Read Online The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising by Dermot McEvoy - Free Book Online
Authors: Dermot McEvoy
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chain-of-command be? Will it be the likes of Collins? I also wonder how the people are reacting to the shootings. Are they still cross with us? Or do they now think we’re not as bad a lot altogether? I sense a change in the air. As we marched away from the Richmond Barracks, we’ve been greeted with a few friendly “Good mornin’s,” and there hasn’t been a rotten tomato thrown in our direction yet. I think the British may have overplayed their hand, but only time will tell.
It was around noon when I entered our flat. Everyone was jammed into our wee scullery, and, for a second, there was only shocked silence. Finally, Mammy, looking gaunt, rose slowly and said, “Eoin, my darling son.” Da embraced me, Mary and Dickie pulled at my pants, and even Frank looked like he was happy to see me.
“We’ve been looking all over for you,” said Da. “No one knew anything about you. We didn’t know if you were alive or dead, ya little scoundrel.”
“What’s this?” asked Mammy, looking at the dried blood on the seat of my pants.
“I got shot in the arse on my way to the GPO.”
“Weren’t you in Jacob’s?” asked Frank.
“Yes, until Commandant MacDonagh sent me to the GPO with a communiqué for Commander-in-Chief Pearse.”
“God bless their memories,” said the mother, blessing herself. “But your bottom?”
“I got shot on the Ha’penny Bridge getting across the Liffey. Róisín says I should be alright.”
“Who’s Róisín?” Mammy demanded.
I told her she was the Cumann na mBan nurse in the GPO. “She’s beautiful, Mammy.”
Mam coughed and stared at me. “And she saw your bare bottom?”
“Rosanna,” said Da. “The most important thing is that he’s back with us, safe ‘n sound.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave us again,” said Mammy. “Never leave your Da and me ever again.”
I was about to say, “We’ll see,” but thought better of it. “I’ll never leave you again, Mammy.” Then I saw the paper on the kitchen table with the STOP PRESS on the front page of the Freeman’s Journal: MACBRIDE EXECUTED . And I started crying. Suddenly the horror of the early-morning shots came back to me with full force.
“What son?” said my Daddy.
“They murdered Major MacBride. He was my friend.”
“Your friend was very brave at the end,” said Da. “He refused a blindfold. His last words were: ‘I have been looking down the barrels of rifles all my life.’”
“The British are ruthless,” stated Mammy.
“Buggers!” said Frank, cocksure with all the wisdom of his eleven years.
“Francis,” said Ma to him. “Your language.” Frank’s language was always bad, so I was not shocked in the least.
Although my eyesight was blurred by tears for Major MacBride, I could see that Mammy and Da had stuck the proclamation up on the far wall of the kitchen. I went over to it and saw that they had drawn a line through the names of Clarke, MacDonagh, Pearse, and Plunkett.
I picked up a pencil and drew a line through the names of MacDiarmada, Ceannt, and Connolly. “Now, why did you do that?” my father demanded. “They’re still alive.”
“Not for long,” I replied. I was ashamed of what I had just said, but I told them the truth as I saw it.
“When will all this awfulness end?” asked my Mammy.
“When the British leave Ireland,” I said. Mammy looked me in the eye and brushed my hair out of my eyes. She knew Ireland had been changed forever—and so had her eldest son.
12
E oin couldn’t wait to go to work in the morning at Sweny’s Chemists over on Lincoln Place, down the street from the Westland Row railroad station. He was only a messenger boy, delivering Christmas gifts, but he was the only one in the family bringing home any money. He was also happy to go to Sweny’s in the morning to escape the depression of the flat in the Piles Buildings. His mother was bedridden now, and his father was lost, not knowing how to earn a living or even take care
It was around noon when I entered our flat. Everyone was jammed into our wee scullery, and, for a second, there was only shocked silence. Finally, Mammy, looking gaunt, rose slowly and said, “Eoin, my darling son.” Da embraced me, Mary and Dickie pulled at my pants, and even Frank looked like he was happy to see me.
“We’ve been looking all over for you,” said Da. “No one knew anything about you. We didn’t know if you were alive or dead, ya little scoundrel.”
“What’s this?” asked Mammy, looking at the dried blood on the seat of my pants.
“I got shot in the arse on my way to the GPO.”
“Weren’t you in Jacob’s?” asked Frank.
“Yes, until Commandant MacDonagh sent me to the GPO with a communiqué for Commander-in-Chief Pearse.”
“God bless their memories,” said the mother, blessing herself. “But your bottom?”
“I got shot on the Ha’penny Bridge getting across the Liffey. Róisín says I should be alright.”
“Who’s Róisín?” Mammy demanded.
I told her she was the Cumann na mBan nurse in the GPO. “She’s beautiful, Mammy.”
Mam coughed and stared at me. “And she saw your bare bottom?”
“Rosanna,” said Da. “The most important thing is that he’s back with us, safe ‘n sound.”
“Promise me you’ll never leave us again,” said Mammy. “Never leave your Da and me ever again.”
I was about to say, “We’ll see,” but thought better of it. “I’ll never leave you again, Mammy.” Then I saw the paper on the kitchen table with the STOP PRESS on the front page of the Freeman’s Journal: MACBRIDE EXECUTED . And I started crying. Suddenly the horror of the early-morning shots came back to me with full force.
“What son?” said my Daddy.
“They murdered Major MacBride. He was my friend.”
“Your friend was very brave at the end,” said Da. “He refused a blindfold. His last words were: ‘I have been looking down the barrels of rifles all my life.’”
“The British are ruthless,” stated Mammy.
“Buggers!” said Frank, cocksure with all the wisdom of his eleven years.
“Francis,” said Ma to him. “Your language.” Frank’s language was always bad, so I was not shocked in the least.
Although my eyesight was blurred by tears for Major MacBride, I could see that Mammy and Da had stuck the proclamation up on the far wall of the kitchen. I went over to it and saw that they had drawn a line through the names of Clarke, MacDonagh, Pearse, and Plunkett.
I picked up a pencil and drew a line through the names of MacDiarmada, Ceannt, and Connolly. “Now, why did you do that?” my father demanded. “They’re still alive.”
“Not for long,” I replied. I was ashamed of what I had just said, but I told them the truth as I saw it.
“When will all this awfulness end?” asked my Mammy.
“When the British leave Ireland,” I said. Mammy looked me in the eye and brushed my hair out of my eyes. She knew Ireland had been changed forever—and so had her eldest son.
12
E oin couldn’t wait to go to work in the morning at Sweny’s Chemists over on Lincoln Place, down the street from the Westland Row railroad station. He was only a messenger boy, delivering Christmas gifts, but he was the only one in the family bringing home any money. He was also happy to go to Sweny’s in the morning to escape the depression of the flat in the Piles Buildings. His mother was bedridden now, and his father was lost, not knowing how to earn a living or even take care
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