The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  “I agree with you about l’uomo unico,” said Stephen. “He existed once. He doesn’t now. But he may again. And when he reappears, his wealth and weapons won’t be temporal.”

  “Prove it.” Orselli’s cynicism was almost hopeful.

  “I’ll give you the case of Gioacchino Pecci, Leo XIII, that is. When the Pope lost his temporal dominions in 1870, many people thought that the papacy was dead. Actually it was reborn under Leo. His army consisted only of the household guard carrying halberds. But Leo’s moral energy was something new in the world. By his encyclicals he demonstrated that when a man of moral integrity appears, all other forces crumble under his pressure. Pecci insisted that …”

  A JUNIOR OFFICER was saluting. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the bridge reports a British cruiser off the port beam. She’s displaying international flag signals, ‘Stop immediately.’”

  Captain Gaetano Orselli was on his feet. Binoculars at his eyes, he confirmed the junior officer’s report. “Here comes Britannia,” he murmured. “See how she churns His Majesty’s waves. Tell the bridge to take off speed, Lieutenant.” Orselli turned to Stephen. “This will be worth dressing for. No, don’t go away, Father. I may need some of that Leo XIII moral force you’ve been describing. Here, take a look while I dress.”

  Stephen trained the binoculars on the approaching warship. He saw the gray hull, the embodiment of physical force as it towered up into a complex superstructure, gaining rapidly on the Vesuvio.

  L’uomo unico won’t have much chance, he thought, viewing the long guns trimmed fore and aft from their turrets.

  Captain Orselli was spraying his underarms with a perfume atomizer. “Break out my Bond Street whites and London boots,” he cried to his dresser. “For this encounter we must be garbed correctly. L’Inglese will reek with protocol. We will give him protocol and something else besides.” He darted to his cabin phone, called the bridge.

  “Drop the pilot ladder and meet our visitors with all courtesy at the companionway.”

  Stephen saw the British cruiser, her decks alive with men, slide alongside. A whaleboat swung out from davits; eight oarsmen, blades aloft, took their places. Two officers stepped into the stern. The whaleboat struck the water. Lofted oars fell into rowlocks, swung in unison toward the Vesuvio.

  The Triton’s whaleboat was a dozen lengths from the ladder when Captain Orselli appeared on his sun deck. He was superbly dressed in an English-made uniform of white linen; an English-market cigar was between his teeth, and a magnificent diamond glittered on the little finger of his right hand.

  “I know what they want,” he said quietly to Stephen. “Come, Father, watch me meet them on the solidest ground in the world—the bridge of my own ship.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather carry on without me?” asked Stephen.

  “On the contrary. It will be valuable to have an American witness of what may be an international incident. And if my English fails,” Orselli smiled, “I may call upon you to translate.”

  On the Vesuvio’s bridge, a group of Italian officers saluted their captain. “Relax, gentlemen,” said Orselli. “Have a stenographer ready to take down the conversation.” He savored his cigar and promenaded like a man in the foyer of La Scala during the entr’acte of an agreeably light opera.

  Up the companionway came the Englishman, impeccably formal and imperially slim. On his sleeve he wore the three stripes of a commander in the British Royal Navy; his cap had the grommetless, bashed-in appearance affected the world over by deep-water sailors. The energy of a perfectly conditioned thirty-year-old man was in his step, and the fatigue of a three-week Atlantic patrol was in his eyes. Behind him, ruddy and insolent, came a bos’n’s mate, and behind them both rose the invisible trident of England’s sea power.

  The Englishman brought two fingers to the visor of his salty cap. “I am Commander Ramilly of His Majesty’s ship Triton,” he announced in the manner of a viscount laying a gold piece on a tobacconist’s counter. “Captain Nesbitt desires me to thank you for responding so promptly to our signal. We regret any inconvenience we may have caused you.”

  “It is as nothing, Commander. When you return my compliments to Captain Nesbitt, please say that the heart of every seaman on the Vesuvio throbs with pleasure at the honor His Majesty’s Navy does our ship. … Will you smoke, Commander?”

