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

by Dermot McEvoy

  The handwritten note began, “Dear Eoin, I’m sorry I could not attend your mother’s wake, but I had to go out into the country on business. I am praying for you and your family. At your convenience, could you drop by my office at 10 Exchequer Street for a chat? God bless you, Mick Collins.” Inside the note there was a crisp ten-pound note. Eoin was stunned.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, fingering the oversized bill. “At least now I won’t have to pass-the-black-sugar-bag to pay for the box. Will you go out and get some grub for the wake?” he asked, turning the ten-pound note back over to Vinny.

  “I will indeed. And I t’ink maybe a bottle of whiskey would do no harm, here and now.” Eoin looked at Vinny’s Pioneer pin and smiled. Vinny was “a cute hoor,” as they liked to say around Dublin. His mild appearance betrayed his street smarts, his feel for people and situations.

  “You’re right, Vin.” The rare tenner in Vinny’s hands turned Eoin pensive again. “I wonder what he wants?”

  “Who?”

  “Collins.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be a grand adventure,” replied Vinny. Vinny and his grand adventures, thought Eoin. His last great adventure had him locked up in Richmond Barracks for a week.

  “Do you know?”

  Vinny put his left index finger to his lips and winked. The IRB oath immediately came to Eoin’s mind. “Once in, never out,” Collins had said, and now Eoin wondered what Michael Collins had in mind for him and what remained of his broken family.

  15

  The day after Eoin Kavanagh buried his mother, he met with Michael Collins in his office at 10 Exchequer Street. The office was on the top floor, and Eoin quickly ran up the four flights of stairs. He looked at the door, which had “National Aid and Volunteers Dependents Fund” newly painted on it in gold letters. Eoin’s fist gave the door three knocks.

  “Come in,” said a male voice, and Eoin entered the office to see Collins seated at a desk, surrounded by papers. When he saw Eoin, Collins jumped out of his chair and embraced the boy. “Oh, Eoin, I’m so sorry for your troubles,” he said. He pointed Eoin towards an empty chair and said, “You still working at Sweny’s?”

  “No,” said Eoin. “That job died after Christmas.”

  “I hope the money that Vinny Byrne gave you helped with the funeral arrangements.”

  “It did.”

  “Well, are you ready to go to work for me?”

  “What’s the job?”

  “Do you care?” Collins said with a laugh. Eoin didn’t care at all and laughed along with his new boss.

  “What’s the National Aid and Volunteers Dependents Fund?”

  “It’s a bloody long name, isn’t it? In the NAVDF, we take care of veterans of Easter week who need some help. Kathleen Clarke—Tom’s widow—hired me. You were one of the first on the list. That’s why I authorized the ten quid for you.”

  “Charity?”

  “Compensation,” replied Collins. Eoin nodded. “How’s your handwriting?”

  “I won the prize.”

  Collins smiled. “Can you type?” he said, pointing at the typewriter on the spare desk.

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll learn.”

  “When do I start?”

  “After you get some decent clothes.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t be wearing rags like those and working for me.” Collins sat down and scribbled some words on a piece of paper. “Here, take this over to Fallon’s in Mary Street and get yourself a suit. I’ll pay for it. You signed up with Vinny’s battalion, right?”

  “Second battalion, Dublin South.”

  “Good—get yourself a Volunteer’s uniform, too. Do this right now.”

  “Why are clothes so important?” asked Eoin, who had no sense of fashion at all.

  “Clothes aren’t all that important, but people think they’re important.” Eoin looked confused. “Let me put it this way. If you wear a suit and tie, you can get away with a lot of things. Society respects clothes but for all the wrong reasons. We start early around here, so be here at eight tomorrow morning. Alright?”

  Eoin was so overwhelmed by Collins’s whirlwind performance that he didn’t even ask what his salary was. “Remember,” added Collins, “we’re in this together!”

  Together indeed, thought Eoin, as he headed over to Mary Street to pick up his new clobber.

  16

  EOIN’S DIARY

  Mick taught me how to type today. Well, not exactly. He told me to use the middle keys on the typewriter and to keep my hands astride of the G and H and go up and down. He told me to forget the numbers. He calls it being a “touch” typist. He said I’ll practice for a half-hour every morning until I become expert.

