22 August 1904, Washington DC
MEETING YESTERDAY WITH AMERICAN BANKER JACOB SCHIFF IN NEW YORK. OFFERED SUPPORT IN RAISING SUBSCRIPTIONS FOR JAPANESE BONDS. STRONGLY SUGGEST CULTIVATING POSITIVE RELATIONSHIP. MR SCHIFF IS STRONGLY SYMPATHETIC TO JAPANESE CAUSE, HARBOURS POWERFUL ANTI-RUSSIAN SENTIMENTS. LOAN AMOUNTS OF TWO HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS WERE UNDER CONSIDERATION. FIRM OF KUHN, LOEB & SCHIFF SHOULD BE PROVIDED WITH GERMAN BUSINESS IF FEASIBLE. PART OF BOND ISSUE TO BE OFFERED IN BERLIN.
Telegram from Secretary von Bernstorff at the German embassy to the United States to the Foreign Office in Berlin.
4 September 1904, Lake Goplo near Hohensalza
Hauptmann von Lowtzow shivered in his unfamiliarly light civilian coat. It was not too late in the year, but already chilly and misty. The men who had led him here stood waiting a few paces away – Polizeimeister Schildthauer from the Hohensalza station looked uncomfortable, that Polish Wazlawik fellow seemed unhappy to be around so man armed Germans, and Mr Schmidt from the foreign office was as quiet as he always was. The pale, calm, seemingly bloodless man scared von Lowtzow, and he did not scare easily.
The sound of oars drifted from the mists almost a minute before the boats came into view. Two rowboats and a large flat cargo barge landed, and a group of Polish peasants debarked. No, von Lowtzow noted, two groups. The men from one boat eyed those from the other with wary caurtion, as though they hal exprected a fight to break out. Both parties were armed with rifles, and some also carried big knives, clubs, or even revolvers.
“The ones on the right are Pilsudski's gang.” Schmidt whispered to von Lowtzow. “The others are White Poles, who used to work for the Paris government in exile.” Lowtzow recalled his briefings. Pilsudski was a Socialist, at least technically he was supposed to be one, but Poland was complicated. The White Poles were traditionalists, and very Catholic, and apparently they had tried to raise a Polish legion for the Czar to fight the Japanese in return for greater autonomy. Of course Nicholas only had use for a Polish legion to fight Poles. The Hauptmann had been to Russian Poland incognito twice – life in the army could be interesting when your commanding officer was General von der Goltz – and he could barely imagine what it must be like now. And the trouble was only starting, or at least that was what Pilsudski had promised the Japanese.
Silently and surprisingly efficiently, the Polis boatmen manhandled heavy crates from the truck that had brought von Lowtzow here into the barge. Mostly, it was rifles and ammunition, but von der Goltz's office had added a few crates of dynamite sticks, fuses, and the silly-looking small-caliber pocket revolvers that some Ruhr industrialists made for export to America. The leadser of what Lowtzow thought of as the larboard party approached him. “You are the German adviser, Lotzow?” he asked.
“I am.” Von Lowtzow spoke Polish, though badly accented. He might have a small chance of passing for an ethnic German if he was questioned, but realistically, not being questioned was the way to go.
“I am Colonel Stanislaw Briansky of the Polish Home Army. Welcome to free Poland!”
Though his handshake was cordial, von Lowtzow was somewhat contemptuous. Colonel indeed! Still, this ragtag band of insurgents had spirit and tolerable discipline. And he would not even need an interpreter to teach them one end of a rifle from another.
22 October 1904, North Sea
Capitaine de vaisseau Theophile Lernier was out of his cot and halfway into his trousers before the sirens started. His instincts as a sea fighter rarely let him down, and even in his well-earned sleep, the finely tuned ears of a navy man of thirty years' service could distinguish the blast of naval gunfire from the howling of the wind and the thump of the engines. Ensign Jardine knocked on his cabin door just in time to find the cap' buttoning up his fly and throwing his jacket on. So far, the rumble of heavy guns was distant, and no impacts had rocked the Gaulois. Lernier could feel the engines powering up even as he turned to the young officer.
“Well?”
“The lookout spotted gunfire to the west, Sir.” the ensign reported. “Lieutenant Grammont ordered all hands to battle stations. So far, no signal from the Russian ships. We have not identified any enemy vessels, and have not been attacked.”
“Very well. Come along, and bring my coat. I think the sword will not be required” You did not make it to capitaine de vaisseau without a certain amount of style. Lernier liked to affect an air of clinical detachment from the possibility of his impending death. His mind was racing as he stepped along the corridor to Gaulois's bridge.
“Reports of gunfire, Sir.” Lieutenant Grammont, the officer of the watch, informed him immediately. “All hands are being called to battle stations. From the direction, it's more likely the British.”
An attack from the Northwest would have had to come from Britain's shores. Either that, or the German fleet had swept round behind them and placed themselves on the right flank of the Russians. Grammont was calm, as befitted a proper officer, but the idea of facing the Royal Navy in battle was unnerving all the same.
“Forward turret reporting ready for action, Sir!” Lernier acknowledged with a nod. That had been quick. The crew had certainly shown spirit.
