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Chapter 5 : The Enchantress
The
Simplon Express hastened through the night past dark, somnolent towns and
villages, and fields of murmorous wheat whispering secrets in the breeze. Apart
from a short stop in Paris, where they had had a hurried meal at a favoured café,
the Prime Minister’s party had been imprisoned in the train for twenty-four
hours so that it was with more than unusual anticipation that they stepped on to
the platform at the Venice terminus. The late afternoon heat of an unseasonably
sultry May struck them almost forcibly as they emerged from the relative
coolness of the station. Ill-served by their heavy London clothes they brushed
past the Hotel touts, longing to reach the sanctity of their destination. Out in
the Lagoon Enchantress, the Admiralty
yacht, moved gently at her mooring. In such a setting as this there seemed
little point in tugging vehemently at the ropes. With her elegant black hull,
white upperworks and raked ochre funnel she resembled a miniature version of a
turn-of-the-century cruiser (before the hated edict had been imposed by which
grey became the uniform colour of the fleet). The faintest wisp of smoke emerged
from her funnel and spiralled perpendicularly in the still air.
Making their way from the station to the pier, the party took in the
sights, sounds and smells of Venice, but only in a perfunctory, nonchalant way;
something more important was on their minds. A chance to escape the cares of
office. For three precious weeks the P.M. could put away his dispatch box and
pick up his Baedeker and Murray’s Guide. The eighty crew aboard Enchantress would be at his beck and call; they were free to roam
the Adriatic to their hearts’ content. The only member of the party who
appeared even the slightest degree anxious was Winston Churchill for he had not,
at the station, been able to obtain the latest edition of The
Times and was now fretting. Noticing his discomfiture, Violet Asquith, the
P.M.’s twenty-six year old daughter, could not help but tease him.
‘No newspapers for you till we reach Athens. The world will pass you by
for a fortnight,’ she giggled.
‘I shall have the Captain wire for the latest news,’ Churchill
announced pompously.
‘That,’ Prince Louis interceded sternly, ‘would be an improper use
of wireless telegraphy.’ Even Churchill joined in the amusement at the First
Sea Lord’s rectitude.
Once their copious luggage had been stowed away and the official party
had been introduced to the officers, Asquith immediately retrieved his battered
copy of Thucydides, found a shaded spot on the deck and sank back in the canvas
chair provided. He was soon joined by his wife and daughter; Clementine
Churchill and Lady Randolph Churchill; James Masterton-Smith from the Admiralty;
and Eddie Marsh, Winston’s private secretary. Prince Louis was renewing an old
acquaintance and could be found on the bridge. The only absentee was Churchill.
Noticing his absence, Asquith wondered for a moment whether it would be better
to leave the First Lord in peace, which invariably meant peace for himself as
well. Eventually however, curiosity got the better of even this most incurious
of politicians.
‘Eddie, is Winston not interested in our departure? To see Venice from
the sea is, I am told, an incomparable sight.’
Marsh, comfortably ensconced in his own chair, was loathe to move but
could not ignore such an entreaty: ‘I’ll find out where he is P.M.’ At
which, with surprisingly lithe and easy movements, Marsh bounded down the
companion-way, along the panelled corridor and tapped lightly on Churchill’s
cabin door. There was no answer. Marsh knocked again, even more gently, hoping
Winston might be having his usual afternoon nap. He was just on the point of
returning to the deck when:
‘Enter!’ Marsh did no more than put his head through the door. The
portly figure which greeted him was propped up on the bunk, an open dispatch box
at his feet, and papers strewn all around.
‘First Lord, we are just about to depart. The P.M. thought …’
‘Not now, Eddie. I am making notes on the world’s supply of oil.
Fisher’s Royal Commission got it all wrong you know. The Gulf is not safe from Russian encroachment; we need a pipeline from the
fields in Persia and Mesopotamia straight through to the Mediterranean.’
(Marsh knew that this had originally been Fisher’s suggestion, but said
nothing.) ‘It will mean bribing the local tribes to protect the pipeline, but
that can be done. That’s what we need. I shall require you later to take some
notes, once I have the broad outline clear in my mind.’
Marsh, who at that precise moment did not care who
controlled the world’s supply of oil, cursed Asquith privately for this, and
returned, sullenly, to the deck.
‘Well, Eddie?’ Asquith inquired politely.
