The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (29 page)

“Bloody Papists!” said Diane, laughing before turning serious. “You think there are more killings to come?”

“The Squad was
very
busy in 1920.”

Diane shook her head. “It’s so frightening,” she said. “It’s like learning your favorite Grandpa was in Murder Incorporated.”

“You’re close,” laughed Johnny easily, as he took her hand and walked her through the winding back streets of Temple Bar, circling back to Dame Street. “Here it is,” said Johnny. “It’s still here, but it’s gone.”

“What?”

“The entrance to 26 Temple Lane. That was Rosanna’s home, where Aunt Nellie ended up living. The building’s the same, but the façade’s been altered. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” They walked to the corner and made a left at Nico’s Italian Restaurant and walked a block towards Trinity College. Johnny turned left into Crow Street and stood with Diane in front of number three. “This is it,” said Johnny. “The IRA’s CIA office in 1920. Second floor. Irish Products Company was the cover. That’s where Collins’s intelligence office was,” he continued, “although he almost never visited it.”

“He didn’t?”

“Too dangerous,” said Johnny. “Collins didn’t visit in case he was being watched by the British. This office was too important to give away. That’s why Grandpa was always running his daily intelligence brief to him around the city. The British never discovered this office. The building’s been altered, but, as you can see, it’s just three blocks from Dublin Castle. Oh, how the Brits would have loved to know about this place!”

Diane shuddered. “It’s spooky, even eighty-six years later.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny. “I’m scared stiff.” Johnny pulled Diane to him and gave her a serious, sensuous kiss.

“That’s good,” she said softly. Johnny ground against Diane, and she could feel his arousal. “Revolution has an uplifting effect on you, I see,” she teased.

“Reminds me of my yute!”

“Yeah,” laughed Diane. “Erection-on-demand!”

Johnny adjusted his trousers and walked Diane to the edge of Dame Street. “See that alley over there?” Diane looked across Dame Street and could see a narrow alley almost directly opposite from them. “Let’s go!” Johnny pulled Diane by the hand, and they jumped into Dame Street, dodging traffic in both directions. In New York, jaywalking was sport; in Dublin, it could be suicide. They came to a halt in front of the alley. Johnny pointed at the ground.

“The Stag’s Head,” Diane read from the tile in the sidewalk.

“It’s time for a drink,” said Johnny. They walked through the alley, emerging in Dame Court. Johnny pointed up the street. “See that doorway just to the left of the Dunne’s Store? Well, that’s 10 Exchequer Street, Collins’s and Grandpa’s first office. They did a lot of their conferencing right here,” Johnny said, turning to his left, where the Stag’s Head front door was. “I love this fucking place,” he said, as he secured a snug for himself and his wife at the end of the bar. They sat down and ordered a couple of pints of stout. “This was Collins’s favorite snug,” Johnny revealed. “Grandpa said he liked it because he could scoot out the back door in a second.”

The bar was quiet this time of the day, so different from what it was at night. “If these walls could talk!” said Diane.

“I don’t think you’d want to know!” responded Johnny. “Collins drank here so much in the early years that they had a keg known as ‘Mick’s Barrel.’ Must have been a hell of a whiskey.”

“I never think of Collins as a drinker,” said Diane.

“He liked a sup, but as time went on, he didn’t drink or even smoke. He needed all his strength for the revolution.”

“What are you expecting out of Grandpa’s papers next?”

Johnny took a sip of his Guinness and sighed. “Vicious brutality.”

“You’re being redundant.”

Johnny smiled weakly. “You’re right. But it will take ‘vicious brutality’ to finally make the British redundant.”

Diane gave an involuntary shiver, as she remembered that she was sitting in Michael Collins’s favorite snug. Then, suddenly, she knew what was eating at her—the horror of 1920 had
finally
penetrated her bones during her visit to Dublin’s Dardanelles.

75

A
ll the participants rose as Prime Minister David Lloyd George entered the conference room at 10 Downing Street. “Please be seated, gentlemen,” he said, as he took his place in the middle of the table. “Our agenda today is the tragedy that Dublin has become.” He paused, brushing aside his shoulder-length white locks. “Winston, the floor is yours.”

Winston Spencer Churchill, Secretary of State for War, stood to speak. “Gentlemen, you are all aware of the outrages that occurred recently on the streets of South Dublin, where military convoys were destroyed and a detective sergeant of the Royal Irish Constabulary was brutally murdered.” He paused for effect. “The time for dillydallying with the Shiners is over!”

The Churchill of 1920 was light-years away from the iconic Churchill of 1940. Although now occupying another cabinet position in Lloyd George’s government, he was still fresh from a string of Great War failures, which had branded him as a politician of mostly unrelenting failure. From the sinking of the
Lusitania
under his watch as First Lord of the Admiralty in 1915, to his disastrous Gallipoli adventure in 1915–16, Churchill had shown he had the Midas touch—only in reverse.

