JULY 21 - JULY 28, 1914
MOBILISATION
"I pity the Tsar. I pity Russia. He is a poor and unhappy sovereign. What did he inherit and what will he leave?"
- Sergei Witte, Ex-Prime Minister, 1896 -
The Winter Palace lay on the embankment of the Neva River. Built on a monumental scale to reflect the might and power of Imperial Russia. The capital itself had often lived on the edge of the empire—bordering into Scandinavia—as Peter the Great once chose it as his window to the West. It was here that the Tsar Nicholas Romanov and his family ruled over the Russian people.
Lesya was a beautiful, young girl working as a personal servant to the House Romanov; an honor she was blessed to have. The hours were long, but she and her family were well taken care of. And she had even been privileged enough to travel the empire wide: Moscow, Tsaritsyn, even the Balkans once. All at the Romanovs side.
“Hurry along now, child.” The older servant Ms. Sharonova said and sent her out of the kitchen.
The halls were wide and seemed to go on forever, the tall arching walls looking down. They always made her feel so small and insignificant. She moved as fast as she could without running. Her small shoes hitting the hard marble floor in a series of rhythmic clicks as she hurried across the palace. In her hand she balanced a silver plater with a jug of water on top.
“The Austro-Hungarians mobilise as we speak, Your Majesty. The people demand we unsheathe the sword on Serbia’s behalf.” Sazonov declared. The Foreign Minister was a bald man of around 55. His unpretentious beard the mirror opposite of the European autocracy.
“And what about the Germans, cousin?” The Grand Duke questioned, adorned in ceremonial medals and a pristine uniform as he looked across the hall to the Tsar.
“What about them?” The Tsar answered, distantly, gazing out of the window. His figure unassuming, dressed in a spotless, but plain uniform.
Lesya entered the room quietly without the men noticing and approached the Tsar. She bowed before him and placed the jug of water on the table beside him.
“The Germans,” Sazonov continued.
“And the Austro Hungarians, take our kindness for a weakness. They have always done this. We give them loaf of bread, and they take the farm, Your Majesty.”
“It is time we take a stand.”
The Grand Duke added. “Nicky, we must show strength in this.”
The Tsar placed his hand on the ridge of his nose. The two men stood there silently.
“Is partial mobilisation good enough?” He asked after a long pause.
“And I‘ll reach out to Willy.”
The Grand Duke nodded
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“We will show strength and determination.”
The Tsar announced. “But we will not be the aggressor here.”
He raised his hand again, this time to end the meeting. The two men bowed in response and reversed out the door.
Nicholas II closed his eyes, leaned back, and took a deep breath.
“The world has gone mad.” He sighed.
“Lesya!”
She was still kneeling in front of him.
“Stand up, girl.” he laughed.
“I want to see your face when I speak to you.”
She looked up at him and he smiled tenderly in return. His wrinkles showing his age and weariness.
“Is the family well?” he asked with heartfelt interest, and she nodded back in her usual shy manners.
“Good.”
Nicolas had seen it all during his reign as Tsar. Riots, wars, famines, and assassination attempts.
“This talk of war makes me tired, Lesya.” He stretched and rubbed his neck.
“Would you be so kind and fetch my little boy?”
Yes, Your Majesty.”
Lesya reversed out the room. Rhythmic clicks echoed as she hurried through the palace. The tall arching walls looking down at her.
They always made her feel so small and insignificant.
-------------------------------------------------
London, England
Early dawn always sent a shiver through John’s bones. He wondered if other people had the same sensation, or if it was a result of having a bullet lodged in his body.
He exited the cab and spotted Cecil standing at the entrance. Next to him was their superior: General Charles Douglas.
John lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He had crossed paths with Douglas once in South Africa. When he had been a young man, fighting for the good of the empire. Or believing he did. A lifetime ago.
His dear Margaret had spent last night arguing. He had explained to her that if war broke out in Europe, then he would be bound to leave for France. She told him that his old injuries alone should prevent it, and that she almost lost him once and that was enough.
