In due course, the drinks were brought in. It was a hot and humid Washington day, but the Oval Office was air-conditioned to help minimize the president’s allergies. The condensation on the martini glasses made them more inviting than ever, and the two friends clicked glasses.
“How bad is it, Mister President?”
FDR shook his head. “You don’t give me a break, do you Eoin?”
“You forget I’ve been through a war myself.”
“I never forget that,” said the president, “and the situation is not promising.”
“Can’t the French and British stop the Germans?”
“I don’t know,” replied FDR. “My General Marshall is not optimistic.”
“George Marshall is the smartest man in Washington,” said Eoin. The president cocked his head to the side. “Present company excluded, of course.” Eoin was always amused by the egos of politicians, and FDR was no exception. “So, Mister President, are you running?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you now have no choice, with another war on the horizon. And I think you’re about to win your third term in November.”
“Just between us,” the president said in a conspiratorial tone, “I agree!”
“You’ll kill Wilkie.”
“It won’t be easy, but the ‘Barefoot Boy from Wall Street’ is about to see his first big league pitching.” That got a laugh out of Eoin. “And how’s the beautiful Mrs. Kavanagh?”
“Typically restless,” said Eoin. “I think she’s tired of the nursing. She’s been at it now for well over twenty-five years. She wants to be a writer.”
“Funny enough,” said FDR, “Eleanor is looking for someone to help her out with her newspaper column. It might be a good pairing. Eleanor spends much of her time in Greenwich Village these days—heaven forbid America should hear about that!—and, of course, you two live there, too.”
“And my son is going to college in the fall,” said Eoin, “so the house will be empty. I think it might be the right opportunity at the right time.”
The congressman’s wife walked over to 20 East 11th Street, just off Fifth Avenue. She rang the bell labeled “Esther Lape” and was buzzed in. The apartment belonged to a friend. When she got to the door, there was a Secret Service man seated outside. “Mrs. Kavanagh? Go right on in.”
She was greeted by Mrs. Roosevelt, who offered her tea. “As you know,” Eleanor said in that high-pitched voice famous to all America, “I write the ‘My Day’ column six days a week, and, frankly, my dear, I need help. As you can see from the events in Europe over the last week or so, things may be getting a little more hectic.”
“I’d love to help you, Mrs. Roosevelt. It’s time for a change in my life. I’ve been nursing since I was a girl in Dublin.”
“Nursing is such a fine profession.”
“I know it is, Mrs. Roosevelt, but there are times of change in every woman’s life, and I think I’m at that threshold.”
“How did you meet Congressman Kavanagh?”
Róisín laughed. “In the General Post Office during the Easter Uprising. He was one of my patients.”
“How romantic!”
“He had a hole in his arse!”
“Don’t we all.” The two women first blushed in unison and then laughed heartily together.
“Oh,” said Róisín, “I didn’t mean it like that. He was wounded in his bottom. We fell in love over a number of years. He’s a wonderful husband and father.”
“That’s wonderful, Róisín—may I call you Róisín?”
“Of course, you may, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“And you might as well call me Eleanor.” The First Lady turned serious. “This is my ‘hiding house,’” she confessed. “I can’t stand Washington. I much prefer the Village. So it would be convenient to have someone in the neighborhood here to work on my columns and the occasional book. What are your qualifications?”
“Well,” said Róisín, “I’m Irish.”
“That does seem to be a literary advantage, I must admit.”
“I’m well read. I read almost all the New York papers every day and I love books—and, in a way, the people who write them.”
“Have you written anything?”
“No,” said Róisín honestly, “but I want to. I’ve lived in such exciting times, and I think I have something to say.”
“Good for you! How are your politics?”
“A lot more radical than my revolutionary husband!”
Mrs. Roosevelt howled. “We share the same dilemma.” She turned pensive. “I don’t know what I shall do with Franklin. He could be a much better, more progressive president.” Róisín was amused that they both thought their so-called “liberal” husbands weren’t that liberal at all. Eleanor liked this Dublin woman with the wide smile, freckled nose, and dancing, intelligent eyes, still marvelously youthful at forty-one. “You come with a very high recommendation from my husband. He thinks you’re ‘swell,’ as he likes to say. Tell you what, Róisín. Can you get a leave of absence at St. Vincent’s?”
“I think I can.”
“That way, if it doesn’t work out, you can return to nursing. But I think we’ll be fine, you and I. You are obviously a highly intelligent woman. Well, then, Róisín, should we give it a try?” And, like they say in the movies, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
38
EOIN’S DIARY
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1918
Thank God it’s over.
The papers are full of the news that the Great War ended last night on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. What that will mean for Ireland I’m not sure, but I am thrilled the carnage in the trenches is over.
The carnage in the trenches may be over, but the carnage in Dublin may just be beginning. Not surprisingly, there were great celebrations at Trinity College yesterday, with the students hoisting the Union Jack to the top of the entrance and carrying on in their usual obnoxious behavior. There were lots of jeers from regular Dubliners and quite a few scuffles around town. Róisín phoned this morning to tell me that the Mater was filled with dozens of injured Unionists and policemen. She said there were a few fatalities. And that’s only one hospital. I haven’t heard anything from Jervis Street, the Meath, or the South Dublin Union.
