The four Irishmen were taken to the bridge, where Eoin met the ship’s master, Captain Reginald Cowgill. Eoin immediately saluted the captain, shocking even himself. Cowgill sharply returned the salute. “Captain, I’m Commandant-Colonel Kavanagh of the National Army. I have a prisoner here whom I want you to contain in your brig for the crossing. He will be picked up by Free State personnel in New York.”
Cowgill looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Of all the impertinence!” he exclaimed. “Coming on one of His Majesty’s liners at Queenstown and dictating to a White Star master.”
“Look, Captain,” said Eoin, eyes narrowing, “you are not in Queenstown anymore. You are in the ancient Irish harbor of Cobh. Right now, your ship is sitting in Free State territorial water, and, if you don’t follow my orders, you will sit right here until I say you can go. Do you understand me?”
“How dare you!”
“You’re not listening. I work for Michael Collins, and this prisoner is sailing to America under General Collins’s orders. Do you want me to get General Collins onto your business? He’s in Cork right now.” The mention of Michael Collins had the magical effect Eoin was hoping for, and Cowgill backed off. “Very well,” said Eoin, “here’s the prisoner’s papers. All is in order. Here’s his ticket and Free State passport. He is not to leave your brig until he is fetched in New York. Is that understood?” The fight had apparently gone out of the captain. Taking Frank by the arm, Eoin presented him to Cowgill. “He’s all yours.” Frank didn’t say a word, but Eoin could see he was seething. They took Frank away to the brig without a goodbye, and Eoin took in the panoramic view of Cobh Harbor from the bridge. It was magnificent. As he waited for his two soldiers to return, he noticed a plaque on the wall of the bridge. It was dedicated to Captain Smith, the master of the Titanic and former captain of the Celtic. When his two soldiers returned, Eoin pointed out the plaque to them. “Captain, I hope you’re a better sailor than that eejit.” Eoin was the only one who laughed. As he left the Celtic, he felt the weight of the world come off him with the removal of Frank. He figured the job of bodyguarding Michael Collins would be the easiest part of this trip to County Cork.
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After returning to shore, Eoin headed for the Imperial Hotel in Cork City, where Collins was scheduled to show up Sunday evening after his business at the Curragh Barracks in Kildare and then Limerick. He was expected mid-evening, but there was no sign of him. The lobby was busy with people anticipating his arrival. Free State troops were all about, but Eoin’s instincts led him to look for Irregulars, possible assassins. Eoin felt his National Army uniform was nothing but a hindrance to his security work.
As midnight approached, the lobby emptied. Two Free State sentries were behind the night desk, still awaiting Collins’s arrival. Eoin found an easy chair and slipped into sleep. His nap was soon disrupted by squeals coming from the sentries. Collins had arrived and, seeing them asleep at their posts, had grabbed them by their hair and slammed their heads together, eliciting painful howls. “Fookin’ eejits,” screamed Collins. “You two are good for nothing!”
Eoin was delighted to see that the General was feisty again. “How was the trip?”
“Educational,” said Collins, before he started coughing violently. “Fucking cold,” he said. “First my stomach, now my chest. This fookin’ country has damned near destroyed me. Let me get to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”
But by morning, he wasn’t much better. At least the itinerary for the day wasn’t too bad—mostly meetings with army brass and banking officials. The Irregulars had been getting their hands on Free State money, which was infuriating the Minister for Finance, who also happened to be the Commander-in-Chief of the National Army. “I’ll murder these fookers for stealing the nation’s wealth. I’ve even sent some bank examiners to London to put a stop to them hiding the money in accounts there. The nerve of them.”
The irony was not lost on Eoin. “Too bad we shot Alan Bell. He could have been some use to us on this.” Collins was about to respond, but a violent cough overtook him. “You should get to bed,” Eoin told him.
“Too busy. Too busy,” was Collins’s only response.
