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

by Dermot McEvoy

  “Oh, you poor thing,” said Diane, gently touching Johnny on his chin. “You seemed to survive.”

  “As did their marriage,” said Johnny. “Even after Eoin retired from Congress in 1964 and went to Dublin to serve in the Dáil, they remained close. Grandpa wore out Aer Lingus flying back and forth between Dublin and New York.”

  “Why didn’t Róisín go to Dublin and live with him?”

  “Well,” said Johnny, “to be honest with you, Róisín wanted nothing to do with Dublin—or Ireland, for that matter. She felt it was a century behind the times, and she thought there was something special happening in New York in the 1960s and ‘70s. She was also pissed that they banned all her books!”

  “She held a grudge!”

  “Of course, she did. She was Irish, wasn’t she? That’s why Grandpa and I were always running around Dublin alone together when I was a teenager. He taught me so much.”

  “I wish he were here again,” Diane remarked wistfully. “There is so much I want to ask him now. You only think about stuff after people die.”

  “What did you want to ask him?”

  “Oh,” said Diane, “why he quit Congress and left America. It seems to me that that was a very outrageous thing to do for a man in his mid-sixties.”

  “As outrageous as joining a revolution on the spur of the moment?”

  “Almost as outrageous,” laughed Diane.

  “I actually know the answer to that,” said Johnny. “You know Grandpa was mentor to a generation of Democratic politicians in the House for nearly thirty years. Guys like JFK and LBJ. He liked all of them, especially JFK. And when Kennedy got shot, it took something out of Grandpa.”

  “It might have also reminded him of his job in the Squad—and of Collins,” said Diane.

  “Absolutely,” Johnny agreed. “Then the civil rights movement came along under LBJ, and Bobby Kennedy was still Attorney General. Grandpa had to marshal those votes in the House because he was a whip. He saw how divisive the whole thing was and, of course, there was the Vietnam War coming down the chute. Grandpa had a great sense of history, and he knew it was time to get out, to go back to Ireland and maybe finish Collins’s work in some way.”

  “He was a truly amazing man,” Dianed said. “But this shooting stuff really gets to me. I can’t believe Grandpa could do something like that.” Diane paused and then quietly asked, “Did he shoot anyone else in 1920?”

  “No comment!” laughed Johnny. “Let’s just say, for now, he helped send several on their way!”

  “It’s not funny.” Diane took Johnny’s hand. “Now don’t lie to me. Did you have any clue that Grandpa was a gunman?”

  “In all my years with Grandpa and his cronies,” said Johnny, “I only heard one story, and that was from Speaker O’Neill, another of the old man’s protégés.”

  “What happened?”

  Johnny began the tale of Big Haley Bourbon, the Democratic congressman from Biloxi, Mississippi. Haley was six-feet-four and 325 pounds. He always wore white linen suits that looked like they had been purchased from Sidney Greenstreet’s estate. Bourbon had rotted Bourbon’s insides—he even got red in the face peeing. The odds of him bursting his guts were running three-to-two against his guts. He was great pals with Mississippi Governor Ross Barnett and Alabama Governor George Wallace. He was staunchly against the civil rights movement, saying, “The negras of Mississippi never had it so good!”

  “Well,” said Big Haley—a liquid lunch making him feel invincible—as he spied the diminutive congressman from Greenwich Village, “if it isn’t the nigger-loving, homo-loving Democratic whip from Nude Yawk Shitty!”

  It had been a hard week for Eoin Kavanagh, counting LBJ’s votes and trying to get the Civil Rights Act of 1964 through the House. He had had enough.

  The color drained out of Eoin Kavanagh’s face. He walked up to the southern congressman, who towered over him. He grabbed Haley by his necktie, and as he jerked it, he kicked the congressman’s leg from under him. The thud of the congressman hitting the marble floor could be heard throughout the Cannon House Office Building. Eoin was still holding Haley’s tie as he bent over him and whispered in his ear, “You’ve heard that stuff about me being a gunman in the IRA? I was. Don’t fuck with me. One more at my age won’t make any fucking difference. You understand me, shithead?” With that, he let the Mississippi congressman slump to the floor and walked away, Tip O’Neill in tow.