  The first day, he looked me up and down in me new suit. “Very nice,” he said. I had my sleeves rolled up, and he asked me why. I told him for some reason the cuffs didn’t have any buttons to hold them together.

  “That’s because you’re supposed to use cufflinks.” I shrugged because I didn’t have a clue. “Here,” he said, removing his own cufflinks, “take these. I’ll commandeer another pair during the day. There’s no point in wearing French cuffs if you don’t display them—and that’s that.” I asked Mick if they were named for Lord French, the failed Great War British field marshal who helped to suppress the Rising. Mick just gave me a vicious smile as his own French cuffs stiff with starch, stood at attention without the aid of a cufflink.

  We get all types here at the office. Weeping widows, crying children, men down on their luck. Apparently half of Dublin was in the GPO Easter week. Word is spreading about the free money. Mick is very circumspect when he’s interviewing people. Very solicitous. Sometimes he gives a stipend, sometimes he doesn’t. The ones who don’t get any money don’t realize it until they’re on the street, Mick is so smooth with the talk.

  At the end of this first day, Mick locked the office door and had a heart-to-heart with me. “Eoin,” he said, “there’s more to this office than meets the eye.” I nodded. “We’re a legitimate organization,” he added, “but we’re here to do more than be the Fenian St. Vincent DePaul Society.” I nodded again. “We’ll be doing the work of the Republic here. Do you understand?” I nodded for the third time. “Are you a fucking mute?” said Mick as he leapt out of his chair, grabbed me by the arms around the shoulders and lifted me to the ceiling. That made me howl and got a big laugh out of Collins. He then put me down.

  “The British have just three rules,” he said. “One, they make the rules. Two, they want you to play by the rules. Three, they never play by the rules.” Mick looked me dead in the eye before adding, “We’re going to make a new rule—we make our own rules!”

  “Fook ‘em!” I exclaimed, leaping out of my chair, immediately ashamed that a dirty word had escaped my lips.

  Mick didn’t say a word. Only a smile told me he approved of what I had said. I had a feeling we would be getting out of the charity business shortly.

  17

  “How’s your arse, Eoin?”

  Young Kavanagh was sitting on the open top of a number-19 tram. He turned around to see a smiling Róisín O’Mahony. She was standing in the aisle with her arms crossed and a big smile on her face. When the woman across from Eoin heard what Róisín had said, a cross look darkened her face, and Eoin turned puce in embarrassment. The woman was about to say something when Róisín cut her off. “He was wounded in the GPO, fighting so ignorant people like you could have a better life!” Róisín took one look at the woman and could tell that she was the kind of busybody she loathed. You could bet the house that her strained, pinched face was constantly relaying moral indiscretions as fodder to the local parish priest. Your typical ecclesiastic informer, thought Róisín.

  “Well,” said the woman, standing up. “I never!”

  “Yes, and I’m sure you never will! Hurry up, or you’ll miss your novena!” added Róisín as the woman fled with alacrity. “Well, how is your arse, Eo
in?”

  This time Eoin laughed and said, “You want to see the scar?”

  “Cheeky lad!”

  “High and low!” Róisín slid in beside him and gave him a peck on the high cheek. She could see he was growing up. He wasn’t much taller, but he had put on a quarter-stone.

  “Now you look like a young man,” she said. “Where’d you get this beautiful suit?’

  “Mick Collins.”

  Róisín’s mouth dropped open as the tram passed opposite Trinity College and turned left onto Westmoreland Street. “That gobshite?”

  “He saved my family.”

  “How?”

  “He gave me a job so we could eat and pay the rent.”

  “What do you do for him?”

  Eoin hesitated. “I can’t tell you.”

  “He’s running the relief fund, isn’t he?” Eoin nodded. “I know everything!” Róisín said with good humor as she wagged her finger in front of Eoin’s nose. Eoin smiled at her because all she knew was what Mick Collins wanted her to know.

  “I’d like to know something,” said Eoin.

  “What?”

  “What you wouldn’t tell me in the GPO.” Róisín didn’t remember and had a blank look on her face for once. “How old are you?”