“Starboard secondaries report ready for action!” “Aft turret reporting ready for action.” The messages came in fast now. Gaulois was a tight ship, and Capitaine Lernier had always been keen on battle drill. Today, it might well pay off.
“Signal ready for action.” An ensign immediately began flashing the message to Charles Martel. Three French battleships might be a valuable addition to the Russian squadron, but they were woefully inadequate to facing the enemy on their own.
“Admiral's orders, Sir.” the lookout read out the signal as it flashed across through the night. “Go to three-quarters steam ahead, turn to starboard and join the Russian line. Engage any enemy ships as found.”
The bulk of the Gaulois turned ponderously and picked up speed as its mighty triple screws churned the North Sea. Searchlights were now piercing the darkness ahead, momentarily outlining the silhouettes of Russian warships. Flashes of gunnery tore through the night. Jardine brought the captain's coat.
“Thank you, ensign.” Lernier adjusted his buttons and epaulette before turning his eyes back towards the pandemonium ahead. He was straining to make out the enemy, but came up empty. The Russian guns were flashing almost incessantly, making it nearly impossible to see beyond their battle line. Still...
“Capitaine, Russian signals. Oslyabya is signalling they are engaging enemy torpedo boats.”
“Torpedo boats?” Lernier was confused for a moment. Some of those flashes were from 30-cm guns, not secondary armament. Still, he caught himself. Poor fire discipline in the Russian navy should not surprise him.
“Signal to Oslyabya: Moving into line to assist. Where is the enemy?”
The signalling light clacked out the message. Halfway through, the lookout sang out a second signal. “Japanese torpedo boats spotted due north!”
“Japanese torpedo boats?” Lernier's incredulousness returned. It was one thing for the Germans, sneaky bastards they were, to send in torpedo boats under cover of night before engaging a superior fleet. But Japanese?
“Searchlights!” he ordered. Time to find out. With his secondary 138mm turrets ready, he could afford to give away his position. “Search for torpedo boats at 2 kilometres and closer, starboard and forward. Report all sightings before firing. There are Russian escorts between us and their line!”
“Searchlights are up!”
“More gunfire due northwest!”
The reports came in almost simultaneously as the Gaulois seemed to stop dead in the water. The steel deck hit Lernier's feet like a hammer and launched him into the air. White-hot shards of metal screamed past him as the brightest flash he had ever seen temporarily blotted out the world.
Capitaine Lernier picked himself up after what seemed like minutes. Lieutenant Grammont was bleeding. A visibly shaken ensign rushed in to report. “A direct hit starboard, Sir. One secondary turret appears to be out of action. No leaks or power loss, as far as we can tell. The crew of #2 searchlight is dead.”
The captain stared out at the darkness, helpless rage rising. It had taken him too long to understand. Precious minutes too long. “Aft searchlight, concentrate all beams on our flag. Have the tricolore run up at the maintop and forward flagstaff, and illuminate it. Grammont, we need full position lights! I will be damned if I'll have my ship sunk because the Russians are afraid of the dark.”
He turned to his senior gunnery officer, now arriving at his post and clearly bruised from the encounter. “Capitaine Bazogette, order the main guns to return fire only if attacked, but if any ship fires on us, I want it sunk! Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Sir!”
“Grammont, lay in a course due south! One third speed ahead.”
As the bridge officers broke into frenzied activity, Capitaine Lernier turned to the starboard vision slit. Occasional gunfire still flashed, painting silhouettes of a Russian fleet in growing disorder.
They were now close enough to see machine guns opening up into the darkness.
“They are insane.” Lernier whispered despairingly. “Completely insane.”
.
25 October 1904, Washington DC
“John, what in perdition is happening in Europe?” President Roosevelt was visibly angry, angry the way incompetent subordinates sometimes made him. Or situations that a fool should have avoided and said fool was now expecting him to resolve. Secretary of State John Hay had been called to the White House for a crisis meeting and had arrived with an armful of telegrams and two aides bearing maps and copies of Jane's All the World's Fighting Ships. He sat down and briefed the President.
“The latest information we have is not encouraging. It probably doesn't help much if I said that things could have been worse. The Russian fleet is anchored in Vigo Bay, with the Royal Navy bottling up the exit. The British admiral is offering the French ships to leave at any time they choose, but the Russian commander wants them to stay. It seems half a miracle Britain isn't at war with Russia yet, from what we hear from London, and the French public is also quite riled.”
“The French, too.” Roosevelt looked despairing. “If they have a go at the British, would have another Napoleonic War. A conflict like that in Europe would be utterly disastrous.”
Hay smiled crookedly. “Well, that is the good side of the story. The French admiral – Lahaye or something - got very angry when the Russians blasted away at one of his battleships. He wirelessed a report in the clear, which meant his side of the story was in the Paris morning papers, and at least half the country wants war with Russia. Not that that would be any help.”
“Bah!” Roosevelt nearly exploded. “This must be the first fleet in the history of mankind to inflict a defeat on itself without ever encountering the enemy! How much damage was there? I hear they sunk a British trawler.”
