Derek Gough-Coxe kept his eye on Sebastian Blood as the detective left the room, easy to spot with his head bandage and tapping cane. He was the man with the plan, and Gough-Coxe wanted to know more about him and his plan. “Detective Blood,” he called out. Blood stopped in his tracks to see who was calling his name. He was delighted when he realized it was Gough-Coxe. Blood stuck out his hand to shake, and Gough-Coxe suddenly realized that Blood’s knuckle was brushing the back of his hand. It was the Freemason’s secret handshake. “You are a man of many surprises,” said Gough-Coxe. Blood held the knob of his walking stick up so Gough-Coxe could see it. Gough-Coxe saw the Freemason’s “All-Seeing Eye” engraving and smiled. “Detective Blood,” Gough-Coxe said, “come and tell me all about your hostage candidate and the situation in the Dardanelles.”
63
On Collins’s orders, Eoin called both Broy and Boynton and told them to meet the bossman after work at 32 Bachelors Walk. Collins and Eoin were going over the daily intelligence brief when Broy arrived. “How’s it going, Ned?” asked Collins.
Broy threw an envelope on Eoin’s desk and said, “I thought I’d save the postage this time.” Broy hung up his overcoat and then asked, “What’s up?”
“We’re still waiting for someone,” said Collins. With that, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called out.
Brendan Boynton entered, and Broy jumped to his feet. For a second, Boynton thought he had entered the wrong office and was in the process of turning around to get out when Collins said, “Detectives! I thought you lads should meet each other.” This statement was followed by a loud Cork laugh. “Detective Sergeant Broy, meet Detective Constable Boynton.” The two men stood looking at each other for a second. “You can shake hands if you like,” Collins finally said, and the two men gave a rather reluctant and suspicious shake.
“I saw you across the room with Blood,” said Broy. “I thought you were his mate.”
“God save the King!” laughed Boynton, which prompted a smile from Broy. “Blood and I do not get along,” he said. “He’s interested in your man here,” Boynton said, pointing at Collins, “so I sent him over to you to check out the file.” Boynton paused for a second before adding, “I wish I had known about you before. I could have been more effective.”
“Well,” cut in Collins, “you know now. The time is now right for you two to know about each other. I had to be sure I could trust both of you.”
“Are there any more of your men in G-Division?” asked Broy.
Collins smiled. “Let’s get down to the business of the day—Detective Blood. What are we up against?”
“He’s a persistent prick,” said Boynton.
“Even after the beating he took the other night?”
“More so,” said Boynton, and Broy nodded in agreement.
“You should have seen him in that meeting with Johnny French,” said Broy. “Had a grand idea about how to clog up the Dardanelles.”
“His solution?” asked Collins.
“Civilian hostages,” said Boynton.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” snapped Eoin. “He’s thinking of my family.”
“How do you know?” asked Collins.
“Who the fook else in Dublin does he know?” said Eoin. “He hasn’t been in town more than six weeks, and, from reports, he’s obviously obsessed with that fookin’ barbershop. What can we do?”
“For the moment, Eoin, nothing,” said Collins. “We have to see what he’s up to.”
“He’s got the ear of the new man in town,” said Broy. “An agent named Derek Gough-Coxe.”
“Gough-Co-shay,” laughed Collins. “Another fancy-name eejit. How do you spell that?”
“G-O-U-G-H-hyphen-C-O-X-E.”
“Cocks!” roared Collins.
“Co-shay,” corrected Broy.
Collins rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe it. What’s this eejit’s story?”
“Don’t know much about him,” said Boynton. “Just in from the Middle East.”
“Middle East,” spat Collins. “When they start bringing people in from the Middle East and India, you know they are getting ready to give us a good royal fooking.” Collins got up from his chair. “Eoin, let’s find out about this Gough-Coxe, and let’s find out quick.” Collins turned to Broy and Boynton. “Find out all you can about this shite. A full rundown. Coordinate with Eoin.” The detectives nodded affirmatively. “Eoin, buckle down. We’ll have to see how this develops. Don’t tell your Da or Frank. A warning to them will only make things worse. Right now, innocence is their best weapon.” And, with that, Collins got up, threw on his overcoat and hat, and left the room, leaving his three intelligence agents to themselves.
