when the war broke out. These ships were not exclusively governmental enterprises; their purchasers represented what, on the surface, appeared to be a popular enthusiasm of the Turkish people. They were to be the agencies through which Turkey was to attack Greece and win back the islands of the Ægean, and the Turkish people had raised the money to build them by a so-called popular subscription. Agents had gone from house to house, painfully collecting these small subscriptions; there had been entertainments and fairs, and, in their eagerness for the cause, Turkish women had sold their hair for the benefit of the common fund. These two vessels thus represented a spectacular outburst of patriotism that was unusual in Turkey, so unusual, indeed, that many detected signs that the Government had stimulated it. At the very moment when the war began Turkey had made her last payment to the English shipyards and the Turkish crews had arrived in England prepared to take the finished vessels home. Then, very soon before the time set to deliver them, the British Government stepped in and commandeered these dreadnoughts for the British Navy.

There is not the slightest question that England had not only a legal, but a moral, right to do this; there is also no question that her action was a proper one, and that, had she been dealing with almost any other nation, such proceeding would not have aroused any resentment. But the Turkish people cared nothing for distinctions of this sort; all they saw was that they had two ships in England, which they had greatly strained their resources to purchase, and that England had now stepped in and taken them. Even without external pressure they would have resented the act, but external pressure was exerted in plenty. The transaction gave Wangenheim the greatest opportunity of his life. Violent attacks upon England, all emanating from the German Embassy, began to fill the Turkish Press. Wangenheim was constantly discoursing to the Turkish leaders on English perfidy. He now suggested that Germany, Turkey’s good friend, was prepared to make compensation for England’s “unlawful” seizure. He suggested that Turkey go through the form of “purchasing” the Goeben and the Breslau, which were then wandering around the Mediterranean, perhaps in anticipation of this very contingency, and incorporate them in the Turkish Navy in place of the appropriated ships in England. The very day that these vessels passed through the Dardanelles the Ikdam, a Turkish newspaper published in Constantinople, had a triumphant account of this “sale,” with big headlines calling it a “great success for the Imperial Government.”

Thus Wangenheim’s manœuvre accomplished two purposes: it placed Germany before the populace as Turkey’s friend, and it also provided a subterfuge for getting the ships through the Dardanelles and enabling them to remain in Turkish waters. All this beguiled the more ignorant part of the Turkish people, and gave the Cabinet a plausible ground for meeting the objection of Entente diplomats, but it did not deceive any intelligent person. The Goeben and Breslau might change their names, and the German sailors might adorn themselves with Turkish fezzes, but we all knew from the beginning that this sale was a sham. Those who understood the financial condition of Turkey could only be amused at the idea that she could purchase these modern vessels. Moreover, the ships were never incorporated in the Turkish Navy; on the contrary, what really happened was that the Turkish Navy was annexed to these German ships. A handful of Turkish sailors was placed on board at one time for appearance’ sake, but their German officers and German crews still retained active charge. Wangenheim, in his talks with me, never made any secret of the fact that the ships still remained German property. “I never expected to have such big cheques to sign,” he remarked one day, referring to his expenditures on the Goeben and the Breslau. He always called them “our” ships. Even Talaat told me in so many words that the cruisers did not belong to Turkey.

“The Germans say they belong to the Turks,” he remarked, with his characteristic laugh. “At any rate it’s very comforting for us to have them here. After the war, if the Germans win, they will forget all about it and leave the ships to us. If the Germans lose, they won’t be able to take them away from us!”

The German Government made no real pretension that the sale had been bonâ fide; at least, when the Greek Minister at Berlin protested against the transaction as unfriendly to Greece—naïvely forgetting the American ships which Greece had recently purchased—the German officials soothed him by admitting, sotto voce, that the ownership still resided in Germany. Yet when the Entente Ambassadors constantly protested against the presence of the German vessels, the Turkish officials blandly kept up the pretence that they were integral parts of the Turkish Navy!

The German officers and crews greatly enjoyed this farcical pretence that the Goeben and the Breslau were Turkish ships. They took particular delight in dressing themselves up in Turkish uniforms and Turkish fezzes, thereby presenting to the world conclusive evidence that these loyal soldiers of the Kaiser were now parts of the Sultan’s Navy. One day the Goeben sailed up the Bosphorus, halted in front of the Russian Embassy, and dropped anchor. Then the officers and men lined the deck in full view of the enemy Ambassador. All solemnly removed their Turkish fezzes and put on German caps. The band played “Deutschland uber Alles,” the “Watch on the Rhine,” and other German songs, the German sailors singing loudly to the accompaniment. When they had spent an hour or two serenading the Russian Ambassador, the officers and crews removed their German caps and again put on their Turkish fezzes. The Goeben then picked up her anchor and started south to her station, leaving in the ears of the Russian diplomat the gradually dying strains of German war songs as the cruiser disappeared down stream.

I have often speculated on what would have happened if the English battle-cruisers, which pursued the Breslau and Goeben up to the mouth of the Dardanelles, had not been too gentlemanly to have violated international law. Suppose that they had entered the Strait, attacked the German cruisers in the Marmora, and sunk them. They could have done this, and, knowing all that we know now, such an action would have been justified. Not improbably the destruction would have kept Turkey out of the war. For, the arrival of these cruisers made it inevitable that Turkey should join her forces with Germany’s when the proper moment came. With them the Turkish Navy became stronger than the Russian Black Sea Fleet, and thus made it certain that Russia could make no attack on Constantinople. The Goeben and the Breslau, that is, practically gave the Ottoman-German naval forces control of the Black Sea. Moreover, these two ships could easily dominate Constantinople, and thus furnish the means by which the German Navy, if the occasion arose, could terrorise the Turks. I am convinced that, when the judicious historian reviews this war and its consequences, he will say that the passage of the Strait by these German ships made it inevitable that Turkey should join Germany at the moment that Germany desired her assistance, and that they likewise sealed the doom of the Turkish Empire. There were men in the Turkish Cabinet who perceived this, even then. The story was told in Constantinople—though I do not vouch for it as authentic history—that the Cabinet Meeting at which this momentous decision had been made had not been altogether harmonious. The Grand Vizier and Djemal, it was said, objected to the fictitious “sale,” and demanded that it should be made a real one. When the discussion had reached its height Enver, who was playing Germany’s game, announced that he had already practically completed the transaction. In the silence that followed his statement this young Napoleon pulled out his pistol and laid it on the table.

“If anyone here wishes to question this purchase,” he said quietly and icily, “I am ready to meet him.”

