye to Dickie, we went looking for this Murphy fellow. We caught up with him on his way to the chapel. “You Father Murphy?” Róisín asked.

“I am indeed,” he said with cheer, resplendent in his flowing cassock and hard white dog collar. His biretta was cocked at a jaunty angle.

“This is Eoin Kavanagh, Dickie Kavanagh’s brother,” Róisín said, leaving the rest up to me.

“What can I do for you?” said Murphy.

“Well,” says I, “first, you can keep your cane off my brother. Is that understood? This is unacceptable behavior on your part.” I must have looked preposterous, looking up to lecture this giant of a man, well over six feet tall.

“That was a cowardly act on your part,” Róisín interjected. “The act of a bully.”

“Young woman,” began Murphy, rather highhandedly, “we have discipline here.”

Róisín turned red. “Don’t patronize me with that ‘young woman’ crap. I know all about your so-called ‘discipline.’ A nice word for cruelty.” You could see in his eyes that Murphy wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way, especially by two young people. I thought the priest was going to swallow his Adam’s apple.

“Is it understood, then?” I asked.

“You don’t understand,” said Murphy, suddenly apologetic. “This whole thing has been blown out of proportion.”

“Look,” says I, “Dickie is here because our mother died of consumption last year. She never laid a finger on any of us. And I won’t allow it to happen here. The lad has been damaged enough already.”

“Well,” said the priest, playing the ever-reliable guilt angle, “if you’re not happy with us here, you can always take him back.” He paused before adding, “You’re nothing more than a boy yourself.”

“Father Murphy,” I said, trying not to lose my temper, “taking Dickie out of here right now is out of the question for many reasons. Believe me, if I could handle him myself, I would.”

“So you have more important things on your mind than your little brother.”

I had had enough. “I was in the GPO Easter Week. So was Róisín. I was not afraid of the British, and I’m not afraid of a priest who likes to cane five-year-olds. What gives you the right to hurt innocent children?” I paused to calm down. “If I hear any more of this nonsense, someone will have to pay up here—and I won’t be using a cane!”

“Got that?” added Róisín. Murphy didn’t say a word, his jowly face flushed with indignation. He just turned and walked swiftly into the chapel. “That’s the way to handle those bullies,” said Róisín, giving me a hug. “I know all about their so-called ‘discipline.’ It may take another hundred years, but the Church’s time will come to an end in Ireland.” I am respectful by nature, willing to avoid confrontation if possible, but Róisín wears her edge without shame.

“This brings back memories of your time in the orphanage, doesn’t it?”

“Fookin’ clergy,” she said bitterly. “I have no time for the Church and its nonsense.”

“Really?” I teased. With that, she gave me a terrific punch in the arm. “Hey,” I protested.

“And I don’t have much time for fookin’ eejit men, either!” I was still rubbing my arm when she added, “But I’ll make an exception in your case.” It was her way of making up.

It was a beautiful day, and we took Mary out for a walk on Sandymount Strand. We passed the old Martello Tower on our way to the beach. The gulls were swirling above us, and the familiar smokestacks of the Pigeon House were close by. We could see clearly all the way to Howth. We walked down by the surf, daring it to catch our feet. Mary and Róisín were frolicking and laughing, holding hands as they skipped near the water’s edge. Róisín looked beautiful, the sun raising freckles on her face. I tried to keep up with them, but Róisín turned toward me and gestured she wanted to be alone with Mary. I quickly discovered that one into two won’t go.

After we had an ice cream lunch, we brought Mary back to the convent. Unlike Dickie, she seems happy enough. I told her that Da would be up to see her next Sunday. “Well,” I said to Róisín, “did you get all the information you needed out of her?”

“I was just checking up on her,” said Róisín. “You know women are different than men.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Well, she’ll be a woman soon, and I just wanted to see how she was doing.”

“She’s only nine.”

“You know nothing about women and their bodies,” said Róisín, speaking to me like I was some kind of imbecile.

“I don’t,” I admitted.

“Well, someday, maybe I’ll teach you something.” She lit up a Woodbine and exhaled mightily. “Let’s get the tram back to town,” she said, taking me by the hand. “I could do with a pint of porter at the Stag’s Head.”