The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (8 page)

18

“
S
ometimes it skips a generation. Love, that is.”

That’s what the old man wrote about his relationship with his son, Eoin Jr., Johnny Three’s father. Now, as Johnny sat alone at the dining-room table, Diane and Bridie started packing away his grandfather’s earthly possessions. Dishes rattled and pots clanged, as if wondering where their old master was.

“Git rid of the house as soon as possible when I’m dead,” the old man had told Johnny on his last visit to Dublin in the summer of 2006. “The hoors in the
Dáil
, the banks, and the real estate industry will be swimming in shite over their heads very shortly.” Johnny was heeding the old pol’s advice, because Eoin Kavanagh had learned the facts of economic life from Michael Collins himself. The old man had looked at the “Celtic Tiger” and was fond of quoting Joseph P. Kennedy, the president’s father, who pulled all his money out of Wall Street two months before the 1929 crash. “This is too good to be true,” Kennedy had said, and he was right. Deputy Kavanagh, TD, felt the same way about the Irish economy. “I’m watching 30-year-old imbeciles,” Eoin had commented, “a generation removed from some fookin’ bog, referring to themselves as ‘real estate entrepreneurs!’ Holy Jaysus protect us!” Eoin had winked at his grandson. “They’ll soon be trading in their iPods for iHods!” Deputy Kavanagh was the hippest centenarian in the world. Johnny would feel better when the cash from the house sale was in his pocket.

“Sometimes it skips a generation. Love, that is.”

In amongst all the papers about the revolution, Collins, and his grandfather’s time in America, Johnny had found these handwritten notes about his father. Eoin Kavanagh and his only child, Eoin Jr., were complete opposites. Eoin kept his nose to the ground and ground it out. Young Eoin—somewhat like his Uncle Frank—thought of himself as a playboy, romping around New York and Washington with young Jack Kennedy and FDR Jr. The three were Navy veterans of the war and liked to drink and chase skirts. At least Joe Kennedy set Jack up in Congress, while young FDR drifted, never making much of his life. “I kept telling my son that I am not a millionaire,” he told friends. “I actually live on my congressman’s pay. Unlike Jack Kennedy and young Frank Roosevelt, my son does not have a trust fund to fall back on.”

“
I almost curse the day Eoin was born
,” wrote the old man. “
He has done nothing but break the hearts of his mother and me. The only good thing to come out of his conception was Johnny Three
.”

Diane heard a groan and peeked in from the kitchen. “Are you okay?” Johnny nodded, and Diane went back to her packing. He knew Diane tried, but she just couldn’t understand the Irish.
Christ
, thought Johnny,
the Irish don’t understand themselves
. There’s an old New York joke: Italian first cousins are closer than Irish identical twin brothers. And it’s true. The innate suspicion bred into the Irish over centuries of domination and poverty is not easy to eradicate. There is always that need to be suspicious—even of the ones you love. It’s not purposeful.

After a rocky early childhood, his grandparents had been Johnny Three’s salvation. By the time he was put in his grandparents’ charge at age ten, his father was on his third wife, and his mother had run off with her Mexican gardener. Both would be dead within five years from the drink. “Conceived in Ireland,” Eoin would lament, “and murdered by America.”

His grandparents had treated Johnny as if he were their own. They lived at 45 Christopher Street in two large apartments pulled together. The flat overlooked Sheridan Square and Christopher Park, and it was the liveliest street in Greenwich Village. The Stonewall riots happened just next door, the Lion’s Head writer’s saloon was just down the block, and on the corner were the offices of the
Village Voice
.

Eoin Jr. loved that his father was an influential congressman, but he wanted nothing to do with the process. In the beginning, Eoin dragged young Johnny to his Sunday political meetings at churches, synagogues, soup kitchens, and senior-citizen centers. Eventually these pilgrimages became a vital bonding ritual between Johnny and his grandfather. They wandered from the Village up into the Upper West Side—the full length of the congressional district. Johnny loved to watch Eoin work the crowd. He noticed that his South Dublin accent grew more pronounced the closer it got to Election Day. The old man knew how to pour it on, especially in the Irish-packed Village, Chelsea, and Hell’s Kitchen.

Of course, his grandfather’s congressional seniority had its perks. Any day of the week, there might be a visitor like Senator John F. Kennedy or a very elderly Eleanor Roosevelt, who came over from her home on Washington Square for dinner one Sunday night. In the 1960s, you might have seen Norman Mailer, Pete Hamill, and Joe Flaherty, fresh from the
Voice
office, arguing over drinks, or you might be serenaded by the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem before they got down to some real drinking at the Lion’s Head. And it was a treat watching Eoin and union leader Mike Quill swap lies over Irish coffee.