  The Englishman considered the strings attached to the cigar and murmured, “Thank you, no.” Whereupon Captain Orselli put his gold cigar case into his pocket and waited for the British Navy to make known its business on board the Vesuvio.

  The tactic of silence put Commander Ramilly slightly off balance. He had hoped for something more in the way of oral squirming. While the Englishman gazed about the bridge as if he expected to see a dust pile swept into a corner, Orselli continued to relish his Havana in silence.

  It’s the old game of Mühle, thought Stephen. The odds on l’uomo unico went up slightly.

  Not until Orselli walked to the rail of the bridge, and flicked his cigar ash in the general direction of the Atlantic, did the Englishman speak.

  “You have among your crew a stoker shipping under the name of Matteo Salvucci,” he said in a bored, declarative tone. “Please be so good, Captain, as to ask him to come to the bridge with his papers.”

  “On what grounds do you make this request?” asked Orselli.

  The Englishman was either very tired or very patient. He closed his eyes wearily. “That will be made clear after my examination.”

  Captain Orselli briefly considered the move. “Bring Salvucci here,” he ordered.

  The guns of the Triton rose ominously on six ocean swells and were sinking into the trough of the seventh when Matteo Salvucci climbed onto the bridge. From his soot-streaked bald head, which he was still wiping with a wad of cotton waste, to the dirty-nailed toes that poked out of his broken shoes, he was the original coal-hole Giuseppe—haggard, red-eyed, sweat-out, and characteristically unnerved by the idea of sunlight.

  “Are you Matteo Salvucci?” asked Orselli in Italian.

  The man nodded and automatically handed his passport to his questioner. Orselli glanced at the document briefly, then relayed it to the British.

  Commander Ramilly riffled the pages of the passport in the manner of a proconsul about to exercise his double power of accusing and judging inferior people in a language not their own.

  “Where were you born, Salvucci?”

  “Napoli.”

  The proconsul of Empire apparently had never heard of the place. From a letter case carried by the bos’n’s mate he drew out a photograph and held it up as Exhibit A.

  “This picture was made in Hamburg six months ago,” he recited. “It is the picture of a German national named Rudolf Kassebohm. Do you deny that this is a picture of you?”

  Orselli’s translation met a violent cataract of Italian from the stoker.

  “He denies it,” said Orselli. “He denies it in a Neapolitan dialect with no trace of a German accent. Moreover, may I point out, Commander, the resemblance between this man and your picture is not at all convincing.”

  “The British Admiralty must be the judge of that.” The evidence being in, and objections having been heard, sentence was now pronounced. “I am sorry, Captain, but I must take your stoker to London for further questioning.”

  Gaetano Orselli flung the butt of his cigar past Commander Ramilly’s nose into the Atlantic. Stephen saw the English officer dodge and the bos’n’s neck veins bulge with anger.

  “I, too, am sorry, Commander,” said Orselli, “but I cannot permit you to take this man off my ship.”

  Ramilly chose five frosty words. “You have no choice, Captain.”

  “No?” The Italian’s inflection was humorous. “I have a great many choices, Commander. My first choice is to declare a moment of silence in which we can all hear your bos’n strangling his rage more audibly. And my second choice is to escort you to your whaleboat and proceed on my voyage.”

 
Commander Ramilly murmured that the latter course would unavoidably cause pain to all concerned. He buttressed his remarks with a half glance in the direction of the British cruiser.

  “I am aware,” said Orselli, “that cruisers of the Triton class carry twelve nine-inch and ten six-inch guns. A single shell could shear off my rudder or explode my boilers. But let us talk rationally, Commander. Even a British naval officer should know something about the posture of world affairs at this moment.”

  Orselli’s tone contained a grain, or possibly less, of pity for this slender victim dangling on the hook of ignorance. “You probably realize, Mr. Ramilly, that while we exchange pleasantries here, English diplomacy is—how do you say—’panting’ to win Italy to her side in this unfortunate war. How would it look to your admirable Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith, and your estimable Lord Grey—a headline in the London Times: ‘British Warship Fires on Italian Liner’?” Orselli wagged his beard gravely. “And how—I put it to you, Commander—how would such a headine look in the Italian papers? These political embarrassments must be considered, must they not?”

