Chapter 7 : Scutari

The citadel of Scutari loomed forebodingly out of the thick mist which had formed during the night. Approaching from the south, the town was initially hidden from sight by a ridge, the summit of which was crowned by the medieval castle, its ancient ramparts silent witness to past and present tumult. Somewhere below the fog was the enemy encampment. Samson wondered what it must have been like, on a morning such as this, for the besieged Turks to peer out from the citadel: all that would be visible to them would be an impermanent sea of fog, upon which shone a warming sun. They would be like sailors in uncharted waters, believing all was set fair but knowing all the while that danger lurked just beneath the surface. When Samson neared the town, on the morning of Friday 11 April, it was not readily apparent to him that a bloody siege was in progress, still less that the duration of the siege now extended to five months. His experience of Adrianople had prepared him for a site of tremendous destruction; instead there was little damage apparent from the lethargic bombardment. From what he could gather the investing troops, both Serbs and Montenegrins, had, in the meantime, all but forgotten the reason for their presence. Indeed, the fighting should have ceased altogether. For Albania, the Great Powers had decreed, was to become autonomous. What need of fighting when the Great Powers had spoken? And, if these so-called Powers really were Great, why did not the Turks listen and obey? Whatever the rationale behind the original declaration of war the previous year against the Ottoman Empire, it was now simply a question of killing the Turk because he happened to be a Turk. Too many private scores remained to be settled.

                As he approached the siege lines, Samson trod warily lest the nervous troops should decide to open fire on a stranger before he had had a chance to establish his identity. The soldiers were clad in a variety of uniforms, some of which he could distinguish; others meant little to him. The smell was vile and he could not help thinking of the previous few days when he had been alone in the wilderness. He was able to approach a sullen group of Serbs, crouched around a small fire on this cold morning and who resented their presence here even more than the Montenegrins. Samson bid one of them ‘good morning’ in English, to test the outcome. The result was a shrug and a grunt in the direction of their captain. The Serbian Captain in charge of the detachment looked a decent enough fellow but this was not, unlike Avret Hissar, the place to come across a wandering British tourist. Samson needed another cover.

                ‘Good morning, Captain. My name is Samson. The correspondent for the Morning Post. I’ve just come over from Cettinje.’ This last piece of embroidery was not only unnecessary, it was also dangerous as Samson had never been to Cettinje. He fervently hoped the Captain would not ask him any questions on that subject. On the other hand, it would be the most likely spot at which an English newspaper reporter would be based.

                The Serbian Captain, while just as dirty and dishevelled as his men, possessed a fine, even a noble, face which spoke of unstated intelligence and set him apart, as his rank alone could not do, from his men: ‘So you are going to inform your readers of how we are slaughtering the Turks. I know you English; the Turks can do no wrong.’ His English, following a year spent in London, was excellent.

                ‘Not at all, Captain. I am here to report the truth.’

                ‘I will tell you the truth, Mr Samson. For five hundred years we Serbs suffered under Turkish domination. Only a generation ago did we acquire our independence. It took time to gather our forces but, once we had, it was only natural that we should seek to expel the Turks from Europe, back across the Bosphorus.’

                The Major was hampered by a genuine liking for the Turks which, even no, would not leave him. ‘That is as may be, but I have always understood that Turkish rule was relatively benign.’

                ‘If that is the case, it has only been by incompetence, Mr Samson. Their great accomplishment, if I may call it thus, has been to set each of their subject races against the other. We Serbs hate the Turks but we also distrust the Greeks, the Bulgarians, and the Albanians. We all live in a climate of fear. Is that not an accomplishment? It is a simple matter to dominate a people who are always fighting amongst themselves.’ The Captain pulled his greatcoat tighter around his shoulders.

                ‘In that case, Captain, there can be no end to the violence. Was it not better to suffer the Turkish yoke in peace? You may well succeed in expelling the Turks from Europe, but where will it get you? You cannot trust your neighbours, so you will look for protection to the Powers. You Serbs claim Russia as your protector. The Bulgarians align themselves with Germany. The Greeks…’ And then, remembering Professor Karo, Samson paused.

