Chapter 28 : Constantinople

Lionel Samson watched lethargically as the British-registered steamer Craigforth fought manfully against the relentless current flowing out of the Black Sea. A cooling breeze fanned him, for which he was grateful. The heat would build up in the bare wooden villas clinging to the shore throughout the day, leaving him with no choice but to seek refuge on the shaded verandah overlooking the Bosphorus. At least he was glad to have escaped the climate of Pera, in the heart of the city, which, at this time of year, was unbearable. All of the Embassy staff had similarly decamped to the village of Therapia, north of Constantinople, in the first week of June. Yet, while the unhealthy climate could, understandably, have contributed to the fraying of tempers, the atmosphere was less fraught than at Athens. Admiral Arthur Limpus, in charge of the Naval Mission to Turkey, was more easy-going, yet just as dedicated as Kerr. Freddy Cunliffe-Owen took his duties as Military Attaché more seriously than Tommy Cuninghame. Even Mallet, the Ambassador (just about to go home on leave), who could be aloof at times, was generally more approachable than Elliot. And Beaumont’s presence was a great asset. The one unexpected event was Fitzmaurice’s “breakdown” in February. Samson was struck by the timing, as it coincided precisely with Enver Pasha’s appointment as Minister of War. In such a powerful position, Enver would no longer countenance the influence wielded by Fitzmaurice. If the dragoman was aware of this, as he must have been, a nervous breakdown was a useful diplomatic option. Enver’s adventurism was bound to lead to disaster sooner or later, after which Fitzmaurice could silently reappear. In the meantime, his replacement, young Andrew Ryan, was conscientious and very eager to please.

                Samson leaned back and reached for his gin. Craigforth appeared to be no further advanced. He could clearly see the Master standing on the bridge wing, perhaps contemplating if his ship would ever reach the Black Sea, and he wondered what it would be like to be in the Master’s position; Samson envied the Master his certainty, if not his responsibility. The Master’s world was self-contained; it moved wherever he wanted it to move; he could see the horizon that delineated his world but he knew that he could never reach it — it would always remain outside of his grasp and that in itself provided comfort. For a moment it appeared as if the Master was also staring back at Samson and the Major reflected if he, too, wondered what it would be like to be seated on that verandah, with nothing better to do on a torpid afternoon than to drink gin. The Master moved back inside the wheelhouse, perhaps aware of the futility of such thoughts, or possibly intent on avoiding the Russian steamer which was surging out of the Black Sea on the ineluctable current.

                When he had lost sight of the Master an overwhelming feeling of depression descended upon Lionel Samson. He reflected bitterly on the waste of the previous six months. The journey back to Constantinople had taken more out of him than he had anticipated and the winter in Pera had been unexpectedly severe, further draining his meagre resources. Since March he had done little other that to assist Cunliffe-Owen in the preparation of the Military Attaché’s grand strategic survey of the Ottoman Empire. Cunliffe-Owen had been especially impressed by the prospect of military action against the Turks, should it ever come to that, being focused upon the Persian Gulf and Syria, where Turkish forces were negligible (the latest report from Carchemish had laid particular emphasis on the vulnerability of the meagre Turkish forces to the south). However, the Military Attaché was enough of a realist to understand the attractions of the Dardanelles. He had heard the talk from London that, should trouble arise, the fleet could sail majestically through the Straits to anchor off Constantinople, demand the surrender of the Turkish régime, and so win a bloodless victory. And he knew it was just talk: even in their present state, the Turkish defences would present a formidable obstacle. It was little surprise, therefore, that when, after learning of the new work being carried out under the auspices of Liman von Sanders, Cunliffe-Owen was left with no alternative but to go surreptitiously to inspect the fortifications at the Dardanelles at the start of June leaving Major in Constantinople with time on his hands. Time in which he could do nothing but think: and he thought, in particular, of those single moments upon which his whole life had turned. If he had gone to the quay with Edith in Smyrna; if he had not sprained his ankle at Avret Hissar; if he had not, at the last minute, declined to accompany the Austrian consul in Adrianople when the latter’s car was soon after destroyed by a Bulgarian shell … Single decisions upon which the course of his life had turned, and each time it had turned, or so it seemed, on a whim. And this was the result: alone, having achieved nothing and with nothing left to achieve. He reached for his glass again, then paused. In this mood perhaps it was unwise to be drinking gin.

