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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “How about Frank?” said Collins, looking in Eoin’s direction.

  “He’s staying put,” said the father. “I’m having trouble keeping him in school. He’s a bit wild.”

  “Break him.”

  “Easier said than done,” replied Joseph.

  Collins grunted. “Your son and I have a proposition for you.” Joseph looked up as he poured the tea into Collins’s cup.

  “Proposition?”

  “You need a job, and I need a barber.”

  “Simple as that?”

  Collins laughed. “Nothing is ever simple. I have a shop over in Aungier Street that would do nicely.”

  “What would I have to do?” asked Eoin’s father.

  “Besides cut hair?” Collins laughed. “You know what I do.”

  “I do,” replied Joseph, “and I approve.”

  “Thank you,” said Collins. “Let me be frank with you. Part of my job”—he then pointed to Eoin and added—”part of Eoin’s job too, is intelligence. If we are to best the British, we must have sound, up-to-the-minute intelligence.”

  “But I’m not an intelligence agent,” protested Joseph, “I’m a hair-dresser.” He paused for a moment before adding, “a master hairdresser.”

  “A hairdresser with ears!”

  “Ears?”

  “To listen to British agents and soldiers.”

  Joseph perked up. “I see, the barber shop as front.”

  “And right down the street from Dublin Castle,” added Collins. It was all becoming clear, and Eoin could see some light in his father’s eyes for the first time in a long time.

  “We’ll need a good name for the shop,” Joseph declared. “How about Crown Hairdressers?”

  Collins almost spat out his tea, and started laughing. “Joe, no, no.” He pulled out his handkerchief so he could clear his throat. “That’s too obvious. We need something more subtle.” Joseph nodded.

  “How about Castle Barbers?” asked Eoin.

  “Castle Barbers,” repeated his father.

  “That’s it, Eoin,” said Collins. “Castle Barbers. Is it a deal?”

  “It is, indeed,” replied Joseph.

  “Eoin will take you over to 31 Aungier Street tomorrow morning. The shop is totally vacant. Lay it out as you want. Make a list of equipment, and give it to Eoin; we’ll have this place up and running within a fortnight. We’ll meet before you open and go over things. Also, there are lodgings on the second floor so you, Frank, and Eoin can get the hell out of this fookin’ place. I’ll keep an office on the top floor. Is that alright with you?”

  “I must be dreaming,” said Joseph, ready to turn the page on the nightmare his life had become.

  1918

  25

  Collins had just returned from an IRA recruiting trip to Munster and decided to check on his latest investment. He came out of the Exchequer Street office and walked towards his new barbershop. As it came into view, he noticed a crowd gathering around the barber pole right next to the front door. Collins couldn’t get by the crowd, so he tapped one of the men on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “Free shaves for Castle personnel.”

  Collins almost swallowed his tongue. “What?”

  “Free shaves, but this week only!”

  Collins pushed his way to the front of the phalanx and read the sign in the window:

  SHOW CASTLE ID

  GET FREE SHAVE

  THIS WEEK ONLY

  There was Joseph Kavanagh in his striped barber’s shirt, wrapping a steaming towel around one of His Majesty’s Castlemen. Frank Kavanagh, similarly attired, was shaving another. Eoin was checking IDs and writing down names. He looked up and saw Collins, now almost purple, staring at him from the window.

  “It’s about time,” said one of the men to Collins.

  “What?”

  “It’s about time Dubliners showed us the respect we’ve earned,” said the man. “Since the Rising, all you hear are catcalls from the local guttersnipes. This is a welcome respite.”

  Collins nodded. In the window was a poster of Lord Kitchener doing his “I Want You” pose, which was soon to be mimicked by Uncle Sam. Next to the poster was a Union Jack. Inside on one wall was a portrait of the King, on the other a picture of homely Victoria, the Famine Queen. Collins again caught Eoin’s eye and this time was greeted with the happiest wink he had ever seen.

  Eoin came into the office an hour later. Collins was still steaming. “Who the fook came up with that brilliant idea?!”

