The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (48 page)

1921

 126

“
H
e’s either a liar or a fantasist.”

“He’s neither,” replied Johnny to his wife. “He’s telling the truth.”

“He can’t be,” said Diane, “because that truth would be too gruesome.”

“It’s true,” said Johnny. “It’s all true.” Diane Kavanagh was having trouble believing her beloved grandfather-in-law was the dedicated revolutionary of his diaries. “There was no shadow to this gunman,” added her husband.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Diane. “What happens now?”

“It’s the beginning of the modern Irish nation—an inchoate Irish nation, but nevertheless, an Irish nation. Unfortunately, it’s also the beginning of the end for Michael Collins, I’m afraid.”

“I hate to so readily admit this,” said Diane, “but I do love Michael. He’s so . . .” she paused, looking for the right word, “ . . . romantic! I could see Errol Flynn playing him in a movie.”

Johnny roared with laughter. “Errol Flynn! No way! I love Flynn, too, but he’s too light to play Collins. All I can see in my mind’s eye is Collins in green tights!”

“You know nothing about romance,” protested Diane. “You’re just a typical Irish donkey!”

“Don’t be redundant,” said Johnny. “But you’re not unique—all women think Michael Collins was romantic. Remember what Mae West once said? ‘Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’”

“In Michael Collins’s case,” said Diane impishly, “I think he had
both
things in his pocket!”

“Right you are. I think sometimes that he was the first Irish sex symbol of the twentieth century. Pierce Brosnan has nothing on the Irish James Bond. Neither does Liam Neeson. Michael Collins was the real thing.”

“Especially when you compare him to de Valera,” said Diane, “who was a sexual ascetic.”

“‘A sexual ascetic,’” laughed Johnny. “That’s an interesting way of saying ould Dev didn’t have any sex appeal.”

“I know he had a lot of children, but God, he was so dreary-looking, almost asexual.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “I can just see Christmas dinner at the de Valeras now—’pass the potatoes to
it
.’”

“Eamon de Valera is so sexless,” said Diane, “he makes Barry Fitzgerald look like Sean Connery!”

“Enough already!” said Johnny. “You’re beginning to make me feel sorry for old Dev.”

“Alright,” conceded Diane, “but Michael and Grandpa did have an interesting relationship.”

“Interesting is not the right word,” said Johnny. “I would say their relationship was ‘intense.’”

“Where are we now?” asked Diane. “What will be the repercussions from 1920?”

“It’s a difficult time for Collins, which made it a difficult time for Grandpa. The shooting of the Secret Service had the desired effect. It’s the most unique moment in the history of the Irish nation—and the way it’s treated is very interesting.”

“How so?”

“Well,” said Johnny, “there’s a sense of shame to it.”

“Shame?”

“Maybe because Ireland was such a Catholic country. And it’s still a Catholic country, although it seems no one goes to church anymore. This is something people have trouble discussing, even today. I think Bloody Sunday was viewed as murder—no matter how you dress it up—to most Irishmen. But Michael Collins was not Terence MacSwiney, who said, ‘It is not those who inflict the most, but those that suffer the most, who will conquer.’”

“Those are the words of a victim,” said Diane.

“Exactly,” replied her husband. “And Mr. Collins was no victim. But his acts on Bloody Sunday had all kinds of ramifications that exist even to the present day in Irish history. You know Seán Lemass was involved in the shootings?”

“Of course, on Baggot Street.”

“Right,” said Johnny. “But he was once asked about what he did that day, and do you know what his response was? He said, ‘Firing squads don’t have reunions.’”

“What a great line!”

“I think Jack Lemass was protecting himself in two ways. One, he didn’t think the
Taoiseach
of Ireland should be bragging about a shooting done more than forty years ago. And, two, being a de Valera man, it was good politics not to be associated with Dev’s bête noire, Michael Collins.”

“It’s so strange,” mused Diane, “that Lemass would shun the memory of Michael Collins.”

“I don’t think that’s the case at all,” Johnny disagreed. “As far as I can tell, Lemass and Collins did not have a close relationship. They were in the GPO in 1916, and Lemass was an assassin on Bloody Sunday. That’s it. Lemass was basically drafted to do this shooting. The scope of Bloody Sunday was just too big for the Squad to handle. That’s why Collins and McKee brought in men from the Dublin Brigade. So Lemass didn’t really have an option in this. As a soldier, he had to follow orders. But, on the other hand, Lemass’s loyalty was to de Valera, not the dead Collins. Dev treated Collins poorly, but he also treated Lemass shabbily. Because of Dev’s ego, Lemass became
Taoiseach
probably ten years later than he should have. I think Seán Lemass is one of the top three Irishmen of the twentieth century.”

“The stain of de Valera is everywhere!”

“Now that’s a great way to put it,” said Johnny, laughing. “What did Jack Nicholson say in
The Shining
? As he broke down the door? ‘I’m hooome!’”

“Who’s home?”

“De Valera’s home. Just before Christmas 1920.”

“Oh,” said Diane, “poor Michael!”

