The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (31 page)

79

“
N
eed any more guns?” Mulcahy asked Collins.

“Does a religious fanatic collect rosaries?” replied Collins.

“What kind of a fookin’ question is that? We never have enough guns.”

“Well, there’s a fellow over from England looking for you. He says he has some guns for us.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” said Collins. “Where did this good fellow come from?”

“Artie O’Brien sent him to us,” said Mulcahy, speaking of the
Sinn Féin
leader in London. “Do you want to meet him?”

“Why not? What do we have to lose?” Mulcahy gave Collins a look, which drew a laugh out of the Big Fellow. “Don’t worry, Dick, I’ll be careful.” Mulcahy was still apprehensive about the whole thing. “Look,” said Collins, “the only person I have consistently supplying me with guns is Bob Briscoe. If Bob wasn’t doing business in Germany, we’d have no guns at all. Set up the meeting with this fellow. What’s his name?”

“John Jameson.”

“You’re jokin’,” said Collins. Mulcahy’s face was made of stone. “You’re not jokin’, are you?” Mulcahy shook his head. “What’s his background?”

“He’s making out that he’s some sort of labor organizer, maybe even a communist or a revolutionary,” said Mulcahy. He paused. “If you can believe that.”

“And he just dropped into our laps,” said Collins. “How convenient.”

“My point exactly.”

“Set it up for tomorrow at the Home Farm produce shop in Camden Street,” said Collins. “Get Tobin to come along.”

“Bad idea. I don’t think our two intelligence directors should be in the same room with this stranger.”

“You’re right,” conceded Collins. “Tell Eoin I want him there.”

“Why Eoin?”

“Because Eoin has the ‘sniff,’” said Collins.

“The ‘sniff’?”

“He can smell the enemy.”

“I hope you’re right.”

John Jameson showed up in the Camden Street grocery and introduced himself to the young clerk behind the counter. Eoin Kavanagh wiped his hands on his apron and directed the Englishman to the back room, where Collins and Mulcahy were waiting for him.

“Mr. Jameson,” said Collins.

“And you must be the bold Michael Collins,” replied Jameson. He shook hands with the two men, and Collins offered him a cup of tea. “This is so exciting,” the Englishman proclaimed, dropping three spoons of sugar into his tea.

“Exciting?” asked Collins.

“One hears such exciting things about you in London,” said Jameson.

“Really?” said Collins.

“Like what?” queried Mulcahy.

“Oh, the general stuff,” said Jameson. “You know, how you’ve turned Camden Street into a hellhole for the British.”

Collins remained quiet as he scratched the beginnings of a new mustache. Kitty didn’t like facial hair, and now she was back in Longford, so Collins thought he’d try out the hairy lip. Eoin came into the room, feigning work. “Excuse me,” he said. He went to the back on a phantom search, then surveyed the earnest Jameson, who was animatedly telling all how important the great Collins was.

Mulcahy cut to the chase. “The guns?”

“I can get you what you need,” replied Jameson.

“We need revolvers,” said Collins. “Heavy caliber. We also need rifles for the army. Can you help us?”

“I can do that,” said Jameson. “But it’ll cost money.”

“We have the money,” said Collins.

“Let me see what I can get my hands on,” said Jameson.

“That’s grand,” said Collins. “Can I ask you something?”

“More tay?” interrupted Eoin, as he brought a fresh pot over to the table. All three men declined, and Eoin looked Jameson right in the eye. “You sure?”

“I am,” said Jameson. “Thank you. You were saying, General Collins?”

Collins was taken aback; seldom was his rank referred to, if it wasn’t Eoin jeering him.

“Yes,” said Collins, “my question is simple—why do you want to help us?”

“Because I hate the British,” said Jameson. “How’s that for a starter?”

“And how does that manifest itself?”

“I have been trying to organize the police in London and Manchester,” replied Jameson. “I have been trying to foment strikes where I can. I believe in the people, not the capitalists.”

“Good for you,” said Mulcahy, and Collins almost smiled.

“Alright,” said Collins, “see what you can dig up for us.”

“I will,” said Jameson, with enthusiasm. “But how will I get in touch with you?”

“We’ll get in touch with you,” Mulcahy replied. “Where are you staying?”

“The Gresham Hotel.”