  “That’s unbelievable,” said Diane.

  “Not really,” said Johnny. “Grandpa was such an even-tempered man that people are always shocked at the idea that he could be tough or even violent. He had his boiling point—and God help the individual who brought him to that boiling point.”

  96

  EOIN’S DIARY

  My briefing with Collins took place tonight at the Wicklow Hotel.

  I arrived about half-six, and Willie Dolan, the porter, indicated to me that the Big Fellow was in his back room on the first floor. I had just settled down at the desk and opened my attaché case when Joe Leonard came bursting through the door. “Get up!” he shouted. “The G-men are on the march along Exchequer Street.” We jumped up and ran out into the lobby. “Follow me,” said Joe, and we all went up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  When we got to the top floor, we headed straight for the skylight. Collins hopped on a table and went first. I got up on the table, tossed my attaché to Collins, then went through the skylight with a boost from Leonard and Mick pulling me through. Joe was next, and, with a leap, Mick and I pulled him through. “This way,” said Joe. This was Joe’s escape plan, which he had planned well in advance. Anywhere Collins frequents has an escape plan.

  Mick went to look over the edge of the roof. “For fook’s sake,” said Joe, “come on!”

  “There’re two cars of G-men down there, and a tender of Tommies,” said Collins, chuckling. I think Mick loves this stuff, but I was about to wet me pants. Joe began to lead us up over the roofs of Grafton Street. “Where are you going?” asked Collins.

  “Away from them,” said Joe. “To Suffolk Street.”

  “Oh, fook that,” said Mick. “I want to go out on Wicklow Street.”

  “You’re daft!” spat Leonard.

  “Come on this way,” said Mick, pointing to the roofs along Wicklow Street. “Let’s have some fun!”

  Joe, looking like he wanted to take a dive into the street, took us along the buildings until we were about five buildings down from the hotel. We followed him down the stairs and came out on Wicklow Street. As we hit the street, a limousine of G-men pulled up. Mick calmly surveyed the scene, then took out his silver cigarette case, withdrew a fag, and lit it. He went right up to one of the detectives and asked, “What’s going on here?”

  I spied Boynton, and, as soon as he saw Collins, he started staring into the ground. “We’re after Collins!” replied the G-man.

  “Smoke?” said Collins to the G-man.

  “No thanks,” came the reply.

  “I hope you get the gobshite Collins!” Mick said heartily, as he winked in Boynton’s direction. Then, with a great laugh, he said, “Let’s go to the Stag’s Head.” As we walked along Exchequer Street, he asked, “Who knew you were coming here tonight?”

  “Tobin,” I replied. “Who did you tell?”

  “No one.”

  “Well,” said Leonard, “someone bloody well knew.”

  We went upstairs to the Stag’s Head parlor and tried, for the second time, to get down to business. “Tonight, we were lucky,” Collins admitted.

  “We’ve had tough luck at the Wicklow Hotel recently,” I added quietly. “Vaughan’s is much safer.”

  Collins stared at me. “You’re like me, Eoin. You don’t believe in ‘tough luck,’ do you?”

  “You make your own luck,” I finally said.

  “What bothers you about the Wicklow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But something does?”

  “Yes.”
/>
  “Well,” said Collins, “work it out. I’m tired of climbing through skylights.”

  97

  After his meeting with Collins broke up, Eoin returned to Crow Street and retrieved Sebastian Blood’s file, took out his photograph, and placed it in his coat pocket. He then headed over to Exchequer Street, where he spent the night sleeping on the couch, still dreaming of his father’s tormentor.

  The next morning, Eoin phoned Dublin Castle. “Meet me at the Palace Bar in Fleet Street at five o’clock,” he told Brendan Boynton.

  As soon as Boynton joined Eoin in the snug at the end of the bar, the questions began. “How did you find out about Collins being at the Wicklow Hotel last night?”

  “One of the Sheik’s tipsters called him,” said Boynton.

