The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising Read Online Free PDF Page A

Kavanagh.”
    “What in God’s name is going on?” asked Rosanna.
    “Revolution, my love,” said Joseph, gently taking his wife’s hand. She stifled a cough and looked intently into her husband’s eyes, as the words of her youngest son echoed in her ears.
    “Fenians, fookin’ Fenians.”

4

    “ I hope me Mammy won’t be cross with me.”
    Those were the first words in the rebel diaries of Eoin Kavanagh. The “diaries” were notebooks, school ledgers, and assorted pages. The material covering April and May 1916 was now spread before his grandson on the bed where the old rebel had died the week before. So this is the surprise , thought Johnny Three. He was indeed surprised. Although his grandmother was a well-known author in both Ireland and America, he had no idea the old man liked to scribble as well. There were nine cardboard boxes in all. Johnny went about taking the diaries out of the boxes, dusting them off, and trying to form a chronology of events.
    “You’re very quiet,” said Diane.
    “I wonder why he left them to me?”
    “Well, you are the writer in the family.”
    Johnny shook his head. “No, my grandmother was the writer in the family. I’m just a glorified hack.”
    “Though well reviewed.”
    “Through friends in the business.”
    “He left them to you because he trusted you,” Diane responded. “He didn’t leave them to the state archives or some university.”
    “Probably because he didn’t trust them,” agreed Johnny. “The old man didn’t trust anyone, which may be the reason he lived so long.”
    “They may also be worth something,” she added. “Did you think of that?”
    “I did, indeed. He always admonished my poor father: ‘money on trees does not grow!’” Diane laughed with him. “Listen to the first line: ‘I hope me Mammy won’t be cross with me.’ ” Johnny shook his head. “He was a typical Irish lad, he was, influenced by the matriarch of the family.”
    “Poor boy,” said Diane as she took hold of the page. “What beautiful penmanship.”
    “The nuns and the Christian Brothers,” said Johnny. “Big emphasis on penmanship back then, so you could get some low-paying job as a clerk.” Johnny shook his head and re-read Eoin’s first sentence. He became pensive. “He deeply loved his Mammy, my great-grandmother,” he said to Diane. “She was dying of consumption—tuberculosis—at the time of the rebellion. You know, the British used to call TB ‘the Irish disease.’” He gave a bitter laugh. “What a poor, fucked-up family.”
    Diane shook her head sadly.
    Johnny continued to read aloud: “‘ Mammy asked me to take Mary and Dickie up to the Green for a walk this Easter Monday holiday. The rebels were gathering, and I got carried away in the excitement. They were on the way to Jacob’s to liberate the biscuits, so when we got to Aungier Street with the battalion, I sent Mary home with Dickie and went along for the adventure in Bishop Street .’”
    “He has a way with words,” said Diane.
    “He was a great storyteller, wasn’t he?” added Johnny. “Look at these,” he said, holding pieces of paper up for Diane to view.
    “What?”
    “They’re genuine.”
    “Wow!” said Diane. “I’m surprised he kept these papers so secret.”
    “He probably had his reasons,” replied Johnny, “and I’m sure we’ll find out what they were in due time.”
    “This is bothering you, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t feel comfortable with this stuff. I’m afraid there may be family skeletons that I don’t want to confront in these boxes.”
    “What could be the big secret?”
    “I’m not sure, but I suspect there was a lot more to grandpa than being Michael Collins’s bodyguard. He kept himself to himself. I have a feeling that, in America, it was politically correct to be an Irish rebel, but not one with blood on his hands. I think he didn’t want to scare the electorate.” Johnny smiled. “Grandpa knew how to collect a