His grandmother had her own clique. She worked for years as a nurse at St. Vincent’s Hospital and gained some notoriety for her first book,
GPO Nurse
, which de Valera had banned in Ireland because of its deadly portrait of him and the Church. Dublin Archbishop John Charles McQuaid had denounced her from the pulpit of the Pro-Cathedral, making
GPO Nurse
the premiere souvenir that the Irish brought back with them from England and America.

Her next book,
Fenian Woman
, had become an early feminist manifesto on both sides of the Atlantic and, by the late 1960s, had attracted a coterie made up by the likes of Germaine Greer, Kate Millet, Betty Friedan, and Gloria Steinem.

As Eoin’s legend had it, he first came to America on a diplomatic passport from the Irish Free State. Eoin did not agree with the policies of W.T. Cosgrave, the Irish President, and Kevin O’Higgins, the Minister for Justice, who, together, had taken draconian measures against those who opposed the Treaty. Eoin believed that they were murdering hundreds of Ireland’s future leaders and opening political wounds that would take more than half a century to heal. Róisín was already working as a nurse at St. Vincent’s when Eoin resigned from Ireland’s American delegation and, being an unemployed revolutionary, found himself working as a “super” in the Village, cleaning houses and taking out people’s garbage. For someone who had been working at Collins’s elbow at 10 Downing Street only a few years before, it was a strange beginning to an American political career.

Eoin knew the Village inside and out. On nearby Gay Street, he would point out building number 12 to the school-aged Johnny and remind him that his first American political mentor, Mayor James J. Walker, lived there. He was shoveling snow early one morning in 1924 opposite Walker’s house when New York City’s future mayor returned from a night on the town after dropping off his girlfriend, Betty Compton, just across the street. (Mrs. Walker, by the way, was safe and sound in her brownstone over at 6 St. Luke’s Place. Beau James was a master at domestic bliss.)

“Good mornin’, Senator,” said Eoin to the president pro
tempore
of the New York State Senate.

As Walker descended from his chauffeur-driven black Dusenberg, decorated with an embarrassment of chrome, he jerked his head at the sound of the Irish brogue. “Good morning to you,” he said with a big smile and a tip of his top hat before slamming his front door behind him. Suddenly the door to number 12 opened a peek. “Would you like a cup of tea—or perhaps a wee drop of the
crather
?” Walker called across the street. It was a little early in the morning for drink, but Eoin was not about to pass up such a prime opportunity. He slammed his shovel into a snow bank and bounded into the senator’s small townhouse. Walker poured Eoin a teacup full of Irish whiskey and then one for himself. “Bottoms up,” he said.

“
Sláinte mhaith
,” replied Eoin, as he dropped the whiskey in one gulp. The warmth settled snugly in his chest. “It protects against the New York City winter.”

Walker laughed. “So what do you think of our fair city?”

“What kind of a country is this that would deny a man a drink?”

“Rule one,” replied Walker. “New York City is not America. Rule two, New York City is the world. America the country still celebrates the Puritans!”

“Puritans and Prohibition. They must love bootleggers!”

Walker laughed. “A most humorless group—the Puritans I mean. What do you like most about America?”

“Modern dentistry,” replied Eoin, and Walker laughed harder, knowing the Irish and their bad teeth. “Where do you fit in?” Walker raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t seen many of those in New York,” Eoin said, pointing at the mayor’s spats.

Walker realized this was not your ordinary Village super. “Are you a registered Democrat?”

“I’m not even a citizen yet.”

“We’ll take care of that,” said Walker.

“I was a Republican in Dublin,” laughed Eoin, “but I guess I’ll be a Democrat in New York.”

“What did you do in Ireland?”

“We were in the same racket,” Eoin replied.

“How so?”

“I worked for Mick Collins.” A smile brightened Beau James’s rogue of a face, and a beautiful friendship was born.

“
Sometimes it skips a generation
,” said Johnny aloud. “
Love, that is
.”

“What’s that, dear?” asked Diane.

“I think the old man loved me.”

“Of course, he loved you.”

Johnny laughed. “You still don’t know anything about the Irish, do you?”

“Don’t start,” Diane said, suddenly mad. “Don’t start pulling any of that Irish crap on me.”

