Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  “Excellent!” said Walter. “That was what I was hoping for.” He was boyishly eager, and the look on his face reminded Fitz of their school days. Walter had looked like that when he won the Music Prize at Speech Day.

  Aunt Herm said: “Did you see that that dreadful Madame Caillaux was found not guilty?”

  Fitz was astonished. “Not guilty? But she shot the man! She went to a shop, bought a gun, loaded it, drove to the offices of Le Figaro, asked to see the editor, and shot him dead—how could she not be guilty?”

  Aunt Herm replied: “She said: ‘These guns go off by themselves.’ Honestly!”

  Maud laughed.

  “The jury must have liked her,” said Fitz. He was annoyed with Maud for laughing. Capricious juries were a threat to orderly society. It did not do to take murder lightly. “How very French,” he said with disgust.

  “I admire Madame Caillaux,” Maud said.

  Fitz grunted disapprovingly. “How can you say that about a murderess?”

  “I think more people should shoot newspaper editors,” Maud said gaily. “It might improve the press.”

  { VI }

  Walter was still full of hope the next day, Thursday, when he went to see Robert.

  The kaiser was hesitating on the brink, despite pressure from men such as Otto. The war minister, Erich von Falkenhayn, had demanded a declaration Zustand drohender Kriegsgefahr, a preliminary that would light the fuse for war—but the kaiser had refused, believing that a general conflict might be avoided if the Austrians would halt at Belgrade. And when the Russian tsar had ordered his army to mobilize, Wilhelm had sent a personal telegram begging him to reconsider.

  The two monarchs were cousins. The kaiser’s mother and the tsar’s mother-in-law had been sisters, both daughters of Queen Victoria. The kaiser and the tsar communicated in English, and called each other “Nicky” and “Willy.” Tsar Nicholas had been touched by his cousin Willy’s cable, and had countermanded his mobilization order.

  If they could both just stand firm, then the future might be bright for Walter and Maud and millions of other people who just wanted to live in peace.

  The Austrian embassy was one of the more imposing houses in prestigious Belgrave Square. Walter was shown to Robert’s office. They always shared news. There was no reason not to: their two nations were close allies. “The kaiser seems determined to make his ‘halt at Belgrade’ plan work,” Walter said as he sat down. “Then all remaining issues can be worked out.”

  Robert did not share his optimism. “It’s not going to succeed,” he said.

  “But why should it not?”

  “We’re not willing to halt at Belgrade.”

  “For God’s sake!” said Walter. “Are you sure?”

  “It will be discussed by ministers in Vienna tomorrow morning, but I’m afraid the result is a foregone conclusion. We can’t halt at Belgrade without reassurances from Russia.”

  “Reassurances?” Walter said indignantly. “You have to stop fighting and then talk about the problems. You can’t demand assurances first!”

  “I’m afraid we don’t see it that way,” Robert said stiffly.

  “But we are your allies. How can you reject our peace plan?”

  “Easily. Think about it. What can you do? If Russia mobilizes, you’re threatened, so you have to mobilize too.”

  Walter was about to protest, but he saw that Robert was right. The Russian army, when mobilized, was too big a threat.

  Robert went on remorselessly. “You have to fight on our side, whether you want to or not.” He made an apologetic face. “Forgive me if I sound arrogant. I’m just stating the reality.”

  “Hell,” said Walter. He felt like crying. He had been holding on to hope, but Robert’s grim words had shattered him. “This is going the wrong way, isn’t it?” he said. “Those who want peace are going to lose the contest.”

  Robert’s voice changed, and suddenly he looked sad. “I’ve known that from the start,” he said. “Austria must attack.”

  Until now Robert had been sounding eager, not sad. Why the change? Probing, Walter said: “You may have to leave London.”

  “You, too.”

  Walter nodded. If Britain joined in the war, all Austrian and German embassy staff would have to go home at short notice. He lowered his voice. “Is there . . . someone you will especially miss?”

