Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 9781474277044, 9781474277075, 9781474277068

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Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World

Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World Edited by Mika Suonpää and Owain Wright

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Paperback edition first published 2020 Copyright © Mika Suonpää and Owain Wright, 2019 Mika Suonpää and Owain Wright have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of this work. Cover image: Suez Canal. Egypt. Opened in November 1869. Watercolor by Riou. Compiegne Castle. France. (© PHAS/UIG via Getty Images) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4742-7704-4 PB: 978-1-3501-7827-4 ePDF: 978-1-4742-7706-8 eBook: 978-1-4742-7705-1 Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Ferry de Goey

Contents List of Contributors Introduction: Diplomacy and intelligence during the early modern and modern periods Mika Suonpää

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1 The Swedish consulate in Tripoli and information-gathering on diplomacy, everyday life and the slave trade, 1795–1844 Joachim Östlund

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2 Hanmer Warrington and imperial intelligence-gathering in Tripoli, 1814–36 Sara ElGaddari

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3 The Russian consulate in the Morea and the outbreak of the Greek Revolution, 1816–21 Lucien J. Frary

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4 Austrian intelligence and the national interest in the Mediterranean region during the early nineteenth century David Schriffl

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5 Playing the liberal game: Sir James Hudson in Italy, 1852–85 Nick Carter

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6 The Dutch consul J. A. Kruyt and the policing of Muslim pilgrims in Jeddah, c.1858–88 Ferry de Goey

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7 Intelligence and conquest in nineteenth-century French North Africa Deborah Bauer

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8 To save a Kaiser: Imperial German intelligence and protective security in the Orient, 1898 Shlomo Shpiro

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9 A Japanese protégé in Pera: Fukuchi Gen’ichirō’s reports on the mixed courts of Turkey and Egypt Andrew Cobbing

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10 Annual reports of United States consuls in the Holy Land as sources for the study of nineteenth-century Palestine Ruth Kark

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Index

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Contributors Deborah Bauer is Assistant Professor of Modern European History at Purdue University at Fort Wayne in the United States. Her research and publications have centred on various aspects of the professionalization of intelligence in France and the French Empire during the fin-de-siècle. Nick Carter is Associate Professor of Modern History at Australian Catholic University in Sydney. He is a specialist on nineteenth- and twentieth-century Italian history. He is author of Modern Italy in Historical Perspective (2010) and editor of Britain, Ireland and the Italian Risorgimento (2015). His current research examines the management and memory of fascist monumental art and architecture in post-war and contemporary Italy. His most recent (co-authored) work, published in the Journal of Modern Italian Studies in 2017, explores the post-Fascist ‘afterlives’ of Luigi Montanarini’s monumental mural The Apotheosis of Fascism (1942). Andrew Cobbing is Associate Professor at the University of Nottingham in the United Kingdom, has written several books and articles on Japanese cultural and diplomatic relations with the West in the nineteenth century. He has also been involved in a number of landmark translation projects, notably the English rendition of the official chronicle of the Iwakura Embassy (1871–3). Ferry de Goey was Assistant Professor of Business and Entrepreneurial History at Erasmus University at Rotterdam in the Netherlands. During a distinguished career, he authored or edited more than one hundred publications, including Consuls and the Institutions of Capitalism, 1783–1914. He passed away shortly before the publication of this volume, which is dedicated to his memory. Sara ElGaddari is a postdoctoral researcher based in the United Kingdom. Her work focuses on diplomatic relations between the Middle East and North Africa at the turn of the nineteenth century. She is the author of a number of publications, and her current projects include an edited volume on diplomatic correspondence for the Royal Historical Society and Cambridge University Press, a monograph based on her doctoral thesis, and several articles in progress.

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Lucien J. Frary is Associate Professor at Rider University in the United States. His research deals with the intersection of the Slavic, Greek, and Ottoman worlds from the fall of Constantinople in 1453 until recent times. He is the author of Russia and the Making of Modern Greek Identity, 1821–1844, editor of Thresholds into the Orthodox Commonwealth, and co-editor of RussianOttoman Borderlands: The Eastern Question Reconsidered. Ruth Kark is Professor at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Israel. He has written and edited 27 books and 200 articles on the history and historical geography of Palestine/Israel. Her research interests include, among other topics, Ottoman building, land and settlement activity, policy and law, Western civilizations and the Holy Land (consuls, churches, missionaries, modern technology), as well as Bedouin in the Middle East; and dissent and conflict surrounding landownership in Israel. Joachim Östlund is Associate Professor of History at Lund University and Lecturer at Linnaeus University, Sweden. His research explores interactions between the Ottoman Empire and Scandinavia in the early modern era, and is centred on diplomacy, slavery, cultural encounters and objects. David Schriffl is a historian at the Institute for Modern and Contemporary Historical Research/Austrian Academy of Sciences, and former historian at the General Settlement Fund for Victims of National Socialism in Vienna, Austria. His main fields of work include Austro-Slovak relations, Austro-Portuguese relations and Austrian foreign policy after 1945. Shlomo Shpiro holds the Paterson Chair in Security and Intelligence, and was until recently Head of the Political Studies Department at Bar-Ilan University, Israel. He specializes in the fields of intelligence, terrorism and security, with emphasis on crisis management and crisis communication, counterterrorism, societal resilience and internal security issues. Mika Suonpää is Senior Lecturer in Contemporary European History at the University of Turku in Finland. His research interests range from modern international history to histories of intelligence, espionage and international policing. His current research focuses on the security police cooperation in the Baltic Sea region during the interwar period.

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Owain Wright is Senior Lecturer in European History at Leeds Beckett University in the United Kingdom. He is the author of various publications on British diplomatic and consular relations with Italy during the mid-nineteenth century. The most recent of these is Great Britain and the Unifying of Italy: A Special Relationship? (2018).

Introduction: Diplomacy and intelligence during the early modern and modern periods Mika Suonpää

Much of the current international (English-language) intelligence history focuses on British and American cases, notwithstanding the fact that these countries were relative latecomers in the development of formal state-led intelligence institutions. Indeed, Professor of Global Security Peter Jackson has remarked that ‘the Anglocentric character of the vast majority of intelligence scholarship has imposed unwelcome limitations on our understanding of the historical evolution of intelligence as a tool of state power’.1 Modern intelligence agencies were established in France and Prussia at the end of the nineteenth century. In Britain, the Secret Service Bureau (SSB), which at the outset was composed of both the Security Service (MI5) and the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6 or SIS), began operations in 1909.2 In America, the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) was founded in 1908 with an edict that ‘created a permanent force of agents under the attorney general’s direct control’.3 The predecessor of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), was established during the Second World War. As we shall see below, state-led intelligence organizations started to develop first in Spain and the Italian states.4 This book aims to move away somewhat from the traditional Anglocentric approach. The chapters consider Swedish, Russian, Austrian, Dutch, French, German, and Japanese intelligence-gathering in addition to British and American activities in that field, and are based on the archival sources of these countries. Thus, the collection’s scope is truly international. During the nineteenth century, the greater Mediterranean region was a ‘contested space’, where European and extra-European states struggled for

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mastery and sought to defend their often conflicting political, commercial, and strategic interests. The ‘northern invasion’ of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the increase of the commercial, political, and imperial considerations in the late eighteenth century as a consequence of technological progress and, finally, the opening of the Suez Canal in the nineteenth century (1869) were major milestones in the history of the wider Mediterranean region. The arrival of northern European merchants increased north-south contacts, and the gradual transition from sail to steam engines made sea transport quicker and easier. Once opened, the Suez Canal connected the Red Sea to the Mediterranean, thus widening the reach of both ‘worlds’. At the same time, the main European colonial powers increasingly shifted their focus from the Caribbean and the Atlantic towards the Mediterranean.5 This introduction will briefly discuss some aspects of intelligence and diplomatic history, which are relevant to the chapters of the book. It examines the connections between intelligence and diplomacy, explores the ways in which ‘intelligence’ has been perceived, investigates the process of institutionalization of intelligence organizations, looks at information collection and management techniques and, finally, explains the aims and the structure of the book. For the sake of comparison, examples are drawn from the medieval, early modern and modern periods, as well as from different European and extra-European countries. The discussion below is not an exhaustive historiographical survey; it is intended as a backdrop for the case studies presented in the chapters.

Intelligence and diplomacy In broad terms, ‘intelligence’ is understood here as a means of capturing, disseminating and manipulating information for official purposes. This is a rather wide interpretation of what constitutes as intelligence. This view is adopted here because intelligence is regarded mainly as a way of processing various types of information. Moreover, several attempts to create a widely accepted definition of intelligence have so far been unsuccessful.6 Alan Breakspear, for example, has offered a ‘new’ definition of intelligence:  ‘Intelligence is a corporate capability to forecast change in time to do something about it. The capability involves foresight and insight, and is intended to identify impeding

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change, which may be positive, representing opportunity, or negative, representing threat.’7 Breakspear formulates this definition with the view to improving ‘mutual understanding between the client decision-makers . . . and the collectors and analysts’.8 His definition is a very useful tool when presentday intelligence processes are explored. But, during much of the period covered in this book, the boundaries between clients (the state) as well as collectors and analysts (consuls and their networks) were less clearly defined than they are today. For example, consular agents who collected intelligence in their respective host countries often only provided their governments with so-called ‘raw’ intelligence. The identification of threats and opportunities was essential for nineteenth-century intelligence-gathering, and thus, this part of the definition is useful also in the context of this book. The book’s chapters are inspired to a degree by the late C.  A. Bayly’s (1945–2015) work on British imperial intelligence gathering in India, particularly by his conceptual innovations relating to the use of local intermediaries; to their interpretation, misinterpretation, manipulation and distortion of information; and to the consequences of intelligence failures and successes.9 Bayly’s seminal book focuses on British-Indian colonial (and precolonial) cases, but his categories and concepts are useful also when exploring other states’ endeavours regarding intelligence-gathering and knowledge-production. Although not used explicitly, Bayly’s concept of ‘information order’ forms one of the analytical foundations. In particular, the idea that an information order of a given society is composed of the overlapping ‘information systems of the state’ and ‘autonomous networks of social communication’ is relevant here. The book’s chapters also accept the view that those institutions and the individuals who create knowledge and disseminate information are crucial agents of social change, and are therefore key actors of past, present, and future societies.10 The concept of ‘information order’ is useful, for example, in the examination of the ways in which consuls and other officials used ‘knowledgeable people’ to obtain information about local societies, economies and politics with the view to serving the interests of their respective states, and (to a much lesser extent) of their personal ambitions. In these knowledge-accumulation and dissemination processes, the (formal) state-led information systems intermixed with autonomous (informal) modes of communication.

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On a very basic level, diplomacy is regarded as ‘political activity’ and ‘a major ingredient of power’. Diplomacy’s central aim is (and has been) to ‘enable states to secure the objectives of their foreign policies without resort to force, propaganda, or law’. Diplomacy has also always been carried out ‘by private persons’ under the officials’ direction.11 The chapters in this collection concentrate on the day-to-day activities of the diplomatic and consular agents of different states who were stationed in various parts of the Mediterranean world. The main focus is on the multiple ways in which these individuals and organizations collected, analysed and disseminated information for commercial, imperial or foreign policy purposes. As the following chapters will illustrate, in practice, consular and diplomatic agents resorted to a wide variety of methods in the day-to-day conduct of international relations. These included, for example, coercion and threats, negotiation, gift-giving and other symbolic gestures, as well as exchanges of prisoners. Throughout history, diplomacy and intelligence have been closely linked. A  former British intelligence officer and academic, Michael Herman, has written extensively on the topic. As Herman and others have shown, diplomacy emerged first in Renaissance Italy in connection to the need of states to gather information and negotiate differences. However, intelligence ‘as a set of permanent institutions’ took shape only in the second half of the nineteenth century. In Herman’s view, the early modern period is separated from the modern by several crucial characteristics:  the ad hoc nature of intelligencegathering, the temporary nature of intelligence institutions and the lack of specialization in the control, collection and evaluation of information.12 This said, to varying degrees, intelligence has always had an integral role in warfare, commerce and diplomacy, and it formed an important part of state structures in different parts of Europe already in medieval and early modern periods.

Perceptions During much of early modern and modern history, governments and militaries across the globe perceived intelligence-gathering and spying as immoral, yet essential activities. In ancien régime France (1688–1792), espionage was regarded as ‘dishonest activity’ and military personnel in particular were

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reluctant to engage in it. As a consequence, it fell to the diplomatic and consular agents rather than soldiers to conduct the majority of French intelligencegathering outside France. Napoleon Bonaparte’s (1769–1821) approach to intelligence was more positive. He realized the importance of the ‘need to be informed’, saw the benefits of receiving information on the topography of enemy territory and employed a form of strategic deception in military campaigns. However, it was only in the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71), which exposed France’s deficiencies in this field that the French military began to realize the true potential benefits of information collected through espionage and intelligence. Nevertheless, the French public and a part of the officer corps continued to place ‘ethical objection’ to intelligencegathering and regarded covert action – in particular – as ‘ungentlemanly’.13 Until the late eighteenth century, Ottoman rulers and officials employed espionage as ‘a normal military tool’ and saw it as vital to successful military campaigns. At the end of the century, the range of topics discussed in intelligence reports expanded as the Ottoman army started seeking information not just on enemy armies but also regarding foreign powers’ economies and social structures. Ebubekir Ratib Efendi (1750–99) was one of the first Ottoman officials to advocate a broader conception of intelligence. He was sent to Vienna as ambassador in 1791. Ratib Efendi saw himself as ‘a spy whose duty was to understand, analyse and report back to the sultan every aspect of Austrian life’.14 During the Crimean War (1853–56), Ottoman authorities regarded enemy spies as ‘dishonourable’ individuals, and severely punished those they captured; they were shot, sentenced to hard labour or deported. By contrast, successful Ottoman spies received special treatment and rewards for their efforts.15 The Crimean War was also instrumental in the development and modernization of British military intelligence. When the war commenced, the British Army did not have a permanent intelligence system or experienced officers to collect, disseminate, and analyse information. Moreover, there were no area specialists.16 This aspect will be discussed in further detail below. In Victorian Britain more widely, key politicians and military men perceived the collection of secret intelligence as ‘a practice that only the most reprehensible foreign government would countenance’. However, towards the end of the nineteenth century, these attitudes began to change. On the eve of the First

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World War, intelligence was increasingly represented and perceived as ‘the logical extension of the public-school game, a vigorous, outdoor activity involving cunning, bravery, observational skill and a talent for disguises and languages’.17 According to Bernard Porter the British ruling classes, unlike their continental European counterparts, were reluctant to form secret police or conduct espionage, owing to their strong belief that liberal politics bred political and social stability: ‘if a country was governed liberally, it would have no trouble from subversives.’ The ruling classes were ready to tolerate some level of political protest ‘so as long as it was not organized in such a way as to threaten the basis their system rested on’. This did not mean that the British state did not control the population and the public space. For example, the school syllabuses and staff were carefully selected and theatre performances censored. As a result, the British had a ‘limited access to dissident ideas’, and hence, a limited level of freedom.18

Institutionalization of intelligence The Spanish historian Diego Navarro Bonilla traces the institutionalization and formalization of state-sponsored intelligence to early-fourteenth-century Ragusa (present-day Dubrovnik in Croatia). In Ragusa, spies became ‘highly qualified informants’ who gathered information mainly from open sources, such as newspaper headlines. Similar developments occurred elsewhere in Europe. In 1518, the position of Scoutmaster was created in England with the aim of improving ‘the coordination of tactical intelligence supplied by . . . reconnaissance and exploration’. In 1598, General Juan Velázquez de Velasco was appointed to the position of the Main Spy of the Court and General Superintendent of Secret Intelligences, effectively becoming the Spanish monarchy’s ‘secret intelligence coordinator’.19 In the early modern period, Venice was one of the first states that created organized intelligence structures. In Venice, there existed a ‘systematic, corporate-like, organization of bureaucracy, diplomacy and intelligence’, which was mostly maintained in order to serve the requirements of Venice’s commercial and maritime activities.20 Thus, in the medieval and early modern

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periods, the basic ideas pertaining to intelligence and surveillance were very similar to what they were in the nineteenth century, and even today. The main difference is that modern states, unlike their medieval and early modern predecessors, have created publicly funded, centralized and permanent intelligence agencies. This has also had some bearing on the ways in which information was regarded in different historical periods. According to Bayly, the early modern ‘information order was decentralised’, and consisted of ‘many overlapping groups of knowledge-rich communities’. Moreover, unlike in modern industrial societies, information was not ‘mediated . . . by a dominant state or commercial communications sector’.21 Thus, societies’ approaches to knowledge and information has an important impact upon the types of institutions those societies will construct. During the Second Empire (1852–70), the French military establishment’s conceptions of espionage and intelligence began slowly to change, owing to the work of individuals such as Marshal Thomas Robert Bugeaud (1784–1849) and Colonel Joseph Tanski. They believed that intelligence-gathering and formal intelligence organizations within the armed forces were essential tools in the successful conduct of modern warfare.22 At the start of the Crimean War, British military intelligence operated on an ad hoc basis. Staff officers came from the regular army; they were mainly engineers from the QuartermasterGeneral’s Department. Although ‘most technically minded’ and ‘best educated’, the engineers were not professional intelligence officers.23 In 1855, the British War Office established the Topographical and Statistical Department, as well as the Secret Intelligence Department, in order to coordinate intelligence. The Military Intelligence Branch of the War Office was created in 1873.24 In France, the creation of the Deuxième Bureau in 1871 professionalized military intelligence-gathering, and brought to an end the diplomats’ domination of foreign intelligence.25 European states also sought ways of controlling domestic security. Until the 1870s, France’s political police were in charge of domestic surveillance, whereas diplomats continued to collect foreign intelligence.26 In 1887, the Special Branch of the London Metropolitan Police was established to conduct surveillance of Irish Fenians and anarchists.27 Until the passing of the 1886 Espionage Act, French intelligence practices ‘rested on unwritten rules’. The Act marked the beginning of a period of stronger regulation when an effort

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was made ‘to define the scope of acceptable [intelligence] practices’. The operations of a secret state  – a part of an administration ‘whose practices are shielded from public enquiry’28  – have often produced scandals. For example, the so-called Dreyfus Affair (1894–1906), in which a group of French intelligence officers abused their powers with the intention of advancing their political aims in an anti-Semitic witch-hunt, severely dented the reputation of the French intelligence community.29 From the 1880s onwards, Belgian parliamentarians discussed problems related to the existence of an espionage service, the Department of Public Safety, which had no legal basis and was not subjected to oversight. These debates emerged in connection to the use of ‘rogue informants’ and the involvement of the Department in ‘questionable activities’ when combatting anarchist terrorism, domestic unrest, and the growth of the workers movement.30

Acquisition and management of information Diplomatic and consular establishments played significant roles in the development of structured secret communication in early modern Europe. Diplomatic and consular agents managed a systematized flow of information to their governments, and used wide networks in various locations to achieve this. Secret information was disseminated most commonly in despatches, reports, and correspondence. The intelligence networks of the Venetian Republic, for instance, consisted of diplomats, merchants and businessmen, the clergy, lawyers and notaries as well as commoners, barbers, travellers, soldiers and refugees.31 The late-seventeenth-century Spanish monarchy, too, integrated intelligence into state structures and exploited it in warfare, diplomacy, and commerce.32 Just as in the Venetian case, the Spanish King Charles II (1661–1700) and his court received information from a wide variety of different sources, including diplomats, consuls, semi-official agents, imperial administrators, military and naval commanders, domestic officials, enemy prisoners of war as well as deserters and spies. To capture intelligence, these actors and the networks they constructed employed different types of methods. For example, they bribed enemy officials and intercepted enemy communications. Again, mirroring the

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Venetian case, information was transmitted to Madrid through correspondence and couriers. Particularly delicate information was ciphered. Two factors were employed to evaluate the significance of information:  its reliability and its potential impact on strategy and resource allocation.33 Similarly, to capture and analyse information, Ottoman official Ratib Efendi created a network of interpreters, translators, and other professionals.34 During the Peninsular War (1807–14), the British army created two networks, which were in control of operational and strategic intelligence. The army collected operational intelligence through networks consisting of secret agents, correspondents, military spies, intelligence officers and reconnaissance patrols. These types of networks were already in place during the Seven Years’ War (1756–63) and the War of American Independence (1775–83). In the course of the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars (1792–1815), the British government created a wide-reaching network of civilian covert agents in continental Europe. These agents reported their findings to British officials in different European countries, who, for their part, communicated with an undersecretary in the War Department. Strategic intelligence was immensely important to the British army when preparing for war in the Iberian Peninsula; operational intelligence contributed to the successful conclusion of the Peninsular Campaign. In 1803, the quartermaster-general of the British army, Sir Robert Brownrigg, sought to integrate intelligence departments and the military with the formation of the Depot of Military Knowledge, which bore the hallmarks of an intelligence agency. However, despite the significant amount of public money invested in it, the depot turned out to be short-lived.35 The British army’s information management techniques evolved during the Crimean War. Captain Lintorn Simmons (1831–1903), who was appointed in May 1854 as the British commissioner to the Ottoman army with a mission to collect intelligence on the Russian army, failed to capture intelligence from deserters. He also lacked local contacts and his intelligence missions were further hampered by the Russians’ increased security measures in the occupied Danubian Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia. What is more, the British army depended to some extent on travel books for information, including on the strength of the Russian army, Balkan topography and details of fortifications. Travelogues were not ideal sources of military intelligence: they were distorted and inconsistent, written for entertainment purposes and some

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of them dated from the 1830s. Charles Cattley (1816/17–55) was another British officer who was given intelligence duties. Unlike Simmons, Cattley relied on deserters, agents and sympathetic locals for information. He also sent spies behind Russian lines and interrogated prisoners of war with the help of interpreters, who were instrumental in the process of acquiring information on the enemy. Although the British army’s intelligence structures developed during the war, ‘intelligence gathering still relied largely upon personal rather than formal initiative’. The system was lacking in qualified staff and proper facilities, as well as in organizational links to and authority over other branches of the armed forces. British military intelligence was at this stage unable to fully achieve its objectives. However, there was nothing unusual about this. As a rule, nineteenth-century European intelligence organizations were administratively decentralized and lacking in technical skills.36 During the Crimean War, Russian and Ottoman armies also sought collaborators and intelligence sources among the local population in the Balkans. The locals, including pro-Russian Bulgarian Christian notables and pro-Ottoman Wallachian elites, furnished Russian and Ottoman armies with information about troop movements and the political sympathies of local inhabitants. For this purpose, the Ottoman government infiltrated agents to conduct surveillance of public spaces, coffee houses, and churches. The Ottomans also gathered intelligence from prisoners, deserters and merchants. Similarly, during the war, the Russian secret police’s Third Section interacted with Orthodox Christian populations in the Balkans and in Constantinople. Just like the British, neither the Ottomans nor the Russians had a ‘central bureaucratised intelligence agency’, which often meant that all possible types of information were collected and reported; this information, however, was seldom analysed in a systematic manner.37

Aims and structure of the book As shown by the brief introduction above, much of the historical writing on the subject of intelligence-gathering considers military intelligence, which is usually explored from the perspective of just one state. The aims of the present volume are, first, to expand the debate regarding what constitutes as intelligence,

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and second, to examine the information-gathering and diplomatic practices of different states from comparative perspectives. Although the chapters stand as individual and separate contributions, their approach is informed by a focus on the following themes: the professional and personal interests of officials in the contexts of intelligence-gathering and reporting, the types of intelligencegathering methods employed by various officials and the topics discussed in their reports. Chapters 1 and 2 explore the respective consular activities and intelligencegathering of Swedish and British officials in Tripoli. By focusing on the consulships of Johan Widell, Per Niklas Burström, Jakob Gråberg and Adolf Hahr from 1795 to 1844, Joachim Östlund considers the significance of trust in treaty negotiations, the Swedish information-gathering pertaining to everyday life in Tripoli, and intelligence-gathering on the slave trade. Sara ElGaddari investigates the activities of the British consul-general, Hanmer George Warrington, from 1814 to 1836. The chapter examines the ways in which British officials managed the information flow between Tripoli and London and the establishment of the British vice-consular network in the region, as well as the mediation of knowledge via local intermediaries and imperial agents. Chapters 3 and 4 discuss Russian and Austrian intelligence activities in the Eastern Mediterranean during the early nineteenth century. Lucien J.  Frary explores the career and activities of Ioannis Nikolaevich Vlassopoulos, who reported to St. Petersburg on the events leading up to the Greek War of Independence (1821–32). The chapter focuses on Vlassopoulos’s intelligence on military affairs, his reports on the undertakings of British and French agents operating in the region and on the characteristics of the Ottoman Empire’s government. David Schriffl considers the training of Austrian diplomats in the Orientalische Akademie in Vienna, the ways in which decades of conflict affected the Austrian officials’ information-gathering on the Ottoman Empire, and how the Austrians, under the guise of neutrality, used coercive diplomacy to deal with the threat of piracy. Chapter  5 examines the mid-Victorian British consular activities in Italy through the person and career of Sir James Hudson. Nick Carter investigates the impact of personal relationships upon diplomatic appointments and the role of covert missions in promoting commercial and political interests, as well

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as the operations and significance of Hudson’s informal intelligence-gathering networks, which included such individuals as political exiles and artists. Chapters 6, 7 and 8 explore Dutch, French and German diplomatic, policing and intelligence activities. Ferry de Goey focuses on the ways in which Dutch officials portrayed pilgrims to Mecca and Medina as a potential security threat. His chapter investigates the mechanisms employed by the Dutch to deal with the danger, and the Dutch-British imperial intelligence cooperation that developed with a view to countering and policing the perceived global ‘Muslim threat’. Deborah Bauer examines French intelligence and espionage in North Africa in the time of imperial expansion, while Shlomo Shpiro focuses on the ways in which German intelligence sought to topple an assassination attempt against Kaiser Wilhelm II during his travels in the Middle East. This chapter also considers questions of protective security and international intelligence cooperation, which are standard topics of security studies and intelligence history. The above chapters deal with established European players in the Mediterranean. Chapters  9 and 10 explore Japanese and American officials’ activities in the region. Andrew Cobbing focuses on the ways in which Meiji Japan became acquainted with the Middle East, how the Meiji government’s official Fukuchi Gen’ichirō travelled in the Ottoman Empire and gathered information on the Turkish mixed courts and the ways in which he subsequently reported to Japan about the Ottoman judicial system. Finally, Ruth Kark describes American consular activities in Palestine, critically assessing the contents of consular reporting, and exploring how the American consuls’ personalities affected how and what they reported. The book contributes to several debates in diplomatic and intelligence history. It offers perspectives on the different countries’ diplomatic and intelligence strategies, and discusses several important historical themes. These include, for example, the role in international relations of debates pertaining to the Atlantic and Mediterranean slave trade, and the position of Muslim pilgrimages to Mecca and Medina in determining the imperial policies of different European colonial powers. As far as we are aware, the book represents the first attempt to examine diplomacy and intelligence in the Mediterranean world during the nineteenth century from the simultaneous perspectives of different European and extra-European powers. This approach

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will assist our understanding of European imperialism in the Mediterranean by providing new information and interpretations regarding the conduct of European diplomacy and intelligence-gathering in the region, as well as the significance of these processes to the development of modern states.

Notes 1 Peter Jackson, ‘Introduction’, H-Diplo/ISSF Roundtable Reviews, 8/2 (2015), p. 3. 2 See official histories, Christopher Andrew, The Defence of the Realm: The Authorized History of MI5 (London: Penguin, 2010), pp. 4–28; Keith Jeffery, MI6: The History of the Secret Intelligence Service 1909–1949 (London: Bloomsbury, 2010), pp. 3–36. 3 Rhodri Jeffreys-Jones, The FBI: A History (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), p. 39. 4 Sébastien Laurent, ‘Is There Something Wrong with Intelligence in France? The Birth of the Modern Secret State’, Intelligence and National Security, 28/3 (2013), p. 301. 5 See, for example, F. Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, trans. Siân Reynolds (London: Harper & Row, 1995); Maria Fusaro, C. Heywood, Mohamed-Salah Omri (eds), Trade and Cultural Exchange in the Early Modern Mediterranean: Braudel's Maritime Legacy (London: I. B. Tauris, 2010); P. Matvejevic, Mediterranean Breviary: A Cultural Landscape, trans. Mich æl Heim (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1999); Claude Liazu, L’Europe et l’Afrique Méditerranéenne: De Suez (1869) à Nos Jours (Bruxelles: Editions Complexe, 1994). 6 See, for example, Jules J. S. Gaspard, ‘Intelligence without Essence: Rejecting the Classical Theory of Definition’, International Journal of Intelligence and Counterintelligence, 30/3 (2017), pp. 557–82. 7 Alan Breakspear, ‘A New Definition of Intelligence’, Intelligence and National Security, 28/5 (2013), p. 692. 8 Ibid. 9 Christopher Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). See also William R. Pinch, ‘Review: Same Difference in India and Europe’, History and Theory, 38/3 (1998), particularly, pp. 395–6. 10 Bayly, Empire and Information, pp. 4, 366. See also Manuel Castells, The Informational City: Information Technology, Economic Restructuring, and the Urban-Regional Process (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989).

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11 Geoff Berridge, Diplomacy: Theory and Practice (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), p. 1. 12 Michael Herman, Intelligence Power in Peace and War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 9, 13. 13 Deborah Bauer, ‘Planting the Espionage Tree: The French Military and the Professionalization of Intelligence at the End of the Nineteenth Century’, Intelligence and National Security, 31/5 (2016), pp. 662, 667; Laurent, ‘Is There Something Wrong with Intelligence in France?’, p. 306. See also Sébastien Laurent, Politiques de L’Ombre: État, Renseignement et Surveillance en France (Paris: Fayard, 2009). 14 Fatih Yesil, ‘The Transformation of the Ottoman Diplomatic Mind: The Emergence of Licenced Espionage’, Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes, 101 (2011), pp. 468–70. 15 Ibrahim Köremezli, ‘Shpion vs. Casus: Ottoman and Russian Intelligence in the Balkans during the Crimean War (1853–56)’, Middle Eastern Studies, 50/2 (2014), pp. 197–8. 16 Stephen M. Harris, British Military Intelligence in the Crimean War 1854–1856 (London: Frank Cass, 1999), p. 60. 17 Michael Heffernan, ‘Professor Penck’s Bluff: Geography, Espionage and Hysteria in World War I’, Scottish Geographical Journal, 116/4 (2000), p. 276. 18 Bernard Porter, The Origins of the Vigilant State: The London Metropolitan Police Special Branch before the First World War (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 1987), pp. 3–14. 19 Diego Navarro Bonilla, ‘ “Secret Intelligences” in European Military, Political and Diplomatic Theory: An Essential Factor in the Defense of Modern State (Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries)’, Intelligence and National Security, 27/2 (2012), pp. 294–5. For Ragusa, see also Stevan Dedijer, ‘Ragusa Intelligence and Security (1301–1806): A Model for the Twenty-First Century?’, International Journal of Intelligence and Counterintelligence, 15 (2002), pp. 101–14. 20 Ioanna Iordanou, ‘What News on the Rialto? The Trade of Information and Early Modern Venice’s Centralized Intelligence Organization’, Intelligence and National Security, 31/3 (2016), p. 307. 21 Bayly, Empire and Information, p. 5. 22 Bauer, ‘Planting the Espionage Tree’, pp. 661–4. 23 Harris, British Military Intelligence, p. 5. 24 Stephen Wade, Spies in the Empire: Victorian Military Intelligence (London: History Press, 2007), pp. 8–14; Harris, British Military Intelligence, pp. xxii–xxiii; Mika Suonpää, ‘Britain, Balkan Conflicts and the Evolving Conceptions of Militarism, 1875–1913’, History: The Journal of the Historical Association, 99/337 (2015), p. 637.

Diplomacy and Intelligence 25 26 27 28 29

30 31

32

33

34 35 36 37

15

Laurent, ‘Is There Something Wrong with Intelligence in France?’, p. 308. Ibid., p. 303. See, for example, Porter, Origins of the Vigilant State. Citation from David Kahn, ‘Intelligence Studies on the Continent’, Intelligence and National Security, 23/2 (2008), p. 260. Laurent, ‘Is There Something Wrong with Intelligence in France?’, pp. 303, 309–310. For the Dreyfus Affair see, Ruth Harris, The Man on Devil’s Island: Alfred Dreyfus and the Affair that Divided France (London: Allen Lane, 2011). Kenneth L. Lasoen, ‘185 Years of Belgian Security Service’, Journal of Intelligence History, 15/2 (2016), p. 101. Ioanna Iordanou, ‘What News on the Rialto? The Trade of Information and Early Modern Venice’s Centralized Intelligence Organization’, Intelligence and National Security, 31/3 (2016), pp. 309–10, 316–18. Christopher Storrs, ‘Intelligence and the Formulation of Policy and Strategy in Early Modern Europe: The Spanish Monarchy in the Reign of Charles II (1665– 1700)’, Intelligence and National Security, 21/4 (2006), pp. 497–502. Ibid. For the Dutch Republic’s system of mail interception and early form of cryptography, see Karl de Leeuw, ‘The Black Chamber in the Dutch Republic during the War of the Spanish Succession and Its Aftermath, 1707–1715’, The Historical Journal, 42/1 (1999), pp. 133–56. Yesil, ‘Transformation of the Ottoman Diplomatic Mind’, p. 472. Huw Davies, ‘Integration of Strategic and Operational Intelligence during the Peninsular War’, Intelligence and National Security, 21/2 (2006), pp. 202–5. Harris, British Military Intelligence, pp. 4–6, 8, 28, 68, 79, 140, 160. Köremezli, ‘Shpion vs. Casus’, pp. 193–6, 203.

1

The Swedish consulate in Tripoli and information-gathering on diplomacy, everyday life and the slave trade, 1795–1844 Joachim Östlund

During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Tripoli, the present-day capital city of Libya, stood as a meeting point between Europe and Africa. The city was a gateway to the caravan route to trading centres of Fezzan and Kanem-Bornu, ‘the Great Sudan’ of Sultan Bello (1781–1837), and the maritime caravan across the Mediterranean to ports in the Ottoman Empire and Europe. For Europeans, the consulates in North Africa served as important hubs of business information and as sites for protecting their interests in the Mediterranean basin. The consulates also created dense and complex information networks that shaped the relationships between local political groups and foreign consular establishments. Swedish consuls in Tripoli communicated with government officials in Stockholm and guarded Swedish commercial and political interests in the Mediterranean. In order to connect with the locals, Swedish officials at times relied on the services of intermediaries, including local business managers, interpreters and translators. In addition to serving the government in Stockholm, the consuls had their own personal agendas and contacts in the area. This chapter examines the activities of Johan Widell (1778–98), Per Niklas Burström (1799–1822), Jakob Gråberg af Hemsö (1822–8) and Adolf Hahr (1828–47) in Tripoli. Existing research on peace treaties, trade and diplomacy has focused on the official information exchanges between Stockholm and Tripoli.1 This chapter explores the production of knowledge and the circulation of information from a wider perspective and explores the differences between official and non-official

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information gathering. This is significant because in addition to transmitting economic and commercial information, consular reports to Stockholm on day-to-day exchanges in Tripoli also portrayed aspects of diplomatic culture, particularly with regard to the issue of trust. Moreover, consuls communicated with non-state actors in Sweden. This chapter will also explore the extent to and the manner in which Swedish consuls in Tripoli discussed slave trade in their reports in an era of rising abolitionism in Europe. The chapter is based on historical documents of the Swedish consulate in Tripoli, housed at the Swedish National Archive (Riksarkivet) in Stockholm. In particular, consular letters and reports to the Convoy Office (Konvojkommissariatet) during the period 1802–44 are examined. This office was in charge of convoying Swedish vessels.2 In addition, a selection of incoming letters and documents, which were not addressed to Swedish authorities, has been explored. The narrative follows the main events, which have been covered in earlier research. This chapter takes a closer look at consular information-gathering practices, the consuls’ formal and informal networks and their attitudes towards events as well as life in Tripoli more widely.3

Tripoli in the Greater Mediterranean context The Tripoli iyalah, or Regency, as it was known in Europe, was by the eighteenth century, like Algiers and Tunis, an autonomous state ruled by a local dynasty. In 1711, a former Ottoman military officer Ahmed Qaramanli (1686–1745) overthrew the local Ottoman governor, founded the Qaramanli dynasty, and refused to be governed by Constantinople. In 1792, the Qaramanli dynasty was challenged and forced to leave Tripoli, but it regained power in 1795. In the following year, the ruler of Tripoli, Ali, died and was replaced by his eldest son Yusuf (1795–1832).4 In the commercial sphere, after a brief interlude, the North African regencies of Tripoli, Algiers and Tunis abandoned corsair activities (piracy and privateering) in favour of promoting trade with European states. The return to maritime trade with Europeans occurred during the Wars of the First Coalition (1792–7), which in turn not only benefitted the maritime and urban societies of the Regencies but also increased their influence in the hinterland. This trade boom was cut short by the return of Europeans to the

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Mediterranean. The years from 1815 to 1818, constituted a transition period for the Ottoman Maghreb as some European states sought to establish themselves permanently in North Africa.5 By 1819, Tripoli’s situation became critical, when the various treaties of the Napoleonic Wars forced the Regency to surrender corsair activities almost entirely. Tripoli’s economy began to disintegrate. In an attempt to compensate for the lost revenue, Yusuf Qaramanli bought goods on credit from Europe, increased local taxation and developed other sources of income, including the trans-Saharan trade in black slaves.6 With abolitionist sentiment on the rise in Europe, this strategy failed. Moreover, in 1830 and 1832, respectively, France and Britain sent squadrons to Tripoli to collect long-overdue debts. In 1832, Yusuf Qaramanli’s position weakened further and he consequently abdicated in favour of his son, Ali II. Factions sprung and the result was a civil war. The Sublime Porte became concerned with the instability in Tripoli and in August of 1834 an emissary from Constantinople arrived to Tripoli to evaluate the situation. The Ottoman government decided that it was necessary to restore order so as to prevent the province from falling to a foreign power. In May 1835, an Ottoman troop commander, Mustafa Nagib Pasha, entered Tripoli to quell the rebellion. Instead of supressing the revolt, the commander took power and established himself as the new governor. As a result, the reign of the Qaramanli dynasty ended. For the next seventy-six years, Ottomans ruled Tripoli.7 The Regencies of Tripoli, Algiers, and Tunis were important for the Swedish carrying trade in the Eastern Mediterranean, and thus, the region required the attention of Swedish consuls. Swedish merchants mainly imported cheap salt. In order to watch over Sweden’s commercial interest, the first Swedish consul, Isak Nikolaus Bergh, arrived in Tripoli in 1739.8 Although Sweden hosted a relatively large merchant fleet in the Mediterranean, in comparison to other European states it was weak in economic and military terms. For this reason, neutrality was an important diplomatic strategy. It was important to ensure that the neutral Swedish flag was respected so the merchant fleet could take part in the carrying trade in the Mediterranean trading network.9 The size of the Swedish fleet grew steadily throughout the eighteenth century, peaking in 1804 when it hosted 1,212 registered ships.10 Other neutral powers involved in the carrying trade, including Denmark and the United States, were Sweden’s

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main competitors. The most important public authority was the Swedish Convoy Office, which funded peace treaties with the Barbary States, paid the Swedish consuls’ salaries and ransomed captured Swedes.

