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

pension.”
    “How many?”
    “Let’s see. The Irish Army. The U.S. House of Representatives. Dáil Éireann . Plus Social Security and the Irish Old Age Pension. Five. Not bad!”
    Diane took Johnny’s arm, drew him close, and kissed him. Johnny laughed; then he kissed his wife full on the lips and slid his hand down the back of her capris, running a finger into her beautiful crack. Even after thirty years together, they were still awesomely horny for each other. “Not now, dear,” admonished Diane.
    “Ah,” said Johnny, “how Presbyterian of you!”
    Diane was used to the slagging about her being the only Protestant in a mad Irish-Catholic nationalist family. (In her defense, she had taken to listing off Protestant patriots, such as Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet, Lord Edward, and Charles Stewart Parnell, to keep the “Papists,” as she fondly referred to her family, in their place.)
    “Behave yourself,” she said to her husband, “or I’ll hide your dick pill!”
    “Ah, ‘The Vee-ag-gra!’” said Johnny. “The Pfizer Riser! The County Cork pecker elixir! You’ve got to look out for those four-hour erections.”
    “If you get a four- minute erection, I’ll alert the media!”
    Johnny looked at his wife and decided that his friend Frank McCourt was right about Irish men’s attraction to Protestant women. They were indeed a step up in class—and in sex—and dating one was a way of thumbing one’s nose at Holy Mother Church. “Time to look at grand-pa’s diaries,” she said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have left anything to upset you.” But Johnny knew that the last thing Eoin Kavanagh worried about was the comfort level of his only grandson. Then Johnny laughed.
    “What?”
    “You’ve just reminded me of one of grandpa’s favorite sayings: ‘Comfort the afflicted—and afflict the comfortable!’”
    And it was working, because with a poke from the grave, Eoin Kavanagh III was getting less comfortable by the minute.

5

    E OIN K AVANAGH’S D IARY
W EDNESDAY , A PRIL 26, 1916
    General Post Office
Sackville Street
Dublin, Ireland
    W hat a day! My wound is bandaged and I have dry clothes on at last. Safe—if you can call it that—in the GPO. It looks like a bloody disaster here. Nothing but wounded men and broken glass. It was safer over at Jacob’s .
    After we took Jacob’s, we were very busy the first few hours. Commandant MacDonagh and Major MacBride had us fill up the windows with sacks of flour to guard against snipers. We were covered in flour, swiftly moving white ghosts on a mission. “Keep your bloody head down, boy,” MacBride warned me with a wink, “and welcome to the fight!” We also unwound the fire hoses just in case of fire. Most of our rifles were aimed at the Ship Street army barracks near the Castle. After we had our fill of biscuits, it got quite dull. We knew the British army was out there, but they didn’t make a rush to take us. The only excitement was caused by Vinny Byrne, who was sent out on patrol and had a ruckus with the fine citizens of the Blackpitts. Apparently they don’t care if Ireland is free or not. Anyway, some eejit tried to take Vinny’s gun away from him, and someone was shot—and it wasn’t Vincent Byrne.
    Tuesday the skies were dark, and it was pouring bucket after bucket without any sign of letting up. It was like the heavens were weeping for poor old Ireland. We ate more crackers and patrolled the factory. We’d filled up every available vessel with water in case the city water supply was interrupted or tampered with by the British. The only grousing from the men is because we’re not allowed to smoke for some reason. Still, some go off and hide for a quick puff.
    Jacob’s must be a nice place to work, clean and not too many mice around. They have an employees’ canteen, and there is plenty of tay for everyone. Their bathrooms are cleaner than anything we have at the Piles. You could eat your dinner off the floors here. They are even