  Robert nodded, and there were tears in his eyes.

  Walter hazarded a guess. “Lord Remarc?”

  Robert laughed mirthlessly. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Only to someone who knows you.”

  “Johnny and I thought we were being so discreet.” Robert shook his head miserably. “At least you can marry Maud.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “Why not?”

  “A marriage between a German and an Englishwoman, when the two nations are at war? She would be shunned by everyone she knows. So would I. For myself I would hardly care, but I could never impose such a fate on her.”

  “Do it secretly.”

  “In London?”

  “Get married in Chelsea. No one would know you there.”

  “Don’t you have to be a resident?”

  “You have to produce an envelope with your name and a local address. I live in Chelsea—I can give you a letter addressed to Mr. von Ulrich.” He rummaged in a drawer of his desk. “Here you are. A bill from my tailor, addressed to Von Ulrich, Esquire. They think Von is my first name.”

  “There may not be time.”

  “You can get a special license.”

  “Oh, my God,” Walter said. He felt stunned. “You’re right, of course. I can.”

  “You have to go to the town hall.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I show you the way?”

  Walter thought for a long moment, then said: “Yes, please.”

  { VII }

  “The generals won,” said Anton, standing in front of the tomb of Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey on Friday, July 31. “The tsar gave in yesterday afternoon. The Russians are mobilizing.”

  It was a death sentence. Walter felt a cold chill around his heart.

  “It is the beginning of the end,” Anton went on, and Walter saw in his eyes the glitter of revenge. “The Russians think they are strong, because their army is the largest in the world. But they have weak leadership. It will be Armageddon.”

  It was the second time this week that Walter had heard that word. But this time he knew it was justified. In a few weeks’ time the Russian army of six million men—six million—would be massed on the borders of Germany and Hungary. No leader in Europe could ignore such a threat. Germany would have to mobilize: the kaiser no longer had any choice.

  There was nothing more Walter could do. In Berlin the General Staff were pressing for German mobilization and the chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, had promised a decision by noon today. This news meant there was only one decision he could possibly make.

  Walter had to inform Berlin immediately. He took an abrupt leave of Anton and went out of the great church. He walked as fast as he could through the little street called Storey’s Gate, jogged along the eastern edge of St. James’s Park, and ran up the steps by the Duke of York’s memorial and into the German embassy.

  The ambassador’s door was open. Prince Lichnowsky sat at his desk, and Otto stood beside him. Gottfried von Kessel was using the telephone. There were a dozen other people in the room, with clerks hurrying in and out.

  Walter was breathing hard. Panting, he spoke to his father. “What’s happening?”

  “Berlin has received a cable from our embassy in St. Petersburg that just says: ‘First day of mobilization 31 July.’ Berlin is trying to confirm the report.”

  “What is von Kessel doing?”

  “Keeping the phone line to Berlin open so that we hear instantly.”

  Walter took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Your Highness,” he said to Prince Lichnowsky.

  “Y
es?”

  “I can confirm the Russian mobilization. My source told me less than an hour ago.”

  “Right.” Lichnowsky reached for the phone and von Kessel gave it to him.

  Walter looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven—in Berlin, just short of the noon deadline.

  Lichnowsky said into the phone: “Russian mobilization has been confirmed by a reliable source here.”

  He listened for a few moments. The room went quiet. No one moved. “Yes,” Lichnowsky said at last. “I understand. Very well.”

  He hung up with a click that sounded like a thunderclap. “The chancellor has decided,” he said; and then he repeated the words Walter had been dreading. “Zustand drohender Kriegsgefahr. Prepare for imminent war.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  August 1-3, 1914

  Maud was frantic with worry. On Saturday morning she sat in the breakfast room at the Mayfair house, eating nothing. The summer sun shone in through the tall windows. The decor was supposed to be restful—Persian rugs, eau-de-Nil paintwork, mid-blue curtains—but nothing could calm her. War was coming and no one seemed able to stop it: not the kaiser, not the tsar, not Sir Edward Grey.