A few weeks after the Goeben and the Breslau had taken up permanent headquarters in the Bosphorus, Djavid Bey, Minister of Finance, happened to meet a distinguished Belgian jurist, then in Constantinople.

“I have terrible news for you,” said the sympathetic Turkish statesman. “The Germans have captured Brussels.”

The Belgian, a huge figure, more than six feet high, put his arm soothingly upon the shoulder of the diminutive Turk.

“I have even more terrible news for you,” he said, pointing out to the stream where the Goeben and the Breslau lay anchored. “The Germans have captured Turkey.”

CHAPTER VI

WANGENHEIM TELLS THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR HOW THE KAISER STARTED THE WAR

Wangenheim would also buttonhole his friends, or those whom he regarded as his friends, and have his little jollifications over German victories. I noticed that he stationed himself there only when the German armies were winning; if news came of a reverse, Wangenheim was utterly invisible. This led me to remark that he reminded me of a toy weather-prophet, which is always outside the box when the weather is fine but which retires within when storms are gathering. Wangenheim appreciated my little joke as keenly as the rest of the diplomatic set.

In those early days, however, the weather for the German Ambassador was distinctly favourable. The good fortune of the German armies so excited him that he was sometimes led into indiscretions, and his exuberance one day caused him to tell me certain facts which, I think, will always have great historical value. He disclosed precisely how and when Germany had precipitated this war. To-day his revelation of this secret looks like a most monstrous indiscretion, but we must remember Wangenheim’s state of mind at the time. The whole world then believed that Paris was doomed, and Wangenheim reflected this attitude in his frequent declarations that the war would be over in two or three months. The whole German enterprise was evidently progressing according to programme.

I have already mentioned that the German Ambassador left for Berlin soon after the assassination of the Grand Duke, and he now revealed the cause of his sudden disappearance. The Kaiser, he told me, had summoned him to Berlin for an Imperial Conference. This meeting took place at Potsdam on July 5th. The Kaiser presided and nearly all the important Ambassadors attended. Wangenheim himself was summoned to give assurance about Turkey and enlighten his associates generally on the situation in Constantinople, which was then regarded as almost the pivotal point in the impending war. In telling me who attended this conference Wangenheim used no names, though he specifically said that among them were—the facts are so important that I quote his exact words in the German which he used—“die Haüpte des Generalstabs und der Marine” (the heads of the General Staff and of the Navy), by which I have assumed that he meant von Moltke and Von Tirpitz. The great bankers, railroad directors, and the captains of German industry, all of whom were as necessary to German war preparations as the army itself, also attended.

Wangenheim now told me that the Kaiser solemnly put the question to each man in turn: “Are you ready for war?” All replied “Yes,” except the financiers. They said that they must have two weeks to sell their foreign securities and to make loans. At that time few people had looked upon the Serajevo tragedy as something that was likely to cause war. This Conference, Wangenheim told me, took all precautions that no such suspicion should be aroused. It decided to give the bankers time to readjust their finances for the coming war, and then the several members went quietly back to their work or started on vacations. The Kaiser went to Norway on his yacht, von Bethmann-Hollweg left for a rest, and Wangenheim returned to Constantinople.

In telling me about this Conference Wangenheim, of course, admitted that Germany had precipitated the war. I think that he was rather proud of the whole performance; proud that Germany had gone about the matter in so methodical and far-seeing a way, and especially proud that he himself had been invited to participate in so momentous a gathering. I have often wondered why he revealed to me so important a secret, and I think that perhaps the real reason was his excessive vanity—his desire to show me how close he stood to the inner counsels of his Emperor and the part that he had played in bringing on this conflict. Whatever the motive, this indiscretion certainly had the effect of showing me who were really the guilty parties in this monstrous crime. The several Blue, Red, and Yellow Books which flooded Europe during the few months following the outbreak, and the hundreds of documents which were issued by German propaganda attempting to establish Germany’s innocence, have never made the slightest impression on me. For my conclusions as to the responsibility are not based on suspicions or belief or the study of circumstantial data. I do not have to reason or argue about the matter. I know. The conspiracy that has caused this greatest of human tragedies was hatched by the Kaiser and his imperial crew at this Potsdam Conference of July 5, 1914. One of the chief participants, flushed with his triumph at the apparent success of the plot, told me the details with his own mouth. Whenever I hear people arguing about the responsibility for this war, or read the clumsy and lying excuses put forth by Germany, I simply recall the burly figure of Wangenheim as he appeared that August afternoon, puffing away at a huge black cigar, and giving me his account of this historic meeting. Why waste any time discussing the matter after that?

This Imperial Conference took place on July 5th and the Serbian ultimatum was sent on July 22nd. That is just about the two weeks’ interval which the financiers had demanded to complete their plans. All the great stock exchanges of the world show that the German bankers profitably used this interval. Their records disclose that stocks were being sold in large quantities and that prices declined rapidly. At that time the markets were somewhat puzzled at this movement, but Wangenheim’s explanation clears up any doubts that may still remain. Germany was changing her securities into cash for war purposes. If anyone wishes to verify Wangenheim I would suggest that he examine the quotations of the New York stock market for these two historic weeks. He will find that there were astonishing slumps in quotations, especially on the stocks that had an international market. Between July 5th and July 22nd Union Pacific dropped from 155½ to 127½, Baltimore and Ohio from 91½ to 81, United States Steel from 61 to 50½, Canadian Pacific from 194 to 185½, and Northern Pacific from 111⅜ to 108. At that time the high protectionists were blaming the Simmons-Underwood Tariff Act as responsible for this fall in values, while other critics of the Administration attributed it to the Federal Reserve Act, which had not yet gone into effect. How little the Wall Street brokers and the financial experts realised that an Imperial Conference which had been held in Potsdam, and presided over by the Kaiser, was the real force that was then depressing the market!

Wangenheim not only gave me the details of this Potsdam Conference, but he disclosed the same secret to the Marquis Garroni, the Italian Ambassador at Constantinople. Italy was at that time technically Germany’s ally.

