Michael Collins and the Women Who Spied For Ireland Read online

  During 1919 and 1920 when Mick was constantly on the run, he found periods of respite, mostly brief, in Dilly’s tender arms. Although Mick was strong and forceful with his comrades, he was gentle, affectionate and kind to Dilly. It was a time when men respected women, and within the Volunteers there was an unspoken code that unless a couple was married it would be improper to engage in sex. ‘The man who made a girl pregnant, if his identity became known, was ostracised as much as the girl herself,’ according to Todd Andrews. ‘Dignity was incorporated within the Volunteer code. We had principles and we all lived up to them. Mick Collins was no exception.’ Within these parameters, relationships were romantic and gentle.14

  In 1920, as romance blossomed between them, Dilly got deeper into helping Mick with intelligence. Aided by his men, Dilly would climb into one of the larger wickerwork mail baskets, which were pulled on a hand-truck. Covered with letters, she would be wheeled on to the mailboat and into the mail room, where she would emerge in a sorter’s uniform – sorting of mail for Britain was done, at this time, on the boat. Letters destined for the British secret service would find their way into her handbag or her bosom, or inside her elastic-legged knickers. She would be met at the other side of the Irish Sea by a man or woman sent by Sam Maguire or Art O’Brien. Letters might sometimes be opened in London but she would usually bring them back to Dublin to be studied by Mick’s sharp eye. On the return journey she would again extract from the mail baskets letters destined for Dublin Castle or for British agents who, Collins knew, were acting as businessmen at addresses throughout Dublin. The names of Mick’s suspects became very familiar to Dilly.

  Back in Dublin, very often out in Howth (in the flat rented by Susan Killeen, Nancy O’Brien and Dolly Brennan, all of whom worked in the city) Mick and his team would steam open the mail. If Mick felt that a response was needed to some communication, Dilly would insert that letter into the mail on her next trip. By this intelligence work, Dilly played an active part in shielding Mick from capture and also in opening the British secret service to him.

  Dilly never came under suspicion as she possessed an innocent composure and was smart and pretty. She was in demand as a sitter for painters such as Augustus John and Leo Whelan, posing in guises such as ‘Innocence’ and ‘The Shepherdess’.

  One night the Auxiliaries pounced on Dilly’s house. Mick made for his attic hideaway, while Dilly gently touched the piano keys. To the background strains of ‘The Old Rustic Bridge by the Mill’, the Auxies flung open doors and cupboards, scattered books, clothes baskets and bedlinen. Mick remained crouched above the concealed entrance for what seemed like hours, until Dilly gave the all-clear. Covered in dust and cobwebs he made for the opening, lost his balance and put his boot through the ceiling. His leap to safety brought peals of laughter from Dilly. Later that night he got Batt O’Connor to repair the damage – there would be no giveaways for next time. Two days later he arrived to see Dilly with a lucky boot charm in his pocket. They hugged and kissed, laughing when their eyes fell on where the hole had been.

  Many a night Mick would arrive with a paper-fist of bull’s-eyes, which they would savour on the tram to Dalkey as he headed out to meet Liam Tobin and Tom Cullen. The pair would sit at the front after Mick had a brief word with the driver, who always seemed to be ‘one of ours’. One evening Dilly was startled to hear Mick mutter something about a raid. He edged discreetly towards the destination sign-box and calmly placed his revolver inside.

  Dilly had a versatile musquash coat which she loved and which she practically wore to bed. She wore it when she went out to one of the picture houses to play the piano that accompanied the silent movies. She wore it when she went out with Mick. One day they were strolling down Sackville Street when Mick noticed a hold-up in the distance. Instantly he slid her his revolver and she slipped it into her pocket. But to his consternation and hers, the revolver careered through a hole in the pocket and clattered on the ground. With quick reflexes she grabbed it, linked his arm and the two ducked in through a shop and out of sight.

  On another occasion he was on his way to meet some of ‘the boys’. As they headed along Dawson Street he spotted some military approaching. In the busy street, he stopped a woman who pushed a pram and chatted to her. He admired the baby. ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ he asked, as he bent forward and slid his revolver under the covers.