“Fine.”

“But I may have to travel back to Britain to pull this off,” Jameson protested. “How will I get in touch with the General when I return to Dublin?”

“Don’t worry,” Mulcahy reassured him, “we’ll come to you.”

“You got the city covered,” laughed Jameson, “don’t you?”

“Like a tight sheet,” Mulcahy replied, with a small smile.

Jameson stood up from the table and shook the hands of Collins and Mulcahy. He turned and walked through the shop, nodding at the young clerk, and exited into Camden Street. Eoin immediately went into the back room. “How did it go?” he asked.

Collins shrugged. “What do you think, Eoin?” asked Mulcahy.

“Mister Whiskey stinks.”

Collins laughed and nodded. “When you get back to Crow Street, tell Tobin to start tagging him. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Pretty bad?” asked Mulcahy.

“I don’t believe in philanthropic revolutionaries sent on angel wings from England who only want to help poor, ould Ireland,” replied Collins. “Do you?”

80

E
very G-man was called to Dublin Castle to meet their new boss, Deputy Commissioner of Police Derek Gough-Coxe. Boynton bumped into Broy, who had walked over from Brunswick Street, as they headed towards a small auditorium. “I see you’re here for the coronation,” teased Boynton, which elicited a quiet smile from Broy. For security reasons, they seated themselves on opposite sides of the room. They did not want to be known to their fellow officers as friends.

Boynton observed that there were now around thirty-five G-men on active duty. That number had been going down over the last few months, with the help of Collins’s threatening letters and selected harassments and killings. There was a small hum in the room, which went silent as Gough-Coxe approached the podium.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he began. “My name is Derek Gough-Coxe, and I have been sent to Dublin by the Prime Minister to reorganize the G-division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.” There were a few claps, but a full round of applause did not materialize. “We are at a crossroads in Ireland, and here in Dublin in particular. He who controls Dublin, controls Ireland.” He paused for effect. “From here on out, the G-division will control Dublin, not a bunch of ragtag Fenian murderers. And murder is where we’ll start. We are going to find the murderer of Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood, who was killed in cold blood in Aungier Street last month.”

Boynton gave a small grunt as he shifted in his chair and re-crossed his legs. Gough-Coxe’s use of “in cold blood” was beginning to make him boil.

“Who murdered Detective Blood?” Gough-Coxe asked rhetorically. “We don’t know who pulled the trigger, but we do know who ordered the assassination. One Michael Collins, Minister for Finance for the so-called
Dáil Eireann
. We will apprehend both Collins and his gunmen. I have read Collins’s file, and it is a beauty. There was only one piece of valuable information missing—his photograph. Apparently, the combined Secret Services of the British Empire have been unable to come up with a single photograph of the most wanted man in Ireland.”

Broy, the man responsible for the missing photograph, fixed his eyes on the floor before him. Gough-Coxe moved from behind the podium and began walking up and down. “I spoke with Detective Blood when I was last here in Dublin. At that time, he told me he was working on a connection between Collins and the man who owned the barber-shop where he was killed. That man’s name was Joseph Kavanagh, who expired himself just before Christmas. How will we find out about Joseph Kavanagh? Detective Blood believed that his son—named Eoin—worked for Collins. He saw both of them in a film soliciting funds for their National Loan. Unfortunately, copies of this movie have disappeared.” Gough-Coxe laughed. “Believe you me, gentlemen, the National Loan is item number two on my to-do list, but we must decipher Detective Blood’s Kavanagh riddle first. How will we do this?” The response was silence. “Gentlemen, let’s go backwards. Who was Joseph Kavanagh?” Boynton’s arm shot into the air. “Yes, detective, please identify yourself, if you would.”

“My name is Detective Constable Brendan Boynton, and I was Sebastian’s partner. Our desks were side-by-side.”

“What do you know about this character, Kavanagh?”

“We know very little,” replied Boynton.

“And why is that?”

“Because Sebastian didn’t share his information. He thought he was on to something big and, perhaps, wanted to keep the information to himself for security reasons.”

