The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (11 page)

27

“
G
od bless David Lloyd George,” said Collins.

“Since when are you a supporter of the prime minister?” asked Eoin.

“Since he went totally daft and wants to implement the conscription laws. Do you know what it means?” Collins didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a dream come true for us. More recruits. More anti-British sentiment. Look, even the clergy is backing up the
Sinn Féin
agenda. I couldn’t have plotted a better plan myself.”

They were sitting in Collins’s new office at 32 Bachelors Walk, the one with the view of the Liffey and O’Connell Bridge. The new office was beginning to have a lived-in look. On bookshelves were green membership cards and copies of
The Irish Volunteer Handbook
. On the wall behind Eoin’s desk was a map of Ireland with red arrows shooting out from Dublin, indicating Collins’s recruiting drives across the country.

The papers this April 2 were full of the “Conscription Crisis,” as they referred to it. Even with America now in the war and the first Doughboys already in the trenches, Lloyd George was revving up his call for Irish bodies. The estimation was that the British were looking to recruit 50,000 Irishmen for their disastrous adventure. The law, known as the Man-Power Bill, was set to pass Parliament within two weeks. Everyone thought that, with the Americans in tow, the British would come to their senses and let conscription drop out of the political dialogue. They were wrong.

“I’m going up to 6 Harcourt,” said Collins. “We’re having a meeting on how to best exploit conscription. I hear the archbishop is even sending a representative.” He paused for a second. “Jaysus, I just hope the British don’t come to their senses! Even the Orangemen are against this.”

With that, he was out the door, and Eoin could hear his heavy feet hitting the stairs. He began cleaning up his desk. It was strewn with rail and bus timetables. In the last year, Collins had taken on the job of travel coordinator for the rebels, whom were either returning from jail in England or coming up to Dublin from the country on business. Collins soon discovered that, as the man with the tickets and the money, he could meet and greet all the men in the movement. The first person a rebel met in Dublin was none other than Michael Collins himself.

Collins may have been the travel agent, but Eoin did all the work. He knew he could get a job as a clerk at Cook’s when all this was over. Eoin needed to stretch. He got up and went to the window. It was a beautiful spring day. He could see a Guinness barge sputtering downriver under the Ha’penny Bridge, while a seagull scooped up its dinner. The rush hour had begun, and people were queuing up to catch their trams home.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eoin could see a kerfuffle going on in the middle of O’Connell Bridge. It was Collins being accosted by two men in trench coats. Eoin’s guess was that they were G-men from the DMP. Collins was resisting, but the two detectives had a firm grip on him. Then he spotted Joe McGrath, a friend of Collins, moving to intervene. McGrath’s presence seemed to calm Collins down, and the four of them eventually started walking across the bridge, headed for D’Olier Street. “Jaysus,” said Eoin aloud, “they must be on their way to the DMP HQ in Great Brunswick Street.”

Eoin’s first reaction was to search Collins’s desk for a gun. He opened all the drawers, but there was no gun to be found. Eoin was out the door and soon charging across O’Connell Bridge. As he turned into Great Brunswick Street, he saw Collins, McGrath, and the two cops enter the DMP’s grey stone building. Eoin came to a stop, trying to catch his breath. He decided to cross the street and take up a position opposite the police station while he tried to figure out what to do. As he leaned against the Trinity College fence, he became very agitated. What would the movement do without Mick? What would
he
do without Mick? Dread filled Eoin Kavanagh.

This is no way to act
, Eoin thought as he tried to pull himself together. What should he do? He had to let someone know about this. Should he head back up to Vaughan’s Hotel in Parnell Square to see if any of the lads were around? Maybe head over to Harcourt Street to see who was at that conscription meeting? Dick McKee, Dick Mulcahy, or one of the other big-shot commandants might be there. He kept thinking, hoping that Mick would come walking out of the station at any minute, joking away with Joe McGrath. But it was not to be. All of a sudden, it became clear—Mick needed a solicitor. He had to find Michael Noyek.

