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

by Dermot McEvoy

  He took us to a flat on Barrow Street in the Greenwich Village neighborhood, which he keeps for visitors. I soon discovered that Devoy is as deaf as a haddock—and the squint of his eye told me he didn’t see very well, either. Pretty soon I was shouting at the top of my lungs at him. I told him that Mick had sent us to go over the National Loan books, that Mick wanted an accounting. Devoy told us to come down to his office at the Gaelic American newspaper, which he runs.

  He then handed us over to a young IRB man named Rory Holland, who is to be our escort around New York. “What can I show you?” asked Rory, who is from County Mayo.

  “How about the inside of a public house?” shot Róisín, drenched with sweat. Rory laughed. “What’s the joke?” demanded Róisín.

  “Prohibition is the joke.” Rory explained that they had just passed a law that made it illegal to drink.

  “You’re jokin’!” exclaimed Róisín.

  “Remember, they’ve got more fookin’ sour Protestants in this country,” decreed Rory, “than in the whole of fookin’ Belfast.”

  “At least the Orangemen like to drink,” said Róisín.

  “American Protestants have a starched Puritan strain,” explained Rory.

  “So we’re dry?” I said.

  “Not at ‘tal,” said Rory. “We new Americans think on our feet. There’s a grand new invention—the speakeasy!”

  He took us just down the street, to a little courtyard on the corner of Bedford and Barrow Streets, and knocked on the door. A little peephole opened, and then slammed shut. Then the door slowly opened. “Welcome to Chumley’s,” said Rory, and we spent the rest of the afternoon sippin’ cold draught beer in the lovely new, cool American invention called the speakeasy.

  “Remember in the 1970s, when I used to romance you at Chumley’s?” Johnny asked.

  “Yeah,” replied Diane, “you didn’t want some of your drinking buddies at the Lion’s Head sniffin’ around me.”

  “You were too good for that place. I wanted to keep your knickers pristine!”

  “You were jealous.”

  “That, too,” said Johnny, with a small chuckle. “Remember we used to double-date?”

  “Yes,” said Diane, “with Kevin Griffin—that big handsome Marine—and his Polish girlfriend, the actress.”

  “Cindy,” clarified Johnny. “Cindy had a great ass!”

  “You big moron!” roared Diane, swinging a damp dishtowel in Johnny’s direction. “What were you looking at Cindy’s ass for?”

  “Because that’s what men do!”

  “Yeah, that’s what men do—drink beer, watch baseball, and look at women’s buttocks!”

  “As American as apple pie.”

  “But,” admonished Diane, “you were thinking of cherry pie.”

  “By the time I got to you, the cherry was long gone!”

  “Incorrigible!” shouted his wife, as she dropped the towel around his neck and swiftly torqued it into a giant hug. “Just like your grandfather,” she added, with a kiss on the top of his head.

  “I wonder if they ran into Edna St. Vincent Millay?” Johnny pondered.

  “Maybe,” said Diane. “She lived right across Bedford Street during that period and drank at Chumley’s.”

  “She would fit right into Róisín’s world,” added Johnny. “The kind of woman who thought like Róisín.”

  “So,” said Diane, “how was Eoin’s accounting work going?”

  “In the inevitable direction,” said Johnny, reaching for another of Eoin’s notebooks.

  We took the Ninth Avenue elevated train down to Devoy’s office at the Gaelic American, getting on at the Christopher Street station, right next to St. Veronica’s Church near Greenwich Street. I must admit I love the El, as the locals call it. You can look in windows at people and down to the docks and see the big liners coming in. And, as we got closer to the downtown area, we had a great view of the Woolworth Building, the tallest building in the world. We got off at the Warren Street station, and Rory left us with Devoy.

  Mr. Devoy gave Róisín and me a desk, and he sat down with us. “Young lady,” he said to Róisín, “do you work for General Collins?”