                ‘The Greeks?’ inquired the Serbian Captain.

                ‘Monsieur Venizelos is, I fear, a pragmatist, Captain,’ answered Major Samson diplomatically.

                The last newspaper the Serbian Captain had received from Belgrade was over a week old, but already the reports of the new Greek Monarch’s alleged affiliation were appearing. ‘Surely the King is in the pay of Germany?’ It was so obvious that the Captain could not understand how Samson failed to see it. No wonder people in England were being mislead about what was really happening in the Balkans.

                Samson was about to reply when a solitary shell was fired from somewhere to their right. Both the Major and the Captain glanced skyward, still unable to see through the fog, until a dull thud convinced them the shell had fallen to earth. ‘The King is new to the throne,’ Samson argued without any real knowledge of the situation. ‘For the time being I believe Monsieur Venizelos holds sway in the country but if Germany were to align both Bulgaria and Greece to her side that would make life extremely difficult for the Serbs. In that eventuality there would be no restraining Austria.’

                The Serbian Captain prodded the small fire while framing his response: ‘The Bulgarians, in my opinion, are in Germany’s pocket already. And, once Berlin signs up Greece, if that is their intention, war, my friend, is certain.’

                ‘Bulgaria and Greece against Serbia?’ inquired Samson, for whom the shifting allegiances of the Balkan States were still a constant source of wonderment.

                ‘Oh, that will come also in its wake, but I meant general war — all the Powers. The Tsar would never stand aside and let us be crushed. If Russia comes to our assistance following an Austrian attack, Germany and Austria will declare war on Russia. The plans already exist; of that you can be sure. And the Russians know that they exist, so they make their own plans to attack Germany. And the Germans know about the Russian plans. Until now it has been bluff and counter-bluff, but this cannot go on forever; someone will lose his nerve. I suspect it will be Germany. They have, after all, no choice other than to attack Russia before Russia can mobilize. And, if that happens, the French will have no option but to honour their alliance with Russia. And, if the French enter the war, you English have no choice.’ He bashed the fire with a stick; a layer of ash settled on his boots.

                Samson, who had listened intently, now had the measure of the Serbian Captain: ‘It will be England’s job, no, England’s duty, to stand to one side and offer our services as a disinterested arbitrator. It could not be otherwise, for we have no alliance with France or Russia.’

                The Serbian Captain smiled at such naïveté: ‘What are alliances when Europe is in flames? What will your few regular Divisions do when all of Europe mobilizes? Who will your Fleet threaten? No, Mr Samson, you should warn your readers now, before it is too late, that if France is forced into war because of the Russian alliance, England cannot stay out. Then the game will be up for us all.’

                Samson could think of nothing to say; there was nothing to say. The Serbian Captain, who it transpired had, before the war, been a lecturer at the University in Belgrade, and had spent some time at the London School of Economics and Political Science (a socialist hotbed, in Samson’s opinion), seemed as downcast as his visitor. The mist had by now cleared and the squalor and dirt of the camp revealed itself fully to Samson. He wondered when he would ever again sleep in a comfortable bed between clean sheets.

                ‘You are welcome to remain here, Mr Samson. There is little danger now, particularly if what I have heard is correct.’

                ‘And what is that?’

                ‘Will you be filing a report for your readers?’

                ‘Would you rather that I not?’

                The Serbian Captain was clearly wrestling with a dilemma as he continued to poke the dying embers of a fire which no longer radiated any warmth. ‘Let me tell you the story, Mr Samson, and then you can decide.’ The Captain paused once more as a stray shot rang out in the distance. ‘Last night the Montenegrin Colonel guarding the south-west sector came to see me. He was in a highly disturbed state — a mixture of fury and disgust. Although we Serbs do not have much to do with the Montenegrins, the Colonel felt we should be aware of the plan afoot. The previous morning an envoy from within Scutari, with a safe conduct pass, had approached the Montenegrin sector with an offer which I can only describe as outrageous. Indeed, it was this very outrage which prompted the Colonel to report the offer to me, though, as you will see, we Serbs are destined to play no more part in the siege of Scutari. The Colonel felt that the Serbian troops should be aware that what was about to happen was no fault of the ordinary Montenegrin soldiers.’