“What an ungodly hour to be awake at.”
Cecil hobbled over. The General nowhere to be seen.
“I take it General Douglas is in good spirit, sir?” John threw the cigarette on the ground and stepped on it.
“Perhaps his spirit, but his body is old.”
Cecil answered. “We have grown accustomed to fighting local tribes on the fringe. This new century shall wake us all up. General Douglas is on his way out. I give him 6 months at the most.”
The map greeted them in its usual intimidating fashion. The red pins clustered together in Russia, Austria-Hungary, and Serbia. John grabbed a seat as Ms. Coward entered the office carrying two cups of tea, she seemed as chipper as always.
“Good morning, gentlemen.”
John nodded in return and dreamed of coffee.
“You know what the French are doing? Riding around on bloody bicycles.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Cecil.” He grumbled.
“The winner of Tour de France was announced 2 days ago. Belgium cyclist Philippe Thys won by close margins.”
“Good job?”
John questioned.
“Good job?” General Cecil was flabbergasted.
“These French nincompoops...” He picked up a newspaper and threw it—with full force—at the wall. Ms. Coward let out a yelp and ran out the room.
“These French fools, Captain John Robertson, shall be facing the might of the German army, and they are, dare I say, preoccupied with faffing about.”
John gulped down.
“It might send the wrong signals, sir. If they mobilise in the hour of diplomacy.”
“Oh, don’t get me started on mobilisation.”
The world is unraveling. Look to the Americas where Mexico is now in the midst of a grand revolution. There are 5 factions and counting. The Mexican president himself had to flee to Kingston, Jamaica a few days ago. Who can say where they will be a year from now?
IRISH HOME RULE CONFERENCE ENDS:
Not surprisingly, The conference we discussed last week ended without any solid agreement on the solution to the Irish Home Rule. All sides, however, stated that it was a useful engagement, with Unionists and Nationalists for the first time having meaningful discussions on how to alleviate their fears about the other.
And as we attempt to repair the British Empire here at home, these traitors will have it set aflame,” Cecil tossed a picture down on the table in front of John. It was of Erskine Childers in a sail boat.
“Two days ago his personal yacht, The Asgard unloaded 1500 Mauser rifles outside of Dublin. In the middle of the bloody day, attracting quite the crowd. The police and military of course showed up, but a riot ensued with many policemen refusing to obey orders, and the weapons evaded us. As the soldiers returned to barracks, they were accosted by civilians who threw stones and exchanged insults. The soldiers then shot into the crowd and bayoneted one man, resulting in the deaths of four civilians and wounding of at least 38.”
“Good Lord!”
John gasped.
“I blame it all on that Childers fellow, stirring up trouble.”
“But bayonetting civilians, sir.”
A knot appeared in John’s stomach.
“Don’t be soft, boyo.” Cecil said icily.
“Attacking soldiers is a capital crime.”
John shut his mouth and thought of the Boer children.
THE ROYAL NAVY RE-ORGANISES:
“Thankfully, the situation is moving in the right direction. The Royal Navy sailed to Scapa Flow after the King’s inspection. Once there it was re-organised by the meticulous hands of Lord Churchill and Admiral Fisher.
They have sent the smaller ships to protect transport ferries. Established a Submarine Fleet which was also sent to Dover.
The Grand Fleet will now be captained by Jellicoe and Beatty. It’s a rather large fleet. And it’s job will be to keep the bloody Germans in their ports
At the moment of war the Royal Navy will enact a blockade of all ships heading or leaving Germany. We shall starve out the Germans, Captain. With France and Russia surrounding her, she will solely be able to supply herself through the south. And we are in the process of organising a Mediterranean blockage as well. Let us see how fast the Germans beg for mercy.”
John thought of the Boer children.