                Throughout this period of contemplation Craigforth had succeeded only in covering one ship’s length. Already the Russian steamer had swept past and had begun the languid turn into the Golden Horn. The British Master re-appeared on the bridge. ‘You would not want to be me,’ Samson muttered to himself as he flung his drink over the parched boards. His throat became constricted; his head throbbed; but he could not cry. He felt shrivelled, a dried-out husk of a man. ‘No one will cry over me,’ he thought, ‘so why should I cry for myself?’ But he knew this was not the real reason. He wondered momentarily if Edith had ever cried for him since Smyrna? How was it possible to lose contact so completely with one he had loved so completely? Did she ever think of him? Did she ever consider what might have happened if Arthur had returned in sound health? The Major retrieved his glass and went inside to pour a fresh gin. It was while doing so that Andrew Ryan burst in, breathless.

                ‘Major, Major! I’m so glad to have found someone. I … I … ’ He was dripping with perspiration.

                ‘Here, Andrew — ,’ Samson handed him a glass of soda, which the young acting Chief Dragoman gulped readily. ‘Now, what has upset you so?’

                ‘I went … back … to the Embassy this afternoon,’ he dragged a sleeve across his brow, ‘intending to spend a couple of nights there while it is deserted. It was apparent immediately that something was wrong. Everything was too quiet; no-one in the streets — even the Rue de Pera — empty. I looked in at the Pera Palace but could see no-one I knew. In desperation I tried the French Embassy. Only Dumonteuil, the Third Secretary, was there …’

                ‘And did he have any information to give?’

                Ryan brandished the latest edition of The Tanin, which Samson had not yet seen. The purchase had just been announced by the Greek Ministry of Marine of the American battleships Idaho and Mississippi. Samson looked knowingly at Ryan: ‘This makes war inevitable, if I am not mistaken.’

                ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell someone — there is talk of Sultan Osman and Reshadieh sailing out from England immediately, even though they are not quite complete; still missing a couple of guns, I believe. Even without all their guns they are still more powerful than these American ships. And the Greeks are threatening to sink the Turkish ships on their way out. It’s all words for the moment, Major, but it will soon get out of hand. I have never known such a sense of foreboding in the city.’

                ‘And you have told no-one?’

                ‘There is no-one to tell, Major! The Colonel is at the Dardanelles; Admiral Limpus is conducting manoeuvres near Ismid; Mr Beaumont and Lord Gerald are nowhere to be found, and the Ambassador has gone driving in the country.’

                ‘Is the Embassy in any danger?’

                ‘Perhaps … as word spreads. You know how quickly a rabble can appear. I would imagine the Americans are this minute taking precautions as it is their ships which have been sold to the Greeks. But I can’t imagine our Admiralty allowing the Turkish ships to sail when not ready and if word of this spreads then …’

                Ryan, it was clear, wanted someone to take charge of the situation. ‘Right then,’ Samson announced firmly, ‘we’d better return to the Embassy and mount a guard.’ Samson accompanied Ryan back to Pera in the latter’s decrepit Sunbeam. They entered a city eerily quiet yet quivering with suppressed expectation. For the first time since he had returned from Athens the Major felt distinctly uneasy. The omnipresent sensation of always being observed which he had experienced throughout Greece threatened to engulf him. The only noise was that produced by the Sunbeam’s labouring engine; a noise which echoed off the sinister buildings and reverberated down the menacing streets. As they turned the last corner before the Embassy another sound rose up, loud enough to be heard above the clatter of the car’s misfiring engine. A crowd had gathered outside the gates of the Embassy.