“Gentlemen,” said Gough-Coxe, “this nonsense will stop.
All
information will be indexed and shared from this moment on. If I lose an agent, I don’t want to lose his information. We shall pursue Collins from where Detective Blood left off. As I said before, by going backwards.” Gough-Coxe went back behind the podium. “We’ll start at that barbershop in Aungier Street. And Detective Boynton, being Detective Blood’s professional next-of-kin, will pick up the investigation where it ended—with Blood’s death. You will report directly to me, and I expect results.” And with that, the new Deputy Commissioner of Police left the stage without speaking another word.

On his way back to his desk, Boynton bumped into Broy again. “You’re in for it now,” laughed Broy, “but Mick will love you to death for it.” Boynton nodded, suddenly wondering how being loved to death by Michael Collins would feel, which forced a smile. Either way, he knew he was fucked.

81

J
ameson had Crow Street flummoxed. He was nowhere to be found in their carefully indexed cards. Boynton and Broy could find out nothing about him, either. They finally got Artie O’Brien over in London on the telephone, but he knew nothing more about Jameson other than “he wanted to help.”

“There’s not a trace of this fellow,” Eoin told Liam Tobin.

“Maybe he’s been out trolling in the Empire,” replied Tobin.

“Maybe he’s legitimate.”

“You think?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Eoin. “Maybe we’ll know more when the tag-team reports back.”

“We’d better, or we’re putting Mick and the rest of us in jeopardy.”

Suddenly, the door opened, and Vinny Byrne burst in. “Grab your guns, lads. Mick sent me for you.”

“Vin,” said Tobin, “what’s up?”

“One of Mick’s touts told him that Johnny French is at Trinity College, and he will be leaving via Suffolk Street shortly. Mick has sent an SOS out for all available Squad men in the area.”

“Where’s Mick?” asked Tobin.

“I just left him at the Wicklow Hotel. He said he’ll meet us in front of Hogan’s public house in Suffolk Street. Come on!”

Eoin grabbed Detective Blood’s Webley out of his desk drawer and shoved it in his jacket pocket. He followed Tobin and Vinny out the door. They crossed Dame Street and ran up the alley that led to the Stag’s Head. They then ran along Dame Lane, parallel to Dame Street, which was usually deserted, to give them cover. At Trinity Lane, they shot up towards St. Andrew’s Church of Ireland and crossed the road to where Collins, Daly, Dan Breen, and Joe Leonard were waiting for them. They stepped down into narrow Church Lane, and Collins briefed them quickly.

“One of my informers has sent word that French is at a conference at Trinity College, and he’ll be making his way back to the Castle through here momentarily. Let’s spread out. He may try to go down Dame Lane and right into the Castle side gate. He’d want to avoid Dame Street because of the traffic.” Collins checked his pocket watch. It was half-eleven. “This time,” he admonished “let’s get the shite.”

This was unfinished business for Collins. Twelve attempts had been made on French in the last three months of 1919 alone. The last time the Squad had a shot at French, it turned out to be a disaster. In December 1919, Collins pulled together eleven Volunteers and Squad members—including Daly, Leonard, Byrne, McDonnell, and the Tipperary contingent of Breen, Treacy, and Seamus Robinson—and sent them to ambush French as he returned to Dublin by train from Roscommon. French was supposed to get off the train at Ashtown and proceed by automobile to the Viceregal Lodge in the Phoenix Park. The Squad knew it would be a two-car convoy, and they also knew that French always traveled in the second car. A roadblock was put into position. They let the first car through and planned to ambush the second. Unfortunately, French was in car number one, which they had allowed to proceed. A gun battle ensued with the second car, and Volunteer Martin Savage was killed. Breen was severely wounded, and two DMPs were also hurt in the skirmish. It appeared that French had a sixth sense, because that was the first time he changed routine and rode in the first car. He was not only good—he was lucky.

The men spread out to various points around St. Andrew’s Church with four of them—the still-limping Breen, Collins, Byrne, and Eoin—planted down at the end of Trinity Lane, where Dame Lane starts. They waited for Paddy Daly’s sheer whistle, but none came. Collins pulled his pocket watch out and saw it was a quarter to twelve. “I think the hoor got lucky again,” said Breen.

“We’ll wait,” said Collins, his eyes revealing that he knew he had been stood up.

Eoin walked up to the Church and looked for Leonard, Daly, and Tobin. They were loitering in front of the pub, and Daly shook his head “no.” Eoin went back to Collins and Breen with the bad news. “We’re fooked, I think.”