The Austrian Ambassador, the Marquis Pallavicini, also practically admitted that the Central Powers had precipitated the war. On August 18th, Francis Joseph’s birthday, I made the usual ambassadorial visit of congratulation. Quite naturally the conversation turned upon the Emperor, who had that day passed his eighty-fourth year. Pallavicini spoke about him with the utmost pride and veneration. He told me how keen-minded and clear-headed the aged Emperor was, how he had the most complete understanding of international affairs, and how he gave everything his personal supervision. To illustrate the Austrian Kaiser’s grasp of public events, Pallavicini instanced the present war. The previous May, Pallavicini had had an audience with Francis Joseph in Vienna. At that time, Pallavicini now told me, the Emperor had said that a European war was unavoidable. The Central Powers would not accept the Treaty of Bucharest as a settlement of the Balkan question, and only a general war, the Emperor had told Pallavicini, could ever settle that problem. The Treaty of Bucharest, I may recall, was the settlement that ended the second Balkan war.

This divided the European dominions of Turkey, excepting Constantinople and a small piece of adjoining territory, among the Balkan nations, chiefly Serbia and Greece. That treaty strengthened Serbia greatly; so much did it increase Serbia’s resources, indeed, that Austria feared that it had laid the beginning of a new European State that might grow sufficiently strong to resist her own plans of aggrandisement. Austria held a large Serbian population under her yoke in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and these Serbians desired, above everything else, annexation to their own country. Moreover, the Pan-German plans in the East necessitated the destruction of Serbia, the State which, so long as it stood intact, blocked the Germanic road to the East. It had been the Austro-German expectation that the Balkan war would destroy Serbia as a nation—that Turkey would simply annihilate King Peter’s forces. This was precisely what the Germanic plans demanded, and for this reason Austria and Germany did nothing to prevent the Balkan wars. But the result was exactly the reverse, for out of the conflict arose a stronger Serbia than ever, standing firm like a breakwater against the Germanic path.

Most historians agree that the Treaty of Bucharest made inevitable this war. I have the Marquis Pallavicini’s evidence that this was likewise the opinion of Francis Joseph himself. The audience at which the Emperor made this statement was held in May, more than a month before the assassination of the Grand Duke. Clearly, therefore, we have the Austrian Emperor’s assurances that the war would have come irrespective of the assassination at Serajevo. It is quite apparent that this crime merely served as the convenient pretext for the war upon which the Central Empires had already decided.

CHAPTER VII

GERMANY’S PLANS FOR NEW TERRITORIES, COALING STATIONS, AND INDEMNITIES

I was out for a stroll on August 26th, and happened to meet the German Ambassador. He began to talk as usual about the German victories in France, repeating, as was now his habit, his prophecy that the German armies would be in Paris within a week. The deciding factor in this war, he added, would be the Krupp artillery. “And remember that this time,” he said, “we are making war. And we shall make it rücksichtslos (without any consideration). We shall not be hampered as we were in 1870. Then Queen Victoria, the Czar, and Francis Joseph interfered and persuaded us to spare Paris. But there is no one to interfere now. We shall move to Berlin all the Parisian art treasures that belong to the State, just as Napoleon took Italian art works to France.”

It is quite evident that the battle of the Marne saved Paris from the fate of Louvain.

So confidently did Wangenheim expect an immediate victory that he began to discuss the terms of peace. Germany would demand of France, he said, after defeating her armies, that she completely demobilise and pay an indemnity. “France now,” said Wangenheim, “can settle for $5,000,000,000; but if she persists in continuing the war she will have to pay $20,000,000,000.”

He told me that Germany would demand harbours and coaling-stations “everywhere.” At that time, judging from Wangenheim’s statements, Germany was not looking so much for new territory as for great commercial advantages. She was determined to be the great merchant nation, and for this she must have free harbours, the Bagdad railroad, and extensive rights in South America and Africa. Wangenheim said that Germany did not desire any more territory in which the populations did not speak German, for they had had all of that kind of trouble they wanted in Alsace-Lorraine, Poland, and other non-German countries. This statement certainly sounds interesting now in view of recent happenings in Russia. He did not mention England in speaking of Germany’s demand for coaling-stations and harbours; he must have had England in mind, however, for what other nation could have given them to Germany “everywhere”?

All these conversations were illuminating to me as Wangenheim’s revelation of the Conference of July 5th. That episode clearly proved that Germany had consciously started the war, while these grandiose schemes, as outlined by this very able but somewhat talkative Ambassador, showed the reasons that had impelled her in this great enterprise. Wangenheim gave me a complete picture of the German Empire embarking on a great buccaneering enterprise, in which the spoils of success came to be the accumulated riches of her neighbours and the world position which their skill and industry had built up through the centuries.

If England attempted to starve Germany, said Wangenheim, Germany’s response would be a simple one: she would starve France. At that time, we must remember, Germany expected to have Paris within a week, and she believed that this would ultimately give her control of the whole country. It was evidently the German plan, as understood by Wangenheim, to hold this nation as a pawn for England’s behaviour, a kind of hostage on a gigantic scale, and, should England gain any military or naval advantage, Germany would attempt to counter-attack by torturing the whole French people. At that moment German soldiers were murdering innocent Belgians in return for the alleged misbehaviour of other Belgians, and evidently Germany had planned to apply this principle to whole nations as well as to individuals.

All through this and other talks, Wangenheim showed the greatest animosity to Russia.

“We’ve got our foot on Russia’s corn,” he said, “and we propose to keep it there.”

By this he must have meant that Germany had sent the Goeben and the Breslau through the Dardanelles and so controlled the situation in Constantinople. The old Byzantine capital, said Wangenheim, was the prize which a victorious Russia would demand, and her lack of an all-the-year-round port in warm waters was Russia’s tender spot—her “corn.” At this time Wangenheim boasted that Germany had 174 German gunners at the Dardanelles, that the Strait could be closed in less than thirty minutes, and that Souchon, the German admiral, had informed him that the Straits were impregnable. “We shall not close the Dardanelles, however,” he said, “unless England attacks them.”

At that time England, although she had declared war on Germany, had played no conspicuous part in the military operations; her “contemptible little army” was making its heroic retreat from Mons. Wangenheim entirely discounted England as an enemy. It was the German intention, he said, to place their big guns at Calais, and throw their shells across the English Channel to the English coast towns; that Germany would not have Calais within the next ten days did not occur to him as a possibility. In this and other conversations at about the same time Wangenheim laughed at the idea that England could create a large independent army. “The idea is preposterous,” he said. “It takes generations of militarism to produce any thing like the German army. We have been building it up for two hundred years. It takes thirty years of constant training to produce such generals as we have. Our army will always maintain its organisation. We have 500,000 recruits reaching military age every year, and we cannot possibly lose that number, so that our army will be kept intact.”