                Ryan stopped the car and looked at the Major: ‘We’ll have to bluff it out,’ Samson casually replied. He suddenly realized that, in the rush, he had forgotten his revolver.

                Ryan edged the car ever closer to the crowd; when he stopped, blocked from entering the gates by a mass of people fifty feet deep, Samson leaned over and sounded the horn twice. At once the babble subsided and, as Samson stood up in the passenger seat, a gap opened up in the crowd. Ryan drove warily through the sullen mass until the car was all but nudging the iron gates. As Samson sounded the horn again the crowd silently closed ranks behind them; they were trapped. Once more there was no sound but the car’s engine. Neither occupant could bare to look behind him.

                ‘Andrew,’ the Major requested calmly, ‘sound the horn again.’

                This time, in response, the elderly Turkish gatekeeper appeared, surveyed the crowd, spat, and opened the gates. Ryan drove through; there was no attempt made to follow and the gates were swung closed. Samson got out and went to thank the gatekeeper, who remained completely unperturbed. It was nothing like the crowd which had gathered in ’08 after the Sultan had publicly harangued the British for fomenting the revolution. Then, a fortnight later, with the rebellion successful and the constitution restored, the new Ambassador had been greeted with a spontaneous display of approbation, culminating in the moment that was indelibly printed on the memory of all who witnessed the spectacle: the horses were unhitched from his carriage in Galata and cheering Turks had provided the motive power to pull the carriage up the steep hill to Pera.

                ‘Excitable,’ snorted the gatekeeper, and spat once more.

                ‘What is all the fuss about this time?’ inquired Samson.

                The gatekeeper handed him a copy of the latest edition of the Levant Herald and Mizzi. The Major glanced at the lead story and quickly raced back to the Chancery, where Ryan was busily engaged on the telephone.

                ‘I’ve got the Ambassador,’ announced Ryan. ‘He’s just returned to the summer residence.’

                Samson reached out and took the receiver: ‘Ambassador? This is Samson.’

                ‘Ah, Major — good! What’s all the fuss about this time?’ Mallet did not want anything to interfere with his forthcoming leave.

                ‘I am afraid, Sir, that we have to thank Djemal Pasha for this demonstration. There is a report in this evening’s paper, reputedly an official communiqué from the Ministry of Marine and bearing Djemal’s imprimatur, that the construction of the Turkish dreadnoughts in England is being deliberately delayed on the explicit instructions of the British Admiralty.’

                ‘Why should we want to do that? Where is Limpus? He should be able to contradict such reports.’

                ‘Not due back till tomorrow, Sir.’

                ‘Djemal has obviously chosen his moment well. It’s all due to Mizzi and we know he is on Berlin’s payroll. Whatever Djemal may or may not have said, Mizzi will have twisted everything around. That wretched paper of his does us more harm … ’

                ‘That’s not the point at issue, Sir. How do we go about dispersing the mob in front of the Embassy?’ A note of urgency had crept into the Major’s voice.

                At last, Mallet seemed to be taking events seriously: ‘I will contact Saïd Halim immediately and demand he send a detachment of troops. In the meantime, until their arrival, you and Ryan will have to manage.’

                The Major replaced the receiver and went to the window. The crowd remained ominously quiet. ‘Andrew, do you know where the rifles are kept? At the locked store in Galata?’

                ‘Yes, I went there once with Fitz. a few years ago.’

                ‘Well, I want you to go down there now and bring back as many rifles as you can carry in the car. Not your car, I don’t trust it. You’d better take Lord Gerald’s Rolls-Royce. You’ll find the keys in his office; and go out the back way of course.’

                Ryan’s eyes lit up at the mention of the Rolls-Royce; he dashed immediately to find the keys and was heading out the rear door to where the car was parked when Samson called after him: ‘And do be careful, Andrew — with the car, I mean.’