Innocence is their best weapon, thought Eoin, rehashing Collins’s departing words, knowing full well that innocence was in short supply in a dank Dublin City awaiting what would surely be an exceptionally cold winter.
64
The Crossley tender pulled up in front of Castle Barbers, and two British soldiers entered the shop. “Joseph Kavanagh?”
Joseph, unthreatened, looked up from his customer in the chair and said, “That’s me.”
“Come with us.” Each soldier grasped the diminutive barber by an arm and frog-marched him out the front door, dressed only in his striped barber shirt against the November cold. The two soldiers lifted Kavanagh into the back of the tender, then joined him. Frank Kavanagh came to the door and stood mute, his mouth agape, as the tender pulled out and headed down Aungier Street in the direction of the South Circular Road.
Joseph Kavanagh was flummoxed by what was going on. “What’s wrong?” he asked the Tommies, but got no reply. The tender continued into Camden Street, opposite the Bleeding Horse public house, and crossed the Grand Canal by Davy’s Pub at the Portobello Bridge. As they headed into Rathmines, Kavanagh guessed that they were heading towards the Portobello Barracks, and he was right. Once there, he was marched into an office where a number of military types were milling around at their desks.
“Mr. Kavanagh,” boomed a deep voice. Joseph turned around to see Detective Blood enter the room. Maybe, Kavanagh thought, he can explain what’s going on. But there was no explanation forthcoming, only a righthanded blow to the side of Kavanagh’s head, which sent the barber reeling across the floor. Several soldiers tentatively started to come to the aid of Kavanagh, but stopped short after Blood rushed to the fallen man.
“Where’s your fucking Fenian son?” Blood demanded as he grabbed Kavanagh by the front of his barber’s shirt, straightened him up, and blasted him again, sending him flying over a desk and landing in a lump in a corner. He again rushed to Kavanagh, spun him around, then battered him in the face with his walking stick, cutting his lip and sending blood flying spasmodically onto the wall. “Where is he?”
“Francis is not a Fenian,” said Kavanagh, having trouble forming words because of the blood in his mouth. “He’s only a kid.”
“Not Francis,” yelled Blood, “Your other son. I want to know where this Eoin character is. The one who works for Michael Collins.”
Michael Collins. And with that, it became clear to Joseph Kavanagh what had happened—and what was about to happen to him and his family.
After his father’s removal, Frank Kavanagh didn’t know what to do, so he continued working in the shop. But there were no customers, and he found himself staring out the window onto Aungier Street. Then the honking started. It was long and persistent, and he’d never heard anything like it before. Frank opened the front door and looked to his left. There was a long convoy of British tenders and lorries advancing from the Portobello Barracks, obviously on their way to Dublin Castle. They were making themselves known to the neighborhood with all their honking horns. It was like they were inviting someone to throw a hand grenade. They’re asking for it, thought Frank. But he noticed that something was queer with the lead lorry. It had the one necessity that the Dardanelles demanded—the bounce-back chicken wire was firmly in pl
ace. Then he saw it. On top of the cab of the truck, there was a man strapped into a makeshift, haphazard chair. He was there for a purpose—to tell the neighborhood to lay off this convoy, or your man would pay the consequences. As the lorry slowly passed Castle Barbers, the man turned his head to the right and stared straight at Frank.
That’s when Frank realized that the hostage in the chair was his father.
“Da,” he called out, stepping out into the street. His father shook his head violently, blood spitting out from his cut lip. Then Frank saw his father deliberately mouth one word: “E-O-I-N.” He said it once, then a second time, and a third. As the lorry moved on down Aungier Street, Frank could hear laughter and realized it was coming from the right side of the lead lorry, where RIC Detective Sergeant Sebastian Blood was behind the wheel.
Frank ripped off his barber shirt, got his coat, and locked up Castle Barbers. He had to find Eoin but was clueless as to the whereabouts of his brother because Eoin was very secretive about where he worked. He knew, however, that Eoin often met up with Collins at the Wicklow Hotel, right off Grafton Street. He paused before going into the hotel, but he had no choice; he had to find his brother.