  “I did,” said Eoin. “You interested in these signatures?” He threw them on Collins’s desk, and Collins looked at them quickly, realized their importance, and carefully went through the thirty-four names on the list. “That’s a day’s work,” Eoin added.

  “Fookin’ brilliant,” said Collins. Before him he had names, addresses, and occupations of Dublin Castle insiders. “How did you get this stuff out of them?”

  “A free shave.”

  “Did you hold a gun to their heads?”

  “No, I just asked them if they would like to be on our mailing list for future free events at Castle Barbers.”

  “You’re a brilliant fookin’ rascal, do you know that?” said Collins as he ruffled Eoin’s carefully combed hair. “But be careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “Yes, you know I can’t intervene if there’s any trouble from the neighbors. That would give the whole job away. It’s a rebel neighborhood. You may have some ruffians throwing bricks through the front window.”

  “I understand.”

  “How do you like your new lodgings?”

  “Supreme,” said Eoin. “We’ve never had such comfort.”

  “The office on the top floor will be occupied shortly,” said Collins. “I’ll be keeping my distance. We’re beginning to branch out. The days of feeling our way are over. It’s time we start confronting the British both here in Dublin and in the countryside.” Collins paused. “But Dublin is the key, Eoin. Whoever controls Dublin holds the fate of the Irish nation in their hands.” Eoin nodded, thinking that the climate in Dublin City might be getting a wee bit tropical in the months to come.

  26

  EOIN’S DIARY

  I met Róisín at Nelson’s Pillar, and we took the tram out to Sandymount where my sister Mary is living in the Star of the Sea convent. Sunday is orphanage day for Róisín and me. Last Sunday, we went up to Cabra to visit Dickie, and it broke my heart.

  I brought Dickie sweets and some coppers and introduced him to Róisín, whom he took an instant liking to. By the time we had to leave, he was holding onto Róisín’s trousers, and his howling had me in tears as well. He says he’s lonely, and some of the boys and staff are cruel to him. When Róisín heard that, she wanted to know all about it. Finally, Dickie spit it out: “Father Murphy caned me.” He’s such a sweet boy, he didn’t want to snitch, even on his tormentor.

  “He did, did he?” said Róisín. “He didn’t touch you in your genitals, did he?” Both Dickie and I looked at her blankly. “Your genitals,” she repeated in exasperation, pointing below my belt. “Oh,” I finally said. I whispered into Dickie’s ear, “Did he touch your willie?” Dickie looked at the floor and shook his head no. I couldn’t believe what was going on. After we said goodbye to Dickie, we went looking for this Murphy fellow. We caught up with him on his way to the chapel. “You Father Murphy?” Róisín asked.

  “I am indeed,” he said with cheer, resplendent in his flowing cassock and hard white dog collar. His biretta was cocked at a jaunty angle.

  “This is Eoin Kavanagh, Dickie Kavanagh’s brother,” Róisín said, leaving the rest up to me.

  “What can I do for you?” said Murphy.

  “Well,” says I, “first, you can keep your cane off my brother. Is that understood? This is unacceptable behavior on your part.” I must have looked preposterous, looking up to lecture this giant of a man, well over six feet tall.

  “That was a cowardly act on your p
art,” Róisín interjected. “The act of a bully.”

  “Young woman,” began Murphy, rather highhandedly, “we have discipline here.”

  Róisín turned red. “Don’t patronize me with that ‘young woman’ crap. I know all about your so-called ‘discipline.’ A nice word for cruelty.” You could see in his eyes that Murphy wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way, especially by two young people. I thought the priest was going to swallow his Adam’s apple.

  “Is it understood, then?” I asked.

  “You don’t understand,” said Murphy, suddenly apologetic. “This whole thing has been blown out of proportion.”

  “Look,” says I, “Dickie is here because our mother died of consumption last year. She never laid a finger on any of us. And I won’t allow it to happen here. The lad has been damaged enough already.”

  “Well,” said the priest, playing the ever-reliable guilt angle, “if you’re not happy with us here, you can always take him back.” He paused before adding, “You’re nothing more than a boy yourself.”