                The Major nervously lit a cigarette and stood by the window watching the crowd at the gates. Seeing him, one member of the mob picked up a handy stone and flung it towards the Major. It covered no more than half the distance before clattering along the drive. The light had begun to fade and with it the ardour of one section of the crowd. Before long the brightly burning end of the cigarette, as the Major took a shallow puff, was the only sign that there was life in the Embassy. By the time Ryan eventually returned, having crammed almost the entire contents of the store in the car, only the most rabid element of the mob remained. There seemed little point in venting their anger at the lifeless figure in the upper window. Nevertheless Major Samson spent a sleepless night guarding his window with, scattered around him, the miniature arsenal Ryan had managed to retrieve from Galata. There was no sign of the troops which would have been so glibly promised by the Grand Vizier. Doubtless Saïd Halim would have a plausible excuse when Mallet demanded an explanation; after all, Saïd Halim owed his very position to his consistent plausibility.

                The apprentice Dragoman himself, seeing the last of the crowd disperse around midnight, had found a bed, washed the worst of the protective grease, with which the rifles had been coated, off his clothes, and collapsed into a sound sleep, until roused the following morning by the annoyed prodding of Lord Gerald Wellesley: ‘Ryan! What the deuce has happened to my car?’

                ‘Your what?’ Ryan replied sleepily.

                ‘My car, my car! Have you seen it? The upholstery is ruined — ruined.’

                Samson had entered, hearing the conversation. ‘Gerald, I thought I heard your voice.’

                ‘Major, what are you doing here? Can you explain what has been going on?’

                ‘Yes, I think I can. Young Ryan here has saved the Embassy from being stormed. In the process a certain amount of grease has probably found its way on to your leather seats after he retrieved these weapons on his own initiative. You were not here last night Gerald — it was an ugly scene, I can assure you.’

                ‘I never meant to accuse anyone, you understand. Well done, Ryan! What was the cause of it?’

                ‘A fatuous report in Mizzi’s rag. These wretched battleships again. How I wish they would all meet somewhere out in the Aegean and sink each other!’ Samson spoke with genuine vehemence.

                ‘Presumably not with Kerr and Limpus on board?’ Gerald found trouble in treating the situation with the seriousness it deserved.

                ‘Are you saying we have only ourselves to blame for supplying the ships?’ Samson asked. Gerald Wellesley began as if to speak but was cut short by the Major: ‘Don’t say it, Gerald. If we didn’t someone else would. Yes, I’ve heard it all before.’

                ‘Well look at the Greeks and their American battleships.’

                Samson could not conceal his astonishment. ‘So you saw the report — did you not think such a report would cause trouble here?’

                ‘Nothing you couldn’t handle, Major,’ Gerald smiled.

                Louis Mallet breezed in to the Embassy at ten o’clock that morning and called on Samson for a complete account of the previous evening’s events, which had already been fully reported in The Tanin. To judge from the article it was only with some reluctance that a body of British guards had been prevented from opening fire upon the peaceful crowd curiously milling around the Embassy gates. After Samson had related the events of the previous evening Mallet reached for the leather folder on his desk and selected the top dispatch from it. ‘I have received this from Crowe; it concerns you. How do you fancy returning to Athens?’

                Samson reacted sharply: ‘Athens? I don’t understand?’

                ‘Tewfik Pasha has delivered a note to Sir Edward in which he alleges an attempt will be made by the Greeks to sink Sultan Osman and Reshadieh on their way out to Constantinople in August. Tewfik has asked, therefore, for them to fly the British flag and for the official handover to take place here. It’s not Tewfik’s doing; I’m sure of that. I see the hand of our friend, Djemal. However, when Sir Edward demurred, Tewfik more or less accused him of being in league with the Greeks. From Crowe’s report of their meeting Sir Edward was furious; but it does place us in an extremely awkward position. Crowe has asked therefore if you could travel to Athens to ascertain if there is any substance in the rumours.’