“Two of them. They Russians also seriously damaged one of their own destroyers and scored hits on two of their capital ships,” Hay shuffled through his papers, “Alexander III and Retvisan. But the worst damage was to the French battleship Gaulois. Twenty-odd Russian sailors, nine French and thirteen British fishermen are dead. Scuttlebutt has it that the Charlemagne actually fired across the bow of a Russian battleship to stop it from shooting at the Gaulois.”
The President shook his head despairingly. “Damnation. I would take the Russian admiral out behind the woodshed and let King Edward watch the thrashing, if I had any say in the matter. That might ease things. Now the Royal Navy is holding them up and WHAT do they hope to gain from that nonsense?”
“Their diplomatic pound of flesh, I think. They can't very well let this slide and hope to survive in government. With the French public firmly in the Russian camp, they might have pushed harder, but as things are I think there is a chance of resolving this.”
“What if they do fight? Does the fleet stand a chance?” Roosevelt asked, mostly for curiosity.
“Not a good one. If the French come out of Brest and Le Havre, they can match the Home Fleet gun for gun. More than that, a little. But the French won't, even assuming they could do it without suffering losses to the British out of Portsmouth. They still have some ships there. And they would have to do it – today, pretty much. Before the Mediterranean fleet arrives. It is reported to be heading for a rendezvous at Gibraltar. On their own, the Russians wouldn't stand a chance if they had a competent fleet. As things are...”
“What about the Spanish? It's in their waters. Any chance of them moderating a peace?”
“Not really.” Hay went through his sheaf of telegrams. “The Spanish are mortified, angry, and helpless. They feel put upon and mostly want all of this to end, but they cannot take sides and aren't strong enough to credibly step up as brokers. Russia would not consider Austria, and France won't have Germany do it, but I have it on good authority that Cavaignac is desperate for some way out.”
“It looks like we will have to do it, then. Let's draft some messages to London, Paris and St Petersburg. We can offer to negotiate compensation in good faith and leave the whole thing standing as an unfortunate accident.”
“Fair enough.” Hay agreed. “I think Cavaignac will take it, and London will thank us. But that doesn't resolve the situation in Europe. The place is a powderkeg with the Franco-Russian alliance. Germany is terrified and Britain feels it cannot maintain the traditional balance of power.”
“This should do for now.” Roosevelt said. “You have an idea though, I guess?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I think the reason behind the French sticking so close to the Russians is the Congo. If we can resolve that matter, France will happily drop its ally like a hot potato.”
Roosevelt snorted. “Everything is about the Congo these days, isn't it? But I think that deserves trying out. We can call another conference, but we'll need someone else to do it. I'd suggest Portugal, do you think they would be amenable?”
“I'm almost certain.”
“All right, let's try it. The worst that can happen is we have to listen to Emperor Wilhelm holding a speech again.”
26 October 1904, Elysee Palace, Paris
Ambassador Nelidov's dignity had suffered much under the onslaught of the Paris public's fury. For the last three days, he had barely ventured out of the embassy, and his trip to the Elysee today had been unpleasant. Nothing worse than mud had been thrown at the carriage, but the hostility was palpable. Of course it did not help that he was in for a dressing-down by Prime Minister Cavaignac. He had to admit that, had the situation been reversed, his French counterpart would not have suffered less, but it was nonetheless disconcerting. The president was livid, and presented a punishing list of conditions. France would be compensated for the damage to her ships. The dead sailors' families were to receive Russian pensions. Russia was to apologise and indemnify France against all claims by third nations arising from the debacle. And the lease on the French cruisers was to end, effective 1 November. That was the worst part.
“Monsieur, if we lose the cruisers, we cannot hope to defeat the Japanese fleet. They are an integral part of the Second Pacific Squadron. If the Imperial Government were to offer to purchase them...”
“Out of the question.” Cavaignac's rages were cold, but forceful. “Your Excellency, we have been most understanding. Under normal circumstances, if the battleships of one nation fire upon those of another, the inevitable result is war. Very well, we are allies, cast together by the tides of history, but some things I cannot, the French people cannot bear! You have brought us to the precipice of war with Britain. Our navy is unready, and we have only agreed to part with capital ships on the understanding that they would be returned against this eventuality. I must insist.”
Nelidov bowed his head. He had experience weathering imperial rages. A generous offer of purchase might yet move the French, once their anger had cooled. But the delay would be painful, the cost considerable. He had already cabled to st Petersburg that he had little hope for French support in the crisis, after the damage stupidly done to their ship. The Second Pacific Squadron would return to Kronstadt for the winter. Heads would roll, and His Majesty would suffer another nervous breakdown. Russia would go on. Somehow. Ambassador Nelidov had long ago learned that Russia survived despite her government.
11 November 1904, Berlin
“I suppose I should have figured it out.” Emperor Wilhelm sighed. “From Russia.”
The book, bound in cheap yellow manila paper and printed in dense, rough typeface, rested on breakfast table beside the butter dish and jam pot. Wilhelm liked his breakfasts light, in the modern fashion, and was not above treating himself to sweets.