SERBIA MOBILISES FOR WAR:
“Expecting a declaration against them, Serbia mobilised for war while Austria-Hungary broke off diplomatic relations. The British Ambassador to Austria-Hungary reported to us: 'War is thought imminent. Wildest enthusiasm prevails in Vienna."
“Another Balkan war it is, then, sir?”
RUSSIA PARTIALLY MOBILISES:
“If only it were that simple, Captain. Russia in response has partially mobilised. I believe they attempt to call Austria-Hungary’s bluff.”
“Will they stand down, sir?”
AUSTRIA-HUNGARY MOBILISES:
“Emperor Franz Joseph I signed a mobilisation order for eight army corps to begin operations against Serbia, while their ambassador von Gieslingen simply packed up and left Belgrade.
Not to mention the government in Paris canceled all leave for French troops as of 2 days ago, and ordered the majority of their troops in Morocco to return home.”
“And what is our government doing about it?”
BRITAIN WILL STAND WITH FRANCE AND RUSSIA:
“In his talks with The German Ambassador, Our foreign minister Grey drew a sharp distinction between an Austro-Serbian war—which does not concern Britain—and an Austro-Russian war—which very much does.
Grey sent another peace proposal asking for Germany to use its influence to save the peace. He warned that if Austria continues with its aggression against Serbia, and Germany with its policy of supporting Austria, then Britain would have no other choice but to side with France and Russia.”
“Is there no possible way out of this? This is madness, sir.”
“The French Foreign Minister informed the German Ambassador in Paris, that France is eager to find a peaceful solution, and will be prepared to do her utmost to influence St. Petersburg, if Germany will caution moderation in Austria, since Serbia had fulfilled nearly every bloody point of the ultimatum”.
Cecil looked out of the window. The sun was shining and children playing in the park.
“I fear we’ll have to draw up a new map soon.”
-------------------------------------------------
Paris, France
“The War of 1870 was a national disgrace,” Patrice complained, his gray thick brows living a life of its own.
“Now the Germans want more! Always more!”
Maxence tried to calm him down. The other guests of Le Café du Croissant seemed only to pay attention for mere seconds before going back to their busy lives.
“Patrice, we are in the beginning of a revolution. A wonderful revolution.”
“Are we, Maxence? For all I can see is squabbling. All these parties jumping over each other, chasing false idols. Meanwhile, across the border our enemy grows in strength. I do not think we need another fumbling revolution, no?”
Patrice had seen plenty of compromises that had gone nowhere. Union strikes, and dubious deals made behind closed doors. The years had not been kind on him. Once well respected, but lately his star had faded.
“Then why come here?” Maxence asked him, hoping to reach the old liberal.
“We are 2 minutes from L’Humanité. People from Le Bonnet Rouge are sitting right over there.”
“You know that we can hear you, no?”
Mr. Dolié laughed from the neighboring table.
Patrice ignored him.
“I’ve been coming here for many years, Maxence. I believe in a strong France, and I believe in strong coffee. I will not be chased from either.”
A picture of a little girl was placed in front of him.
Patrice and Maxence looked up to see Mr. Dolié standing there with a smile on his face.
“Mr. Thibault, this is my daughter. We all wish for a strong France.” He laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“But it must be a kind France, an honorable France. for what is strength without compassion? What is France without love?”
Patrice grunted.
“You stole that from the newspaper you write for, no?”
“Perhaps.”
Maxence studied the picture of the little girl. She was holding a poppy flower. Her smile had the same joyful innocence as her father’s. A pair of missing front teeth made her all the more precious.
“Only love the Germans know is at the wrong end of a bayonet.” Patrice declared.
“When we get back Alsace-Lorraine, then we can talk about compassion.”
Mr. Dolié turned towards Maxence and shrugged his shoulders.
“Be careful life does not make you this jaded, Mr. Brisson.”
Maxence, embarrassed, awkwardly smiled.
“I won’t.”
“And perhaps it is best we keep him away from Mr. Jaurece, no?”