A few weeks later civilisation was outraged by the German bombardment of English coast towns, such as Scarborough and Hartlepool. This was no sudden German inspiration, but part of their carefully-considered plans. Wangenheim told me, on September 6th, 1914, that Germany intended to bombard all English harbours, so as to stop the food supply. It is also apparent that German ruthlessness against American sea trade was no sudden decision of von Tirpitz, for on this same date the German Ambassador to Constantinople warned me that it would be very dangerous for the United States to send ships to England!

CHAPTER VIII

A CLASSIC INSTANCE OF GERMAN PROPAGANDA

Undoubtedly Turkey’s policy at that moment precisely fitted in with German plans. Wangenheim was every day increasing his ascendancy over the Turkish Cabinet, and Turkey was then pursuing the course that best served the German aims. Her policy was keeping the Entente on tenterhooks; it never knew from day to day where Turkey stood, whether she would remain neutral or enter the war on Germany’s side. Because Turkey’s attitude was so uncertain Russia was compelled to keep large forces on the Caucasus, England was obliged to strengthen her forces in Egypt and India, and to maintain a considerable fleet at the mouth of the Dardanelles. All this worked in beautifully with Germany’s plans, for these detached forces just so much weakened England and Russia on the European battle-front. I am now speaking of the period just before the Marne, when Germany expected to defeat France and Russia with the aid of her ally, Austria, and thus obtain a victory that would have enabled her to dictate the future of Europe. Should Turkey at that time be actually engaged in military operations, she could do no more toward bringing about this victory than she was doing now, by keeping considerable Russian and English forces away from the most important fronts. But, should Germany win this easy victory with Turkey’s aid, she might find her new ally an embarrassment. Turkey would certainly demand compensation, and she would not be particularly modest in her demands, which most likely would include the return of Egypt and perhaps the recession of Balkan territories. Such readjustments would have interfered with the Kaiser’s plans. Thus he had no interest in having Turkey as an active ally, except in the event that he did not win his speedily anticipated triumph. But, if Russia should make great progress against Austria, then Turkey’s active alliance would have great military value, especially if her entry should be so timed as to bring in Bulgaria and Rumania. Meanwhile Wangenheim was playing a waiting game, making Turkey a potential German ally, strengthening her army and her navy, and preparing to use her, whenever the moment arrived for using her, to the best advantage. If Germany could not win the war without Turkey’s aid, Germany was prepared to take her in as an ally; if she could win without Turkey, then she would not have to pay the Turk for his co-operation. Meanwhile the sensible course was to keep her prepared in case the Turkish forces became essential to German success.

The duel that now took place between Germany and the Entente for Turkey’s favour was a most unequal one. The fact was that Germany had won the victory when she smuggled the Goeben and the Breslau into the Sea of Marmora. The English, French, and Russian Ambassadors well understood this, and they knew that they could not make Turkey an active ally of the Entente; they probably had no desire to do so, but they did have hopes that they could keep her neutral. To this end they now directed all their efforts. “You have had enough of war,” they would tell Talaat and Enver. “You have fought three wars in the last four years; you will ruin your country absolutely if you get involved in this one.” The Entente had only one consideration to offer Turkey for her neutrality, and this was an offer to guarantee the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. The Entente Ambassadors showed their great desire to keep Turkey out of the war by their disinclination to press to the limit their case against the Breslau and the Goeben. It is true that they repeatedly protested against the continued presence of these ships, but every time the Turkish officials maintained that they were Turkish vessels.

“If that is so,” Sir Louis Mallet would urge, and his argument was unassailable, “why don’t you remove the German officers and crew?” That was the intention, the Grand Vizier would answer. The Turkish crews that had been sent to man the ships which had been built in England, he would say, were returning to Turkey, and they would be put on board the Goeben and the Breslau as soon as they reached Constantinople. But days and weeks went by; these crews came home, and still Germany manned and officered the cruisers. These backings and fillings naturally did not deceive the British and French Foreign Offices. The presence of the Goeben and the Breslau was a standing casus belli, but the Entente Ambassadors did not demand their passports, for such an act would have precipitated the very crisis which they were seeking to delay, and, if possible, to avoid—Turkey’s entrance as Germany’s ally. Unhappily, the Entente’s promise to guarantee Turkey’s integrity did not win Turkey to their side.

“They promised that we should not be dismembered after the Balkan wars,” Talaat would tell me, “and see what happened to European Turkey then.”

Wangenheim constantly harped upon this fact. “You can’t trust anything they say,” he would tell Talaat and Enver; “didn’t they all go back on you a year ago?” And then with great cleverness he would play upon the only emotion which really actuates the Turk. The descendants of Osman hardly resemble any people I have ever known. They do not hate, they do not love; they have no lasting animosities or affections. They only fear. And naturally they attribute to others the motives which regulate their own conduct. “How stupid you are!” Wangenheim would tell Talaat and Enver, discussing the English attitude. “Don’t you see why the English want you to keep out? It is because they fear you. Don’t you see that, with the help of Germany, you have again become a great military power? No wonder England doesn’t want to fight you!” He dinned this so continually in their ears that they finally believed it, for this argument not only completely explained the attitude of the Entente, but it flattered Turkish pride.

Whatever may have been the attitude of Enver and Talaat, I think that England and France were more popular with all classes in Turkey than was Germany. The Sultan was opposed to war; the heir-apparent, Youssouff Izzadin, was openly pro-Ally; the Grand Vizier, Saïd Halim, favoured England rather than Germany; Djemal, the third member of the ruling triumvirate, had the reputation of being a Francophile—he had recently returned from Paris, where the reception he had received had greatly flattered him; a majority of the Cabinet had no enthusiasm for Germany; and public opinion, so far as public opinion existed in Turkey, regarded England, not Germany, as Turkey’s historic friend. Wangenheim, therefore, had much opposition to overcome, and the methods which he took to break it down form a classic illustration of German propaganda. He started a lavish publicity campaign against England, France, and Russia. I have described the feelings of the Turks at losing their ships in England. Wangenheim’s agents now filled columns of purchased space in the newspapers with bitter attacks on England for taking over these vessels. The whole Turkish Press rapidly passed under the control of Germany. Wangenheim purchased the Ikdam, one of the largest Turkish newspapers, which immediately began to sing the praises of Germany and to abuse the Entente. The Osmanischer Lloyd, published in French and German, became an organ of the German Embassy. Although the Turkish Constitution guaranteed a free Press, a censorship was established in the interest of the Central Powers. All Turkish editors were ordered to write in Germany’s favour, and they obeyed instructions. The Jeune Turc, a pro-Entente newspaper, printed in French, was suppressed. The Turkish papers exaggerated German victories and completely manufactured others; they were constantly printing the news of Entente defeats, most of them wholly imaginary. In the evening Wangenheim and Pallavicini would show me official telegrams giving the details of military operations, but when, in the morning, I would look in the newspapers, I would find that this news had been twisted or falsified in Germany’s favour. A certain Baron Oppenheim travelled all over Turkey manufacturing public opinion against England and France. Ostensibly he was an archæologist, while in reality he opened offices everywhere from which issued streams of slanders against the Entente. Huge maps were pasted on walls, showing all the territory which Turkey had lost in the course of a century. Russia was portrayed as the nation chiefly responsible for these “robberies,” and attention was drawn to the fact that England had now become Russia’s ally. Pictures were published, showing the grasping powers of the Entente as rapacious animals, snatching away at poor Turkey. Enver was advertised as the “hero” who had recovered Adrianople; Germany was pictured as Turkey’s friend; the Kaiser suddenly became “Hadji Wilhelm,” the great protector of Islam, and stories were even printed that he had become a convert to Mohammedanism. The Turkish populace was informed that the Moslems of India and of Egypt were about to revolt and throw off their English “tyrants.” The Turkish man-on-the-street was taught to say Gott Strafe England, and all the time the motive-power of this infamous campaign was German money.

