The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (6 page)

11

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
F
RIDAY
, M
AY
5, 1916

A
bout 3:30 a.m., my eyes flew open, and I awaited the inevitable. A quarter-of-an-hour later came the terrible noise of death. Jack and Vinny were awake, propped up against the far wall from me. We never thought of speaking
.

We waited a half-hour and braced ourselves for the next volley, but it didn’t come. Another half-hour passed, and still no shots. The dawn broke bright, and still no shots. The Christian Brothers over in Synge Street used to tell us that everything was relative, and today I believe it—only one rebel executed, and I’m happy there wasn’t more.

I was dying to go to the toilet to pump my Tommy for information, but I never got the chance. A soldier came into the room, ordered us up, and told us to collect our belongings. We were marched out single-file into the room where we were marshaled that first day and ordered to the tables, where they reviewed our information cards. Then we moved down the processing line, where we were fingerprinted like common criminals. I’d never been out of Ireland before, but I had a feeling we were headed for the North Wall and a trip on a cattle boat to England. All I could think of was my Mammy, God protect her.

“Come on, get ready,” said our sergeant, the appropriately named Boyle. We were brought out into the yard and told to look sharp. “Right turn,” he called out, and I had to remember which was my left or right before I turned the correct way. “Quick march,” sang out Sergeant Boyle as he drove us toward the front gate of the barracks. The gates were opened, and we strode through them. Then we heard a clang as the gates slammed behind us. There were no more marching orders. We looked around and discovered there was no Sergeant Boyle, no DMP detectives. There was no one to tell us what to do. It took us a minute, but we soon realized we were, indeed, free.

Vinny, Jack, and I couldn’t believe our luck, and we were all jokes and laughter as we headed back toward the city centre. We had no money, so a tram was out of the question. We kept looking behind us to see if we were being followed, but there was no one to fear. We were giddy with delight.

It does seem strange not to be taking orders, though. Not from MacDonagh, MacBride, Collins, Pearse, or MacDiarmada. It’s even odd not to be following orders from some British officer, or even an odd one like Sergeant Boyle. I don’t know if I like taking orders, but I think I now know the meaning of chain-of-command. With all the leaders being shot, what will the new chain-of-command be? Will it be the likes of Collins? I also wonder how the people are reacting to the shootings. Are they still cross with us? Or do they now think we’re not as bad a lot altogether? I sense a change in the air. As we marched away from the Richmond Barracks, we’ve been greeted with a few friendly “Good mornin’s,” and there hasn’t been a rotten tomato thrown in our direction yet. I think the British may have overplayed their hand, but only time will tell.

It was around noon when I entered our flat. Everyone was jammed into our wee scullery, and, for a second, there was only shocked silence. Finally, Mammy, looking gaunt, rose slowly and said, “Eoin, my darling son.” Da embraced me, Mary and Dickie pulled at my pants, and even Frank looked like he was happy to see me.

“We’ve been looking all over for you,” said Da. “No one knew anything about you. We didn’t know if you were alive or dead, ya little scoundrel.”

“What’s this?” asked Mammy, looking at the dried blood on the seat of my pants.

“I got shot in the arse on my way to the GPO.”

“Weren’t you in Jacob’s?” asked Frank.

“Yes, until Commandant MacDonagh sent me to the GPO with a communiqué for Commander-in-Chief Pearse.”

“God bless their memories,” said the mother, blessing herself. “But your bottom?”

“I got shot on the Ha’penny Bridge getting across the Liffey. Róisín says I should be alright.”

“Who’s Róisín?” Mammy demanded.

I told her she was the
Cumann na mBan
nurse in the GPO. “She’s beautiful, Mammy.”

Mam coughed and stared at me. “And she saw your bare bottom?”

“Rosanna,” said Da. “The most important thing is that he’s back with us, safe ‘n sound.”

“Promise me you’ll never leave us again,” said Mammy. “Never leave your Da and me ever again.”

I was about to say, “We’ll see,” but thought better of it. “I’ll never leave you again, Mammy.” Then I saw the paper on the kitchen table with the
STOP PRESS
on the front page of the
Freeman’s Journal:
MACBRIDE EXECUTED
. And I started crying. Suddenly the horror of the early-morning shots came back to me with full force.

“What son?” said my Daddy.

“They murdered Major MacBride. He was my friend.”

“Your friend was very brave at the end,” said Da. “He refused a blindfold. His last words were: ‘I have been looking down the barrels of rifles all my life.’”

“The British are ruthless,” stated Mammy.

“Buggers!” said Frank, cocksure with all the wisdom of his eleven years.

“Francis,” said Ma to him. “Your language.” Frank’s language was always bad, so I was not shocked in the least.