  Dilly lived with this intrigue and Mick showed his appreciation by bringing her little trinkets. Once he came in the side door of Number 30 Mountjoy Street in his usual lively manner and threw a tiny Bible charm on her lap as she sat playing the piano – a reminder of her forefathers, he said. On another occasion it was a miniature crucifix and rosary beads. He knew she had a casual approach to religion but he found consolation in it. He knew Dilly loved mementos, so whether they were religious or not he would on impulse buy a suitable trinket whenever he spotted one.15

  Mick now worked as many hours as he could remain awake. He had contacts everywhere, in offices within the British establishment, in Scotland Yard, with workers on railways, in hotels, cross-channel boats and within the post office system. His cousin Nancy O’Brien constantly took risks to get messages to him. She knew him well by now, was familiar with his antics and accepted that his teasing was as much part of him as his impetuous gestures, movements and constant changes of expression.

  While Mick and GHQ had embarked on a campaign in Dublin, the Volunteers countrywide had begun to intensify their campaign. Raids and arrests were commonplace and jails were becoming overcrowded. Brigades everywhere had men and women trained to shoot, to fight, to secure intelligence data and to avoid capture. Members of Cumann na mBan worked with the Volunteers, now generally known as the IRA (Irish Republican Army). To prop up the RIC, men were recruited in England, and with no specific training and little guidance arrived in Ireland in March 1920. These were nicknamed the Black and Tans. Then in autumn 1920 another hastily recruited group of ex-servicemen known as the Auxiliaries arrived in Ireland. Both groups were without military discipline. In the rapidly disintegrating administration the government’s policy was to fight terror with terror. Field Marshal Henry Wilson had decided that a counter-murder policy was the answer to what he termed ‘Sinn Féin murders’.

  Notes

  1 Robert Barton to Moya Llewelyn Davies, 13/6/1919.

  2 Máire Comerford to author, 5/9/1979.

  3 Foregoing story by Piaras Béaslaí, Irish Independent, 20/8/ 1966.

  4 The Police Gazette, Hue-And-Cry, 28/12/1920.

  5 Alice Stopford Green, Ireland’s Pride and Ireland’s Sorrow, p. 45.

  6 Margery Forester, The Lost Leader, p. 121.

  7 Michael Collins’ prison journal, April 1919.

  8 Dave Neligan to author, 29/1/1974.

  9 Harry Boland to Michael Collins, q. S. Ó Muirthile, Memoirs, p. 78.

  10 Dave Neligan to author, 29/1/1974.

  11 Mícheál Ó Coileáin to Dónal Hales, 25/2/1920, Hales private papers.

  12 Collins to Hayden Talbot, q. Talbot, op. cit., p. 78.

  13 Harry Boland to Kitty Kiernan, 17/6/1920.

  14 Todd Andrews to author, 4/11/1983.

  15 Dorothy (Dicker) Heffernan, records and reminiscences.

  The Heart of British Intelligence

  By the end of 1920 guerrilla warfare was prevalent countrywide, and gradually the IRA was adding to its scant supply of arms. Mick, in a letter to Dónal Hales, who was working for the cause in Italy, expressed anger that ‘the enemy continues to be savage and ruthless, and innocent people are murdered and outraged daily’.1

  In July 1920, Mick was saddened to hear of the arrest and ill-treatment of Tom Hales, Dónal’s brother. Tom was hospitalised, then sentenced to penal servitude and held in Pentonville Prison until after the Treaty was signed.2Another good friend of Mick’s, Terence MacSwiney, lord mayor of Cork, who had been arrested in August, went on hunger-strike in Brixton Prison, focusing world attention on the Irish cause. He died in October 192
0 on the seventy-fifth day of his hunger strike. In the same month, Mick arranged the escape of his friends Austin Stack and Piaras Béaslaí from Manchester Jail.

  As a reprisal for IRA killings of members of the British forces, Churchill pressed for capital punishment. On 1 November 1920, his policy was put into practice when Kevin Barry, an eighteen-year-old university student, was hanged in Mountjoy Jail. He had been captured after an IRA raid which left two British soldiers dead. Efforts failed to have Barry’s sentence commuted and Collins also failed to arrange his escape from Mountjoy.

  On 22 December 1919 Lloyd George with the ‘Better Government of Ireland’ Bill in the House of Commons had outlined proposals to ‘set up two governments’ – a separate government for north-east Ulster.