Trust, mistrust and broken peace treaties Yusuf Qaramanli sought to remain in power through military reorganization, extension of the fleet and expansion towards the southern Sahara. Problems began, when both Sweden and Denmark were slow to send gifts to the new ruler. To put extra pressure on the Scandinavian countries to react, Yusuf Qaramanli captured Swedish and Danish ships. Apparently, both the Swedish and the Danish consul responded too late to the changed political order in Tripoli. In 1794, a number of new demands reached Sweden. When Yusuf Qaramanli insisted that a new peace treaty with Sweden should be negotiated, Swedish minister in Constantinople informed Consul Widell in Tripoli that the divan in Constantinople had decided that the terms of the peace treaty between Sweden and Tripoli should not be altered. As it turned out, Yusuf Qaramanli ignored the proposals from Constantinople and Stockholm. In contrast to his father, Ali Ben-Mohammed, who had never broken the peace agreement with Sweden, Yusuf Qaramanli repeatedly declared war on Sweden as well as captured Swedish and other European merchant ships. Later, a Swedish frigate, commanded by Major Blessing, arrived with gifts and with the Captain of the Admiralty, Anders Cöster. Blessing and Cöster’s roles were to support the negotiations and to act as stand-ins for Widell in his consular role. In the process, the Swedish minister in Constantinople, Abraham Constantin Mouradgea d’Ohsson (1779–1851), also stepped in as an intermediary for the Grand-Vizier, Safranbolulu Izzet Mehmet Pasha (1743–1812) and the Kapudan Pasha, Küçük Hüseyin Pasha (1757–1803). But, Yusuf Qramanli was not happy because the answer from Sweden did not arrive quickly enough.11 Yusuf Qaramanli continued to capture more Swedish ships, and in June 1798, the Swedish frigate, Thetis, arrived in Tripoli with a view to negotiating a new peace treaty with Yusuf Qaramanli and releasing Swedish hostages, including three young boys who had converted to Islam. At the same time, Captain

Swedish Consulate in Tripoli

21

Cöster was appointed as a vice-consul to Tripoli as Widell was old and suffered from ill health. The problem was not solved. Yusuf Qaramanli claimed that the ransom payment did not arrive in time and as a consequence he declared war on Sweden. Once again, captured Swedish merchant ships were brought to Tripoli. This became a starting point of a conflict with the Pasha, resulting in the capture of more than twenty Swedish ships and approximately 160 sailors.12 The information from the consuls narrated a rather complicated situation. The main concerns were the costs and the identification of lost cargo, ransoming of captives and converts, the disagreements with the Pasha regarding the payment of the treaty and the practical aspects of treaty implementation. Misinterpretations aroused suspicion and resulted in new declarations of war. The reports frequently stated that the Pasha used the failure to communicate as an excuse to capture more Swedish ships. In his reports to the Convoy Office, Per Niklas Burström, the Swedish consul from 1799 onwards, often stressed the importance of the prompt disbursement of the tributes as a conflictprevention strategy.13 In 1801, when war was declared by the Pasha against Sweden for the third time since 1796, the Swedes dispatched a squadron of frigates to the Mediterranean with the intention of terminating the conflict. In comparison to the eighteenth century, the Swedish navy in the early nineteenth century increasingly demonstrated its wish to defend Swedish merchants and to deliver tributes. This was evidenced, for example, by the fact that from December 1801, four Swedish frigates, the Thetis, Fröja, Camilla and Sprengporten were cruising in the coast of Tripoli. The operation itself, however, was not successful. In 1802, Swedish and American warships undertook a joint blockade of the port of Tripoli. Sweden and America assisted each other in arranging convoys for the merchant ships of both countries and a new peace treaty was signed. Sweden’s Consul Burström reported extensively on the situation. His letters informed the Convoy Office that despite the signing of the new treaty, the joint American-Swedish blockade of Tripoli was unsuccessful, since the Tripoleen corsair galleys managed to access the port regardless of the blockade. According to Burström, the failure of the blockade improved Yusuf Qaramanli’s mood. In October 1802, Sweden concluded a costly peace treaty. The American-Tripoleen war continued until 1805, when a peace treaty was signed and the Americans, too, ceased the payment of the tributes.14

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Widell, Cöster and Burström wrote detailed reports on the political relations between Tripoli and the Western powers. Just like in the case of the SwedishAmerican joint blockade, the Swedish Convoy Office received detailed reports on the so-called First Barbary War (1801–5). In one report, Burström described the incident involving the American ship, Philadelphia, from both American and Tripoleen perspectives. On 31 October 1803, Philadelphia cruised off Tripoli and ran aground on an uncharted reef two miles of Tripoli Harbour while chasing a Tripoleen ship. The Captain, William Bainbridge, failed to refloat the ship and Bainbridge decided to destroy the weapons, gunpowder and other important equipment before surrendering. Later, when Philadelphia was refloated by the Tripoleens, the Americans decided to recapture or destroy the ship. This succeeded on 16 February 1804. Yusuf Qaramanli witnessed the incident from a balcony of his residence. From the level of detail of the information, which included the Captain’s conversations about the decision to destroy weapons and damage the ship, one could deduct that Burström probably translated an American report.15 Lord Exmouth’s naval expedition to North Africa and Tripoli was the next incident of political importance. The mission’s aim was to terminate Christian slavery. Burström reported to the Convoy Office on the impact of the expedition and referred to the agreement that all Christian European slaves in Tripoli should be released without ransom payment. Moreover, the captives no longer should be viewed as slaves, but as prisoners of war.16 Until the consulships of Gråberg (1822–28) and Hahr (1828–47), consular correspondence to state officials in Stockholm continued to deal with threats, declarations of war and treaty negotiations.17 In 1828, with a view to displaying military strength and establishing order along the North African coast, SwedishNorwegian expedition arrived to Tripoli under the command of the Vice Admiral Otto Henrik Nordenskiöld (1747–1831). According to Nordenskiöld’s reports, his arrival changed Yusuf Qaramanli’s attitude and he soon expressed a wish to follow the agreements of the peace treaty.18 The year 1830 was a turning point in Tripoli. When Yusuf Qaramanli could no longer raid European shipping, he increased the level of forced taxation. This marked the beginning of a civil war between Yusuf Qaramanli’s subjects in the countryside and his loyal forces in the city. In June 1832, Hahr reported that he was almost caught in the conflict outside the city, when travelling from his country estate to Tripoli. Thanks to his

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servant, Hahr managed to escape to Tripoli. The civil war continued during 1832, and when two British corvettes started a blockade of the city, Hahr decided to send his family to Malta, a British colony. The civil war raged until mid-April 1833, when the Ottoman envoy, Mohammed Bey, arrived in Tripoli in order to persuade Yusuf Qaramanli to surrender. However, the rural-urban conflict continued regardless of the Porte’s intervention.19 The Swedish consuls reported about Tripoli’s political changes in a neutral manner because Sweden never played a major part in the conflicts. The aim was merely to keep track of the changing political environment. In addition to revealing details of the political life of Tripoli, the consular reports also provide interesting insights into Swedish attitudes towards North Africa and the level of the consuls’ integration in the local society.

Everyday life in Tripoli Burström’s journals and letters that cover the period from 1803 to 1822 provide the best and the most detailed glimpses into the everyday life at the Swedish consulate in Tripoli. Just like the reports on important political events, these communications mainly aimed at convincing the authorities in Stockholm of the importance of maintaining a consulate in Tripoli. Moreover, Burström’s letters revealed different aspects of everyday life in Tripoli. These can be discovered, for example, by examining the notes jotted in the margins of letters, references to different incidents in his personal life and the answers Burström gave to requests from the locals and Swedish officials. For example, when the Swedish government offered Burström a weapon for personal protection during a period of intensified political tensions in Tripoli, he declined the offer because it was not customary for European consuls to carry arms. The locals regarded this as dishonourable. Instead, Burström asked for a new Swedish flag, arguing that flags were an important tool to celebrate Christian and Muslim holidays, the birthdays of kings and princes and the Pasha’s arrivals to the city.20 Burström attempted to adapt to the local cultural environment in order to prevent conflicts. Burström’s reports on the negotiations dealt mainly with the payment of annual fees. When reporting on the negotiations with the Pasha, he cited Yusuf

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Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World

Qaramanli’s arguments, sometimes described his bodily expressions and detailed his own replies to the Pasha. Burström’s aim was to describe Tripoli’s political culture and portray the challenges he encountered personally in the negotiations. According to him, the Tripoleens were greedy and refused to listen to pleas if payments were not made in time. Burström explained that in these situations, he had to hide behind a ‘mask of joy’, cover himself ‘in the honourable dress of the nation’ and refer to the agreements of the peace treaty. Burström regularly referred to the question of trust when discussing the payment of annual fees. Trust depended on a number of factors:  the interaction between the consuls and local intermediaries in the actual act of transferring money; the political strategies in both Tripoli and Stockholm and the political situation in the Mediterranean in general.21 In this context, Burström portrayed Yusuf Qaramanli as a power-thirsty individual, but also as a tormented man: ‘each time I have met him, his face has been concealed with the cloud of sorrow’. Commenting on the culture of gift-giving, Burström suggested that, in addition to the Pasha himself, the money should also be forwarded to his ministers. In Burström’s opinion, gifts should not be given without a reason and they should be presented at the right moment.22 Just like Burstöm’s attempts at becoming accustomed to other local customs, the correct behaviour in the act of gift-giving was a form of conflict prevention. As instructed by the Convoy Office, Burström had managed to gain the friendship and respect of the people of Tripoli. He likened himself to Comte de Bonneval (1675–1747), a French army officer, who later went into the service of the Ottoman Empire, eventually converted to Islam, and became known as Humbaracı Ahmet Pasha. Burström believed that ordinary Tripoleens also had accepted him: ‘The poor blesses me each time I meet them, and everybody else welcomes me with warmth’. Apparently, the locals saw him as a fellow believer since he only drank water and milk. Burström also informed the Convoy Office that he had assured the Pasha of the virtues of the Muslim population of Tripoli: ‘all of his subjects are good people, and nobody acts like the Christian residents, who are all rouges and mischief-makers’.23 At times, particularly after 1809, the local elite and the Pasha visited the Swedish consulate, which was rather unusual within the European consular community.24 In the reports, Burström described the gestures and dialogue as well as the Pasha’s positive impression of the consular building, the rooms and

Swedish Consulate in Tripoli

25

the consulate’s surroundings. He also discussed the Pasha’s visits with other European consuls.25 On 15 June 1810, Burström disclosed that the Pasha was accompanied by a number of women on the visits. He always served the women with coffee and lemonade. At one time ‘there was as many as thirty women at the house, but there was an annoying chattering when they ran to the bed, to roll around, laugh and smile’. This information is of interest since it shows another side of the consulate. The building itself was a meeting place where connections to Tripoleen elite groups were established in a social manner. In the same report Burström also wrote that he had befriended the powerful and beloved consort of the Pasha as well as the wife of her brother.26 In addition, Burström shared details of the social and cultural fabric of the political life of the Pasha and his government. The Tripoleen state was a gathering of ‘circumcised sailors, renegade sons, purchased and socially elevated Negroe slaves and Christian rogues’, thought Burström. He argued, too, that the Portuguese consul, Bryan McDonogh, as well as his American counterpart, George Davis, had taught the Pasha to play tricks on the Christians and his own subjects. In Burström’s view, the two consuls were also responsible for nourishing the Pasha’s lust for power. He also suggested that MacDonogh had planted in him the idea of declaring war on Sweden.27 Burström did not describe the Tripoleen life in an Orientalist manner, as a conflict between civilized European Christendom and barbarous Muslim North Africa. Instead, he emphasized the corrupting influence of westerners. Backed by Vice Admiral Carl-Olof Cronstedt’s (1756–1820) naval presence in the Mediterranean, Burström acted with greater confidence towards the Pasha, as demonstrated, for example, when he received the newly designed Swedish-Norwegian union flag to be flown at the consulate. When the Pasha noticed the change, he requested an explanation from Burström who replied that the ‘King of Sweden and Norway changes and flies his flag as he pleases in the same way as the Pasha’. This change of diplomatic etiquette also symbolized a change of the power relation between Sweden and Tripoli, probably much thanks to the naval presence.28 Towards the end of his service, Burström’s letters and reports became less detailed and lost the emotional language. Nevertheless, the issue of trust continued to be the reports’ main theme. For example, when the Pasha failed to pay for a commission (for Venetian mirrors and English table porcelain)

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Burström wrote that the Pasha is ‘unbelievably slow to pay’ and feared that he would never receive the payment. Instead of making the payment, the Pasha asked Burström to give him the goods as gifts in order to maintain a good friendship. This, in Burström’s view, showed that the Tripoleen economy had problems and that the Pasha was not trustworthy.29 Burström ended his consular duties in Tripoli because of health issues and was, together with his consular secretary Frumerie, recalled on 18 March 1822. The new consul, Gråberg, was assigned on 11 December 1822. Frumerie became the consular secretary in Tangier.30 With Gråberg at the consular post, new contacts and information networks as well as new knowledge-production techniques (detailed below) were imported to Tripoli. Nevertheless, the main purposes of the consulate remained the same. Gråberg continued to seek ways to lower the protection costs for Swedish shipping and to protect Swedish interests in general. Just like his predecessor, Gråberg reported in detail about the consulate’s finances and the negotiations with the Pasha on fees and other topics.31 In particular, with reference to letters from the Pasha, Gråberg drew attention to a financial conflict between the Pasha and a Swedish merchant32 and to the comparatively low salary of the Swedish consul.33 Gråberg continued to remind Stockholm of the necessity of the Swedish naval presence in the Mediterranean. He also emphasized that the Convoy Office should send money without delay when requested as the Pasha became unpredictable and dangerous when out of funds.34 The majority of the consular communications to the Convoy Office continued to explicate the changes in politics of the region. But, Tripoli also served as the main hub for the trade in black African slaves in North Africa. Gråberg’s reporting on this issue differed from the style of his predecessors.

Intelligence-gathering on the slave trade In the middle of the eighteenth century, the numbers of slaves transported from the capital Murzuk in Fezzan to North Africa was around 5,000 a year.35 Tripoli was the most important city connecting the sub-Saharan caravans with shipping across the Mediterranean. Some slaves remained in Tripoli, but most of them were exported to the Levant, especially to Constantinople and

Swedish Consulate in Tripoli

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the ports in the Aegean Sea, including Athens, Salonika, Smyrna and Crete. In some rare cases, slaves were exported to Tunis and Algiers.36 According to Miss Tully, the sister of the British consul, Richard Tully, slaves were sold in the smaller of Tripoli’s two bazaars. In 1783, she reported that black slaves were bought by ‘rich people . . . who occasionally sell them immediately to merchants waiting to ship them to other parts’.37 The Arab and wider Islamic World needed slaves for sundry economic and social roles, rather than for heavy labour work on agricultural estates or plantations. The main demand was for slaves were women and girls who served as household servants, entertainers, and/or as concubines.38 The most important slave traders in Tripoli were the Pasha and the Bey, the leader of the militia and the governors of Benghazi, Derna and Awjila.39 Until the early nineteenth century, almost all black slaves from North Africa were transported on-board European (particularly French) ships. Tripoleen entrepreneurs allowed European merchants to take part in this trade.40 The British consul encouraged British shippers to participate in the trade, but Tripoleen authorities rejected this.41 The French dominance of the slave trade originated in France’s peace treaties with North African states and the Sublime Porte. France had established a consulate in Tripoli in 1681. This French ‘monopoly’ ended after the Napoleonic Wars.42 Since the middle of the eighteenth century, Swedish consuls in North Africa noted or reported about the trade of African slaves across the Mediterranean. The Swedish consul in Tunis, Olof Rönling, suggested that Sweden should take part in the trade of African slaves, and referred to a previous business project undertaken by a British merchant. However, Rönling’s proposal was not taken further. From Tripoli, at least seven Swedish ships transported slaves to cities like Smyrna and Constantinople under the consulships of Jöns Wijnberg and Christian Bagge.43 At the Swedish consulate in Tunis, Africans or ‘negresses’ as the contemporaries knew them, were used for different tasks, and in 1843, the Swedish vice-consul in Goletta, Antonio Gaspari, was charged by the British for being involved in the trade of African slaves.44 In ports like Tunis and Tripoli, the Africans were sold to Christian intermediaries for further transportation across the Mediterranean or the Black Sea to Christendom or the Ottoman Empire. Once in the cities they were sold in slave markets.

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Gråberg started his career in the British Admiralty. In 1794, he was promoted to Lieutenant. In 1800, he was appointed as secretary at the Swedish legation in Genoa and promoted to officer during the siege of Genoa in 1801. He was married to Louise Marie Jeanne Hugues, and while living in Italy, he established the firm Gråberg & Insom, a mercantile intermediary for Swedish and Norwegian traders. In 1806, he became a member of the Italian Academy in Florence. His consular career started in 1811, when he was appointed as the Swedish consul in Genoa and later as the consul-general in Morocco, where he served in 1815–22. In 1822, he was dismissed from Morocco, ended up with his family in Gibraltar and was then appointed as the Swedish consul in Tangier. After that he worked as the consul-general in Tripoli (1822–8). Gråberg had scholarly ambitions. In 1829, his personal library consisted of some 5,000 books, 2,300 coins (both antique and modern) and about 150 stones of antique origin. In 1829–33, he published some forty books and papers. During the 1830s, he was chambermaid and senior librarian at the Tuscan Library of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. In 1834, he was conferred by the Pope to the Order of the Golden Spur. He was also a member of a number of academies in Sweden.45 Gråberg’s background, his networks, knowledge and interests were an integral part of his consular role, and his printed publications sometimes included information on Swedish consular intelligence-gathering in Tripoli, which did not directly serve the interest of the Swedish state. Gråberg was connected to the printing press run by Kajd Mohammed al-Swid (‘the Swede’). Al Swid’s former name was Johan Öhman, and he was born in 1785 in Kristinestad, Finland, then a part of the Kingdom of Sweden. When Öhman was twelve, he was captured on a Swedish merchant ship, which was taken to Tripoli.46 In 1797, Öhman converted to Islam. In addition to running the printing press, he ended up serving as the chief adviser to the Bey of Tripoli. Gråberg’s books, including, Dagbok Öfver Blockade af Genua År 1800, were printed and published by al-Swid’s printing house.47 This type of informal collaboration and exchange of knowledge should not be underestimated when studying formation of political relationships. Gråberg’s connection to al-Swid’s printing house reveals a wider information network, which was not connected to the Swedish state. Gråberg’s own business and his scholarly interests were also reflected in his letters and correspondence. Compared to

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his predecessors, Gråberg communicated with a much larger international network, as illustrated by a relatively large number of letters written in Italian, English and French.48 One such contact was Colonel Hanmer Warrington, the British consul in Tripoli.49 Gråberg swore his loyalty and friendship to Warrington, while at the same time informing him that there were forces that attempted to separate them.50 The context of the conflict is not revealed in the letter. But, Gråberg’s connection to Warrington is interesting when viewed against the backdrop of the slave trade in Tripoli. Warrington was the first British consul in Tripoli, who at times expressed critical opinions about Saharan slave trade. On the other hand, he was closely involved with notorious slave traders while serving as the British consul-general. When he took up his post in 1814, his first concern was with ‘white’ slavery and the continuing enslavement of European Christians in Tripoli. When, in 1815, the Congress of Vienna authorized Britain to end Christian slavery in the Mediterranean, there were still about 600 white (mostly Italian) slaves in Tripoli. In 1820, this objective was achieved through diplomatic and naval pressure. Warrington noted the black slave traffic through Tripoli already in 1818, when he also wrote a report on the arrival of a large caravan from Fezzan. In June 1819, Warrington was raising with London a prospect for ‘suppression of the Black Traffic’. Later Warrington spent much time and effort in trying to persuade the Pasha to give up slaveraiding and slave-trading. However, Warrington’s superiors in London doubted the rationale of the large sums the Pasha demanded as ‘compensation’ for this. At the same time, the main abolitionist movement was still preoccupied with Atlantic slave-trade and British colonial slavery. The Foreign Office in London was short of hard and consistent evidence on which to base a diplomatic case for abolition of slavery in the Mediterranean.51 There is no evidence of the Swedish consuls’ attempts to end slavery after the Congress of Vienna. Nor is there evidence to suggest that Sweden was involved in the transportation of slaves from Tripoli at this stage. Warrington and Gråberg had similar ideas on the issue of slavery, which become apparent, for example, in an interview that Gråberg gave in 1828 to The London Magazine, after he had published an article in Italy, ‘An Account on the Current State of Tripoli’ (1827).52 The article discussed traditional topics of interest for Swedish state officials, including politics, trade and the economy of Tripoli. It also

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deliberated the issue of trade of African slaves, which had not been considered in previous consular accounts. The article in The London Magazine referred to Gråberg’s article and began with a celebration of the Qaramanli dynasty and the current ruler, Sidi Yusuf (1766–1838). He was credited for the latest peace treaty and ‘the final abolition of Christian slavery’. The article then went on to discuss the character of the trade of Tripoli, Benghazi and Derna. The trade from Fezzan and Ghadames was also described: About two thousand and fifty of these poor creatures [black slaves], caught by the Mahomedans of the interior in their grazzies, or marauding incursions, are yearly brought to Tripoli, whence the greater part are exported to Egypt and Turkey, a few only remaining at Tripoli for the service of the inhabitants, and these are generally treated with humanity.53

The article argued that some 2,000 slaves arrived from Sahara to Tripoli each year for further transportation across the Mediterranean. Moreover, the article explained that Christian inhabitants of Tripoli were not allowed to purchase or hire slaves. Details of price were also given: ‘A grown-up man, from 90 to 150 dollars; a boy from the ten to eighteen years, 70 to 80; a child below ten years, from 40 to 50; a grown up woman, from 120 to 150 dollars, according to her beauty; a young girl, from 90 to 100; eunuchs, from 650 to 700 dollars each.’ Then, another larger issue regarding slavery was discussed: It is not, we believe, generally known that the slave trade, although forbidden on the Atlantic, is thus carried on freely in the Mediterranean. The number of slaves yearly brought to Tripoli, and thence exported by sea, used to be double the present amount, when the vessels of Tripoli took their cargoes to Egypt, Tunis, and the Levant; but since the emancipation of the Hellenes, the Barbary slave-merchants do no venture willingly under their own flag, and it is in Christian vessels and under Christian colours, says Mr. Graberg, that the trade is carried on. Several vessels also come to Tripoli, from the coast of Albania, under the Ottoman flag, with cargoes of timber for ship-building, which thay exchange for black female slaves, whom they take to Turkey and Constantinople, and sell with great profit.54

This information builds a more complex image of the slave trade in the Mediterranean world. The trade changed from a Muslim-only trade within

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Africa to a joint Muslim-Christian trade, when the slaves entered Tripoli. Although Christians were not allowed to purchase or hire slaves, they made huge profits by transporting the slaves across the Mediterranean. The London Magazine then argued that European involvement in this trade was an unknown topic, and when compared to the trans-Atlantic slave trade, carried on without restrictions. Thus, although slaves in Tripoli were treated ‘humanely’, the article called for the criminalization of the European involvement in the Mediterranean slave trade in the same way as it was in the Atlantic. Only one European state stood out in this issue: ‘We read some time ago an edict of the Emperor of Austria, forbidding his Italian subjects from carrying on the slave trade; but we fear that the other Italian states are not so scrupulous on the subject.’55 The information presented in Gråberg’s paper was never addressed to Swedish government officials, possibly owing to the fact that Sweden was not involved in the trade, and thus, not responsible to solve the question. But, Gråberg’s views were significant in the context of British abolitionism. Although mainly seeking to ban the European involvement in it, Gråberg’s paper can be seen as an early public call for ending ‘Muslim’ slavery in the Ottoman Empire. In 1839, this discourse changed after one of the leading abolitionists, Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton, published his treatise, The African Slave Trade. It was only in the 1840s that British consuls in Tripoli started to contribute to the Saharan abolitionist debate.56

The final years of Swedish consular presence in Tripoli The same year that The London Magazine reviewed Gråberg’s publication, Adolf Hahr was appointed as the Swedish consul in Tripoli. Like his predecessors, Hahr’s first report to the Convoy Office was concerned with financial aspects of the consulate, the economic state of Tripoli and the character of the European consular community.57 In his later communications, Hahr reported that the Swedish trading opportunities with Tripoli were almost non-existent because of the internal political unrest and conflicts.58 He continued to emphasize the importance of annual fees, gifts and trust when interacting with the Tripoleens. In June 1832, Hahr reported that his relationship with the Pasha was ‘rather

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friendly’.59 A  month later, he informed Stockholm about the internal strife and a conflict between the Pasha and the ‘rebels’.60 He also gave details of the siege of the city, accounted for the significance of the dynastic family members taking part in the conflict on opposing sides, and drew attention to the fact that Christians were in danger owing to financial commitments with the Pasha.61 Hahr also mentioned the contacts with Warrington, but refrained from commenting on the issue of slavery.62 In January 1843, Hahr was ordered to return to Sweden. After this, Warrington took on the consular duties of the Swedish-Norwegian consulate. Hahr asked to stay on until May 1844, which was accepted.63 Hahr left Tripoli on 12 August 1844, after sixteen years of service. He arrived in Marseille via Malta and stayed there during the winter and finally arrived in Stockholm in June 1845. In 1844, the SwedishNorwegian consulate in Tripoli ceased operations.64

Conclusion Swedish consular correspondence from Tripoli to state authorities in Stockholm followed a pattern, where the consuls’ produced information for their own as well as the interests of the state. Since the main goal was to reduce the protection costs for the Swedish shipping in the Mediterranean, this discourse centred on economic issues, namely the tributes, fees and gifts. When sharing information on the relationship between Tripoli and other European powers, Swedish consuls took a neutral position or a role of a passive onlooker. Compared to previous Swedish research on the consular activities, this chapter has brought forward new insights into the diplomatic culture in Tripoli and the everyday life of the consulate. In particular, by focusing on the Swedish consuls’ depictions of the European consular community, the interaction between Swedish consuls and local rulers as well as other elite groups in Tripoli, the chapter has presented a more diverse picture of the Swedish diplomatic representation in an important North African location. The Swedish presence in Tripoli differed from other more powerful European states, such as France and Britain. Compared to the British, for example, the Swedish consuls were never able to exercise diplomatic or any consular power towards the local rulers in Tripoli. The remoteness of their posts, the lack

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of a strong network with European counterparts, the political instability in Tripoli and the financial problems of the Convoy Office contributed to the comparative lack of Swedish impact on Tripoli. As the main goal was to reduce the protection costs for Swedish shipping in the Mediterranean, the most effective way to achieve this was by consenting to the Pasha’s never-ending demands. The consuls often emphasized their difficult position as they were pressured by the different demands of the local ruling elite. The situation was alleviated slightly with the presence of Swedish naval missions. This chapter has also demonstrated that Swedish consuls, particularly Gråberg, formulated networks that went beyond the official state-level contacts. For example, his connection to the printing house in Tripoli, which was managed by a former Swede, clearly revealed a wider spectrum of opportunities for communication in Tripoli. Consuls in North Africa also pursued their own business interests and commented publicly on the important political developments in the region. Writing in a British journal, Gråberg ‘exposed’ the European involvement in the transportation of African slaves across the Mediterranean. This can partly be explained by Gråberg’s close connection to Warrington. Gråberg’s insights reflected the ways in which slavery was understood in the Mediterranean context at the time. They also, in a way, anticipated a much stronger dedication to the Saharan abolitionist debate, which began to take shape in the 1840s.

Notes 1 Johan Henrik Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna i Afrika (Stockholm: Norstedt, 1858); Eskil Borg, Svenska Konsuler och Slavar i Barbareskstaternas Tripoli: En Studie i Girighet, Våld och Förtryck (Kristianstad: Boktryckeri, 1987); Einar Ekegård, Studier i Svensk Handelspolitik under den Tidigare Frihetstiden (Uppsala: Appelbergs boktruckeri aktiebolag, 1924); Eskil Olán, Sjörövarna på Medelhavet och Levantiska Compagniet. Historien om Sveriges Gamla Handel med Orienten (Göteborg: Elanders, 1921); Fredrik Kämpe, ‘Competition and Cooperation: Swedish Consuls in North Africa and Sweden’s Position in the World, 1791–1802’, in Traces of Transnational Relations in the Eighteenth Century, ed. Tim Berndtsson et al. (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2015).

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2 Leos Müller, ‘Swedish-Portuguese Trade and Swedish Consular Service, 1800– 1800’, in A Articulacão do Sal Portuguêsaos Circuitos Mundiais. Antigos e Novos Consumos. The Articulation of Portuguese Salt with Worldwide Routes. Past and New Consumption Trends (Porto: University of Porto, 2008), p. 95. 3 See, for example, ‘No. 9 Consulerne Cösters, Burströms och Gråbergs Journaler och Bref Copi Böcker u.u. inalles 5. Altså Perioden mellan År 1800 och 1828’ (1809–23). 4 Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, pp. 414–15. 5 Daniel Panzac, Barbary Corsairs: The End of a Legend, 1800–1820 (Leiden: Brill, 2005), p. 330. 6 John Wright, The Trans-Saharan Slave Trade (London: Routledge, 2007), p. 56. 7 Lisa Anderson, ‘Nineteenth-Century Reform in Ottoman Libya’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 16/3 (1984), p. 326. 8 Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, pp. 414–15. 9 Leos Müller, ‘The Forgotten Age of Swedish Shipping. The Eighteenth Century’, International Journal of Maritime History, 24/2 (2012), pp. 50–1. 10 Leos Müller, Consuls, Corsairs, and Commerce: The Swedish Consular Service and Long-distance Shipping, 1720–1815 (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, 2004), pp. 141–2. 11 Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, p. 415. 12 Ibid., pp. 416–48. 13 Burström to the Convoy Office, 15 October 1803, Tripoli Consular Archive, Brev 1803–4, Riksarkivet, Stockholm (hereafter RA). 14 Müller, ‘The Forgotten Age of Swedish Shipping’, p. 130. 15 Burström to the Convoy Office, 6 November 1803, RA. 16 Gråberg to Convoy Office, 12 September 1816, RA. 17 Borg, Svenska Konsuler och Slavar, pp. 324–5. 18 ‘Sjöexpeditioner till Medelhavet 1828–1829’, Nordenskiöldska Arkivet, Krigsarkivet (hereafter KA). 19 Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, pp. 449–50. 20 Bergström to Convoy Office, 6 November 1803, RA. 21 ‘No. 9 Consulerne Cösters’. 22 Ibid. 23 Burström to Convoy Office, 20 May 1810, RA. 24 Burström to Convoy Office, 29 January 1809, RA. 25 Ibid., RA. 26 Burström to Convoy Office, 15 June 1810, RA. 27 Burström to Convoy Office, 29 February 1812, RA. 28 Burström to Convoy Office, 25 November 1815, RA. 29 Gråberg to Convoy Office, 27 May 1817, RA.

Swedish Consulate in Tripoli 30 31 32 33 34 35

36 37 38 39 40

41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51 52

53

35

Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, pp. 436–8. Gråberg to Convoy Office, 25 January 1825, RA. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. G. Michael La Rue, ‘The Frontiers of Enslavement: Bagirmi and the TransSaharan Slave Routes’, in Slavery on the Frontiers of Islam, ed. P. E. Lovejoy (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 2004), pp. 31–6; John Wright, ‘The Mediterranean Middle Passage: The Nineteenth Century Slave Trade between Tripoli and the Levant’, The Journal of North African Studies, 1/1 (1996), p. 169. Wright, ‘Mediterranean Middle Passage’, pp. 42–58. Ibid., p. 55. Ibid., p. 2. Ibid., pp. 42–58. Ibid., p. 128. Other slave-carriers were from Ragusa (present-day Dubrovnik in Croatia) or from Ottoman Greece, and after the Russia’s expansion to the Black Sea, there were also Russian slave-traders in the Mediterranean. Wright, ‘Mediterranean Middle Passage’, p. 59. François Renault, ‘La Traite des Esclaves Noirs en Libye au XVIIIe Siècle’, The Journal of African History, 23/2 (1982), pp. 164–5. Joachim Östlund, Saltets Pris: Svenska Slavar i Nordafrika och Handeln i Medelhavet 1650–1770 (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2014), pp. 226–42. Slave Trade No. 5 (Tunis) 20 Nov. 1843, The National Archives, Kew, Foreign Office (hereafter TNA FO). Jacob Gråberg, Nordisk Familjebok (Stockholm: Werner Landgren, 1909). Harry Halén, Kulkumiehiä. Suomalais-itämainen vieraskirja (Helsinki: Otava, 1986), pp. 128–33; T. J. Arne, Svenskarna och Österlandet (Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, 1952), pp. 89–90. Jacob Gråberg, Dagbok öfver Blockade af Genua år 1800, 2nd edn (Tripoli: al-Swid, 1828). Gråberg to Convoy Office, 25 January 1825, RA. Ibid. Gråberg to Convoy Office, 21 September 1826, RA. Wright, Trans-Saharan Slave Trade, pp. 59–62. Original title: Prospetto, ec. (en italien) Tableau du commerce de Tripoli d´Afrique et de ses rapports avec celui de I’Italie. Trois articles insérés dans le N. 81 pour le mois de septembre de cette année, le second dans le N. 88, mai 1828, et le troisiéme dans le N. 111, mars 1830, in 8. ‘An Account on the Present State of Tripoli’, The London Magazine (Oct. 1828), p. 364.

36 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

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Ibid. Ibid. Wright, Trans-Saharan Slave Trade, p. 62. Hahr to Convoy Office, 28 July 1828, RA. Hahr to Convoy Office, 27 February 1832, RA. Hahr to Convoy Office, 5 June 1832, RA. Hahr to Convoy Office, 2 July 1832, RA. Hahr to Convoy Office, 1 August 1832, RA. Hahr described him a young Swede named Johan Öhman, who followed him from Sweden. Th is name is the same as Kajd Mohammed al-Swid. It is unsure what conclusion one can draw from this. Maybe there are two persons with the same name, or perhaps Hahr wanted to hide the identity of Kajd Mohammed al-Swid. Probably the later al-Swid was introduced in a travel narrative written by Hahr, where he describes the interior of palaces owned by Yusuf and his meeting with ‘the old’ former Swede Kajd Mohammed al-Swid. Hahrska släktarkivet, ‘Major August Hahrs Resedagbok från Europa och Norra Afrika, 1828–1830’, Stockholms Stadsarkivet (hereafter SSA). 62 Hahr to Convoy Office, 1 August 1832, RA. 63 Kreüger, Sveriges Förhållande till Barbareskstaterna, p. 459. 64 Ibid., p. 462.

2

Hanmer Warrington and imperial intelligence-gathering in Tripoli, 1814–36 Sara ElGaddari

This chapter examines the agency of one British consul-general, Hanmer George Warrington (1776–1847), in the Regency of Tripoli from 1814 to 1836. While the first decade of Warrington’s consulship witnessed a period of relative prosperity in the Regency, the period 1826–36 ushered in a period of profound political upheaval that included a bloody and prolonged civil war between rival factions loyal to opposing claims to the Qaramanli succession that, in 1835, resulted in the arrival of Ottoman officer Mustafa Negib Pasha and the reinstitution of Ottoman authority in Tripoli. The British consul at Tripoli will be considered as a part of a wider imperial intelligence network in the Mediterranean  – a network that can, according to David Turnbull, reveal much about the ‘processes of knowledge movement, translation, transmission, and the ways in which people, practices and places are linked and assembled into knowledge spaces [that] are often hard to discern and bring into visibility’.1 Using a range of correspondence from archival sources in Britain and contemporaneous material of the day, this chapter considers the ways in which official interests and activities were shaped by factors such as commercial ambitions, diplomatic influence and the responsibilities of the British consul-general as the most senior political agent in the Regency. The role of the consul, in particular, his initiative in developing an ambitious vice-consular network, is an important component in understanding the shape and priorities of the British intelligence-gathering process in North Africa.

