by The Rock
And behind all this looms huge shapes, giant flares from the past, none the less powerful for being purely spiritual: the Sacred Reconquest... the Spanish Inquisition ... the Gibraltar Legend ... the Holy Crusade.... It is not law and logic, it is these, and the ways in which they have molded the human spirit, for greater or smaller, that will decide the fate of Gibraltar's inhabitants.
The Rock itself will journey on, unmoving, through time.
1985
The old man paced slowly up and down the cave, his feet in the ragged shoes making no sound in the deep powdery soil. The morning sun glittered brightly on the sea, sending flashes of light deep into the cave. Half a mile out, two fishing boats sat like birds on a painted tray. The warmth of the sun on his skin made him turn back quickly. The fishermen were not likely to notice or care, but any needless risk was one too many. He raised his wrist to glance at his watch, but it was not there. He remembered that he had removed his own for this mission and had had no time to find something more suitable to the clothes and station he had temporarily adopted.
It must be near nine. She had been gone about an hour and a half. Nearly three hours in hand. He retreated into the back of the cave.
This was Gibraltar all around him now, at last. A strange feeling. It was ... Holy Mary, it must be seventy-five years since his grandfather the old count took him up to the battlements of Castellar and pointed to the great Rock in the sea below and said, "There it is, Rafael. El Penon. La Verguenza de Espana, the shame of Spain, we call it." It was nearly fifty years since he had stood under the sheer north face arranging for Republican refugees to escape into the British enclave. Then the Legionaries had come. He could see the sheer limestone cliff now over their dark faces, over their rifle barrels leveled at his eyes.... Well, they had not fired, and here he was, on Gibraltar at last, in a cave.
Smoke of ages darkened parts of the roof. How many boats had come here by night, as he had? How many sailors had slept on this dark soil? How many had sheltered here for their lives? How many lovers had worked here that other wonder of God?
An isolated stalagmite, almost human in shape and size, stood on guard by the entrance. A beercan-pull glittered in the powder at his feet. Frowning, he bent slowly and dug with his fingers to bury the ugly little object. He found something hard and took it to the light. It was a small bronze scarab brooch—a woman's gewgaw. He dropped it into his pocket.
He heard the girl's voice calling up from the beach. "Don Pedro, is all well?" Her Spanish was of the American Southwest, Mexican-accented. The old man answered to the agreed name, calling down, "All is well, Dolores," and adding the key words to indicate he was not under duress. "I am alone."
She came up then, followed by two men. One was tall, clean-shaven, about sixty-five, aristocratic, his eyes watery and blue. The other was short, heavily built, black-haired, olive-skinned, his mouth wide under a defiant, fleshy nose.
The woman said, "Cardinal, this is Admiral Sir Lionel Kingsley, the British High Commissioner in Gibraltar. And this is Mr. Hillel Conquy, the Chief Minister. Gentlemen—Cardinal Rafael Santangel y Santangel-Barrachina."
The admiral extended his hand with a breezy, "How d'ye do." The cardinal looked about seventy, he thought, though Hillel had assured him he was eighty-three. He was tall, stooped, and dark as a gypsy. In the dirty old clothes he was a gypsy.
The Chief Minister spoke curtly in Spanish. "Honored to make your acquaintance, Excellency." The cardinal looked just as he had in the old pictures, he thought. It was fortunate that the Revolutionary Council's sea patrols had not picked up the boat, for that face was impossible to disguise.
The cardinal said carefully, "I speak English. Not well, but enough, perhaps. Unless the admiral speaks Spanish...?"
The admiral shook his head, "Sorry ... And Hillel, now that we have met His Excellency, couldn't we translate this discussion to your house or the Convent, where we have coffee, food—even tables and chairs?"
The cardinal said, "Also, agents of the Council are on watch outside, I know.... I will not take up much of your valuable time, gentlemen. I must not, if I am to save a man's life. And, I believe, the future of Spain. Also, I hope to convince you, the future of Gibraltar."