  “What time?”

  “About half-six.”

  “That late.”

  “We were all about to go home when Gough-Coxe rounded us up, called the army, and scooted to Wicklow Street. I almost shit when I saw Collins.”

  “I beat you to it,” said Eoin, as he took the first sip of his porter.

  Eoin didn’t say a word as he stared straight ahead. The crowd was beginning to drift in from the Irish Times in D’Olier Street, and the bar was beginning to fill up. “What’s bothering you?”

  “I’m worried about the Wicklow Hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many ‘coincidences,’” said Eoin.

  “And you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Find out the Sheik’s tipster.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I might,” said Eoin, “but I’m not sure. Let’s work on this from both our sides. Whoever the tout is, he’s very, very dangerous.” With that, Eoin took one more gulp of porter and hit the door.

  Eoin took the direct route to Vaughan’s Hotel, right up Sackville Street to Parnell Square. He decided that he was going to check all the hotels that Collins was known to frequent. Vaughan’s was still Joint Number One, and it drew G-men to it like flies to shit. When he went through the lobby door, he was greeted by Christy Harte, the hotel’s porter. “Can I have a word with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “In private.” Christy Harte was IRB, and he was trusted implicitly by Collins and his comrades. He managed a very ticklish situation at Vaughan’s, leading the G-men and their touts on a merry goose chase searching for Collins and his cronies. They went into a back room, where suitcases were stored, and Eoin pulled out his picture of Sebastian Blood. “You ever see this boyo?”

  Harte looked at the photo and laughed. “Indeed,” he said. “Just another eager G-man.”

  “Another?”

  “Oh, they come around here all the time, snooping for Mick and the other lads. I can handle them.”

  “What did this guy want you to do?”

  “Oh, he wanted me to be his snitch,” said Harte. “To call him when Mick or the other big shots came in. Offered me pounds and pounds.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that Mick was hanging out at the Munster Hotel over in Mountjoy Street.”

  “Which he wasn’t.”

  “Not for a while, at least,” laughed Harte.

  Eoin took out Blood’s notebook. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “‘Williewick’? Not at ‘tal.”

  “How about this one?” Eoin said, pointing out “vchrist.” Harte laughed. “Well,” he said, “would that be me?”

  “You?”

  “Vchrist. Christy at V. V for Vaughan.”

  “Jaysus,” said Eoin, it all becoming clear.

  “Was I of any help?”

  “More than you’ll ever know.”

  “I think I know who ‘williewick’ is.”

  “Then you’re a better man than I am, Eoin,” said Liam Tobin.

  Eoin placed Sebastian Blood’s notebook on the desk. “Vchrist is Christy Harte up at Vaughan’s. Christy identified Blood from his photograph. He said that Blood tried to recruit him to inform on Mick and the lads.”

  “Christy’s smarter than that,” said Tobin.

  “The G-men, and many an eager freelancer, are always hanging around Vaughan’s,” Eoin explained. “Christy knows how to sort them out.”

  “So how does that help you with the Wicklow Hotel?”

  “If ‘vchrist’ is Christy, who do you think is ‘williewick’?”

  Tobin paused. “Willie Dolan?”

  “Of the Wicklow Hotel.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I think Blood passed Willie onto the Sheik.”

  “What does Boynton say?”

  “He knows nothing about anything. The Sheik is keeping this one to himself.”

  “What now?”

  “Let’s set a trap.”

  “Maybe we should get Mick’s approval?”

  “Not yet,” said Eoin. “Let’s talk to the Big Fellow after the trap is sprung.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow,” Eoin decided. “I’ll set it up with Boynton. Tell Mick to steer clear of the Wicklow and the whole area from there to the Castle.”

  98

  Eoin caught up with Joe Leonard and Vinny Byrne at the Monico Pub on Exchequer Street. The pub was a favorite of Collins’s, who had another office around the corner at 3 Andrew Street.

  “What’s so important?” Leonard demanded, impatient as ever. Eoin had called both Leonard and Byrne to the meeting because they used the Wicklow Hotel more than any other members of the Squad.