“John Millington Synge!” shouted Johnny, teasing her about being the only Protestant in the whole family.

“William Butler Yeats!” she screamed in reply and laughed heartily, her anger dissipating. In reply, Johnny hissed his three-name Catholic response: “Patrick Henry Pearse! Oliver St. John Gogarty! Joseph Mary Plunkett!” He paused for a moment, guffawing. “Come here,” said Johnny, and he stood and kissed her.

“What are you reading?”

“About how Congressman Kavanagh hated my father.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I think he did,” said Johnny. “But there’s a silver lining.”

“What?”

“45 Christopher Street.”

“Where we met!”

“Yes, where me met and fell in love.” They embraced and kissed for the longest time, embarrassing Bridie, who pretended she did not see or disapprove of such behavior. even though Diane and Johnny had been married for thirty years.

“I’ll never forget meeting Grandpa for the first time,” said Diane.

“In the elevator at 45?”

“Yes, I was visiting my brother, and Grandpa said to me: ‘My God, who is this beautiful woman?’ “

“Grandpa could really shovel it, couldn’t he?”

Diane stuck her tongue out at her husband and then pretended to ignore his comment. “Soon he was telling me about his Purple Arse and his ‘eejit’ grandson.”

Johnny laughed with delight. “The old Purple Arse! Now that was brilliant politics.”

The “Purple Arse” was Eoin’s way of telling his constituents about his GPO arse wound, a clever way to let the district’s Irish know that he was in the GPO and had been wounded, while at the same time playing on the prestige of America’s Purple Heart.

“I don’t think your grandmother approved of the Purple Arse.” Diane paused. “And what’s so funny?”

Johnny thought of another famous Dubliner, Samuel Beckett. A foreign interviewer had once asked Sam the innocent question, “You are British, correct?”

“
Au contraire!
” Beckett had replied.

Johnny had always loved Beckett, a great heroic figure and the bridge between Collins’s time and the modern Dublin. “
Au contraire!
” said Johnny with relish. “After all, it was the Purple Arse that brought Róisín and Eoin together in the first place.”

19

E
OIN’S
D
IARY

“
P
ut Him In to Get Him Out.”

That’s the slogan Mick came up with to win the Longford election. I had to put Róisín off, and I think she’s cross with me. I went up to the Mater to tell her I had to go out of town on business with Mick for a few days, and, before I could explain, she blurted out, “So, you’d rather spend time with Mick Collins than with me?”

I told her she knew better, but Mick is all excited about this County Longford election. There’s an open MP seat at Westminster, and Mick feels it’s important to “show the flag” and prove to the British that we’re serious about taking back our country. He’s determined to put our reluctant Sinn Féin candidate, Joe McGuinness, in there, whether he likes it or not. Róisín eventually came around and told me she would meet me at the Traitor’s Gate next Sunday. I finally coaxed her address out of her. She lives on Walworth Road in Portobello, in the heart of Little Jerusalem. I’m already beginning to see that her bark is definitely worse than her bite!

I met Mick and Harry Boland at the office, and we took a taxicab up to the Broadstone Station—a rare treat for me, riding in a taxi. I know Harry because he’s always popping into the office on business or just to say hello. I’d say that he’s Mick’s number-one mate. Harry’s a right man, always on top of it and ready for bedevilment.

The train ride to Longford was raucous, with Harry and Mick trading barbs, left jabs, and headlocks. It’s what Mick calls getting his “piece of ear.” Mick is obsessed with this election. He’s spent a lot of time in Longford in the last month, and Election Day is just around the corner.

Our biggest problem is our candidate, Joe McGuinness. Joe is still locked up in Lewes Prison in England because of his 1916 activities. Mick calls him his “felon candidate.” De Valera doesn’t want him to run. He sent a note to Mick saying he “considers it unwise.”

“Fookin’ eejit,” Collins said to me after reading Dev’s letter. “I don’t care what Dev thinks, because this is not going to be a
Sinn Féin
operation—it’s going to be all IRB.” Mick is always careful to separate the business of
Sinn Féin
with the business of the Brotherhood. “I admire Arthur Griffith, but where he came up with that Hungarian monarchy shite as a model for Irish independence is beyond me.”

As soon as we got off the train in Longford, we went to a rally in the town square. Mick gave a rousing speech for the silent candidate and the crowd went wild. Harry and I were sent out into the crowd to urge them on. I was shouting, “Up
Sinn Féin
! Up
Sinn Féin
!” I should have been yelling “Up the IRB! Up the IRB!”