The young woman stepped back, leaned against the rock wall, and took out her notebook and pen. The Chief Minister eyed her thoughtfully—American, about thirty, black hair, amazing deep blue eyes, intelligent; and, perhaps, dangerous.
The admiral said, "Miss O'Brien told us you came here in a smugglers' launch. I did not know that there was much of that traffic since Spain and Britain entered the Common Market."
The cardinal said, "It is engaged in the heroin traffic and is owned by Moroccans. On this occasion we hired it for this special trip. It will return for us after dark.... The reason we..."
The Chief Minister interrupted. "And Miss O'Brien is of your party?"
"She has been with me ever since I escaped to Morocco," the cardinal said impatiently. He collected himself. These people did not mean to let him hurry them. They owed him nothing. He must guard himself and remember what he had learned in his years in prison: be patient, watchful, impervious.
He said, "She found out where I was hiding—I do not know how—contacted me, and persuaded me that we, the Loyalists, need true reporting if we are to have good public relations, particularly in the United States."
Dolores caught the Chief Minister looking at her. She broke in before he could speak. "I have promised the cardinal to publish nothing without his permission. I give the same promise to you."
The Chief Minister said, "We have little faith in promises made by journalists, especially American journalists."
She said, "I am also an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. If you want the President to know what you have decided, and why—fully and fairly—I will ensure that he does. Or even if you do not wish it, as long as I am here." The Chief Minister frowned at her. He looked like a Jewish Churchill, Dolores thought as she stared back. He said suddenly, "Very well. No publication without the written permission of the Chief Minister of Gibraltar. And now, cardinal..."
The cardinal said, "The Count of Grazalema is returning to Spain on the weekly Algiers boat today."
The admiral glanced at his watch. The Algiers boat was due to dock at Algeciras at noon. Two and a half hours from now.
"Has he made his peace with the Revolutionary Council, then?" the Chief Minister asked.
The cardinal shook his head. "The opposite. He has gathered his forces, completed his preparations, and is returning to lead the counterrevolution."
"He is coming incognito then?"
"Yes. As you know, they have put a large price on his head."
"For the murders in Granada, isn't it?" the Chief Minister said.
The cardinal said, "Those people were secret agents of the Council. They were responsible for the deaths of over two hundred people in and after the Communist rising—including many women and priests. The charges against the Count are purely political."
The admiral thought, they are fencing: Hillel was an astute politician and would have made a good lawyer, like all Jews. Like all Gibraltarians, come to that. They were a dark, secretive lot. He hadn't liked them when he first stepped ashore from, let's see, the old Ark Royal in thirty-nine, and not much better when he was the admiral here ten years ago. Still, there were good ones, no use denying it. Hillel Conquy was saying, "And the Count is going to lead this counterrevolution of the Right?"
The cardinal said, "Of the Right. And of the Center. And of all the Left who are not Communists. My credentials are not of the Right, Senor Conquy."
Hillel Conquy said quickly, "Of course not." The old man was as good to meet as his reputation would have led one to expect. He had been one of Hillel's heroes all his life for his long fight against Franco and the succeeding dictatorship and because it was he, above any other, who had persuaded the king to introduce a responsible democratic government into Spain. He had even fou
ght for religious tolerance ... but there was Gibraltar to think of. He must not let his personal admiration warp his judgment. Rafael Santangel was a great man, but a Spaniard, a Catholic, and a cardinal.
The admiral said, "Then what is it that...?"
The cardinal said, "The Count was betrayed yesterday. The Revolutionary Council know he is on the ship. He is sailing to certain death. And our rising, to failure."
No one spoke for a long time. Dolores wrote the word muerte carefully on her pad: "death" in Spanish. She remembered, when she was a young girl, her great-grandmother, old Mrs. Falcon, lying in the great bed in the Santa Fe house, whispering, "Voy a la muerte y estoy contenta." How old could she have been then? Ninety-seven, ninety-eight? She was from Spain originally, she said—but what part? No one seemed to know. She was the one who had insisted that Dolores be named after her.
The admiral said, "You mean ... there is no other leader?"
