1635 The Papal Stakes (66 page)

Father-General Vitelleschi was frowning. “Are you therefore suggesting, Your Eminence, that the population of the up-time world was more ready for complex truths than the population of our own world?”

Wadding nodded. “That is a distinct possibility. After all, the up-time world had three and a half more centuries experience in adapting to the complexities of religious toleration and political equality. The increasing phenomena of marriage between Catholics and Protestants, and then Jews and Gentiles, gave them ample opportunity to work out in daily practice what we down-timers see as unthinkably radical theological and social change.”

“And how does this instruct us?” asked Vitelleschi.

Wadding bowed his head. “It shows us that our Lord is truly a kind, loving, and above all, foresightful parent. He waited for the up-timers to grow into these accomplishments before he set them the challenges implicit in Vatican II. Allow me to illustrate what I mean in mundane terms: would you teach your little child to climb a cliff-face before he can walk? No, because it is imperative that, as a parent, you make sure that he walks, and then acquires other requisite skills, before he may confront the cliff-face. Similarly, God ensured the gradual maturation of the up-time world and Church, before sharing what was for
them
the infallible wisdom of Vatican II. For Cardinal Mazzare and his peers, Vatican II was an exhilarating new cliff to climb; for us, it would simply be a fast and fatal fall.”

Wadding folded his hands. “Our wise and Loving God would not impose the same challenge upon both societies, without regard to their respective levels of readiness. And so I argue the term ‘transitory,’ as it is used in
Gaudium et Spes
, simply reminds us that the perfect parental wisdom of our Heavenly Father is both firm and flexible.”

Wadding paused. “Popes—whatever else they may be—are still merely men, and are thus products of the time in which they live. They’re born into the same reality as the flock in which they are raised, and ultimately, of which they become shepherds. Thus, you might say, each pope enjoys a special Temporal Charism. The inspiration of the Holy Spirit ensures that they are, so to speak, the right pope at the right time for the right flock.”

Wadding turned toward Mazzare. “So let us allow that your John XXIII was such a pope, who called for ecumenicism in a world that teetered on the brink of man-made apocalypse. Let us assume that the same was true of your Pope John Paul II, who exerted his Sacred Magisterium to promulgate these infallible doctrines of tolerance. These papal actions may have played an essential role in ensuring the survival of your world, which was every bit as fear-filled and war-weary as this one.”

“But it was also a very, very
different
world from this one. Yours was a world which had already resolved many conflicts that we are not ready to set aside, or maybe, more to the point, know that God does not yet wish us to set aside. Either way, I put it to you that your popes made the right choices for the flock of their time. But this is not that time, and this is not that flock. And so the same choices are not right for us—no matter how infallible they were in the context of your up-time world.”

Wadding sat. Vitelleschi looked over at Cardinal Mazzare. “Your Eminence, do you have anything you wish to add?”

Mazzare shook his head. “No, Father-General; I am done.”

As Antonio Barberini concluded his transcription and began dating and witnessing the document, he watched Mazzare rise more slowly than usual and thought,
Yes, Your Eminence, you were done about halfway through.
And then he realized,
If the up-timer has one more day like that, I suspect my immediate future will not include a papal Progress to a nice, safe haven somewhere in USE territory. Rather, I may be on the run in the provinces of Italy for the rest of my very short life.

Cardinal Antonio Barberini found that thought not only unappealing, but downright terrifying.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Thomas North had to admit it: Harry Lefferts was not just a fine special operative, he was a fine field officer, as well. And nothing proved that so clearly, and so profoundly, as his ability to simply wait.

The pirate ship—an uncommonly large
llaut
, as the Mallorquin fishermen had claimed—had arrived and started its cautious approach to the Bay of Canyamel in the early hours of the morning. It put a small boat over its side when the sky was still goose-gray, and loitered behind while that skiff made its way into the bay just after dawn. Dressed as fishermen, the pirates rowed the small boat to the foot of the caves. Harry and North had watched through binoculars as they scrambled up the steep and craggy slope and then passed within, uneventfully.