  “Remember Blood’s notebooks?” Eoin asked. Leonard nodded. “I figured out who ‘vchrist’ and ‘williewick’ are.” Leonard looked intensely at Eoin. “‘Vchrist’ is Christy Harte up at Vaughan’s.”

  “A sound man,” chimed in Leonard.

  “And ‘williewick’?” interjected Vinny.

  Eoin paused before answering. “I think it’s Willie Dolan at the Wicklow.”

  There was a moment of silence. “That’s hard to believe,” Leonard said slowly.

  “But the perfect cover, isn’t it?” put in Vinny.

  “There have been three close calls there in the last six months,” began Eoin. “First, there was the time Frank came looking for me. You thought something was fishy.”

  “I did, indeed,” replied Leonard.

  “Then there was that time we tried to get Johnny French coming out of Trinity College. He never showed up, but the G-men and the army did. Mick’s tout turned out to be Willie Dolan himself. And then there was the incident the other day.”

  “How can we be sure?” asked Leonard.

  “We’ll set a trap. Remember how they almost got Collins the other night? I’ll tell Willie that I’m going to meet Mick at two o’clock, and we’ll see if the G-men come a-prancin’. There is no danger to anyone here. Mick is steering clear of the area. If Willie doesn’t call the Castle, he’s in the clear.”

  “Ah,” said Vinny, “but what if he calls?”

  “Then this becomes a job for the Squad.”

  Very casually, Eoin went into the lobby of the Wicklow Hotel at half-one and buttonholed Willie Dolan. “Get the back room ready, Willie, the bossman will be here at two o’clock for a meeting with the lads.”

  “Mick?”

  “Himself, indeed,” said Eoin. “I have to fetch some papers up in Harcourt Street, but I’ll be back in plenty of time.” With that, Eoin walked out of the hotel and headed up Grafton Street. Half a block later, he backtracked and stationed himself with a good view of the hotel and Wicklow Street. Then he waited. As the clock ticked closer to two o’clock, he noticed a car stop at the corner of Duke Street. Four men in trench coats sat inside. In the distance, he could see another limousine on Exchequer Street. Same thing. Four trenches without movement. Eoin pulled his pocket watch out of his vest by its fob and saw that it was almost two. He inched back into the doorway and continued watching. Neither car moved. Two o’c
lock came and went. He kept an eye on the automobile at the corner of Duke Street. He pulled his watch out again. It was two-fifteen. The car in Duke Street started up quickly, and the other car down on Exchequer followed suit. They both pulled up with a screech, making an inverted V at the doorway to the Wicklow Hotel. All eight G-men jumped out and headed inside. Eoin noticed one of them was Brendan Boynton. Willie Dolan had signed his own death warrant.

  99

  Róisín was reading a book on her sofa when she heard the key go into the lock and turn. The door opened, and there stood Eoin. “I thought you’d be showing up.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and gave her a tired smile. “How did you know?”

  “Because of what happened at the Wicklow Hotel on Tuesday,” she replied, as she went into the kitchen to retrieve the Irish Times from earlier in the week. She held it up for Eoin to read: SLAUGHTER AT THE WICKLOW HOTEL. “This your handiwork?”

  Eoin grunted. “Yes and no.”

  “That’s like saying Willie Dolan is only a little bit dead.”

  “He had it coming. He was informing for Dublin Castle.”

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “No,” said Eoin in a quiet voice. “I just set it up.” He took the newspaper out of Róisín’s hand and looked at the headline that everyone in Dublin was still talking about. “The next boyo I’m going to shoot is the eejit who keeps writing these headlines!”

  He plopped down on the sofa. Róisín sat down next to him and took his hand. “Are you alright?”

  “No, I’m not alright. How’d you like to make a living by murdering people?”

  When Eoin and Tobin told Collins about Willie Dolan, he was livid. “I’m going to kill him myself—with me bare hands!” he said.

  “Now, Mick,” said Tobin. “Just let the lads handle it.”

  Collins calmed down and finally said to Eoin, “How did you know he was the snitch?”