Although my eyesight was blurred by tears for Major MacBride, I could see that Mammy and Da had stuck the proclamation up on the far wall of the kitchen. I went over to it and saw that they had drawn a line through the names of Clarke, MacDonagh, Pearse, and Plunkett.

I picked up a pencil and drew a line through the names of MacDiarmada, Ceannt, and Connolly. “Now, why did you do that?” my father demanded. “They’re still alive.”

“Not for long,” I replied. I was ashamed of what I had just said, but I told them the truth as I saw it.

“When will all this awfulness end?” asked my Mammy.

“When the British leave Ireland,” I said. Mammy looked me in the eye and brushed my hair out of my eyes. She knew Ireland had been changed forever—and so had her eldest son.

12

E
oin couldn’t wait to go to work in the morning at Sweny’s Chemists over on Lincoln Place, down the street from the Westland Row railroad station. He was only a messenger boy, delivering Christmas gifts, but he was the only one in the family bringing home any money. He was also happy to go to Sweny’s in the morning to escape the depression of the flat in the Piles Buildings. His mother was bedridden now, and his father was lost, not knowing how to earn a living or even take care of his children.

Eoin was keeping a close eye on the comings and goings over at Westland Row, because a lot of the rebels in the Frongoch prison compound in Wales had been granted amnesty for Christmas and were arriving home in Dublin. He had run into Arthur Shields the other day, and it had been a grand reunion. Arthur was picked up by his brother Will, also an actor over at the Abbey, who went by the stage name of Barry Fitzgerald. Eoin was about to make a run over to tip-rich Fitzwilliam Square with a delivery when he saw the solitary figure in the early winter twilight standing in front of the depot, his cheap cardboard suitcase—which a good soaking would disintegrate—at his feet. He was a big man, and Eoin’s heart began to pound as he ran up the street to see if it was who he thought it was. “Captain Collins!” he called out.

The man turned quickly and searched for the source of the voice calling his name.

“Eoin? Is that you?”

“Welcome home!” said Eoin as he shook Collins’s hand and was surprised by the hearty embrace.

“I don’t believe my eyes,” said Collins, surveying the youngster. “You’re beginning to look like a man.”

“You’ve gained weight,” lied Eoin, poking Collins in his flat belly. “Looks like the Brits overfeed their Irish rebels in Wales!”

“You must be jokin’,” said Collins, clearly delighted to be in Eoin’s company. “How’s the arse?”

“The envy of all the girls!” replied Eoin. “I’m in fine shape.” He looked at the lonely suitcase. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Going to see my family in West Cork,” said Collins. “Unfortunately, I think I missed the last train at Kingsbridge Station. I’ll try for the first one in the morning.”

“Why don’t you stay with us tonight, and then you can catch the first train in the morning? We’re not that far from Kingsbridge.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Michael Collins, happy to be back in Dublin and itching for action.

13

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
S
ATURDAY
, 23 D
ECEMBER
1916

“
I
’m famished,” Captain Collins said to me as we headed for home. “I could do with a fry up,” he said, dragging me into a butcher’s shop in Cuffe Street. He ordered up sausages, eggs, rashers, black and white puddings. He paid for it with a crisp pound note, taken from a roll of pound notes. It was obvious that Mick had a knack for making money
.

We burst into the scullery and took the whole family by surprise. I introduced Captain Collins to everyone, and he insisted they all call him “Mick.” “Jaysus,” said Mick, looking around, “it’s colder in here than outside.” He surveyed the water running down the kitchen wall. “You,” Collins said, tossing a half-crown at Frank, “go find some coal.” Then he added, “Get some paraffin oil, too.” Frank snatched the horse figure of a coin out of the air and held it in his fist by the side of his leg, as if mesmerized by Collins. “Quick!” commanded Collins, and Frank scooted out the door.

Mammy heard the commotion and left her bed. As she stood in the doorway, bracing herself on the doorframe, she meekly said, “Hello.” I told her that Mick—it’s still strange calling Captain Collins “Mick”—was my boss in the GPO. “Thanks for taking care of my dear son,” she said, moving closer to Collins. She looked deathly, but that didn’t stop Collins. He embraced Mammy, calling her “Mum,” and gave her a big hug. “This is the kind of man who will make Ireland free some day!” he said, ruffling my hair.

“I’ve asked Mick to stay the night with us so he can catch the first train at Kingsbridge station in the morning.”

“And I’ve brought provisions!” said Collins, hoisting the rashers and sausages into the air like a trophy as Frank returned with the coal and paraffin. “Where’s me change?” he asked Frank. Frank drove his hand into his pocket and came up with the lone half-crown. “How did you pay for these?”

“I put them on the family tab at the grocery,” said Frank. “Old Man Dockerty says this is the last time.”

“So you were going to pinch the half-crown on me?” Collins paused to let it sink into Frank’s obstinate brain. “Hand it over.” Frank meekly complied.

“We’ll talk about this later,” said Da.

