Read Online The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising by Dermot McEvoy - Free Book Online Page B

these?”
    “I put them on the family tab at the grocery,” said Frank. “Old Man Dockerty says this is the last time.”
    “So you were going to pinch the half-crown on me?” Collins paused to let it sink into Frank’s obstinate brain. “Hand it over.” Frank meekly complied.
    “We’ll talk about this later,” said Da.
    “I don’t like people who cut corners,” said Collins.
    “And neither do I or your mother,” seconded Da.
    With the business done, Collins said, “You all sit down, and Eoin and I will do the cooking.”
    “That really wasn’t necessary,” said Da, but Collins would hear nothing of it.
    “It’s Christmas,” said Collins, “and if we can’t feast this time of the year, when can we feast?”
    I’m expert with the coal stove, and, within fifteen minutes, Mick and I had a hearty Irish breakfast under production. “How do you like your oiges?” he asked. Suddenly there was absolute quiet in the kitchen. “Your oiges?” Mick repeated. No one had a clue what he was talking about.
    “Eggs!” screamed little Mary.
    “Yes, oiges!” repeated Mick triumphantly. I guess they pronounce “eggs” differently down in County Cork. “I hope you like them fried with the sunny side up because that’s all I know how to cook,” he said, waving the spatula at us. Mick generously cut the black and white puddings down the middle, length-wise. The Mammy always cuts it into half-inch slices so there’ll be enough for everyone. This was definitely turning into a feast.
    Dickie and Mary got stuck into the sausages, and Frank was soon dipping his bread into his egg yolk. Mick, the big man he is, devoured the black pudding. I love the white pudding, and, after a while, I saw Da getting familiar with the thick, hairy Irish rashers. Mammy played with a lone sausage.
    Afterwards, as Mick was washing the dishes—he ordered me to do the drying—Da told him of our financial troubles and how we ended up in this fix. There was talk of my brother Charlie’s death last year, and then Collins blurted out, “That’s a pretty severe cough you have there, mum.”
    Mammy looked up and smiled a deadly smile. “I’ll be alright, Captain Collins. It’s getting better by the day.” Mick nodded and left it at that.
    I slept on the floor that night and gave Mick my bed. Before sunrise, he shook me awake and said it was time to get moving. The house was quiet, with only the snoring of Da and the desperate gasping for breath of Mammy making a sound. Just before we left, Mick put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pocketful of change. He left three half-crowns on the kitchen table and asked me for a piece of paper and pen. I delivered a pad, and he scrawled “To Mary, Dickie, and Frank—Happy Christmas!—Uncle Mick.” “I hope Mary and Dickie get here before Frank,” said Mick, and with a jolly wink, we were off for Kingsbridge Station.
    We went down by the Liffey, and the December wind was penetrating. Inside Kingsbridge, we warmed up around a stove, and Mick went to look at what trains were leaving for Cork City this morning. Mick returned, saying he would be taking the 7:00 a.m. train. “I want to be sworn in,” I blurted out.
    “What?”
    “I want to be sworn into the Irish Republican Brotherhood.”
    “The IRB?”
    “Yes. I think it’s time.”
    “You haven’t been active since Easter?”
    “No, I thought it was more important to take care of my family and my Mammy.”
    “You made the right decision,” said Collins. “Come on,” he said, pointing in the direction of the toilet. Mick looked around to make sure the bathroom was empty and then took me into a toilet stall and closed the door, Mick on the left of the toilet and me on the right. Collins raised his right hand, and I followed suit. “I, Eoin Kavanagh,” he began, and I repeated. “Do solemnly swear, in the presence of Almighty God, that I will do my utmost, at every risk, while life lasts, to make Ireland an independent