In a quick trot that was almost a run, Eoin rounded the front gate of Trinity and headed up Grafton Street towards Noyek’s house on Clanbrassil Street. He knew vaguely where Noyek’s house was because he had once been there with Collins. It was near the South Circular Road, so he walked in that direction. Suddenly he spotted the sign: Michael Noyek, Solicitor. Eoin rapped hard on the door, which was soon opened by Noyek himself. “They pinched Mick,” Eoin blurted out.

“When?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“Where?”

“They nabbed him on O’Connell Bridge, and they brought him to the police station in Great Brunswick Street. He was with Joe McGrath.”

“Do you have a contact there?” Eoin was silent. “Well, do you?”

“I know someone, but I don’t know if I should tell you. Mick might be cross with me.”

“I’ll be cross with you,” Noyek replied, “if you don’t tell me. We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

“Mick calls him his ‘carbon copy man,’” said Eoin. “Detective Sergeant Ned Broy of the G-Division.”

Noyek immediately picked up the phone. He told the operator the number he wanted and waited for someone to pick up. He then told them to whom he wanted to speak. “Detective Sergeant Broy? Mike Noyek here. I’m Michael Collins’s solicitor. I hear you have him in custody. What’s the charge? Making seditious speeches? You’re jokin’? You’re not. Alright, I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone, and he and Eoin headed towards the door. As he went out the front door, he kissed his hand and then placed it on a small object in the doorway.

“What’s that?” asked Eoin. He had noticed that a lot of the houses in Little Jerusalem had these little cylinders attached to the right side of their doorjambs.

“That’s a
mezuzah
,” replied Noyek as he again touched his fingers to his lips, then to the
mezuzah
. “It contains parchment from the Bible, and it serves to protect and consecrate the home.”

Eoin, imitating Noyek, touched his fingers to his lips, then to the
mezuzah
. “God bless all here!” he said, eliciting a smile out of Noyek. They got into Noyek’s car and headed to the Dublin Metropolitan Police Station in Great Brunswick Street. The apprehension showed on each of their faces. Life without Collins was unthinkable to both of them.

28

T
he hot young rebel, much to the amusement of the Royal Irish Constabulary, was cooling his heels in Sligo Gaol.

Michael Collins was arrested in Dublin for making a speech “likely to cause disaffection” in Longford and imprisoned in Sligo while he awaited bail from Dublin. If nothing else, the British knew how to use Irish geography to slow up the rebel machine.

For most of his stay in Sligo, Collins had the company of other rebels before they either made bail or were moved to another jail. It was all harassment by the British. They knew they didn’t have anything on these men, but they enjoyed disrupting the lives of the rebels and thus disrupting the movement itself.

If nothing else, the time in Sligo had given Collins the time to think about what had to be done, and done immediately, when he got out and back to Dublin. He had already started organizing the Irish Republican Army in the countryside, but he knew the war would be won in Dublin. It would be brutal and dirty, and, for the first time in Irish history, Collins was going to take the battle to the British and their spies. In the countryside. he would begin eliminating the RIC as an entity of authority, and, in Dublin City, he would systematically begin dismantling the G-Division of the DMP. They would be warned, and, if they did not leave, they would be erased as brutally and efficiently as possible.

The other thing he knew he needed was money. Collins was still figuring out how to do it, but he would have to float some kind of national loan right under the nose of the British. As Tip O’Neill, one of Eoin’s protégés in the U.S. House of Representatives, would say generations later: “Money is the mother’s milk of politics.” O’Neill was half right: Money is also the mother’s milk of revolution. Collins knew this, and he planned to protect the money of the new nation with the same tenacity and brutality that he would turn on the RIC and G-men. There was so much work to do, and here he was, stuck in gaol in the arse-end of Sligo.

“Would you like a fag?” asked a young fellow dressed smartly in an RIC uniform.