That had been more than an hour ago. Many officers—both new and seasoned—would, by now, be fretting about what had happened. Under conditions like these, too many officers became convinced that it was A Bad Sign that none of their own men had emerged yet and so, started straining at the bit to go help—personally.

Not Harry Lefferts. He lazed on the stern thwart. If it was an act, it was a very good one. “Hey, owner-aboard and Captain,” North said.

“What?”

“I suppose I should inform you that there’s a movement afoot to name the ships.”

“Oh? What are the names?”

“Well, the Ragusans have always had a name for their
gajeta
:
Zora
, or ‘
Dawn.
’ The Venetians felt that the old name for the
barca-longa
was a bit parochial and tepid, so they changed it from the
Maria
to the
Guerra Cagna
.”

“
War Bitch?
” translated Harry. “Catchy.”

“Quite. And I renamed the xebec myself: it’s now the
Atropos
.”

“What?…Oh, I get it. Bravo, Mr. Hornblower. I didn’t take you for the nautical type.” Harry patted the gunwale of the
scialuppa
. “And what have they decided to call this bucket?”

North shrugged. “They’re leaving it with the name it always had: the
Pesciolino.”

“The
Little Fish
?”

“As I understand it, the context is more akin to ‘the
Minnow
.’”

Harry’s jaw fell open. “The
Minnow
? Really? The
Minnow
?” And without any warning, he fell backward in the thwarts, laughing so hard that Thomas was concerned that some delicate mental thread in the up-timer had finally snapped.

But upon rising to check on Harry, North discovered that the captain’s malady was indeed nothing more than uncontrollable hysterics. “What in blazes are you laughing at? You’re making the crew nervous.”

“The
Minnow
?” Harry gasped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this was a three-hour tour?” And then he fell back laughing again.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Harry, tears streaming out of his eyes, propped himself up and explained, since they had nothing better to do, about the strange up-time TV phenomenon known as
Gilligan’s Island
.

Hearing the return of calm to the back of his boat, Aurelio edged aftward to take a look at Lefferts. “He okay?” the Piombinese captain asked North.

Harry stared up at Aurelio, then pointed and chortled, “Oh. My. God. It’s the Skipper—with a mustache and an Italian accent!” In an attempt to keep his laughing more quiet, Lefferts pitched over, head between his knees, his back quaking in time with his suppressed guffaws.

Orazio joined his uncle many times removed to look at the stricken up-timer. “The captain, he is not well?”

Harry looked up, and now the laughter was coming out as choked, wheezing spasms. He pointed again, this time at Orazio. “And Gilligan. Where’s the Professor? He’ll figure out the attack plan we need. And Ginger—oh, Ginger—” He bent over again, laughing so hard that he could no longer speak.

Aurelio and Orazio looked at North, eyebrows high, eyes wide. “The captain—is he—eh, that is, has he—?”

North sighed. “The captain is fine. Just very, very amused.”

“Amused? While we wait to fight pirates?”

“He laughs in the face of death. Me too. Ha, ha.”

The Italians’ stares ping-ponged from North, to the recovering Lefferts, and back to North. Although they did not speak, their thoughts were easy to read: “Mad Englishmen.” North couldn’t blame them for thinking that; in fact, he was disposed to agree with them. Even if they did shamefully associate up-time Americans with their English progenitors. “You see, now; the captain is quite himself again.”

Which was almost true. Lefferts sat up very straight, opened his mouth to begin what would probably be a very sane, rational explanation for his debilitating fit of mirth—when one of the Venetians who had been seeded on board the
Minnow
hissed, “The little pirate boat has started back from the caves.”

The
scialuppa
was suddenly quiet. Lefferts’ rapid, easy shift into complete tactical focus was, North had to admit, enviable. “Get yourself behind the sail, Orazio, and then scan the boat using the binoculars. Don’t keep them out for more than a minute; we don’t want the pirates getting a glimpse of the lenses. Tell me what you see back at the caves. Aurelio, start taking us to windward of the pirate
llaut
—slowly. Nothing suspicious.”

“
Si
, Captain Lefferts.” Aurelio did not like combat—he was a fisherman by both trade and temperament—but he seemed relieved at Harry’s recovery.

