Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

The three could not but help stare at Gramsci, for he was a diminutive figure, made even shorter by a severely hunched back which contorted all of his body, making his round head look even larger than it was. Gramsci, however, moved and spoke as if he were oblivious to his physical condition. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with such authority that the listener too soon forgot his physical appearance.

“You are about to go on a long journey,” he said gravely, sipping from a glass of wine, “to participate in a mission essential to the formation of the new state of Italy. You have been chosen because of your bravery in action and your loyalty to the cause. As you know, the Neapolitan authorities are not at all kindly disposed to our movement, and will do all that they can to prevent you from succeeding. Should you be apprehended, you must do all that you can to avoid telling them anything. You are hereby advised to take this quick poison should you be caught.”

Gramsci handed each man a small vial, which they placed among their belongings.

“Fortunately for you,” continued Gramsci, “since most of your mission lies abroad, in America, your chances of avoiding the police are excellent. Now: to explain. You are probably aware that the nationalist movement badly needs money for its army and the latest weaponry. Much of the needed help lies in the pockets of those many Italians who have become rich in America. We have a list of the richest of them living in the cities of New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago. You are to convince them, by any means at your disposal, to contribute to the army fund. The details of your voyage are enclosed in each of these packets. Once you separate, your disguise as a traveler and your route will be unknown to the others. This is for your protection. You will not meet again until you arrive in the United States. Upon your arrival, you will be met and told how you will reunite and coordinate your efforts. Once there, you will be readily safe from the hands of either the Bourbons or the Papacy. But America houses its own hazards and you must be on your guard at all times. You will sleep here tonight, and tomorrow morning, before dawn, you will be taken to the first destination on your voyage. From then on, you will be on your own. Time is of the essence. Follow your instructions closely. They were carefully prepared. Make no mistakes in their execution, for the powers that oppose us are well aware of our financial plight and the possible ways that we might seek to improve it. And their agents and collaborators are everywhere. Please ask now any remaining questions.”

The men remained silent, and Gramsci then directed them to their rooms. In the morning, at dawn, they left, each on his own path.

Two of them, Alessandro Vetri and his cousin Giacomo Santucci, left on ships from Italy, one from Naples, the other from Genoa. A third, Gaetano Vetri, the brother of Alessandro, traveled to Marseilles, where, after a wait of three days, he boarded an American steamship bound for New York. His disguise was that of a Catholic priest and his new name was Padre Giovanni Agostini. He was pleased with himself. The character of a priest came easy to him, for he had been an acolyte for many years and had been destined by his family to the seminary. He would have none of it, ran away, and joined Garibaldi’s army. He fought all over Italy, knew Garibaldi personally, and had been highly decorated as a soldier. He sat smugly on his berth, alone now, for the other passengers had not yet arrived. Ben fatto , he said to himself, well done. He was lost to the world now. Who would have thought that he would finally become a priest?

He fell into a pleasant doze for a few hours. He was awakened suddenly by the motion of the boat. It was leaving. But there were no other passengers in his cabin. Rosary in hand, he opened the door and climbed to the lowest deck. He heard a few passengers on the deck above him, but none where he was. It was dusk. He watched as Marseilles drifted behind into the darkness. He smiled, content with his mission and the adventure that lay before him. He repeated his Hail Marys instinctively, hypnotically, fingering the rosary as if in a trance. So at peace was he for the moment that he was unaware of the figure that had emerged wet and naked from the sea, now behind him, who grAbbéd him with all his strength at the neck, twisting it, killing him instantly. The killer pulled the priest’s body into the deep shadows, donned his clothes, and as quickly as he could, threw the naked body overboard. He watched as it disappeared into the wake of the ship. He quickly found the key to the cabin in the right-hand pocket of the priest’s frock and went below. The boarding pass found in the same pocket gave him the priest’s name. Only one other passenger was to take his place in the same cabin, a well-dressed man who introduced himself subsequently as Mr. Carlos Romero of the town of Las Vegas in the territory of New Mexico and a recent pilgrim to Lourdes. The killer responded with a smile: “I am Padre Giovanni Agostini. I am from Italy.”

On the first night on board, as the ship entered Spanish waters as it pressed toward the Strait of Gibraltar, a diminutive figure, naked except for a loin cloth, came forth from the darkness and, bending over, reached for a plate of food that had been left there for him. The man was extremely muscular but small, dark-haired, his skin a kind of yellow that almost glowed in the dark. His eyes had within them the simple look of a child. Hungrily, he stuffed the food into his mouth, gorging, as if his hunger had become almost uncontrollable. When he had finished, he left the plate where he had found it and disappeared into a dark corner of the ship, where he was safe from view, covered by a tarpaulin stored near the lower deck.

If the upright Mr. Romero had harbored any suspicions concerning the priest with whom he shared a cabin, he would have noted that the priest prepared such a plate of food every evening and took it outside and placed it on the deck, usually just after dusk, like food for a dog or cat. Mr. Romero, however, saw nothing out of place and indeed was awed by his cabin mate, for he grown up to have the highest respect for the clergy. The priest, receiving no question from his cabin mate, mumbled some remark in explanation, something about the Christian duty to feed the animals, as did St. Francis, in this case some pelicans that had decided to travel to America with the ship.

It did not take the killer long to learn more about his new identity. The dead man’s small valise contained the information that he eventually deciphered. He felt no remorse. For him it was survival that came first. And who worries about killing such a man? he thought as he went through the various articles in the bag. He learned that “Agostini” was an Italian agent instead of a holy man, bound for America in order to raise funds for Garibaldi. His instructions noted that he would be met by agents of the Italian revolution at Baltimore when they docked. And so the killer learned that he would have to leave the ship before they landed. Luckily, he was told that they would be docking in the dark in the early morning.

Except for Mr. Romero, the priest kept his distance from the other passengers. He spoke to no one, pretending to spend most of his time in religious meditation. This impressed Mr. Romero, who was a good, religious man himself. Indeed, so impressed did our New Mexican traveler become with his priestly roommate that he suggested one day shortly before they arrived that the priest journey to New Mexico.

“It is a magnificent place, barren and empty, most of the people are honest and hard working. A few are bad, and they could use another priest or two,” said Romero between Hail Marys on his rosary. “Why don’t you come?”