"None other whom the people—all the people—trust and will follow. Like me, he was imprisoned by Franco. But I am a churchman; he is a fighter. He fought, leading the guerrilla war against the dictatorships. He was not a secessionist like many of the Basque and Catalan leaders, so all Spaniards could follow him. Like Franco he believes in a Spain una, grande, libre—but truly so. Above all, the young believe in him."
"We know," the Chief Minister said.
The cardinal said, "I fear that no one else can lead us to overthrow this murdering Council. But the Russians are supporting them, and we cannot afford to lose, for there will be no second chance. Nor, I suggest, can Gibraltar—or England—or the United States—afford to see us lose."
"Our relations with the Revolutionary Council have been excellent," the Chief Minister said.
"Naturally," the cardinal said.
"They have guaranteed our freedom and independence, or our union with Britain, if that should be agreed on."
The cardinal said, "So I understand. You will, of course, know what value to place on these assurances if the Council win the present struggle, once they feel themselves secure in power."
The Chief Minister said, "Naturally. But the worst they might do is no different from what the Count of Grazalema has publicly announced that he will do. Except for the imposition of Communism."
The cardinal shook his head with a gesture of denial. The admiral's watch read ten fifteen. The sun was off the sand at the mouth of the cave. The cardinal said, "The count is the hero of Spain—all Spain, Senor Conquy. All Spain desires the return of Gibraltar. The Count says aloud what all think."
Dolores wrote "Gibraltar" on her pad. An imposing place, familiar to the eye and mind long before one actually saw it. Circled by the Spanish mountains. Sound of Spanish in the streets. Joined to Spain by that thin, unbreakable belt of sand. Separated by human emotions, human history. What God hath joined let no man put asunder. But the people were not joined.
The Chief Minister said, "Setting aside for a moment the Count's view on our future ... would he care to face trial here for the murder of Charles Torrenti two years ago? It was done in the streets of Lisbon, but I imagine we could find a legal precedent for trying him in Gibraltar."
The cardinal said, "Your Minister of Information was murdered by Spaniards. By members of the party to which the Count and I belong. I admit it and regret it. But it was not done by the Count or on his order. As the guerrilla campaign..."
Hillel Conquy, not listening, looked attentive. The old man was tired but would not show it. It was ten twenty-five. The Count had lived by the sword, and he might as well die by it, like his grandfather murdered in the Civil War out there in the cork oaks of Almoraima. But there was something else present here, a shudder from the past ... or the future? A sense of history or prophecy, an emanation from the great Rock in whose womb they stood. The girl felt it, perhaps, staring up at the limestone, out to sea, biting her lip. The admiral ... no. He was not really interested or involved. There had been a noticeable lessening of British involvement here in recent years. And the few years of liberal government in Spain between the military dictators and the present Council had destroyed the Labour Party's special protective attitude.
"... never authorized or ordered any violence against Gibraltar or Gibraltarians, let alone minder," the cardinal ended.
The admiral said, "The blockade of Gibraltar..."
"Was his idea," the cardinal said. "As I have said, he thinks—as do I—that Gibraltar is a part of Spain, to which it must return."
The Chief Minister said, "That is his privilege. But it does not, of itself, incline the Government of Gibraltar to come to his aid."
Government of Gibraltar, he thought. Taxes. More legislation on unemployment and education. More jobs. But where is the money to come from? Shipping. Tourism. Defense. No room, no escape. But the mind would not be caged.
Ten thirty. It would take twenty minutes to get an order to the guard ship; say twenty more for the ship to reach an intercept position.