But Germany was doing more than poisoning the Turkish mind; she was appropriating Turkey’s military resources. I have already described how, in January, 1914, the Kaiser had taken over the Turkish Army and rehabilitated it in preparation for the European war. He now proceeded to do the same thing with the Turkish Navy. In August Wangenheim boasted to me that, “We now control both the Turkish Army and Navy.” At the time the Goeben and Breslau arrived, an English mission, headed by Admiral Limpus, was hard at work restoring the Turkish Navy. Soon afterward Limpus and his associates were unceremoniously dismissed. The manner of their going was really disgraceful, for not even the most ordinary courtesies were shown them. The English naval officers quietly and unobservedly left Constantinople for England—all except the Admiral himself, who had to remain longer because of his daughter’s illness.

Night after night whole carloads of Germans landed at Constantinople from Berlin; the aggregations to the population finally amounted to 3,800 men, most of them sent to man the Turkish Navy and to manufacture ammunition. They filled the cafés every night, and they paraded the streets of Constantinople in the small hours of the morning, howling and singing German patriotic songs. Many of them were skilled mechanics, who immediately went to work repairing the destroyers and other ships and putting them in shape for war. The British firm of Armstrong and Vickers had a splendid dock in Constantinople, and this the Germans now appropriated. All day and night we could hear this work going on, and we could hardly sleep because of the hubbub of riveting and hammering. Wangenheim now found another opportunity for instilling more poison into the minds of Enver, Talaat, and Djemal. The German workers, he declared, had found that the Turkish ships were in a desperate state of disrepair, and for this he naturally blamed the English naval mission. He said that England had deliberately let the Turkish Navy go to decay, and he asserted that this was all part of England’s plot to ruin Turkey! “Look!” he would exclaim, “see what we Germans have done for the Turkish Army, and see what the English have done for your ships!” As a matter of fact, all this was untrue, for Admiral Limpus had worked hard and conscientiously to improve the Navy, and had accomplished excellent results in that direction.

All this time the Germans were working at the Dardanelles, seeking to strengthen the fortifications, and preparing for a possible Allied attack. As September lengthened into October, the Sublime Porte practically ceased to be the headquarters of the Ottoman Empire. I really think that the most powerful seat of authority at that time was a German merchant-ship, the General. It was moored in the Golden Horn, near the Galata Bridge, and a permanent stairway had been built, leading to its deck. I knew well one of the most frequent visitors to this ship, an American who used to come to the Embassy and entertain me with stories of what was going on.

The General, this friend now informed me, was practically a German club or hotel. The officers of the Goeben and the Breslau and other German officers who had been sent to command the Turkish ships ate and slept on board. Admiral Souchon, who had brought the German cruisers to Constantinople, presided over these gatherings. Souchon was a man of French Huguenot extraction; he was a short, dapper, clean-cut sailor, very energetic and alert, and to the German passion for command and thoroughness he added much of the Gallic geniality and buoyancy. Naturally he gave much liveliness to the evening parties on the General, and the beer and champagne which were liberally dispensed on these occasions loosened the tongues of his fellow-officers. Their conversation showed that they entertained no illusions as to who really controlled the Turkish Navy. Night after night their impatience for action grew; they kept declaring that, if Turkey did not presently attack the Russians, they would force her to do so. They would relate how they had sent German ships into the Black Sea in the hope of provoking the Russian fleet to some action that would make war inevitable. Toward the end of October my friend told me that hostilities could not much longer be avoided; the Turkish fleet had been fitted for action, everything was ready, and the impetuosity of these kriegslustige German officers could not much longer be restrained.

“They are just like a lot of boys with chips on their shoulders. They are simply spoiling for a fight!” he said.

CHAPTER IX

GERMANY CLOSES THE DARDANELLES AND SO SEPARATES RUSSIA FROM HER ALLIES

All the time that we were talking I could hear the loud tones of Talaat and his associates in the interior apartment. The Grand Vizier excused himself and went back into the room. He then sent out Djavid, the Minister of Finance, to discuss the matter with me.

“It’s all a surprise to us,” were Djavid’s first words—this statement being a complete admission that the Cabinet had had nothing to do with it. I repeated that the United States would not submit to closing the Dardanelles; since Turkey was at peace she had no legal right to shut the Straits to merchant ships, except in case of war. I said that an American ship laden with supplies and stores for the American Embassy was outside at that moment waiting to come in. Djavid suggested that I have this vessel unload her cargo at Smyrna; that the Turkish Government, he obligingly added, would pay the cost of transporting it overland to Constantinople. This proposal, of course, was a ridiculous evasion of the issue, and I brushed it aside.