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The reports and dispatches to and from Tripoli indicate that developments in the African, European and Ottoman arenas competed for the attention of British officials at both the centre (London) and periphery (North Africa) of the empire. The communications network that encompassed and traversed these arenas will shed light on the ways in which key intelligence-communication points (or individuals, officials and departments) worked together in the service of the British Empire and the vital place and role of the British consul and consulate in shaping and contributing to such a network. Within this context, while the British bridgehead constituted a physical diplomatic and consular presence, it also embodied a network of privileged relationships and a protected imperial space that was significantly influenced by the British consul-general.2

The role of the British consul at Tripoli Since the launch of Napoleon Bonaparte’s eastern expeditions to conquer Egypt and Syria, and following Russia’s annexation of the Crimean peninsula from the Ottoman Porte, Britain’s primary concern remained in preserving the status quo and relative stability of the Mediterranean as well as preserving her empire in India. This necessitated an active intelligence-gathering network that centred on British agents on the ground being able to collect and disseminate information of value to government. From Tripoli, Consul Warrington created an expansive and promising intelligence-gathering network through the establishment of vice-consular ‘offices’ in and beyond the territories of the Regency. Consul Warrington held rank as Colonel in the British army prior to his appointment as consul to Tripoli. Warrington replaced William Wass Langford as the new permanent consul and duly arrived in Tripoli in November 1814, with a large family and in significant debt.3 He remained as consul in Tripoli until 1846. Warrington carefully cultivated an influential position in Tripoli by editing information sent by his vice-consuls to include only details that he felt would be of interest to the Secretary or Under Secretary of State. As we will see, this process was inadvertently encouraged by the War and Colonial Department (hereafter the Colonial Department).

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With rebellions in the provinces of the Ottoman Empire and the ascendency of British power in the Mediterranean, political developments in the Eastern Mediterranean increasingly focused on countering threats to the territorial integrity and sovereignty of the Sublime Porte. These concerns included a focus on Egypt, as it provided the most direct routes, both overland and through the Red Sea, to the Middle East and, crucially, India. The activities of Mohamed Ali (1769–1849) and his ambitions in North Africa and the Levant were a matter of concern for the British government. The consul therefore took care to report on any developments to the east of the Regency, and in 1814, provided intelligence on Ali’s military activities that included the erection of new forts in Egypt. In 1822, Ali also attempted to secure the strategic territories of Benghazi, Derna and Awjila from Yusuf Qaramanli (1766–1838) in lieu of payment of an outstanding loan, and was rumoured to be planning and undertaking incursions into the kingdoms of East Africa.4 In the wake of Russian territorial gains from the Ottoman Porte, and accompanied by a legacy of deep suspicion of French ambitions in the Levant and beyond, Britain held a series of competing strategic concerns and intelligence-gathering priorities. Warrington’s lengthy consulship allows us to consider the extent to which British imperial agents could successfully obtain information of political and commercial value for the British government.5 While taking into consideration the complexities of the social and political fabric of the Regency and wider region, the focus will remain primarily on the intelligence-gathering process from the British consulate in Tripoli, and the way in which the consul, as the most senior agent, was able to negotiate his responsibilities in the service of government, as well as his own personal interests. Until 1825, the British consuls to Tripoli, in similarity to the consuls posted to the neighbouring Regencies of Tunis and Algiers, had been historically managed by the Levant Company. They were collectively referred to as the ‘Barbary consuls’ or as a part of the Levantine consular network [Grosvenor]. In 1815, the activities of the consuls to Regencies of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli were placed under the purview of the Governor of Malta, Sir Thomas Maitland (1760–1824). While the consuls had been previously permitted to engage in political activities, their roles increasingly came under greater scrutiny, with the oversight of Maitland in 1815, the termination of the Levant Company’s

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charter in 1825 and continued apace with the wide-scale consular reforms of 1835.6 The intelligence-gathering network primarily constituted the consul, his vice-consuls and local informants or collaborators that were Tripoline or foreign residents in the Regency. Intelligence-gathering priorities were shaped by both the consul and by the British government – specifically, the Secretary of State for the Colonial Department. Other parties in this network variously included the Admiralty Office, ministers at the Foreign Office, the Governors of Malta and (to a lesser degree) Gibraltar, the Board of Control, government lawyers and other British agents along the shores of the Mediterranean. During the final two decades of Qaramanli rule in Tripoli, the concerns of government and of the consul moved beyond the protection of existing British interests in the Regency, North Africa and the Mediterranean to establish an extensive vice-consular network. These activities were directed at the expansion of British commerce and the development of relations with the trading powers of central Africa, as well as to actively deterring the commercial and political ambitions of other states in the Mediterranean region, particularly those of France, Russia and the newly ascendant powers of Brazil and Egypt. At the centre of these activities was the drive to maintain and expand the British imperial presence in Tripoli and to protect the British bridgehead as a sphere of power and influence in the region. Throughout his time as British Consul-General and Agent in Tripoli, Warrington occupied and maintained a privileged position over other European consuls in the Regency, including the consul of France. This position was exploited in the exercise of influence over the pasha of Tripoli, Yusuf Qaramanli. Britain’s political privilege was augmented and expanded upon through the initiative of the consul and the cooperation extended to most senior British representatives by Qaramanli. The process of intelligencegathering reinforced the power and privilege exercised by Britain in Tripoli and elsewhere in Africa and the Middle East. The communications infrastructure constructed jointly between the consul and the Colonial Department, however, was not effectively maintained. Instead, the remnants of the viceconsular network and the evolving intelligence-gathering process suggest a British imperial presence that became entangled in the local environment and between the (occasionally) competing priorities of the consul and government.

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Management of communications between London and Tripoli The control of the means and mode of communications was often contested between the Colonial Department (after 1836 the Foreign Office) and the British consul because of, ironically, an absence of communication between the two and, more usually, the overuse of personal initiative by Warrington in Tripoli. The dispatches of the consul and subsequent counter-instructions from the Secretary and Under Secretary of State detail the consul’s determination to pursue his own course of action and defiance of direct instructions. This behaviour increased the longer the consul was in his post. Logistical and practical impediments in the continuity of communications between the British consul in Tripoli and the secretary of state for the Colonial Department in London were affected by the legacy of the management of agents to the Regencies of Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli by the Levant Company, until its formal dissolution in 1825. In the first decade of Warrington’s consulship, the Colonial Department moved to instruct the consul that he must give up the additional responsibilities he had taken up as representative of a number of European states, including Holland, Tuscany and Naples.7 By 1826, the consul no longer acted for any foreign states in a political capacity.8 In addition, the high turnover rate of Secretaries of State within the Colonial Department meant that opinions on issues would at times differ, and in turn the instructions (and permissions) granted to pursue a particular line were subject to change.9 In November 1834, Secretary of State Thomas Spring Rice (1790–1866) wrote to Warrington to direct him that the new pasha, Ali Qaramanli, was correct to blockade any part of his coast ‘with a view to reducing’ the rebels (Mohamed Qaramanli’s supporters) and that this was ‘quite consistent with the Law of Nations’.10 Spring Rice added that any British subjects who attempted to break the blockade would have to ‘bear the consequences’.11 The following year, in May 1835, however, the new Secretary of State Charles Grant (1778–1866) – more usually referred to as Baron Glenelg in the consular correspondence – revised the government’s position and instructed the consul that Ali’s blockade of the coast was now ‘invalid’ and that the new Tripoline government would be responsible for any losses sustained by British subjects.12

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Within this context, therefore, and with up to a three months delay in the receipt of communications, it was no surprise that these circumstances served to encourage Consul Warrington to steer his own course with Yusuf Qaramanli and other sovereigns in central Africa. Warrington held himself and his responsibilities in high regard, locally in Tripoli and in his communications with London. While he received thanks and a gift from the Grand Duke of Tuscany for his services in Tripoli, for example, he later submitted a memorial to the Secretary of State requesting that he be considered for a knighthood for his services to government.13 By 1835, after twenty-one years as the British consul-general in Tripoli, his earlier continued service as an officer in the British army and his dedication to the role of consul to Tripoli, Warrington felt that he had earned the recognition of his peers and ministers, as he had made the case for in his memorial of September 1835.14 The consul’s successful exercise of influence with the pasha of Tripoli, the launch of a series of exploratory missions and communications beyond the Regency, including that with Sultan Mohamed Bello (1781–1837) of the third Sokoto Caliphate, contributed to the consul’s view of his powerful position in Tripoli. Indeed, as a ‘man on the spot’ and as the most senior British agent at the court of Yusuf Qaramanli, the confidence displayed by Warrington in his interactions underscored his belief that he was acting in the service of ‘our Great Nation’, to uphold ‘the honor, the interest and dignity’ of the British flag in a (as yet) uncolonized territory at the periphery of the British Empire.15 Despite the consul’s cultivated sense of his own position, Warrington adapted to his expanding portfolio of responsibilities, and in turn delegated the business of the bridgehead to his vice-consuls in Tripoli, including Joseph Dupuis (1827–33) and in Benghazi, Giacomo (James) Rofsoni (1822–6) and later Thomas Wood (1827–c.1833).16 This delegation included the submission of reports by his vice-consuls. While Warrington probably envisioned that this step would not be objected to by government, because it hastened communications between British offices in the Regency with London, the secretary of state strongly disagreed  – so much so that the Colonial Department returned all reports and dispatches signed and sent by the viceconsuls unread to Warrington. In December 1827 William Huskisson (1770– 1830), as Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, wrote in no uncertain terms to Warrington that vice-consuls were not to address either himself or

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his undersecretaries (specifically R. W. Hay and R. Wilmot Horton) directly. Vice-Consul Dupuis’s letters to Huskisson of September 1827 were returned as the secretary of state ‘cannot notice any communication by him [Dupuis]’.17 The Colonial Department’s efforts to make the accumulation of intelligence on the Regency of Tripoli and its neighbours more systematic are indicative of what Warrington himself felt to be the role of civilized and great nations such as Britain. The consul believed that if sufficient knowledge was obtained about the geography, commerce and politics of the Regency, then British commerce and influence would confirm her superiority and lead to the establishment of a permanent British colonial settlement in Tripoli.18 In July 1815, Warrington wrote to Secretary of State Henry Bathurst (1762–1834) to promote the desirability of the coasts of the Regency, in particular that ‘the Climate & Capability of the Soil is so well known to Your Lordship that I shall suffice it in only saying that it would produce every Article which is now grown in the West Indies’.19 Other than forwarding, translating and occasionally taking it upon himself to suggest a new line of policy with Yusuf Qaramanli, however, Warrington failed to develop any lasting intelligence source from the political elite of the city. Coming from an entirely different direction, however, the consul was approached by the foreign minister to the pasha, Hassuna D’Ghies (1792– 1836 or 1837), with a proposal on how to reach an agreeable approach to eliminate slave trade in the Regency. In April 1826, Undersecretary of State Hay responded that ‘taking the proposal in its present shape, we should only be contracting to pay the Bashaw of Tripoli a given sum of money for diverting this trade into other channels over which we possess less direct means of control [sic]’.20 Hay further emphasized that the likely ‘system of high duties . . . could [never] be consented to under any circumstances’.21 Warrington’s increasing correspondence with powers that challenged the authority and place of the pasha in Tripoli indicated the consul’s growing sense of confidence in the role Britain could have to play in the African interior. In the 1830s, the consul repeatedly corresponded with Mohamed (‘Emhamed’) Qaramanli and with Abd’ al-Jalil Saif al-Nasr on highly sensitive subjects that centred on the contestation of the authority of Ali Qaramanli to succeed his father as pasha of the Regency of Tripoli and the legal status of Fezzan (and whether it was a subject and tributary to Tripoli). Over the course of the

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succession dispute, Warrington’s activities primarily focused on making a case that ‘the people’ of the Regency had expressed their support for Mohamed Qaramanli  – a position that infuriated the secretary of state and for which the consul was repeatedly instructed not to do.22 In February 1835, George Hamilton-Gordon (1784–1860) – more commonly referred to as the Earl of Aberdeen – wrote to Warrington to warn him to stop his ‘active interference’ and ‘intermeddling’ in the affairs of the Regency.23 The consul, however, argued that only once Ali Qaramanli was removed would peace and trade be restored with Mediterranean ports, including with the British garrisons.24 Some communications from Warrington focused on longer-term interests in Central and East Africa. In 1825, the ‘Sovereign’ of the Kingdom of Wadai, Prince Jaffer, was accorded protection and safe passage to Egypt. This assistance was with the intention that the prince return home and assume his rightful place in Wadai.25

The vice-consular network Warrington’s expansion of a network of ‘British offices’ in and beyond the borders of the Regency not only marked a new chapter of British political influence, but these vice-consulates may be seen as the physical embodiment and a key component of the intelligence-gathering process in the North African and the Mediterranean regions. The work of the vice-consular agents, the processing and dissemination of their reports, was an expression of official and unofficial British imperial ambitions. In 1822, with a favourable local political climate, Warrington took the initiative to develop and expand the vice-consular network alongside the launch, in the same year, of a series of exploratory expeditions from Tripoli. The personnel or ‘travellers’ of these missions were employed and instructed by the Association and the Colonial Department. The consul partially built his vice-consular offices using longterm residents of the Regency that were British subjects, fluent in the local languages, familiar with local customs and knowledgeable about the commerce and politics of the Regency. In 1822, this intelligence-gathering network, with the support of the Secretary of State, was developed by the officers and men of the exploratory

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missions. The work of the British consul and vice-consuls was further enhanced in the same year by the arrival of Captain William Henry Smyth (1788–1865) who, utilizing Tripoli as his base, undertook a detailed survey of the coastline of North Africa that included the Regency of Tripoli. In Warrington’s own words, ‘[Smyth’s] labours [are] great, and the communication which He will make to His Majesty’s Govt. will develop the most Important Interest and Events, and of course prove satisfactory to His Majesty’s Government’.26 Following the appointment of Rofsoni as vice-consul to Benghazi in 1822, Benedetto Regiginiani and Pietro (Peter) Caravana were appointed viceconsuls in 1822 and 1831 to the strategically important town of Derna in the east of the Regency. Meanwhile, the consul prioritized the effort to increase the British presence and representation in the interior, by recruiting John Tyrwhitt to Kuka from December 1821 to November 1824, followed by Ernest Toole from August 1823 because of Tyrwhitt’s increasing ill health.27 This effort to develop the vice-consular network was also facilitated by personal favour; because Tyrwhitt received his appointment following a considerable debt that was incurred in 1813 by Warrington to Tyrwhitt’s father, John Terence Tyrwhitt.28 Dr Walter Oudney (1790–1824) was to remain in Murzuq as vice-consul in 1823 and Lieutenant Hugh Clapperton (1788–1827) as consular agent to [Kanem–] Bornu, then under the rulership of Muhammad al-Amin al-Kanemi (1776–1837).29 As well as British subjects recruited locally into the vice-consular network from the exploratory missions, existing staff with local experience were also appointed to more senior positions within the consulate. In May 1801, the consular surgeon Bryan McDonogh was appointed acting consul following the death of Consul General Simon Lucas. The new permanent consul general William Wass Langford also had previous experience in the British consulate in Tripoli, as he had been employed as secretary under Lucas. McDonogh continued to serve as acting consul until the final quarter of 1803, while Langford remained in post as consul until January 1812.30 After the recall of Langford to London, the British government continued to maintain an active British presence and representation at the court of Yusuf Qaramanli by successively appointing two proconsuls, Patrick (Pat) Wilkie and James Somerville, until the arrival of Warrington as the new permanent consul

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general in November 1814. The bridgehead at Tripoli was then augmented by the appointment of an additional agent, Vice-Consul Joseph Dupuis in 1826. With the expansion in the number of British agents in Tripoli, however, there was an increased number of disagreements and disunity between them, including between Warrington Dupuis. In December 1832, Dupuis was accused by Warrington of colluding with Ali Qaramanli’s ministers and acting contrary to the interests of the British flag, and as a result, Dupuis was immediately recalled to London.31 These disagreements were essentially a reflection of Warrington’s perception of his position and attempts to oversee and manage all British activities and communications from the consulate. The main exception, however, was the delegation of the submission of trade reports on British. In addition to the processes of intelligence collection and dissemination, communications between the consul in Tripoli and the Colonial Department reveal much about British imperial interests and strategic concerns in the Mediterranean during the first half of the nineteenth century. Some cases and reports are useful in revealing the layers of diplomatic dialogue to shed light on the official stance of government on politically sensitive issues. For example, the place of the local legal system, including the ‘natural place’ of the Tripoline courts of law and that of the tribunals held according to British law in Malta in the resolution of disputes between the British consul and the pasha of Tripoli.32 Following the Congress of Vienna in 1814–15, which coincided with consul Warrington’s arrival in Tripoli, these conflicts increasingly involved subjects, vessels and cargo that could not be considered as British, or as requiring the intervention and protection of the British consulate. The objective to protect British shipping, property and subjects in a mercantile environment could also often become protracted (such as in the cases of the Flora and Louisa vessels of Hamburgh) and meant that communication channels included other government departments and interested parties. In the case of the vessel Flora, the Foreign Office, the Colonial and War Department, the Admiralty Office, the Lieutenant Governor of Malta, the Tripoline government and the British consulate in Tripoli exchanged correspondence on the matter, because of Britain’s close relationship to the Hanse Towns, and therefore the interests of the British flag.33

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Mediation of knowledge: Local go-betweens and imperial agents The intelligence-gathering process was supported and facilitated by a series of local informants and collaborators in Tripoli. By 1835, and on the rare occasion when Warrington could not obtain a satisfactory response to a series of outstanding British claims on the Tripoline government, the consul was instructed to travel to Istanbul to present the matter directly to the British ambassador, Viscount John Ponsonby (1770–1855), at the Ottoman imperial court.34 Usually, however, in matters of high political consequence, Yusuf Qaramanli would be threatened with a British ship of war and this would come either at the order of the secretary of state at the Colonial Department, or by the consul’s use of precedence and diplomatic privilege.35 The place of the consul as mediator between local (Tripoline) and foreign powers (including British, Tuscan, Swedish and Papal) was an influential one. The dispatches, as the consul becomes more entrenched in his position as the most senior political agent of the ‘most favoured nation’ (Britain), are coloured by his emotive language and frequent tendency to become over-involved in the local affairs of the Tripoline government and the intrigue within the consular corps in Tripoli.36 Warrington’s sense of superiority and his ambition for a permanent British settlement in the Regency routinely encouraged the consul to colour his reports with a sense of urgency and high political import. The series of British exploratory missions and the expansion of a vice-consular network add to the importance of what the consul felt he was undertaking on behalf of the British Empire. After all, Tripoli was a ‘peripheral space’ to empire and a strategic trading port that acted as a gateway into the Sahara and the urban-commercial hubs of Central Africa. It was no coincidence therefore that the communications network of the consul attempted to include the great political leaders of the interior, including Sultan Mohamed Bello, Sheikh Muhammad al-Amin al-Kanemi of Kanem–Bornu and Shiekh Abd’ al-Jalil Saif al-Nasr of Fezzan. In the consul’s drive to explore further into the interior during the 1820s, however, and in the devastating and protracted civil war of the 1830s, it was remarkable that the consul did not utilize local knowledge or make efforts

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to obtain a clearer understanding of the political sensitivities and concern the explorers would cause in Tripoli, the Sokoto Caliphate and Timbuktu.37 This was likely because of the competing priorities facing the consul that included a sense of superiority that he felt ‘naturally’ offered protection to British agents and their activity in the region. By the 1830s, and within the context of the civil war in Tripoli, Warrington became increasingly concerned to maintain the safety of his family in the city, as well as having become deeply involved in supporting a particular side in the succession dispute. The consul’s approach to local developments limited his ability to establish a lasting British influence in the region. The consul also repeatedly ignored instructions from the Colonial Department on Britain’s position in the succession dispute in the Regency.38 While some of Warrington’s shortcomings may be attributed to his self-aggrandizing character and the increasing length of time he had spent in Tripoli, these very factors did not encourage him to make a thorough investigation of the environments his vice-consuls would encounter. The consul’s lack of perspective on political change within the Regency was also reinforced by his perception of his relative ‘immunity’ and Britain’s regional power in the Mediterranean. Warrington’s behaviour contributed to the continuance of the succession dispute between Mohamed Qaramanli and Ali Qaramanli, because the consul continued to express his, and therefore Britain’s, support for the challenger when in fact the British government favoured Ali to succeed, in accordance with the wishes of the Sublime Porte.39 The conflict reached breaking point, however, with the dispossession of increasing numbers of Tripolines and the embargoes on food and goods being imported and exported by both Ali and Mohamed from the ports they variously controlled in Tripoli. In frustration, and with an increasing sense of alarm, the Ottoman Porte moved to secure a dangerously unstable province and retook Tripoli in 1835. While the British government favoured and requested that communications be submitted in a detailed and objective style, as well as adherence to standard reporting templates, currency, and weight conversions, it was also expected that original foreign-language documents would be submitted alongside a translation.40 Until the arrival of the explorers and their own reports to the Colonial Department throughout the 1820s, Consul Warrington had essentially acted as the gatekeeper of intelligence on local fiscal-trade and political matters in

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the Regency. The primary languages received and handled by the consul and his vice-consuls in Tripoli were Arabic and Italian. Warrington, however, frequently appeared unable or unwilling to adhere to the guidance and instructions issued to him on the subject, including the necessity of converting the local weights and currency, as well as the precise translation of documents, accompanied by the original correspondence. While the consul regularly used his children as translators, Warrington employed (without an official salary) one of his children, Frederick, as translator at the consulate.41 Despite this step, Warrington would still fail to submit satisfactory translations documents.42 This in turn caused a good deal of anxiety within the Colonial Department because of the unnecessary delay and ‘extreme inconvenience’ it caused the secretary of state to respond to the subjects of those correspondences.43 The priorities of government and the interests of individual ‘men on the spot’ such as Warrington were not always in harmony  – instead, their objectives reflected activities that competed for the same resources and attention of government that, in some cases, the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury were unwilling to provide.44 In attempting to manage the flow of commercial and political intelligence to London, the consul resented and took great exception to the appointment of some agents who sent communications to London that challenged his official version, as Vice-Consul Dupuis had done in 1833. In addition, in 1823, Warrington wrote to Under Secretary of State Wilmot Horton that the explorer Dixon Denham (1786–1828) was taking part in military activities to the south of the Regency.45 Warrington also managed the accounts and monies for the exploratory missions and attempted to shape the course of their progress into the interior. He was accused (separately) by John Tyrwhitt and Denham of withholding necessary funds, and in Tyrwhitt’s case, leaving him in a state of deep impoverishment. In addition, Warrington rarely forwarded copies of correspondence from the explorers but once again selected excerpts to forward to the secretary of state. This is a further illustration of his efforts to manage the communication network from Tripoli to London. This hands-on management had little to do with the Colonial Department’s later instructions in 1827 for vice-consuls not to address the secretary of state directly, but rather emphasized the consul’s determination that he be the mediator of all intelligence communicated, and that the consul accordingly occupy the most vital link in the intelligence dissemination process.

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Alongside Warrington at the consulate in Tripoli was his good friend and naval surgeon, Dr John Dickson. In 1815, shortly after Warrington’s appointment as consul-general, Dickson arrived in Tripoli as a Royal Navy surgeon. With the sanction of the Admiralty, Dickson also acted as the personal physician to Yusuf Qaramanli for approximately a decade, from around 1817 until 1826. As personal physician to the pasha and his family, Dickson had unprecedented access to the inner court and family of the pasha. It is significant that there is little in the archives containing political intelligence from Dickson, although it is unlikely that the naval surgeon did not procure information of interest to government in London, as well as the consul in Tripoli. Outside of the vice-consular network and consular family, Warrington employed a range of individuals, including brokers and dragomen, to act as go-betweens with the pasha and his ministers. These agents included Xavier Nandi (‘Naudi’) and the consul’s chief dragoman, Mustafa.46 Limited access to the upper echelons of Tripoline society led to a reliance on other sources of information that included other foreign residents and consular families in the Regency, relationships fostered by Warrington over the course of his consulship in Tripoli. The consul also obtained information and spoke of, at times, ‘friendly assistance’ from individuals in Yusuf Qaramanli’s inner circle, including Mohamed Bait-al-Mal, Treasurer to the pasha, and in turn Mohamed and Hassuna D’Ghies, successive foreign ministers to Qaramanli. The assistance D’Ghies and Bait-al-Mal provided Warrington, however, appears to have been limited and provided on an ad hoc basis. This cooperation between members of Qaramanli’s council and the British consul highlights the range of intelligence that was collected and transmitted. In 1822, Warrington procured an interview, through the assistance of Mohamed and D’Ghies, with an unnamed individual to obtain further information about the geography of the interior, particularly on river courses and the means of reaching Timbuktu. Though details pertaining to the course of the river Nile were wildly incorrect, this interview emphasized the good faith the consul placed in the information provided to him by local informants, and the precarious nature of the intelligence-gathering process.47 Looking inward to Tripoli itself, this case emphasizes the importance of oral history and record in and around the Regency well into the nineteenth century. The lack of a print culture encouraged, at the instruction of the British

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government and for the use of the Colonial Department, Foreign Office and judiciary, and other bodies such as the African Association, the undertaking and transcription of interviews, or the submission of written records of oral testimony.48 This was often the case for a wide spectrum of intelligence – from obtaining geographical information on the interior to the formal deposition of leading political leaders in Central Africa for the purposes of undertaking an investigation in the 1826 murder of the explorer Alexander Gordon Laing (1794–1826) and the whereabouts of his papers in the decade following his assassination. The relationship Warrington cultivated with Bait-al-Mal was similarly fragile because Warrington also relied on financial incentive, or the promise of, to procure the cooperation from the pasha’s chief treasurer. In 1827, the consul obtained valuable intelligence on the best means of handling a dispute with Qaramanli over the capture of the British vessel Isis.49 Warrington recommended Bait-al-Mal for ‘further’ financial reward and applied to the Secretary of State for permission to give a gift to the treasurer.50 Without these individuals Warrington would not have been able to carry out the day-to-day business of the consulate or contribute to the development of an influential British presence in Tripoli during the first decades of the nineteenth century. It was this influence that Warrington had so successfully cultivated with the pasha and the active British offices staffed by vice-consular agents that enabled the consul to cultivate and transmit matters of political intelligence, particularly on Tripoli, Egypt, the Ottoman Porte, Central African powers and regional trade.

Conclusion From 1814 to 1836, Warrington attempted to project British influence into North and Central Africa through an expansive British presence and effective intelligence-gathering network. The consul strove to maintain his position of privilege and power by managing both the communications channels and the course of British exploration into the African interior. At the centre of intelligence dissemination, Warrington acted as a mediator of knowledge and information to government in London and elsewhere in

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the Mediterranean. Despite his inability to conform to standard reporting instructions on political and consular matters, he continued to receive official encouragement in his position as a gatekeeper of intelligence reported from the British bridgehead at Tripoli. He remained responsible for the translation and selection of information forwarded to the Colonial Department that may have been procured by him, a family member, or an acquaintance (such as a broker, servant or vice-consul) or someone in the pasha’s service. Through the vice-consular network, the consul inadvertently gave physical expression to the process of intelligencegathering that projected a more powerful impression than intermittent reports and correspondences through transitory agents and travellers. This network was a testament to Warrington’s determination to create a lasting British commercial and political presence in North Africa.

Notes 1 David Turnbull, ‘Boundary-Crossings, Cultural Encounters and Knowledge Spaces in Early Australia’, in The Brokered World: Go-betweens and Global Intelligence, 1770–1820, ed. Simon Schaffer et al. (Sagamore Beach, MA: Science History Publications, 2009), p. 387. 2 See also, John Darwin, ‘Imperialism and the Victorians: The Dynamics of Territorial Expansion’, English Historical Review, 112/447 (1997), p. 642. 3 For further biographical details, see E. W. Bovill, ‘Colonel Warrington’, Geographical Journal, 131/2 (1965), pp. 161–6; J. Wright, ‘Warrington, Hanmer George (1776–1847)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, Jan. 2008. Available online: http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/ article/71826. Accessed 4 July 2017; the wills of Hanmer Warrington, TNA, PROB 11/1999/237, 22 May 1844; PROB 6/224, 1848. On the large debts owed by Warrington, see TNA, Court of Chancery (hereafter C) C 13/83/21 and C 13/2101/9. 4 Warrington to Bathurst, 24 August 1817 (The National Archives, Kew, Foreign Office, hereafter TNA FO) TNA FO 76/11; Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 19 October 1822, TNA FO 76/16; Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 22 November 1823, TNA FO 76/17. 5 See Christopher Bayly, Empire and Information: Intelligence Gathering and Social Communication in India, 1780–1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Bayly’s studies of British intelligence-gathering in India up to the

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6

7 8 9 10 11 12 13

14 15

16

17 18

19

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Great Rebellion of 1857–8 and the processes of social communication in a preprint society. C. R. Middleton, The Administration of British Foreign Policy (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1977); G. R. Berridge, British Diplomacy in Turkey, 1583 to the Present: A Study in the Evolution of the Resident Embassy (Leiden: Brill, 2009). On the Levant Company and the early management of British consuls in North Africa (and the wider Levant), see A. Wood, A History of the Levant Company (Abingdon: Psychology Press, 1964), 59–63; D. C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service: British Consuls since 1825 (London: Archon Books, 1971); R. A. Jones, The Nineteenth-Century Foreign Office: Administrative History (London: London School of Economics and Political Science, 1971). Warrington to Bathurst, 9 June 1826, TNA FO 76/20. Ibid. Spring Rice to Warrington, 17 November 1834, TNA FO 76/41; Glenelg to Warrington, 18 May 1835, TNA FO 76/41. Spring Rice to Warrington, 17 November 1834, TNA FO 76/41. Ibid. Glenelg to Warrington, 18 May 1835, TNA FO 76/41. For a copy of Warrington’s memorial to King William IV, Warrington to Glenelg, 27 September 1835, TNA FO 76/39, and for the Secretary of State’s response, Glenelg to Warrington, 27 November 1835, TNA FO 76/41. Ibid. See, for example, Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 31 March 1823, TNA FO 76/17; Warrington to Murray, 5 August 1828, TNA FO 76/23. For some literature on the ‘man on the spot’, see Martin Lynn, ‘Consuls and Kings: The Role of the “Man on the Spot”, and the Seizure of Lagos, 1851’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 10/2 (1982), pp. 150–67; David McLean, War, Diplomacy and Informal Empire and the Republics of La Plata, 1836–1853 (London: I. B. Tauris, 1994). Thomas Wood was appointed to succeed Rofsoni in 1827, Hay to Wood, 14 February 1827, TNA FO 76/40; Goderich to Warrington, 6 August 1827, TNA FO 76/40. Wilmot Horton to Warrington, 1 October 1827, TNA FO 76/40; Huskisson to Warrington, 28 December 1827, TNA FO 76/40. Various reports from Warrington, including, Warrington to Bathurst, 21 July 1815, TNA FO 76/9; Warrington to Bathurst, 9 February 1825, TNA, FO 76/19. Cf. C. R. Prinsep, ‘Grounds of an Opinion in Favour of Colonizing the Africa Coast of the Mediterranean from Great Britain’; Prinsep to Castlereagh, 26 June 1816, TNA FO 8/2. Warrington to Bathurst, 21 July 1815, TNA FO 76/9. See also Warrington, ‘Extracts from A Short Account of Tripoli in the West ’ (1844), on the topics

54

20 21 22 23 24

25

26 27

28 29

30

31 32

33

34

Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World of: ‘Desert’, ‘Mountains’, ‘Rain’, ‘Temperature’, ‘Population’, ‘Districts’, and ‘Sovereigns of the Interior’. Warrington to Bathurst, 27 February 1826, TNA FO 76/20; Hay to Warrington, 30 April 1826, TNA FO 76/40. Hay to Warrington, 30 April 1826, TNA FO 76/40. Aberdeen to Warrington, 2 February 1835, TNA FO 76/41. Ibid. Warrington to Spring Rice, 23 November 1834; Warrington to Spring Rice, 14 December 1834, TNA FO 76/37; Aberdeen to Warrington, 2 February 1835, TNA FO 76/41. Bathurst to Warrington, 30 December 1825, TNA FO 76/40; Henry Salt to Dudley, 13 July 1827, TNA FO 76/22; Warrington to John Barker, 13 June 1827, TNA FO 76/22; Barker to Salt, 10 July 1827, and various other correspondences on the subject of the Prince, TNA FO 76/23; Bathurst to Warrington, 30 December 1825, TNA FO 76/40. Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 9 June 1822, TNA FO 76/16. Warrington to Bathurst, 12 December 1821, TNA FO 76/12; Warrington to Hay, 15 April 1826, TNA FO 76/20; Mohamed Sadave to Warrington, 20 March 1825, TNA FO 76/19. Sadave had been employed as a servant to Tyrwhitt. Warrington to Hay, 15 April 1826, TNA FO 76/20. Warrington to Bathurst, 17 August 1826, TNA FO 76/20; Oudney to Warrington, 14 July 1820; Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 11 March 1823; Warrington to Oudney, 25 August 1823; Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 6 October 1823, TNA FO 76/17. See also, Dixon Denham to Warrington, 2 March 1820, TNA FO 76/16; Denham to Warrington, 11 October 1822, TNA FO 76/16. For detailed accounts of the consulships of Simon Lucas, Bryan McDonogh and William Wass Langford, see Sara ElGaddari, ‘Britain’s Diplomatic Engagement with North Africa: Consular Activity in Tripoli, 1795–1832’, unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Hull, 2016. Warrington to Goderich, 29 December 1832, TNA FO 76/32; Goderich to Warrington, 6 February 1833, TNA FO 76/41. Cf. C. R. Pennell, ‘Treaty Law: The Extent of Consular Jurisdiction in North Africa from the Middle of the Seventeenth to the Middle of the Nineteenth Century’, Journal of North African Studies, 14/2 (2009), pp. 235–56. See various letters on the capture of the Flora, including Backhouse (Foreign Office) to Hay (Colonial Department), 26 November 1827; Evers to Warrington, 31 January 1828, TNA FO 76/22 and FO 76/23. On the Louisa schooner of Hamburg, see Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 10 July 1823 and Warrington to Bathurst, 11 June 1826, TNA FO 76/20. Glenelg to Warrington, 27 November 1835, TNA FO 76/41.

Warrington and Imperial Intelligence-gathering 35 ElGaddari, ‘Britain’s Diplomatic Engagement with North Africa’. 36 Warrington to Hay, 24 September 1827, TNA FO 76/12; TNA, Warrington to Hay, 9 February 1832, TNA FO 76/31. 37 D’Ghies to Goderich (no date) (The National Archives, Kew, Colonial Office, hereafter TNA CO), TNA CO 537/152. 38 See, for example, Aberdeen to Warrington, 2 February 1835, TNA FO 76/41. 39 Spring Rice to Warrington, 30 October 1834, TNA FO 76/41; Aberdeen to Warrington, 2 February 1835, TNA FO 76/41. 40 Bathurst to Warrington, 3 March 1827, TNA FO 76/40; Hay to Warrington, 29 July 1834, TNA FO 76/41. 41 ElGaddari, ‘Britain’s Diplomatic Engagement with North Africa’, in particular, pp. 178 and 275. 42 Hay to Warrington, 5 November 1825, TNA FO 76/40; Hay to Warrington, 1 December 1825, TNA FO 76/40. 43 Hay to Warrington, 1 December 1825, TNA FO 76/40. 44 Warrington to Bathurst, 21 July 1815, TNA FO 76/9. 45 See, for example, Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 2 August 1823, TNA FO 76/17. 46 On Nandi, see, for example, Planta to Horton, 28 November 1825, TNA FO 76/19. On Mustafa, see Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 10 July 1823 and Warrington to Bathurst, 11 June 1826, TNA FO 76/20. 47 Warrington to Wilmot Horton, 12 July 1822, TNA FO 76/16. 48 Bayly, Empire and Information. 49 Codrington to Warrington, 12 November 1827 and Warrington to Codrington, 15 November 1827, TNA FO 76/23. 50 Warrington to Murray, 18 August 1830, TNA FO 76/27.