“That is what our agents tell us, anyway. And it figures. It is right in line with their policies.” Prince Albert pointed out. Wilhelm had been fascinated and appalled by the new publication submitted to his consideration by the Völkischer Verbund zur Wahrung von Rasse und Heimat. He did not rate the organisation highly – surely, standards even on the right fringe had slipped since the days of Adolf Stoeckel – but the emperor had decided to look through the 'Protocols of the Elders of Zion'. The accompanying letter had breathlessly hinted at grave danger to the realm and its ruler, and truth be told, Albert had been worried. But Wilhelm was just a bit too clever to take this entirely seriously.
Walther Krupp von Rathenau reached across to pick up the volume.Manners were relaxed around the imperial breakfast table. Wilhelm hated protocol.
“A Jewish conspiracy,”he mused. “what a crock. You'd think anyone would have bothered to see how organised Jews really are.”
“Well,“Wilhelm pointed out, “there is that association. Zentralverband der deutschen Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens. And there are mutual aid organisations. And the Ullsteins. And you, if I may be so free. If you look at it the right way...”
Rathenau grinned. “If you look at it the right way, your Majesty, it might not be such a bad idea. It might help us get treated better.”
“Now, Walther, that's not fair!” Wilhelm protested. “The law is clear, and we have always made an effort to make it stick. Even when the Conservatives ran the Reichstag. What more do you want?”
“A few more officers' commissions would be a start.” Rathenau quipped.Wilhelm blushed.
“Walther, I've signed every last one to come across my desk. I'd do more, but I don't think I can. Not without giving the appearance of favouritism.” It seemed to be a genuinely painful subject to him. Suddenly, the relaxed atmosphere dissipated.
Prince Albert spoke up, gently. “It's true, Mr von Rathenau.” He respected the brilliant manager, but he had never made it as far as first-name terms. “The army has its own way of doing things. Intervening would be counterproductive. And you know that we have had a bunch of Jewish officers through the latest expansions. True, they're mostly in the artillery and engineers, and the navy. But you have to make a start somewhere. That is how non-noble officers began, and today they're an everyday thing.”
Rathenau shrugged. He was not an activist, and personally completely uninterested in military life, but he was aware of the public discourse on Jews and the supposed threat they posed to the state. It hurt his feelings, and he was not above using his influence to let people in power know.
“An imperial letter to the general staff, just a circular could...”
“No!” Wilhelm was adamant. “Walther, you must understand. The army is a finely honed instrument, and it is very, very good at doing one thing: fighting and winning wars. It has to be. My throne, our country and everybody's safety depend on it. We have done enough damage to it in the last rounds of reorganisation, with expanding the officer corps and opening positions for bourgeois and Catholics. Like it or not, the Prussian nobles and their peasants are the backbone of our military might, and in return, I have to let them have their own way on some things. Change will come, with time. But I cannot risk to force it. The disruption it might cause...”
“...to have an Itzig riding with the guards Uhlans. I know.”
The three men smiled at the mental image.
12 November 1904, Lhasa
The Sikkim Highlands Protection Force – innocuous enough a name – had finally reached its goal. Exotic, alien, squalid and dreamlike, Lhasa clung to its mountainous ridges like a city built for bird-men. John Claude White looked out over the crowds of cowed and curious natives watching his arrival. He did not have to fight his way in. General Yi's men had made their own way across the plateau – lined it with the corpses of his men, if the accounts were to be believed, and White did. Logistics in Tibet was nightmarish even for the Indian Army's commissariat. How the Chinese army coped with it was a mystery. But Yi had promised to come, and he did. His men were remarkable, White had found. Disciplined, well-armed and tenacious, a hardy breed of fighting man. Mostly Muslims, he was told. They had met and destroyed the main body of the Tibetan forces sent against them a fortnight ago, just as White's men, after their long wait, had climbed up onto the plateau and cut to ribbons the pitiful militia trying to block their path.
Out in front, a messenger pushed and jostled through the crowds. Harendra Chander Mukerjee Babu, agent of the Survey of India, sent his regards to general White. The letter was written in Urdu, a brief note detailing that the Dalai Lama had fled, but several members of his government had gone to ground. The Russian agents had gone north with him. Overlooking the neat ranks of his Gurkha rifles and European infantry filing through the gate, White considered the option of pursuit. It was already bitterly cold. Soon, the passes would become completely impassable. No, there was no point wasting good men on such a fool's errand.
15 November 1904, Spreewald outside Berlin
Friedrich Lesche was shivering with cold and fear. He had never thought that his election to the Reichstag would lead him to this. Just returned from a journey to Ostafrika, the young Social Democrat had written articles about his experiences and gained a degree of national notoriety challenging Emperor Wilhelm's colonial naivety and accusing him of condoning terrible abuses in Africa under the cloak of Germany's chartered companies. It had also drawn the ire of powerful opponents, who had funded a lavish – if unsuccessful – campaign against him in his district of Lauenburg, and now it had earned him the dubious distinction of being the first Social Democrat to be challenged to a duel by a Conservative.
“Courage, Fritz!” His second, Karl Frohme, laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “You both fire, you both miss, and honour is satisfied. That's how they do this.”