  Because of constant raids, Mick moved office from Number 76, this time to a small two-storeyed house on Mespil Road with a gateway entrance. In the lace-curtained parlour he would work at his desk, his revolver beside him. A tunnel get-away was devised by Batt O’Connor. Only Tobin, Cullen, Joe O’Reilly, Batt O’Connor and Sinéad Mason knew of this war office address. His minister of finance offices were in Mary Street and Andrew Street. This man on the move never slept in any of his office-houses but always left his business premises complete with briefcase – a businessman.

  Eventually he had up to thirty different hide-outs. One house which he used often was the ‘second’ home of Moya Llewelyn Davies. The beautiful, vivacious Moya, who had her main home in London, spent much of her time at her large house in Furry Park, Dublin, with its expanse of wooded land. Here, Mick could rely on Moya’s confidentiality; she was sympathetic and discreetly supported Sinn Féin because of her own nationalist background. She fed Mick with ‘an amount of information’; indeed she was one of his strong team of intelligence women. Often she had the inside track on the British cabinet ‘meanderings’, through her husband, according to Máire Comerford, a member of Cumann na mBan who had acted as an intermediary for Collins for the previous few years. The youthful breezy Máire could be seen any day darting through the streets of Dublin on her bicycle, a dispatch for Mick Collins tucked inside her bodice. When the information was too dangerous to be committed to paper, Máire would get word to Mick to meet Moya ‘either at one of the many safe houses or in Furry Park’.

  Moya, Mick, Máire and Liam Tobin had just finished having tea in a restaurant near the Pillar one day, when a group of Auxiliaries burst in. As they began to search, Mick slipped his gun on to Moya’s lap. She stuffed it up the elastic leg of her knickers. Under his breath, Mick said, ‘Follow me’. Over he went to the officer, held up his hands and, like a dutiful citizen, asked to be searched as they were in a hurry because the girls had a tram to catch. The officer searched the men and Mick took Moya’s hand while Liam did the same with Máire. All four walked free into the night.3

  The Keating branch of the Gaelic League at 46, Parnell Square continued to be a useful rendezvous for Mick and his associates, many of whom were members. Here Mick would meet intelligence officers, members of the Squad, other IRB men and members of Cumann na mBan. For an hour or two, serious business was conducted. Often Mick used the opportunity to give trusted people a warning dispatch to pass on to those he knew were on an arrest list.

  One evening prior to a Gaelic League meeting Máire Comerford brought a document from Moya in code. Máire met Mick with Ned Broy and Kathleen Lynn, medical officer, at Devlin’s – a bar where they often met. The four were walking down the street when Mick noticed a hold-up in the distance. ‘Faint,’ he whispered to Máire. She faked her faint and Mick held her. Between the three they sat her on the footpath. As the Auxiliaries approached Mick was fanning Máire’s face with the secret document. While Ned Broy produced his Dublin Castle identification Mick said to Kathleen Lynn, ‘Get your smelling salts!’ Kathleen, who was loosening Máire’s blouse, opened her medical bag, and soon Máire was ‘revived’, though she said, ‘My heart was in my mouth. I could only think of what Mick held in his hand, but he was so calm.’ Mick thanked the Auxiliary, who offered further help. Máire assured them she was fine again. She had been recovering from a dose of flu, Mick said. And so the four strolled off.4

  One night Kathleen Napoli MacKenna arrived at Furry Park with an unexpected message, and discovered that Mick Collins was in the grounds searching for a ‘tout’ he had spotted. As the rain came down Mick let himself in the back door, while Kathleen stood under the elements at the hall door. He was not in a good mood.

  Kathleen records that the tall, slim, graceful Moya was ‘extremely elegant in a brown, gold-brocaded tight-fitting frock with long clinging sleeves, carefully-groomed ... a cigarette in a long holder between her slender tapering fingers’ as she opened the door.5

  It was this graceful demeanour that helped Moya through many tight corners and kept her above the suspicions of the authorities. The messages she gave Tommy Gay, the unassuming librarian, would be passed on promptly to Mick. Once a week, Mick would go on his old rusty bicycle to Gay’s quiet suburban home in Clontarf to meet the G men who were his informants. In his head he would have decoded messages given to him by Moya or he would have carbon copies deciphered by his team of intelligence women. Or he would have data from letters intercepted by Dilly. His evenings could take him to meet Dilly from the mailboat and then to Howth or to Dalkey or other corners of the city. But here is a typical working day for Michael Collins at this time.

