The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (43 page)

 114

C
ollins sat alone on the bench inside Merrion Square Park. The weather for late autumn had been extremely moderate, and he looked snappy in his three-piece suit with his trilby cocked over his eyes. As he saw Eoin and Rosie approach, he stood up and put on that dazzling, gap-toothed Collins smile that the ladies found so irresistible.

“Rosie,” said Eoin, by way of introduction, “this is Mick Collins.”

Collins bent down to the young woman and shook her hand. “Are you
the
Mick Collins?” she asked, a little breathlessly.

“He’s the one with TD after his name,” said Eoin, annoyed.

“You,” Collins said to Eoin, “shut up! Now, Rosie, I hear you want to help Ireland.”

“Oh,” said Rosie, sitting down on the park bench. “I’m so conflicted.”

“Well,” said Collins, “that’s good, because it means you are a sensible and thinking woman. I want to thank you for the information you’ve supplied to us already. I hear that Mr. Gough-Coxe has a very busy rubbish basket.”

“Oh, Mr. Collins . . .”

“Call me Mick.”

“Oh, Mick, he does an awful lot of writing. I wanted to bring you some, but I felt guilty.”

“Now, Rosie,” said Collins, “you know we’re at war with the British. This is a very important moment in Irish history, and you can become a part of that history if you help us.” Collins took Rosie’s hand and placed it in the palm of his right and then closed the left on top of it. He looked her intently in the eye. “Will you help us, Rosie? Will you help poor ould Ireland?”

Eoin was thinking that Mick could shovel the shite without the aid of a shovel, when Rosie opened her purse and pulled out a wad of papers. “Here, Mr. Collins. Take these. I’ve been saving them for a while. I don’t know why. Something just told me to.”

Collins looked through the papers quickly, then glanced at Eoin with a look that told him there was something special here. “God love ya, Rosie. Thank you.” He stood up, and so did Rosie. “Now, don’t mention this meeting to anyone. Just go about your business as you always do. You’ve been an immense help.”

“God protect you, Mr. Collins,” Rosie said and gave him a small curtsy, as if he were some kind of royalty. She turned and headed back in the direction of Mount Street. “We may have hit the motherload,” Collins said to Eoin. “Let’s go to Mespil Road and sort this out.”

They headed towards the Grand Canal and were in the Mespil office within ten minutes. Collins threw his hat off and started to go through the papers. Eoin looked over his shoulder and said, “Jaysus, Mick, look at all these fookin’ names and addresses.”

“Go,” said Collins, pointing to the typewriter on the other side of the room. “I’ll dictate, you type.” Eoin put a sheet of paper in the typewriter. “No,” said Collins. “We’ll need carbons. Five, plus the original. For Tobin, McKee, Mulcahy, Daly, and McDonnell. You are to deliver this memo personally.”

“How about Brugha?” said Eoin, mentioning the Minister for Defense.

“Fook Brugha,” replied Collins. “If we let Cathal know about this, he’ll be telegraphing Dev in America to know if we should be doing anything about it. Dev will think about it for a month or so, and nothing will get done.”

“Got it,” said Eoin.

Collins got up from his chair and began to recite:

“One: Number 28 Upper Pembroke Street. Major Dowling, Grenadier Guards; Leonard Price, M.C., Middlesex Regiment. These two are the main targets. There’s also a Colonel Woodcock, a Colonel Montgomery, and a Captain Keenlyside residing in the house. Take them out if they get in the way.

“Two: Number 117 Morehampton Road. Lieutenant D.L. McClean of the General List, late of the Rifle Brigade. It says he’s now the Chief Intelligence Officer. He’s gotta go.

“Three: Number 92 Lower Baggot Street. Subject: Captain W.F. Newbury of the Royal West Surrey Regiment.

“Four: Number 38 Upper Mount Street, the Sheik’s house. Alright, in addition to the Sheik, we have Lieutenant Peter Ashmunt Ames of the Army General List, which could mean anything.”

“Shite,” said Eoin.

“What?”

“We know him. He’s Cairo Gang.”

“Make a note. He will not live. You and Vinny are going to have your hands full.

“Five: Number 28 Earlsfort Terrace. Subject: Captain Fitzgerald. Take him out.

“Six: Number 22 Lower Mount Street. Subjects: Lieutenant Angliss and Lieutenant Peel.”

“We know Angliss,” said Eoin. “His real name is McMahon. He was just recalled from Russia to organize intelligence in the South Dublin area.”

“Well,” replied Collins, “he’s going to die in South Dublin.”

“Seven: Number 119 Lower Baggot Street. Subject: Captain G.T. Baggelly, barrister and Courts-Martial Officer. Oh,” said Collins suddenly. “This fook prides himself in prosecuting IRA men. Well, he’s guilty. Sentence is death.”