Djavid then said that the Cabinet proposed to investigate the matter, and, in fact, they were discussing it at that moment. He told me how it had happened. A Turkish torpedo-boat had passed through the Dardanelles and attempted to enter the Ægean. The British warships stationed outside hailed the ship, examined it, and found that there were German sailors on board. The English admiral at once ordered the vessel to go back; this, under the circumstances, he had a right to do. Weber Pasha, the German general who was then in charge of the fortifications, did not consult the Turks, but he immediately gave orders to close the Straits. Wangenheim had already boasted to me, as I have said, that the Dardanelles could be closed in thirty minutes, and the Germans now made good his words. Down went the mines and the nets; the lights in the lighthouses were extinguished; signals were put up notifying all ships that there was “no thoroughfare,” and the deed, the most high-handed which the Germans had yet committed, was done. And here I found these Turkish statesmen, who alone had authority over this indispensable strip of water, trembling and stammering with fear, running hither and yon like a lot of frightened rabbits, appalled at the enormity of the German act, yet apparently powerless to take any decisive action. I certainly had a graphic picture of the extremities to which Teutonic bullying had reduced the present rulers of the Turkish Empire. And at the same moment before my mind rose the figure of the Sultan, whose signature was essential to close legally these waters, quietly dozing at his palace, entirely oblivious of the whole transaction.

Though Djavid informed me that the Cabinet might decide to reopen the Dardanelles, it never did so. This great passage-way has remained closed from September 27, 1914, to the present time. I saw, of course, precisely what this action signified. That month of September had been a disillusioning one for the Germans. The French had beaten back the invasion and had driven the German armies to entrenchments along the Aisne. The Russians were sweeping triumphantly through Galicia; already they had captured Lemburg, and it seemed not improbable that they would soon cross the Carpathians to Austria-Hungary. In those days Pallavicini, the Austrian Ambassador, was a discouraged, lamentable figure. He confided to me his fears for the future, telling me that the German programme of a short, decisive war had clearly failed and that it was now quite evident that Germany could only win, if she could win at all, which was exceedingly doubtful, after a protracted struggle. I have described how Wangenheim, while preparing the Turkish Army and Navy for any eventualities, was simply holding Turkey in his hand, intending actively to use her forces only in case Germany failed to crush France and Russia in the first campaign. Now that that failure was manifest, Wangenheim was instructed to use the Turkish Empire as an active ally. Hitherto, this nation of 20,000,000 had been a passive partner, being held back by Wangenheim until Germany decided that it would be necessary to pay the price of letting her into the war as a real participant. The time had come when Germany needed her men, and the outward sign that the situation had changed was the closing of the Dardanelles. Thus Wangenheim had accomplished the task for which he had been working, and in this act had fittingly crowned his achievement of bringing in the Goeben and the Breslau. Few Americans realise, even to-day, what an overwhelming influence this act had upon future military operations. Yet the fact that the war has lasted for so many years, and that the burden has been ultimately thrown on America, is explained by this closing of the Dardanelles.

For this is the element in the situation that separated Russia from her allies, that, in less than a year, led to her defeat and collapse, which in turn was the reason why the Russian revolution became possible. The map discloses that this enormous land of Russia has just four ways of reaching the seas. One is by way of the Baltic, and this the German fleet had already closed. Another is Archangel, on the Arctic Ocean, a port that is frozen over several months in the year, and which connects with the heart of Russia only by a long, single-track railroad. Another is the Pacific port of Vladivostok, also ice-bound for three months, and reaching Russia only by the thin line of the Siberian Railway, 5,000 miles long. The fourth passage was that of the Dardanelles; in fact, this was the only practicable one. This was the narrow gate through which the surplus products of 175,000,000 people reached Europe, and nine-tenths of all Russian exports and imports had gone this way for years. By suddenly closing it, Germany destroyed Russia both as an economic and a military Power. By shutting off the exports of Russian grain she deprived Russia of the financial power essential to successful warfare. What was perhaps even more fatal, she prevented England and France from getting munitions to the Russian battlefront in sufficient quantity to stem the German onslaught. As soon as the Dardanelles was closed, Russia had to fall back on Archangel and Vladivostok for such supplies as she could get from these ports. The cause of the military collapse of Russia in 1915 is now well known; the soldiers simply had no ammunition with which to fight. The larger part of 1918 Germany spent in a desperate attempt to drive a “wedge” between the French and English armies on the Western front, to separate one ally from another, and so obtain a position where she could attack each one separately. The attempt has proved to be a very difficult one. Yet the task of undoing the Franco-Russian treaty, and driving such a “wedge” between Russia and her Western associates, proved to have been an easy one. It was simply a matter, as I have described, of controlling a corrupt and degenerate Government, getting possession, while she was still at peace, of her main executions, her army, her navy, her resources, and then, at the proper moment, ignoring the nominal rulers and closing a little strip of water about twenty miles long and two or three wide! It did not cost a single human life or the firing of a single gun, yet, in a twinkling, Germany accomplished this, what probably three million men, opposed to a well-equipped Russian force, could not have brought to pass. It was one of the most dramatic military triumphs of the war, and it was all the work of German propaganda, German penetration, and German diplomacy.

In the days following this bottling up of Russia the Bosphorus began to look like a harbour which has been suddenly stricken with the plague. Hundreds of ships arrived from Russia, Rumania, and Bulgaria, loaded with grain, lumber, and other products, only to discover that they could go no farther. There were not docks enough to berth them, and they had to swing out into the stream, drop anchor, and await developments. The waters were a cluster of masts and smoke-stacks, and the crowded vessels became so dense that a motor-boat had difficulty in picking its way through the tangled forest. The Turks held out hopes that they might reopen the waterway, and for this reason these vessels, constantly increasing in number, waited patiently for a month or so. Then one by one they turned around, pointed their noses toward the Black Sea, and lugubriously started for their home ports. In a few weeks the Bosphorus and adjoining waters had become a desolate waste. What for years had been one of the most animated shipping points in the world was ruffled only by an occasional launch or a tiny Turkish caique, or now and then a little sailing vessel. And for an accurate idea of what this meant, from a military standpoint, we need only call to mind the Russian battlefront in the next year. There the peasants were fighting German artillery with their unprotected bodies, having no rifles and no heavy guns, while mountains of useless ammunition were piling up in their distant Arctic and Pacific ports, with no railroads to send them to the field of action.