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3

The Russian consulate in the Morea and the outbreak of the Greek Revolution, 1816–21 Lucien J. Frary

The archives of the Russian consulate-general in the Morea during the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the Greek War of Independence illuminate a crucial moment in the history of nineteenth-century international relations.1 At the epicentre of the Christian–Muslim collision that detonated in the spring of 1821, the Russian consul Ioannis N.  Vlassopoulos (1764– 1836) compiled wide-ranging reports containing valuable intelligence about military affairs, the actions of British and French agents and about the functioning of the Ottoman government. Vlassopoulos’s consular dispatches provide vivid reflections on the conditions of the rayah (non-Muslims) on the eve of the Greek revolt, reflections that are all the more valuable because of the author’s native familiarity with Ottoman life and society. He also kept detailed registers of shipping, composed essays on topography and geography, and predicted that the creation of an independent Greek kingdom would benefit Russian commercial enterprise. Stationed at the bustling port-city of Patras, Vlassopoulos maintained a network of informants that extended the parameters of Russian influence in the Mediterranean, the Balkans, and beyond. Vlassopoulos was a long-time Russian agent and a sensitive chronicler of foreign affairs. A study of his tenure as Russian consul in the Morea (1816– 21), sheds light on the Russian-British rivalry in the Mediterranean, European intervention in Ottoman affairs, and the secessionist movement of Tepelenli Ali Pasha. During an era characterized by turmoil and decentralization, the vibrant activity of the Russian consul was pivotal in generating the impression

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of an imminent tsarist intervention on behalf of Orthodox Christians. Rumours of his involvement in the Philiki Etaireia (Friendly Society), the nationalist organization that explicitly aimed to create an independent Greek state, helped catalyze the military action against the sultan. In March 1821, events became so volatile that Ottoman soldiers burnt the Russian consulate to the ground, forcing Vlassopoulos and his family to flee to Ithaca. Through the prism of the Russian consul, this chapter wagers that without the expectation of tsarist support, the Greek revolt may not have occurred when it did.

The Tsar’s loyal Greek: Ioannis N. Vlassopoulos Ioannis Nikolaevich Vlassopoulos served the Russian Empire as protégé, naval officer, and consular agent for nearly fifty years.2 His thrilling career exemplifies the role of Greeks in tsarist service during the twilight of the Old Regime, when cosmopolitan individuals like him provided intelligence and performed diplomatic tasks for the foreign ministry in St. Petersburg. Born in Ithaca, Vlassopoulos grew up in a multi-ethnic and polyglot milieu. In 1788, he volunteered for foreign service when he enlisted in a Russian flotilla sent to the Mediterranean under Empress Catherine II (1762–96). Because of his fluency in French and Italian, Ioannis Vlassopoulos was chosen by Russian officers to conduct intelligence operations in the Adriatic. He readily proved a successful leader of soldiers and sailors, demonstrated administrative skills and enjoyed a distinguished advancement through the Russian ranks. In 1790, he led seventy-five Greek volunteers in naval operations in the harbours of Messenia, Syracuse and Livorno. During the Russian-Ottoman War of 1787– 92, he commanded a Russian war vessel in operations in the Black Sea. Two years later, in St. Petersburg, he received the military rank of captain and became a Russian subject. He also joined the army and studied at the Military School in Moscow.3 During the reign of Tsar Paul I (1796–1801), Vlassopoulos moved up the state ranks. In 1796, the tsar sent him on a secret assignment to the Venetian Republic, where he cultivated friendships with the Ottoman Christian elite, including Tzanetakis Grigorakis, the bey of Mani. In October 1798, when French troops occupied Venice, Vlassopoulos took refuge on the island of

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Corfu, where he joined the Russian-Ottoman allied expedition under ViceAdmiral Fedor F. Ushakov.4 In November 1798, he negotiated with Ali Pasha, the Ottoman ayan of Ioannina (Yanya), for the first time. Ali’s troops had just taken control of Preveza while the French armies had established positions in the Ionian Islands.5 Vlassopoulos warned Ali Pasha of a Russian-led military operation in Epirus if the island of Lefkada were attacked. He also enlisted more than fifty Greeks into Russian service.6 During a daring operation on Ithaca, he distinguished himself by rescuing 400 people and their property from the French military. In 1801, he received the Order of John of Jerusalem and the rank of court councillor (equivalent to a lieutenant colonel in the army). The reign of Alexander I  (1801–25) marked the zenith of Vlassopoulos’s career. In 1804, he became the Russian consul in Preveza, where he was responsible for protecting Russian merchants and overseeing affairs with the Ottomans. His stream of reports, during the Napoleonic Wars, supplied St. Petersburg with information about troop movements, shipping, trade and internal affairs. His reports provide unique details about the conflict between Ali Pasha of Ioannina and Ibrahim Bushati of Scutari.7 In November 1805, Vlassopoulos was given command of a galliot and two armed barques to gather data about the military and maritime strength of Ali Pasha, Ibrahim Bushati, Abdoula Bey and other local leaders.8 In 1806, under Admiral Dimitri N. Seniavin, the commander of the Russian Second Archipelago Expedition, Vlassopoulos was instrumental in various ways on the Russian fleet, including twenty ships of the line, frigates, smaller vessels and a land force numbering nearly 13,000 men, which reasserted control of the southern Adriatic. Admiral Seniavin’s squadron disrupted the enemy’s sea trade, occupied parts of Albania, captured Kotor and laid siege to Dubrovnik. Vlassopoulos’s leadership induced scores of Ionian Greeks to join the empire of the tsars, including future members of the Greek Battalion of Balaklava.9 Vlassopoulos thrived during moments of excitement and adventure. In one of his most risky undertakings, in the fall of 1806, during the FrenchPrussian battles at Jena-Auerstedt, he negotiated directly with Ali Pasha in Preveza. Rumours of another Russian-Ottoman war gave Ali a chance to expand his influence by taking the town of Vonitsa. Vlassopoulos’s diplomacy focused on defending the neighbouring population of Parga, whose leader, Hasan Agha Tsapari, had sought Russian support.10 The

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leaders of the Septinsular Republic also appealed to the Russian consul for assistance. During the talks in Preveza, Vlassopoulos was taken prisoner by Ali Pasha. After sixty days, he was exchanged for a son of the pasha’s commanders. A  period of repose followed the Treaty of Tilsit. In 1810, Vlassopoulos returned to Russia. The next major phase in Vlassopoulos’s career began in 1816, when he was appointed the consul-general in the Peloponnese, with residence at the leading commercial town of the region, Patras. Fifty-four years old, Vlassopoulos was a premier Russian specialist in Ottoman affairs with a broad network of intermediaries and an impressive knowledge of languages. Another Greek in Russian service, Ioannis Paparrigopoulos, became his chief assistant and the first dragoman of the consulate.11 Vlassopoulos’s foundational instructions were composed by the outgoing Russian consul in the Morea, Matvei I.  Minchaky. Vlassopoulos’s primary charge was the enforcement of the rights and privileges of Russian protégés and subjects based on the Ottoman system of capitulations. He was to maintain polite and complaisant relations with what Minchaky referred to as ‘the Greeks’, thereby ensuring the maintenance of regular trading contacts. Minchaky warned of ‘the great avidity of the Turks, who on every occasion should be contained and reprimanded’ and insisted that the Russian flag be respected in all ports of the Morea. Vlassopoulos’s position also entailed detailed recording of the condition of Ottoman fortresses and garrisons of Modon, Coron and Navarino. According to Minchaky, the current pasha, Shakir Ahmet, had good intentions and an excellent provisional kaymakam (governor). Yet Shakir Ahmet’s devotion to prayer, which Minchaky described as superstitious, and severe asthma removed him from day-to-day administration, which was left in the hands of corrupt deputies. Minchaky remarked that the ‘Turks have a hatred for Russia that is more or less common with all Muslims. It is only by a frank and dignified course of action . . . that I succeeded in overcoming my inveterate aversion towards some of them’. Yet he boasted of good contacts with the voivode (governor) Mustafa Bey as well as the wealthiest Muslim patrons in the area. Minchaky emphasized the benevolent attitude of the Christian population towards Russia: ‘The general affection of the Greeks for Russia and for the August Imperial Court, which has always cherished them, and the enthusiasm with which they exhibit this sentiment are facts which

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cannot be ignored.’ More specifically, he testified to the deep affection which the Christians of the Peloponnese had for Russia.12 Once installed as consul, Vlassopoulos commenced to fill his dispatches to Constantinople with observations about the population, roads, fortresses, revenues, and churches under his jurisdiction. His diplomatic pouches often included pamphlets and extracts from the press in Malta and the Ionian Islands that shed light on domestic and international affairs. Naturally, the Russian vice chancellor for foreign affairs, Ioannis Kapodistrias, showed keen interest in these reports. While in Corfu in 1817, Kapodistrias wrote Vlassopoulos for specific information about conditions in Epirus and the Peloponnese.13 Vlassopoulos explained that he was working to win over the local Greek captains, who appeared to favour the rule of Ali Pasha over that of the sultan. He promised to gather as much accurate information as he could about the Ottoman military; letters from local Christian leaders included in his reports provide insider perspectives. Thanks to Vlassopoulos’s contacts, the Russian foreign ministry and embassy in Constantinople had a clear understanding of Peloponnesian affairs when the general revolt commenced. The most common consular task consisted of interceding for Russian merchants and beratlis (holders of berats, a deed or patent from the sultan granting special privileges) engaged in long-distance trade. About three times a month, Vlassopoulos sent dispatches dealing with Russian-flagged Greek vessels and merchants. At times, his intervention proved significant. One case concerned the Greek captain Niccola Tsiandino, commander of the corvette Amazon, who, while transporting wheat off the coast of Epirus, was harassed by canon fire from the ships of Ali Pasha’s son Veli. The captain informed Vlassopoulos of his risky voyage and appealed for intervention. Luckily, for Russian-flagged Greek captains, Vlassopoulos’s written complaints based on the rights of extraterritoriality put an end to similar vexations against ships anchoring at fortress-ports in the Morea.14 Another case concerned a Russian agent based in Nafplion named Stratis Sciotos, who extorted money from another Russian-Greek captain, Demetrios Kripofille, when the latter came to port. Vlassopoulos deplored such abuses of the system and aimed to find better agents at important ports like Nafplion.15 In 1819, the Russian ship Radamanthus, commanded by Captain Christopho Giucich, and owned by a Russian merchant in Constantinople named Apostolos

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Duma, had been forced to jettison a load of grain (180 kilos), during a tempest on his voyage to Livorno. Limping into Patras with as much cargo as his ship could handle (about 6,000 kilos), in desperate need of repairs, Captain Giucich appealed to the Russian consulate for aid. Vlassopoulos arranged for grain storage and financed the ship’s maintenance.16 Circumstances like these clearly justified the presence of a consulate in the Morea. Russian ambassador in Constantinople Grigorii Stroganov was considering new such posts in Athens, Nafplion, and several islands of the Aegean when the Greek rebellion intervened.

Patras and the Greek War of Independence At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Patras was the largest and most prosperous town in the Peloponnese, where streets, courtyards and cafés came alive with talk and enjoyed an air of lightness and energy. According to Thomas Gordon, a British army officer stationed in Greece for nearly three decades, Patras was ‘the most flourishing and populous city of the peninsula of Pelops, the emporium of its trade, and residence of the foreign consuls and merchants; seated in a delightful plain of the Achaian shore, at the foot of lofty hills, surrounded by a fertile country, and containing 18,000 inhabitants, twothirds of whom were Greeks’.17 For more than a millennium, a fortress on a north-eastern hill helped protect the town’s inhabitants. The spot was special, for the town itself could be abandoned without losing the citadel. Byzantine, Venetian, and Ottoman military defences reflected the locale’s prestige, and the proximity to the Ionian Islands, under British control from 1815 to 1863, increased its commercial and strategic importance given the impressive exchange between the western and eastern sections of the Mediterranean. Under Ottoman rule, habitués of the Patras sidewalk cafés read foreign newspapers and socialized, mixed gossip with political discussion, and occasionally cultivated friendships and networked. The presence of visiting strangers and the sound of alien tongues were commonplace. The setting was ideal for Christian-Ottoman merchants to profit, and for intellectuals to engage in debate. For historians, Patras is a key locale to chart two of the primary causes of the Greek Revolution:  the breakdown of the Ottoman system of governance and the escalation of the expectation for Russian intervention.18

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During Vlassopoulos’s tenure as consul, the town became a locus for conspiracies, including the Philiki Etaireia.19 After moving its headquarters from Odessa to Constantinople in 1818, the society succeeded in recruiting primates, churchmen, merchants, and klephts (brigands) within Ottoman territory. In the same year, Bishop Gregorios Germanos and the future Greek rebel leader, Theodoros Kolokotronis, also joined. Many Greeks in Russian service joined or supported the society. According to the Greek historian Ioannis Philimon, Vlassopoulos became a member of the Philiki Etaireia in 1816, as did his dragoman, Ioannis Paparrigopoulos.20 Russian archives reveal Vlassopoulos’s connections to the church elite, prominent merchants, and primates. Yet they are silent about his participation in the secret society.21 By the second decade of the nineteenth century, eight European states maintained consulates in Patras: Britain, France, Russia, Prussia, Austria, Holland, Spain and Sweden. Whereas the British and French consuls oversaw the majority of the town’s economic activity, a common religion gave Orthodox Russia unique influence among the Orthodox. Vlassopoulos’s peers included the French consul Hugues Pouqueville, the younger brother of the famous travel-writer and diplomat, F. C. H. L. Pouqueville, the Dutch representative Jean Solair and the British consul Philip Green.22 Vlassopoulos’s dispatches describe the turmoil prevalent at the time. Expressions such as ‘the Morea is in a state of complete anarchy’, ‘the Ottoman officials have an inability to govern’ and ‘the Morea is in a horrible condition’ apparent in his reports from 1816 onwards provide ample forewarning of the unrest to follow. Deputies in Vlassopoulos’s employ included his son Konstantinos (Navarino) and two reaya  – Athanasios Kyriako (Kalamata) and Stavros Nikolaos (Corinth). These sources and others indicate why Vlassopoulos frequently complained about the British. In September 1819, an uprising of 4,000 armed men on Lefkada triggered by the imposition of new taxes spawned an influx of troubling news. Kapodistrias dispatched Vlassopoulos on a fact-finding mission to Zakynthos, where he distributed relief funds to poor Greek families, priests and beggars. Weeks later, Vlassopoulos reported that British naval vessels were harassing the residents of Parga, who were seeking protection from the tsar. In his report to St Petersburg, Vlassopoulos described the fortifications and referred to Ali’s desire ‘to know if the court of Russia would be willing to enter into special relations with him’. According

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to Vlassopoulos, the British, to counteract the potential extension of tsarist influence, were trying to cultivate partisans in the Peloponnese, especially among the people close to Petros Mavromichalis, ‘the last Christian hegemon of Mani’.23 Ionian notables, visiting Patras, sought protection from Russia against arbitrary British practices, an occasion that enabled Vlassopoulos to strengthen his network of contacts.24 The consular correspondence of 1820 contains similar dispatches detailing regional conditions, episodes of strife between Ottoman-Greek merchants and British ship captains, the actions of Ali Pasha’s troops and the Ottoman response. In the spring, Ali Pasha again tried to secure Russian support. This time, Vlassopoulos sent Paparrigopoulos on assignment to Preveza to engage in secret talks with Ali. Paparrigopoulos wrote that Ali Pasha recognized the precariousness of his position. Since no amount of gold or money would save him from disgrace with the Ottoman sultan, Ali decided to defend his region with his own troops – about 80,000 strong at the time. He asked ‘for the magnanimity of his Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias, the greatest and most philanthropic of all monarchs . . . to count him among his most loyal subjects’. Ali Pasha urged Paparrigopoulos to return to Patras with haste, for he awaited a favourable response from Vlassopoulos.25 Vlassopoulos received praise from superiors for his conduct during these tense times. Adviser to the Russian embassy in Constantinople Dmitrii V.  Dashkov confirmed his trust and confidence in Vlassopoulos, who conducted himself with highly commendable vigilance. St. Petersburg seemed as concerned about the dangers of British rule in the Ionian Islands as the aggression of Ali Pasha.26 Vlassopoulos knew that Tsar Alexander favoured the integrity of the Ottoman Empire, but tantalizing snippets of information about Bishop Germanos, whose ‘virtues inspire a just veneration throughout the Peloponnese’, and sympathetic appraisals of Ali Pasha, suggest that Vlassopoulos considered the possibilities of Greek independence. Local sentiments clearly favoured Russia. According to Dashkov, by the summer of 1820, all the Greeks of the Morea exhibited an extreme attachment to Russia: ‘the very word Russia opens everyone’s hearts’.27 Claims about religious war and the arrival of Russian warships in January 1821 were in part assisted by the success of Ali Pasha in diverting Ottoman resources from the Peloponnese. In early March, Vlassopoulos reported

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that the agitation in the Morea had become general. Defiant Christians were calling on all the primates and bishops to assemble without delay at Tripolitsa. ‘Everything is a mystery and the mystery is impenetrable’, wrote Vlassopoulos to Stroganov. He went on to describe the warlike preparations of Kolokotronis warning that ‘the Greeks of the Morea appeared ready to throw off the yoke of slavery and despotism’. On 4 March 1821, Vlassopoulos wrote that ‘We see nothing but the continuation of preparations for war, always founded on the imperceptible cause that the Greeks threaten to raise the country in revolt. The Turks are themselves so convinced that they already wish to commence massacres at Tripolitsa.’28 His dispatch to Baron Stroganov continues, Of the notion that the Greeks of the Morea aim to cast off the yoke of slavery, I am ignorant, but I share the opinion that they are of this intention. I attribute the cause to the desire to end the evils that they have experienced under the despotism. Be this opinion as it may, I must not hide from Your Excellency the afflictions which they suffer, while watching this unfortunate country succumb to the dangers of arbitrary rule. My efforts to combat the malevolence and the calumny that one always finds here gives means to inspire the heart to move the hand to execute the project of the so-called revolt. Although this news is far from having lost an audience among the most sensible of the Ottomans, it has missed the mood of the less civilized, who allow themselves to be dominated by tradition and prejudice.29

Vlassopoulos ended his report by stating:  ‘my situation is without doubt painful, for whatever efforts I make to diminish these principles [of Ottoman calumny, barbarism, and malevolence], I am never able to do enough, or to prevail’.30 At this point, the Muslim population of Patras began moving families and possessions into the old fortress, while the Christians were hiding their goods or shipping them to the Ionian Islands. No gunpowder or bullets could be found. Subsequently (as the story is traditionally told), Bishop Germanos left Patras for Tripolitsa, where he had a meeting with the Ottoman governor Kemal Bey and various Christian primates. En route he stopped at Kalavrita, where he feigned an illness and created a ruse alleging an impending massacre of Christians. Christian captains began attacking Muslims when, on 25 March 1821, Germanos arrived at the monastery of Agia Lavra, where he was greeted by a thousand armed peasants. The primates of the region were waiting for news

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about Russian action before taking the final decision to start the revolution.31 In a famous sermon, Germanos promised the people a miracle and urged them to take up arms against the Turkish rulers. As the crowd of observers grew, Germanos distributed consecrated bread, and prayed for the strength to defend the Greek people and the altar.32 A Scottish historian George Finley wrote, ‘never was a solemn service of the Orthodox Church celebrated with greater fervour, never did hearts overflow with sincerer devotion to Heaven, now with warmer gratitude to their church and their God’.33 Whatever we may attribute to the actions of Germanos, the real trouble, according to Vlassopoulos, began over an incident on 23 March. Suspicious of Christians hoarding weapons, the Ottoman authorities tried to search the houses of eminent citizens of Patras. One particular dwelling, owned by a prominent Christian who resisted, was set on fire. The flames spread and engulfed about 200 neighbouring houses. Open clashes between Muslims and Christians soon developed into siege warfare, as the Muslims took refuge in the citadel. Christians subsequently brought up guns and began shelling the fortress; the Muslims countered with canon fire. Neither side inflicted serious damage.34 In a letter of 25 March, the British consul Richard Green wrote, ‘at present there may be about 3,000 Greeks in the town, who are employed in firing their small arms at the fortress. They have no cannon, but say they are expecting a large supply of ammunition daily.’35 On 26 March, the leading Christian clergy of the area sent identical petitions to the European consuls. The petition, in Greek, sent to Vlassopoulos, states, the Christian Greek nation, which faces the daily increasing tyranny of the Ottomans that endeavours to destroy the Greeks by one means or another, has decided, resolutely, to die before submitting further to a yoke. With this goal in mind, we have taken up arms, in order to assert our rights. We declare that all Christian powers must recognize the justness of our cause.36

Vlassopoulos replied ambiguously that the Russian emperor wished for peace, but would not stand by idly as events unfolded.37 In early April 1821, thousands of armed rebels gathered in Patras. The insurgents dug a mine and cut off the water supply to the Muslim community inside the citadel. The French consul Hugues Pouqueville noted that an icon was raised in the square of Saint George and a cross lifted above mosques. Muslim children

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were baptised in response to the circumcision of Greek boys, as the conflict developed into a Holy War.38 On Palm Sunday (3 April), the Ottoman regional governor Yusuf Pasha, at the head of several hundred Ottoman troops, came to the aid of the besieged. Inexplicably, the insurgents were surprised while preparing for religious celebrations. Most of them took flight at the presence of Ottoman regular soldiers. The British consul Philip Green wrote, ‘You may imagine their surprise and our consternation, when at day break this morning we were alarmed by the news that the Turks were entering the place.’39 Soon the Peloponnese was in arms as thousands perished in brutal massacres. Eyewitness accounts of the following days present conflicting evidence. The most serious allegations were launched by Pouqueville, who accused the British of instructing Yusuf Pasha on how to relieve the besieged. With the Greeks in retreat, Yusuf Pasha ordered the destruction of Christian dwellings. Windy conditions created a conflagration, and 700 houses were lost. Christians were slaughtered and their bodies desecrated in the streets. With the help of Ottoman troops, Richard Green saved the British consulate by creating a firewall of ruined nearby buildings. Only the English, French and Spanish consulates remained standing. Desperate people boarded ships for the Ionian Islands. Pouqueville and Green claimed credit for rescuing hundreds of Christians from the cinders of Patras.40 Vlassopoulos, deprived of security, decided with the consuls of Sweden and of Prussia to withdraw to Ithaca. Arriving on 14 April, he addressed a letter to Yusuf Pasha in protest, rendering the Ottomans responsible for the outrage to the consulate and the removal of more than 300,000 piastres in deposits.41 His first major dispatch to Russia’s ambassador Stroganov, dated 20 April, described his exodus from the town. He reported that ‘soldiers of the pasha broke down the door of the consulate, and entered inside like ravenous wolves, destroying all of my personal property and sixty other cases containing the affairs of my friends, which were filled with clothes and other precious items, all confided to my protection. The consulates of Holland and Sweden were also reduced to ashes since they were close to mine.’ Fortunately, thanks to the heroic conduct of his son, Konstantinos, the bulk of the consulate archive was salvaged. The book of ministerial correspondence for the year 1820, to which Vlassopoulos referred as la filza, had always remained in his possession. The book was considered as an object of great importance. ‘All the Morea is in

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arms,’ wrote Ioannis Vlassopoulos, ‘the Greeks lay siege to the fortresses of this province with great enthusiasm, despite being deprived of the necessary means for war; the Idraioi, Spetsiotes and Psarianoi [lay siege] by water . . . One waits with hope for the appearance of naval forces [in Patras] and the entry of the bishop, which may occur simultaneously.’42 Vlassopoulos sent passionate appeals to various diplomats, including the French consul Pouqueville, whom he praised for heroic efforts: ‘you see the truly touching nature of the general catastrophe of the city and its inhabitants. Your humane sentiments are truly totally different than those of certain others, who are far from being at all interested in the alarming and disastrous circumstances of the town and its people.’ He lamented the destruction of the Russian consulate: I have learned, with regret, of the fatal fate of the Consulate of His Majesty the Emperor of all the Russias, my August Master, which has been entirely pillaged, set on fire, and reduced to cinders. I just learned from yet another source of the extreme spoliations. The archives have been ravaged by a person closely attached to the Turks, who set traps for me before my departure from Patras. I hope, however, that one day the truth will be completely unveiled.43

He claimed that the ‘Turks are seized with joy just like Nero at the great fire of Rome.’ Finally, he implored Pouqueville to present his letter of protest to Yusuf Pasha.44 Days later, Vlassopoulos detailed his experience in a letter to Kapodistrias: The Ottoman authorities of this city and the pasha of Tripolitsa, alarmed by the rumour that was circulating in the province, began to store provisions in the fortresses and prepare the means to defend themselves. The imprudence of a Greek emissary named Dikeo at last informed the Turks of the secret conspiracy.45

From then on, they wanted to provide assurance to the most outstanding people in the province. The pasha invited all of the bishops and primates on a designated day to Tripolitsa in order to deliberate a reduction in taxes. The primates paid no attention to this perfidious invitation and decided instead to take up arms. Sensing a terrible panic, the Turks took refuge in the fortresses with everything that they could assemble, including munitions and provisions. On 23 March, the Ottoman authorities asked the European consuls resident in

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Patras to intervene in order to persuade the Greeks to put down their weapons and release their families from captivity.46 Vlassopoulos claimed that he aimed to cooperate with the pasha to maintain good order in the provinces of the Sublime Porte, ‘the friend and ally’ of the respective sovereign courts. It was not, however, in his power to compel the Greeks to comply. ‘A few hours later the Turks made an unexpected attack out of the fortress,’ Vlassopoulos continued, and carried fire and flame throughout the city of Patras. The inhabitants walled themselves up in defense and pushed the Turks up to the doors of the citadel. At the same time they warned their fellow Greeks in the neighbouring areas and the Archbishop of Patras [Germanos], who was staying two leagues from the town [at the monastery of Agia Lavra]. The prelate rushed up to become the head of two thousand men. He managed to stop the blaze, surround the fortress, and dispatch messengers throughout the Peloponnese to call the inhabitants to arms and to dig a mine hole in order to destroy the citadel and burn it down.

The work advanced rapidly and the Greeks surrounded and became masters of the fortress once again. But the British consul resident at Patras, a fierce enemy of the Greeks, straightaway dispatched a courier to the British commissioner in Corfu, who for his part rushed to send his approval to the commander of the Turkish squadron stationed at Preveza. The British consul at the same time expressed his anger to the pasha of Nafpactus [Lepanto] who was marching in full haste with a corps of cavalry to help the Turkish garrison of Patras. The Greeks were obliged to lift the siege and take up position two leagues from the city. The Turks again started torching the place [Patras]. At this moment of horror, all the foreign consuls, with the exception of those of England and Spain, took refuge on their merchant ships stationed in the port, planning on returning to their lodgings as soon as security was re-established in the town. The next day, the same men whom I had left to guard my house came to announce that the troops of the pasha had forced open the doors of the consulate and a pack of these furies hurled themselves into the home, destroying and pilfering everything, removing sixty boxes containing various items in storage, and finally setting the whole place on fire. This same fire consumed the homes of the consuls of Sweden and Holland that were situated next to the building of the consulate of Russia.47

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Vlassopoulos claimed that ‘this symbolic violation of peoples’ rights was committed with deliberate intention and clearly devised by the pasha and British consul’. He added that all of the Peloponnese was in arms and that the fortresses were surrounded closely by Greeks: The ships of Idra, Spetses, and Psara in the number of one hundred fifty carry help to the besiegers. Sixteen of these ships are waiting at Patras. The Archbishop suggests attacking the Turks as soon as the Idraioi appear in the harbour. The cities of Corinth and Nafpactus are on the verge of surrendering to the Greeks. Thebes, Thessaloniki, Galaxidi, and Livadeia are in their [the Greeks’] power. Negroponte and Athens are under siege [by the rebels]. Rumelia is ready to rise up, but the people there lack munitions and weapons. The Souliotes give battle valiantly, for Ali Pasha has furnished them with considerable sums. It is presumed that the troops of the sultan that lay siege to Ioannina will be forced to retreat and open a passageway through the defiles of the Pindus.48

Vlassopoulos complained that communications among the Ionian Islands had been interrupted, and that, since his departure from Patras, he had not received official instructions.49 Ambassador Stroganov lauded his conduct, claiming that the Russian consul had made strenuous efforts to mediate and maintain peace. Stroganov also complained of the inability to send messages due to the interference of Ottoman authorities.50 In the following weeks, Vlassopoulos continued to write to Pouqueville, while protesting to Yusuf Pasha. He made strenuous efforts to intervene on behalf of Christians, who had lost property in the opening salvo of what was to become the Greek War of Independence: in early May 1821, he assisted a group of thirteen individuals to escape from the ruined Patras by organizing their voyage to Ithaca on board a Greek vessel; he sought protection for the members of the Russian consulate, including a dragoman named Jean Gianni, and continued to supply St. Petersburg with news about Russian merchant ships (some of which were being searched by Ottoman authorities for military supplies) and, in general, with information about conditions in the Morea, Thessaly, and Albania.51 He claimed that British governors were imprisoning Ionian Greeks for complicity in the uprisings. Vlassopoulos’s son was sent on a mission to the Aegean islands to track down Greek ship captains (with Russian patents) supplying munitions to the insurgents.52

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When Russia severed relations with the Sublime Porte in July 1821, Vlassopoulos travelled to the Aegean islands, where he met with Spyridon Destunis, the Russian consul to Smyrna. From the island of Kythira, he wrote Kapodistrias about Russian monks on Mount Athos and refugees from various areas in revolt. He returned to Corfu in October, whereupon he was placed under surveillance by the British High Commissioner, Sir Thomas Maitland. Unable to verify his passports and generally harassed, he eventually found passage to Trieste in November 1821. He remained worried about the losses that Russia incurred in Patras.53 Stationed in Vienna in the coming years, he continued to supply the Russian government with insights about Ottoman and Greek affairs. Meanwhile, Patras exchanged hands several times. In 1829, the Ottomans still used its harbour to transport troops and anchor its fleet. By then the main town had become a wasteland, with just a few buildings standing.54

Conclusion The action-packed, thrilling career of Vlassopoulos represents one episode in the broader history of Russian intelligence-gathering initiatives in the Ottoman Europe and the Mediterranean in the nineteenth century. Vlassopoulos’s superiors praised his reporting. Contemporary observers, like Thomas Gordon, singled out his behaviour as more sympathetic to the Greek cause than any other consul, but such claims are insufficient to substantiate involvement in conspiracy.55 After the establishment of independent Greece, Vlassopoulos continued to serve the Russian Empire with distinction. With the exception of the years 1821–7, Vlassopoulos held posts in the Peloponnese until 25 October 1836, when he died, in Nafplion, with the rank of state councilor (brigadier general). His obituary appears in Russian newspapers.56 Vlassopoulos received from the Russian state the award of St. Vladimir in 1826 and the Crown of St. Anne Second Class in 1830, among other honours of distinction. Throughout his life, he maintained close contacts with other prominent Greeks in tsarist employ, including Spyridon Destunis (Asiatic Department official and consul in Smyrna), Ioannis Paparrigopoulos (consul in northern Greece and Euboea), Angelo Moustoxidis (consul in Thessaloniki) and Gavriil Katakazy (Russia’s

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first ambassador to independent Greece). His efforts to protect Christians from unfair treatment and, at times, violent reprisals, while expanding Russian economic and political influence, earned him the respect of peers, memoirists and historians. His son, Konstantinos, entered the Russian diplomatic service and dispatched to the Near East. Myth is often a part of the history of a nation: a romantic story of heroism and honour that passes from generation to generation. Like other nations, the Greeks cherish myths about their moment of victory during the War of Independence. One of the more interesting myths concerns Germanos, the bishop of Patras, and his actions – a combination of war cry and pious faith – which led to the outbreak of the Greek revolt. Study of the career of Ali Pasha will never lack fascination and continues to provide historians of the Balkans with rich material relating to nationalism, mountain bandit rebels, the nature of Ottoman rule and the role of religion in identity formation. The view from the Russian consulate in Patras affords us a unique opportunity to investigate fresh and unexplored angles of national myths and legends.

Notes 1 The documents explored here come from the Arkhiv Vneshnei Politiki Rossiiskoi Imperii (Archive of Foreign Policy of the Russian Empire) [hereafter AVPRI] and the Rossiiskii Gosudarstvennyi Arkhiv Drevnykh Aktov (Russian State Archive of Ancient Acts) [hereafter RGADA]. For each source, I cite the exact archival reference, including collection (f.), index (op.), file (d.), and page (l.). The document’s place of composition and date (the Julian calendar used by Russia followed twelve days behind the Gregorian calendar in the nineteenth century), is followed by the archival reference. Selected Russian archival reports during these years are published in Ministerstvo Inostrannykh Del Rossiiskoi Federatsii, Vneshniaia politika Rossii XIX i nachala XX v.: Dokumenty Rossiiskogo ministerstva inostrannykh del , 17 vols. (Moscow: Nauka, 1960–2005) [hereafter VPR]. The translations here are the author’s unless otherwise noted. 2 The dilemma of the orthography of the names of Greeks in Russian service pertains to the individual’s sense of identity and loyalty. In Greek, Vlassopoulos signed his first name Ioannis, in Russian Ivan, in Italian Gianni, and in French Jean. The spelling of his surname fluctuated. On occasion, in Russian, his

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patronymic ‘Nikolaevich’ appears. For consistency this chapter employs ‘Ioannis Vlassopoulos’. See his service record (formuliarnyi spisok), ‘Vlassopoulo, Ivan Nikolaevich’, AVPRI, f. 159, op. 464, d. 693. See also the entry in Nea Domi Egkyklopaideia, 33 vols. (Athens: Domi, 1999), 6: pp. 138–9. See A. M. Stanislavskaia, Politicheskaia deiatel’nost’ F. F. Ushakova v Gretsii, 1798–1800 gg (Moscow : Nauka, 1983); eadem, Rossiia i Gretsiia v kontse XVIII-nachale XIXv.: Politika Rossii v Ionicheskoi respublike, 1789–1807 gg. (Moscow : Nauka, 1976); Norman Saul, Russia and the Mediterranean, 1797–1807 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1970). Ali Pasha of Tepelenli (1750?–1822) was the master of the western part of Rumeli with a central fortress in Ioannina. His ambition at this time was to carve out a separate kingdom, not unlike that of Mehmed Ali Pasha of Egypt. He was assassinated by Ottoman forces in 1822. For an introduction to the Lion of Ioannina, see Katherine E. Fleming, The Muslim Bonaparte: Diplomacy and Orientalism in Ali Pasha’s Greece (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995). See K. G. Machairas, Politiki kai diplomatiki istoria tis Lefkados (1797–1810), 2 vols. (Athens: n.p., 1954), 1: p. 120; Nicholas C. Pappas, Greeks in Russian Military Service in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1991), p. 142. See, G. L. Arsh, Albaniia i Epir v kontse XVIII-nachale XIX v. (Moscow : Nauka, 1963), pp. 221–7, 233–5; Stanislavskaia, Rossiia i Gretsiia, pp. 285–7, 310, 321–2, 332–3. See also, Thomas Gallant, The Edinburgh History of the Greeks, 1768 to 1913: The Long Nineteenth Century (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), pp. 57–60; E. E. Koukkou, Istoria ton Eptanison apo 1797 mechri tin Anglokratia, 3rd edn (Athens: D. N. Papadimas, 1999), pp. 123–79. Mocenigo to Czartoryski, Corfou, 25 November 1805, in G. L. Arsh, I Rosia kai ta pasalikia Alvanias kai Ypeirou, 1759–1831. Engrapha rosikon archeion (Athens: Institouto Neoellikikon Erevnon, 2007), pp. 147–8. S. A. Pinchuk, ‘Balaklavskii grecheskii pekhotnyi batal’on v pervoi chetverti XIX v.’, in K. V. Nikiforov, Greki Balaklavy i Sevastopolia (Moscow : Indrik, 2013), pp. 77–106. See, Vlassopoulos to Hasan Agha Tsapari, Parga, 7 August 1807, in Vasilis Panagiotopoulos, ed., Archeio Ali Pasa: syllogism I. Chotzi, 4 vols. (Athens: Institouto Neoellinikon Erevnon Ethnikou Idrymatos Erevnon, 2009), 1: pp. 603–4; Machairas, Politiki kai diplomatiki istoria tis Lefkados, 2: pp. 522–3; Vlassopoulos to Komoutos, 5 February 1807, ibid., 2: pp. 530–1; VPR 3: 672. See also, C. P. de Bosset, Proceedings in Parga and the Ionian Islands (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1819); Amaury Duval,

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Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World Exposé des faits qui on precédé et suivi la cession de Parga (Paris: Chez BrissotThivars, 1820); Christophoros Perraivos, History of Suli and Parga: Containing their Chronology and their Wars, Particularly Those with Ali Pasha, Prince of Greece (Edinburgh: Archibald Constable and Co., 1823). See his service record (formuliarnyi spisok), ‘Paparigopulo, I. K’., AVPRI, f. 159, op. 464, d. 2565; I. Nikolopulos, Greki v Rossii XVII-XIX vekov (St. Petersburg: Aleteeia, 2007), 120–48; A. N. Goudas, Vioi paralliloi ton epi tis Ellados diaprepsanton andron, 8 vols. (Athens: K. Antoniados, 1869–76), 5:203– 48; T. Kandiloros, I Philiki Etaireia 1814–1821 (Athens: N. D. Phrantzeskaki, 1926), 229, 233–5, 315–18, 353; V. Sphyroeras, ‘O Philikos Ioannis Paparrigopoulos kai o Ali Pasas’, Epeirotiki Estia 1 (1952): 661–71; Pappas, Greeks in Russian Military Service, pp. 301–3. Minchaky to Vlassopoulos, Patras, 2 November 1816, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1216 (1816), ll. pp. 53–7. C. M. Woodhouse, Capodistria: The Founder of Greek Independence (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), pp. 160, 203–4. Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Patras, 18 March 1818, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1218 (1818), ll. pp. 29–30. Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Patras, 20 June 1818, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1218 (1818), l. p. 80. Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Patras, 8 February 1819, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1219 (1819), l. p. 22. Thomas Gordon, History of the Greek Revolution, 2 vols (London: T. Cadell, 1844), 1: p. 145. For the background to the Greek revolt, see Gallant, The Edinburgh History of the Greeks, 1768–1913; Molly Greene, The Edinburgh History of the Greeks, 1453–1768: The Ottoman Empire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015). On Russian expectation, see Paschalis Kitromilides, Enlightenment and Revolution: The Making of Modern Greece (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), pp. 120–33. See, for example, G. L. Arsh, Tainoe obshchestvo ‘Filiki Eteriia’ (Moscow : Nauka, 1965); idem, Eteristskoe dvizhenie v Rossii; Theophilus C. Prousis, Russian Society and the Greek Revolution (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1994); Richard Stites, The Four Horsemen: Riding to Liberty in Post-Napoleonic Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), pp. 186–239. Ioannis Philimon, Dokimion istorikon peri tis Ellinikis Epanastaseos, 4 vols (Athens: P. Soutsa kai D. Ktena, 1859–1861), 1: pp. 39, 389; Arsh, Eteristskoe dvizhenie v Rossi, 224; Gordon, History of the Greek Revolution, 1: p. 178. See, for example, Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Patras, 20 December 1819, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, l. p. 2; Kapodistrias to Vlassopoulos,

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Corfou, 8 April 1819, RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, l. p. 129. See also, e.g., E. Prevelakis and K. Kalliataki Merticopoulou (eds), Epirus, Ali Pasha and the Greek Revolution: Consular Reports of William Meyer from Preveza, 2 vols. (Athens: Akadimia Athinon, 1996), 1: pp. 248–9. Extracts from reports are available in François Pouqueville, Histoire de la régénération de la Grèce, 4 vols. (Bruxelles: Impr. d’Auguste Wahlen, 1825); Philip James Green and R. L. Green, Sketches of the War in Greece (London: T. Hurst, 1827); G. Zora (ed.), Engrapha tou Archeiou Chages peri tis Ellinikis Epanastaseos (Athens: Akadimia Athinon, 1991); Prevelakis and Merticopoulou (eds), Epirus, Ali Pasha and the Greek Revolution. Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Patras, 20 December 1819, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, ll. pp. 17–22. See, for example, Count Sicuro and Count Spiro Flamburiari to Kapodistrias, Zakynthos, 8 February 1820, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, ll. pp. 23–8; Spiro Flamburiari to Kapodistrias, Corfu, 3 April 1820, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, ll. pp. 38–9. Paparrigopoulos’s notes of his secret communications with Ali Pasha, Preveza, 18 April 1820, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, ll. pp. 51–2; Ali Pasha secret verbal communications with Paparrigopoulos, Preveza, 18 April 1820, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 2330 (1820), ll. pp. 468–9; Arsh, I Rosia kai ta pasalikia Alvanias kai Ypeirou , pp. 272–4. Agents in Missolonghi provided Vlassopoulos further details of the local response to the coming war. See, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1220 (1820), ll. pp. 156–8. Spyridon Papandopoulo, Russian vice consul on Corfu, was another key source of information on the actions of Ali Pasha. See, for example, AVPRI, f. 180, op. 517/1, d. 1111 (1820). See also, Stroganov to Kapodistrias, 15 May 1820, Constantinople, VPR 11: pp. 388–90; Philimon, Dokimion istorikon peri tis Ellinikis Epanastaseos, 2: pp. 410–12. Stroganov to Vlassopoulos, 15 May 1820, Constantinople, VPR 11: p. 392; Dashkov to Stroganov, Patras, 26 May 1820, VPR 11: p. 402–4; Kapodistrias to Stroganov, Warsaw, 20 September 1820, VPR 11: p. 524–5. Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Patras, 12 April 1820, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8564, l. p. 61; D. V. Dashkov to Stroganov, Patras, 26 May 1820, VPR 11: pp. 402–4. See also, Theophilus C. Prousis, Russian-Ottoman Relations in the Levant: The Dashkov Archive (Minneapolis: Minnesota Mediterranean and East European Monographs, 2002), pp. 93–5. Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Patras, 4 March 1821 RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, ll. p. 216. VPR, 12: pp. 47–8. Ibid. Ibid.