  If only Corny Deegan were here, thought Stephen.

  The Englishman took a dogged turn. “Your political views are interesting, Captain. But the fact remains that the Triton has Admiralty orders to take this man. The order must be carried out.”

  Nelson glared at Lorenzo, and Lorenzo smiled back.

  “But must it?” asked Orselli. “I suggest to you, Commander, that your Admiralty based its order on a certain premise. That premise was that no order issued by the British Royal Navy is ever resisted. It is the old story. British search and seizure, British bullying on the high seas, have always succeeded in the past. The order was issued on the assumption that they would succeed again.”

  Dignity and contempt husbanded for six centuries rode the Italian’s words. “But now I, Gaetano Orselli, a Florentine, do resist that order. I resist it politically and morally. The English bluff has been called. The only course open to you, Commander, is to wireless your Admiralty that Gaetano Orselli, Captain of the neutral vessel Vesuvio, will not hand over one of his stokers.” Orselli lowered his voice confidentially. “I predict that you will get this reply: ‘Permit the Vesuvio to proceed unmolested!’ And that reply will be signed, ‘Churchill.’”

  Commander Ramilly suddenly felt the need for consultation with his superiors. “I must report your position to Captain Nesbitt. Stand by for further orders.”

  “No,” said Orselli, “as soon as I have escorted you to the companion-way, the Vesuvio will take on speed. The Triton may, if she wishes, follow at a respectful distance until the Admiralty order calls her off. And now, Commander”—Orselli produced his diamond-studded cigar case—“will you be so kind as to present this to Captain Nesbitt as a memento of my esteem. It is not of itself greatly valuable but it contains a half dozen of your excellent London-market cigars.”

  The English officer had a tradition of sportsmanship to maintain, and he almost maintained it. “Captain Nesbitt will probably enjoy your cigars much more than my report.” He saluted, turned to go. “And may I add, Captain, chiefly for my bos’n’s benefit, that if I were in command of the Triton, I’d straddle your vessel at two thousand yards with a most persuasive weight of metal.”

  “Giovanezza” laughed Orselli. “Youth, impulsive youth. When you are old enough to command a cruiser, Mr. Ramilly, you will be cooler in judgment.”

  He bowed the Englishman to the companionway, then turned to the deck officer. “Put speed on the ship,” he ordered.

  From Orselli’s officers burst a triumphant shout as they rushed toward their captain. They pummeled him, hugged him, kissed his cheeks and neck with unashamed emotion. “Bravo,” they cried. “Viva Orselli, Viva Italia, Viva Vesuvio!”

  Viva, thought Stephen, l’uomo unico!

  Later he grasped Orselli’s hand. “You were magnificent,” he said. “What a show! The finest piece of diplomatic sleight of hand I ever saw. The Englishman never knew what happened to his guns. They simply vanished.” He wrung the Captain’s hand in admiration. “How did you do it?”

  “You might say that I caught l’Inglese between his political wind and water,” laughed Orselli. “I was fortunate in having the necessary information at just the right time. If the whole British Navy had been bobbing alongside the Triton, their guns would have been powerless against the international levers now in play.”

  “There’s more to it,” insisted Stephen. “You were on top of him politically, of course. But your real strength lay elsewhere … in your moral courage, and your faith in l’uomo unico.”

  Orselli was curiously humble. “Is that so strange in an Italian? Have you forgotten your little homily on Gioacchino Pecci and the wonders he accomplished with a handful of halberdiers? ‘All weapons are not temporal,’ you said. Well”—laughter bubbling out of his great throat—“after my little encounter with l’Inglese, I’m beginning to believe it myself. Come, let us promenade.”

  Together they strolled toward Orselli’s cabin, and from the vantage of his sun deck watched the battle tower of the Triton swaying like an inverted pendulum across the horizon. Orselli pulled out his watch, and waited exactly twenty minutes before he spoke.