                Samson sat attentively as the Captain related his story. When he had finished, the Captain posed the question once more. ‘Will you report this?’

                ‘I am not sure,’ Samson replied, ‘that my readers would understand.’

                ‘I am not sure that I understand,’ remarked the Captain.

                The story was so bizarre that Samson remained in the vicinity for two days trying to verify its accuracy. He had met Essad Pasha, the Turkish Commander of the besieged garrison, in Constantinople in 1911 and knew that he was capable of anything. By Sunday, however, Samson was convinced as to the veracity of the Captain’s story. In that case, he felt obliged to inform the Foreign Office immediately. The nearest British Legation was day’s away; however Samson had learned of the presence of the International Squadron of ships off nearby Antivari under the command of a British Admiral. He left Scutari first thing the next morning.

Antivari had a bizarre carnival feeling to it, as the sailors of the Great Powers milled around the streets, glad for an excuse to break the monotony of months at sea. Samson quickly identified a party of sailors from HMS Yarmouth, made himself known to them, and sought directions to the quay from where he could board the steam pinnace out to the cruiser. There he explained his self-appointed mission and the general nature of the intelligence he had just acquired to the Captain, who immediately arranged a meeting with the Commander of the International Squadron, Vice-Admiral Burney. While waiting for the Admiral’s cutter to collect him, Samson strolled casually along the deck, pondering on the curse of the Balkans. It was such severe yet beautiful countryside, completely ruined by the attentions of man. No-one, it seemed, could get on with his neighbour; violence was endemic and self-perpetuating. The situation, he realized, was rapidly spiralling out of control — it had to take a threat such as this nowadays to get the Great Powers to act in concert. Were the old men who conducted their nation’s affairs blind?

                Presently he was collected from Yarmouth and taken to see Burney aboard his flagship, HMS King Edward. It was, Samson was disappointed to note, an ageing battleship of a type which had once been amongst the most powerful in the world but which were now commonly and disparagingly referred to as “pre-Dreadnoughts”. (Dreadnought herself had since been superseded by the latest “super-Dreadnoughts” and Samson looked forward to the launching of a “more-than-super-Dreadnought”. He had always wanted to see on board a modern battleship, or, better still, a battle cruiser, and King Edward did not fit the bill.) The remainder of the Third Battle Squadron (also known as the “Wobbly Eight” from their habit of appearing to move sideways through the water) were on temporary duty further south, leaving Burney in sole command of the motley collection of warships. The Admiral clearly relished his exalted, if impermanent, status as head of the International Squadron.

                ‘Now then, Major Samson, I am given to understand that you have a disturbing report from Scutari?’

                Samson could not tell if Burney would be genuinely interested in what was going to transpire, or if he would not have preferred a quiet time and a settled routine. ‘Yes, Admiral. I know Essad Pasha personally, having had previous dealings with him. I have learned that he is about to sell the city.’

                At first Burney thought he had misheard. ‘Sell the city? I am afraid that I do not follow.’

                ‘It’s quite simple, Admiral. With Janina and Adrianople now both fallen Essad realizes he cannot hold out. He could surrender with honour tomorrow if he so desired with his reputation enhanced, having held out longer than any of the other bastions. Essad, however, cares little for his reputation and everything for his bank balance. He has let it be known that if he is paid £80,000 he will vacate the city in favour of the Montenegrins. I am also given to understand that the Montenegrins have tacitly accepted the offer but cannot yet raise the money. The presence of Serbian troops assisting the Montenegrins also complicates the issue.’

                Burney was momentarily taken aback until he realized the implication of this news: ‘But that is incredible. Surely the Montenegrins must appreciate that this strategy is borne of desperation. Does it not indicate that a final assault now is bound to end in victory?’