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31 Douglas Dakin, The Unification of Greece, 1770–1923 (London: Ernest Benn, 1972), p. 40. 32 For Germanos’s memoirs, see E. Protopsaltes (ed), Apomnimonevmata ton Agoniston tou ’21, 20 vols (Athens: Tsoukalas, 1956–9), vol. 3. Pouqueville also told the story in his Histoire de la regeneration de la Grèce, 2: pp. 325–7. Most general surveys of the Greek Revolution contain some version of the Germanos legend. For Germanos’s biography, see D. G. Kampouroglous, Meleti peri tou viou kai tis draseos tou Palaion Patron Germanou (Athens: P. D. Sakellariou, 1912). 33 George Finlay, History of Greece, 7 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1877), 5: p. 150. 34 Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Patras, 27 March 1821, VPR 12: pp. 86–7. Green, Sketches, 19, characterized the exchange as ‘a constant noise with little execution’. 35 Quoted in W. Alison Phillips, The Greek War of Independence (London: Smith, Elder, and Co., 1897), p. 12. 36 VPR 12:632. See also, Zora (ed.), Engrapha ton Archeion Chages peri tis Ellinikis Epanastaseos, pp. 11–12. 37 Vlassopoulos to the Greek clergy, 27 March 1821, VPR 12: p. 86. 38 Pouqueville, Histoire de la regeneration de la Grèce, 2: pp. 333–4. 39 Green, Sketches, p. 23. 40 Germanos, Apomnimonevmata ton Agoniston tou ’21, 3: p. 96, accused Green of ‘every sort of inhumanity in this situation’, claiming that he turned down defenseless women and children. 41 Vlassopoulos to Yusuf Pasha, Ithaca, 14 April 1821, RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, ll. pp. 213–14. In 1821, there were about 20 Turkish piastres to the pound. At the time the pound sterling was worth about 5 dollars (American or Spanish), and just over 100 Russian rubles. 42 Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Ithaca, 20 April 1821, VPR 12: pp. 126–7. 43 Vlassopoulos to Pouqueville, Ithaca, 26 April 1821, RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, ll. p. 215. 44 Ibid. 45 Gregorios Dikaios (Papaflessas), was known for his recklessness and constant promises of Russian aid. See, C. M. Woodhouse, The Greek War of Independence (London: Hutchinson’s University Library 1952), pp. 56–7; Finlay, History, 6: p. 142. 46 Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Ithaca, 29 April 1821, RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, ll. p. 204. 47 Ibid., ll. pp. 205–6. 48 Ibid., ll. pp. 207–8. 49 Vlassopoulos’s general report to St. Petersburg included a letter from Pouqueville: ‘Patras no longer exists! The consulates of France, England,

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Austria, Spain, the ashes and the cadavers are all that remain here of this opulent town and its population. Thankfully those who are dead did not have to view the horrors which have transpired. I have done my job. God has supported me at this terrible time. One day, I hope that the truth will be known. Your son Konstantinos will tell you about what I think is possible for you to do, and about what has occurred since you have left this desolate city.’ See Pouqueville to Vlassopoulos, Patras, 22 April 1821 RGADA, f. 15, op. 1, d. 326, l. p. 219. Stroganov to the Sublime Porte, Constantinople, 7 May 1821, VPR 12: p. 155; Stroganov to Nesselrode, Constantinople, 28 May 1821, VPR 12: pp. 164–5. Vlassopoulos to Condoguri, Ithaca, 2 May 1821, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8605, l. p. 7; Vlassopoulos to Stroganov, Ithaca, 20 April 1821, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8605, l. p. 16; Jean Gianni to Vlassopoulos, Ithaca, 19 April 1821, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8605, ll. pp. 17–18. Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Kythira, 17 August 1821, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8605, ll. pp. 20–3. Vlassopoulos to Kapodistrias, Trieste, 18 November 1821, AVPRI, f. 133, op. 468, d. 8605, ll. pp. 53–6. Ioannis Kallogerakis, the new Russian consul, arrived in October 1828. In 1829, finally ‘liberated’ by Greek forces, Patras began to rebuild. In the ensuing years it became again one of the country’s major trading centers. See, especially, Gordon, History of the Greek Revolution; Ioannis Philimon, Dokimion istorikon peri tis Philikis Etaireias (Nafplion: Kondazis kai Loulakis, 1834); Ioannis Philimon, Dokimion istorikon peri tis Ellinikis Epanastaseos. Severnaia Pchela, no. 281 (8 December 1836); Sankt-Peterburgskii Vedomosti, no. 282 (10 December 1836).

4

Austrian intelligence and the national interest in the Mediterranean region during the early nineteenth century David Schriffl

What was the Austrian national interest in the Mediterranean during the early nineteenth century? Austrian interests in the region certainly changed over time, corresponding to Austria’s strength and position within the international system. But even given these changes, two things are the main points of interest: stability and trade. Austrian interests were concentrated in the Levant, the easternmost part of the Mediterranean, consisting mainly of territories under the sovereignty of the Ottoman Empire. This chapter examines the Austrian national interest in the Eastern Mediterranean during the period between the Congress of Vienna in 1815 and the Syrian intervention in the region in 1840. Under the Habsburgs, Austrian attention and resources were devoted to the task of harvesting the fruits brought to Vienna by the double wedding in 1515. The Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian had signed a treaty with the Polish King Ladislas II, with a view to gaining possession of the Hungarian throne. Louis, the son of Ladislas II, was married to Maximilian’s granddaughter Mary, while Louis’s sister Anna was married to Maximilian himself, on condition that the union could be transferred subsequently to one of his sons. After the Battle of Mohács in 1526 the Kingdom of Hungary became an inheritance of the Habsburgs, but its major part was occupied by the Ottomans and their allies. The defence against the Turks when they besieged Vienna in 1529 and 1683 and the subsequent offensive against them were the primary tasks of Austrian foreign policy, and heavily influencing Austrian policy

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in Western Europe throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. As they made vast territorial gains in southeastern Europe, the peace treaty of Passarowitz in 1718 bringing about Austria’s biggest expansion on the Continent, the Ottoman Empire was a neighbour that became less and less one to be regarded as a threat. This ensured that trade replaced war as the main feature of the relations between the Austrians and the Ottomans. The eighteenth century witnessed the opening of the Adriatic Sea to Austrian merchants, breaking the Venetian monopoly which had effectively existed there as well as in the Levant. The negotiation of favourable trading treaties with Constantinople and the founding of the Orientalische Kompanie (‘Oriental Company’) were vivid signs of this development. Austrian ports like Trieste and Fiume now became boom towns based on maritime trade. Austrian companies of course also served trade routes outside the Mediterranean. Small colonial projects such as the Nikobar islands and a few locations on the African coasts, including modern-day Mozambique and plans to acquire Madagascar, show a limited but nonetheless extant awareness of the potential of global outreach in terms of trade which is still widely underestimated in Austria and other successor states of the Habsburg monarchy. During the early nineteenth century, this global thinking was part of Austrian politics reaching as far as Brazil, but the region where Austria’s merchant fleet played its greatest role – in terms of the number of ships, tonnage and traded value – was the Levant. The Napoleonic Wars threatened the very existence of the Habsburg monarchy, which, for certain periods, fought almost alone against expansionist France, and which could have found itself erased from the map. When the Peace of Pressburg deprived Austria of the major parts of her Adriatic coastline in 1805, the Austrian presence in the Mediterranean was severely weakened by French hegemony. The system established in 1815 by the Treaty of Vienna brought the Austrians back to the table of the mightiest powers in Europe, albeit as the least mighty. In France, the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars was characterized by a lust for adventures in foreign policy which were intended to regain past glories, which were perceived not necessarily as those of the Bourbon monarchy so much as those of the nation-state, irrespective of whichever constitutional framework was in place. By contrast, Austria did not transform herself into a nation-state during the nineteenth century; the

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impulses that other states gained from the mobilization of their populations and their resources in the name of the glory of the nation were missing. In Austria, such nationalistic impulses weakened the state rather than strengthening it. Nevertheless, the Austrians were able to maintain their position as a major European power for the duration of the nineteenth century. During the period between 1815 and 1848, the name of Klemens von Metternich was closely associated with this position. A major asset for Austria after 1815 was the acquisition of Venice, which had been ceded to Vienna under the peace treaty of Campo Formio in 1797. With Venice, Austria gained ships, contacts, merchants, the arsenal and the ports of Trieste and Fiume, all of which boosted and broadened the Austrian maritime presence in the Mediterranean. As the Austrian chancellor and foreign minister, Metternich was provided with a knowledge of the Levant derived largely through the extensive network of Austrian consuls in the region, while people like the Austrian diplomat, statesman and general Anton Prokesch von Osten made possible a policy the primary goal of which was to keep the Ottoman Empire intact while at the same time curbing the imperial tendencies of the other powers in the Eastern Mediterranean so as to keep the trade routes from Venice and Trieste open for the imperial merchant fleet. Just a few selected topics can be presented here in the given space. The scholarly standard regarding Metternich and Austria’s interests in the Eastern Mediterranean is Miroslav Šedivý’s work,1 which provides a thorough examination of every aspect of the matter from the 1820s to the 1840s, and which this chapter uses as its guideline. When considering the forms and extent of Austrian influence, activity, and interference in the Eastern Mediterranean during the first half of the nineteenth century, the Greek question and the Allied intervention in Syria can be considered as pivotal points.

Austrian intelligence in the Levant and the advantage of proximity The question of intelligence-gathering for the Chancellery in Vienna and other responsible institutions like the Hofkammer (the finance bureau) bears many interesting aspects of which two should be considered here in more detail.

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The first is the Orientalische Akademie in Vienna, which was founded by the Empress Maria Theresia in 1754. This institution set new standards for the education and training of Austrian diplomats, especially those destined to be sent to the court of the Sublime Porte in Constantinople.2 As mentioned above, the Viennese court accumulated immense knowledge of the Ottoman Empire as a result of intense and frequent military conflict over a long period of time, as well as sharing a long and often permeable land border with the Porte. The knowledge and contact established during the course of the eighteenth century formed a basis for increased trade and diplomatic contact. The founding of the Orientalische Akademie is a vivid symbol for the growing importance of regular and standardized contact with the court in Constantinople due to the increasing trade volume and the rising level of importance attached to it. The study of oriental languages, customs and laws led to the formation of a reservoir of experts perfectly suited to represent and negotiate in Constantinople and other locations in the Ottoman Empire where Austrian consuls were situated. The main corpus of the documents produced by Austrian diplomats and consuls was used as learning material in the Akademie,3 which went on to form the nucleus of the later Akademie Diplomatische at Vienna, which until today remains the principal institution for the formation of Austrian diplomats. All Austrian ambassadors in the Ottoman Empire – or internuntii, as they were called in a tradition intended to give them priority over the agents of other nations – were alumni of the Akademie. Their training, which saw Austrian diplomats gain knowledge of Arabian, Persian, Turkish and Modern Greek, gave them certain advantages regarding their prestige in Constantinople, and rendered them more agreeable to the Ottomans. Some were even born there, as the children of Austrian diplomats, who would go on to attend the Akademie in Vienna prior to embarking upon diplomatic careers in their own right, often in the same posts as their forebears.4 When Franz Xaver Ottenfels-Gschwind, Austrian Internuntius at Constantinople, was able to address Sultan Mahmud II in 1822 in his own language it was not to his disadvantage, even if the close personal ties and friendly gestures the Turks had made towards the Austrians did not correlate with their influence on the policies of the Porte.5 The Akademie therefore produced the personnel needed for the diplomatic and consular agencies of Austria in the Ottoman Empire. The Internuntius

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in that respect had an important privilege:  he was allowed to nominate the consuls and agents who served under him throughout the empire, sometimes without the sanction or even the notice of the Habsburg court in Vienna.6 The most important diplomatic posts besides the Internuntius in Constantinople were at Smyrna7 and Alexandria.8 Individuals such as Anton Prokesch von Osten9 were of immense value to Austrian foreign policy, by virtue of being not only well informed, but also well connected to the imperial elites. Every diplomatic post requires a special knowledge of the receiving state and culture, but in the case of the Ottoman Empire during the nineteenth century it was imperative. Prokesch von Osten considered his time at Constantinople as being an ongoing educational experience, as though he were at school. He commented on the art of persuasion: This is not an easy task in Turkey, where words normally do not count much. The ambassadors will not achieve much with that. The right treatment of the Turks needs an in-depth knowledge of their customs, morals, predominant ideas, weaknesses and way of thinking as a prerequisite, which is impossible to have for the most clever European in a few months of interaction and not in a few years without sincere interaction. Many of our methods of persuasion cannot be used at the Turks as they are good in recognising truth and lie. Energy and mildness, both cultivated on unalterable calmness are the key to their trust, which has to be won any time. If it is won they are children on a strap.10

As much as Vienna supported the court in Constantinople against threats from the other Great Powers, the Habsburg government was aware of the shortcomings of Ottoman bureaucracy and its system of rule. The weakness of the Sultan not only became obvious during the two crises caused by the Ottoman Albanian soldier Mehmet Ali Pasha, when the semi-independent territory of Egypt endangered the Sultan’s position in Constantinople, but the Ottoman monarchy’s dependency upon foreign powers was manifest also in the Greek Question. High-ranking Austrian personalities such as the Archduke John aired their convictions quite openly. For example, in a letter to Prokesch von Osten, the Archduke wrote, I gave up the Turkish government already for a long time, I  got to know its elements and found nothing but lazy things . . . ; this state exists as long

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as it is countenanced. Whereas princes usually add to their titles by Grace of God, the Sultan should write: Abdul Meschid, Sultan on grounds of the mutual envy of the continental Powers.11

Combined with their existing knowledge, it was crucial to Austrian policy regarding the Ottoman Empire to have a person leading the affairs of the state who was open-minded enough to make use of this information on grounds of a personal understanding of Ottoman rule and the societal circumstances of their Empire. Undoubtedly, Metternich was a leader able to apply a pragmatic approach to the Eastern Question, motivated by his principles of legality and legitimacy; his religious beliefs  – derived from the Enlightenment  – never interfered with his politics, either in the Levant or anywhere else. Another interesting fact is that for quite a period of time the court in Vienna was able to read the diplomatic correspondence of other nations present in the Ottoman Empire. This was owing to the fact that the Austrian navy was the only maritime force offering a regular postal service between the Ottoman ports and Western Europe during the 1830s. As a result, other Western ambassadors and consuls normally had to rely on the Austrian marine to have their reports and intelligence transported back home. Metternich – of course – took advantage of this fact, and was consequently well informed regarding every step taken by the other Great Powers regarding the Porte. It is hardly surprising that when the first steamboats took to the seas, the French were quick to invest in a regular steam packet connection to Constantinople with a view to overcoming this persistent breach in the security of their intelligence. In 1837, Austria also opened her first steam packet route between Trieste and a number of Ottoman ports.12 During the time that the Austrians possessed this remarkable advantage over the other Great Powers regarding intelligence on the Ottoman Empire, it is astounding that Vienna was not able to translate it into greater success in the field of international relations.

Austrian policy on the Greek question This set of problems and events was crucial during the first half of the nineteenth century. They defined and made visible Austria’s descent relative to

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the other Great Powers, maybe to a greater extent than any of the other various international crises occurring during the period. They show the guiding principles of the different states related to their foreign policy. The principles of Austrian foreign policy under Metternich have been discussed and evaluated many times. His efforts to maintain the Viennese order and to prevent turmoil or changes in the European balance of power are evident. They were based on his beliefs in legality and legitimacy as much as upon his acute awareness of Austria’s relatively poor resources; the ability to project one’s own policies into areas outside one’s own country requires three prerequisites: political will, military capacity and wealth. The political will to use military measures to ensure Austrian interests was not great in Vienna. Neither the Emperor nor Metternich were willing to engage in risky ventures. Force was used to quell rebellions where necessary and to preserve order as demonstrated in the Italian peninsula by Austrian troops. However, any adventures that might endanger legitimate rule, such as the French expedition to Algeria, did not register on the radar of Viennese politics. The financial resources of the Austrian Empire had always been limited; in 1811, Austria had been forced to declare bankruptcy, and after 1815 Vienna had been required to repay loans that had been used to finance the war against France. The fostering and protection of lucrative trade was therefore the main priority of Austrian foreign policy for several reasons and did not represent the pursuit of nationalist dreams; such ambitions had far fewer advocates in Vienna than in other states, because Austria lacked any development into an integrated nation-state during the nineteenth century. The Austrian government was hardly pushed by nationalist lobbies or by public opinion into foreign-policy adventures, unlike its Russian, French or British counterparts. Regarding the events leading to Greek independence, the defining parameters of Austrian foreign policy were perfectly combined. Western Europe was shattered by a wave of Panhellenism which drew some alltoo-simple conclusions from the occurrences in Greece. For the Western powers, the ‘Greeks’ would be the descendants of the ancient Greeks, and therefore held the right to take their place among the civilized nations; they would be unlawfully suppressed by the Muslim Ottomans in a brutal manner on account of being Christian. Metternich saw all too clearly

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that the first assumption was barely true, and that the second one could rightfully be doubted.13 For centuries, the ‘Greeks’ had called themselves ‘Romäer’, claiming derivation from the Romans. Some of them served in high-ranking positions within the Ottoman hierarchy, and were subject to a limited self-administration within the system of ethnarchs. But also in this part of Europe language-based nationalism became more and more resonant, even though illiteracy was widespread. The uprising began in the Danube principalities in 1821, spreading to areas in today’s Greece. Both sides committed heinous crimes, massacres and atrocities, killing tens of thousands of civilians. What we would today call the ‘spin’ was on the side of the Greeks, partly due to a broad sympathy for nationalist ideas in Western Europe combined with a philhellenic romanticism and the political interests of the Great Powers. Russia was able to gain prestige by helping its Orthodox brethren, while France and Britain gained influence by supporting the insurgents financially, militarily and politically. All of the Great Powers’ policies were driven to a certain extent by public opinion. Austria’s interest – formulated by Metternich – was a different one, as was his point of view. In Vienna, the concept of Greek independence conflicted with the order that the Holy Alliance had sworn to maintain; nationalist uprisings and rebellions could not be supported or sympathized with, because they were not in the interest of a power commanding such a large and diverse empire as Austria. Another important factor was trade. Metternich and his advisors held a pragmatic view formed less by irrational or emotional motives. Quite correctly, Metternich viewed the considerable popularity of the Greek insurrection in Western society as the result of a profound ignorance of the reality.14 Given the circumstances, fractionism and conduct of the various belligerent Greek groups which often had quite literally been bandits before the outbreak of the insurrection, Metternich believed that ‘no real Greece’ nor any ‘real Greek nation’ had ‘existed in the real sense of the word’.15 Prokesch von Osten, who was initially sympathetic towards the Greek cause, reported to Vienna in November 1827: This Intervention  – officially undertaken to end bloodshed and piracy  – which shed more blood in one month than the fight of the Turks against

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the Greeks in three years and which opened all paths to piracy, is a shattering example of foolishness and wrongness! Since I  am witness and one of the annalists of this drama I learned to despise the clamor of the so called enlightened part of Europe, i.e. the one that has given itself the title enlightened in an attack of modesty, to such an extent, that I am ashamed to have been ever enrapt of its furiousness and deceived worthiness. By the way I am grieved to see injustice triumph and do not even have the hope that later generations will say a just verdict. Fools and enthusiasts keep the word at all times and log-roll with the evil ones.16

The Greek insurgents – a large part of whom were well-experienced bandits or local ‘warlords’ – did not only plunder Ottoman fortunes or the goods of the Muslim population (for nowhere in present-day Greece did there exist a majority of Greeks within the population); they relented to piracy. It is here that Austrian economic interests were damaged severely. The Austrian government deployed warships to protect trade routes. Austrian merchants found themselves frequently attacked because some of them carried goods for the Egyptians, who supported the Sultan in his war against the insurgents. The Austrian navy also protected the merchant ships of states such as Russia, Sardinia and Tuscany, which had no navies of their own to protect their merchant vessels in dangerous waters.17 Austria’s navy also controlled the ships of Greek captains who used flags of different nations prior to Greek independence and sanctioned those who were not able to provide proper documentation for ship or cargo. The Swedish legation in Constantinople sent a circular to all the consuls and agents of Sweden in the region to inform Swedish merchants that, should they find themselves under the (unrequested) protection of an Austrian warship, they should issue a written protest and send a copy to him. In Smyrna, Prokesch von Osten was amused by that fact. In his opinion, the introduction of Austrian controls ended the problem of Greek ships sailing illegally under foreign flags; Swedish merchants could therefore have profited from such Austrian actions. To him, philhellenism triumphed over both reason and legality.18 Many Austrian merchant ships navigating Ottoman waters during this period had been targeted by Greek pirates or taken into custody by Greek authorities on prize law. Prokesch von Osten reported back to Gentz in Vienna in 1826: Today I write to Your Grace with restlessness and sadness . . . Does the so-called Greek government insist on inspecting our merchants in the open sea? . . . The

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answer is: ‘Yes; but we will escape this inspection by forming convoys’; and this answer slows our trade. In the last year we lost more than 100 cargos of ships. If we would lose a few more in this year after we declared to the government that we do not accept the inspections it would be positive because we would show seriousness; from this day we could free the trade from the chain of convoys. But as the result of 14 days of negotiations (!) in Nafplio is just compliments and evasive answers, our trade will ail in these chains so long as the insurgents are able to arm a single bark. By the way the proper pirates caused not the main losses during the last year; 90% of the taken cargo was doomed by the prize-law-courts in Nafplio. The government in Nafplio was the big pirate and the arrogated right of inspection was her weapon.19

In no respect could Austria be happy with this situation, neither with the piracy nor with the position taken by the Greek provisional government in Nafplio. The success of the Greek insurrection in these respects did nothing to encourage the Austrian government to look favourably upon it or to be optimistic about its potential impact upon Austrian trade in the Levant. Vienna did not even view the establishment of a legitimately independent Greek government as a means of ending piracy. Prokesch von Osten suspected that should the Greeks succeed in winning their independence, Austria ‘would have to fight against piracy for many years to come’, and would have to maintain a fleet in the region that was scarcely any less strong than the present one.20 Officially, Austria remained neutral during the Greek War of Independence. The tides changed to favour military engagement to protect Austrian economic interests, however, something that became clear when Gentz wrote Prokesch von Osten, who had been ordered to be part of the Austrian squadron in Greek waters: You will have noticed how exact the phrase of our factual neutrality was defined in our supplementary instruction. We have never been politically neutral in this fight; but now, as the whole rebellion dissolved itself into piracy and no ship is respected by these bandits any longer, the word neutrality has become a mauvaise plaisanterie completely and tastes like cowardice. We have to assert our rights; and this now has no boundaries left except those of humanity and physical violence.21

Prokesch von Osten was personally engaged in these actions. For example, when Greek pirates blockaded four Austrian merchant ships at Spetses in

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1827, and the Greek government in nearby Nafplio refused to hand them over, the diplomat sailed to the island on board the Austrian frigate Bellona. A score of Greek boats full of gunmen barred the Austrians’ way. Prokesch von Osten went unarmed with a small boat into the harbour, and despite being told to leave, succeeded in reaching the merchant ships. When threatened with being fired on by the Greeks, he urged them to take into consideration the firepower of the Bellona, and free the vessels. When the Greeks refused, he returned to the Bellona and ordered the crew to open fire. One hour later, the Austrian merchant ships were freed.22 The Austrian squadron in the Levant had to be strengthened to be able to ensure the safety of Austrian merchant ships in the Eastern Mediterranean. The other Great Powers, however, were less interested in halting Greek piracy. First, it provided funds for the insurgents, whom they supported. Secondly, because it strengthened the Greeks, it weakened the Ottoman Empire. Thirdly, it occurred to the considerable detriment of Austrian trade, Austrian ships being present in the greatest numbers in the region. The other Great Powers’ reluctance to take action against Greek piracy  – not least the reluctance of the British and the French, who commanded the two largest fleets in the Mediterranean  – was a point on which their interests clearly divulged from those of the Austrian Empire. This situation reached a culmination with the Battle of Navarino in 1827. When the Allies Britain, France and Russia pledged to blockade Ottoman forces operating in the Peloponnese, Austria came in for heavy criticism by them. The Allies suspected that the Austrians supported the Ottomans, as a consequence of the Austrian policy of defending their own interests together with those of other nations against the predatory tendencies of Greek piracy. Prokesch von Osten complained bitterly to Vienna about the attitude of the Allied commanders. The British ambassador to Constantinople, Stratford Canning, questioned the right of a neutral power to conduct military operations at sea. Canning complained about the presence of Austrian ships, which ‘could be seen everywhere’. In response, Prokesch exclaimed: ‘Thank God! Before one complained that they would be nowhere.’ After the Ottoman defeat at Navarino, Greek piracy increased further. The Austrian corvette Adria even had to save the crew of a British ship that had been plundered by pirates and left without sails, anchor and food, from certain death.23 Austria

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did not support the Ottoman Porte militarily, but politically and logistically Austrian policy facilitated Ottoman trade and the transport of Ottoman military resources. On 19 September 1827, the pro-Greek and belligerent vice admiral Codrington, the leading British naval officer at Navarino, threatened the Austrians with an Allied attack: having heard that some vessels of the Emperor of Austria form part of the fleet now in Navarin acting in hostility to Greece; has the honour of informing the officer commanding such vessels, that he is directed by a treaty . . . to prevent any further succour of men, arms, vessels and warlike stores, from arriving in Greece or the islands in the archipelago; and that therefore it will not be in the power of the Vice-Admiral to make any distinction between the Austrian and the Turkish ships. Respect for the Imperial flag and the Nation with which Great-Britain is in alliance, induces the Vice-Admiral to take this mode of preventing a collision which he would most gladly avoid; and if the Austrian Commander should not show equal desire to save the vessels of His Imperial Majesty from the injurious [sic] effects of their continuing to act in opposition to the Allied Powers, he alone will become responsible for all the consequences.24

The Austrians complained harshly to the British that no Austrian warships had taken the side of the Ottoman fleet, and that as the Greek government was not one that had been recognized by the Austrian government, the Austrian navy should be allowed to continue to defend international interests against the illegal activities of Greek pirates. Moreover, the Austrians stated that the ships of a neutral power could not be affected by a blockade installed against a third party, and that only one Austrian ship, the schooner Vigilante, had entered the Bay of Navarino before the Ottoman fleet and had departed by 12 September.25

Austria and the Syrian intervention of 1840 The many events that illustrate Austrian policy in the Eastern Mediterranean from the 1820s to the 1840s are described in detail by Šedivý. Given the limited space in this chapter, the Austrian military action in Syria in 1840, which provides a contrast to the official neutrality of Austria during the Greek War of Independence, will be considered next.

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The pretext for this intervention was the Ottoman Albanian soldier Mehmet Ali Pasha, and his increasing power within the Ottoman Empire. Mehmet Ali Pasha skilfully used his position as the governor of the province of Egypt to gain a semi-independent status based on his financial and military power. Already, during the Greek War, his actions had shaken the Ottoman Empire. In the aftermath of that crisis, and as the self-proclaimed Khedive of Egypt and Sudan, Mehmet Ali wished his son to become the ruler of Syria. During the course of events, he was twice able to overcome the Sultan’s forces in that territory, in December 1832 and June 1839. However, he refrained from marching to Constantinople for fear that such a move would logically bring the Great Powers to restore the Sultan. It did not take the fall of Constantinople to bring Austria, Britain, Russia and Prussia to agree on an ultimatum to urge the restoration of the Sultan’s sovereignty over Syria, through the London Convention of 15 July 1840. The French stood apart from the other Great Powers, viewing the Convention as an ‘insult’ directed against their interests, and therefore they opposed any Allied intervention and took the side of Mehmet Ali. Austria, Britain, Russia and Prussia supported the Porte. In August 1840, Mehmet Ali refused to yield to the ultimatum that was presented to him, and in September he offered instead to return all the provinces he had conquered except Egypt and Syria, which he wished to retain as hereditary tenures. This was not enough, either for the Porte or for the Allies. The Sultan officially deposed Mehmet Ali from his post, an act which Metternich regarded as hollow and futile on account of his inability to enforce it. Metternich considered naval force as insufficient to depose the governor of Egypt, as did the British, who shared the Austrian desire to preserve the peace with France. Therefore, the military action which ensued was directly mainly against Syria, where it was hoped an uprising of the local inhabitants against Mehmet Ali might assist the Ottoman regime in pushing Ibrahim Pasha’s troops back into Egypt.26 The British accounted for the biggest naval force deployed in the operation, while the Ottomans provided the main land forces. The Austrians’ participation was smaller, as they provided four warships (the forty-six-cannon frigates Medea and Guerriera, the eighteen-cannon corvettes Clemenza and Lipsia, and the six-cannon gunboat Marianne),27 and some 400 soldiers to be deployed on land. While their force might have been small by comparison with their cobelligerents, the Austrians were responsible for providing a rocket battery,

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which was held in high esteem and widely regarded the best weapon of its kind in Europe. On 17 July, the Austrian forces under rear admiral Bandiera and Archduke Frederick Leopold were subordinated under the command of the British admiral Stopford. The Austrian ships participated with the British fleet in blockading Alexandria. When Mehmet Ali refused to submit, the main part of the fleet sailed off to Beirut. On 10 September, 5,000 Turks, 1,500 British under Admiral Napier, and 200 Austrians landed near Beirut, while the fleet bombarded the town. Admiral Stopford wanted to halt the operations when a quick victory did not ensue and retreat to Cyprus for the winter. However, the Austrians and Napier convinced him to stay and attack Sidon. This joint Austro-British venture was undertaken by Napier and Frederick Leopold on 26 September. The beginning of the attack was easy due to weak fortifications, but when the defenders retreated to the citadel the advance was halted. Frederick Leopold then personally reinforced and led the Austrian landing forces, starting from the Austrian Consulate and successfully storming the citadel against strong resistance by the rebels. On 10 October Beirut was taken. The Austrians took Tripoli (in modern-day Lebanon) on 16 October. The ship Clemenza, which had sailed there from Alexandria the day before, witnessed an explosion in the city which the defenders regarded as an attack and fled. The inhabitants started to plunder and the Austrian consul asked the captain for men to restore order. This was achieved and the Austrians remained in occupation of the city until 17 November. Stopford still wanted to call a halt to the operations and retreat to Cyprus, but again Napier, Bandiera and Frederick Leopold convinced him to continue the fight. This was in the interest of Metternich, who saw that a retreat over winter would be a victory for Mehmet Ali, and a blow to the insurgents who had been armed by some of the Great Powers.28 Bandiera and Frederick Leopold insisted in taking part in the next step, the capture of Acre. The Austrian ships Medea, Guerriera and Lipsia appeared there on 2 November, together with seventeen British ships and one Turkish ship, whereupon they participated in the bombardment of the city. The following night Frederick was asked to cooperate in an attack on an unguarded part of the fortifications. He disembarked some 112 Austrians at the same place where the Austrian Duke Leopold V had successfully attacked during the Third Crusade in 1191. The Austrians were able to enter the fortifications silently, and occupied

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the citadel without resistance. The Egyptians capitulated soon afterwards. Frederick Leopold ordered the Austrian and British flags to be raised besides the Ottoman one. This was regarded as a means of resolving an ancient dispute dating back to the events of 1191, when the Austrian flag had been torn down by King Richard the Lionheart, who was later captured and imprisoned for this act by Duke Leopold V. A force comprising 300 British and 200 Austrian soldiers were left in Beirut as a garrison when the Austro-British fleet departed in December 1840.29 Nevertheless, after the fall of Beirut and Saida, not everyone was convinced that the war was over. As the Austrian legate in Athens reported, Obviously England wants to crush a force which would be a natural ally of France. It takes revenge for the incorporation of Algiers. Because France might feel that it is all about crushing French influence in the Mediterranean, it might decide for war, and we would have a long fight before us, which, if it ends luckily, enforces the English arrogation . . . If Mehmed Ali will be broken, the Porte definitely will not win anything with it; if he is not, we will share the shame of the efforts we have made with Napier and the like . . . In my opinion we have to wait more to make a correct verdict, because up to now it is only places on the coast which are under the cannons of the ships or vanguards.30

The British acknowledged the efforts of Frederick Leopold and the Austrian force warmly. The Austro-British amity that was demonstrated in the wake of the Syrian intervention stands in stark contrast to Codrington’s threat to attack Austrian shipping in 1827. It shows how much the political combinations of interests in the Eastern Mediterranean had changed over time. In Austria, the actions of the new naval hero led to an increase in enrolments to the Austrian navy, even from the landlocked parts of the empire. This resulted in the Austrian Navy evolving from being a largely Venetian and Dalmatian force to being a more genuinely Austrian one. Syria was returned to the Sultan, leaving the Allies celebrating a successful outcome to their venture.31 Šedivý states that the Austrian contribution would have been just ‘symbolic’,32 but it should be remembered that the deployment of the Austrian rocket battery had a devastating effect on the morale of the enemy. Moreover, 40 per cent of the garrison left to occupy Beirut after the campaign comprised Austrian soldiers. More importantly, the decision to remain committed to the operation, and the opposition to Stopford’s

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suggestion of withdrawing the Austro-British fleet to Cyprus was mounted not only by Napier but also by the will of the Austrian commanders to continue the venture. If Metternich’s account is correct, Stopford’s course of action would have been regarded as a defeat for the Allies, and there would have been no guarantee that there would still have been political support for military intervention the following year. The Austrian contingent could be considered to have contributed to the tipping of the balance in favour of sustaining the AustroBritish intervention in Syria in 1840, and consequently to bringing about its overall success by the end of that year.