  His first call in the early morning is to his intelligence office. He jots down points which have arisen overnight. When O’Reilly arrives with the papers he goes through them carefully, noting any political or military developments. Meanwhile, O’Reilly opens dispatches and letters, date-stamps them and pins them to the envelopes. Mick goes through them.

  Sinéad Mason, his secretary and confidential typist, is almost his left hand. In the morning she assembles letters typed up the previous day and waits for his signature written in Irish and with ink, which sometimes comes with a smile. She makes suggestions regarding correspondence he has received and gives him some intelligence information. They agree on something that Ned Broy should be told. Mick jots down a note and sticks it inside his sock.

  Sinéad is devoted to her work and loyal to Mick. He has total confidence in her. Despite great dangers she constantly undertakes nerve-racking tasks. Due to the peculiar circumstances of her work, ordinary office routine and hours are impossible. She has had to travel to various venues, transport important documents, according to Piaras Béaslaí, ‘hither and thither, and meet Collins by appointment at different centres. His ceaseless energy [gives] her an immense amount of correspondence to deal with daily.’6

  His business letters are exact, dictated now. It is the third quarter of 1920. A revolver rests at his elbow.

  Despite his heavy workload and the risks involved Mick was always there for a friend in need. He found time to visit Batt O’Connor in hospital and made regular trips to Sinéad de Valera with fund-money to sustain her and her family while her husband, Éamon de Valera, was on the American fund-trail. When Dan Breen was shot in a Dublin raid and admitted to the Mater Hospital, he dropped in when he could. Friendly doctors and nurses colluded to keep the identities of the patient and visitor hidden.

  Breen was recovering in Dr Alice Barry’s house on the southside of Dublin when the block was surrounded by Auxiliaries. Though still with unhealed wounds, he made for the skylight but found he ‘was caught like a rat in a trap,’ as ‘a solid line of khaki and steel lined up the street’. As usual a mass of spectators gathered. Breen surveyed them, and ‘recognised the figure of Mick Collins’.

  Mick, always ready to confront, had seen the troops moving in that direction and quickly ‘collected a few of the boys who would be ready to attempt a rescue’. But it wasn’t necessary, Dr Alice Barry’s house was not among those raided.7

  As raids and arrests increased, Brugha once more became absorbed in a plan for reprisals in England which went as far as proposing the bombing a
nd gunning of civilian crowds in theatres and cinemas. He wanted to counter the wanton attacks on civilians in Ireland by the Black and Tans.

  ‘You’ll get none of my men for that,’ Collins snapped.

  ‘I want none of your men, Mr Collins,’ said Brugha.

  The cabinet rejected his plan totally. Brugha took this rebuff by Collins personally and pursued him with ‘unrelenting hatred’. He was soon supported by Stack, who had once been Collins’ friend and ally. This incident led to quarrels at cabinet meetings between Brugha and Stack and Collins. It also led to an anti-Collins faction outside the cabinet.8

  By October 1920, with the spiralling of terror and counter-terror, life was becoming difficult in Ireland, and Lloyd George in a speech in Caernarvon talked of ‘a murderous conspiracy’ against his men.9But Mick was adamant that when ‘an army of occupation terrorised a nation looking for its freedom ... our only way to carry on the fight is by organised and bold guerrilla warfare. But this in itself [is] not enough ... Without her Secret Service working at the top of its efficiency’ England is helpless. ‘It was these men we had to put out of the way,’ he said.10Consequently, Mick went bald-headed for some secret service men who had been observing Dublin life since the middle of 1920. These men lived in private guesthouses throughout the city and masqueraded as businessmen. Because of their frequent visits to the Cairo Café, they were dubbed ‘the Cairo gang’ by Collins and his men. From the information given by women and men on the outside, and MacNamara, Broy, Neligan and Lily Mernin inside the Castle, Mick had a list of names. His agents in the sorting office intercepted the agents’ mail and had it delivered to him. It was a battle of wits in the murky world of intelligence.