  “We are now beyond the range of the Englishman’s guns,” he said. “In six centuries no Florentine has been happier than I am at this moment.”

  As the Captain spoke, Stephen saw on the deck below a man and a woman walking arm in arm. The woman was Erna Thirklind, and the man leaning attentively toward her was the English banker. A tailleur suit of navy-blue flannel accentuated the soprano’s full figure and set off her creamy skin and wheat-gold hair. Pink excitement heightened her make-up. For a reason he could not explain, Stephen hoped that Orselli would not notice the pair.

  But he did. For a long moment he regarded the strolling couple. Then his shoulders went up in a very Tuscan shrug, and his forked beard went down like a semaphore announcing the end of a race.

  “One is never,” he remarked wryly, “quite beyond the range of the English guns.”

  ON THE LAST NIGHT of the crossing, just after the Vesuvio had picked up Minot’s Light, Orselli knocked at the door of Stephen’s cabin.

  “I’ve come to say good-by, Father. Tomorrow morning will be a time of bustle and confusion. Of meetings and partings. Your family will be on the pier to greet you?”

  “I expect so, Captain.”

  “You will go home with them?”

  “No. My orders are to report immediately to the Chancery of the Archdiocese. Headquarters, you know. There I’ll receive my faculties—a kind of ecclesiastical license to practice my profession. After that, if I’m lucky, I’ll be assigned to one of the parishes around Boston.”

  The Captain laid his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “It will be a lucky parish that gets you. May I make a prediction? You will go far in the Church.”

  “I have no desire to go far. My only ambition is to be a good priest.”

  “You will be that, of course. Nevertheless, you will go higher. And do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Orselli, “you are not afraid of worldliness. I do not mean that you are worldly. Far from it. But you have a talent for being all things to all men—a talent not common among Americans, if I may say so. I have watched you handle your honest friend Deegan; I felt your sympathy go out to me”—Orselli affected a schoolboy sheepishness—“in the affair of the blonde nightingale. Trifles maybe, but they reveal a humanity that the Church will put to good use.”

  Orselli dipped his fingers into a small fobbed pocket of his jacket, drew out a gold ring, and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “It is a Tuscan sentiment to make gifts of value when parting from a dear friend. Will you do me the honor to accept this token of remembrance?”

  Stephen examined the jeweled gift. An oblong amethyst, deeply beveled and edged with seed pearls—all set in massive gold. His first instinct was to refuse the
costly present.

  “This is a beautiful ring, Captain. I value the feeling that goes with it. But how can I accept it? In America, a parish priest could never wear such a ring.”

  “It is not the ring of a parish priest,” said Orselli. “It is a bishop’s ring.” He closed Stephen’s fingers over the amethyst. “Keep it, my boy. Lay it away, forget it for the present. But when you finally put it on, say a prayer for the anticlerical Florentine who gave it to you.”

  “I began praying for him a week ago,” grinned Stephen.

  Shrill toot of a steam siren. “We’re picking up the pilot,” said Orselli. He grasped Stephen’s hand. “The Vesuvio will not be coming to Boston again for a long time. But when she returns … Remember, we were made to see each other again. Good-by, Father.”

  “Good-by, and God bless you,” said Stephen.

  In the middle of the night watch the Vesuvio’s great propeller stopped churning, and her hoarse booming invited the little tugs to take over. At dawn they were still shunting and worrying the great liner into her berth at Commonwealth Pier. Stephen was shaving when he felt an almost imperceptible bump. The ship had touched the shores of America. He was home.

  Walking down the gangplank with the Deegans in the April morning sunlight, he saw his father and mother waving among the crowd at the pier. Tears started from his eyes when the walrus mustaches of Dennis Fermoyle pressed his cheek. And they mixed with the tears cascading down Celia Fermoyle’s face when she lifted her arms around her son-priest’s neck. A slender, dark-haired young woman said, “I’m Monica,” and Stephen could not believe that this was the little sister he had last seen in pigtails. Bernard and Florrie were there too, hugging, exclaiming, pulling out handkerchiefs.