The cardinal's hooded eyes glittered. He spoke with new authority, not as one supplicating: "If the Revolutionary Council establish themselves, you will have a Communist dictatorship in Spain, which cannot be overthrown without a major war. The regime will sign a treaty with Russia, and Russian troops and ships and aircraft will be stationed here at Spain's request. Gibraltar will find itself in the same position as Czechoslovakia or Hong Kong ... existing only at the convenience of the continental power, subject to harassment and humiliation at any or no excuse ... forced to comply with any demands made on it by the Spanish government. You may be sure that the first things you will lose are a free radio, press, and television and your right to grant political asylum.... For the United States and Britain, the door of the Mediterranean will be slammed in your face, and it will not be Spain's weak hand on the bolt but Russia's. You know as well as I what will be the fate of your friends and ours, shut in behind that door. They will be devoured at leisure.... In the name of God, gentlemen, do not make the same tragic mistake that the democracies made in 1936. The Revolutionary Council are receiving communist help and will receive more. Help us. As a beginning, a vital first step, rescue the Count from the Algiers boat!"
His upraised hand dropped slowly. Twenty to eleven, Dolores noted. And how much time did Gibraltar have? Or America?
The admiral said, "One thing I don't quite understand ... why haven't the council radioed the skipper to find the Count and put him in irons?"
"They do not know whether the captain is of their party—he is an Algerian," the cardinal said wearily. "For the same reason we have not tried to radio any warning to him, though it might be possible...."
The Chief Minister said, "Admiral, what do you think?" The admiral said, "It's no secret that H.M.G. are very worried about the possibilities of Spain becoming Communist. The P.M. spent an hour discussing it with me last week. But the Russians have been pressing very hard for nonintervention.... They have kept their help to the Council very much under cover—no warships or bombers or anything obvious like that.... If there were an established government in Spain which we could help, then perhaps ... but with the king and most of the Cabinet assassinated and the parliament in jail or hiding..." He shrugged.
"The Count will soon set up a government on Spanish soil with which you can deal," the cardinal said.
"How would the rescue actually be carried out?" the Chief Minister asked.
The admiral said, "H'm. Quite a poser, eh?"
The cardinal caught Dolores' eye. He felt very old and weak. Dolores burst out, "If you don't make up your minds soon, he will be dead anyway."
The Chief Minister said, "If we agree to rescue the Count, there should be no problem. H.M.G. have instituted a semi-blockade in pursuance of their hands-off policy." The admiral said, "I suppose I might get authority to search the Algiers boat on suspicion of carrying arms."
"And what if London refuses to give it?"
"Then we can do nothing."
"They will certainly ask what
we advise," the Chief Minister said. "What do we advise?"
The admiral looked at the cave roof. Dolores thought, he is not a breezy sailorman really but a cautious and rather cold diplomat.
The admiral said, "I'm afraid I would have to say that this is an improper use of H.M. ships. We have no reason to believe that the Algiers boat is carrying arms. Rescuing the Count by force would seem to be a direct intervention in the affairs of a foreign country ... in this case, too, in the civil war we have declared it our policy not to intervene in. I do not think I could recommend it."
The Chief Minister said, "The Count is your cousin, is he not?"
The Cardinal nodded. "After a fashion. The thirtieth Count was my grandfather and his great-grandfather. That Count's daughter ran away with my father, a gypsy from La Linea. I am the result, without benefit of wedlock. The family have always treated me well."
The Chief Minister said, "What if we took the Count off the ship on condition that he refrained from all political activity for the rest of his life? That would also save the Council the embarrassment of executing him."
"They would feel no such embarrassment," the cardinal said. "They are Communists.... As for the Count, of course I cannot speak for him, but I am sure he would refuse your terms.... What is your decision? Time is short."
"A break with the council would be a serious matter for us," the Chief Minister said, as though to himself. "They can control our air flights—restart the blockade, and now we are so organized for getting our food from Spain that we would not easily change. We would be ruined. Many would starve."
The admiral said, "I don't think you need worry, Chief Minister. I am sure H.M.G. will find themselves unable to do what the cardinal asks. Of course we can press very strongly against the execution on..."
The Chief Minister said, "Yes." He stared into the cardinal's eyes. The old man was Spanish to the tips of his fingers, as he himself was Gibraltarian. But they were both more—the cardinal, through the Church; himself, through the Rock. He was at the same time a Jew, worshiping; an Englishman, holding; a Spaniard, yearning.