Frank stopped at the front desk and asked if Eoin Kavanagh was around. “Who’s asking?” spoke up Willie Doran, the hotel’s porter.
“I’m Eoin’s brother, Frank. It’s important I see him.”
“Wait here,” said Doran as he went into the back.
He returned within the minute and took Frank to an office where Joe Leonard, a member of the Squad, was alone. In front of Doran, Frank explained the situation with his father, and Leonard listened intently. Leonard was a fearless young man with an innate daring that had captured Collins’s heart. Although only in his twenties, he was beginning to bald, and with his prominent beak of a nose, he had the intent look of a furious eagle. “Eoin’s with Collins over in Harcourt Street,” Leonard said. “I’m supposed to meet them here within the hour. Let’s wait.” Leonard turned to Doran. “When the Big Fella arrives, send him right back here.”
“Will do,” said Doran as he left the room.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Frank,” said Leonard. It was the kind of talk you would hear around the coffin at a wake, Frank thought, and he was getting more nervous by the minute. Suddenly, Leonard stood up. “I don’t like this,” he said.
“What?” said Frank.
“Come on,” said Leonard. “Let’s scoot!”
Within seconds, they were swiftly walking up Grafton Street, heading towards the Green. “What’s wrong?” asked Frank.
“My bones,” said Leonard.
“Your bones?”
“They tell me something isn’t right.” Within minutes, they were inside 6 Harcourt Street. “Where Mick?” Leonard demanded of one of the secretaries.
“He’s over at number seventy-six.”
Leonard, Frank in tow, flew out the door, across Harcourt Street in the direction of number seventy-six. “Where’s Mick?” he demanded.
“Upstairs,” came the reply.
“Wait here,” Leonard told Frank, then climbed the stairs two at a time. Collins and Eoin were going over the National Loan books when Leonard burst in. “Let’s go,” he yelled at the two men.
“What’s up?” asked Collins.
“We’re about to be raided,” said Leonard.
“How do you know?” said Eoin.
“My bones, lad,” said Leonard, “my bones.” It was always in the bones with Joe Leonard. “Let’s get the fook out of here.” When Eoin and Collins came down to the main floor, they were shocked to see Frank. Eoin looked his brother in the eye. Neither spoke, but Frank slowly shook his head.
“Let’s go,” said Collins, realizing what was happening. Out in Harcourt Street, he hailed a taxi coming down from the railway station at the end of the road. “Vaughan’s Hotel,” he told the cabbie. As they approached number six, they could see the first tenders arriving for a raid. The taxi continued down Stephen’s Green and into Grafton Street. There was a commotion at the corner of Wicklow, as British soldiers rushed the Wicklow Hotel. “Get around that fookin’ tram,” Collins told the cabbie. The taxi swerved around a dormant tram and burst into Westmoreland Street. Within minutes, they were at Vaughan’s.
“I knew there was something wrong,” Leonard marveled. “Two raids simultaneously.”
“As if they knew,” said Eoin.
“They did,” Collins replied grimly.
65
Brendan Boynton looked up from his desk when he heard the commotion. Flying through the office door was a disheveled Joseph Kavanagh, followed immediately by Sebastian Blood.
Boynton stood up as he recognized the prisoner but couldn’t place him. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Blood.
“We’re getting close to Collins!” Blood stated with delight.
Kavanagh looked up and, for the first time, spoke to Blood: “In your fookin’ dreams!” Then the striped shirt revealed the secret, and Boynton realized who the prisoner was—it was the barber who held a razor to his throat while Michael Collins made his quick exit over in Aungier Street.
Blood wound up his cane to strike, but was stopped when Boynton slammed a flat hand into his chest. “That’s enough,” Boynton said calmly. “We’re not savages here.”
“Here’s the savage,” protested Blood, his voice rising.
“You’re both right,” Derek Gough-Coxe cut in as he marched into the room. He walked up to Kavanagh and looked him up and down like he was surveying a Nighttown whore on the make. “So this is your solution, Detective Blood?”