Mick came bursting into the Bachelors Walk office in high spirits. He was also glad the war was over—but for a different reason. “Now our work really begins!” he shouted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Elections, Eoin, elections!”
I told him Róisín had called about all the injuries that had come into the Mater. “Great work by GHQ,” said Mick. He said that most of the injuries were inflicted by Volunteers on direct orders by Dick McKee and Dick Mulcahy. “Great work by my two Dicks!” crowed Mick.
I was about to say, “Yeah, two Dicks, and you’re one big prick,” but I thought better of it.
“According to reports,” Mick went on, “there have been more than a hundred injuries and a few fatalities. The Volunteers came out without a scratch.”
But the main thing on Mick’s mind this morning were the elections. “This is the time to split from the British Empire. We’re going to have our own parliament. We’ll no longer sit with those hoors in Westminster.”
“Yes,” says I, “now we can sit with our own hoors right here in Dublin.” That got a big laugh out of Mick, but I’ve never seen him looking so happy, looking forward to the new challenge. In my bones, I have an uneasy feeling. It looks like we’ll be playing politics for a while, but I know the reality of the situation—and that reality will, eventually, be brutal.
39
As Collins climbed the stairs to the Bachelors Walk office, he could hear a female voice on a rampage.
“Fookin’ British!” said Róisín in the loudest voice she had ever used on Eoin.
“I can’t argue with that,” said Collins, as he opened the door and threw his trilby hat on his desk
and began taking his overcoat off. “With all that screechin’ I heard on the stairs, I thought yer man was pleasurin’ some Nighttown hoor.” Róisín turned beet red and was about to let Collins have it when the Big Fellow put his hand up in surrender. “Only, jokin’, Róisín,” he said, then gave her a playful faux punch on the jaw. For once, Eoin was speechless in front of his boss.
“They are so unfair,” snapped Róisín.
“Of course, they’re not fair,” said Collins. “That’s what makes them British. What, exactly, is your complaint?”
“I can’t vote in the general election.”
“And what’s the general consensus of the Cumann na mBan?”
“Connie is all upset. She wrote us from prison in England that we should make as much noise as possible.”
“Poor Connie,” said Collins in a voice that was not exactly rattling with confidence in the Countess Markievicz.
“What?” snapped O’Mahony, until she realized that Collins was needling her. With that, both Collins and Eoin burst out in laughter. “You’re a big jeer, you are, Mick Collins.”
“Róisín, love, I can’t help it. You’re too easy.” Eoin didn’t like the “Róisín, love” stuff, but he kept it to himself.
“Well,” replied Róisín primly, “I guess I am.”
“She’s a suffragette, without the suffrage,” offered Eoin.
Róisín was still peeved. “Who decided a woman has to be thirty in order to vote?”
“Probably some man,” said Eoin, helpfully.
“You bet it’s some fookin’ man.”
“How old are you, Róisín?” asked Collins.
“I’m almost nineteen.”
“Eighteen,” corrected Collins.
“How old are you?” Róisín shot right back.
“Twenty-eight,” said Collins.
“If you had my genitalia, you wouldn’t be allowed to vote either.” Genitalia, thought Eoin, there’s that word again.
“If I had your genitalia, I’d be in a different line of work!” replied Collins, getting a great laugh out of the room. “Róisín?”
“Yes?”
“Why vote once when you can vote twenty times?”
“Twenty!”
“I’m not jokin’,” said Collins. “We can get the Cumann na mBan ladies working all over the country. The victims of the famine will be voting this year!”
“We shouldn’t have any problem with this election,” opined Róisín. “The country is with us right now.”
Collins looked down at the young couple and added a dose of reality. “One, things change. Two, take nothing for granted. This is our chance. We are going to crush the British in this election, and we are going to work hard to do it. We will leave no stone unturned.” The intensity on Collins’s face was almost frightening. “This time, my young friends, Ireland will not be denied! And that’s that!”
Róisín and Eoin, paralyzed by Collins’s little speech, knew the British had, indeed, met their match.
40
Collins was a natural at electioneering. Although he liked to portray himself as only a humble “soldier,” he was, as he would prove in the years to come, a master politician.
With Eoin in tow, he hit the towns and fields of South Cork on market days, chatting up anyone who would talk with him, whether they were selling livestock or sitting in a pub. In one hamlet, he found a bunch of “ould wans,” as he called them, sitting on a bench in front of a general store. “Ah,” said Collins to Eoin, “the Banshee Brigade!” They were ancient, dressed in black from head to toe; only their wrinkled faces peeked out of their shawls. As he approached them, they were very quiet—until Collins turned on the charm.
“How are ya, missus?” he asked every one of them. “Aren’t we having fine weather, even for this time of the year?”
“We are, indeed,” one of them replied. “And what is your name?”
“I am Michael Collins, and I’m running for the Irish parliament—not in London, but in Dublin. It’s time we took control of Ireland’s future.”