On the other side, Rittmeister Hans von Gersdorf was talking to his own second. Both men had checked the pistols and now the duelists were taking position. Lesche was still not sure whether he should not have ignored the challenge, brushed it off for the reactionary nonsense it was. But in the end, the pressure had been too great. Frohme was stepping aside, and von Gersdorf raised his pistol in mocking salute. The bull-necked bastard was enjoying this. Of course, he had much more experience, for one thing. A fair number of the Conservatives had duelled, some even during their term of office. Lesche had hardly even seen a pistol, let alone fired one. A few hours of cursory instruction with friends did nothing to bridge the gap.
The handkerchief fell. Lesche did as instructed – raise the pistol on the outstretched arm, point above his opponent's head, and pull the trigger in one smooth motion. The blast seemed oddly quiet. During his practice sessions, it had sounded like the world ending. As his eyes focused on von Gernsdorf, he found, to his relief, that he had missed. But his opponent had not fired yet. He was still taking aim. Careful aim. Friedrich Lesche momentarily considered a protest. This was not how you duelled! You were not supposed to mean to kill your opponent! When the bullet took him in the chest, he was just taking a breath to voice his indignation. His voice failed, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground, Frohme rushing to his side. Just before his vision faded, he could see von Gernsdorf's second clapping him on the shoulder.
15 November 1904, Charlottenburg Palace
“It was murder, Wilhelm.” Prince Albert could barely contain his rage. “I know duelling. Some of my friends still did it, in my youth. This is against every rule. Lesche was a fool when he accepted the challenge, but what was he supposed to do? Gernsdorf murdered him in cold blood!”
“All of this over a few negroes?” Wilhelm asked incredulously.
“It is going to be all over the press tomorrow, Sire.” his private secretary, Karl zu Ammersleben, pointed out. “We already have reports coming up in the Berliner Abendzeitung. I cannot see any way it could be kept quiet.”
Wilhelm was furious. “Quiet is the last thing this should be! I will not have my deputies shooting each other! Dammit, we have immunity so that they can be sure what is said in the chamber goes witrhout repercussions. I cannot prosecute any of the lot for what they say, what makes Gernsdorf think he can just go and shoot someone for it?”
“You can have his commission for it.” Albert advised. “And if the Reichstag consents, he can be tried. I'm sure they will.”
“That's not enough. The Social Democrats will be baying for blood over this, and for once I think they are right. I want him out of the Reichstag. I want Gernsdorf to lose his mandate. There will be two by-elections, or there will be new elections altogether!”
“Dissolve the Reichstag? Wilhelm, they have only just started being able to get things done!” The elections of 1903 had returned large gains for the Zentrum and Social Democrats, and the National Liberals and Conservatives only held on to their majority with the help of the fringe parties, including the Poles and Antisemites. It had made for tense politics and a fair amount of drama, and Reichskanzler Philipp Graf zu Eulenburg had stayed on with his interim cabinet for over a year while agreement on a new candidate stalled. Just when the National Liberals had finally been amenable to supporting the Conservative von Bülow, things had seemed like there would be a replay of Caprivi's tense, but productive years of juggling shifting majorities.
“Yes, uncle. If I must, I will dissolve the Reichstag. It can hardly get worse, can it? This is not America! I will not have people shooting each other in my parliament!”
Albert shrugged. “Will you think about it, though? Please!”
“Yes, yes, I will, I won't go off and order the dissolution today. But if anything goes wrong, I will. Damn, this is going to be a huge scandal, and the Conservatives will be furious with me. Me!? But I will strip this idiot of his commission, and I will do it today. Ammersleben!”
“Sire?” The secretary was quietly efficient. “You require the miscreant's papers?”
“Yes. And I wish to talk to Moltke. We have to make it clear to our esteemed reserve officers that they cannot go killing people they disagree with.”
19 November 1904, Kronstadt
The fleet returned quietly, with nobody to greet them though their banners flew proudly as they did every day. Admiral Rosjestvensky stood stiffly on the bridge of Alexander III, grasping the handrail tightly. Tears were brimming in his eyes. Never had he heard, never dreamed, of so ignominious a defeat. He had been ready to brave the mines and torpedoes of the cold North Pacific, or even to face the shells of the British navy and die in the blaze of his flagship's wreck for the honour of Russia. He had not been ready for the abject humiliation of his recall home. The government was no longer sure the Second Pacific Squadron was strong enough to face the Japanese battlefleet, negotiations with the French over the purchase of their cruisers were still ongoing, and new vessels – what new vessels? - were to be outfitted for the journey. But behind all these empty shells of excuses, defeat stared him in the face. The fortress of Kronstadt would have a cold welcome for his men.
In the great cabin of his flagship, the armoured cruiser Aurora, Rear Admiral Oskar Enkvist finished writing his letter of resignation. On the long and dark journey home, he had taken the time to reflect on his errors and every precaution not taken, and he had found himself wanting. The Czar had deserved better, he had decided. And he needed men who could serve him better. It would not do for the navy to be robbed of such leaders. Enkvist called for his coxswain.
“Sir?” The servant entered, quietly and efficiently as ever. Tears rose in the admiral's eyes.