“It is.”
“Pathetic,” said Gough-Coxe, shaking his head as he looked at Kavanagh. “But we’ll know shortly, won’t we?”
“How?” said Boynton.
“If the bombs stop going off in the Dardanelles, that might be a clue as to how successful Detective Blood’s little plan is.” Gough-Coxe paused. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” With that, Gough-Coxe spun and left the room, late for his boat back to England.
“Well,” said Boynton, “he doesn’t exactly sound cocksure.” He kept his poker face as Blood looked at him with disgust.
“Get ready for your trip back to the Portobello Barracks,” Boynton finally said to Kavanagh. “For the foreseeable future, the Dardanelles will be your regular beat. Rain or shine, you’ll get the British Army through!” With that, Blood grabbed Kavanagh and brought him down the hall to a holding cell. Brendan Boynton, trying hard to conceal his terror, put on his coat and hat and went to look for Michael Collins.
Boynton didn’t know what to do. He had to get in touch with Collins, and he knew his best chance was through Eoin. He marched out of Dublin Castle and headed into Temple Bar on his way to the Ha’penny Bridge so he could cross the Liffey. He headed over to the Bachelors Walk address, where he sent his reports and met with Collins and Broy. But when he got there, the office was closed. Collins had been meticulous in keeping Boynton in the dark, and now he cursed that secrecy. Boynton stood in front of the office and briefly thought of contacting Broy but thought it too risky. He finally decided his only other option was to head to the Stag’s Head, where he’d had his first meeting with “Mister Kavanagh.”
At the Stag’s Head he was relieved to see that the same barman, Silent Peadar Doherty, was still behind the stick. Boynton slid into an empty snug and leaned over. “Do you know how I can get in touch with Eoin Kavanagh?” he asked.
Doherty looked Boynton up and down and then finally said, “And who would like to know?”
Boynton didn’t know if he wanted to tell him he was a Dublin Castle detective or not, but he felt he didn’t have much choice. He reached into his pocket and presented Doherty with his business card. Doherty read it but said nothing. He walked into the back room and spoke to his shopboy in a low voice. “Get on your bicycle and take this card up to Eoin Kavanagh at Vaughan’s Hotel. Ask him what we should do.”
Boynton sat
in the snug without a drink. It seemed like he was there for hours, but it was only twenty minutes later when the lad returned and spoke to Doherty. The barman came over and said, “Go to Bachelors Walk” and turned and went back to his business.
Within minutes, Boynton was there and was relieved to see not only Eoin but also Collins. As Boynton entered the office, he instinctively felt Collins’s rotten mood. “I’ve been trying to reach you, and it hasn’t been easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be fookin’ easy,” exploded Collins. “I put you in your box, and you’ll stay in your box. No one will break the cell!”
Boynton was red-faced with embarrassment and more than a bit tongue-tied. There was a heavy quiet in the room until Eoin came to the rescue. “What do you have to tell us?” he said in a very calm voice.
“They’ve brought your father to Dublin Castle.”
Eoin nodded calmly. “How is he?”
“Blood roughed him up, but he’s alright.”
“What’s Blood’s game?” interrupted Collins.
“Convoy hostage,” said Boynton. “His grand idea is to use a neighborhood hostage in front of the convoy so the lads won’t blow up the lorries.”
“Very simple,” said Collins.
“But effective,” added Eoin.
“What are we going to do?” asked Boynton.
“For the moment,” said Collins, “nothing. I have to work this out.”
“Be fast about it,” shot Eoin at his boss.
Eoin’s admonishment caught Collins squarely and forced him to smile at his young acolyte, releasing the tension in the room. Collins turned to Boynton. “Brendan,” he said, “you did well. But you should not contact me directly except in dire circumstances. I agree, this is a dire circumstance. I never sleep in the same place two nights in a row, and there’s a reason for that. Avoid Broy, and the only place you can poke your head in is this office. You can leave a message through Peadar Doherty at the Stag’s Head. But other than that, steer clear of me—and Eoin, for that matter.”
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 21