  “That again!”

  “Well? After all we’ve been through.”

  Róisín laughed at that. “Well,” she said, “I guess it isn’t a state secret. I was born on January 28, 1899.”

  “So you’re eighteen.”

  “And that makes you what? Twelve?”

  Eoin wanted to punch her. “I’m almost sixteen. October 10, 1901.”

  “I remember.”

  “You do!” Eoin felt thrilled that she would remember anything about him. Then a small smile crossed Eoin’s face. “I guess that makes you one of those ‘older women.’” Eoin’s small smile turned into a hearty guffaw.

  At first Róisín looked cross but then broke into laughter of her own. “You’re as cheeky as ever, Eoin Kavanagh.” She gave him another peck on the cheek, which surprised the young rebel. Eoin blushed, and the tram slowly passed the ruins of the GPO. “I can’t believe it’s a year already,” said Róisín quietly.

  “A year come and gone,” said Eoin. He looked at the men clearing the rubble on the other side of Sackville Street. “Finally, jobs for Dublin!” Róisín snorted at the dig. “Revolution equals jobs! We start the revolution, the British bomb us, we get jobs clearing the destroyed buildings. Justice for the working man!”

  Róisín could see that Eoin was growing up in more ways than one. “You sound like Jim Connolly.”

  “I’d settle for Jim Larkin,” replied Eoin.

  “A couple of good Jims,” declared Róisín. “Where are you going?”

  “Going to see me Ma and brother Charlie.”

  “Where are they staying?”

  “Glasnevin.”

  Suddenly Róisín realized what Eoin was talking about. “Oh, Eoin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that your mother died. You told me in the GPO that she was sick.”

  “She died of the consumption.”

  Róisín was silent for a moment. “They say that the consumption is the disease of a highly sexed person.”

  Eoin stared at Róisín, his mouth agape. He wasn’t comfortable talking about such things—especially with a female. “I wouldn’t know about that,” Eoin finally replied.

  Róisín bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know how to talk about such things.”

  Róisín, feeling like a month-old rotten tomato, took Eoin’s hand and squeezed it. “You in the organization?”

  “Second battalion.”

  “South Dublin,” confirmed Róisín. “Did they jail you after the Rising?”

  “I spent a week in Richmond Barracks, but they eventually let us go. I was wondering about you. Did they lock you up? I heard Elizabeth O’Farrell was put away for a while.”

  “The bastards,” spat Róisín. “Poor Elizabeth. She did right, and the Brits treated her like shite. Luckily, I made my escape. I went down Henry Street and took refuge in Jervis Street Hospital. Brits took me for staff.”

  Suddenly, out of the blue, Eoin asked, “Why do you always wear britches?”

  The question left Róisín momentarily speechless. “Because I like to,” she retorted, somewhat defensively.

  The tram headed north, passed Parnell Square, and approached the appropriately named Black Church. “I like them on you.”

  “I know what you like,” said Róisín in a cross voice. Then she smiled. “Thank you.”

  The tram came to Mountjoy Street, and Róisín got up to get off. “Where are you going?” Eoin asked.

  “To my job at the Mater Hospital. It was nice seeing you again, Eoin.”

  “Would you like to have tea after mass next Sunday?”

  “I don’t go to mass.”

  “Then we should meet at the Traitor’s Gate. Noon?”

  “Noon,” said Roisin; she bent down and gave Eoin another peck on the cheek. She bounded down the winding stairway at the end of the tram and then scampered off to the Mater, a few blocks away on Eccles Street, turning once to see if Eoin was still watching her. Eoin sat atop the tram, marveling in the glory of her superb arse.

  18

  “Sometimes it skips a generation. Love, that is.”

  That’s what the old man wrote about his relationship with his son, Eoin Jr., Johnny Three’s father. Now, as Johnny sat alone at the dining-room table, Diane and Bridie started packing away his grandfather’s earthly possessions. Dishes rattled and pots clanged, as if wondering where their old master was.