  Bea came in, wearing a filmy summer dress and a lace shawl. Grout, the butler, poured her coffee with gloved hands, and she took a peach from a bowl.

  Maud looked at the newspaper but was unable to read beyond the headlines. She was too anxious to concentrate. She tossed the newspaper aside. Grout picked it up and folded it neatly. “Don’t you worry, my lady,” he said. “We’ll give the Germans a bashing if we have to.”

  She glared at him but said nothing. It was foolish to argue with servants—they always ended up agreeing out of deference.

  Aunt Herm tactfully got rid of him. “I’m sure you’re right, Grout,” she said. “Bring some more hot rolls, would you?”

  Fitz came in. He asked Bea how she was feeling, and she shrugged. Maud sensed that something in their relationship had changed, but she was too distracted to think about that. She immediately asked Fitz: “What happened last night?” She knew he had been in conference with leading Conservatives at a country house called Wargrave.

  “F. E. arrived with a message from Winston.” F. E. Smith, a Conservative M.P., was close friends with the Liberal Winston Churchill. “He proposed a Liberal-Conservative coalition government.”

  Maud was shocked. She usually knew what was happening in Liberal circles, but Prime Minister Asquith had kept this secret. “That’s outrageous!” she said. “It makes war more likely.”

  With irritating calmness, Fitz took some sausages from the hot buffet on the sideboard. “The left wing of the Liberal Party are little better than pacifists. I imagine that Asquith is afraid they will attempt to tie his hands. But he doesn’t have enough support in his own party to overrule them. Who can he turn to for help? Only the Conservatives. Hence the proposal of a coalition.”

  That was what Maud feared. “What did Bonar Law say to the offer?” Andrew Bonar Law was the Conservative leader.

  “He turned it down.”

  “Thank God.”

  “And I supported him.”

  “Why? Don’t you want Bonar Law to have a seat in the government?”

  “I’m hoping for more. If Asquith wants war, and Lloyd George leads a left-wing rebellion, the Liberals could be too divided to rule. Then what happens? We Conservatives have to take over—and Bonar Law becomes prime minister.”

  Furiously, Maud said: “You see how everything seems to conspire towards war? Asquith wants a coalition with the Conservatives because they are more aggressive. If Lloyd George leads a rebellion against Asquith, the Conservatives will take over anyway. Everyone is jockeying for position instead of struggling for peace!”

  “What about you?” Fitz said. “Did you go to Halkyn House last night?” The home of the Earl of Beauchamp was the headquarters of the peace faction.

  Maud brightened. There was a ray of hope. “Asquith has called a cabinet meeting this morning.” This was unusual on a Saturday. “Morley and Burns want a declaration that Britain will in no circumstance fight Germany.”

  Fitz shook his head. “They can’t prejudge the issue like that. Grey would resign.”

  “Grey is always threatening to resign, but never does.”

  “Still, you can’t risk a split in the cabinet now, with my lot waiting in the wings, panting to take over.”

  Maud knew Fitz was right. She could have screamed with frustration.

  Bea dropped her knife and made a strange noise.

  Fitz said: “Are you all right, my dear?”

  She stood up, holding her stomach. Her face was pale. “Excuse me,” she said, and she rushed out of the room.

  Maud stood up, concerned. “I’d better go to her.”

  “I’ll go,” said Fitz, surprising her. “You finish your breakfast.”

  Maud’s curiosity would not let her leave it at that. As Fitz went to the door she said: “Is Bea suffering from morning sickness?”

  Fitz paused in the doorway. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said.

  “Congratulations. I’m very happy for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But the child . . . ” Maud’s voice caught in her throat.

  “Oh!” said Aunt Herm, cottoning on. “How lovely!”

  Maud went on with an effort. “Will the child be born into a world at war?”

  “Oh, dear me,” said Aunt Herm. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Fitz shrugged. “A newborn will not know the difference.”

  Maud felt tears come. “When is the baby due?”