Collins got up from his bed and looked the lad up and down. “I would indeed,” he said. He walked over to the bars, stuck his hand between them, and pulled a Woodbine out of the package. He stuck it in his mouth, and the young Peeler applied the fire. “
Go raibh maith agat
,” said Collins in Irish as he blew blue smoke into the face of his nicotine benefactor, hoping to embarrass the young man.

“
Tá fáilte romhat,”
replied the copper, piquing Collins.
“
How do you like our fair jail?”

“Jail is for criminals, not patriots,” Collins said, and the young fellow smiled, as if to provoke him. “What’s your name?”

“Brendan Boynton.”

“What are you doing,” demanded Collins, “working for these fookin’ English hoors? A nice job you’ve got, spying on your countrymen. What sort of a legacy will you leave to your family, looking for blood money? Could you not find some honest work to do? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Maybe I am,” replied Boynton, capturing Collins undivided attention.

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Boynton, “I’m transferring to Dublin next week. I’ll be going to work for G-Division of the Dublin Metropolitan Police. I was hoping to meet you when I got to Dublin, but you were nice enough to make the trip up here.”

The sweet words did not seduce Collins. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m telling you the truth.”

“You’re telling me what I want to hear. For all I know, you’re nothing more than a cheap British tout.”

“How can I prove that I’m sincere?”

“Go to Dublin,” said Collins, “get embedded with the rest of the G-men gobshites, and then get in touch with me.”

“How can I do that?”

“You have a piece of paper?” Collins wrote down a name and a number.

“Ask for Mr. Kavanagh?”

“He’ll be expecting your call.”

“You can depend on me.”

“I hope so,” said Collins, hoping against hope that he would not have to eliminate the G-Division’s fresh, young Officer Boynton.

29

“
C
onscription pricks at my conscience—what’s left of it, anyway
,” Eoin wrote in his diaries.

“What’s this conscription stuff?” asked Diane. The two of them were in bed, Johnny Three naked and Diane topless. Johnny did not move in response to the inquiry. Diane’s well-placed elbow made the difference.

“Jesus,” said Johnny.

“Pay attention to me,” she demanded.

Johnny turned towards his wife and grunted out: “It’s the draft. The military draft.”

“Oh.”

Johnny looked up and spied his wife’s beautiful breasts. He liked to call them his “Criminal Pair.” They were not large, but firm and round. What made them special was that Diane’s nipples were as large as a child’s pacifier. A quick suck doubled their size. “Any milk left in those trophies?” he asked.

His query was met with another elbow. “They’ve been dry for years—as you well know, Johnny Kavanagh! For God’s sake, our kids are all in college. Of course, they’re dry.”

“I never give up hope!” He wasn’t going to give up that easily. “Would you like a mercy suck?”

“No! Don’t you think about anything but sex?” Johnny looked like a little boy whose adventure in pursuit of the “nookie jar” had gone awry. Diane had begun going through Eoin’s diaries herself, and she had many questions about Irish history and the many nuances that she didn’t understand. She was completely mystified by the Irish Civil War. “You mean the rebels finally get the British out of Ireland, and then they go to war with each other? But why?”

Johnny smiled. “Because they’re Irish!”

“Very funny.”

“It’s true.” Diane looked skeptical.

“Why does conscription prick at Grandpa’s conscience?”

“Because, in Ireland, he was against it, but, in America, he was reluctantly for it. Mostly, he was for Roosevelt.”

The lives of FDR and Eoin had been intertwined for nearly two decades. They had met for the first time in 1928 when FDR, Governor Al Smith, and Mayor Jimmy Walker were all present at the dedication of the new Tammany Hall on Union Square. All the Tammany pols were resplendent in their mourning coats and top hats. Eoin felt that the only thing missing from the ceremony was the corpse. Still adhering to Collins’s sartorial rules, Eoin was dressed in his usual three-piece blue suit. Eoin knew he was surrounded by Tammany anachronisms. If things were to change, Tammany would have to change—or become extinct.