Austrian trade in the Eastern Mediterranean The early nineteenth century saw a burgeoning Austrian trade with the Ottoman Empire, where Austrian merchants officially enjoyed many privileges. Nonetheless, Austrian trade was hampered by a number of factors. There was a great deal of corruption among the local authorities in the Ottoman dominions, which the Sublime Porte lacked both the will and the resources to tackle effectively. Moreover, the transport infrastructure on land was poor. This situation made it desirable to develop and secure Austrian trade by sea. For this reason, many measures were taken during the early nineteenth century to improve the Austrian educational system in the areas of navigation, commerce and technology,33 and scholars such as Sauer have suggested that the beginning of the Greek insurrections stimulated a ‘rebirth’ of the Austrian navy in general.34 However, Austrian trade in the Levant suffered from ‘imperfections’ within the Austrian system and Austrian practices. The fact that Austrian taxes were high led some Austrian captains to sail under foreign flags. The Austrian consuls appointed to represent and protect Austrian interests were rarely actually Austrian citizens; they invariably had their own private trading interests, which could have a negative impact upon their attitude towards the protection of Austrian interests, and some of them were even fraudsters. Where consuls were active in trade and industry, they quite often relented to the temptation offered by corruption and the opportunities that their positions provided for what might be described as ‘daylight robbery’. The Austrian consulates in the Levant were largely left to their own by Vienna,

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relatively free to adopt practices which were more Ottoman than Austrian, and without much hope of improvement.35 Nevertheless, the Austrian presence in the Ottoman Empire was much wider than is traditionally thought. Austrian trade was strongly represented not only in Constantinople but also throughout the Ottoman Empire. The reforms of Mehmet Ali during his time as governor of Egypt led to its increase in that territory, especially at Alexandria. The Austrian ports of Venice, Trieste and Fiume were chiefly responsible for Austrian trade in the Eastern Mediterranean, with Trieste playing the key role. Austria imported mainly raw materials  – especially cotton  – from Ottoman lands, and then produced manufactured goods which were sold throughout the rest of Europe. The amount of bilateral trade was significant; during the 1830s, Austria was responsible for 24 per cent of all Ottoman trade, making Austria the largest trading in the region, ahead even of France and Great Britain. After the Vienna Settlement of 1815 and the end of the Napoleonic Wars, Austria was able to pick up much of the trade in the Levant which France had lost. Besides transporting Austrian-owned goods, Austrian vessels also facilitated Ottoman trade. Some sources suggest that in the 1820s Austrian trading interests exceeded those of Russia and Britain combined in the Near East, including the Black Sea. During this decade, between 600 and 800 Austrian ships sailed in the area. In 1823, more than 600 Austrian vessels sailed to Constantinople, compared with only sixteen French ships. In 1838, about half of the total 501 larger ships in the Austrian merchant marine were engaged in trade in the Eastern Mediterranean. The most important port in the East was naturally Constantinople; in 1837, Austria brought the third highest number of ships to the port, there being 732 Austrian vessels, compared with 832 that were Greek, 778 Sardinian, 700 British (including Ionian ships under the British flag) and 555 Russian. By 1840, the gap between Austrian (869 to 890 ships) and British (567) ships entering the port had increased considerably. At the major Ottoman ports of Smyrna and Alexandria, Austrian ships were the most frequent visitors during the 1820s, although Austrian trade in Egypt was overtaken by British from the late 1830s onwards.36 The importance of trade in the Eastern Mediterranean is also illustrated by open dissent between the different governmental bodies in Vienna. While the political stance towards Greek independence had been one of clear opposition,

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the economic institutions in Vienna did not share fully the politicians’ views on the matter. In June 1830, the Hofkammer urgently demanded from the State Chancellor the immediate installation of consuls and vice-consuls in Greece, even without prior recognition of the Greek government by Austria. It was felt that this would be necessary to protect Austria’s trade in the country in the aftermath of its independence. The proposal was received negatively by the Chancellery.37 The Paris Treaty of 1856, which formally concluded the Crimean War, formally included the Ottoman Empire within the European system of states and treaties as an equal partner for the first time. However, while Austria had hitherto played a crucial role as the friend and advocate of Ottoman interests in the West for roughly half a century, albeit largely for her own mostly mercantile interests, that moment represents a turning point in the prolific role that the country had played in Western relations with the Ottoman Empire. The revolution of 1848, the Crimean War of 1853–6 and the Italian Wars of Independence of 1859 and 1866 all combined to oblige the Austrian state to focus increasingly on the politics and international relations of Central Europe, and less on trade and the affairs of the Eastern Mediterranean. Looking at the longue durée of Austria’s trading relations in the Mediterranean, it is possible to regard the Austrian presence as a positive and not an intrusive one. With her focus on trade, neutrality and mediation, this was an almost unavoidable outcome. Austria’s Near East policy under Bruno Kreisky, who wished to make his country serve as a bridge between East and West during his long tenures as foreign minister during the 1960s and Chancellor throughout the 1970s is well known, but long before that phase Austria was held in high esteem in the Near East on account of its actions during the first half of the nineteenth century. In March 1946, the Austrian political representative in France met the Lebanese foreign minister and his political director in Paris. The latter told the Austrian envoy  – to his surprise  – that within Lebanese society there remained ‘a real cult for Austria’: In Austria it would be forgotten but not in Beirut and Lebanon that Metternich was one of the first who raised the Lebanese question, that the Austrian Emperors had been regarded in Lebanon temporarily almost as patrons.

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In Vienna this report provoked a remark on the document, which declared this as correct and important, stating that in areas such as Egypt, Austria was still regarded among the wealthier and more educated sections of society with ‘gloriole’.38 It is quite possible that the flag adopted by Lebanon prior to its independence from France in 1943 is based on that of Austria, not least because it was designed by Henri Pharoan, the prominent Lebanese politician who had served for many years as an Austrian consul in his native country.39

Conclusion Austria was – mainly thanks to Metternich – a well-informed and active player in the Eastern Mediterranean during the first half of the nineteenth century. Austria’s intelligence-gathering and moderation was the result of the country’s main interests in the region: stability and prosperity, which was to be achieved through the survival of the Ottoman Empire and its trade. The measures to secure these interests were imposed by those interests. Stability and prosperity through trade are rarely achieved through military adventures, least of all when the resources to pursue such exercises are limited. Austria was not the strongest player in the Eastern Mediterranean, but it regarded that area as a vital sphere of interest. If it proved necessary, force could and would be used to stabilize the region, as demonstrated through Austrian policy regarding the Syria revolt of 1840. The preservation of the safety of Austrian citizens and the protection of Austrian economic interests were the main goals of the Austrian government, navy and consular service in the Ottoman Empire throughout the period. After 1856, the Austrian role in the Mediterranean in general – and in the Levant in particular  – gradually diminished. During the Crimean War, the Austrian policy of neutrality was not always regarded as weak or negative considering that Austrian possibilities were limited. While few historians would conceive of the Habsburg monarchy as being a neutral power throughout the ‘long’ nineteenth century, nonetheless Austrian foreign ministers were acutely aware that Austrian security and economic interests were most vulnerable at times when Austria was involved in war. From Metternich onwards, Austrian leaders understood this well and frequently pursued a policy of neutrality characterized by an internationalist flavour. It aimed to safeguard Europe and

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the Mediterranean from the dangers presented by war, and it was energetic in seeking to uphold the principles of the Concert of Europe established through the Vienna Settlement of 1815.40 Nevertheless, the Austrian policy of neutrality attracted anger from belligerent participants. When war broke out in the Crimea, the Russians had hoped for Austrian support, and they were even more disappointed to see Austria annex the Danubian principalities. The Ottomans, who sided with France and Britain in that conflict, had long counted on Austria’s desire to preserve the integrity and stability of their empire and were similarly disappointed by Austrian neutrality. In Constantinople, cooperation with Vienna does not appear to have been regarded as being particularly beneficial during the war; it seemed more fruitful to cooperate with either Russia or France or Britain, even if involvement in the war represented a gamble. This, combined with the declining position of certain domestic industries in Austria, such as textiles, where Austria could not compete with Britain’s rampant growth, contributed to the diminution of Austrian interests in the Eastern Mediterranean. Nevertheless, Austrian trade remained relevant to the Ottoman Empire as a whole, and in the Levant in particular, even if it no longer retained the leading position that it had once held. The work of Josef Stoiser, dating from the early twentieth century, deals with the Austrian ‘fate’ of being a power without colonies; whereas Bismarck’s German Empire became a colonial power at the eleventh hour, Austria ‘was too late it seems’. Considering the high costs and risks inherent in colonial ventures, however, Stoiser suggests that Austria was fortunate when deciding not to take part in colonial ventures pursued by other European states, and that she concentrated on economic and cultural activities in the Eastern Mediterranean.41 The importance of the region as a market for Austrian products continued long after the age of Metternich, but in a form that rendered Austria increasingly less competitive than the other Great Powers.

Notes 1 See Miroslav Šedivý, Metternich, the Great Powers and the Eastern Question (Pilsen: University of West Bohemia, 2013). See also Manfred Sauer, ‘Österreich und die Levante 1814–1838’, unpublished dissertation, University of Vienna, 1971.

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2 Heinrich Pfusterschmid-Hardtenstein, ‘Von der Orientalischen Akademie zur k.u.k. Konsularakademie. Eine Maria-Theresianische Institution und ihre Bedeutung für den auswärtigen Dienst der österreichisch-ungarischen Monarchie’, in Die Habsburgermonarchie 1848–1918, ed. Adam Wandruszka and Peter Urbanistsch, Vol. VI/I (Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences, 1989), pp. 122–95. 3 Sibylle Wentker, ‘Diplomaten oder Gelehrte? Das Verhältnis der Absolventen der Orientalischen Akademie zum Osmanischen Reich zwischen Politik und Forschung’, in Orient & Okzident. Begegnungen und Wahrnehmungen aus fünf Jahrhunderten, ed. Barbara Haider-Wislon and Maximilian Graf (Vienna: Neue Welt Verlag, 2016), pp. 325–51, 332. 4 Šedivý, Eastern Question, p. 372. 5 Ibid., pp. 700–1. 6 Walter Steinmetz, ‘Die österreichische Levantehandelspolitik von 1815–1820. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des österreichischen Außenhandels’, unpublished dissertation, Karl-Franzens University, Graz, 1965, p. 56. 7 In 1847 there were some 4,000 Austrians in Smyrna, 712 French, 206 British, and 180 Russians. In 1840, Smyrna was visited by 216 Austrian ships, in comparison with only 113 British and 40 French vessels. Šedivý, Eastern Question, p. 445. 8 Sauer, ‘Levante’, p. 479. 9 See Daniel Bertsch, Anton Prokesch von Osten: (1795–1876); ein Diplomat Österreichs in Athen und an der Hohen Pforte; Beiträge zur Wahrnehmung des Orients im Europa des 19. Jahrhunderts (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 2005). 10 Prokesch to Gentz, Smyrna, 3 July 1829, in Aus dem Nachlasse des Grafen Prokesch von Osten k.k. österr. Botschafter und Feldzeugmeister, Briefwechsel mit Herrn Gentz und Fürsten Metternich (Vienna: Herold, 1881), 1: p. 272. 11 Archduke John to Prokesch, 15 August 1839, in Briefwechsel zwischen Erzherzog Johann Baptist von Oesterreich und Anton Graf von Prokesch von Osten, ed. Anton Schlossar (Stuttgart: A. Bonz, 1898), p. 98. See also E. Widmann, Die religiösen Anschauungen des Fürsten Metternich (Darmstadt: C. F. Wintersche Buchdruckerei, 1914), p. 105, cited after Šedivý, Eastern Question, p. 370. 12 Šedivý, Eastern Question, pp. 451, 455–6. 13 Ibid., p. 389. 14 Metternich to Vincent, Vienna 17 October 1821, and Metternich to Esterházy, Vienna 17 October 1821, cited after Šedivý, Eastern Question, p. 389. 15 Metternich to Apponyi, Vienna 16 July 1827, cited after Šedivý, Eastern Question, p. 389. 16 Prokesch to Gentz, Smyrna, 10 November 1827, in Nachlass, Prokesch, p. 76. 17 Sauer, ‘Levante’, p. 159. 18 Prokesch von Osten to Gentz, Smyrna, 18 July 1829, in Nachlass, Prokesch, pp. 274–6.

100 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 19 Prokesch von Osten to Gentz, Smyrna, 18 September 1826, in Nachlass, Prokesch, pp. 1–2. 20 Prokesch von Osten to Gentz, Smyrna, 10 November 1827, in Nachlass, Prokesch, pp. 77–8. 21 Gentz to Prokesch von Osten, Vienna, 14 October 1827, in Nachlass, Prokesch, p. 62. 22 Nachlass, Prokesch, p. 61n1. 23 Prokesch von Osten to Gentz, Smyrna, 26 October 1827, in Nachlass, Prokesch, pp. 64–5. 24 Codrington, HMS Asia in Navarino, 19 September 1827. Haus-Hof und Staatsarchiv Vienna (hereafter HHStA), Türkei VI, Kt. 28. 25 Dandolo to Codrington, 4 October 1827. HHStA, Türkei VI, Kt. 28. 26 Šedivý, Eastern Question, pp. 843–4. 27 Robert L. Dauber, Erzherzog Friedrich von Österreich. Admiral und Ordensritter (Graz, Vienna and Cologne, 1993), p. 89. 28 More than 14,000 rifles had been delivered to inhabitants of the area. Prokesch von Osten to Archduke John, Athens, 12 October 1840, in Schlossar, Briefwechsel, p. 117. 29 Šedivý, Eastern Question, pp. 845–50. 30 Prokesch von Osten to Archduke John, Athens, 12 October 1840, in Schlossar, Briefwechsel, pp. 117–18. 31 Šedivý, Eastern Question, pp. 851–3. 32 Ibid., p. 851. 33 Steinmetz, Levantehandelspolitik, pp. 2–4. 34 Sauer, ‘Levante’, p. 479. 35 Steinmetz, Levantehandelspolitik, p. 58n185. 36 Šedivý, Eastern Question, pp. 438–52. 37 Gentz to Prokesch von Osten, Vienna, 18 June 1830, Nachlass, Prokesch, p. 351. 38 Bischoff to Gruber, Paris, 15 March 1946, Österreichisches Staatsarchiv/AdR/ BKA-AA/II-pol, Zl. 110.784-pol/46, Gr.Zl. 110.401-pol/46. 39 ‘Libanesische Nationalflagge hat die österreichische zum Vorbild’, Der Standard, 6 March 2005. Available online: http://derstandard.at/1968138/LibanesischeNationalflagge-hat-die-oesterreichische-zum-Vorbild. Accessed 17 July 2017. 40 Maartje Abbenhuis, An Age of Neutrals. Great Power Politics, 1815–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), p. 172. 41 Josef Stoiser, ‘Die wirtschaftlichen Interessen Österreichs in der Levante’, in Elfter Jahresbericht der Kaiser Franz Josef-Höheren Handelsschule in Brünn (Brünn: Rudolf M. Rohrer, 1906), pp. 11–80 (11–13).

5

Playing the liberal game: Sir James Hudson in Italy, 1852–85 Nick Carter

When history shall deliver her final verdict, no inferior or inconsiderable place among the liberators of Italy will be awarded to the Minister who has so faithfully represented the people of England at the Court of Turin . . . Next, and only next, to Count Cavour, we believe that Sir James Hudson deserves the credit of having directed the great Italian movement to its present wonderful and unexpected success. Never was a more arduous task achieved by a more admirable mixture of sagacity, moderation, firmness and audacity. The Times, 13 November 1860. Sir James Hudson lived in this place from 1852 to 1863. Envoy extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary of the United Kingdom to the Kingdom of Sardinia and the Kingdom of Italy. Supporter of the unification of Italy. He was described as more Italian than the Italians. Commemorative plaque, Palazzo Cisterna, Turin. Inaugurated 13 November 2010 on the 200th anniversary of Hudson’s birth. If the name of Sir James Hudson (1810–1885) has not resonated through history quite so clearly as the Times of 1860 predicted, nevertheless, as the recently installed commemorative plaque to Hudson in Turin demonstrates, neither has it been entirely forgotten. Indeed, the British diplomat’s historical profile is probably higher today than at any time since his death in 1885, when his passing was marked by warm obituaries in both the British and Italian press and by the erection of a commemorative plaque on the house in Florence where

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he had lived in retirement. (The plaque, the initiative of the influential Italian politician Pasquale Villari, was dedicated to ‘Sir James Hudson, English by birth, Italian of heart’.) Historians have for long periods shown little interest in Hudson. When, in 1956, Federico Curato published an extended biographical essay on Hudson covering his years in Italy, first as British minister (1852–63) and then in retirement (1863–85), Hudson had become a largely peripheral figure, mentioned only in passing in histories of the Risorgimento (Italian independence/unification).1 Through Curato, and thanks to the centenary of unification in 1961, which prompted a number of studies of Britain’s role in the ‘making’ of Italy, Hudson returned – briefly – to the semi-limelight, as the subject of a number of short essays and as a prominent (albeit still secondary) figure in several longer works.2 While modesty – and historical accuracy – forbid me from claiming credit for the most recent revival of interest in Hudson, my doctoral dissertation (1994) and associated articles on his influence on British diplomacy and events in Italy at the height of the ‘Italian Question’ (1858–61), represented the first serious, in-depth, and original research on (and reappraisal of) Hudson since the 1950s–1960s.3 By the early 1990s, though, Risorgimento studies and diplomatic history both appeared to be on the verge of collapse, shunned by social historians of the generation of ’68, and by their heirs, the (then) new cultural historians of the postmodern age. (My seemingly perverse decision to opt for a postgraduate research topic in not one but two dying sub-disciplinary fields stemmed from my own profound ignorance of the prevailing historiographical trends.) By the bicentenary of Hudson’s birth in 2010, the historiographical outlook was altogether more positive. Rather than killing Risorgimento studies, cultural history had in fact saved it, breathing new life into old, tired and all-too-familiar subjects.4 The same was also true of diplomatic history, rescued from extinction by cultural historians interested as much in the ‘interdependencies between individual personalities, experiences, and structural context and their relevance to the conduct of diplomacy’, as in the diplomacy itself.5 Risorgimento (and Hudson) studies were given an extra fillip by the fact that 2011 was the 150th anniversary of Italian unification. As with the fiftieth and centenary anniversaries, the sesquicentennial of unification prompted a host of Risorgimento-themed events and publications. On its own, it is doubtful

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whether the bicentenary of Hudson’s birth would have been sufficient reason to erect a plaque in his memory. Its proximity to the 150th anniversary of unification was certainly serendipitous in this sense, sufficient to justify not just a commemorative plaque but also a two-day conference on ‘Sir James Hudson in the Italian Risorgimento’, hosted by the state archives in Turin in November 2010 to coincide with the unveiling of the memorial. An edited book based on the conference was published in 2012.6 The volume examined Hudson from two perspectives: as a diplomat and as an art collector. As I shall argue here, the two aspects are closely linked: one of the reasons why Hudson was such an effective diplomat was because of his very tight friendships with leading British and Italian liberals of the time, which were frequently founded on a shared passion for and appreciation of renaissance art.

The making of Hudson diplomatico Hudson’s career offers fascinating insights into the world of mid-nineteenth century British diplomacy, when family background, patronage, political loyalties and personal networks as much as ability, diligence or intelligence often determined the career trajectory of those in ‘the service’. Hudson, as we shall see, certainly did not lack capacity, but his entry and rise through the diplomatic ranks up to and including his appointment to Piedmont (the kingdom of Sardinia) in 1852, owed much to the patronage of, initially, Sir Herbert Taylor (1775–1839), private secretary to William IV (1765–1837), and, subsequently, of no lesser a figure than Lord Palmerston (1784–1865) himself. Hudson served as Taylor’s assistant from 1830 until the death of William IV in 1837, when Taylor retired. The relationship between the two men became extremely close, to the extent that Hudson considered Taylor ‘my first, my firmest, and my truest friend’.7 It was Taylor who in November 1834 sent Hudson to summon home Sir Robert Peel (1788–1850) from Italy following William IV’s dismissal of Melbourne’s Whig government. It was Taylor, too, who in late 1835 proposed Hudson to Palmerston, back in charge of the Foreign Office following Melbourne’s swift return to power in April, for a covert mission to Russian-controlled Circassia in the northern Caucasus. While the

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precise purpose of the mission is unclear, we can be fairly certain of its general objective: to promote British commercial and political interests at the expense of Russian influence in a strategically important region. Palmerston, Taylor and the king were all Russophobes.8 Ongoing Circassian (and wider Caucasian) resistance to Russian rule had the potential to hinder Russia’s ambitions in Turkey and Persia, and we know from Hudson’s correspondence with Taylor that he met with Sefer Bey Zanuko (d. 1860), the leader of the Circassian independence movement against Russia, in Constantinople. He also met, or at least was in contact with rebel chiefs in neighbouring Dagestan, who, Hudson grandly claimed in early 1836, ‘have put themselves under my orders’.9 Hudson’s secondment to the Foreign Office has parallels to that of another Taylor protégé, the ultra-Russophobe David Urquhart (1805–1877). Urquhart’s appointment as confidential agent to the British embassy in Constantinople in 1831 had owed much to Taylor’s patronage, and Taylor (and the king, another great Urquhart admirer) consistently pressed his case with Palmerston thereafter. Palmerston obliged, sending Urquhart on a covert mission (1833– 4) to the Middle East to gather commercial intelligence, where he travelled under the guise of a commercial traveller to hide his connection to the Foreign Office, before appointing Urquhart to the sought-after position of secretary to the British embassy at Constantinople in September 1835.10 Unlike Urquhart, though, who had fought in the Greek War of Independence against Ottoman rule in the late 1820s and had then travelled extensively in the Middle East before his first appointment to Constantinople in 1831, Hudson was a greenhorn: he had never previously travelled beyond Western Europe, and, apart from his mission to Italy to find Peel in 1834, he had always been employed at the Royal Court. In backing Urquhart, Taylor could always point to Urquhart’s experience and expertise in the region; in nominating Hudson, Taylor was effectively asking Palmerston to rely entirely on his judgement. Judging from Hudson’s despatches (to Taylor and Lord Ponsonby, the Russophobe British ambassador to Constantinople), Hudson did not disappoint:  these reveal a well-prepared, well-informed, ambitious, young man who was not afraid to speak his mind – a trait he never lost and which, as we shall see, sometimes landed him in trouble.11 Thus it was that, on his return to Britain in mid-1836, he could be found writing to Ponsonby, cautioning the ambassador against the ‘indiscreet

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rashness’ of Urquhart:  ‘He [Urquhart] wants to have a resurrection in Circassia’, Hudson warned in August, ‘This will not answer . . . The only game is a Commercial agitation . . . let us hear of an English Factory on the East Coast of the Black Sea – an English Steamer on the Caspian, another on the Oxus’.12 Hudson openly sympathized with the Circassian ‘struggle’, telling Taylor that the Circassians were ‘the most intelligent set of men I ever was acquainted with’, and Ponsonby that ‘everyone whose judgement is worth a farthing [wishes] to see the Circassians freed from their Russian oppressors’.13 As a consequence, he was critical of what he saw as the ‘miserable inaction’ of the British government in the region (only ‘the single exception’ of Palmerston escaped his censure).14 At all times, though, he was extremely careful to set his support for the Circassians within the broader framework of British interests. A more proactive and assertive policy (short of war) in the Caucasus, he argued, would benefit the Circassians and the Turkish Porte, but more importantly, it would strengthen British influence at the expense of Russia. Hudson was to adopt a similar approach when in Italy, where he consistently pressed for a more active pro-Italian policy on the grounds that to do otherwise risked pushing the Italian national movement into the arms of France and Napoleon III, with ruinous consequences for the balance of power in Europe and British interests in the Mediterranean and the Middle East. For a short while after Hudson’s return, Palmerston contemplated sending him back to the Caucasus in an official capacity as a commercial and consular agent – a posting that Hudson was keen to take up – until, in Hudson’s words, ‘That madman Urquhart and the “Vixen” business put a stop to it.’15 (In late 1836, Urquhart had persuaded the captain of the British merchant ship the Vixen to test Russian claims to sovereignty over Circassia by running the Russian blockade of Circassian ports. The Russian navy had seized the Vixen, prompting outrage at Westminster and in the British press and even giving rise to talk of war. Instead, Palmerston sought to diffuse tensions, sacking Urquhart and quietly shelving plans to send British agents to the region.) Palmerston’s interest in Hudson remained, though, nurtured by the ever-attentive Taylor. Following the death of William IV in June 1837, Taylor asked Palmerston if he could find a diplomatic post for his ‘excellent young friend’ whose court career was now at an end.16 Palmerston’s promise

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to do so reveals both the extent of his obligations to Taylor and admiration for Hudson: With respect to Hudson, I can only say that your wishes in any matter in which I  may have means of complying with them, will always be to me imperative; I have much personal regard and esteem for Hudson, and the circumstances connected with the situation he has held give him very strong claims.

Palmerston promised to appoint Hudson ‘to the first Secretaryship of Legation which may become vacant’, which he envisaged would be Hanover.17 Taylor politely objected, suggesting instead The Hague (‘Hudson having been a great favourite with the Prince of Orange and his two sons while they were here’).18 Meanwhile, Hudson – and Ponsonby, who Hudson had managed to befriend in his short time in Turkey – hoped for Constantinople. Ultimately, Hudson, Taylor and Ponsonby were to be disappointed: in 1838 Palmerston appointed him secretary at the British legation in Washington. Taylor had assured Palmerston that Hudson would ‘be prepared to obey any orders he may receive at the shortest notice’, but ‘the wilds of America’, as Hudson put it, clearly did not appeal to the novice diplomat.19 Within months of his arrival in Washington (in February 1839), Hudson was writing to Ponsonby to ask again for the ambassador’s help: I am too well aware of the slender claim I  possess to any advancement, unless thro’ the kind interference of your Lordship, and this of course could only be in the event of [embassy secretary] Mr Bankhead’s Promotion, but should your Lordship require any Person to act in a very subordinate capacity, should you require a Volunteer for any service in any part of Asia, I can assure you that no considerations of self should ever interfere with any wish that your Lordship could form, in case you should require the services of one who has no other merit than that of an honest enthusiasm in a great cause . . . I  have therefore earnestly to intreat [sic] that if a volunteer be required by your Lordship, that you will not forget me.

Hudson added that he was ‘daily studying Turkish’ to this end.20 Hudson’s problem, and the reason he directed his appeal to Ponsonby rather than Taylor, was that Taylor had died in March 1839. Bereft of his mentor and main patron, Hudson struggled to gain the ear of Palmerston, remaining

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in Washington, ‘this melancholy outpost of diplomacy’,21 as he put it, until the end of 1843, at which point Palmerston’s successor, the Tory Peer Lord Aberdeen (1784–1860), promoted him to secretary of legation at The Hague. Hudson barely had time to take breath, however, before Aberdeen moved him once more (April 1845), this time to the secretaryship of the British legation in Rio de Janeiro. Although Hudson’s name is most closely associated with Italian independence, his role in the suppression of the Brazilian slave trade is arguably of equal historical significance. Since the 1807 Slave Trade Abolition Act, successive British governments had worked hard for the general suppression of the transatlantic slave trade, particularly between West Africa and the United States and Brazil, the largest importers of slaves in the New World. Critical to the success of this policy was the right of the Royal Navy to search and seize suspected slavers on the high seas, irrespective of the flag under which they were sailing. By the early 1840s, Britain had negotiated anti-slaving treaties, incorporating the right of stop and search, with nearly all the major maritime nations. In 1845, however, the Brazilian government allowed its 1817 antislaving convention with Britain to lapse. The threat this posed to British naval anti-slaving efforts was considerable:  slavers sailing under the protection of the Brazilian flag would henceforth be able to ply their trade between West Africa and Brazil without hindrance, at a time when the Brazilian slave trade was expanding rapidly as international demand for Brazilian coffee and sugar grew. The British government’s response was unilaterally to introduce its own Brazilian anti-slaving bill (the Aberdeen Bill, July 1845), by which it claimed the right to search and seize Brazilian slavers, including in Brazilian waters, on the grounds that slaving was considered an act of piracy under Brazilian law – and under international law, any nation had the right to search and seize any vessel suspected of piracy. This, of course, represented a direct assault on Brazilian sovereignty and provoked outrage in Brazil. It was in these difficult circumstances that Hudson arrived in Rio. He also soon found himself the acting head of the legation, assuming the role of chargé d’affaires in mid-1846 after the incumbent minister, Hamilton Charles James Hamilton (1779–1856), was forced home due to illness. Apart from a sixmonth period in late 1847 and early 1848, Hudson remained in this role until June 1850, when he was made minister of the legation. Hudson’s supposedly

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temporary elevation fortuitously coincided with the return of his old patron Lord Palmerston as foreign secretary in Lord John Russell’s (1792–1878) first Whig government. Hudson and Palmerston, the latter no doubt relieved at the departure of the ‘conceited, consequential and empty’22 Hamilton quickly found common ground: a shared dedication to the suppression of the Brazilian slave trade, similarly prejudicial views of the Brazilians (‘degenerate Portuguese’, according to Palmerston; ‘an uncommonly vain race’ in Hudson’s view) and – crucially – a shared understanding of how its suppression would be achieved, namely, through the use of force (what one critic later described, with some justification, as a ‘system of violence, angry acts and ill humour’.23 Hudson and Palmerston were in no doubt that the Brazilian government would do nothing to eliminate the trade unless compelled by the British to do so. To this end, both favoured the extension and intensification of British naval actions along the Brazilian coast. Such a policy, however, proved difficult to implement:  the British South American naval squadron was (as Hudson constantly complained) small, overstretched and outdated; Palmerston’s cabinet colleagues were reluctant to adopt the ‘sharper measures of coercion’ Palmerston demanded;24 and political opinion in Britain was hardening against the expense and ineffectiveness of Britain’s anti-slaving policy (despite naval squadrons on both the West African and South American coasts over 50,000 new slaves entered Brazil every year, 1846–9). A House of Commons motion to scrap the policy was defeated in March 1850, but only after Palmerston and Russell made the issue one of confidence in the government.25 In fact, by the time of the vote – but as yet unknown to the politicians in London – the South American squadron had enjoyed its most successful month for a decade, capturing several large slaver steam ships, including the notorious Providentia, in a series of raids in January.26 The impetus behind this sustained assault, not only just on the Brazilian slave trade but also on Brazilian sovereignty, came from Hudson and the newly appointed commander of the British naval squadron, Rear Admiral Reynolds, who, like Hudson and Palmerston, believed that ‘Nothing can be done with the Brazilian government on this matter except by compulsion’.27 Circumstances favoured the action. For the first time in years, the full South American fleet was available for anti-slaving duties along the Brazilian coast.28 Crucially, Hudson had also managed to enlist the services of a former slave trader known as Alcoforado, who supplied Hudson  – and

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through Hudson, Reynolds – with regular, accurate and detailed intelligence on the location and movements of slave ships.29 At the same time, Hudson sought to pressure the Brazilian government from below, making generous use of government funds to establish a ‘pure anti-Slavery newspaper in Rio’, and buy the support of one of the leading newspapers in the city, the Correo Mercantil.30 ‘There is nothing you cannot do, at this moment, with the Brazilian Government . . . who are entirely at your mercy’, Hudson wrote to Palmerston in February 1850, urging the foreign secretary (not for the first time) to take swift and decisive action: ‘one of the few respectable men in this Country sent me a message a few days ago – to this effect: “if your Government will cruise against Slave Trade on this Coast vigorously, you may now put down Slave Trade and force us to do as you please. But we all feel that it is a deliberate insult to attempt to crush Slave Trade and coerce us with two slow steam sloops.” ’31 Palmerston, keenly aware of the need to show the House of Commons that progress was being made, and no doubt emboldened and delighted by the January seizures, took the bait, instructing Hudson to warn the Brazilian government of the ‘extreme nature of the rights which Britain has acquired against Brazil’ in relation to the slave trade, and advising the admiralty that the British government would as readily support captures of slavers in Brazilian waters and ports as they would captures made on the high seas.32 Hudson and Reynolds acted accordingly. In June and July 1850, British warships entered Brazilian ports, capturing and burning a number of slave ships and exchanging fire with Brazilian forces at the southern port of Paranagua. Alarmed by the scale of the British attacks, the Brazilian government immediately pushed new anti-slave trade legislation through parliament and announced its intention to negotiate a new anti-slaving convention with Britain. Over the next 18 months, sustained anti-slaving activity by the Royal Navy and the Brazilian authorities effectively wiped out the trade: 800 slaves were imported in 1852; not a single slaver landed in 1853.

To Italy Whatever the morality or legality of British anti-slaving policy in Brazil, there is little doubt that British naval activity ‘greatly accelerated, if it did not alone

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precipitate, Brazil’s own, ultimately successful, efforts to suppress the slave trade’.33 For Palmerston, the satisfaction was immense. ‘During the many years that I was at the Foreign Office’, Palmerston later recalled, ‘there was no subject that more constantly or more intensely occupied my thoughts, or constituted the aim of my labours’ than the slave trade. ‘The achievement which I look back on with the greatest and purest pleasure was forcing the Brazilians to give up their Slave Trade by bringing into operation the Act of 1845’.34 Palmerston handsomely rewarded Hudson for his contribution to the cause. In June 1850, Palmerston promoted him to the position of minister of the Rio legation. In early 1851, Hudson was made a Companion of the Order of the Bath (‘Your Lordship hardly gives my thanks breathing time’, Hudson wrote on receiving the news, ‘not many months ago I was astonished at my elevation: I am now confounded by my Honours’).35 Finally, in September 1851, Palmerston offered Hudson a chance to return to Europe as the head of a combined mission to Tuscany and the Papal States. ‘You have successfully combated the Black Slave Trade in bodies.’ he wrote privately to Hudson, ‘we now want you to come to Europe to help us to combat the White Slave Trade in minds.’36 By the ‘White Slave Trade in minds’, Palmerston meant Roman Catholicism in general and Papal political influence in particular, his words reflecting the deep antiCatholic and anti-Papal sentiment pervasive in Britain in the early 1850s.37 Hudson’s reply in accepting the appointment is interesting for what it reveals about his ties to Palmerston, and the depth of his pro-Italian sympathies: I deserve no credit for what you are pleased to term my ‘successful combat with the Black Slave Trade in Bodies’. Had I not been possessed with your ideas, certain of your support, encouraged by your example, and cheered by your approval . . . Africans would at this moment, have been poured into Brazil in shoals. Your Lordship showed me the Road; I followed it: and if I have arrived at the point you desired, I am happy if you approve of the mode in which I performed the journey. But ‘to combat the White Slave Trade in minds’ is a very different affair. I fear I shall not be able to fulfil the expectations you have formed of me from my conduct here. Your Lordship will remember that Sir Herbert Taylor told you of myself some years ago when, after Wm 4th ’s death, he recommended me to your Protection. He said I  was an ‘imperfectly educated’ man  – and it is the

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fact: my education since I left Westminster [school] in 1826 has been picked up amongst all sorts and conditions of men and in all sorts of places. It happens oddly enough that the three most impressionable years of my life (from 16 to 19) were spent under the eyes of a good and clever man at or near Florence. There, or at Milan, Venice, Bologna, Rome, or Naples I was made to study Italy: I was taught and shown how the body and soul of Poor Italia was bound in fetters – and it was pointed out to me that it would be a crowning work to deliver her from bondage. This, my Lord, is the only ‘education’ I have had – practical, perhaps, but whether it will enable me to ride the ‘Two Horses’ (both wilful beasts) upon which you intend to give me a ‘mount’ I must leave to you to determine. That I am deeply sensible of the honour you have done me in choosing me for so important a post and that I am determined to carry into effect your Lordship’s views, I  need not tell you. But I  considered it my duty to you who have so constantly protected me and have loaded me with Benefits and Favours to lay bare the doubt which I entertain of my fitness for the office you have been pleased to confer upon me.38

As it turned out, there were limits to Palmerston’s ‘Benefits and Favours’. On the same day Hudson left Rio (14 November), Palmerston recommended to Queen Victoria that the current British minister to Washington, Henry Lytton Bulwer (1801–1872), be appointed to Florence, ‘with a contingent mission to Rome’.39 Patronage considerations seem to have weighed heavily in Palmerston’s change of mind. Bulwer had strong links to the Whig party and to Palmerston especially  – Bulwer would later write Palmerston’s biography – and he had recently made it known that he wanted to return to a diplomatic post in Europe, going as far as to express his interest in the Florence mission.40 ‘Bulwer accepts Florence and Rome very gratefully’, Palmerston informed Russell (17 November).41 The problem now was where to place Hudson. Palmerston ruled out Washington on the grounds that though ‘cleverer’ and ‘higher in rank’ than the current chargé d’affaires, John Crampton (1805–1886), he was ‘younger in the service and it might not be fair to put a younger man over his head without special reason’.42 No decision had been made on Hudson’s future by the time of Palmerston’s dramatic forced resignation as foreign secretary in early December. It was to be Palmerston’s successor, Lord Granville (1815–1891), who would eventually

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nominate Hudson for the vacant position of Turin, but not before he had considered placing him at the Foreign Office as undersecretary of foreign affairs.43 Hudson’s posting to Turin was finally announced in the London Gazette on 23 January 1852. The vagaries of the diplomatic appointment system ultimately served Hudson well, financially and politically. According to Palmerston, the Turin legation came with an annual salary significantly above that of Florence.44 Even allowing for what Palmerston called ‘some addition’ to salary and rent for Florence in recognition of the intended double mission to Rome, Turin was the more remunerative post. In political terms, Turin was an ideal position for a liberal Italophile like Hudson. Since the collapse of the revolutions of 1848–9, Piedmont was the only liberal constitutional state in Italy, it was one of only two independent states in the peninsula (the other being the absolutist Kingdom of Naples, widely despised in Britain), and it was the undisputed leader of moderate (liberalmonarchical) Italian nationalism:  Piedmont had proved its nationalist credentials in 1848–9, twice going to war with Austria in an attempt to wrest control of northern Italy from the Habsburg Empire (the Piedmontese army had been heavily defeated on both occasions). Support for the moderate Italian national movement under Piedmont was widespread in Britain in the 1850s, particularly in liberal circles. Among the political elite, the proItalian sympathies of Russell and Palmerston were such that Queen Victoria (who was far from enamoured with the Italian ‘cause’) referred to them as her ‘Old Italian Masters’.45 Hudson’s task, as described to him by the prime minister Lord John Russell shortly before he left London for Turin, was to ‘put heart into the Piedmontese’;46 that is, to encourage its government to remain faithful to its recently acquired liberal-constitutional convictions, in the face of pressure from absolutist Austria and Catholic-conservative France under Louis Napoleon (soon to declare himself Emperor Napoleon III). Throughout the 1850s, successive governments in London (Whig-liberal and Tory) regarded the maintenance of an independent, constitutional Piedmont as crucial to British interests in Italy:  as a bulwark against the twin evils of reaction and revolution which together had destabilized Italy and Europe since 1815, as an anti-clerical ally in Protestant Britain’s ‘cold war’ with the Papacy, as a model for other Italian states to emulate and as a trading partner – as part of its liberal

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makeover, Piedmont had embraced free trade and embarked on a process of economic modernization. All British governments drew the line, however, at supporting any attempt by Piedmont to achieve Italian independence  – essentially the removal of Austria from Lombardy and Venetia  – through violent means. The maintenance of the European peace and balance of power were Britain’s primary concerns. British politicians might sympathize with the cause of Italian ‘freedom’, but they were not prepared to support it at the cost of a European war. As Russell’s father-in-law Lord Minto explained to the Piedmontese Prime Minister Massimo d’Azeglio (1798–1866) shortly before Hudson’s appointment to Turin, You know how entirely I  agree with you in regarding the independence and well being of Italy as an object of European, and more especially of British interest, in the actual position of affairs, however, it is difficult to see what means are open to us for its present attainment . . . England as well as Italy must bide its time . . . In the meanwhile you are wisely consolidating your institutions, improving your resources and acquiring an importance far above the geographical dimensions of your country and I cling to my belief that you are laying a solid foundation for the ultimate regeneration of Italy.47

These were the diplomatic parameters within which Hudson was expected to work over the next decade.