“He’s the one,” added Eoin, “who shot John Lynch at the Exchequer Hotel in Parliament Street.”

“Fook him,” said Collins. “He was after me Loan money.”

“We better tag these guys as soon as possible,” said Eoin.

“Also,” added Collins, “case the houses. Get craftsmen—you know, plumbers, porters, carpenters, telephone repairmen, whatever—to get inside these addresses starting today, if possible, so we know as much as can about the lay of the land. We don’t want to be going in blind if we can possibly avoid it.”

“Noted,” said Eoin.

“Alright,” said Collins. “Get back to Crow Street and get Tobin up to speed on this information, and then deliver the memos to the rest of the group.” Collins put his hat back on. “We’ll see who has murder by the throat. By God, we will.”

 115

W
EDNESDAY
, N
OVEMBER
17, 1920

C
ollins’s memo to McKee: “Have established addresses of the particular ones. Arrangements should now be made about the matter. Lt. G is aware of things. He suggests the twenty-first. a most suitable date and day, I think. M.”

 116

S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
20, 1920

D
ick McKee was restless, and Shankers Ryan was on the prowl.

Collins had called a meeting at Vaughan’s Hotel to go over the final details for Sunday. Eoin thought they were insane to even venture near Vaughan’s. Tobin had been detained there by the British the previous week and was lucky to get away after being questioned. Vaughan’s was poison, but it didn’t stop Collins from going there.

When McKee arrived, he stopped by the front desk to say hello to Christy Harte. Christy was engaged in conversation with a young man but looked up when he saw McKee. “Are you expecting Piaras Beaslaí tonight, Fergus?” he asked, using McKee’s nickname in front of the stranger.

“I don’t know,” replied McKee. “I’m here for the meeting with the Big Fellow. Why are you asking?”

“This lad is looking for him.”

“I’m Conor Clune,” the young man replied. “I’m up from Clare to meet Piaras about some Gaelic League business.”

“Sorry, son,” said McKee. “I don’t know if Piaras will be here tonight.” He turned to Harte. “Where are the boys?”

“Upstairs.”

There he found Collins, Tobin and Peadar Clancy of the Republican Outfitters, along with Frank Thornton from Crow Street.

“Are we ready to go?” asked Collins.

“All have been vetted by Frank,” said Tobin.

“They are all accredited British Secret Service,” said Thornton. “We’ve covered each of them from the day they were born.”

“Good enough,” said Collins. “I’m particularly interested in the Sheik and Ames in Upper Mount Street. These bums are on the top of the list. Eoin and Vinny will do the job.”

“I hope they’re up to it,” put in Thornton.

“They’re a good team,” cut in Collins. “They’ll do the job.”

““They’d better,” replied Thornton.

Collins gave him a glare, which immediately cut off any further negativity. “I’m also hot for Baggelly in Baggott Street. He’s the hoor who was after that £23,000 in National Loan money that Lynch delivered to me just before they murdered him in Parliament Street.”

“We have information that this was definitely Baggelly’s job,” said Tobin.

“Good work,” replied Collins. “Who gets this one?”

“Jack Lemass and Charlie Dalton.”

“They don’t miss,” said Collins.

Christy Harte stuck his head in the doorway. “Tans on the street. I think, sirs, ye ought to be going.”

“Come on, boys,” said Collins, “quick!”

The five men rushed out of the room and headed for the skylight on the fourth floor. A ladder was already in place, and they went up, led by Collins. The last man, Clancy, pulled the ladder after him, rendering the group safe. They traversed the roofs along Parnell Square and dropped down into number thirty-nine. Collins wanted to have a final word with the Crow Street men, Thornton and Tobin. McKee and Clancy hit the street and sought beds for the night.

Outside, people were queuing up for trams, because it was getting close to curfew. Standing in line was John “Shankers” Ryan, Dublin Castle tout. As the Tans and G-men were rushing into Vaughan’s, Ryan was watching the rest of the block, assuming that the boyos would get away again. He was not to be disappointed. When he saw McKee and Clancy coming out of number thirty-nine, he started imagining how he’d spend the reward money.

McKee and Clancy headed towards Parnell Street and started walking east. They turned into Sackville Street for a block before turning left into Gloucester Street. They were close to home for the night.

Shankers Ryan shadowed discreetly behind them. The two Fenians may have been close to home, but this was home to Shankers. To most, it was the forbidden Nighttown, Monto, or the Kips—Dublin’s Red Light District. Here, whores serviced the high and mighty—the Prince of Wales, and later King Edward VII—and the lowly, like a young student/writer named James Joyce and his friend, Oliver St. John Gogarty, now one of Collins’s agents over in plush Ely Place.