“Here.” he said quickly, passing three envelopes to his longtime loyal companion. “The first letter must be delivered to Admiral Rosjestvenskiy, privately and in person. The second goes to the navy ministry in St Petersburg, via the admiral's office in Kronstadt. The third is for you.”
The coxswain nodded. Understanding dawned in him. The envelope felt heavy.
“Just a little money.” Enkvist said. “You can use it to settle down, maybe buy an inn or a boat. You will probably want to leave the service, anyway. I wrote you a commendation. Do not worry.”He rested his hand briefly on the young man's shoulder. “Now, take away the tea tray, and bring me my pistol. Then you can go.”
The coxswain expertly balanced tray and letters on his way out and gently closed the door on his commander. It would not do for the men to see him crying.
22 November 1904, St Petersburg
Chief Minister Goremykin was still in shock. Emperor Nicholas II wept openly. On the desk in the lavishly appointed Winter Palace office lay the message that had precipitated the crisis. Generals Stessel was dead, killed by a Japanese mine along with his second-in-command, General Kondratenko. General Fok, now in command of Port Arthur, had surrendered not only the fortress, but also the remains of the Pacific Fleet. Poltava and Peresvyat, accompanied by Pallada, had tried a night run for Vladivostok. Bayan and Sevastopol had been scuttled, but were in Japanese hands. Goremykin, ageing and fatalistic, was willing to take the message in his stride, but his Emperor was in a deep funk.
“Your Majesty,” Konstantin Pobedonostsev soothingly said. “God tries us in many ways. If it pleases the Almighty to punish Russia for her sins, then we must bear the punishment contritely and proudly. Never doubt that by the will of God, the arms of the Russian nation and her ruler will prevail.”
Nicholas sobbed. “My fleet. The cowards! I was going to send them the entire Baltic fleet! I spent a fortune on French cruisers to strengthen them! How could Fok consider such base treason? Why was I not informed? I would have forbidden it!”
“Your Majesty.” Goremykin pointed out. “Cables from the war office categorically forbade a surrender. Fok acted on his own initiative. It is suspected that he was overcome by the burdens of command. We must now look forward.”
“Forward. How can we look forward? Poland is in revolution, Port Arthur is lost, Vladivostok defenseless. My own people are rebelling against me! I cannot make peace with honour or fight the war with hope of victory! All I can do is trust to a miracle.”
“A miracle!” Pobedonostsev's voice was contemptuous. “A miracle you must make, Nicholas! MAKE! Your people are rebelling against their rightful ruler, and you ask why Russia's armies are defeated in the field? Look at our enemies! The Japanese are monkeys, but they will joyfully die for their Mikado. That is the wellspring of victory. Nikolay Nikolaevich, remember your ancestry! Remember Czar Ivan! If your people do not obey you, they endanger all that is right and holy. You must not show weakness to them, you cannot! You are the autocrat of Russia! God will ask you for a reckoning!”
“I am, but Konstantin Petrovich, how? How can I make them obey me, if they will not?”
“Look to Czar Ivan! The people love whom they fear, Emperor Nicholas! Be strong!”
Goremykin felt his heart raised. Prokurator Pobedonostsev was a masterful orator. Finally, Emperor Nicholas stood.
“Yes!” he resolved. “We will crush the Japanese yet. We must order the army to send more reinforcements and take back Port Arthur by land. Order General Kaulbars to report to me! He will lead the drive to retake the fortress.”
25 November 1904
General von der Goltz stood by the chart table, drawing troop movements and positions in grease pencil. Emperor Wilhelm and his Chief of Staff, Graf Schlieffen, looked on. Prince Albert stood by the side of the desk, thumbing through a file of reports.
“The situation is dire for Russia, I agree, but the risk is still too great.” Schlieffen opined.
“Quite the contrary, Sir.” von der Goltz was adamant. “The risk is doing nothing. You have studied Russia as well as I have, general. You know that if they continue to develop their army and industry as they have for another ten years, they will be our equals. In twenty, our masters. If we continue as we did, doing nothing, reacting, we will be crushed between the might of France and the bulk of Russia. Now, we have the opportunity to do something, and I say we take it!”
Wilhelm pondered the options. “You are sure about this, General von der Goltz?”
“Sure? We are never entirely sure.” The intelligence officer cautioned. “But we are fairly certain. We know that Poland is already a witches' cauldron. The Japanese have suborned Finnish and Lithuanian rebels, too. Now, I admit we have been helping them a little, but it was all trivial stuff. A few thousand rifles, some dynamite. Nothing we wouldn't have done for any Ottoman tribe. More aid would go a long way. Russia itself is also looking increasingly wobbly. We could probably encourage things to go wronger there. With the Japanese dismantling the eastern defenses and the British thwarting her ambitions to the south, now is as good a time as we will see in our lifetime. Her government is weak and run by a crazy inquisitor. A few bold blows put in now, and we can delay the eventual rise of Russia's power by a decade or more, and gain valuable defensible territory on our borders.”
“All of this without a war.” Albert was unconvinced. “General von der Goltz, how do you propose to avert exactly that outcome?”