“Yes,” the woman agreed. “tUasal Ó Coileáin,” she added, addressing “Mr. Collins” in the Irish, “a real Irish parliament would be a great victory for poor ould Ireland.” Collins shook her hand vigorously at the smart reply. He was sure he had the people behind him.
“I’m glad you agree with me,” he said, bent over her like a question mark and still holding her hand from the shake, their eye contact intense. “Now, remember to vote for me on December 14th. Vote for the whole Sinn Féin slate, and we’ll be rid of these British hoors in no time!”
There was, at first, silence, and Collins looked horrified that he had let the word slip by his lips. Then the women began to laugh, and, since they were enjoying his indiscretion, he burst out with his own guffaw. “You’re the bold garsún,” the old woman finally said.
“I am indeed, missus,” he said, tipping his hat as they moved on. “There’s three votes there,” he said to Eoin.
“You think?” said Eoin, with a gentle tweak. Collins gave him his famous “look,” and Eoin smiled.
Eoin enjoyed these weekend trips to Cork with Collins in November and December, for it gave him a chance to view his mentor in his natural environment. It seemed Collins knew everyone around Clonakilty. It was a pleasure meeting Michael’s sister Mary and brother Johnny, and he enjoyed their immense hospitality. Michael was the youngest of the family, and his siblings loved telling stories of the naughty Michael and his youthful misadventures. The suddenly important revolutionary tried hard to turn the conversation around but with little success. It was easy to see how much love was spent on Collins-the-boy by his adoring family.
Back in Dublin, a lot of the politicking fell on Eoin’s shoulders. Candidates had to be found and put on the ballot. Voting rolls had to be reviewed to spot strengths and weaknesses. Sinn Féin reinforcements had to be sent from Dublin to troubled precincts throughout the provinces.
Collins was particularly interested in inflicting heavy casualties on the Irish Parliamentary Party. Its leader, John Redmond, had died earlier in the year, so the IPP was rudderless. But Collins had never forgiven Redmond for offering Irish support in Britain’s war without securing the enactment of Home Rule. And to compound the felony in Collins’s eyes, the IPP could do nothing to stop the conscription bill from passing. When conscription was passed, the IPP walked out in protest. Collins wanted to turn that walk into a full running retreat. From now on, he pledged, Irishmen would not be fodder for England’s international adventures. His plan for the IPP was annihilation.
Eoin, working out of the Bachelors Walk office, was inundated with telephone calls and telegraphs from all over the country. Collins had attached a sign to the wall: VOTE EARLY, VOTE OFTEN. This time, it was no joke.
Sinn Féin volunteers were dispatched to check the parish death rolls going back to 1915. With all the confusion of the general election, it would be very difficult for local officials to keep up with who was dead and who was breathing. Collins saw nothing wrong with the dead voting to bring democracy to Ireland.
Men of voting age were told not to shave for the next month. A good beard was worth at least four votes. First, there was the full beard (vote one); then just the mustache and goatee (vote two); then the mustache (vote three); and finally the clean-shaven face (vote four). Poll watchers who didn’t go along with Collins’s plans could be neutralized by showing them a Mauser bulge. This policy was particularly important in “swing” districts where Sinn Féin would have to fight for votes. Collins was leaving nothing to chance.
When the votes were counted, it was an overwhelming victory for Sinn Féin. They won seventy-three of 105 seats and swept the country, except for four counties in Ulster. The IPP was reduced from eighty seats to six.
“Now,” said Collins to Eoin, “the fun begins.”
41
“Look what I found.”
Johnny Three held Eoin’s pocketwatch, dangling from its fob,
in front of his wife. “Where did you find it?” asked Diane. “In the last suit he wore,” said Johnny. “It was in the vest, or the ‘waistcoat,’ as he always called it.”
“Boy,” said Diane, “that’s an antique. It might be worth something.”
“It’s priceless.”
“Priceless? Why?”
“Look.” Johnny held the watch in front of Diane and opened its lid. “Look at that.”
Diane took the watch into her hand and strained to read the inscription. “I can’t see it,” she said. “Let me get my glasses.”
“You’re getting old.”
“And you’re getting close to big trouble.” Diane dropped her spectacles to the end of her nose and read:
Eoin Chaombánach, a chara,
Do chara, Mícheál Ó Coileáin
Nollaig, 1918
“What does it mean? It’s in Gaelic.”
Johnny took the watch and squinted to see the engraving. Then he read:
“To Eoin Kavanagh, My Friend
From Your Friend, Michael Collins
Christmas, 1918.”
“That’s beautiful,” said Diane, getting tearful.
“That’s a beautiful piece of history,” agreed Johnny. “No one knew about the secret to this watch but me and my grandmother. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. What was the big secret?”
“I think it was kind of the old man’s love bond with Collins.” Eoin paused. “He always carried it with him to remind him of Collins’s relentless tunnel vision.”
Diane took the watch back from Eoin, closed the lip, and kissed it. “I wish we’d never found that damn diary.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s just too heartbreaking for me.”
“Geez,” said Eoin, “I doubt it went down to easy for Grandpa, either.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Diane, wiping an eye dry. “I just wish they all didn’t have to suffer so much.”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 14