CHAPTER X

TURKEY’S ABROGATION OF THE CAPITULATIONS—ENVER LIVING IN A PALACE, WITH PLENTY OF MONEY AND AN IMPERIAL BRIDE

Another question, which had been under discussion for several months, now became involved in the Turkish international situation. That was the matter of the capitulations. These were the treaty rights which for centuries had regulated the position of foreigners in the Turkish Empire. Turkey had never been admitted to a complete equality with European nations, and in reality she had never been an independent sovereignty. The Sultan’s laws and customs differed so radically from those of Europe and America that no non-Moslem country could think of submitting its citizens in Turkey to them. In many matters, therefore, the principle of ex-territoriality had always prevailed in favour of all citizens or subjects of countries enjoying capitulatory rights. Almost all European countries, as well as the United States, for centuries had had their own consular courts and prisons for trying and punishing crimes which their nationals committed in Turkey. We all had our schools subject, not to Turkish law and protection, but to that of the country which maintained them. Thus Robert College and the Constantinople College for Women, those wonderful institutions which American philanthropy has erected on the Bosphorus, as well as hundreds of American religious, charitable, and educational institutions, practically stood on American territory and looked upon the American Embassy as their guardian. Several nations had their own post-offices, as they did not care to submit their mail to the Ottoman postal service. Turkey, likewise, did not have unlimited power of taxation over foreigners. It could not even increase their customs taxes without the consent of the foreign Powers. In 1914 it could collect only II per cent. in tariff dues, and was attempting to secure the right to increase the amount to 14. We have always regarded England as the only free-trade country, overlooking this fact, yet this limitation in Turkey’s customs dues had practically made the Ottoman Empire an unwilling follower of Cobden. Turkey was thus prohibited by the Powers from developing any industries of her own; instead, she was forced to take large quantities of inferior articles from Europe. Against these restrictions Turkish statesmen had protested for years, declaring that they constituted an insult to their pride as a nation and also interfered with their progress. However, the agreement was a bi-lateral one, and Turkey could not change it without the consent of all the contracting Powers. Yet certainly the present moment, when both the Entente and the Central Powers were cultivating Turkey, served to furnish a valuable opportunity to make the change. And so, as soon as the Germans had started on their march toward Paris, the air was filled with reports that Turkey intended to abrogate the capitulations. Rumour said that Germany had consented as part of the bargain for Turkish co-operation, and that England had agreed to the abrogation as part of her payment for Turkish neutrality. Neither of these reports was true. What was manifest, however, was the panic which the mere suggestion of abrogation produced on the foreign population. The idea of becoming subject to the Turkish laws, and perhaps being thrown into Turkish prisons, made their flesh creep—and with good reason.

About this time I had a long conference with Enver. He asked me to call at his residence, as he was laid up with an infected toe, the result of a surgical operation. I thus had an illuminating glimpse of the Minister of War en famille. Certainly this humble man of the people had risen in the world. His house, which was in one of the quietest and most aristocratic parts of the city, was a splendid old building, very large and very elaborate. I was ushered through a series of four or five halls, and as I went by one door, the Imperial Princess, Enver’s wife, slightly opened it and peeped through at me. Farther on another Turkish lady opened her door and also obtained a fleeting glimpse of the ambassadorial figure. I was finally escorted into a beautiful room in which Enver lay reclining on a semi-sofa. He had on a long silk dressing-gown and his stockinged feet hung languidly over the edge of the divan. He looked much younger than in his uniform; he was an extremely neat and well-groomed object, with a pale, smooth face, made even more striking by his black hair, and with delicate white hands and long tapering fingers. He might easily have passed for under thirty, and, in fact, he was not much over that age. He had at hand a violin, and a piano near by also testified to his musical taste. The room was splendidly tapestried. Perhaps its most conspicuous feature was a daïs upon which stood a golden chair; this was the marriage-throne of Enver’s imperial wife. As I glanced around at all this luxury I must admit that a few uncharitable thoughts came to mind, and that I could not help pondering a question which was then being generally asked in Constantinople. Where did Enver get the money for this expensive establishment? He had no fortune of his own—his parents had been wretchedly poor—and his salary as a Cabinet Minister was only about $8,000. His wife had a moderate allowance as an Imperial Princess, but she had no private resources. Enver has never engaged in business, having been a revolutionist, military leader, and politician all his life. But here he was, living at a rate that demanded a very large income. In other ways Enver was giving evidences of great and sudden prosperity, and already I had heard much of his investments in real estate, which were the talk of the town.

Enver wished to discuss the capitulations. He practically said that the Cabinet had decided on the abrogation and he wished to know the attitude of the United States. He added that certainly a country which had fought for its independence as we had would sympathise with Turkey’s attempt to shake off these shackles. We had helped Japan free herself from similar burdens, and wouldn’t we now help Turkey? Certainly Turkey was as civilised a nation as Japan?

I answered that I thought that the United States might consent to abandon the capitulations in so far as they were economic. It was my opinion that Turkey should control her customs duties and be permitted to levy the same taxes on foreigners as on her own citizens. So long as the Turkish courts and Turkish prisons maintained their present standards, however, we could never agree to give up the judicial capitulations. Turkey should reform these judicial abuses; then, after they had established European ideas in the administration of justice, the matter could be discussed. Enver replied that Turkey would be willing to have mixed tribunals and to have the United States designate some of the judges, but I suggested that, inasmuch as American judges did not know the Turkish language or Turkish law, his scheme involved great practical difficulties. I also told him that the American schools and colleges were very dear to Americans, and that we would never consent to subjecting them to Turkish jurisdiction.

Despite our protests, the Cabinet issued its notification to all the Powers that the capitulations would be abrogated on October 1st. This abrogation was all a part of the Young Turks’ plan to free themselves of foreign tutelage and to re-establish a new country on the basis, “Turkey for the Turks.” It represented, as I shall show, what was the central point of Turkish policy, not only in the Empire’s relations to foreign Powers, but to her peoples. England’s position on this question was about the same as our own; the British Government would consent to the modification of the economic restrictions, but not the others. Wangenheim was greatly disturbed, and I think that his Foreign Office reprimanded him for letting the abrogation take place, because he blandly asked me to announce that I was the responsible person! As October 1st approached, the foreigners in Turkey were in a high state of apprehension. The Dardanelles had been closed, shutting them off from Europe, and now they felt that they were to be left at the mercy of Turkish courts and Turkish prisons. Inasmuch as it was the habit in Turkish prisons to herd the innocent and the guilty, and to place in the same room with murderers people who had been charged, but not convicted, of minor offences, and to bastinado recalcitrant witnesses, the fears of the foreign residents may well be imagined. The educational institutions were also apprehensive, and in their interest I appealed to Enver. He assured me that the Turks had no hostile intention toward Americans. I replied that he should show in unmistakable fashion that Americans would not be harmed.

“All right,” he answered. “What would you suggest?”

“Why not ostentatiously visit Robert College on October 1st, the day the capitulations are abrogated?” I said.

The idea was rather a unique one, for in all the history of this institution an important Turkish official had never entered its doors. But I knew enough of the Turkish character to understand that an open, ceremonious visit by Enver would cause a public sensation. News of it would reach the farthest limits of the Turkish Empire, and it was certain that the Turks would interpret it as meaning that one of the two most powerful men in Turkey had taken this and other American institutions under his patronage. Such a visit would exercise a more protecting influence over American colleges and schools in Turkey than an army corps. I was therefore greatly pleased when Enver promptly adopted my suggestion.