As they walked further into Nighttown, Ryan felt no danger. He knew every street and dead-end alley in these parts. He knew every whore in the Kips, and why shouldn’t he? Wasn’t his sister, Becky Cooper, one of the great Madams of Nighttown? Becky and her talking parrot were known to one and all in Monto. And business had been very good of late, with the British army pouring more and more men into Dublin. “God bless the rebels,” Madam Becky was often heard to say. “They know the importance of commerce in the streets of dear ould durty Dublin.” There was a touch of the bard in the dirty bawd.

Yes, Shankers Ryan was in his comfort zone. He watched as McKee and Clancy went into 36 Lower Gloucester Street, home of another rebel, Seán Fitzpatrick. The door slammed, and Shankers walked another block to Becky’s whorehouse in Railway Street, where he used her telephone to call Dublin Castle. It was now early Sunday morning, November 21, 1920.

 117

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
S
UNDAY
, N
OVEMBER
21, 1920

S
aturday night, we decided to stay at the Dump
.

We went next door to the Oval Pub, had a nightcap, and then hit the hay. In the morning, Vinny Byrne and I went to eight o’clock mass at St. Andrew’s on Westland Row. As we went into the church, we saw Jack Lemass, and the three of us sat in a pew together. We were subdued, thinking about the terrible work we had to do this morning.

“
Introibo ad altáre Dei
,” the priest began the mass, and the three of us, by instinct, replied, “
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventútem meam
.”

But I am really paying no attention. The mass is rote to me this morning. My mind is on the business of the day, which will start in just an hour. St. Andrew’s is a wonderful old Church. It was built right next to Westland Row railroad station, and I think about meeting Mick on the street that Christmastime while I was working at Sweny’s Chemists down the way. Sometimes it is hard to hear the priest, as the rumble of a train drowns out his chants. We are sitting near the mortuary chapel, where Willie Pearse’s sculpture, Mater Dororosa, Christ’s sorrowful mother, rests. It reminds me of the Pearse brothers, who lived just a few paces from here on Great Brunswick Street. They were baptized in this church and probably made their First Communion here, too. I can still see them that Saturday morning of Easter Week, when they came into our dwelling in Moore Street and then went out to surrender. It didn’t take the British even a week to murder both of them.

And this morning, I can’t get me Da out of me mind. I can see him in my mind’s eye, as if he were here before me. I can see him as the British returned him to the barbershop in Aungier Street, beaten and broken from a day riding around the city in one of their tenders, the perfect solution to their ambush problems. I remember that he was beaten and tortured for seven straight days, and, on the seventh day, he died, sitting in his big chair, trying to get some warmth from a few pieces of coal.

I can see me Mammy and my brother Charlie, too, killed by this whore of a country, stolen from its own people by a mercenary race, the most selfish race in the world. They are all before me this morning, as if I am at the Fenian Resurrection Day—the Pearses, MacDonagh, MacBride, Plunkett, Connolly, Clarke, and dear MacDiarmada. The list seems endless, but, today, there will be a sense of revenge, a sense of renewal—for, this morning, we will even the playing field in a way the British never imagined.

“
Credo in unum Deum
,” the priest began, “
Patrem omnipotentem, factórem coeli et terrae, visibílium ómnium et invisílium . . .
”

“I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.” I couldn’t help but smile, because this very morning our little rebel army, until this day invisible to the British, will rise up and show them the brutality they have unthinkingly reigned on the Irish nation for seven hundred years.

“
Lavado inter innocentes manus meas: et circúmdabo altáre tuum, Dómaine
.”

“I wash my hands in innocence, and I go around Your altar, O Lord.” My hands have not been innocent since the elimination of Detective Blood, but if I must surrender my soul, I will give it for my country and the memory of those who loved and nurtured me, in the hope that this terrible day will give birth to a new generation of free Irishmen.

“
Agnus Dei, qui tolis peccáta mundi, miserére nobis
.”

“Lamb of God, You Who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.” I patted the Webley in my coat pocket. I think maybe it hit us all at the same time, the terrible things we must do. I check my pocketwatch and see that it is going on twenty to nine, and we must get moving—Vinny and I to Upper Mount Street, and Lemass to Lower Baggot Street, only a block apart. “Nine o’clock sharp,” Collins had commanded. “These hoors have got to learn that Irishmen can turn up on time.” We get up, step out into the aisle, and genuflect to our God, who is sitting just a few yards in front of us.

As we head for the door, we hear: “
Sancte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proelio; contra nequítiam et insídias diabolic esto praesídium
.”

“Holy Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”

The three of us looked at each other and shivered. Collins’s Apostles, on our way to meet the divil himself.