  I thought we were in a real fix, but the question didn’t faze your woman an ounce. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “I am a member of Cuman na mBan, and I met Mick in the GPO in 1916. Since that time I’ve been one of his agents, mostly working out of the Mater Hospital. I helped hide Dan Breen!”

  The old man’s eyes brightened, and a slight blush came over his pale features, as if he were touched by Róisín’s magic. “You are a true patriot, ma’am.” With talk like that, he reminded me of an octogenarian Vinny Byrne! “So you’ll be helping Eoin with this accounting?”

  “On the orders of General Collins himself!” Róisín yelled out, loud and clear so Devoy could hear her, and I felt relieved.

  Devoy brought over a small box, and it was filled with bank books. “This,” he said, “is the National Loan money—in accounts all over the United States.” He explained that they had solicited $10 million and succeeded in collecting $5 million. As far as he knew, there was now less than $4 million in the accounts.

  “Where’s the missing million?”

  “The Visitor spent it last year trying to convince the Republicans and Democrats to recognize the new Irish Republic.”

  “So we’re short,” I said.

  “We are, indeed,” said a resigned Devoy. “The spending of the money,” he continued, “ought to have been available for military supplies and not in the work of disorganization here.” He paused. “But the Visitor disagreed with me.”

  “How about Dev’s expenses while he was here in America?” Devoy went into his office and returned with a folder of papers. He handed them to me, and I saw they were from some of the hotels that the president was so fond of. “Do you have an adding machine?” I added the pile up, and it came to $26,748.26—even more than I ever imagined—which I then announced to Devoy and Róisín.

  “Jesus Christ,” was all the old man could muster. Róisín’s mouth remained open in astonishment. I locked the bank books and the bills in the desk drawer and told Mister Devoy we had other business to do.

  “Won’t you get lost without Rory?”

  “We’re Dubliners,” I said proudly. “We can find our way around any city!” And, with that, we left Mr. Devoy and headed over to the Woolworth Building to do a wee bit of sightseeing.

  “Twenty-six thousand dollars doesn’t seem like that much,” said Diane.

  “In today’s money, it would probably be close to half a million dollars! That’s a lot of dough for hotels over an eighteen-month period. The president was living high on the hog. Remember, a subway ride in 1921 cost a nickel. And that’s why Collins was so upset. He’s sleeping in a different bed every night—as Eoin was—and de Valera is gallivanting around America like it’s his money.”

  “What is all the mystery over the National Loan, anyway?” said Diane. “Collins is seemingly obsessed with it.”

  “The National Loan caused Collins more grief than any other part of the revolution—and that’s saying something! Remember, without the National Loan, there is no revolution. $5 million doesn’t sound like a lot, but in today’s money, that would be $55 million. That’s a lot of Mausers, Lugers and Webleys, not to mention Thompson submachine guns. Even in insurrection, the piper must be paid!”

  “I know,” said Diane, “but this seems so unimportant eighty-five years later.”

  “Au contraire, my lovely. The National Loan money is the key to de Valera’s hold on the Irish people for more than half a century.”

  “But how could that be?” asked Diane.

  “It complicated,” began Johnny. “The National Loan, the way it was set up in the United States, to meet legal standards, was basically a gift to the de jure government of Ireland. The ‘investors’ were promised interest if there was an actual country called Ireland someday. But for the moment, it was an investment i
n good faith in the future of Ireland.”

  “So how did this affect de Valera?”

  “Well, after Collins was killed, Dev outfoxed President Cosgrave’s Free State government in 1927 and managed to get his hands on a great portion of the American loan. At that point, he managed to persuade investors to sign over their donation certificates to guess who?”

  “Who?”

  “Eamon de Valera!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, I’m not,” said Johnny, laughing. “Somehow the money of the Republic ended up in his pocket. He wasn’t even serving in government at the time.”

  “So how did that alter the political landscape in Ireland for the next half-century?”

  “He started his own newspaper called the Irish Press. It was kind of his version of Fox News—fair and balanced in favor of Eamon de Valera!”

  “This is just unbelievable,” said Diane.