                ‘Not necessarily, Admiral. The investing troops, both Montenegrins and Serbs, are just as weak and demoralized as those inside the city. And one thing my experience in Adrianople has taught me is that, in this form of warfare, unless massive resources are brought to bear, the defenders have all the advantages. Besides, I have also heard that King Nicholas has a scheme to hand whereby he hopes to recoup the £80,000. However, before he can put this scheme into operation, he has to dispose of the Serbs. The scheme will only work if Montenegrin troops, and Montenegrin troops alone, are left to carry on the siege. To this end, I understand that Nicholas has applied to the Tsar. If the Tsar is persuaded that the presence of Serbian troops is an unnecessary complication they will be removed. And, as soon as the Serb troops depart, Nicholas will act.’

                ‘In what way?’ asked Burney, who was clearly having some difficulty in following Samson’s tale.

                ‘It must have occurred to Nicholas that, as Scutari is inside the boundaries set for the new Albania, the Powers are hardly likely to acquiesce in its occupation by Montenegrin troops. If my information is correct, the King is rather hoping that he will eventually be forced out.’

                ‘Again, Major, you appear to be speaking in riddles.’

                ‘Unfortunately, much of what transpires in these parts appears, at first, puzzling; but there is always, at the bottom of it, either greed, ancient hatreds, or petty jealousies. This riddle concerns greed. The occupation by his troops of what is now Albania will cause an international incident. While this issue remains unresolved the threat of war will hang in the air. The longer Nicholas holds out in control of Scutari, the greater will be the tension. And such tension will cause panic in the stock markets throughout the continent. Prices will be driven down for as long as the threat remains.’

                ‘What has the stock market to do with all this?’ inquired Burney, who was now beginning to entertain doubts as to Samson’s grip on reality.

                ‘Nicholas intends to make a killing by bearing the Viennese bourse!’

                Burney slumped back in his chair and exhaled slowly and deliberately. ‘How many men have been lost in the siege, Major?’

                ‘Just over twenty-thousand I estimate; that is, from the besieging troops. Probably the figure is slightly less for the defenders. In total, perhaps forty-thousand.’

                ‘And the King hopes to profit thus?’

                ‘He will not look at it that way, but as the only means by which he can afford to meet Essad’s demand. The equation is simple. If he profits by £100,000 from his speculation he has recouped the £80,000 paid to Essad, plus an additional £20,000 for his own coffers … ’

                ‘ … a pound a man,’ murmured Burney.

                Samson ignored the moralizing. ‘ … As soon as he is assured of an amount which he has, in all probability, settled on already, he will relinquish control of the city, return inside his own border, and count his money. Peace will have been restored; the markets will recover. Indeed, with that sort of foreknowledge, Nicholas will be in a position to make a second killing! If I am right in my surmise, therefore, the first act of this drama will be played out if and when the Serbian troops depart from Scutari.’

                The Admiral pondered momentarily, trying to gauge how such a report would be received in Whitehall. ‘Samson, I cannot report this. I do not doubt that the source of your information may be above reproach, but this tale is frankly beyond belief. Even if true, what could be done? I would have to advise Grey that under no circumstances was pressure to be applied to the Serbs to depart, but that if they did, no pressure should then be applied to King Nicholas to give up his ill-gotten gains. That, in concert with the other Powers, the whole episode must be played down so as not to create an incident and frighten the markets. It is impossible.’

                ‘I venture to submit, Admiral, that Nicholas will win whatever we do.’

                ‘In that case, I intend to do nothing. I cannot act upon conjecture.’

                At that moment, as Samson looked dejectedly out at the coastline glistening in the westering sun, a firm knock at the door was immediately followed by the entrance of Burney’s Flag Captain. ‘News from Scutari just in, Sir. The Serbians have upped stakes and departed. It seems our Russian friends objected to their presence for some reason. The siege goes on however, though it is now just the Montenegrins against the Turks.’

                Admiral Burney slumped even further into his chair. ‘Very good, Loxley.’

                Captain Loxley had expected a somewhat more animated response to the latest news than this; neither Burney nor his visitor seemed intent on prolonging the conversation. The silence had turned awkward, at which Loxley, bemused, turned smartly and took his leave. When he had left, Samson looked again at Burney. It was the Admiral who spoke first. ‘How long, do you think, before the King is satisfied with his gains?’