                ‘But surely, after the last … ’

                ‘Believe me, Major, that did not count against you. It was a difficult assignment and in carrying it out you were of course grievously injured. Crowe still has the utmost faith in your judgment, you know. I can imagine, speaking personally, that you would not relish the prospect of a return to Greece.’

                ‘What of Admiral Kerr? Surely he is aware of what is going on?’

                Mallet frowned. ‘Yes, Admiral Kerr. There is, I understand, a problem with the Admiral. This purchase of the American ships, from what I can gather, was done entirely counter to his advice. It clearly smacks of desperation, but if the Greeks are that desperate, you see, what is to stop them from following the course suggested by Tewfik? And do you suppose for one moment they would tell Kerr — a British Admiral — that they were intending to sink two British-built ships? I suspect you may find that the Admiral is no longer taken into their confidence, in which case it is all the more important that we have an independent observer there.’

                At that moment, Lionel Samson was not thinking of battleships but of Rachel Summers. ‘I take your point, Sir, however I must have time to think upon this.’

Ambassador Mallet had other things on his mind. The second dispatch from Crowe, which he re-read after Samson had departed, concerned the forthcoming visit of Admiral Milne. All previous visits by the British Commander-in-Chief had been in the Admiral’s yacht, Hussar, which, despite the elegant description was in fact an elderly torpedo boat; but, following Admiral Souchon’s recent visit in Goeben there had been mutterings from Captain Boyle (the Naval Attaché normally stationed in Rome but who just happened to be in Constantinople doing the rounds) that Admiral Milne should dispense with tradition and arrive in his flagship, the battle cruiser Inflexible. Somehow, these mutterings had reached the ears of those in the Foreign Office who were always on the lookout for real and imagined snubs. Mallet suspected, without being able to prove his contention, that Boyle had whispered his discontent to Battenberg who had, in turn, had whispered …

                Whoever had said what to whom, Mallet was now placed in the position of having to approach Saïd Halim; and he knew full well what the Grand Vizier’s response would be to such a request. ‘We are dealing not with the official policy of the Ottoman Government,’ Crowe had written, ‘but with the personal policy of an Egyptian malcontent.’ It was all very well for Crowe: he did not have to face Saïd Halim. The Grand Vizier was already clearly irritated as Mallet entered the audience chamber of the Sublime Porte.

                ‘Mister Ambassador, what is the meaning of this? Why cannot your Admiral be satisfied with his yacht as before?’

                ‘I think, Your Excellency, that the recent visit of Admiral Souchon … ’

                ‘Yes, yes, I expected you to refer to that. It was, as I am sure you appreciate, the first visit to the Golden Horn of the new German Commander. In all his time in the Mediterranean, his predecessor Admiral Trummler always managed to find an excuse to avoid an official visit.’ Mallet made as if to speak, until the Grand Vizier motioned that he was not yet finished. ‘The German Squadron is a recent and, I might say, an unwelcome addition to the Mediterranean. However, in the circumstances, I could not but consent to the visit, although I may add confidentially that it was not well received: the banquets and civility had been overdone. But, because it happened at all, you now feel obliged to outdo it.’

                The problem for Mallet was that he felt some sympathy for the plight of the Grand Vizier. ‘Nevertheless, Your Excellency, I have been instructed to inform you that my Admiralty takes the view that it should be Admiral Milne in his flagship, or no Admiral Milne at all.’

                ‘Why do you place me in such a position?’ Saïd Halim rang a bell to summon one of his secretaries, then leisurely examined the fingernails of his left hand, waiting for the scribe to arrive. ‘Issue a proclamation announcing the visit of Admiral Milne in his flagship. When is he due, Sir Louis?’

                ‘This Friday.’

                ‘ … the visit of Admiral Milne from Friday, 26 June.’

                ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. There is one other thing. I apologize for having to inquire, but in view of the increased tension between your country and Greece, I have been asked to seek your assurance that no mines have been laid in the Dardanelles.’

                Saïd Halim sighed. ‘I will have my Minister of Marine send the necessary assurance.’ The Grand Vizier rose; the audience was at an end.