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

Democratic Republic; that I will yield implicit obedience, in all things not contrary to the law of God to the commands of my superior officers; and that I shall preserve inviolable secrecy regarding all the transactions of this secret society that may be confided in me. So help me God! Amen.”
    “Amen,” I said.
    “Remember, once you’re in,” added Collins, “you’re never out.”
    “Understood.”
    “Well,” said Collins, “it’s time to catch that train.” I walked him to the platform, sorry to see him leaving Dublin again.
    “It seems you know that oath by heart,” I said.
    “I’ve sworn in my share,” said Collins, and then he added with a laugh, “but you’re the first I did in a toilet.” He paused before saying, “I’ll be running the Brotherhood soon.” It was not a brag, but a fact, the way he said it. We came to the train, and Mick said, “I’ll be back after the first of the year. I’m up for several jobs, and we’ll be in touch.” Before he left, he reached into his pocket again and dragged out that wad of bills. He peeled off five one-pound notes and a fiver and said, “Get a goose for Christmas.” Then he added, “And pay off that grocery bill.”
    “That’s not necessary,” I said, somewhat echoing the sentiments of my Da the night before.
    “Think of it as compensation,” said Collins. “We take care of our own in the IRB!” He climbed onto the train and, with a big smile, said, “ Nollaig Shona Duit! —Happy Christmas and a glorious 1917 to you, Eoin Kavanagh. 1917 is going to be a great year for Ireland—and you’re going to be a part of it.” He waved to me as the train pulled out of the station. I had to go to Sweny’s for work, but I couldn’t take my mind off 1917 and what Michael Collins had in mind for Ireland and, it seemed, for me.

1917

14

    E oin’s mother died on February 23, 1917. The wake was held in the family flat in the Piles Buildings. Rosanna Kavanagh was laid out in a brown habit that had been secured from the Carmelite Church on Aungier Street. As Eoin looked at what remained of his emaciated mother, he still couldn’t believe this was happening.
    Eoin looked around the room and wondered where the term “wake” came from. He had heard it was a form of watching over the deceased, a kind of defending of the body. He liked to think that it was an effort to “wake” the dead, so they would be wildly alert when they hit St. Peter’s Gates. Eoin’s first wake was only two years ago, when his brother Charlie died of diphtheria. It was at dinner on Friday night, and, at first, they thought Charlie had caught a fishbone in his throat, but that was not the case. The diphtheria had actually choked poor Charlie to death. It was strange seeing his own flesh and blood, just two years younger than him, dead and gone, lying in a cheap pine box. Charlie’s death was like a warning from Dublin City itself—that it would devour those who could not stand up to her. A Fair City indeed, thought Eoin Kavanagh.
    It was bad enough that Charlie and the Mammy had been taken from them, but now they had to sit and look at them, forced to remember them dead, not alive. Eoin remembered how his parents grieved over Charlie. His mother had barely left the coffin that contained the fruit of her womb, and his father had embraced her, hardly ever leaving her side. Now Joseph sat on the far side of the room, looking straight ahead but not seeing anything. Eoin knew that if Mammy hadn’t died, they would have somehow pulled out of this financial abyss. But she was dead, and every day, Eoin knew that, if anyone was going to get this family going again, it was going to be up to him. He was just fifteen, but he knew he was the man of the family.
    The first visitor of the day was Vinny Byrne. “Sorry for your troubles,” Vinny told him; he went to the coffin, knelt beside Rosanna, and prayed for her immortal soul. When he finished, he got up and sweetly touched