“Orazio, what are you seeing? Tell me everything, lil’ buddy.” Harry snickered as the uttered the last words; North resolved to view whatever episodes of
Gilligan’s Island
had made the journey back down-time.

If Orazio noticed Harry’s strange form of address, he gave no sign of it; he was too intent on his job. “I see our men in the boat, dressed in the pirates’ clothes and gear. The number in the boat equal the number of pirates killed in the cave, plus those who approached in the skiff. As you instructed.”

“Excellent. Are they rowing or—?”

“Yes, they are rowing, but now they are also putting up the step sail. Captain, I am thinking they will be out here in ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Except that the pirate doesn’t seem disposed to wait that long,” commented North. “Look.”

They did: the pirate
llaut
had come about briskly, heading in toward the Bay of Canyamel, evidently determined to rendezvous as quickly as possible.

Harry smiled. “Guess they’re getting antsy out here.”

“Or don’t want us close enough to observe what happens when they meet,” offered North.

“Probably both,” Lefferts replied with a grin. “Aurelio—”

“
Si
, Major; you want me to use the
llaut
’s change of position to work more to windward of them. And then close the distance. Slowly.”

“You read my mind, Skipper. I’ll have Mary Ann bake you a pineapple pie.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind. Look to the sails. Thomas, it’s probably about time for us to bring out the tools of our trade.”

“Fishing rods?”

“Well—rods, I guess,” commented Harry. Keeping it below the level of the gunwale, he unwrapped his SKS. “And appropriate for us fishers of men.”

“My, that’s awful grim for a Yank,” commented North. “And improbably poetic. Are you sure you’re not becoming English?”

Thomas, who had only been in a few shipboard fights over the course of his career, was once again struck by the almost surreal pacing of them.

First, there was a long cat-and-mouse game as each of the three ships tried to feign a false identity and purpose. The small skiff affected the appearance of being filled by busily rowing fishermen—or disguised pirates, depending upon the intended audience. The corsair
llaut
attempted to create the impression of a fishing boat lazily approaching the shore. And the
Minnow
mimicked the irregular course changes of a boat trying to find the best spot in which to let down nets. Throughout this ballet of deception, the skiff and
llaut
closed with each other slowly; the
Minnow
, having the advantage of the wind at its back, was able to approach indirectly and at a positively glacial pace.

But then, as the boats drew within a few hundred yards of each other, everything seemed to speed up. The skiff angled aside to bring the breeze more over its beam. This changed its approach to the
llaut
from a gradual yet direct rendezvous, to a speedier, but oblique course that would ultimately bring it across the bows of the larger ship: “crossing the T” as the admirals of later, up-time centuries had put it.

At the same time, the
llaut
had raised her yard a bit, putting more sheet to the reaching wind. The ship would call more attention to itself that way, but the pirates were probably preparing to abandon their efforts at mimicking a legitimate fishing boat. This close to the mouth of the bay, they probably wanted speed more than anything else; their goal was now to reach the skiff, take it and its men on board, and swing about toward open water where—if Spanish patrol boats put in a surprise appearance—the corsair could maneuver and evade.

Meanwhile, the
Minnow
began swinging slowly around to catch the wind from the rear starboard quarter. Given the way she was rigged currently, that pushed her forward at maximum speed. North heard the occasional, swell-cutting whispers of the prow mount into the hoarse, bumping rush that betokened speed great enough to generate a true bow wave.

Soon after, someone on the
llaut
obviously saw something suspicious in the oncoming skiff; wild gesticulations in its direction summoned two more observers into the bows, who hurriedly gestured to turn about.

The
llaut
veered off—but within moments discovered that it was directly leeward of the no-longer innocent looking
scialuppa
, which was now bearing down on them, its crew crouching low behind its gunwales. At approximately two hundred yards, the pilot of the pirate craft must have recognized the same speed and directness of course that he had set many times himself when attempting to intercept prey. Trapped, the corsair veered again, back toward its old course, simultaneously trying to cheat close to the wind, keep speed, and run out from between the two ships that were now clearly operating in concert.