“We must trust to the genius of the situation, Your highness.”, the general replied. If a war were to come, it would be on better terms today than it will be in the future. And I believe it can be averted. The French government cannot risk going too far in assisting Russia, or it will lose public support. Russia herself cannot well afford another war. Her bonds sell poorly, now that the patriotic fervour is out of the Paris bourse. Nicholas will need hundreds of thousands of troops just to keep himself in control. There are already 200,000 Russian soldiers in Poland. In the event, St Petersburg would be unable to afford the escalation. They will have to accept a negotiated independence, just as the Ottomans had to in Greece.”
“Never mind the battle of Navarino.”Schlieffen interjected.
Wilhelm remarked pensively: “I would take a naval battle as the price of Russia losing Poland. But how do we do it?”
“Look to America.” von der Goltz explained. “That is the way of the future. Private individuals outfitting military units with the covert support of the state, like the Fenians did in Michigan, or supporting rebel factions like they do in Mexico. A private company, funded adequately and with access to bond markets, can fund a rebellion more effectively than a government constrained by annual parliamentary budgets can.”
“But the Fenians lost.” Wilhelm noted.
“Yes. If they had won, Washington would not have hesitated to grab Canada. Not officially, of course. They would just have ensured a friendly government, and given what they were owed, that wouldn't have been hard.”
Albert turned to his nephew. “Wilhelm, I would advise you to be extremely careful. All of this is irregular. Consider what to do if you lose. A war can be ended with a peace treaty, but how do you negotiate the end to such a non-war?”
But Wilhelm had made up his mind. “General von der Goltz, I think we will try your ideas. Peace with Russia is illusory at this point, and if we can hurt her while avoiding war, I am all for it.”
30 November 1904, Radun
Yossel Rabinovitch was rapidly running out of arguments. Rabbi Landauer was a clever debate and incredibly knowledgeable, and he was pouring his heart into this exchange.
“Rebbeleben, how shall we live if we let ourselves be driven to the slaughter like lambs? How shall we live in the Poland of the rebels if we do not stand up with them to make it our country? The Russians cannot treat us worse than they do already, or worse than they will the Poles if they lose.”
Landauer shook his head. “Yossele, you are wrong. They could treat us worse, indeed, they do. Think of the poor Litvaks that came here from the pogroms. We have it good in Poland, not great, but good for a Yid. It's not Germany, it's not America, but it's living. And that is always better than dying. And you are also wrong about the fighting. If you go off to kill cossacks, the cossacks will come here and kill you. And if they don't find you here, they'll take us. Fighting is a young man's game, Yossele, nothing for families and old men.”
“The young men are all it takes, Rebbe!” the bokher protested. “Enough of us can carry a rifle. I'm not talking of throwing bombs and gunning down governors. This is going to be real fighting, and we have a chance at real liberty!”
“A chance, Yossele., how good a chance? You said, how much worse can the Russians get. They can be plenty worse, Yossel, but I ask you: How much worse can the Poles get, if they get their new freedom? The Yids have been in Poland for a long time, and there will be Yids in Poland till the Messiah comes. We will live. Our Poles are not beasts, they will let us live like we have. Will you risk all of that for just a small chance of a life a little better?”
“It's not just 'a little better', Rebbe! It's a life in freedom, as men among men! You can speak about the Messiah all you want, but he's not coming in our lifetimes. And there is no law that says we have to live like dogs until he comes. In America, in England, in Germany and Austria, a Yid can live like a man. He can be anything he wants, rich, powerful, a politician, an adventurer, a soldier, an official. We can have that, too, if we will just stand up for it! And if it fails, well, better to have stood up and failed than to have lain down all the time.”
Rabbi Landauer shook his head. “Yossel Rabinovich, you are a fool. You are a brave fool, a good hearted fool, but a fool. Now, I will forbid you from fighting, do you hear? You will not take up a rifle or you will be expelled from this school!”
Yossel Rabinovich nodded. Landauer was unhappy. He did not normally use authority to win arguments, but really, what argument was there to win? Young men would be young men, dreaming the same nonsense the world over. If it wasn't love and women, it was daring and honour. He was not sure whether he ever should have Rabinovich read the Maccabees. The young man had too much of a following among the bokhers already, with his foolish delusions. For a moment, the rabbi considered a letter to the authorities, but he dismissed the thought. That was unworthy of a teacher. Keeping his students under control was the task of his learning and authority, not some cossack sergeant with a whip.
9 December 1904, Essen
The great hall of the Villa Hügel was designed to receive visitors of rank. It positively dazzled many of the guests invited to the grand banquet today. Laid with meticulously ironed and folded napery and crowned with centrepieces that looked to have cost hundreds of marks each, the long rows of tables shone in the light of hundreds of electric bulbs. The finest wines glittered in crystal goblets, and Walther Krupp von Rathenau had brought in a chef from London to lay on the finest kosher fare that money could buy. Fish fresh from the ocean, veal out of season, exotic fruit from greenhouses and the best Paris confectionery had been turned into a meal to remember. Even the richest amongst the guests only rarely dined in such style, and most of them were far from that rich. Even the owner of the palatial residence rarely enjoyed such luxury. Cutlery clattered and glasses clinked over the drone of animated conversation – no music had been ordered. The attending luminaries, the cream of Jewish thinkers, activists, journalists and politicians in the German world, preferred not to be distracted. Their often spirited prandial debates - a continuation of what had been a day of meetings and exchanges already, sometimes between men who had read each other's works for years without coming face to face – almost made the host hesitate to rise and address the company, but in the end, he felt he had to. Walther Krupp von Rathenau had a Canossa to go to, and he wanted to do it in style.