‘The First Lord is working out how to keep our oil to ourselves, safe
from the Russians.’
Clementine Churchill, for whom such behaviour was an everyday occurrence,
raised a silent eyebrow, then buried her head in her book, lifting it again only
when Violet Asquith cried out: ‘Look, we’re moving!’ As she spoke thunder
reverberated in the distance; a few drops of rain splashed on the water, the
ripples from which further calmed the already placid sea. The temperature
plunged as the sky darkened; one remaining shaft of sunlight, illuminating the
now grey water, closed reluctantly as the rain became more insistent. Within
minutes the downpour had become a torrent, forcing them all into the saloon from
where they watched silently as the veil of rain obliterated Venice.
Once
under way and out of sight of land, even Winston joined in the spirit of things;
the question of oil supply for the navy could wait. As they were more or less
guided in their cruise by naval men, to whom discipline is everything, a pattern
of sorts began to emerge. After a morning’s steaming always within sight of
the barren coast, they would drop anchor. Then, at a secluded cove the party
would take to the boats, row towards shore and swim in the undisturbed sea.
Thereafter followed a picnic lunch on the beach; then a nap, until finally, as
the sunlight turned lazy and mellow in the late afternoon, the row back to the
yacht. For the first few days they made deliberately slow progress. Their own
small world was completely self contained; even Winston’s threat to monopolize
the wireless had not materialized. Their first contact with the outside world
did not come until the fourth day when they dropped anchor off the ancient port
of Spalato[1].
The P.M., with the constant need to display his erudition, had boned up on his
history the previous night and was able to offer a guided tour of Diocletian’s
Palace courtesy of Baedeker. The small
group followed him around attentively, marvelling at his recall of events.
‘Oh, Winston, isn’t it marvellous,’ enthused Violet Asquith.
‘I should like to bombard the swine,’ muttered the First Lord
cryptically, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
They were all conscious, nevertheless, that the country always off the
port side — Bosnia —was wild and desolate, with only a thin veneer of
civilization beneath which lay unimagined horrors. If one looked at the large
map in the ship’s library, the whole coast as far south as Cattaro was
coloured in the same shade as Austria-Hungary; and, if one thought of
Austria-Hungary, one thought of the sybaritic delights of Vienna. However Bosnia
had been a recent acquisition: still nominally Turkish, its formal annexation by
Vienna five years previously had come close to plunging Europe into war. The
Austrians had, as always, been heavy handed, a failing which continued to the
present day: the simmering unrest amongst the local populace did not, however,
go unnoticed by the more astute observers on board Enchantress.
Southwards, they sailed, ever southwards until, as they neared the sight
of some of the recent fighting in the Balkan War, Violet noticed a marked change
in Winston. The gradual softening of his demeanour once they had left Venice
disappeared to be replaced by a longing for martial action. Violet remained
fascinated by Winston’s moods. As they leaned on the rail admiring the view,
the First Lord of the Admiralty could be heard calculating the range, commenting
on the perfect visibility, and bemoaning the fact that Enchantress carried no weapons. ‘If only we had got some six inch
guns on board, what wonderful shooting we could have,’ he declared to no-one
in particular.
At Ragusa,[2]
the next port of call, the anchor noisily rattled down into the crystal water of
the precious harbour. So still was the water that it appeared, for an instant,
as if the anchor would shatter the shallow sea. Silver fish, which had collected
around the keel, turned in unison and fled, glinting, towards the sea wall
before venturing timidly back. Once ashore, while Asquith, Clementine and
Masterton-Smith explored the churches and ancient buildings, the others set off
to circumnavigate the outer wall. Sheltered from the worst excesses of the
weather, oleanders, agaves and palms flourished outside the wall, while, inside,
the uniform stone work and terracotta roofs added to the air of unreality.
Returning to Enchantress for lunch,
they could not bear to depart that afternoon. Instead, captivated by the locale,
the party decided to motor inland to Trebinje. Two vehicles were eventually
produced, the property of the Majestic Hotel in the new part of town, further
along the coast. Although the English party would not be staying with him, the
owner was nevertheless delighted that such an exalted group of foreign
dignitaries should avail themselves of his new motors. Since buying them the
previous year his wife had never stopped haranguing him. What use are they, she
would taunt, in a country with so few roads? Now he would show her: people would
come to view the car in which the British Prime Minister had travelled.