Roosevelt couldn’t stand Tammany, but it was an election year—Smith running for president, FDR for governor—so it was time to politically kiss and make up. Eoin was there as the precinct captain of the Ninth Ward, and Walker had introduced him to FDR. “Jimmy thinks the world of you,” beamed Roosevelt, his left hand leaning on a cane and his right hand clutching his son Jimmy’s arm in what looked like a death grip. Eoin could see the pain and discomfort of Roosevelt—it reminded him of another polio victim, the crippled Seán MacDiarmada—and when he saw that million-dollar FDR smile, his admiration for the man grew. “We’ll have some ‘adult’ soda pop over at the Old Town on 18th Street after this is over,” said Roosevelt. “Won’t you come and join us?”

And join FDR he did. In the back room on the first floor of the sacred saloon, they had placed a heavy curtain for privacy. FDR was sitting there in a wheelchair, holding court, a huge martini in front of him. “Eoin,” he said with a wave of the hand, “would you like some lemonade?”

“How about a cold beer?” Eoin replied as he loosened his necktie.

“Done!” said FDR as he waved Eoin to a seat next to him.

So much for Prohibition
, thought Eoin. Over the next hour, they talked local and state politics. FDR wanted to know Eoin’s opinion on everything.

“It’s going to be a Republican year,” he told Roosevelt, not missing the irony of the statement.

“And Governor Smith?” asked FDR.

“He’s going to get killed.” Roosevelt was used to hearing facts sugarcoated, but Kavanagh shot straight from the hip. “The country’s not ready for a Catholic yet—and I doubt it ever will be.”

“How about me?”

“You’ll sneak by.”

Roosevelt laughed. “How will Greenwich Village’s Ninth Ward go?”

“The votes are counted already,” said Eoin, with a sparkle in his eye, and FDR roared in delight.

“I hear you’re an expert in vote counting.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Michael Collins?”

“Like I said, Mr. Roosevelt, the best.”

After Roosevelt’s election in November, Eoin was summoned to meet the new Governor in Albany. He returned to the Village as FDR’s eyes and ears on the ground in Tammany territory. It was a sticky situation for Eoin politically, but he had been in worse jams in Dublin. The year of 1929 brought the stock market crash, and, by the following year, the Democrats were beginning their takeover of government. In 1932, FDR ran for president. One of the unpleasant duties Eoin had during that hot summer was greasing the skids for his old friend, Jimmy Walker. The mayor was in hot water, and FDR had no intention of losing a race for president because of Jimmy Walker’s expensive lifestyle.

“Jimmy,” said Eoin, “it’s time to go.”

“But Eoin, I made you. You can’t do this to me.”

“I already did, Jimmy. Do yourself a favor and take a vacation in France.” It killed Eoin, this dirty side of politics, but it had to be done. Beau James heeded the advice and waved
au revoir
to New York for several years.

With Walker out of the way, FDR came to power heading a ticket that swept one Eoin Kavanagh into office as the representative of Manhattan’s Seventh Congressional District, running on the west side from the Battery to just below Harlem. After so many years of railing against the establishment, Eoin found himself in the odd predicament of
being
the establishment.

In August 1940, Congressman Kavanagh was summoned to the White House for cocktails. The President gave him a cold beer and cut directly to the chase: “Eoin, I need your vote on the draft bill.”

“I have problems with that one, Mr. President.”

“Because of conscription in Ireland?”

“Yes, Mr. President, because of conscription in Ireland.”

“This is different, Eoin,” the President insisted. “The British were drafting Irishmen out of their own country. We are Americans conscripting Americans. We must be prepared. Hitler is ruthless.” Eoin nodded, not giving anything away. “Do you think if Hitler invaded England that it would be good for Ireland?”

“Not at’tal,” replied Kavanagh. “We saw what the Nazis did to Poland and Belgium. How long would Eire be free? As you know, we have our own Nazi problem with the Blue Shirts. Whatever color their shirts, their politics are always pornographic.”