Tuesday, August 22 broke cold and gray. By 6:15 a.m., they were on the road. Collins and General Dalton sat in the back of an open tourer car, with the driver and Eoin in the front. Their itinerary was insane, thought Eoin. Macroom, Coachford, Kilmurry, Ballymichael, Crookstown, Newcestown, Bandon, Clonakilty, Sam’s Cross, Skibbereen, Rosscarbery. Even with the accompanying Crossley tender and other vehicles, Eoin felt powerless because he was in foreign territory. The streets of Dublin were Eoin’s friend; the back roads of Cork were not. He knew it was a security nightmare.
Collins was outfitted in a heavy overcoat and, despite his chest cold and dyspepsia, seemed to be enjoying himself among his own people. At every stop along the way, they entered the local pub or small hotel, and Collins would start buying drinks. He talked to everyone, often retiring into a corner with an old acquaintance. Eoin knew exactly what he was up to—he was trying to feel out intermediaries to the Irregulars. It was dangerous business, because Eoin didn’t know who he could trust. Christ, he had a hard time even deciphering the terrible County Cork brogue. He knew his Squad skills were no use down here, because they were up against some of the best Flying Column soldiers in the world. These IRA men had annihilated the Black and Tans in the field, and he knew his Webley was not in their league. Eoin also didn’t like the idea of the drink. This was business, not a hooley. But Collins kept buying, and the thankful local peasantry kept drinking.
The tour went on all day, and, as dusk fell, Eoin felt as miserable as the weather. The entourage had a motorcycle scout, who was reconnoitering the road ahead. Now, here he was, flying back towards them. They were somewhere outside Clonakilty, but they might as well have been in Timbuktu, as far as Eoin was concerned. The scout and his motorbike pulled up to the tourer car. “Trees down,” the scout told Eoin.
They advanced slowly down the road until they came to the obstruction. “Let’s clean it up,” Collins shouted to his men. “This is not an accident,” he said to Eoin, the look on his face just awful with fatigue. For the first time, Collins looked like he was a defeated man.
“No kidding,” was all Eoin could muster.
Collins heard a click, and he reached for his Colt. Eoin also drew and was shocked to see that it was only a local with a little box camera, taking a photo of the celebrity in their midst. Apparently, everyone in the county knew that General Michael Collins was visiting them this day. It was the last photo ever taken of Collins, looking vicious as he reached for his gun.
Collins lent a hand, and, in about a quarter of an hour, they had cleared the trees. They all piled back into their cars, and the slog began again as they made their way back to Cork City. At a bend, known to the locals as Béal na mBláth, sniper shots were fired on the cars. “Drive like hell!” Eoin yelled to the driver.
“No!” shouted Collins. “Stop! Jump out, and we’ll fight them.”
Eoin couldn’t believe the driver had actually stopped. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, but they had stopped on the General’s orders. It was obvious that the driver was terrified of Collins and had no intention of disobeying him as Eoin would have. “Oh, Jesus,” Eoin said, realizing they were in the eye of a perfect ambush. They all jumped out of the car, and Dalton, a decorated veteran of the Great War, took cover behind the tourer car and started returning fire. Eoin had his Webley out, but he knew it wouldn’t be of much use because the snipers were situated above them and too far away. These were country marksmen; Eoin knew he was a back-alley Dublin fighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Collins standing, firing away with his Colt. “For fook’s sake, get down!” he shouted. Then he heard a dull thud and saw Collins drop violently, as if his legs had been cut off at the knees. Eoin ran to him and put his hand to the General’s shoulder to pull him onto his back. He then saw that his hand was covered with b
lood. He turned him around and saw that the back of Collins’s head on the right side was gone.
“You fookin’, fookin’ eejit!” Eoin screamed at Collins, who was now on his back, eyes wide open, blood gushing out of the hole in the back of his head. Eoin punched him in the chest and continued to berate him. “You eejit, you fookin’ eejit! How could you? How could you?” Collins just stared at him, not seeing anything anymore. There was only one thing more the Commandant-General demanded of his young charge—a Perfect Act of Contrition. Eoin put his mouth to Collins’s right ear and spoke: “Oh my God! I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who art all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.”