On the day that the capitulations were abrogated Enver appeared at the American Embassy with two autos, one for himself and me, and the other for his adjutants, all of whom were dressed in full uniform. I purposely made the proceeding as spectacular as possible, as naturally I wished it to have the widest publicity. On the ride up to the college I told Enver all about these American institutions and what they were doing for Turkey. He really knew very little about them, and, like most Turks, he half suspected that they concealed a political purpose.

“We Americans are not looking for material advantages in Turkey,” I said. “We merely demand that you treat kindly our children, these colleges, for which all the people in the United States have the warmest affection.”

I told him that Mr. Cleveland H. Dodge, president of the trustees of Robert College, and Mr. Charles R. Crane, president of the trustees of the Women’s College, were intimate friends of President Wilson. “These,” I added, “represent what is best in America and the fine altruistic spirit which in our country accumulates wealth and then uses it to found colleges and schools. In establishing these institutions in Turkey they are trying, not to convert your people to Christianity, but to help train them in the sciences and arts and so prepare to make them better citizens. Americans feel that the Bible lands have given them their religion, and they wish to repay with the best thing America has—its education.” I then told him about Mrs. Russell Sage and Miss Helen Gould, who had made large gifts to the Women’s College.

“But where do these people get all the money for such benefactions?” Enver asked.

I then entertained him for an hour or so with a few pages from our own “American rights.” I told him how Jay Gould had arrived in New York, a penniless and ragged boy, with a mousetrap which he had invented, and how he had died, almost thirty years afterward, leaving a fortune of about $1,000,000,000. I told him how Commodore Vanderbilt had started life as a ferryman and had become America’s greatest railroad “magnate”; how Rockefeller had begun life sitting on a high stool in a Cleveland commission house, earning six dollars a week, and had created the greatest fortune that had ever been accumulated by a single man in the world’s history. I told him how the Dodges had become our great “copper kings,” the Cranes our great manufacturers of iron pipe. Enver found these stories more thrilling than any that had ever come out of Bagdad, and I found afterward that he had retold them to almost all the important people in Constantinople.

Enver was immensely impressed also by what I said about the American institutions, especially at my statement that they also had not converted—or attempted to convert—a single Mohammedan to Christianity. He went through all the buildings and expressed his enthusiasm at everything he saw, and he even suggested that he would like to send his brother there. He took tea with Mrs. Gates, wife of President Gates, discussed most intelligently the courses, and asked us if we could not introduce the study of agriculture. The teachers he met seemed to be a great revelation.

“I expected to find these missionaries as they are pictured in the Berlin newspapers,” he said, “with long hair and hanging jaws, and hands clasped constantly in a prayerful attitude. But here is Dr. Gates talking Turkish like a native and acting like a man of the world. I am more than pleased, and thank you for bringing me.”

We all saw Enver that afternoon in his most delightful aspect. My idea that this visit in itself would protect the colleges from disturbance proved to have been a happy one. The Turkish Empire has been a tumultuous place in the last four years, but the American colleges have had no difficulties, either with the Turkish Government or with the Turkish populace.

This visit was only an agreeable interlude in events of the most exciting character. Enver, amiable as he could be on occasion, had deliberately determined to put Turkey in the war on Germany’s side. Germany had now reached the point where she no longer concealed her intentions. Once before, when I had interfered in the interest of peace, Wangenheim had encouraged my action. The reason, as I have indicated, was that, at that time, Germany wished Turkey to keep out of the war, for the German General Staff expected to win without her help. But now Wangenheim wanted Turkey in. As I was not working in Germany’s interest, but merely attempting to help the peace idea, I still kept urging Enver and Talaat to keep out. This made Wangenheim angry. “I thought that you were a neutral?” he now exclaimed.

“I thought that you were—in Turkey,” I answered.

Toward the end of October Wangenheim was leaving nothing undone to start hostilities; all he needed now was a favourable occasion.

Even after Germany had closed the Dardanelles the German Ambassador’s task was not an easy one. Talaat was not yet entirely convinced that his best policy was war, and, as I have already said, there was still plenty of pro-Ally sympathy in official quarters. It was Talaat’s plan not to seize all the Cabinet offices at once, but gradually to elbow his way into undisputed control. At this crisis the most popularly respected members of the Ministry were Djavid, Minister of Finance, a man who was Jewish by race, but Mohammedan by religion; Mahmoud Pasha, Minister of Public Works, a Circassian; Bustány Effendi, Minister of Commerce and Agriculture, a Christian Arab; and Oskan Effendi, Minister of Posts and Telegraphs, an Armenian—and a Christian, of course. All these leaders, as well as the Grand Vizier, openly opposed war, and all now informed Talaat and Enver that they would resign if Germany succeeded in her intrigues. Thus the atmosphere was exciting; how tense the situation was a single episode will show. Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, had accepted an invitation to dine at the American Embassy on October 20th, but he sent word at the last moment that he was ill and could not come. I called on the Ambassador an hour or two afterward and found him in his garden, apparently in the best of health. Sir Louis smiled and said that his illness had been purely political. He had received a letter telling him that he was to be assassinated that evening, this letter informing him of the precise spot where the tragedy was to take place, and the time. He therefore thought that he had better stay indoors. As I had no doubt that some such crime had been planned, I offered Sir Louis the protection of our Embassy. I gave him the key to the back gate of the garden, and, with Lord Wellesley, one of his secretaries—a descendant of the Duke of Wellington—I made all arrangements for his escape to our quarters in case a flight became necessary. Our two Embassies were so located that, in the event of an attack, he might go unobserved from the back gate of his to the back gate of ours. “These people are relapsing into the Middle Ages,” said Sir Louis, “when it was quite the thing to throw Ambassadors into dungeons,” and I think that he anticipated that the present Turks might treat him in the same way. I at once went to the Grand Vizier and informed him of the situation, insisting that nothing less than a visit from Talaat to Sir Louis, assuring him of safety, would satisfy his many friends. I could make this demand with propriety, as we had already made arrangements to take over British interests when the break came. Within two hours Talaat made such a visit. Though one of the Turkish newspapers was printing scurrilous attacks on Sir Louis, he was personally very popular with the Turks, and the Grand Vizier expressed his amazement and regret—and he was entirely sincere—that such threats had been made.