  “January,” said Fitz. “Why are you so upset?”

  “Fitz,” Maud said, and she was weeping helplessly now. “Fitz, will you still be alive?”

  { II }

  Saturday morning at the German embassy was frenzied. Walter was in the ambassador’s room, fielding phone calls, bringing in telegrams, and taking notes. It would have been the most exciting time of his life, had he not been so worried about his future with Maud. But he could not enjoy the thrill of being a player in a great international power game, because he was tortured by the fear that he and the woman he loved would become enemies in war.

  There were no more friendly messages between Willy and Nicky. Yesterday afternoon the German government had sent a cold ultimatum to the Russians, giving them twelve hours to halt the mobilization of their monstrous army.

  The deadline had passed with no reply from St. Petersburg.

  Yet Walter still believed the war could be confined to eastern Europe, so that Germany and Britain might remain friends. Ambassador Lichnowsky shared his optimism. Even Asquith had said that France and Britain could be spectators. After all, neither country was much involved in the future of Serbia and the Balkan region.

  France was the key. Berlin had sent a second ultimatum yesterday afternoon, this one to Paris, asking the French to declare themselves neutral. It was a slender hope, though Walter clung to it desperately. The ultimatum expired at noon. Meanwhile, Chief of Staff Joseph Joffre had demanded immediate mobilization of the French army, and the cabinet was meeting this morning to decide. As in every country, Walter thought gloomily, army officers were pressing their political masters to take the first steps to war.

  It was frustratingly difficult to guess which way the French would jump.

  At a quarter to eleven, with seventy-five minutes to go before time ran out for France, Lichnowsky received a surprise visitor: Sir William Tyrrell. A key official with long experience in foreign affairs, he was private secretary to Sir Edward Grey. Walter showed him into the ambassador’s room immediately. Lichnowsky motioned for Walter to stay.

  Tyrrell spoke German. “The foreign secretary has asked me to let you know that a council of ministers taking place just now may result in his being able to make a statement to you.”

  This was obviously a rehearsed speech, and Tyrrell’s German was perfectly fluent, but all the same his meaning esca
ped Walter. He glanced at Lichnowsky and saw that he, too, was baffled.

  Tyrrell went on: “A statement that may, perhaps, prove helpful in preventing the great catastrophe.”

  That was hopeful but vague. Walter wanted to say Get to the point!

  Lichnowsky replied with the same strained diplomatic formality. “What indication can you give me of the subject of the statement, Sir William?”

  For God’s sake, Walter thought, we’re talking about life and death here!

  The civil servant spoke with careful precision. “It may be that, if Germany were to refrain from attacking France, then both France and Great Britain might consider whether they were truly obliged to intervene in the conflict in eastern Europe.”

  Walter was so shocked that he dropped his pencil. France and Britain staying out of the war—this was what he wanted! He stared at Lichnowsky. The ambassador, too, looked startled and delighted. “This is very hopeful,” he said.

  Tyrrell held up a cautionary hand. “Please understand that I make no promises.”

  Fine, Walter thought, but you didn’t come here for a casual chat.

  Lichnowsky said: “Then let me say quite simply that a proposal to confine the war to the east would be examined with great interest by His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm and the German government.”

  “Thank you.” Tyrrell stood up. “I shall report back to Sir Edward accordingly.”

  Walter showed Tyrrell out. He was elated. If France and Britain could be kept out of the war there would be nothing to stop him marrying Maud. Was this a pipe dream?

  He returned to the ambassador’s room. Before they had a chance to discuss Tyrrell’s statement, the phone rang. Walter picked it up and heard a familiar English voice say: “This is Grey. May I speak to His Excellency?”

  “Of course, sir.” Walter handed the phone to the ambassador. “Sir Edward Grey.”

  “Lichnowsky here. Good morning . . . Yes, Sir William has just left . . . ”

  Walter stared at the ambassador, listening avidly to his half of the conversation and trying to read his face.