In Italy, 1852–9 Hudson lost no time in ‘putting heart’ into the Piedmontese. ‘I found him an acute, intelligent, agreeable, cordial man . . . a real gift’, wrote a delighted Massimo d’Azeglio after meeting Hudson for the first time.48 For his part, Hudson was less certain of Azeglio’s abilities. By June, Hudson was writing to the British ambassador to Paris, Lord Cowley (1804–1884), that ‘Azeglio’s health and indolence induced by his old habits as an artist render him incapable of carrying on any scheme with the perseverance which is absolutely necessary of a small state placed between two powerful neighbours who look with no favourable eye upon the free institutions of Piedmont’.49 Hudson’s preferred choice to replace Azeglio was the former finance minister Count Camillo

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Cavour  – and his wish was granted when Azeglio resigned in November 1852. Apart from a six-month period, July 1859–January 1860, Cavour was to remain prime minister until his death in June 1861, in the process becoming the first premier of the new Italian kingdom (May 1861). Hudson’s relations with Cavour were for the most part extremely tight:  Hudson had no doubt that Cavour was the best politician in Piedmont and Cavour could usually depend on Hudson’s support and assistance. In the first half of the 1850s, the two worked closely and successfully (with the warm support of the British government) to challenge Austria’s sequestration policy in Lombardy, under which the Austrian military government had seized the property of Lombard exiles resident in Piedmont. Hudson also played a key role in securing Cavour’s agreement to send 18,000 troops to the Crimea in 1855. When the war finished, Hudson’s diplomatic standing and Piedmont’s place in British affections seemed unshakeable: Hudson was knighted in 1855 for his role in the alliance; the British government subsequently secured full representative status for Piedmont at the Paris Peace Congress in 1856. Palmerston, now prime minister, was ‘ready to forget that the belligerents had decided on no annexations, or at least was willing for Piedmont to be the sole exception and acquire Parma or even Lombardy’.50 The foreign secretary, Lord Clarendon (1800–1870), told Cavour that he did not ‘mind taking the initiative in the conference about the state of Italy, which was a scandal to Europe and which a congress was bound to consider.51 This Clarendon did on 8 April 1856, criticizing the Papal government in central Italy and Bourbon rule in the Kingdom of Naples. Relations between Britain and Piedmont, however, soon began to deteriorate. Clarendon expected Piedmont to follow the British line in all European matters, pointing out that ‘the position which Sardinia [Piedmont] is now occupying as a sort of first rate Power is due exclusively to England’.52 Cavour, though, refused to toe the line. Having failed to secure any tangible compensation for the political, economic and military cost of the Crimean campaign – Piedmont gained no territory from the Paris Congress – Cavour was anxious to shore up his weakened domestic political position and wanted to make the most of Piedmont’s new international status as the ‘representative’ of Italy. Consequently, and to the alarm of the British government, Cavour began to bang the drum for Italian independence ever more insistently. More

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worrying still, from a British perspective, French interest in the Italian question appeared to be increasing. As British government concerns about Cavour began to grow so too did doubts as to Hudson’s reliability, especially after the fall of Palmerston’s government (February 1858). The incoming Tory minority administration led by Lord Derby (1799–1869) with Lord Malmesbury (1807–1889) as foreign secretary was far less sympathetic to the Italian national ‘cause’ than its Liberal-Whig predecessor and blamed Cavour for the growing escalation of tensions in the Italian peninsula. Hudson saw matters differently, consistently arguing that France rather than Piedmont was at fault: ‘Louis Napoleon means mischief to Austria, and no stick would do better in his hand than an Italian one’, Hudson insisted.53 Cavour was merely the emperor’s dupe, completely led away by Louis Napoleon’s promise to ‘do something’ for Italy.54 If Britain was to maintain the peace, he argued, it needed to focus its diplomatic efforts at Paris, not Turin. Malmesbury considered this to be nonsense. Malmesbury had visited Turin in 1856, where he had dined with Cavour and Hudson. On his return to London Malmesbury had met with the then foreign secretary Lord Clarendon. ‘He says he is all for the Sardinians’, Clarendon reported to Palmerston, ‘but that he never saw a people so cocky and puffed up or who more wanted to be taken down a peg’.55 Of Hudson, Malmesbury confided in his diary: ‘[he] is lord of the place and has the most unbounded influence over the king and his ministers; but he lives openly with the revolutionary party and does not disguise his Italian proclivities’.56 In office in 1858–9, as the Italian crisis deepened, Malmesbury saw nothing to make him alter his earlier views of Cavour, the Piedmontese or Hudson. ‘That Europe should be deluged with blood for the personal ambition of an Italian attorney and a tambour major like Cavour and his master is intolerable’, Malmesbury thundered in a despatch to Cowley in Paris in January 1859.57 As for Hudson, Malmesbury noted in his diary in mid-April, shortly before the outbreak of war between Piedmont-France and Austria: ‘The fact is that he is more Italian than the Italians themselves, and he lives almost entirely with the ultras of that cause’.58 By this point, Malmesbury had recalled Hudson to London, with the intention that Hudson would not return to Turin. (This was Malmesbury’s third attempt in little over a year to prize Hudson from his post: in February 1858, he had offered Hudson the choice of ambassador to

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St Petersburg or minister at Berlin – both of which Hudson politely refused – before proposing The Hague in October, with the enticement of a significantly enhanced pension.) The outbreak of war, however, left Malmesbury with little choice but to send Hudson, his most experienced Italian diplomat, back to Turin. Malmesbury made one last effort to remove Hudson from Turin – this time with the bait of Lisbon – in May before the fall of the Derby government in early June.59 ‘I conclude Hudson is dancing about stark naked with joy at the development’, Malmesbury commented to Cowley shortly after the government’s defeat.60 ‘The Tory-Austro Government that would have riveted the chains of Italy and sent Cavour to the dungeons of Poerio are hurled from office!’, Malmesbury joked bitterly in a private letter to Hudson, alluding to the popular view in Britain that Tory policy in Italy had unduly favoured Habsburg interests and referencing the celebrated political prisoner Carlo Poerio, who had recently arrived in England from Naples after serving ten years in prison for his part in the Neapolitan revolution of 1848. ‘Their successors are not yet appointed but Pam [Palmerston] will be the man’.61 Malmesbury guessed correctly: Palmerston became prime minister, with Russell as foreign secretary. Why, if Malmesbury had no faith in Hudson did he not sack him? Although an unusual step for a foreign secretary to take, it was by no means unheard of  – indeed, Malmesbury had done so himself in 1858 when he had forced the incumbent minister at Florence, Lord Normanby into reluctant early retirement. Part of the answer would seem to lie in Malmesbury’s respect for Hudson’s knowledge of Italian affairs. When Malmesbury recalled Hudson to London in April, he told him that he could expect to be called upon as Malmesbury’s ‘Italian encyclopaedia’, if (as Malmesbury hoped) a European congress on the Italian question could be agreed upon by the major powers.62 ‘If he would run fair, he knows Italy and the old questions well’, Malmesbury told Cowley.63 This was an understatement. As his correspondence attests, Hudson possessed a remarkable grasp of detail across an enormous variety of issues, and was extraordinarily well informed, not just on developments within Piedmont but across the peninsula and beyond. In part, this was a result of Hudson’s natural curiosity and sharp mind. In part, it was due to his readiness to pay for information, a habit he had acquired in Rio. Within weeks of his arrival in Turin, Hudson could be found writing to Malmesbury (foreign secretary in the short-lived first Derby government) requesting funds to cover

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the cost of copying correspondence which he had recently acquired between the Vatican and Cardinal Wiseman, head of the Catholic Church in England. (Malmesbury eagerly consented.) Malmesbury also agreed to Hudson’s request to engage an agent in Lombardy to investigate the activities of ‘the FrancoLombard party’, which, Hudson said, was seeking the creation of a northern ‘Kingdom of Italy’ under French protection. Soon after, Hudson reported the ‘disappearance’ of his informant in Rome, who Hudson understood had been ‘put out of the way’ by the Pope’s chief minister, Cardinal Antonelli. ‘I have had, therefore, to reknit the broken thread and begin afresh with a new Agent’, he informed his chief. Similarly, under Clarendon, we find Hudson in 1854 reporting that he had gained access to Garibaldi’s private correspondence, which revealed that Garibaldi had definitively broken with Mazzini.64 Hudson’s greatest asset, however, was his informal intelligence network, including journalists, politicians, political exiles, diplomats, and artists, which extended across and beyond Italy, to Paris and even London. From his time in Brazil, Hudson was well aware of the power of newspapers and in 1853 he undertook a detailed survey of the Piedmontese press, which was subsequently published in the Gazzetta Piemontese, a relatively small circulation but influential paper edited by the leading Neapolitan exile and confidant of Cavour, Giuseppe Massari (1821–1884). ‘A man with brains and without a tongue’,65 Massari was indispensable to Hudson as a source of news and information, for his extensive contacts, and as an intermediary between Hudson and Cavour. Massari’s published diaries for 1858–60, for example, show that Hudson and Massari met almost daily, and sometimes several times a day. Hudson and Massari even holidayed together, touring the Mont Cenis massif in the company of Hudson’s great friend Antonio Panizzi (1797–1879), the recently appointed principal librarian at the British Museum and another extremely well-connected and influential moderate Italian political exile. Panizzi had fled to England in the early 1820s to escape arrest (and execution) in the ultra-reactionary duchy of Modena. A naturalized British citizen since 1832, Panizzi nonetheless remained deeply involved in the independence movement, cultivating a wide circle of influential friends and supporters in England, France and Italy including Palmerston, Russell, Gladstone, Prosper Mérimée (the intimate confidant of Napoleon III’s young wife, the empress Eugénie) and Cavour. Panizzi was also well acquainted with the leading

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members of the exiled Italian community in London, including Giuseppe Mazzini (1805–1872). Hudson had first met Panizzi at a small and decidedly ‘pro-Italian’ dinner party hosted by Russell in February 1852, just days before Hudson’s departure for Turin (the other guests included the Piedmontese minister to London, Emanuele d’Azeglio [Massimo’s nephew] and Lord Minto). Panizzi had been suitably impressed: ‘After dinner we had a long confabulation together and I liked him a lot.’ Panizzi wrote to Massari; ‘He expressed himself italianissimamente with much warmth and without hesitation.’66 Panizzi’s influence on leading British liberals was such that when Malmesbury in June 1859 predicted to Hudson that Palmerston would form the next government, he had added, ‘with Panizzi at the FO!’ Panizzi corresponded regularly with Hudson and the two often travelled together in Italy, including visiting Bologna (then part of the Papal States) in September 1858 where they stayed with the leading liberal dissident, and future Italian Prime Minister, Marco Minghetti. (‘In our conversations political discussions inevitably held the field’, Minghetti recalled in his memoirs.)67 Hudson also collaborated with Panizzi in the librarian’s daring plan of 1855 to liberate Poerio and other political prisoners from the Neapolitan prison island of San Stefano. The plot was cooked up with the full backing of Palmerston’s government, which contributed £500 of secret service funds to the enterprise (individual ministers also contributed privately, in the case of Gladstone through his wife who donated £100).68 Hudson was able to put Panizzi in touch with the respected physician  – and Garibaldian revolutionary  – Agostino Bertani. (Hudson had sought out the Genoa-based Bertani for medical advice in March 1853, probably on the recommendation of Lord Minto, whose terminally ill wife was then under Bertani’s care. Henry Bulwer was another client.)69 Bertani in turn sought Garibaldi’s opinion, who thought the plan possible. The rescue mission, however, ended in tragedy in October 1855, when the steamer, the Isle of Thanet, which had been purchased for the task, sank during a storm off the coast of Yarmouth on its way to Naples, killing three crew members.70 Hudson’s intelligence-gathering capacity was further augmented by his membership of some of the most prestigious gentlemen’s clubs in Turin and London: the Società del Whist, the most selective club in Turin; the Circolo degli Artisti, whose membership included Massimo d’Azeglio and Cavour; and Arthur’s Club and the Travellers Club in London, the latter which counted

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Russell and Palmerston among its members, as well as distinguished foreign diplomats, members of foreign royalty and foreign gentlemen travellers. Hudson was also a member of the Arundel Society, then under the direction of the liberal member of parliament Henry Layard (1817–94), another great friend of Hudson’s and likewise a committed Italophile (Layard later served under Russell as undersecretary for Foreign Affairs, 1861–5). Hudson even helped launch at least one new association, co-founding the Regatta Society at Belgirate on Lake Maggiore with, among others, Massimo d’Azeglio and the widowed Duchess of Genoa, the sister-in-law of the Piedmontese king, Victor Emanuel II (1820–78).71 More often than not, though, society came to Hudson rather than the other way around:  ‘his salon is always full’, recorded the French diplomat Henri D’Ideville, who was attached to the French legation in Turin, 1859–62. ‘It is there that I saw Count Cavour for the first time . . . and have often encountered [Giuseppe] Verdi, [the painter/engraver Luigi] Calamatta, [the sculptor] Carlo Marochetti etc.’72 According to D’Ideville, the leading political exiles from across Italy could always find a ‘safe refuge, generous hospitality, often even important subsidies’ at the residence of the British minister. ‘One of the secretaries of the English legation, Lord Hubert de Burgh, often told me with a smile: “I dined at Sir James’s, we were 10 at the table, except the minister and myself, all the guests were condemned to death. I tremble still.” ’73 D’Ideville was prone to exaggeration – and not always a reliable chronicler (he claimed that Hudson had found himself on more than one occasion in contact with the democratic republican revolutionary Mazzini, an absurd scenario given Hudson’s long-standing and well-known dislike of Mazzini’s methods, politics and programme) – but it was certainly possible that many of Hudson’s visitors were under sentence of death elsewhere in Italy, Panizzi (sentenced to death in abstentia in Modena) a case in point. It was also true that Verdi was a regular visitor: it was Hudson who introduced the composer to Cavour in September 1859 when Verdi came to Turin as part of a delegation to press for immediate annexation of the central Italian duchies to Piedmont (under cover of war in the north, revolts had occurred in Parma, Modena, Tuscany and the Romagna over the summer of 1859); it was Hudson, too, who in October 1859 helped Verdi procure (illegally) 172 rifles for the newly established ‘National Guard’ in Verdi’s hometown of Busseto.74 (Hudson’s friendship with Verdi later led

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the Royal Commission in charge of preparations for the 1862 International Exhibition in London to use him as its initial intermediary with Verdi. The commission hoped to persuade Verdi to contribute a new composition for the exhibition as Italy’s national musical representative. Verdi’s ‘Hymn of Nations’ was the result.75) Hudson’s extensive informal intelligence network owed much to his personality and ‘soft’ diplomatic skills. As a young man, Hudson had possessed a violent temper, and had even been found guilty of assault in 1836 while working at the Royal Court. (Hudson had horsewhipped a labourer in Windsor Park for throwing a stone at a dog belonging to Prince George. Hudson had been fined £15 and advised by the undersheriff in charge of the jury that ‘persons in his station should set a good example to others’.76) We catch glimpses of what Garvey calls Hudson’s ‘violent streak’ when minister in Turin.77 For example, in her diary, Margherita Provana di Collegno recorded Hudson in February 1855 speaking of the senator Alberto Ricci in the following terms: ‘I consider him as a rascal and I will spit in his face and kick him out of doors’78 On another occasion, in January 1859, Federico Sclopis di Salerno noted in his diary a 45-minute stand-up row between Hudson and the king, Victor Emmanuel, at a Court Ball. Hudson ‘spoke and gestured with great energy’, wrote Salerno, as astonished guests looked on from an adjoining room.79 Hudson’s tone in his correspondence with Malmesbury was also sometimes rude and insolent. For the most part, though, as Silvia Cavicchioli writes, Hudson was charming.80 ‘He is the most accomplished English gentleman’, gushed D’Ideville, ‘the friendliest great lord one can meet. He is tall, his features are delicate and of great beauty; his face open, marked at the same time by nobility and gentleness. He is a simple and generous man’.81 Massimo D’Azeglio declared himself ‘enchanted’ with Hudson after their first meeting in 1852, while the outgoing British minister, Lord Abercromby, who had met Hudson in Genoa a few days earlier, found him ‘so easy and agreeable’.82 James Lacaita, another influential and well-connected moderate Italian exile based in London described Hudson as ‘the most lovable of men’.83 Minghetti could think of ‘few men of more lively intelligence’ than Hudson.84 Massari meanwhile considered him to be ‘a man of elevated senses, uncommon shrewdness, rich in experience of men and things’.85 Even Malmesbury could not resist his charm. When Hudson visited Malmesbury at the latter’s Scottish estate of Achnacarry in October

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1858, Malmesbury enjoyed his company so much that he at once invited him back for the following year. Malmesbury repeated the offer in June 1859 as he prepared to leave office: ‘Before Napoleon the 3rd (who is much more likely to turn out Bonaparte the 2nd) gives us serious employment let us enjoy life. State therefore to my successor that I had promised you leave of absence in September next, and that you are obliged to go to England, alias Achnacarry’.86 This from a man who in mid-May had ordered Hudson to ‘withdraw from the poetry which pervades the atmosphere in which you live’, commenting at the same time to Cowley, ‘Hudson is a man who imbibes and fattens on any atmosphere he breathes . . . He is swept away by the stream (whatever it maybe) that he swims in. He must be a charming lover!’.87 Malmesbury’s personal friendship with Hudson may also help to explain his reluctance forcibly to remove the recalcitrant diplomat from Turin. A noted conversationalist – ‘few talk as he does’ observed the liberal Member of Parliament M. E. Grant Duff88 – Hudson possessed another important ‘soft’ skill: a passion for art. Saho Matsumoto-Best argues in her recent study of Sir James Rendell Rodd, the British ambassador to Italy, 1909–19, that art and literature were ‘useful communication tools for . . . everyday diplomacy’:  a renaissance art enthusiast, Rodd ‘carefully used his interest (s) . . . to foster a new network of contacts within the Italian body politic who in 1915 proved amenable to the entente’s overtures to enter the war’.89 Matsumoto-Best describes this as ‘a fine example of a new culture-based diplomacy designed to create a favourable environment within which to discuss high politics’.90 In fact, Rodd was merely following in Hudson’s footsteps. Hudson’s deep knowledge of Italian renaissance art and his activities as a keen amateur artist, collector and dealer undoubtedly helped in the construction of his own network of influential and important contacts, both in Italy and in Britain. Massimo d’Azeglio, for example, immediately warmed to Hudson not just because of his character but because he shared Azeglio’s interest in art,91 while the fact that he purchased pictures and ceramics for Emanuele d’Azeglio testifies to the strong personal ties between Hudson and the Piedmontese minister in London. (In 1861, Hudson even gifted Azeglio a beautifully engraved fifteenth-century Franco-Flemish cassone.92) Of course, Hudson’s extensive network of contacts in the Italian art world, which so often overlapped with that of politics, stemmed directly from his artistic predilections, and one of the attractions of

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visiting Hudson’s ‘salon’ was the chance to see his impressive (part-borrowed, part-owned) collection. ‘Having heard so much of the splendour of Hudson’s abode . . . I was quite glad to have an opportunity of seeing it’, wrote the wife of the secretary of the Prussian minister to Turin in October 1857, ‘his studio or den, as he calls it, [is] a lovely room full of beautiful things, where we talked long about a new system of colouring. He is devoted to painting’.93 Among his British contacts, Hudson’s correspondence with Gladstone ‘was almost as much concerned with Vinovo porcelain as with Italian politics’,94 while his strong personal relationship with Malmesbury – which arguably helped to save his diplomatic career – owed much to their shared passion for renaissance art. When recalled to London by Malmesbury in April 1859, Hudson arrived with ‘a beautiful picture by Crivelli’ for the foreign secretary’s private collection; Malmesbury also used Hudson to seek out particular works for purchase.95

In Italy, 1859–63 Hudson’s star waxed once more in the wake of the fall of the Derby government and return of his old protector and long-standing supporter of Italian independence, Lord Palmerston. With Russell, another staunch Italophile – and Hudson admirer – at the Foreign Office, and the equally sympathetic William Gladstone (1809–1898) at the Exchequer, British policy in Italy suddenly became far more ‘pro-Italian’. Hudson was the direct beneficiary. Previously ignored by Malmesbury, he now became one of the most influential figures in shaping British policy towards Italy, especially in the aftermath of the treaty of Villafranca (July 1859) which ended the Franco-Piedmontese War against Austria but left many questions regarding Italy’s future unresolved. Not only did Russell actively seek Hudson’s opinion on Italian issues (e.g. on how best to proceed in relation to the central Italian duchies) but he also encouraged Hudson to use his own discretion when it came to the implementation of policy. (e.g. Russell fully supported Hudson’s unilateral intervention in early January 1860 to demand Victor Emmanuel withdraw his support for Garibaldi’s new anti-Cavourian political group, the Nazione Armata.) When Hudson was subsequently accused in the House of Commons of unwarranted interference in the internal affairs of another country, Russell stoutly defended

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him. ‘I think that the conduct of Sir James Hudson was perfectly right, and very becoming on his part. He has long resided in Sardinia, and he is a person who does not conceal his opinions.’96 Russell, with Palmerston’s blessing, also nominated Hudson in late 1859 to be one of two British plenipotentiaries at another proposed (and never held) European congress on Italy. When Queen Victoria vetoed the appointment, Russell considered making a stand on the issue and drafted (but never sent) a letter to Victoria in which he claimed to agree entirely with Hudson’s views on Italy.97 The political intimacy between Hudson and Russell proved short-lived. During 1860, the two clashed, first in April over how to respond to Cavour’s secession of Nice and Savoy to France (the secret quid pro quo for the French military alliance of 1859) – Russell regarded it as evidence that Cavour was ‘too French and too tricky’;98 Hudson as a necessary surrender of territory in order to preserve the gains made from the war and peace of 1859 – then, during Garibaldi’s breathtaking conquest of southern Italy over the summer, over whether to support Italian unity (Hudson) or duality (Russell). Ultimately, Russell was forced to bow to events, giving his government’s blessing to the fledgling kingdom of united Italy in late October 1860. Britain duly recognized the new kingdom soon after the coronation of Victor Emmanuel in March 1861, the first of the Great Powers to do so. Hudson became the first British minister to Italy. Russell, though, could not shake off his doubts that Hudson was now being ‘led too far by your Italian sympathies’.99 In November 1860, Emanuele d’Azeglio informed Palmerston that he had heard from three different sources (including Pannizi) that Russell meant to offer Hudson the embassy at St Petersburg, with Henry Elliot, Russell’s brother-in-law, his replacement.100 Palmerston was horrified, and shortly afterwards his son-in-law, Lord Shaftesbury (another ardent supporter of the Italian ‘cause’) passed the story on to the Times, which duly ran a vigorous campaign in defence of Hudson (from which the hyperbolic extract at the start of this chapter is derived) and against Russell, who it accused of nepotism. No change took place (and Russell denied that he had ever intended to move Hudson) but when Russell in February 1862 offered Hudson the embassy at Constantinople, Hudson considered it ‘a pretty strong hint I was to go’.101 ‘I felt that I was a stumbling block to the Profession’, he later told Odo Russell (1829–84), the unofficial British representative to

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Rome and Lord John Russell’s nephew. ‘Being by nature susceptible (to an extreme degree) I determined to leave a Place where I seemed to be “de trop”.’102 Hudson asked to be allowed to remain at Turin until he qualified for his full pension, at which time he would retire. He left the diplomatic service in the autumn of 1863. Elliot replaced him. The news, which Hudson kept secret from his friends and colleagues until shortly before his retirement, was greeted with astonishment, regret and anger in the British press, which again accused Russell of nepotism. ‘There is no natural reason why Sir James Hudson should vacate his post.’ thundered the Times, ‘This is not the time at which either England or Italy can spare [Hudson’s] services, and to deprive both countries of them in order merely to make room for Mr Elliot would be too bad.’103 ‘What has been sacrificed in this sacrifice of Sir James Hudson?’, the Standard asked rhetorically:  ‘Great and peculiar experience, a rare, if sometimes impetuous judgement, incessant activity, a wonderful power of inspiring confidence, a familiar knowledge of Italian affairs, strong English feeling, and strong Italian sympathy.’104 The controversy was revived in the press in 1868 and again on Hudson’s death in 1885, eventually prompting the Elliot family to publish a detailed rebuttal of the case against Russell.105

Conclusion Hudson remained active in Italian affairs in a private capacity after his retirement in 1863, taking a leading role in a number of new financial and land development ventures including the Anglo-Italian Bank, Italian Lands Company, Florence Public Works Company and Milan Improvement Company, continuing to collect and trade in renaissance art, and, in 1870, even joining the board of the recently established Italian Geographic Society. He also remained a keen (and often critical) observer of Italian politics, and a close friend of leading British and Italian politicians – particularly Gladstone, who in a letter to James Lacaita in 1868 still referred to Hudson as ‘our minister in Italy’, and Bettino Ricasoli (1809–80), twice prime minister of Italy, with whom Hudson collaborated on a range of commercial, agricultural and land improvement initiatives in the 1860s and 1870s.106 Hudson was not exaggerating when he informed Panizzi in December 1869: ‘I live as a farmer,

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gardener, Banker, architect, landowner and have dealings with all sorts and conditions of people.’107 How should we judge Hudson in Italy? Certainly, he was no ‘ultra’ as Malmesbury claimed, if by this Malmesbury meant Hudson was keen to see an Italian war. Far from it: Hudson feared that such a war would only benefit France at the expense of Italian freedom and the European balance of power. In other words, it was precisely Hudson’s Italian proclivities that led him constantly to warn Cavour against war as the Italian crisis deepened through 1858 and early 1859 (to Cavour’s mounting annoyance). In fact, Hudson’s position on Italy was remarkably similar to that of Gladstone’s  – who also found himself ‘booked even in high quarters as an ultra Italian’ in the spring of 1859. ‘I am for peace as much as most men’, Gladstone told Hudson, ‘but if we want to have steady peace in Italy, we must mend the conditions of her existence’.108 For Gladstone, as for Hudson, this meant ‘local freedom’, but for this to be achieved peacefully Britain had to take a more active role in support of Italy/Piedmont against Austria – which Malmesbury was loathed to do. As we have seen, British policy in Italy after Palmerston’s return to power in June 1859 was more closely aligned with Hudson’s approach. Hudson’s defence of Cavour following the cession of Nice and Savoy to France and insistence on unity over duality subsequently compromised him in the eyes of Russell, but here, too, Hudson’s arguments made sense. There was nothing to be gained from Britain abandoning Cavour, Piedmont’s stand-out politician, at a time when Italian affairs remained in a state of flux and uncertainty; similarly, there was little point in opposing the union of north and south Italy once Garibaldi had conquered Sicily. Hudson won the argument but at considerable cost to his standing with the foreign secretary. Throughout his career, Hudson had always favoured an active, interventionist (one might say Palmerstonian) approach to foreign policy. Turin was no different and Hudson never deviated from his belief that an independent Italy could be ‘made British’ and would serve wider British interests in the Mediterranean and the Middle East, if only the British government were prepared to intervene more forcefully in the ‘Italian question’ on the side of Piedmont and the moderate national movement. Ultimately, though, it was his job to implement policy, not make it, and his persistent questioning of his superiors’ decisions undoubtedly told against him in the long run.

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Notes 1 Federico Curato (ed.), Le Relazioni diplomatiche tra la Gran Bretagna ed il regno di Sardegna (1852–1856): Il carteggio diplomatico di Sir James Hudson, vol. 1 (Turin: Istituto per la Storia del Risorgimento Italiano, 1956). 2 See, for example, Noel Blakiston, ‘Carteggio Hudson-Russell (Gennaio-Marzo 1861)’, Archivio Storico Italiano (1961), pp. 362–86; Ashley Clarke, ‘Cavour e Hudson (1855–1860)’, Miscellanea Cavouriana (1964), pp. 219–49; Derek Beales, England and Italy, 1859–1860 (London: Thomas Nelson, 1961). 3 Nick Carter, ‘Hudson, Malmesbury and Cavour: British Diplomacy and the Italian Question, February 1858 to June 1859’, Historical Journal, 40/2 (1997), pp. 389–413; Nick Carter, ‘England, Piedmont and the Cagliari Affair, 1857–8’, Rassegna Storica del Risorgimento LXXXV (April-June 1998), pp. 147–69; Nick Carter, ‘More Italian than the Italians? Sir James Hudson and British Policy in Italy before the Second Italian War of Independence (February 1858-April 1859)’, Ricerche Storiche, 30/2 (2000), pp. 321–57. 4 See, for example, Lucy Riall, Garibaldi: Invention of a Hero (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007). 5 The quote is from the cover description of Markus Mösslang and Torsten Riotte (eds), The Diplomats’ World: A Cultural History of Diplomacy, 1815–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008). 6 Edoardo Greppi and Enrica Pagella (eds), Sir James Hudson nel Risorgimento Italiano (Soveria Mannelli, Catanzaro: Rubbettino, 2012). 7 James Hudson to Charlotte Hudson, 10 May 1839, in The Taylor Papers: Being a Record of Certain Reminiscences, Letters, and Journals in the Life of Lieut.-Gen. Sir Herbert Taylor, ed. E. Taylor (London: Longmans, Green, 1913), p. 510. 8 Palmerston warned Melbourne in 1834 that ‘our attention must be steadily directed to restrain the encroachments of Russia, whose greedy and indefatigable ambition of conquest is the great danger with which Europe at present is threatened’. In Kenneth Bourne, Palmerston: The Early Years, 1784–1841 (London: Macmilan, 1982), p. 559. 9 Hudson to Sir Herbert Taylor, 8 February 1836, The National Archives. Kew (henceforth TNA), FO 78/273. 10 G. H. Bolsover, ‘David Urquhart and the Eastern Question, 1833–37: A Study in Publicity and Diplomacy’, Journal of Modern History, 8/4 (1936), p. 447; Charles Webster, ‘Urquhart, Ponsonby, and Palmerston’, English Historical Review, 62/244 (1947), p. 331. 11 Many years later, when minister to Turin, Hudson explained his approach to the British representative at Rome, Odo Russell: ‘Is there in this (or the next) world

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16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

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a great bore than a Commentator? . . . A ‘talented man’ gets hold of you and uses you as a peg to hang his notions on’. Hudson to Odo Russell, 31 May 1860, TNA FO 918/42, Ampthill Papers (henceforth AP). Hudson to Ponsonby, 31 August 1836, Durham University Library, Papers of John Viscount Ponsonby (hereafter Ponsonby Papers), GRE/E/313. Hudson to Taylor, 8 February 1836, TNA FO 78/273; Hudson to Ponsonby, 2 November 1836, Ponsonby Papers, GRE/E/313. Hudson to Ponsonby, 6 August 1836, Ponsonby Papers, GRE/E/313. Hudson to Antonio Panizzi, 16 October 1855, British Library (hereafter BL), Correspondence of Sir A. Panizzi (hereafter Panizzi Papers), Additional Manuscripts [hereafter Add MS] 36717. Taylor to Palmerston, 1 July 1837, in Taylor, Taylor Papers, p. 399. Palmerston to Taylor, 30 June 1837, in Taylor, Taylor Papers, p. 399. Taylor to Palmerston, 1 July 1837, Taylor, Taylor Papers, p. 399. Ibid., 399; Hudson to Ponsonby, 26 October 1836, Ponsonby Papers, GRE/E/313. Hudson to Ponsonby, 19 September 1839, Ponsonby Papers, GRE/E/313. Ibid. Palmerston quoted in Bourne, Palmerston, p. 454. Palmerston to Russell, in Christopher Lloyd, The Navy and the Slave Trade: The Suppression of the African Slave Trade in the Nineteenth Century (London: Frank Cass, 1968), p. 148; Hudson to Palmerston, 10 July 1849, University of Southampton, Palmerston Papers (PP), GC/HU/14. Lord Malmesbury (1852), in Leslie Bethell, The Abolition of the Brazilian Slave Trade (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), p. 366. Bethell, Abolition, pp. 275–6. Ibid., pp. 321–2. Ibid., p. 310. Reynolds, quoted in ‘Sir Barrington Reynolds’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Bethell, Abolition, p. 287. Ibid., p. 310. Hudson to Palmerston, 10 July 1849, PP GC/HU/14; Hudson to Palmerston, 15 August 1849, PP, GC/HU/15. Hudson to Palmerston, 21 February 1850, PP GC/HU/20. Palmerston to Hudson, 13 April 1850, in British Foreign State Papers, 1850–1851 (London, 1863), 40: p. 339. Bethell, Abolition, p. 363. In Foundations of British Foreign Policy from Pitt (1792) to Salisbury (1902): Old and New Documents, ed. H. W. V. Temperley and L. M. Penson (Abingdon: F. Cass and C, 1966), p. 304.