“Poor Michael, indeed.”

“How’s it going to be?”

“It’s going to be hell for Michael Collins—and for Grandpa, too.”

 127

W
ith the arrest of Arthur Griffith in the aftermath of Bloody Sunday, Michael Collins became the Acting President of
Dáil Éireann
. Making a prophet out of Eoin, Eamon de Valera returned to Dublin two days before Christmas Day, 1920. Tom Cullen and Batt O’Connor met him at the boat. He was all business. “How are things going?” he asked.

“Great!” replied Cullen. “The Big Fellow is leading us, and everything is going marvelous.”

“Big Fellow,” spat de Valera. “We’ll see who’s the Big Fellow now!”

O’Connor duly reported the incident to Collins. “Jaysus, Batt, we’re in for it now,” replied Collins, seemingly placing the British on the back burner as he prepared to deal with the robust prodigal President, who had evolved from the humble
Príomh-Aire
of 1919.

Not too long after Bloody Sunday, rumors of peace feelers from 10 Downing Street began to circulate. They were only rumors, but Collins knew it wouldn’t be long before the British came to their senses and started negotiating seriously. They were now in a war of attrition, and Collins was concerned because he knew his little army could not go on indefinitely. For the time being, he planned to keep up the pressure and hope for the best. He doubted the IRA could last out the year.

Although they met face-to-face many times on official government business, de Valera was not one to be confrontational with Collins. He liked his message to get through from others, and the fog of obfuscation was always his friend. His reading of Machiavelli hadn’t gone to waste.

“Ye are going too fast,” de Valera told a shocked Mulcahy. “This odd shooting of a policeman here and there is having a very bad effect, from the propaganda point of view, on us in America. What we want is one good battle about once a month, with about five hundred men on each side.”

Mulcahy told Collins the story in front of Eoin at the Bachelors Walk office. Collins’s face began to redden, and Eoin caught himself biting his lip. “That fookin’ dilettante of a revolutionary!” shouted Collins. “Sitting on his royal arse for two years in the Waldorf-Fookin’-Astoria in New York City, while we risk our lives daily on the streets of Dublin. He has no concept of what has been happening here. Is he insane? Battle the British on equal ground?” Collins lowered his voice. “I guess he wants to wash his hands of my methods. Good ould Pontius Pilate de Valera!”

Eoin took the bite off his lip and solemnly said, “
Lavabo inter innocéntes manus meas
.” It was from the
lavabo
of the mass, when the priest cleanses his hands, saying “I wash my hands in innocence!”

Both Collin and Mulcahy burst out in laughter. “
innocence!”
my arse!” roared Collins. “Not our august President!”

“So, Mick,” said Mulcahy, “I hear you might be making a trip to America soon.” Mulcahy had a sly look on his long equine face. He was not known for his blazing wit, but he was testing how far he could stick the needle in Collins before the Big Fellow exploded.

“That Long Hoor won’t get rid of me as easy as that!” said Collins defiantly. “Over Kitty Kiernan’s knickers!” Eoin opened his eyes wide in shock. It was the first time he had heard Collins mention Miss Kiernan’s knickers. Quickly, he realized that, with de Valera back in the country, Harry Boland wouldn’t be far behind. This was no time to abandon the prize.

“So it’s true?” returned Mulcahy.

“Yes, Dev broached the subject.”

“Aren’t you going to go?”

“I’ve come this far,” said Collins, “and I plan to finish the job. I’m staying in Ireland.”

With that, both Mulcahy and Collins got up and left Eoin alone in the office. Eoin walked to the window. It was getting dark now, and he watched the lights of the city reflect off the Liffey. “Pontius Pilate de Valera,” Collins had called the President.
Only one thing is certain
, thought Eoin.
Someone is eventually going to be crucified
—and he knew it wasn’t going to be President de Valera.

 128

D
ublin was still in the terror grip of the aftermath of Bloody Sunday when Collins gave the order to Tobin and Eoin: “Find out who informed on McKee and Clancy. Report back to me.” Eoin immediately volunteered to handle the investigation personally, because of his great affection for Dick McKee, his commandant and friend. There were lots of rumors about who the snitch was, and all roads led to the sordid streets of Nighttown and its whorey inhabitants.

Dubliners are separated into two categories: Northsiders and Southsiders. And never the twain shall meet. Eoin was a proud Southsider, born on Camden Row, at the meeting of Wexford and Camden Streets. His parents both hailed from the neighborhood—his father from Lower Stephen’s Street and his mother from Temple Lane, devoted parishioners of Saints Michael and John’s on Wood Quay. He had to go back to his grandfather, Richard Conway, to find any Northside roots. For a few years, the family had moved away from the Dame Street area and lived on Upper Dorset Street, just north of Parnell Square. In fact, his mother had been born on Dorset Street in 1875.