“Esteemed guests, my friends and those I hope to call such in the future! I thank you for coming here, though I am certain many of you have felt a degree of apprehension and even mistrust about my person. Let me assure you that I have asked you here not to antagonise or convince you, but to thank you. For too long I have not seen what was before my very eyes. I thought that all you represented, all that Judaism was, did not apply to me. I assumed that whether I was a Jew or not depended on whether I wanted to be one. Today, I know that I was wrong.”
A murmur rose among the audience. Whatever they had come expecting to hear from the richest and most famous among their German co-religionists, this had not been it. Rathenau continued.
“You are all well aware what company I keep. I make no secret of my social ties. And do not expect me to say anything bad about his Majesty, or his Highness Albert. You may have heard that Prince Albert does not care for Jews, but the truth is, he does not care about Jews. He genuinely does not care if you are a Jew or not. I wish I could say as much about the people who serve him. In my first week in Potsdam, I heard the word 'Judenbengel' more often than I cared to. At first, I ignored it. I tried to correct them, too. After all, I am hardly a boy, especially compared to his Majesty. But in the end, I pretended not to hear. It was my conviction, my form belief, that if I could prove myself as a true friend and valued companion, this would cease. It did not, and I am very likely the oinly person in this room who was surprised by it.”
He nodded to Professor von Simson, the noted columnist, who had written an insightful piece about the precarious social standing of men like Ballin and Rathenau, whom he had called the 'Kaiserjuden'.
“In the end, I had to accept that I was wrong and they were right. Not right in their contempt or their suspicion, but right in their view of what, not who, I am. In the eyes of the world, I can stop wearing a beard and a kippah, I can stop going to shul and speak proper German, I can even become a member of the highest circles, but I cannot stop being a Jew. Nothing I can do, say, or believe will ever make me anything other than a Jew. I used to think – and say, loudly – that if I but worked hard enough at becoming like everybody else, I could be like everybody else. Maybe, in a distant future, when men think like the Emperor does, that will be true. Today, now, here, it is not. And because that is so, I can only conclude that I must accept what I am and stand with my brothers. Here stands Judenbengel Rathenau, Geheimer Rat Doktor von Rathenau, but Judenbengel nonetheless.”
He paused. Unsure what to do, the audience sat in silence for a moment. Hesitant applause rippled through the hall, and died off quickly. Rathenau spoke again.
“For as long as I remember, I was conscious of being a Jew, and for a long time, I was conscious of it in the same way I was conscious of being dark-haired. Today I understand that being Jewish matters, not because of what it makes us, but because of what it makes the rest of the world think of us. I cannot stop being Jewish, which means I cannot escape the commonality with the lowest Kaftanjude from Russia hawking rags in the backyards of Berlin. I cannot escape sharing the same hatred, the same contempt and the same danger. Such a bond of brotherhood, involuntary and resented, is nonetheless strong and true. He is my brother. All the nameless thousands crushed under the hooves of the cossacks are my brothers. They are who they are and I am who I am, but what we are is the same, and no denial, no contempt from my side can alter one iota of that. That is why I called you here. I wanted you to know, all of you, that I wish to help you as my brothers. I do not care how much we disagree with each other on what being Jewish means to us, or what our political differences may be,”
A quick series of glances: Theodor Herzl was struck with emotion, Maximilian Horwitz – the chairman of the Central-Verein deutscher Staatsbürger jüdischen Glaubens strategically placed near his seat – seemed awed. Some listeners were in tears.
“we must help each other. Where Jews are held in contempt, where they are threatened, tyrannised and killed, we must step in not only because of our fellow humanity, but because every blow against any Jew makes it easier to conceive striking the blow at each and every one of us.”
Rathenau lifted up a dog-eared copy of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, much annotated in pencil and bearing the traces oif many a frustration-borne launch across the reading room.
“I learned much from this book, which most of you probably already know. It purports to be a protocol of a grand Jewish conspiracy to rule the governments of the world. I can only wish we were anywhere nears as powerful as the writers make us out to be – I would have some suggestions to make on policy, you can believe that. But the idea behind it is not without merit. If we are all the same in the eyes of the outside world, then yes, we must and we should stick together. If we must be forever suspected of conspiracies, then let us have one to help and uplift each other. I do not propose to tell you how or where to live a Jewish life. I propose to help you live it. And I ask you to suggest to me how best to do this. You know I am a man of some means,” - the understatement drew laughter - “but so are other Jews longer committed to the struggle than I. Money may help in many things, but not every problem can be resolved by gold. Still, if you can think of any that can, feel free to contact me. For those that cannot, we can at least speak to each other. Coordination in a battle is as valuable as armaments, and make no mistake, a battle this is. A battle in which I hope to join you. Will you come to be part of this conspiracy?”
This time, the applause raised the roofbeams.