  “I’m sure Collins could smell it,” said Johnny. “That’s why he obsessed over the money. That’s why Eoin is in New York. He just didn’t trust Dev—especially when there was money lying around in banks more than three thousand miles from Ireland. When Eoin gets to New York, there is already over a million bucks missing from the amount collected. Where did it go? Hotels? Travel expenses? Lobbying? Who knows? If the National Loan was a charity, they’d close it down as non-functioning.”

  “What a conniver de Valera was.”

  “Oh, by the way,” added Johnny, “did I tell you that Eoin loved baseball?”

  Rory, Róisín, and I hopped on the Ninth Avenue El and headed for the Polo Grounds, where the New York Giants play a game called baseball. Mister Devoy was supposed to come with us, but he’s not feeling well. It’s so much fun riding through the various neighborhoods of New York. The west side of Manhattan, on the North River, is predominantly Irish, with many of the men working the docks. As we went uptown, we passed through the Village, Chelsea—where the White Star Line piers are—and on into Hell’s Kitchen, the most frightening-named neighborhood I’ve ever heard of. We turned east and headed over to the Polo Grounds at 155th Street and the Harlem River. There are lots of Negroes in this neighborhood, and Rory told us it was the African capital of the world. We got off at the 155th Street station, and Rory said, “Welcome to Coogan’s Bluff!”

  I know the Polo Grounds because President de Valera gave a speech there just about the time Terence MacSwiney and Kevin Barry were murdered. It’s a very big park with a middle field that is endless. We had seats right down next to the Giants’ bench. The Giants have a big following of Irish, because their coach is a man named John J. McGraw, who everyone calls Mr. McGraw. I’m told Devoy and McGraw are friends, and these tickets are a gift from Mr. McGraw. McGraw stuck his head out of the bench—which they call a dugout here—and, when he saw Rory, he came out and greeted us. “Where’s Mr. Devoy?” he asked. He was told that Devoy was under the weather. “Well, who are your friends?” Rory introduced Róisín and me, and, when Mr. McGraw heard our brogues, he quickly said, “Will the truce hold?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “It’d better,” added Róisín.

  McGraw laughed at that and replied, “I don’t know what you do in Ireland, but if you’re friends of John Devoy, I know your work is important. Enjoy the game!”

  We watched the game in the terrific heat, and, by the end of the first go-around, called an inning, I thought we’d die out there, it was so hot. A head popped out of the dugout, and three bottles wrapped in brown paper bags were handed to us by one of the players. “Thanks, Casey,” said Rory, and the player gave us a big wink and disappeared. “That’s Casey Stengel, a backup outfielder. Good guy. Mother Irish, father German.” The bottles contained beer. I’m already beginning to like this American game, which reminds me of hurling so much. They use a bat, which is very much like a hurley stick, and a ball that looks like a hurley sliotar, but with the seams sewn neat. Lots of Irish on the Giants. There’s Rosy Ryan, Red Shea, George Kelly, Bill Cunningham, and even a fellow named Irish Meusel, who’s not Irish at all. The sun, the beer, the smell of the grass, plus a Giants win over the Boston Braves makes me want to see more baseball.

  “Look at this,” said Johnny, handing a yellowed Western Union Telegram to Diane.

  CAPTAIN EOIN KAVANAGH

  48 BARROW STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  U.S.A.

  RETURN AT ONCE TO DUBLIN.

  I NEED YOU.

  M.C.

  “What does it mean?” asked Diane.

  “It means he’s going to London, but, first, there’s a problem.”

  “With what?”

  “With Róisín.”

  “Róisín?”

  “Yes,” said Johnny, “there was a spat when he told her he had been ordered back to Dublin.”

  “What happened?”

  “She didn’t want to go.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Diane.

  “Listen to Eoin’s version:”

  When Collins’s telegram came, I told Róisín about it, and she immediately declared: “I’m not going back to Ireland.” I was speechless, I was so shocked. “You have to come back,” I finally muttered.