Family legend had it that his maternal great-grandmother, Marianne Conway, lived and died on old Montgomery Street, which had given Nighttown, Dublin’s Red Light district, one of its alternate nicknames, “Monto.” Montgomery Street had been rechristened Foley Street, in the hope that a name-change would cleanse away its mortal sins of carnal delight. He couldn’t help but wonder what his great-granny had been doing in the middle of Nighttown. Sometimes, he thought, it was better to let family secrets lie dormant, for tormenting them to life could lead to disturbing discoveries.

In reality, the line to McKee and Clancy’s Castle tout was rather simple. It led from Vaughan’s Hotel to Gloucester Street and ended back at Dublin Castle. Eoin met with Brendan Boynton and told him that the boss wanted the tout’s name, pronto. The G-man reported back that the main snitch-man in Monto was Corporal John Ryan, known to one and all as “Shankers.” From there, information about Ryan became blurred. He was a “corporal,” but a corporal in whose employ? Did he serve the Dublin Metropolitan Police or the British Army, or was he just an eager freelancing spotter? No one really knew, and Shankers liked it that way. An interesting note on Ryan’s resume was that his solid connection to Monto was through his sister, Becky Cooper, one of the legendary Madams, whose ladies had serviced the high-and-mighty and the low-and-downtrodden with equal enthusiasm these many years. Shankers had the stink of the neighborhood on him, and he was Eoin’s prime suspect.

“I t’ink Ryan is your man,” Eoin told Liam Tobin.

There was something in Eoin’s voice that disturbed Tobin. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?” Eoin mused for a minute before admitting that something about Ryan’s CV troubled him. “It is odd,” admitted Tobin, when Eoin laid out Ryan’s background.

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was deep undercover for the Dublin Metropolitan Police. A hidden G-man. So deep that even Boynton didn’t know about him.” Eoin finished.

“That’s your job to find out,” replied Tobin, with a smile.

“That’s the other problem. How do you infiltrate Nighttown to get the goods on this guy?”

“Maybe you should go ‘undercover?’” replied Tobin.

Liam was not known for his dazzling rapier wit, so Eoin continued on as if he hadn’t heard him. “This is a closed neighborhood. Everyone knows everyone else, and there’s only two reasons for being there—you either live there, or you’re there on business.”

“And what ‘business’ would that be?” asked Tobin, cheekily.

“The devil’s business!” replied Eoin, with surety.

Tobin shook his head. “No, Eoin,
we’re
in the devil’s business. So is Ryan.”

“It’s just the neighborhood,” said Eoin. “I don’t know it, and I don’t like it.”

“We have lots of friends there,” replied Tobin. “Some of the whores have been very good to us.” Eoin shot Tobin a look. “What does it matter where a Webley comes from?” asked Tobin. “Out of the hand of a dead Tan, or out of the pocket of a drunken British Tommy getting his willie wonked?”

“You’re right,” Eoin finally admitted.

“You should talk to Deputy Shanahan,” Tobin said. “He knows where all the bodies are buried in the Kips.”

Eoin hit the pavement and was on Foley Street within fifteen minutes. Before entering Shanahan’s Pub, he looked around. This had been his grandfather’s neighborhood—and his great-granny’s, too. Both had died before he was born, but he felt a close kinship to them because they had given life to his dear Mammy. No ghosts appeared for support, so Eoin decided to shun the January frost and find Phil Shanahan.

He hadn’t been in the pub since his birthday the previous October, when he’d met up with Dan Breen and the friendly DMP. He asked for Shanahan, and the barman curtly asked, “And who might be asking?”

“A friend of Tipperary Dan.”

The barman disappeared and returned a few moments later with Phil Shanahan, TD for Tipperary. “Eoin, lad,” said Shanahan, “how are you?”

“Fine, Deputy Shanahan.”

“Call me ‘Phil.’ “

“Fine, Phil. How’s our bould Daniel?”

Shanahan put his left index finger to his lip and said, “Shush!” He looked around at the mostly empty bar. “He’s recovering well—and well hidden! He thinks the world of the group that Dick McKee put together to save his life.”

“This is about McKee,” said Eoin. “Rather, it’s about his murder.” Shanahan’s eyes grew wide. “He was murdered at the Castle, but the murder really started here, in this neighborhood. We t’ink a ‘John Ryan’ is the snitch.”

Shanahan chuckled. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The last time Shankers said ‘No’ to British blood money, he didn’t understand the question.”

“Does he come in here?”

“Oh, no,” said Shanahan. “He’s barred. I wouldn’t allow a shite like that to come in here. If he entered that door right now, I’d shoot him dead,” he added, patting his waist where his revolver rested.

“What’s the word on the street around here?”

“Is this for Mick?”

Eoin nodded. “He wants the tout.”

“I hear it’s Shankers,” confided Shanahan. “I hear he was shooting off his mouth around the corner at Hynes Pub, over on Gloucester Place.”

“So you t’ink he’s good for this?”

“He’s your man,” said Shanahan. “He lives with his wife at 15 Railway Street. He’s a bastard.” Shanahan paused for a minute, before adding, “Even if he didn’t betray McKee and Clancy, he has it coming for some of the other stuff he’s done. If you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” replied Eoin.