Motor cars were still a rare enough sight in Trebinje to cause intense
excitement. As they drove up the narrow, dusty main street, desultory groups of
Bosnians turned to stare, and were stared at in turn. Their costumes, unchanged
since the days of the Turk, varied from one to another: baggy black breeches,
silk tassels and distinctive flat red fezzes or sleeveless jackets and tight
breeches with high, white fezzes. The gaudiness of the costume, someone in the
front car shouted above the noise, apparently denoted status within the town:
the poorest of the poor could be easily distinguished by their uniform of
unbroken white. Colour remained the preserve of the better off. Weapons were
also everywhere: ancient rifles, which appeared as if they would present a
greater danger to the user; pistols, incongruously decorated with seed pearls;
and the ubiquitous, unsettling scimitar. Asquith, who by now had committed large
sections of Murray’s Handbook for
Travellers to memory could not refrain from quoting Dr Arnold: ‘The
eastern coast of the Adriatic is one of those ill-fated portions of the earth
which, though placed in immediate contact with civilization, have remained
perpetually barbarian.’ As he finished, the car was shaken by a severe jolt
and the P.M. was launched bodily into the air.
‘Henry,’ his wife pleaded, ‘not so loud. Someone may hear.’
‘But my dear,’ he reasoned as she looked nervously around, ‘there
will be no English speakers within miles of this place. And I shall say what I
like.’ At that, the car hit another ditch, with the same result as before.
‘I told you so, Henry!’ Margot invariably had the last word.
The dust thrown up by the car had covered the occupants in a fine layer;
it lined their nostrils and their throats so that it was with some relief that
they stopped at the Hotel Vuko Velitic for refreshments before commencing the
return journey to Ragusa. From Trebinje it was possible to reach Cettinje, the
capital of Montenegro, and Winston, eagerly joined by Violet Asquith, suggested
that they should visit that city also. The suggestion met almost universal
disapproval. The countryside was certain to be roaming with brigands; their
small escort could easily be overcome; the situation in the region was still too
fluid. Indeed, the Montenegrin Army was, at that very minute, evacuating (or, at
least, that was how King Nicholas would describe his army’s action, for, in
reality, they were being forced out by the pressure of the Great Powers),
evacuating the key strategic town of Scutari in adjoining Albania, which the
Montenegrins had “purchased” from the commander of the Turkish defenders,
Essad Pasha. With Turkish forces throughout Europe being beaten back by the
Balkan Allies, Essad Pasha, realizing that his forces could not withstand the
siege much longer, decided that any capitulation might as well enrich his own
pocket.
When he heard of the deal, through Montenegro’s garrulous, indiscreet
representative at the Ambassadors’ Conference in London, Sir Arthur Nicolson
could scarce believe it; still, that was the way business was conducted in these
parts. The creation of an autonomous Albania on Montenegro’s southern border
had been the only tangible result to date of the Ambassadors’ Conference. But
while everyone was agreed that the new state should
be created, no-one could agree on its boundaries. Greece, Austria and Italy were
all currently engaged in a tug-of-war over the unfortunate country, each
determined that the new boundary should be drawn so as to favour their own
territorial aspirations in the region. In a forlorn attempt to prevent complete
anarchy, an International Brigade of ships was, at that moment, anchored off the
Dalmation coast, near the port of Antivari.
Asquith, if he thought of these matters at all, could content himself
with the knowledge that it was now all in the capable hands of his Foreign
Secretary. This was the penalty Grey had to pay for his refusal to travel. The
irony of a Foreign Secretary who positively hated all foreign travel had never
occurred to Asquith. All the P.M. had on his mind at that moment was a swift
return to Enchantress and a bath to
dissolve the dust. At dinner that night on board, after Masterton-Smith, the
most gifted classical scholar in that gifted entourage, had expounded on the
events which had occurred in the vicinity two millennia previously, Asquith
leant forward, signalling to the company that he required their attention. As
the evening wore on, the P.M.’s utterances had become less frequent but now he
judged the time apposite to regale his companions with the latest gossip from
London.