  “I don’t ever have to do anything,” she snapped at me.

  “What will you do here?” I asked.

  “I visited St. Vincent’s Hospital the other day,” she said. “I’m a nurse in Dublin. I don’t see why I can’t be a nurse in New York.”

  “Do you want me to make an honest woman out of you?” It was my awkward attempt at a marriage proposal. As soon as it came out of my mouth, I knew I had said the wrong thing, because she went crazy.

  “Honest!” she screamed. “I am an honest woman, and I don’t need your help in anything—is that understood?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” I told her, but that only got her hotter.

  “Don’t ever patronize me again!” she barked.

  I put my tail between my legs and said I wouldn’t—even though I don’t know what “patronize” means. I’m a dunce.

  “Oh,” said Diane, “this is so sad.” Then she gave Johnny a big smile. “But I know there has to be reconciliation.”

  “There was,” replied Johnny, “that night.”

  I was sleeping on the couch when Róisín gave me a poke with her foot. She was standing above me naked. She took my hand and brought me to her bed. “I’m so hot,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I replied.

  “Not that kind of hot.”

  “Oh,” says I.

  We made love for hours.

  “I’m coming home with you,” she finally said. She could see the joy—and relief—in my eyes. “On one condition—we come back to America when all this truce business is over. I love this place. I was made for this city. I’ve had enough of Dublin, the Church, petty politicians, and that awful Irish weather.”

  “I thought you thought it was too hot here?”

  “I’m getting used to it,” she said, giving me that dazzling smile of hers. I think we’re in love again.

  “Well,” said Diane, “I guess all’s well that ends well.”

  “You have any other clichés you want to throw at me today?”

  “Oh,” Diane replied, with a drip of her own sarcasm, “how would the great writer handle this?”

  Johnny laughed. “Not very well—as you may have noticed.”

  “So the American holiday is over.”

  “They did the work they had to do on the Loan,” said Johnny. “But their last meeting with Devoy was disturbing to Eoin. Listen.”

  I looked at the newspaper on Devoy’s desk. There was a picture of Eamon de Valera leading Arthur Griffith down a London Street on their way to a meeting with the British Prime Minister. “At least there’s hope,” says I.

  Devoy squinted down at the photo. “Look at him leading Griffith along like a Judas Goat.” Devoy allowed himself a laugh. “It won’t be long before he has Collins in lockstep behind him,
leading him to the abattoir as well.”

  “You really don’t mean that, do you, Mister Devoy?” I couldn’t believe he could really think such a thing. Devoy looked at me with that squint of his and said, “De Valera is the most malignant man in all Irish history.”

  “Judas Goat,” laughed Diane. “I haven’t heard that term in years.”

  “Leading the sheep to slaughter.”

  “Somehow I don’t see Michael Collins as a sheep.”

  Johnny grunted. “Sometimes you have to play ‘follow the leader’ in politics. De Valera is the leader. He won’t go to London to negotiate the treaty.”

  “That’s a dereliction of duty,” said Diane.

  “Yeah,” Johnny agreed, “for the second time in two years.” He drew a breath. “He will poke and connive, and Griffith and Collins will follow their Chief’s orders and trot off to London.”

  “Like lambs to the slaughter?”

  “Dev was hoping for the ‘Silence of the Lambs,’ but, again, he underestimated Michael Collins—and our grandfather.”

  “An enormous, selfless accomplishment,” added Diane, “that de Valera should have embraced.”

  “But he couldn’t,” said Johnny.

  “Why?”

  “Because it was the work of Michael Collins—and not the great de Valera.”

  142

  The R.M.S. Olympic, the Titanic’s sister ship, arrived at Queenstown, County Cork, at dawn on October 5. After disembarking, Eoin and Róisín took the train to Dublin and arrived by midafternoon. Eoin took Róisín and the suitcases to Walworth Street and then immediately headed over to the Wicklow Hotel in search of Collins. He was directed to an old address, 10 Exchequer Street.