  “Father Murphy,” I said, trying not to lose my temper, “taking Dickie out of here right now is out of the question for many reasons. Believe me, if I could handle him myself, I would.”

  “So you have more important things on your mind than your little brother.”

  I had had enough. “I was in the GPO Easter Week. So was Róisín. I was not afraid of the British, and I’m not afraid of a priest who likes to cane five-year-olds. What gives you the right to hurt innocent children?” I paused to calm down. “If I hear any more of this nonsense, someone will have to pay up here—and I won’t be using a cane!”

  “Got that?” added Róisín. Murphy didn’t say a word, his jowly face flushed with indignation. He just turned and walked swiftly into the chapel. “That’s the way to handle those bullies,” said Róisín, giving me a hug. “I know all about their so-called ‘discipline.’ It may take another hundred years, but the Church’s time will come to an end in Ireland.” I am respectful by nature, willing to avoid confrontation if possible, but Róisín wears her edge without shame.

  “This brings back memories of your time in the orphanage, doesn’t it?”

  “Fookin’ clergy,” she said bitterly. “I have no time for the Church and its nonsense.”

  “Really?” I teased. With that, she gave me a terrific punch in the arm. “Hey,” I protested.

  “And I don’t have much time for fookin’ eejit men, either!” I was still rubbing my arm when she added, “But I’ll make an exception in your case.” It was her way of making up.

  It was a beautiful day, and we took Mary out for a walk on Sandymount Strand. We passed the old Martello Tower on our way to the beach. The gulls were swirling above us, and the familiar smokestacks of the Pigeon House were close by. We could see clearly all the way to Howth. We walked down by the surf, daring it to catch our feet. Mary and Róisín were frolicking and laughing, holding hands as they skipped near the water’s edge. Róisín looked beautiful, the sun raising freckles on her face. I tried to keep up with them, but Róisín turned toward me and gestured she wanted to be alone with Mary. I quickly discovered that one into two won’t go.

  After we had an ice cream lunch, we brought Mary back to the convent. Unlike Dickie, she seems happy enough. I told her that Da would be up to see her next Sunday. “Well,” I said to Róisín, “did you get all the information you needed out of her?”

  “I was just checking up on her,” said Róisín. “You know women are different than men.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Well, she’ll be a woman soon, and I just wanted to see how she was doing.”

  “She’s only nine.”

  “You know nothing about women and their bodies,” said Róisín, speaking to me like I was some kind of imbecile.

  “I don’t,” I admitted.

  “Well, someday, maybe I’ll teach you something.” She lit up a Woodbine and exhaled mightily. “Let’s get the tram back to town,” she said, taking me by the hand. “I could do with a pint of porter at the Stag’s Head.”

  27

  “God bless David Lloyd George,” said Collins.

  “Since when are you a supporter of the prime minister?” asked Eoin.

  “Since he went totally daft and wants to implement the conscription laws. Do you know what it means?” Collins didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a dream come true for us. More recruits. More anti-British sentiment. Look, even the clergy is backing up the Sinn Féin agenda. I couldn’t have plotted a better plan myself.”

  They were sitting in Collins’s new office at 32 Bachelors Walk, the one with the view of the Liffey and O’Connell Bridge. The new office was beginning to have a lived-in look. On bookshelves were green membership cards and copies of The Irish Volunteer Handbook. On the wall behind Eoin’s desk was a map of Ireland with red arrows shooting out from Dublin, indicating Collins’s recruiting drives across the country.

  The papers this April 2 were full of the “Conscription Crisis,” as they referred to it. Even with America now in the war and the first Doughboys already in the trenches, Lloyd George was revving up his call for Irish bodies. The estimation was that the British were looking to recruit 50,000 Irishmen for their disastrous adventure. The law, known as the Man-Power Bill, was set to pass Parliament within two weeks. Everyone thought that, with the Americans in tow, the British would come to their senses and let conscription drop out of the political dialogue. They were wrong.