“I don’t like people who cut corners,” said Collins.

“And neither do I or your mother,” seconded Da.

With the business done, Collins said, “You all sit down, and Eoin and I will do the cooking.”

“That really wasn’t necessary,” said Da, but Collins would hear nothing of it.

“It’s Christmas,” said Collins, “and if we can’t feast this time of the year, when can we feast?”

I’m expert with the coal stove, and, within fifteen minutes, Mick and I had a hearty Irish breakfast under production. “How do you like your oiges?” he asked. Suddenly there was absolute quiet in the kitchen. “Your oiges?” Mick repeated. No one had a clue what he was talking about.

“Eggs!” screamed little Mary.

“Yes, oiges!” repeated Mick triumphantly. I guess they pronounce “eggs” differently down in County Cork. “I hope you like them fried with the sunny side up because that’s all I know how to cook,” he said, waving the spatula at us. Mick generously cut the black and white puddings down the middle, length-wise. The Mammy always cuts it into half-inch slices so there’ll be enough for everyone. This was definitely turning into a feast.

Dickie and Mary got stuck into the sausages, and Frank was soon dipping his bread into his egg yolk. Mick, the big man he is, devoured the black pudding. I love the white pudding, and, after a while, I saw Da getting familiar with the thick, hairy Irish rashers. Mammy played with a lone sausage.

Afterwards, as Mick was washing the dishes—he ordered me to do the drying—Da told him of our financial troubles and how we ended up in this fix. There was talk of my brother Charlie’s death last year, and then Collins blurted out, “That’s a pretty severe cough you have there, mum.”

Mammy looked up and smiled a deadly smile. “I’ll be alright, Captain Collins. It’s getting better by the day.” Mick nodded and left it at that.

I slept on the floor that night and gave Mick my bed. Before sunrise, he shook me awake and said it was time to get moving. The house was quiet, with only the snoring of Da and the desperate gasping for breath of Mammy making a sound. Just before we left, Mick put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pocketful of change. He left three half-crowns on the kitchen table and asked me for a piece of paper and pen. I delivered a pad, and he scrawled “To Mary, Dickie, and Frank—Happy Christmas!—Uncle Mick.” “I hope Mary and Dickie get here before Frank,” said Mick, and with a jolly wink, we were off for Kingsbridge Station.

We went down by the Liffey, and the December wind was penetrating. Inside Kingsbridge, we warmed up around a stove, and Mick went to look at what trains were leaving for Cork City this morning. Mick returned, saying he would be taking the 7:00 a.m. train. “I want to be sworn in,” I blurted out.

“What?”

“I want to be sworn into the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”

“The IRB?”

“Yes. I think it’s time.”

“You haven’t been active since Easter?”

“No, I thought it was more important to take care of my family and my Mammy.”

“You made the right decision,” said Collins. “Come on,” he said, pointing in the direction of the toilet. Mick looked around to make sure the bathroom was empty and then took me into a toilet stall and closed the door, Mick on the left of the toilet and me on the right. Collins raised his right hand, and I followed suit. “I, Eoin Kavanagh,” he began, and I repeated. “Do solemnly swear, in the presence of Almighty God, that I will do my utmost, at every risk, while life lasts, to make Ireland an independent Democratic Republic; that I will yield implicit obedience, in all things not contrary to the law of God to the commands of my superior officers; and that I shall preserve inviolable secrecy regarding all the transactions of this secret society that may be confided in me. So help me God! Amen.”

“Amen,” I said.

“Remember, once you’re in,” added Collins, “you’re never out.”

“Understood.”

“Well,” said Collins, “it’s time to catch that train.” I walked him to the platform, sorry to see him leaving Dublin again.

“It seems you know that oath by heart,” I said.

“I’ve sworn in my share,” said Collins, and then he added with a laugh, “but you’re the first I did in a toilet.” He paused before saying, “I’ll be running the Brotherhood soon.” It was not a brag, but a fact, the way he said it. We came to the train, and Mick said, “I’ll be back after the first of the year. I’m up for several jobs, and we’ll be in touch.” Before he left, he reached into his pocket again and dragged out that wad of bills. He peeled off five one-pound notes and a fiver and said, “Get a goose for Christmas.” Then he added, “And pay off that grocery bill.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said, somewhat echoing the sentiments of my Da the night before.

“Think of it as compensation,” said Collins. “We take care of our own in the IRB!” He climbed onto the train and, with a big smile, said, “
Nollaig Shona Duit!
—Happy Christmas and a glorious 1917 to you, Eoin Kavanagh. 1917 is going to be a great year for Ireland—and you’re going to be a part of it.” He waved to me as the train pulled out of the station. I had to go to Sweny’s for work, but I couldn’t take my mind off 1917 and what Michael Collins had in mind for Ireland and, it seemed, for me.