The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (54 page)

“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 in 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

T
he 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.

Eoin walked down Wicklow Street into Exchequer and entered number ten. He went to the top floor and opened the door. The Minister for Finance looked up and said, “Nice of you to finally show up.”

“And hello to you, too,” Eoin replied. “Looks like we’re back where we started.”

“The circle goes round,” said Collins. “This office was empty. We were still paying rent. So I commandeered it. I’m left alone here.”

Eoin looked around at the familiar surroundings. “It seems like a century since 1917.”

“It has been a century,” replied Collins. “At least for Ireland.”

“It’s here you hired me,” reminisced Eoin. “You gave me your cufflinks. We planned Thomas Ashe’s funeral right here.”

“That’s all ancient history,” Collins chided, always looking forward. “So, how did you two like America?”

“Róisín loved it. I had trouble getting her to come back to dear ould Ireland.”

“She’s a smart girl,” replied Collins. “If you had any brains at all, you would have stayed with her in New York. What did you find out about the Loan?”

“It looks like there’s about $1,500,000 unaccounted for.”

Collins grunted. “Marvelous.” Eoin could see that Collins was his cynical self, but he seemed distracted. “How’s Mister Devoy?”

“Old.”

“Does he still have his marbles?”

“More than he needs.”

“What does he think of Dev?”

“He hates him.”

“A wise ould Fenian, I think.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So,” Eoin pressed, “why did you call me back?”

“The president has decided that I should go to London with Griffith to negotiate the treaty with Lloyd George.”

“How did this come about? When I left for America, you were in Dev’s doghouse.”

“Doghouse!” sniffed Collins. “With Dev, Brugha, and Stack, it was like the fookin’ Spanish Inquisition around here.”

“What did you expect? You are, after all, a Fenian heretic.” Eoin gave a small laugh, and Collins looked at him, exasperation painted on his face. “I’m going to London because the Chief likes to lecture.”

Collins was referring to the summer of 1921, when the British Prime Minister and the erstwhile schoolmaster did not get along. “Negotiating with de Valera,” Lloyd George had said, “is like trying to pick up mercury with a fork.”

On hearing this, the president of
Dáil Éireann
responded: “Why doesn’t he use a spoon?”

“These two eejits are having a pissing match,” said Collins to Eoin, “so I end up having to go to London with Griffith. They can take their fookin’ fork and fookin’ spoon and shove them where Jack stuck the rusty shilling!”

“I take it,” Eoin said, after a long pause, “that that place might be a dark place?”

Collins stared hard at Eoin before breaking out in a guffaw. “Only darker place,” Collins roared, “is my heart!”

“I still don’t understand,” Eoin added, “why Dev won’t go to London.”

“Well,” said Collins, a touch of exasperation in his voice, “Dev is claiming that as ‘president,’ he is superior to Lloyd George, who is only a ‘prime minister.’”

“What?”

“He would only go to London if Lloyd George agreed that he was the superior official. The prime minister, of course, said ‘no,’ and I don’t blame him.”

“I’m still trying to figure out,” said Eoin, “how the
Príomh-Aire
became president in the first place.”

“No one else knows, either,” said Collins. “He’s apparently made himself head-of-state too. He’s a combination of king and prime minister. Poor Lloyd George didn’t have a chance!”

Eoin was forced to laugh. “But what does all this have to do with me?”

“I want you to come with me to London as my
aide-de-camp
.”

“Your aide-day-what?”

“My bodyguard, you hopeless eejit.”

Eoin smiled. “Whatever you say, Commandant-General.”

Collins finally smiled. “I missed your cheek.” Collins gazed down at the floor and then finally looked back up at Eoin. “I have a bad habit—I visit my nastiness on my best friends.” Eoin nodded, a stern look on his smooth face. “What’s the matter?” asked Collins.

“Something Devoy said to me.”

“What?”

“He said that de Valera was leading you and Griffith to London like a Judas Goat.” For a moment, Collins did not speak. Finally, Eoin asked, “Do you t’ink he’s right?”

“Someone has to go and negotiate this thing,” said Collins. “It takes two to dance, and it takes two to negotiate.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s my duty.” Eoin stood mute. “What do
you
think?”

“I t’ink the second mouse gets the cheese.”

Collins stared long and hard at Eoin and then grunted, for he smelled a rat.