Around the table were Johnny French, Field Marshal Henry Wilson, General Sir Nevil Macready, and Derek Gough-Coxe. “It is time,” said Churchill, “for a shake-up in Dublin. General Macready will become the new Commander-in-Chief for Ireland. Lord French will remain as Viceroy, and we will be sending help for the embattled RIC.”

“About time,” Wilson proclaimed. “The rebels have had the run of us.”

“We are undermanned,” said French, “as General Macready will soon find out.”

“There will be no more excuses,” the Prime Minister reassured them.

“We have begun to recruit—on the recommendation of Field Marshal Wilson—some temporary constables to supplement the RIC,” Churchill continued. “And I am proposing a Special Emergency Gendarmerie, also to supplement the RIC as auxiliary cadets. The quicker we can get these brigades organized and shipped to Ireland, the better.”

“What is your estimated time of arrival?” asked the Prime Minister.

“The temporary constables should be in Ireland by March,” replied Churchill. “The auxiliaries, a little later in the year.”

“It’s going to be a hot summer in Ireland,” laughed Wilson.

“But not hot enough for you, Henry, I surmise,” snapped Churchill. Churchill was anti-nationalist, but Wilson was an outright bigot in his disdain for the mostly Catholic rebels.

“Perhaps this time, Winston,” replied Wilson, his martinet piqued by Churchill’s comment, “you will not be befuddled by these Dublin Dardanelles, as you were by the Turkish Dardanelles.”

Churchill ignored the jibe and responded evenly: “We have shot the rebels. We have imprisoned them. We have deported them. We have harassed them. What would
you
want us to do?”

“More,” replied the succinct Wilson.

Gough-Coxe laughed. “Field Marshal, you sound just like Sebastian Blood!”

“Who the blazes is Sebastian Blood?” demanded Wilson.

“Our detective/martyr from Aungier Street,” replied Gough-Coxe, “whom Mr. Churchill was just discussing.” Wilson looked ambushed by Gough-Coxe’s remarks, and Churchill suppressed a smile.

“Besides the military,” said Lloyd George, interrupting the high-level pissing match, “what can be done at the local level in Dublin?”

“The intelligence unit of the Dublin Metropolitan Police—that’s the G-Division—will be reorganized,” said Churchill, pointing to Gough-Coxe. “Our new Deputy Commissioner of Police Derek Gough-Coxe has had a remarkable career, recently in the Middle East during the Great War. Without his help in the region, we might have lost the Suez Canal. A great part of his success was due to him ‘going native’ to inspire and captivate the local Arab chieftains. We worked closely together, and I expect he will be able to supply equal expertise to our problems in Dublin City. I expect him to become our Fenian
savant
.”

“And what exactly, Deputy Commissioner, do you see as our problems in Dublin City?” asked the Prime Minister.

Gough-Coxe stood and surveyed the men around him. He felt confident that the trouble in Ireland would be over by this time next year. He felt secure that, with the backing of Churchill—whose father, Lord Randolph Churchill, was the first to play the “Orange Card” and originated the phrase, “Ulster will fight, and Ulster will be right!”—and the likes of the Catholic-hating Wilson, who had the ear of the Prime Minister and the MPs from the North of Ireland, that the problems in Ireland could be soon overcome.

“The problems in Dublin come down to two words,” said Gough-Coxe, pausing for effect. “Michael Collins.”

“And,” said Lloyd George, “who is Michael Collins?”

Before Gough-Coxe could commence his carefully prepared presentation, Lord French cut in: “Collins is a murderer who has become a folk-hero on the streets of Dublin,” he said, his voice rising. “According to the local legend, he is the Fenian Pimpernel, supposedly fearless, conniving, cunning, and ruthless.” French stood up. “He has attempted to assassinate me several times without success.”

“He has to succeed only once, Field Marshal,” said Gough-Coxe, and French returned to his seat. “Michael Collins,” Gough-Coxe continued, “is the
Dáil
’s Minister for Finance—but he’s more than that. He is a Commandant-General in what is becoming known as the Irish Republican Army. He is also the president of the terrorist Irish Republican Brotherhood. Many think he is behind the string of assassinations we have been experiencing in Dublin since last September.”

“Think?” teased the Prime Minister.

“He is quite the mysterious figure,” said Gough-Coxe.

“A bounty may remove the mystery,” interjected Wilson.

“He sounds like a street thug to me,” offered Macready.

“Nothing more, nothing less,” agreed the smug Johnny French.

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Gough-Coxe. “I suspect that Michael Collins is the equal to anyone here in this room.” Gough-Coxe had suddenly caught everyone’s undivided attention, as four pairs of eyes targeted him.

“What do you propose to do?” asked Lloyd George.