The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun, as if the Irregulars knew their job was done. Eoin stood and looked down at his fallen friend. He knew his work for Ireland was over. He could tell by his tears, which would not stop.
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Róisín was late for work, and she was racing her bike as she made the turn into Westmoreland Street. As she approached Fleet Street, she realized that there was a queer quiet to this Wednesday morning rush hour. Something was wrong, and she couldn’t figure it out. As she got closer to Bewley’s, all the noise of the city just disappeared. People were standing right in front of the tea emporium. They were surrounding a sobbing Black Terry O’Neill, who was on station. The sign around his neck hawking the morning extra edition was in huge letters:
COLLINS
SHOT
DEAD.
Róisín dropped her bike in the gutter and ran towards Black Terry, whom she knew through Eoin. She looked at Black Terry and heard his wail, as if he had been possessed by a banshee. The boy stood, possessed by uncontrollable grief. “Mr. Mick is dead,” he said and kept repeating, “Mr. Mick is dead!”
Róisín embraced the lad, and soon their wails were united. She never even thought of her Eoin, only Collins. She knew this was the end. Ireland had deserted Michael Collins, and now she would desert Ireland.
160
It was impossible to move Collins’s body to Dublin over land, because the Irregulars were playing havoc with the roads and rail system. Back in Cork City with Collins’s coffin, Eoin had had enough of the indecision of the hierarchy. “We’ll take that old tub I came down from Dublin on,” he finally said. The old boat was still tied up in Cobh Harbor, and they quickly took the coffin down to the docks. Eoin was thankful to get out of Rebel Cork while still breathing. He sat alone with the coffin in the hold, trying to figure out the future for both Róisín and himself. Right now he didn’t give a fuck about Ireland.
The old tug finally arrived at Dublin’s North Wall after midnight. President Cosgrave and General Mulcahy met the boat, but the man Eoin was most happy to see was Dr. Gogarty. “Are you alright, Eoin?”
Eoin shook his head. “I should be in that box,” he said. “Not Mick.”
“No,” Gogarty chided, “stop it. Mick died the way he wanted to. A heroic death! Just like Collins, unhesitating to attack, regardless of odds. Just like Collins, to send his enemies flying before the terrible exhibition of his courage. One of constituents of courage is contempt. And Collins’s contempt for the men who turned on him was heroic!”
They were bringing the casket up from the hold. “Where to now?”
“They’re taking Mick to the City Hall for the time being,” said Gogarty. “I’ll embalm him in the morning.”
“I’ll stay with the body tonight. He shouldn’t be left alone.” Eoin thought of the hapless Conor Clune and how he and Collins had spent the night with the boy’s body before they shipped him home for burial. When they got to the City Hall, Eoin found a chair and spent the night sitting at the foot of his boss’s coffin, fast asleep.
The next morning, Gogarty arrived, and they took the body to the Anatomy School of Trinity College to be embalmed. It was difficult to see who was in worse shape, Eoin or Gogarty. This was Gogarty’s second embalmment in a week; he had also prepared President Griffith. They opened the coffin, and General Collins lay there, still clutching the crucifix they had stuck in his hands in Cork. They removed the body to an examination table and slowly began to strip it. Eoin went through Collins’s pockets and found Gogarty’s latchkey to 15 Ely Place, where Collins often spent the night. He gave it to Gogarty. “He won’t be needing this anymore.” Gogarty, a white apron covering his suit, began his gruesome work. Eoin thought about how this scene was so familiar. How many times had he spent in Dublin mortuaries with dead rebels, dressing them for their funerals so Collins could make public-relations props out of them? He thought back to that time in the morgue of the Mater Hospital, when the corpse was his own father. Eoin promised himself that this was the last time he would ever do this. A messenger arrived from the Portobello Barracks with one of Collins’s fresh uniforms. Slowly, they began to repackage the General. Then the simple casket arrived from Fanagan’s, and they gently placed the body in the box. The last thing they did was rewrap the General’s hands around his Cork crucifix.