“Very perceptive,” agreed the President. He reached into his desk and pulled out a folder. “Unfortunately, Eoin, I have some bad news for you about Ireland. Take a look.”

The cover label was stamped TOP SECRET, and the title of the document was
UNTERNEHMEN GRÜN
. “What’s this all about?” asked Eoin.

“We got this from our military attaché in Berlin,” said the president. “It’s the Nazi invasion plans for Ireland.”

“It’s in German. What does it mean?”

“The English translation is OPERATION GREEN.”

A chill ran through Eoin as he flipped through the pages. “What’s the gist of all this?” he asked the president.

“The Nazis will land in the southeast of Ireland, in Wexford, head north, and then try and cross the Irish Sea into Britain.”

“When will this happen?”

“As soon as the Battle of Britain comes to a conclusion,” FDR replied.

“Is this a diversion to throw the British off?”

“We don’t know,” the president, admitted. “But we know the purpose of the Battle of Britain is to eliminate the RAF. That done, they should have a free hand invading Britain or Ireland.”

“That’s an insult to the Royal Navy,” said Eoin.

“Do I hear a bit of a rooting interest for the sudden success of the Royal Navy?” laughed the President.

“This is terrifying,” said Eoin. “I still have family there.” Then he went silent. “And so many of my Jewish friends would be murdered.” He thought of Bob Briscoe and Mike Noyek and shook his head. “I know what these Nazi bastards are up to since
Kristallnacht
. Thank God Rabbi Herzog went to Palestine,” he said absently.

“What?”

“Nothing, Mr. President. I was just t’inking of my Jewish friends in Dublin.”

“The Germans,” FDR continued, “will use 50,000 troops. They will commandeer their supplies from the gentry, be it food, livestock, fuel. Listen to this: They even have the addresses of all the gas stations throughout the province of Munster.”

Eoin shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I think you should be rooting for the RAF and Winston Churchill.”

Eoin gave that a knowing, empty laugh. The conversation had drifted away from the purpose of the meeting, the draft bill. “What do I get for my vote?”

The president was momentarily stunned and then threw his head back and laughed. “You drive a hard bargain. What do you want?”

“Input on Ireland,” Eoin said. “Remember, I
know
Churchill. I was there when Collins negotiated the treaty in 1921.”

“Yes,” said FDR. “I had forgotten.”

“I just want some input into what Churchill has in mind for Ireland. I don’t want Ireland invaded by the Germans—or the British. Churchill hates de Valera, and vice versa. He could deal with Collins because Mick was fearless and would make a deal. De Valera likes to let other people make the hard decisions and then play Pontius Pilate.”

“Pontius Pilate!” roared the president, sticking a cigarette in a holder and lighting it. “I will seek your input, Congressman—you can be sure of that.”

“I can be more helpful than that,” reminded Eoin. “I still have friends in the Irish government. Jack Lemass, de Valera’s minister for supplies, is an old friend and the smartest man in the cabinet. I can find out what’s really going on. I just want to keep Ireland neutral—and unoccupied.”

“Yes, Congressman,” replied the president, “neutral and unoccupied by either side, in this case, at this time, is helpful.”

On August 12, 1940, the House of Representatives voted 203-202 to pass the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940. Representative Eoin Kavanagh (D-NY)—thinking that this conscription bill might actually save both the independence of his birth country, his adopted country, and even his erstwhile enemy, Britain—cast the tie-breaking vote.

“So that’s what all of that conscription stuff is about,” said Diane to her husband.

Johnny laughed as he draped his left arm around the small of Diane’s back. “Nothing with the Irish or this family is
ever
simple! Come here, you gorgeous woman.” Johnny’s hand deftly slid Diane’s underwear down her legs, and they held together in a long, sensuous kiss.

“Do you want to take a Viagra?”

“No,” said Johnny, “I don’t think I need it tonight.”

“Grandpa would be so proud of you!” Diane exclaimed, as she worked her way on top of her husband. Johnny hung on to her buttocks for dear life.

“I feel like I’m being conscripted,” he said.