“I propose to smoke him out,” said Gough-Coxe. “Not only will G-Division be reorganized, but I propose we start sending a series of
agent provocateurs
to draw Mr. Collins out of his shell.”

“Why don’t you just arrest him?” asked Wilson.

“We don’t even have a good photo of him,” replied Gough-Coxe. “Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood was getting close to Collins when he was murdered. Collins is ruthless.”

“As ruthless as we are going to be?” taunted Wilson.

Gough-Coxe laughed at the Field Marshal. “How ruthless should we be?” he asked, tossing the ball back into Wilson’s court.

“Disgustingly brutal,” came the reply.

“I can do that,” said Gough-Coxe calmly. “I know how to handle opponents of the Crown—as my record indicates.”

“So when do you propose to begin?” asked the Prime Minister.

“Immediately,” said Gough-Coxe. “I’ll be leaving for Dublin on the mail boat tonight. My
agent provocateur
will be joining me shortly.” He laughed again.

“And what amuses you?” asked Churchill.

“The name of my agent—a name the Irish will surely embrace.”

“Yes?”

“Jameson.”

There was laughter around the table as the builders of the disaster in Ireland felt sure they had found the right man to lead them out of their Irish quagmire in Derek Gough-Coxe, the new Deputy Commissioner of Police for the G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.

76

R
óisín was on her way to work, cycling by the Black Church at Mountjoy Street, when a voice called out her name. She stopped and turned around, surprised to see Collins standing in front of the Munster Hotel at 44 Mountjoy Street. He was carrying a pillowcase, weighed down with its contents.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded, stopping her bike right in front of the inauspicious-looking hotel.

“Picking up my laundry,” replied Collins.

“Your laundry!” Róisín couldn’t imagine that the most wanted man in Ireland was fetching his laundry in front of her very eyes.

“I don’t wear dirty knickers, like someone told me you do!”

“Who told you that?” Collins smiled mischeviously, and Róisín realized her goat had just been captured by the Minister for Finance.

“You’re daft to even be close to the Munster,” Róisín lectured. “The British are always looking for you here.”

“No,” replied Collins, “it’s alright. I leave my clean clothes at Vaughan’s and change there.”

Róisín noticed that Collins’ face was puffy from fatigue. “Are you getting any sleep?”

“Oh, the hours wasted in sleep! I’ll sleep when I die.”

“The headlines have been gruesome,” said Róisín. “Especially the news from Camden Street. I see the boys finally got that clown, what was his name? Blood?”

“He’s the one who murdered Joseph Kavanagh,” said Collins.

“Go way!”

“Eoin plugged him,” Collins said matter-of-factly.

“No, he didn’t!”

“Yes,” said Collins, wearily, “he did.”

“How could you let him?”

“It was his decision.”

“You bastard!”

Collins put his laundry bag down on the sidewalk and took Róisín by the hand. “It’s getting serious now, Róisín. This is the year.”

“The year for what?”

“The year we drive the British from our shores.”

Róisín shook her head violently. “We’ll destroy the British, and we’ll destroy ourselves!”

“Eoin needs your attention.”

“I never see him. He blames you, the amount of work you put on him.”

“He’s telling the truth,” admitted Collins. “I work the lad to death. He’s the best I have. I hate to admit this, but I’ve come to depend on the cheeky little bastard.” Róisín smiled, and Collins added, “He’s about the only one who will tell me the truth and challenge me.”

“Eoin is a great kid,” said Róisín.

“Do you love him?” Collins queried, out of the blue.

Róisín stared at the ground before finally looking up. “I might,” she finally said.

“Then keep an eye out for him. He’s homeless right now. One night sleeping in the Bachelors Walk office, the next night in Vaughan’s, the night after that on someone’s sofa. It’s a tough life.”

“I can’t even get in touch with him. He gave me a number over in Abbey Street but told me not to call it.”

Collins knew it was the phone at the Dump, but said nothing. He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and jotted a number down. “Eoin never breaks the cell,” said Collins, “but I do! You can reach him at this number. Ask for ‘Mr. Kavanagh.’ If he gets annoyed at you, tell him you got the number from the Minister for Finance.”

“Thanks, Mick. I will call him.”

“This week?”

“Promise.”

“Grand lassie ya are!” he said, as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

Róisín mounted her bike and continued on her way to the Mater Hospital. Collins looked up at the appropriately named Black Church, which cast an intimidating shadow on this cul-de-sac part of Mountjoy Street. The local legend says that if you run around the Black Church three times at midnight, the devil himself will appear. Collins smiled, for the Church and all its blackness would not win out today. The chat with Róisín had revived Collins’s spirit, and her touch reminded Collins how lonely he was for female companionship. Kitty was still up in Longford, and Collins was glued to Dublin. As Róisín cycled out of sight, Collins picked up his laundry bag and walked straight across the road to 30 Mountjoy Street, hoping that Dilly Dicker might offer him some breakfast.