  “Git rid of the house as soon as possible when I’m dead,” the old man had told Johnny on his last visit to Dublin in the summer of 2006. “The hoors in the Dáil, the banks, and the real estate industry will be swimming in shite over their heads very shortly.” Johnny was heeding the old pol’s advice, because Eoin Kavanagh had learned the facts of economic life from Michael Collins himself. The old man had looked at the “Celtic Tiger” and was fond of quoting Joseph P. Kennedy, the president’s father, who pulled all his money out of Wall Street two months before the 1929 crash. “This is too good to be true,” Kennedy had said, and he was right. Deputy Kavanagh, TD, felt the same way about the Irish economy. “I’m watching 30-year-old imbeciles,” Eoin had commented, “a generation removed from some fookin’ bog, referring to themselves as ‘real estate entrepreneurs!’ Holy Jaysus protect us!” Eoin had winked at his grandson. “They’ll soon be trading in their iPods for iHods!” Deputy Kavanagh was the hippest centenarian in the world. Johnny would feel better when the cash from the house sale was in his pocket.

  “Sometimes it skips a generation. Love, that is.”

  In amongst all the papers about the revolution, Collins, and his grandfather’s time in America, Johnny had found these handwritten notes about his father. Eoin Kavanagh and his only child, Eoin Jr., were complete opposites. Eoin kept his nose to the ground and ground it out. Young Eoin—somewhat like his Uncle Frank—thought of himself as a playboy, romping around New York and Washington with young Jack Kennedy and FDR Jr. The three were Navy veterans of the war and liked to drink and chase skirts. At least Joe Kennedy set Jack up in Congress, while young FDR drifted, never making much of his life. “I kept telling my son that I am not a millionaire,” he told friends. “I actually live on my congressman’s pay. Unlike Jack Kennedy and young Frank Roosevelt, my son does not have a trust fund to fall back on.”

  “I almost curse the day Eoin was born,” wrote the old man. “He has done nothing but break the hearts of his mother and me. The only good thing to come out of his conception was Johnny Three.”

  Diane heard a groan and peeked in from the kitchen. “Are you okay?” Johnny nodded, and Diane went back to her packing. He knew Diane tried, but she just couldn’t understand the Irish. Christ, thought Johnny, the Irish don’t understand themse
lves. There’s an old New York joke: Italian first cousins are closer than Irish identical twin brothers. And it’s true. The innate suspicion bred into the Irish over centuries of domination and poverty is not easy to eradicate. There is always that need to be suspicious—even of the ones you love. It’s not purposeful.

  After a rocky early childhood, his grandparents had been Johnny Three’s salvation. By the time he was put in his grandparents’ charge at age ten, his father was on his third wife, and his mother had run off with her Mexican gardener. Both would be dead within five years from the drink. “Conceived in Ireland,” Eoin would lament, “and murdered by America.”

  His grandparents had treated Johnny as if he were their own. They lived at 45 Christopher Street in two large apartments pulled together. The flat overlooked Sheridan Square and Christopher Park, and it was the liveliest street in Greenwich Village. The Stonewall riots happened just next door, the Lion’s Head writer’s saloon was just down the block, and on the corner were the offices of the Village Voice.

  Eoin Jr. loved that his father was an influential congressman, but he wanted nothing to do with the process. In the beginning, Eoin dragged young Johnny to his Sunday political meetings at churches, synagogues, soup kitchens, and senior-citizen centers. Eventually these pilgrimages became a vital bonding ritual between Johnny and his grandfather. They wandered from the Village up into the Upper West Side—the full length of the congressional district. Johnny loved to watch Eoin work the crowd. He noticed that his South Dublin accent grew more pronounced the closer it got to Election Day. The old man knew how to pour it on, especially in the Irish-packed Village, Chelsea, and Hell’s Kitchen.

  Of course, his grandfather’s congressional seniority had its perks. Any day of the week, there might be a visitor like Senator John F. Kennedy or a very elderly Eleanor Roosevelt, who came over from her home on Washington Square for dinner one Sunday night. In the 1960s, you might have seen Norman Mailer, Pete Hamill, and Joe Flaherty, fresh from the Voice office, arguing over drinks, or you might be serenaded by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem before they got down to some real drinking at the Lion’s Head. And it was a treat watching Eoin and union leader Mike Quill swap lies over Irish coffee.