Afterward we retired to the Grenville Arms Hotel, which is run by the Kiernan family. At night, we sat around and had a few drinks and a sing-song. There are many Kiernan daughters, all of them very handsome. I don’t know a lot about women—in fact I don’t know anything about girls, as I’m sure Róisín will vouch for—but both Harry and Collins seemed to have their eye on Kitty, who is lovely.

Everyone was made to sing, and Mick and Harry were jeerin’ me so much that I got up and sang “Dr. John,” one of my Da’s favorite songs:

Oh, doctor, Oh, doctor, Oh dear Dr. John
Your cod liver oil is so pure and so strong
I’m afraid of me life I’ll go down in the soil
If my wife don’t stop drinkin’ your cod liver oil

The song was well received, and I got a big loud clap from the folks when I finished. Then it was Mick’s turn, and he sang “The Virgin, Only Nineteen Years Old.” There was quiet in the room as Mick described a young man’s wedding night, as he watched his bride undress—then begin disassembling every part of her anatomy—from popping an eye out to unscrewing her wooden leg! The mood of the room soon went from apprehension to laughter as the folks realized the song wasn’t as dirty as they thought it might be. By the end, Mick had the whole room, including the modest Kiernan sisters, belting out the chorus:

Singin’ hi-yi-ye the Virgin only nineteen years old
Only nineteen years old, only nineteen years old . . .

Election Day dawned full of tension. The Irish Parliamentary Party’s candidate is Patrick MacKenna. Collins believes we have to make an example out of the IPP and their leader, John Redmond. Mick is still cross at Redmond for promising Irish lives for Britain’s adventures in France. “Who the fook does he think he is?” Mick has asked several times about Redmond.

I told Mick that a Mr. Molloy, a friend of my father’s, said he would “go to hell and back” with John Redmond.

Mick didn’t miss a beat. “I’d not trouble about the return portion of the ticket!” he said with a wink.

We spent the day getting people out to vote. Reinforcements in motorcars arrived from Dublin so we could get some of the old folks to the polls. Mick personally went into the pubs and promised free drinks to anyone who would vote. He said they should vote and get a drink voucher from the
Sinn Féin
man after the polls. Collins knows how to buy a vote from the common man.

We had dinner at the hotel, and then Mick and I walked down to the City Hall, where the votes were being tabulated. “Doesn’t look good,” Harry told us. “I think we’re short.”

“We will not be short,” said Collins coldly, before adding, “Bring me to the tallyman.”

The three of us entered a small room in the back, and Collins gestured to me to shut the door and block it. Your man had just finished his counting and was about to declare the IPP candidate the victor. Mick said to him, “Can I have a word with you in private?”

“Certainly,” your man said.

“My name is Mick Collins, and I run the National Aid Society Association in Dublin. May I ask your name?”

“Thaddeus Lynch” was the reply. He was a little man with a wee mustache, and he wore the same old-fashioned winged collar that my own Da was so fond of. Tiny wire spectacles were perched on the end of his nose.

“Mr. Lynch, I represent the
Sinn Féin
candidate, Joe McGuinness, who is still in jail for being a patriot.”

“Yes,” said Lynch, oblivious. “Put him in to get him out.”

“Exactly,” said Collins. “What’s the tally?”

“Bad news for Mr. McGuinness,” said Lynch. “He won’t be getting out of the gaol anytime soon. It’s the IPP by 25 votes.”

“You miscounted,” says Mick.

“No, that’s the correct count.”

Mick then pulled a revolver out of his coat pocket and said, “You don’t understand, sir. You miscounted.” He then pulled the hammer back. Lynch got even smaller, and I thought he was going to faint. “Harry, do you have those ‘missing’ votes?” Harry handed them over. “Start counting!” says Mick.

“37 new votes for
Sinn Féin
!”

“Nice work,” says Collins. “Now go out front and announce it. And that’s that.” Mr. Lynch was only too happy to comply. I can hardly wait to see the papers in the morning, with the headlines declaring a
Sinn Féin
victory.

“You cheated,” I said to Mick later, as we enjoyed a drink before bed. Mick eyed Harry, who was chatting up Kitty Kiernan on the far side of the room.

“No, Eoin,” said the big fellow, with a tight grin. “Sometimes you have to help democracy along a little bit.” He took his eyes off Kitty and looked at me. “You think the British fight fair?” He raised his glass of whiskey and clinked mine, smiling. “Always remember, Eoin, the old Fenian adage: ‘Vote early, vote often.’ “