‘I will tell you, in the strictest confidence,’ (at which the men
nodded sagely while the ladies looked on bemused and eager), ‘something I
learned from Grey just before we departed. It appears that Essad Pasha, in his
stronghold in Scutari, decided, once the last bastions of Turkey-in-Europe had
fallen, that a noble and honourable surrender was one thing and £80,000 quite
another. Essad let it been known to the Montenegrins that he had left a valise,
containing that sum, behind before he entered Scutari and it would be to the
advantage of everyone if it could be found and restored to him. A valise,
propitiously found to be containing the required amount, was located and
presented to Essad, at which the Montenegrins discovered the gates of the
fortress suddenly opening before them.’ Asquith reached for his port before
continuing.
‘It seems to me,’ Clementine Churchill ventured, ‘a perfectly
reasonable way to settle such matters. Just consider it, you are about to go to
war over some matter, but before you do you put a proposition to your enemy:
this war will be long and expensive. It will surely cost you millions, pay us a
certain sum now and we will call off our preparations.’
‘Do you hear that Winston?’ Margot Asquith joined in, ‘I can now
see the source of your Radicalism.’ Winston, who did not appreciate being the
butt of anyone’s humour, glowered at his wife.
Asquith, always amused at Churchill’s discomfiture, nevertheless came
to his rescue: ‘That would never do.
It amounts to international blackmail. Why, one country, if such a thought ever
entered the heads of its leaders, could make a healthy profit out of continually
threatening to declare war and holding smaller states to ransom. No, it would
never do.’
‘Germany!’ announced Eddie Marsh with vehemence. The others looked at
him in surprise, for Eddie rarely displayed such emotion: ‘Well,’ he
stuttered, ‘they are always sabre-rattling, and where does it get them? All
they succeed in doing is putting people’s backs up.’
‘You would never make a politician, Eddie,’ chided Asquith.
‘I have no wish to be, if I cannot say what I feel.’
‘Just as well,’ the P.M. continued, ‘for that would set too dangerous a precedent. Fancy telling Poincaré what I really
thought of him; and as for Bethmann-Hollweg … well, we really should have our
war sooner than anticipated.’
After dinner, as the guests retired one by one and the crew made silent
preparations for an imminent departure, Violet Asquith took a final stroll round
the deck. This part of the yacht was quiet now, except for a murmuring, faint at
first, which was emanating from the port side. There, leaning over the rail, was
Churchill, whispering to himself, ‘Let us do evil, that good may come.’ He
did not sense Violet’s approach.
‘Are you contemplating evil, Winston?’ she inquired in a tone of mock
seriousness.
Startled out of his musing, Churchill smiled and said: ‘Evil takes many
forms; and we are all, given the right conditions, capable of evil.’
‘Not me, surely?’ she reproached her special responsibility. For
Violet Asquith believed that Winston was the product of her father — who else
would have advanced his career so, after he had crossed the floor to join the
Liberals? — and, as such, she took a proprietary interest in him; but there
was also more to it than that. The men of her own generation were vacuous and
uninteresting; Winston, on the other hand, despite his fleshy, slightly unformed
face, enthralled her.
‘It is the capability,’ he murmured, ‘and, aah, the capacity for
evil which fascinate me. It is clear to me that most people possess the
capability to commit an evil act, but only a few combine that with the necessary
rigidity of purpose to discern that an evil act is sometimes necessary.’
‘Are you one of those people?’ She no longer felt frivolous.
‘I believe I am,’ insisted Churchill.
Violet Asquith stared at the massive ramparts guarding the city. It upset
her that, despite all the wonderful advances made, even within her lifetime,
man’s nature was essentially unchanged. It upset her particularly to think
this way of Winston. ‘No-one is ever justified in doing evil on the ground of
expediency.’ She pronounced each word with special emphasis. Then, perhaps
aware that Churchill stood, after all, at the pinnacle by which men are judged,
she announced: ‘You need a special licence, Winston, so that you may operate
outside the bounds of ordinary human behaviour.’
‘A special licence, yes!’ At which his eyes beamed. ‘Perhaps your
father could provide me with such a licence?’
‘It would not occur to Papa that some people need a greater leeway in
the conduct of their lives than others.’
‘But it occurs to you?’ He looked up, at a fire on a distant hill.
‘We’re moving again.’