Their first stop was St. Vincent’s Hospital on St. Stephen’s Green. There would be a viewing there until the body was brought back to the City Hall for the official lying-in-state. Crowds began to assemble, running all the way to Lower Leeson Street and around the corner. Wasn’t it something? Eoin thought. Only three weeks ago, Harry Boland lay dead in this hospital, and now it was Collins. Eoin looked at the crowd and felt better. Mick wouldn’t be alone anymore. Eoin decided to head back to the Portobello Barracks and catch some sleep.
Early the next morning, Róisín brought both Dickie and Mary to the City Hall. People were lining up to pay respects, but Eoin wanted to have a quiet moment with his brother and sister before the general public was allowed in. Eoin remembered how impressed he had been when his father took him to see Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa lie in state in 1915 and how he’d thought then that Rossa might be Ireland’s Lazarus, because he’d been dead so long but didn’t stink. Tom Clarke and Padraig Pearse had indeed performed a Fenian resurrection. That was only six years ago, but it was a century in the history of Ireland. How many dead did this country need to be free?
Róisín had fixed Mary’s hair up in a pretty bob, and she was so glad to see her big brother that she hugged him and wouldn’t let go. Then she looked into the General’s coffin and blessed herself. Now it was Dickie’s turn. He wasn’t tall enough to look down into the coffin, so he put his hands on the side of the box and pulled himself up to take a peek at the General. Eoin half-expected Collins to snap to life and say “Boo!” “Is he asleep?” asked Dickie.
“Here,” said Eoin, lifting the lad up so he could see Collins. “Yes, Dickie, the General is sleeping. He’s sleeping with Jesus in Heaven. Say goodbye to the General.”
“Goodbye, General Collins,” the child said, before adding, “and thank you.”
“Yes,” repeated Eoin. “Thank you, General Collins.”
161
Róisín didn’t go to Collins’s funeral because she was so distraught. When Eoin returned, he looked like he was going to collapse. “How did it go?” she asked.
Eoin laughed, his bitterness evident. “Like all Fenian funerals, it was a grand success. All had a grand time, excluding the corpse.”
“How did Kitty Kiernan hold up?” asked Róisín.
“I thought well, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Well,” began Eoin, “Lady Lavery showed up from London dressed all in black—like she was the widow woman or something.”
“Jesus,” said Róisín, shaking her head.
“But there’s more!”
“Guess who else showed up draped in black?” Róisín had no idea. “Lady Deametrice!”
“Go ‘way!” said Róisín. She knew all about Collins’s “London Lad
ies,” because Eoin had told her the stories. “Did she bring her bosoms?”
Even Eoin, on this terrible day, had to smile. “Handsomely displayed under black mourning lace!”
“Some people have no shame,” said Róisín, and Eoin knew she was right on the money. “Were you a pallbearer?”
“Not even that,” replied Eoin. “They had me bodyguarding General Mulcahy and President Cosgrave. They’re all afraid they’re next.”
“I don’t blame them.”
“I did have a nice chat with Dick Mulcahy,” said Eoin, as he opened the tunic on his uniform. “He wants me to continue on in the same position, working for him now that he’s the Commander-in-Chief of the National Army.”
“Oh, God,” muttered Róisín.
“But I heard there’s a few jobs open in America, in New York. Diplomatic jobs.”
“I don’t care if it’s a charwoman’s job,” shot Róisín. “Anything to get out of this godforsaken country.”
“I put in for the job,” continued Eoin. “I think I can get it. And we can get the hell out of here.” Róisín rushed to him, giving him a big kiss and holding him closely, hoping for some relief from the terrible torment she was feeling. First Eoin took off his holster and his Sam Browne belt. Then he began peeling off his uniform. “This is the last time I’ll ever wear this fucking thing,” he swore.
“Let me help you,” she said, as she began unbuttoning his tunic. Then she undid his buckle, and his pants dropped to the floor. After the boots came the socks. Then she jerked his underwear down. She rubbed his flat belly and he began to stir. “I think I was just saluted!” said Róisín, and they both laughed.
The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Page 53