  “I’m going up to 6 Harcourt,” said Collins. “We’re having a meeting on how to best exploit conscription. I hear the archbishop is even sending a representative.” He paused for a second. “Jaysus, I just hope the British don’t come to their senses! Even the Orangemen are against this.”

  With that, he was out the door, and Eoin could hear his heavy feet hitting the stairs. He began cleaning up his desk. It was strewn with rail and bus timetables. In the last year, Collins had taken on the job of travel coordinator for the rebels, whom were either returning from jail in England or coming up to Dublin from the country on business. Collins soon discovered that, as the man with the tickets and the money, he could meet and greet all the men in the movement. The first person a rebel met in Dublin was none other than Michael Collins himself.

  Collins may have been the travel agent, but Eoin did all the work. He knew he could get a job as a clerk at Cook’s when all this was over. Eoin needed to stretch. He got up and went to the window. It was a beautiful spring day. He could see a Guinness barge sputtering downriver under the Ha’penny Bridge, while a seagull scooped up its dinner. The rush hour had begun, and people were queuing up to catch their trams home.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eoin could see a kerfuffle going on in the middle of O’Connell Bridge. It was Collins being accosted by two men in trench coats. Eoin’s guess was that they were G-men from the DMP. Collins was resisting, but the two detectives had a firm grip on him. Then he spotted Joe McGrath, a friend of Collins, moving to intervene. McGrath’s presence seemed to calm Collins down, and the four of them eventually started walking across the bridge, headed for D’Olier Street. “Jaysus,” said Eoin aloud, “they must be on their way to the DMP HQ in Great Brunswick Street.”

  Eoin’s first reaction was to search Collins’s desk for a gun. He opened all the drawers, but there was no gun to be found. Eoin was out the door and soon charging across O’Connell Bridge. As he turned into Great Brunswick Street, he saw Collins, McGrath, and the two cops enter the DMP’s grey stone building. Eoin came to a stop, trying to catch his breath. He decided to cross the street and take up a position opposite the police station while he tried to figure out what to do. As he leaned against the Trinity College fence, he became very agitated. What would the movement do without Mick? What would he do without Mick? Dread filled Eoin Kavanagh.

  This is no way to act, Eoin thought as he tried to pull himself together. What should he do? He had to let someone know about this. Should he head
back up to Vaughan’s Hotel in Parnell Square to see if any of the lads were around? Maybe head over to Harcourt Street to see who was at that conscription meeting? Dick McKee, Dick Mulcahy, or one of the other big-shot commandants might be there. He kept thinking, hoping that Mick would come walking out of the station at any minute, joking away with Joe McGrath. But it was not to be. All of a sudden, it became clear—Mick needed a solicitor. He had to find Michael Noyek.

  In a quick trot that was almost a run, Eoin rounded the front gate of Trinity and headed up Grafton Street towards Noyek’s house on Clanbrassil Street. He knew vaguely where Noyek’s house was because he had once been there with Collins. It was near the South Circular Road, so he walked in that direction. Suddenly he spotted the sign: Michael Noyek, Solicitor. Eoin rapped hard on the door, which was soon opened by Noyek himself. “They pinched Mick,” Eoin blurted out.

  “When?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “Where?”

  “They nabbed him on O’Connell Bridge, and they brought him to the police station in Great Brunswick Street. He was with Joe McGrath.”

  “Do you have a contact there?” Eoin was silent. “Well, do you?”

  “I know someone, but I don’t know if I should tell you. Mick might be cross with me.”

  “I’ll be cross with you,” Noyek replied, “if you don’t tell me. We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

  “Mick calls him his ‘carbon copy man,’” said Eoin. “Detective Sergeant Ned Broy of the G-Division.”

  Noyek immediately picked up the phone. He told the operator the number he wanted and waited for someone to pick up. He then told them to whom he wanted to speak. “Detective Sergeant Broy? Mike Noyek here. I’m Michael Collins’s solicitor. I hear you have him in custody. What’s the charge? Making seditious speeches? You’re jokin’? You’re not. Alright, I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone, and he and Eoin headed towards the door. As he went out the front door, he kissed his hand and then placed it on a small object in the doorway.