Early
the next morning Enchantress glided
into the Boche di Cattaro, the succession of bays, one inside the other, that
marked the formal limit of Austrian naval control, where the thin coastal plane
of southern Dalmatia finally petered out. Something was different now. The
landscape had changed, certainly, but that was not enough to explain the change
in their moods. The trip to Trebinje had been an interesting diversion which had
not, somehow, seemed real. Now, however, and for the next part of the cruise,
the land to the east would not be Austria-Hungary but the Balkans. Things were
done differently there; the people were ostensibly the same and yet they were
not. The outward display of normality could not disguise the essential variance
within. No amount of gaily coloured clothing could hide the cruelty, the
barbarity even, which — however much the party cocooned on the yacht tried to
ignore their own feelings — they all believed lurked within sight of their
privileged existence. This feeling of unease, unacknowledged but ever-present,
permeated the ship like a cancer. To some, it was in their nature to fight
against it, while others succumbed.
As Enchantress sliced through
the shelving water, the small town of Cattaro gradually became visible at the
end of the innermost bay where it was completely dominated by the heights of
neighbouring Montenegro. As the P.M.’s party emerged on deck they were greeted
by the astounding sight of the road hewn out of the cliff, leading up from the
town to the plateau, which took sixty-six zigzags to reach the top. So sharp
were the turns that, in places, the road doubled back on itself to the extent
that a single stone wall served as a common partition between the higher and
lower; indeed it was said that it was possible to carry on a conservation with
people in a carriage below when they may have been an hour’s drive or more
behind. The sight of such a road leading eventually, as it did, to the forbidden
city of Cettinje, twenty-seven miles away, was too much for Winston and he was
anxious to go on shore and make arrangements for the hire of carriages, for all
the motors in the town belonged to the Austrian naval contingent. Before he
could put his plan into action Churchill was ambushed by Asquith.
‘We cannot spend too much time ashore, Winston. I have just received
word that Admiral Burney, the commander of the International Brigade, will be
steaming over in a destroyer from Antivari to meet us. I have assured him of
your presence on board.’
Determined not to be completely forestalled, Churchill hired two
carriages, one for his wife and mother, the other for himself and Violet, and
they set off to ascend the plateau. As they climbed ever higher the great fjords
stretched out before them like a relief map. Far below, Enchantress
looked like a child’s toy that had been carefully placed in a large pond. If
only the Montenegrins possessed some decent artillery, Churchill idly reflected,
from these heights Cattaro could be made untenable as a naval base. A group of
local girls, carrying huge baskets, giggled to each other as the carriages
passed, disturbing the First Lord’s train of thought. At last they reached the
summit. It was here that they were struck by the words of the guide they had
hired in Cattaro. ‘When God had finished the work of creation,’ he had told
them, ‘he gathered up all the loose stones left and put them in a bag,
intending to take them away. But the bag burst open as he was flying away, and
so Montenegro was formed.’
Torn between venturing further towards Cettinje and returning to meet
Admiral Burney, Churchill realized he could not brook the P.M.’s admonition.
In any event, the climb had taken so long it would be impossible to complete the
trip in a day. And, for all his apparent indifference as a father, Asquith would
not have looked kindly on his favoured child spending a night in the Montenegrin
capital. After taking photographs from the summit, they turned the carriages
around and headed slowly down to the sea again. When the group arrived at last
back on Enchantress they were met by
Asquith, Battenberg and Burney.
‘It was a prudent move not to venture further,’ the Admiral remarked
when told of their adventure. ‘I am setting off tomorrow with a thousand men
from the International Brigade to march on Scutari, occupy the city and declare
martial law. It is, I believe, the only move that will preserve order.’
Upon hearing this Winston immediately turned on his heels and confronted
Asquith. ‘P.M., I should like to join the Admiral. It would be useful to have
an observer present. If the Admiral would be good enough to loan me a destroyer
I shall catch up with you at Corfu.’
Asquith, barely concealing his delight, replied, ‘Are you sure you are
not setting out to preside over the surrender of the town yourself? No, Winston,
you are a minister of the Crown, not a subaltern. I have no intention of
returning to London to inform the House that the First Lord of the Admiralty was
cut down while leading the relief of Scutari. Burney, I blame you for this. Why
do you encourage him so?’
Admiral Burney spluttered and it was left to Prince Louis to intercede on
his behalf. ‘It is out of our hands, First Lord. The Admiral has been
appointed to command an International Brigade. Tomorrow he will have under his
command bluejackets from Germany, Austria, Italy and France, in addition to our
own men. He does not need interfering with, no matter how well intentioned.’
‘In any event,’ replied Burney, who had now recovered his composure,
‘I already have an official observer — a Major Samson, who has been detailed
to accompany my force.’
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