                ‘Today is Monday. I give him till the middle of next week to raise the money. If I am right, Scutari will fall by about the twenty-fourth and be occupied by Montenegrin troops. Then Nicholas will wait for the fall in the markets. This should be rapid — no more than a week. Say he consolidates his gains by … ’ Samson paused to glance at the calendar on Burney’s desk, ‘by the second of May, he will then inform the Powers that he is ready, reluctantly, to vacate the city. I expect him to order his troops out by Monday the fifth of May, leaving the city to its own devices.’

                ‘At which point,’ Burney interrupted, ‘the war is effectively over and there is no reason for the continued presence of this Squadron.’

                ‘On the contrary, Admiral. I suspect that the war may flare up again, though with a realignment of the participants. In any event, once the troops depart, Scutari could, within a month, descend into anarchy and your presence will be required more than ever. If you do not mind, until the position here is clearer, I would prefer to stay on as an unofficial observer.’

                ‘By all means, Major. I will arrange accommodation for you.’

                Samson knew that this would delay further his arrival in Athens. Crowe would be annoyed, but he had to see it through. Besides, he reasoned, the trail from the assassin back to whoever was behind him would long since have gone cold while, from what he could gather, little was happening politically as the new Monarch was treading very warily in his first weeks in office.

For the next week Samson rested, observed the relaxed shipboard routine, wrote up his diary and worked on his report to Grey detailing his experiences in Avret Hissar and Scutari, but omitting his suspicions regarding the deal between King Nicholas and Essad Pasha. He did, however, send a private letter to Fitzmaurice in Constantinople, knowing full well that Fitz., in turn, would immediately inform Nicolson in London. Samson’s initial estimate to Burney proved awry by one day — Scutari fell on 23 April and was occupied by Montenegrin troops and, sure enough, an international incident was thereby provoked. His satisfaction as to the accuracy of his analysis was offset by depression at the baseness of human motives. The depression took hold and he frankly moped in his second week aboard King Edward. During this time he became convinced that the Serbian Captain was right and that if German were successfully to woo and win Greece, a general war would follow. He did not see what he alone could do to prevent such an eventuality. He could forward his reports to London, though Burney was probably right that they would be viewed as conjecture. His current mood was not helped when, on 4 May, King Nicholas bowed to the inevitable and agreed to vacate the city. The copy of the Neue Freie Presse Samson obtained two days later reported record increases on the bourse in Vienna following the slump of the previous week.

                The Major travelled up to Scutari that week, in time to witness the remnants of the Turkish force marching out. He had kept his promise to himself. If they had not already done so, the Turks would now have to sue for an armistice lest the Bulgarians make one last attempt to overrun Constantinople; though, from what Samson had heard, the Tchatalja lines protecting the city were still holding. Samson did not stay long in Scutari itself and returned to the ship that night; there was nothing left for him to do in the new Albania. As he expected, the vacuum created by the departure of the troops left Scutari open to the worst elements. Samson could stand no more and determined to travel to Athens at the earliest opportunity. As he made his preparations to leave, he was once more summoned to Burney’s cabin.

                The Admiral looked distinctly pleased with himself: ‘Come in, Samson. I have just received orders to land a detachment from the Squadron, march on Scutari and restore order. You were right about our presence here still being required. Do you wish to accompany the force?’

                Samson hesitated. He had no wish to see the town again and had already decided to tell Burney of his plan to proceed to Athens. Now, suddenly, he was not so sure. ‘Can I give you my answer in the morning?’

                Burney could not understand the hesitation. ‘If you must, Major, if you must. I thought you would have jumped at the chance.’ The Admiral was clearly annoyed that his retaking of Scutari on behalf of the Great Powers was not to be witnessed by the Foreign Office observer. ‘If you will excuse me, Major, I have been informed that the Admiralty yacht is in the vicinity and, in the circumstances, I am duty bound to pay a call on the Prime Minister and First Lord.’

                ‘You mean Asquith and Churchill are here?’

                ‘Yes.’

                ‘Good God!’

                ‘Precisely.’

                Now Samson knew the answer. By the time Burney returned from his visit to Enchantress, the Major had departed for Athens.