“We are indeed,” said Collins, letting out a breath. He took out his pocket watch and saw it was just noon. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Something’s not right.” Eoin signaled the other men, and the Squad disappeared into the narrow streets of Dublin.

Eoin and Tobin walked together up Dame Street on their way back to the ADOI office. Suddenly, three British tenders came roaring down Dame Street from the Castle, heading in the direction of Trinity College. They stopped short in College Green and cut into Trinity Lane. “Mick was right,” said Eoin, as he observed the British soldiers scrambling about where the Squad had been just moments before.

“Coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” replied Eoin.

“Neither do I,” said Tobin.

John Jameson had spent a busy day running around Dublin town. He left the Gresham Hotel and went shopping in Grafton Street before lunching at the Shelbourne Hotel. In his wake went young Charlie Dalton, who did a lot of the legwork for the Squad. When he was relieved at six o’clock, he scampered over to Crow Street to report.

“Nothing special to him,” said Dalton. “He acted more like a tourist than a commie agitator.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants us to think,” said Tobin.

“When is he leaving Dublin?” asked Eoin.

“I heard him tell the clerk at the Gresham that he would be checking out tomorrow evening and taking the boat from the North Wall to England.”

“Who did he have lunch with?” asked Tobin.

“A woman,” said Dalton. “A real lady, if you know what I mean.”

“Maybe he fancies himself a Romeo,” Eoin sneered.

Tobin smiled. “You have a very suspicious mind for a young man, Eoin.” Eoin grunted, and Dalton laughed. “Charlie, keep an eye on him all day tomorrow, up until he steps on that boat. Whatever you do, don’t lose him, or you’ll drive Collins mad.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dalton, who—unlike Eoin—was still awed by the great Collins.

Eoin threw papers in his attaché case and headed out the door for his daily intelligence briefing with Collins. He walked up to Stephen’s Green and headed in the Baggot Street direction before turning into Ely Place, just east of the Green. At number fifteen, he stopped and knocked on the door. A maid in a black uniform and white apron answered the door. “Is Dr. Gogarty in?”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Eoin Kavanagh.”

“Mr. Kavanagh,” said the maid, “we’ve been expecting you.”

Eoin was shown into a parlor, where Collins and Gogarty were enjoying a drink. Both men rose as Eoin entered the room, and Collins introduced Eoin to the good doctor. “Mick tells me you’re quite the man,” said Gogarty.

Eoin didn’t know if his leg was being pulled or not. “Thank you, Doctor,” he finally said.

“Oliver will suffice.”

“Thanks, Oliver.”

“I’ll leave you men alone so you can do your business,” Gogarty said, as he left the room.

Eoin placed his attaché case on the table, and Collins queried, “What’s the news?”

“Today,” said Eoin, “the news is all about Jameson—or should I say the news is all about the lack of news on Mr. Whiskey.”

“Did you tag him?”

“Charlie Dalton had him under his eye all day. Says he acted like a tourist. Had luncheon with a fine lady at the Shelbourne and then went back to the Gresham.”

“Shite,” said Collins.

“We do have one bit of information,” said Eoin. “He’ll be leaving us tomorrow night at the North Wall.”

“Maybe he’s going to get our guns in England,” said Collins, hopefully.

“Maybe he’s planning your demise,” returned Eoin.

“Maybe we should tag him to England.”

“I have a better idea,” Eoin said, pausing.

“Well,” Collins said impatiently, “maybe you’d like to share it with me?”

“He seems to like the ladies, I think.”

“So?”

“Why don’t we tag him with an attractive female?”

“Like who?”

“How about Dilly?”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Not for Dilly, it isn’t,” Eoin countered. “She’s stolen the mail on the Irish Sea many times. She knows her way around. Maybe she can chat him up on his way to Liverpool. Have a couple of drinks with him.”

“Smile sweetly,” said Collins. “Offer a little female companionship for the long crossing.”

“Exactly.”

Collins laughed. “You have a very wicked young mind, Eoin Kavanagh—but it’s a fookin’ brilliant idea.” And with that, he said goodbye to Gogarty, hopped on his clanker, and headed up to Mountjoy Street to do a little sweet-talking of his own to his pal Dilly Dicker.