128 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 35 Hudson to Palmerston, 11 April 1851, PP GC/HU/34. 36 John Fleming, ‘Art Dealing and the Risorgimento – I’, Burlington Magazine 115/838 (1973), p. 4n4. 37 See Nick Carter (ed.), ‘Introduction’, in Britain, Ireland and the Italian Risorgimento (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), pp. 1–32. 38 Hudson to Palmerston, 10 October 1851, PP GC/HU/39. 39 Palmerston to Queen Victoria, 14 November 1851, PP RC/FF/10–21. 40 For Bulwer’s account of his appointment see Bulwer to Granville, 7 January 1852, TNA, Granville Papers (GP), PRO30/29/19/3. Granville had decided to send Bulwer back to Washington – a move that Bulwer bitterly opposed. In the end, Bulwer proceeded to Florence. 41 Palmerston to Lord John Russell, 17 November 1851, TNA, Russell Papers (RP), PRO30/22/9H. 42 Ibid. 43 Granville to Russell, 31 December 1851 TNA GP PRO/30/29/20/2. 44 Palmerston to Russell, 11 October 1851, TNA RP PRO30/22/9G. In October 1852, Bulwer threatened to retire from the diplomatic service if the Florence allowance was not increased, claiming it was ‘quite impossible to live here on anything like two thousand pounds’. Bulwer to Malmesbury, 31 October 1852, Hampshire Record Office (HRO), Malmesbury Papers (MP), 9M73/2. Malmesbury subsequently raised the allowance to £4,000 p.a. 45 Fleming, ‘Art Dealing’, p. 5. 46 Hudson to Russell, 6 February 1852, in Federico Curato (ed.), Le Relazioni fra la Gran Bretagna e il regno di Sardegna, vol. 4, part II (Rome: Italian Historical Institute for the Modern and Contemporary Age, 1968), p. 140. 47 Lord Minto to Massimo d’Azeglio, 10 October 1851, Istituto per la storia del Risorgimento Italiano, Rome (hereafter ISRI), busta 563 n34 (9). 48 Silvia Cavicchioli, ‘Hudson nella Torino del Risorgimento’, in Sir James Hudson, ed. Edoardo Greppi and Enrica Pagella (Soveria Mannelli, Catanzaro: Rubbettino, 2012), p. 174. 49 Hudson to Cowley, 18 June 1852, in Curato, Relazioni, IV, p. 79. 50 Denis Mack Smith, Victor Emanuel, Cavour and the Risorgimento (London: Oxford university press, 1971), p. 80. 51 Clarendon to Palmerston, 13 March 1856, in Federico Curato (ed.), Le Relazioni fra la Gran Bretagna e il regno di Sardegna (Rome: Italian Historical Institute for the Modern and Contemporary Age, 1969), 4: p. 246. 52 Clarendon to Hudson, 17 October 1856, in Curato, Relazioni, p. 352. 53 Hudson to Malmesbury, 1 May 1858, HRO MP 9M73/13. 54 Hudson to Malmesbury, 30 March 1858, HRO MP 9M73/13; Hudson to Malmesbury, 9 July 1858, TNA CP FO 519/194.

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55 Clarendon to Palmerston, 25 October 1856, in Mack Smith, Victor Emanuel, p. 91. 56 Diary entry, 24 October 1856, in James Howard Harris (3rd Earl of Malmesbury), Memoirs of an ex-Minister: An Autobiography (London: Longmans, Green, 1885), p. 111. 57 Malmesbury to Cowley, 13 January 1859, HRO MP 9M73/53. 58 Diary entry, 11 April 1859, in Malmesbury, Memoirs, p. 475. 59 Malmesbury to Hudson, 31 May 1859, MP 9M73/55. 60 Malmesbury to Cowley, 14 June 1859, TNA CP FO 519/196. 61 Malmesbury to Hudson, 12 June 1859, MP 9M73/56. 62 Giuseppe Massari, diary entry, 7 April 1859, in Emilia Morelli (ed.) Diario dalle cento voce 1858–1860 (Bologna: Cappelli, 1959), p. 194. 63 Malmesbury to Cowley, 19 March 1859, HRO MP 9M73/53. 64 Hudson to Malmesbury, 12 May 1852, in Curato, Relazioni, 4: pp. 66–8; Hudson to Malmesbury, 18 June 1852, MP 973/50; Hudson to Clarendon, 18 June 1854, in Curato, Relazioni, 4: p. 288. 65 Hudson to Malmesbury, 11 May 1858, TNA CP FO 519/194. 66 Panizzi to Massari, 3 February 1852, ISRI, busta 383, 16 (3). 67 Marco Minghetti, Miei Ricordi, 1850–1859, vol. 3, 2nd edn (Turin: Roux, 1890), p. 218. 68 Denis V. Reidy, ‘Panizzi, Gladstone, Garibaldi and the Neapolitan Prisoners’, Electronic British Library Journal (2005), p. 7. 69 Jessie White Mario, Agostino Bertani e i suoi tempi (Florence: Barberà, 1888), 1: p. 198. 70 For details of the planned rescue mission, see Reidy, ‘Panizzi’. 71 Cavicchioli, ‘Hudson nella Torino del Risorgimento’, p. 181; Fleming, ‘Art Dealing’, p. 7; Andrew Martin Garvey, ‘Sir James Hudson: cenni biografici, genealogici e araldici’, in Sir James Hudson, ed. Edoardo Greppi and Enrico Pagella, pp. 232–3. 72 Henry D’Ideville, Journal d’un diplomate en Italie: notes intimes pour servir à l’histoire du Second Empire. Turin 1859–1862, 2nd edn (Paris: Hachette, 1872), pp. 33–4. 73 Ibid., p. 33. 74 Frank Walker, The Man Verdi, 2nd edn (Chicago: Knopf, 1982), p. 224. 75 Roberta Montemorra Marvin, The Politics of Verdi’s Cantica (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014), p. 23. 76 Sportsman 1, no. 6 (December 1836), p. 332. 77 Garvey, ‘Sir James Hudson’, p. 232. 78 Ibid., p. 232. 79 Sclopis, diary entry, 24 January 1859, in Diario segreto (1858–1878), ed. P. Pietro Pirri (Turin: Deputazione Subalpina di Storia Patria, 1959), p. 66.

130 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 80 Cavicchioli, ‘Hudson nella Torino del Risorgimento’, p. 188. 81 D’Ideville, Journal d’un diplomate, p. 33. 82 In Cavicchioli, ‘Hudson nella Torino del Risorgimento’, 174; Abercromby to Russell, 9 February 1852, in Curato, Le Relazioni fra la Gran Bretagna e il regno di Sardegna, ed. Federico Curato (Rome: Italian Historical Institute for the Modern and Contemporary Age, 1962), 3: p. 402. 83 In Charles Lacaita (ed.), An Italian Englishman: Sir James Lacaita, K.C.M.G., 1813–1895, Senator of the Kingdom of Italy (London: G. Richards, 1933), p. 79. 84 Minghetti, Miei ricordi, p. 20. 85 Garvey, ‘Sir James Hudson’, p. 232. 86 Malmesbury to Hudson, 12 June 1859, HRO MP 9M73/56. 87 Malmesbury to Hudson, 19 May 1859, HRO MP 9M73/55; Malmesbury to Cowley, 17 May 1859, TNA CP FO 519/196. 88 Grant Duff, diary entry, 30 September 1870, in Sir Mountstuart E. Grant Duff, Notes from a Diary, 1851–1872 (London: J. Murray, 1897), 2: p. 176. 89 Saho Matsumoto-Best, ‘The Cultural Diplomacy of Sir James Rendell Rodd’, in On the Fringes of Diplomacy: Influences on British Foreign Policy, 1800–1945, ed. John Fisher and Antony Best (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), p. 222; John Fisher and Antony Best, ‘Introduction’, in On the Fringes of Diplomacy, p. 8. 90 Matsumoto-Best, ‘Cultural Diplomacy’, p. 220. 91 Cavicchioli, ‘Hudson nella Torino del Risorgimento’, p. 174. 92 Susanna Avery-Quash, ‘Hudson, Eastlake e la National Gallery di Londra’, in Sir James Hudson, ed. Edoardo Greppi and Enrico Pagella (Soveria Mannelli, Catanzaro: Rubbettino, 2012), p. 218. 93 Mme Charles de Bunsen, In Three Legations (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1909), pp. 59, 61. See also Simone Baiocco, ‘Sulle fortune degli ‘‘Old Masters’’ piemontese’, in Greppi and Pagella, Sir James Hudson, p. 329. 94 Fleming, ‘Art Dealing’, p. 5. 95 Malmesbury, Political Diary, 10 April 1859, HRO MP 9M73/79; Malmesbury to Hudson, 12 June 1859, HRO MP 9M73/56. 96 Russell, House of Commons, 3 February 1860, Hansard’s Parliamentary Debates, Third Series, Vol. CLV, 24 January 1860–5 March 1860 (London: UK Parliament, 1860), p. 506. 97 C. T. McIntire, England against the Papacy 1858–1861: Tories, Liberals and the Overthrow of Papal Temporal Power During the Italian Risorgimento (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 150. 98 Beales, England and Italy, p. 148. 99 Russell to Hudson, 23 July 1860, in Giuseppe Giarrizzo (ed.), Le Relazione diplomatiche fra la Gran Bretagna e il regno di Sardegna (Rome: Italian Historical Institute for the Modern and Contemporary Age, 1962), 8: pp. 167–8.

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100 Emanuele d’Azeglio to Count Cavour, 7 Nov. 1860, in Cavour e l’Inghilterra: carteggio con V. E. d’Azeglio, vol. 2, no. 2 (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1933), pp. 156–7. 101 Hudson to Henry Layard, 27 June 1863, in George Elliot (ed.), Sir James Hudson and Earl Russell: An Historical Rectification from Authentic Documents (London: William Ridgway, 1886), p. 35. 102 Hudson to Odo Russell, 8 January 1864, TNA AP FO918/43. 103 The Times, 13 August 1863. 104 Standard, 15 August 1863. 105 See Hudson to Henry Layard, 27 June 1863, in George Elliot (ed.), Sir James Hudson and Earl Russell, p. 35. 106 Gladstone to James Lacaita, 17 January 1869, BL, Gladstone Papers, vol. 149, BM Add MS 44234. For Hudson’s correspondence with Ricasoli, see the multiple volumes of Carteggi di Bettino Ricasoli (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per l’età Moderna e Contemporanea). 107 Hudson to Panizzi, 21 December 1869, BL, Panizzi Papers, vol. 12, BM Add MS 36725. 108 Gladstone to Hudson, 14 March 1859, BL, Gladstone Papers, vol. 306, BM Add MS 44391.

6

The Dutch consul J. A. Kruyt and the policing of Muslim pilgrims in Jeddah, c.1858–88 Ferry de Goey

A pilgrimage (hajj) to Mecca is one of the five pillars of Islam.1 It involved making a long and hazardous journey by camel or sailing ship that could take up to several months or even years. The introduction of steamships in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea in the 1840s made it easier for pilgrims to go to Mecca. Even more important was the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 and the use of steamships on long distances.2 The growing number of pilgrims created new problems: epidemics (particularly the spread of cholera) and pauper pilgrims lacking funds to return home. At the same time, these changes showed the growing influence of Western empires in the Middle East and Southeast Asia. The presence of European shipping companies, businessmen and consuls in Jeddah, the gateway to Mecca and Medina, aroused hostile feelings as it was seen as a desecration of these Holy Cities.3 Numerous international events spurred Muslim hatred of European imperialism, such as the Russo-Ottoman wars (1828–9, 1877–8), the Eastern Crisis of 1875–8 (particularly the so-called ‘Bulgarian horrors’), the British invasion of Afghanistan (1878), the French takeover of Tunis (1881) and the British occupation of Egypt (1882). During the reign of Sultan Abdülhamid II (r. 1876–1909), there was a growing interest in Islamic culture and institutions, labelled Pan-Islamism, besides a revival of Wahhabism in Arabia.4 As a consequence, the attention of Western powers shifted more and more from commerce and battling slavery to the growing number of pilgrims originating from their colonies.5 While France discouraged and even prohibited pilgrimages, Britain and the Netherlands followed a more liberal policy.6

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Whilst this policy allowed Muslims to travel to Mecca, both governments introduced various measures to control and police pilgrims. This chapter investigates Dutch policy concerning pilgrims from the East Indies (present Indonesia). The policing of pilgrims involved three places: the East Indies, the journey by steamship and the Hedjaz (mainly Jeddah). All of these places presented their own problems and opportunities for surveillance, but the focus in this chapter is mainly on the consulate in Jeddah, as an institution that was an important part of the policing structure of Western empires. Why and how did the Dutch begin to police the pilgrims? What regulations were introduced before the opening of the consulate? Why did the Dutch government open a consulate in Jeddah in 1872? What problems did the consuls encounter and how were these solved? The first section covers the policy regarding Muslim pilgrims from the 1820s until the early 1870s. The section ‘The pilgrims and Dutch concerns’ discusses the various arguments presented for opening the consulate in 1872, while the section ‘Dutch consuls and the policing of pilgrims’ analyses the policing activities of the first Dutch consuls in Jeddah. This is followed by some concluding remarks.

The pilgrims and Dutch concerns, c. 1820s–60 Western anxiety was initially not about Islam per se but stemmed from the minority position of white settlers in the colonies. In the case of the Netherlands, this was quite evident:  the largest number of Muslims outside the Ottoman Empire in the mid-nineteenth century lived in the East Indies. For example, during the pilgrim season of 1913–14, almost 50 per cent of all overseas pilgrims came from the East Indies.7 The anxiety was reinforced by the fact that westerners were not allowed to enter Mecca and Medina. Lacking precise information on what happened in these places spurred rumours about potential Muslim conspiracies against white oppressors. Newspapers in the East Indies jumped onto these usually unconfirmed rumours, further increasing the worries of the Dutch minority.8 Between 1850 and 1900, the number of articles with references to ‘Djeddah’ and ‘Jeddah’ steadily increased, especially during incidents like the ‘Djeddah murders’ (1858) and after the opening of the Dutch consulate in 1872 (see Figure 6.1).9

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250 200 150 100 50

62 18 64 18 66 18 68 18 70 18 72 18 74 18 76 18 78 18 80 18 82 18 84 18 86 18 88 18 90 18 92 18 94 18 96 18 98 19 00

60

18

18

56

58

18

18

52

54

18

18

18

50

0

Figure 6.1 Number of articles about ‘Djeddah’ and ‘Jeddah’ in East Indies newspapers (1850–1900) Source: Delpher database (http://www.delpher.nl/), query in digitalized newspapers from the East Indies.

The Dutch attitude towards prospective pilgrims and returning pilgrims (called hajjis) remained relatively lax before the 1850s.10 From October 1802, potential pilgrims were required to ask permission from the local ruler (regent).11 After the 1820s, new regulations attempted to discourage the pilgrimage from Java as much as possible, without completely outlawing it. A travel pass was required from October 1825. The pass could be purchased for 110 guilders, a huge sum, while a fine of 1,000 guilders was imposed on pilgrims travelling without the document. The regulation was, however, evaded on a large scale, and six years later the fine was reduced to 220 guilders.12 The travel pass contained details, such as name and place of residence. The local Dutch civil servants (residents) received instructions in July 1841 to register all departing and returning pilgrims. These government documents contained valuable information but were not reliable because some returning pilgrims had changed their name.13 In 1850, officially only 74 pilgrims departed and 209 returned. Three years later this had increased to 1,129 departing, while 405 returned. The number of retuning pilgrims was usually lower for three reasons: death, permanent settlement in Arabia or elsewhere and study. The latter group was known in Mecca as the Jawa (Arabic for Java) and Dutch authorities were especially worried about these pilgrims because of their influence on the villagers after their return.14 Until the 1830s, effective Dutch colonial control was restricted to Java besides the Moluccas and some parts of Borneo and Sumatra, but more and more ‘Outer Islands’ were eventually incorporated into the Dutch Empire. This resulted in several rebellions and

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colonial wars, especially the long and bloody Aceh War (1873–c.1910). During this phase of expansion, the volume of official correspondence between The Hague and Batavia increased enormously.15 In May 1852, Governor A.  J. Duymaer van Twist (1851–6) abolished the regulations of 1825 and 1831. The travel pass was still required, but now available free of charge and the fine was cancelled. Despite this, Duymaer van Twist did instruct the residents to keep a watchful eye on the hajjis.16 Dutch attitudes changed after the murder of twenty-two Christians and some non-Christians under consular protection in Jeddah on 15 June 1858. They included the French consul Emmanuel Gabriel Charles Eveillard and his wife as well as the British vice-consul Stephen Page.17 Others managed to find refuge on board the Royal Navy vessel HMS Cyclops. The newspapers contained many reports about these events. Some linked the murders to the rebellion in India by native soldiers (sepoys) in 1857. The causal relation is highly uncertain, but for many reporters the ‘Jeddah Murders’ confirmed their worst fears about Muslim fanatics.18 Dutch intelligence reports revealed that some of the teachers of the Jawa community in Mecca were exiles from the revolt in India of 1857.19 In July 1859, Minister for Colonies Jan Jacob Rochussen (1797–1871) believed that the problems in the colonies were mainly caused by the returning pilgrims and he proposed to tighten regulations. Some politicians also urged the government to appoint a Dutch consul in Jeddah to better monitor the pilgrims in Mecca.20 In July 1859, the Dutch government announced the Hadji Ordonnantie (transl. Hajj Ordinance), that remained in force until the early twentieth century.21 First, the obligatory travel pass was provided only after the pilgrim had demonstrated the possession of sufficient funds to cover travel costs and support for the family staying behind in the East Indies during the pilgrimage. Second, those returning from Mecca were required to take an exam to prove they had actually been there. Third, only after passing the exam, were they allowed to use the title hajji. The Hajj Ordinance had little effect. It was impossible to know whether the money of the pilgrim was really his or a loan, while the exam had hardly any impact.22 More importantly, like before, pilgrims travelled to Singapore or Penang to avoid Dutch regulations.23 The ordinance, nonetheless, demonstrated a growing Dutch anxiety from the late 1850s; the nearing completion of the Suez Canal further increased these feelings.

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The Suez Canal reduced the journey from Western Europe to Southeast Asia by one-third to about 50  days.24 After the opening of the canal, the Dutch government improved its administrative procedures. The governor was instructed to report on all events that could be of interest, using the earliest available Dutch steamship. In the Netherlands two new steamship companies started a regular service to the East Indies via the Suez Canal: the Rotterdam Lloyd (RL) and the Steamship Company Netherland (SMN) in Amsterdam. In 1888, RL and SMN additionally established the Koninklijke Paketvaart Maatschappij (KPM:  Royal Packet Company) for inter-island transport in the East Indies. The three shipping companies were important tools for expanding and consolidating the Dutch empire in the East Indies.25 They were used by the government to police pilgrims on their way to Jeddah. During the pilgrim season RL and SMN refitted their ships with cheap berths and cooking facilities. They called at North African ports to collect pilgrims and in Jeddah returning pilgrims were taken on-board. On the homeward-bound journey the sailing schedule was reversed. This looked like an easy and potentially profitable business, especially considering the rapidly growing number of pilgrims. The number of pilgrims arriving by sea in Jeddah from the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean increased from approximately 112,000 in 1831 to about 300,000 in 1910, but their numbers fluctuated strongly due to economic conditions at home, political events and diseases.26 Because of the profitability, competition in the pilgrim business was fierce. Besides the Dutch companies, British, French, Austrian and Russian ships offered their services.27 Pilgrims could furthermore decide to use steamships from Egypt (e.g. Khedivial Mail Line, but later acquired by British businessmen) or the Ottoman Empire (from 1856). Not all pilgrims travelled by steamship. Sailing vessels, large and small, continued to be used.28 In addition, the overland routes by camels remained popular, until they were replaced by railways and automobiles.29 Steamships were popular because they offered fast, safe and cheap transport to Mecca, but this created new problems: pauper pilgrims and the spread of epidemic diseases. Many poor pilgrims travelled to Mecca using borrowed money or relying on the charity of fellow Muslims. They were often unable to pay for their return ticket and, if one was present, called on their consul for help. Some pauper pilgrims accepted jobs to pay off

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debts and their condition was often akin to slavery. However, international concerns related to epidemic diseases, including plague, typhus, yellow fever and especially cholera, were initially much more important than the problems caused by pauper pilgrims or possible Muslim conspiracies.30 From 1851, Western governments organized several international sanitary conferences, attended by diplomats and medics.31 Opinions on the causes and origins of cholera differed, but many hinted at India as the main source and Muslim pilgrims were considered a major contributor to the spread of cholera.32 From 1821, cholera was found in Jeddah, and during the 1831 pilgrim season about 20,000 died. The disease returned in 1841, 1847, 1851, 1856, 1859 and 1865.33 Quarantine stations were opened for pilgrims arriving from the Mediterranean (Al-Tur on the Sinai Peninsula) and from Southeast Asia (Kamaran Island, near Yemen). To assure their health, governments imposed new regulations on the shipping companies. Consuls were required to inspect ships and provide bills of health before ships departed, but this only applied to the European shipping companies. The Dutch government in 1869 noted that several Arabian shipping companies offered cheap sailings from the East Indies to Jeddah, but most pilgrims preferred the Singapore-Jeddah route. Complaints from the Ottoman government about the poor sanitary conditions on ships departing from Singapore, forced the Dutch government to tighten existing regulations.34 From 1860, travel passes for pilgrims issued by the Dutch authorities in the East Indies contained the name of the ship they travelled on.35 Policing the pilgrims became more efficient after the Ordinance of 13 October 1872, concerning the transport of pilgrims on Dutch ships to foreign ports. The ordinance required captains of passenger ships carrying more than twenty persons, besides providing sufficient food and adequate space and medical facilities, to deposit the list of pilgrims at the Dutch representative in the port of arrival. The pilgrims were not allowed to disembark until their name was verified and no pilgrim was allowed to leave the vessel in any other port.36 Despite these measures, or, as some politicians claimed, thanks to the measures, the number of pilgrims grew. In 1873, about 3,833 pilgrims were recorded and in 1877 this had increased to 6,093.37

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Establishing a Dutch consulate in Jeddah, 1860–72 The Hedjaz was conquered by the Ottoman Empire in the early sixteenth century and the Red Sea was thereafter closed for all Christian merchants to protect the sanctity of Mecca and Medina. Only a small community of ‘Franks’ were allowed to trade in Jeddah.38 Jeddah, numbering about 15,000 to 18,000 people in the 1850s, derived most of its income from the pilgrim business, including subsidies from the Sultan in Constantinople and the many different taxes levied on pilgrims.39 The pilgrim business moreover provided most of the jobs for the local population, whether as guide, money lender or innkeeper. During the pilgrim season Jeddah was a bustling port: in 1858 about twentytwo vessels called during one day.40 Before and after the pilgrim season, the city offered little commercial opportunities and contained only a small group of Christian traders (c. 50–100). Some European states nevertheless appointed a commercial or consular agent, usually a native merchant, as their representative from the 1830s. These representatives were not officially recognized according to international law (then called the Law of Nations) and their powers were thus very limited. They were later replaced by vice-consuls and consuls. The main duty of a consul is to protect compatriots, besides fostering good relations between sending and receiving state and stimulating their commercial relations. Although consuls have existed for many centuries, their privileges and duties were not internationally codified until 1963.41 The actual privileges and duties of consuls in the nineteenth century therefore depended on the geographical location and local circumstances of their post.42 In the Ottoman Empire, the Western consuls had, besides their commercial function, important judicial powers and often performed quasi-diplomatic and political duties of a diplomat.43 Besides their compatriots, natives (including non-Muslims and Muslims) could ask for consular protection giving them certain privileges, including lower taxes, and was naturally much sought-after. The appointment of European consuls in the Hedjaz was covered by the existing treaties of friendship and commerce with the Ottoman Empire. The Sultan as receiving state was formally requested to approve their appointment by issuing an exequatur (in this case: berat).44 Given the relatively unimportant commercial

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prospects in Jeddah outside the pilgrim season, their appointment reveals that their duty was mainly political and diplomatic. In 1829, the British East India Company appointed a consular agent (the native merchant Jasval or Jacoul Youssouff ) to take care of the rather substantial number of Muslim merchants from British India in Jeddah.45 The agent was replaced by an unsalaried viceconsul in 1837, Archibald Ogilvie.46 France followed the British and appointed Fulgence Fresnel as vice-consul in Jeddah.47 The Dutch had no representative in Jeddah before 1872 but relied on the British vice-consul or consul for protection. When the Hadji Ordonnantie was announced in 1859, some parliamentarians urged the government to appoint a consul in Jeddah. That same year, the governor in Batavia again raised the issue of a consulate in Jeddah. His proposal was supported by the Ministry for Colonies in April 1860.48 However, nothing happened for several years. The reason was that opening a consulate in Jeddah coincided with the creation of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs (1862). This required a reshuffling of responsibilities, duties and budgets between colonies and foreign affairs. Both ministries supported the opening of a consulate, but they could not agree on who would bear the costs. After the international sanitary conference of 1866 in Constantinople, the secretary of the Dutch embassy again raised the question of a consulate in Jeddah, mainly to counteract the spread of cholera. He proposed to appoint Mr Bourgarel, the French agent of an Egyptian shipping company in Alexandria.49 Meanwhile in the Netherlands, the aristocrat Herman Constantijn van der Wijck (1815–89), a former member of the Council of the East Indies, recommended appointing an Arab as Dutch consul in Jeddah.50 But the government instead proposed to open a consulate in Aden (under British protection since 1839) to support the commercial interests of the Dutch shipping companies.51 In October 1868, the Dutch consul in Singapore since 1857 until 1885, the British William Henry Macleod Read (1819–1909), informed the foreign minister that he had advised the governor in Batavia about opening a consulate in Jeddah.52 Most pilgrims relied on the British consul, but according to Read, he did not have sufficient time to protect them. This explains why, says Read, so many East Indian pilgrims were robbed.53 The next year, the minister for colonies wrote that a consulate would provide better protection, making it easier for pilgrims to travel to Mecca from the East Indies. However, this would result

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in even larger numbers of pilgrims and that was surely not the intention of the government. He added that Consul Read believed that there was a plot of Muslims against British rule in India. Because a Dutch consul in Jeddah would be exposed to many abuses and perhaps attacks by Muslims, the minister preferred to rely on consuls of other western countries.54 Upon receiving this note, the Ministry for Foreign Affairs asked the Dutch legation in London to make inquiries about the alluded Muslim plot, but no such conspiracy was known.55 However, a newspaper clip from The Friend of India (19 January 1869), preserved in the Dutch archival records, reported about a possible Muslim conspiracy.56 The Ministry of Foreign Affairs proceeded to appoint Bourgarel as ‘an unofficial representative of the Netherlands’. The ‘Colonial Report’ of 1870 revealed that the government had furthermore dispatched the naval wheel-peddle steamer Curaçao on a cruise from Batavia to the Red Sea to display the Dutch flag, to investigate the potential for commerce, to establish friendly relations with local authorities and to visit the Dutch consul in the port of Bushire to support him. The captain was instructed to ‘collect information about the political conditions in Djeddah, especially regarding the pilgrims from the East Indies’.57 On 1 February 1870, the minister for foreign affairs pointed out that the initiative for appointing a consul in Jeddah had always come from the Ministry for Colonies, because the main argument was protection and surveillance of the pilgrims. He added that the Dutch flag was seldom seen in Jeddah. ‘Given the minor importance of this port as a trading centre, there is no reason to assume, that because of the digging of the canal through the Isthmus of Suez, Djeddah or any other port in the Red sea would be frequented by our shipping companies.’58 However, the Chamber of Commerce and Manufacturing in Batavia noted that trade between the Dutch East Indies and Jeddah had increased in the past years and the pilgrims required protection, because ‘in Jeddah they were exposed to various cruelties and swindles’. The steamer Menado, owned by the Dutch company P. Landberg & Son, already made several trips to Jeddah carrying on average 300 or 400 pilgrims. Trade between Singapore and Jeddah was much more important:  about 12,000 to 15,000 pilgrims were transported annually, besides various commodities. The Chamber reported that most of the pilgrims departing from Singapore came from the East Indies.59 The

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dispute between the two ministries continued in 1871.60 When it became clear that Bourgarel was secretary for the British consul (George Edward Stanley) and the French consul (Hadjoute Pellisier), it was decided to appoint a Dutch consul.61 Because the ministries could not agree about the costs, the decision was referred to the Cabinet.62 During the Cabinet meeting it was decided to open a consulate in Jeddah and appoint a salaried consul. In January 1872, Foreign Affairs assumed responsibility for the new consulate, including its costs (mainly the salary of the consul).63

Dutch consuls and the policing of pilgrims, 1872–85 The first Dutch consul in Jeddah was Rudolph Willem Johan Cornelis de Menthon Bake (1811–74), previously consul-general in the German town of Ludwigshafen.64 Bake had served in the East Indies as lawyer and judge from 1838 until his appointment as consul in Leipzig in 1860.65 On 5 February 1872, the Minister for Foreign Affairs addressed the king, explaining that monitoring pilgrims was necessary. In addition, the opening of the Suez Canal offered new opportunities for Dutch commerce in the Red Sea.66 The foreign minister then asked the minister for colonies what instructions they wanted to give to Consul Bake. More particularly, the foreign minister wanted to know whether the practice of charging 2.50 guilders in Jeddah for each visa given to a pilgrim for visiting Mecca had to be continued.67 In March 1872, Bake, accompanied by his wife and son, boarded a steamer of the Austrian Lloyd.68 Almost immediately after his arrival, Bake started complaining about the heavy workload and his meagre salary compared to the British and French consuls. Jeddah was in his opinion a very unhealthy and disappointing place. The heat was scorching, the desert sands a continuous nuisance, just like the millions of cockroaches.69 Bake was immediately confronted by the problem of pauper pilgrims. He wanted them to deposit their money in the consulate on their arrival to ensure they had sufficient money to return. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs supported the proposal, but the minister for colonies feared more agitation of the Muslims.70 The war in Aceh after 1873 strongly affected Dutch views on pilgrims and the belief in the necessity of surveillance grew, replacing the more liberal attitude of the 1840s and 1850s.

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Bake received a salary and was not allowed to trade, but he soon supplemented his income by introducing an additional tax for the pilgrims to cover the costs of stationary and the two native guards he had hired to protect the consulate. Bake additionally concluded a deal with the British merchant Thomas Gee (Thomas Gee & Company), to transport returning pilgrims with certain British companies. The arrangement angered the Dutch merchant and resident Pieter Nicolaas van der Chijs, agent of Alfred Holt’s Ocean Steam Ship Company.71 When informed about the additional tax, the minister for foreign affairs in January 1873 ordered Bake to immediately stop collecting it.72 After taking a leave without first receiving permission, and causing problems with local citizens, besides Dutch and British subjects, Bake was recalled.73 His successor from mid-1873, until his untimely death in 1878, was Willem Hanegraaff (1839–78), a civil servant in the East Indies since 1854.74 Because Bake had sold his house and inventory, Hanegraaff was forced to find new accommodations for the consulate. He managed to find rooms in an imposing four-storey building near one of the gates of the walled city of Jeddah. Because of its location and height it became ‘the city’s pan-European gathering point’.75 Following a British attack on Muslim slave traders in late 1878, the consulate was stocked with hot water, oil, spirits and petroleum to fend off possible reprisals by the Bedouins.76 Hanegraaff was very critical about the existing procedures. ‘The inspection of East Indies pilgrims is at present poorly organised and unpractical, even the word inspection is a caricature.’77 The precise number of arriving pilgrims could not be accounted for because at the quarantine facilities on Kamaran Island their origin was not recorded, and from Kamaran they departed for Jeddah on any available ship. Hanegraaff furthermore explained that it was unclear what happened to the visas of pilgrims that did not return to Jeddah, for instance, because they had died in the desert or were murdered. He suggested several improvements. On their departure from the East Indies a register could be made and their travel pass had to be stored safely by the captain during the voyage. After arriving in Jeddah, the pilgrims would hand over the travel pass to the consul in exchange for a visa for Mecca. The pilgrims would be forced to deposit money at the consulate to cover the costs of their return journey. He explained that most pilgrims were completely disoriented when they arrived because of the differences in language, customs and the ‘loud yelling

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and shouting of the shayks’, so they could be misled or robbed quite easily. The more prosperous pilgrims fared no better:  they were left behind in the desert, robbed and murdered by Bedouins. Pilgrims from the East Indies were most vulnerable, because Muslims from North Africa were, besides poorer, more alert and used to these practices. Hanegraaff proposed to select a few shaykhs to take care of the pilgrims from the East Indies. He expected that this would be resisted by locals earning a living from the pilgrim business, including the Sharif and the many Muslim pilgrim brokers. A few weeks later Hanegraaff reported that he had registered 1,360 pilgrims. As expected, the shaykhs behaved very impolite and he was forced to send them away, but his letter of complaint to the Ottoman governor did have some positive effects. He had discussed the numerous taxes levied on the pilgrims with the Sharif of Mecca.78 Hanegraaff wanted to stimulate trade between the Netherlands and the East Indies.79 He saw many possibilities for Dutch businessmen in Jeddah, as long as they were willing to associate themselves with a local Arabian merchant to neutralize potential religious conflicts. He may well have been influenced in this assessment by Van der Chijs.80 Van der Chijs had lived in Jeddah for several years as shipping agent for Alfred Holt, communicated in Arabic and acted as vice-consul for the Kingdom of Norway-Sweden. Later he became vice-consul for the Netherlands. Van der Chijs had many local business contacts, including Emir Omar Nassir Effendi. They started a partnership in 1874, La Compagnie hollandaise, an import and export business. The establishment of this business was requested by Hanegraaff in February 1874, when Van der Chijs moved his belongings out of the consulate to avoid the impression that Hanegraaff was himself a businessman.81 Hanegraaff continued to pay much attention to the pilgrim business, because, as he mentioned in his first annual consular report, ‘without the pilgrims Jeddah was nothing’.82 In January 1874, the colonies minister expressed as his view that the pilgrims should not be forced to deposit money in the consulate to cover the costs of the return voyage, because it could further arouse negative feelings. He proposed to discuss the matter during Hanegraaff ’s forthcoming leave in the Netherlands.83 The relationship between Hanegraaff and the British acting consul Augustus Blandy Wylde (ca. 1850–1909), working for consul George de Jong Beyts in Alexandria, and also agent of the British India (BI) Steam

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Navigation Company, was not good.84 Wylde reported to the Foreign Office about the local slave trade and the many abuses in the pilgrim business.85 According to Wylde, the Dutch firm of Van der Chijs, in cooperation with Turkish authorities, had obtained a near monopoly in the pilgrim business, resulting in overcharged prices, destitute pilgrims that could not afford the tickets and overcrowding of available ships.86 However, at the same time Hanegraaff accused the British consul Beyts and his caretaker Wylde of similar abuses, besides annoying Egyptian and Turkish officials.87 It shows how much rivalry existed in the pilgrim business between Western firms and non-Western firms in the early 1870s. Not much later, the relationship between Hanegraaff and the French vice-consul, an Austrian citizen, deteriorated creating a minor diplomatic brawl. Hanegraaff noted that the French vice-consul and Medecin Sanitaire had nothing to do in Jeddah, were frequently drunken and offended Muslims.88 In April 1874, Hanegraaff went on leave until 1876. But his health issues became worse again after his return and in February 1877, Hanegraaff again asked for a leave to recover.89 From 1877, Van der Chijs, as acting vice-consul, maintained contact with the shipping companies SMN and RL about the pilgrim business. In Jeddah, his partnership La Compagnie hollandaise was to look after the pilgrims, who voluntarily deposited their money at the Dutch consulate to secure their return passage with SMN or RL. For these services, La Compagnie hollandaise received a commission. Although the money was deposited at the consulate and Van der Chijs still kept some office space in the building, Hanegraaff pointed out to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs that he had nothing to do with this arrangement. The deal of 1877 was terminated after only six months by Van der Chijs’s business partner Omar Nassir, because Arabian middlemen in Jeddah had protested. On 22 June 1878, Hanegraaff died in the Hopital Allemand des Diaconesses in Alexandria. Johannes Adrianus Kruyt (1841–1928) was consul in Jeddah between 1878 and 1885. Like Hanegraaff, Kruyt was a civil servant in the East Indies.90 On 10 October 1878, Kruyt reported that a new deal was made between the European and Arabian firms. He hoped that this would end the many disputes, besides fierce competition, that created many problems for the consuls and their governments. He also reported on 10 February 1879, that Van der Chijs would no longer be active in the pilgrim business.91 This was compensated

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for by appointing Van der Chijs vice-consul in Jeddah on 22 September 1879, although there were some doubts about his suitability.92 Despite the optimism of Kruyt about the chances for RL and SMN to participate in the lucrative pilgrim business, it did not start until the 1883–4 season, after Vice-Consul Van der Chijs managed to secure a new deal with the Emir of Java. In the arrangement, the Dutch consulate played an important role by selling return tickets to pilgrims. The European consuls in Jeddah were convinced that secret Muslim societies in Mecca were developing a global conspiracy to murder Christians, besides settling their internal strife with the Sultan. James Ernest Napoleon Zohrab (1830–1891), the British consul between 1879 and 1881, reported in August 1879 that in his view the annual pilgrimage was used ‘to exchange opinions, to discuss plans, to criticize the actions of the European governments and form combinations to resist the supremacy of the Christian Powers’.93 Zohrab requested ‘a Confidential Agent of the consulate be sent to watch and follow this year’s pilgrimage’.94 Following reports about Muslim conspiracies, the Foreign Minister in December 1880 proposed to his British colleague to cooperate on intelligence gathering and sharing.95 The next year, Zohrab reported to have seen letters that aimed to overthrow the Sultan and restore ‘the khalifate to the Arabs of the Hedjaz’.96 Because he explicitly mentioned Java, Kruyt included the warning of Zohrab in a report to his government. A problem for Kruyt and the other European consuls was that their powers were strictly limited to Jeddah and they were not allowed to enter Mecca and Medina. This could be solved in two ways: hire Muslims from the East Indies as spy or convert to Islam. The Dutch, like the British, used both options. In September 1882, Kruyt requested a dragoman to help him at the consulate and suggested to appoint a native fluent in Javanese, Malay and Arabic. This dragoman could additionally act as informant and spy. The dragoman that was appointed was the Javanese Aboe Bakar Djajadiningrat, son of a former regent in the East Indies, who lived in Mecca since 1877.97 In 1891, Consul Spakler remarked in a report that Aboe Bakar was ‘an official attached to the consulate, he makes his way to Mecca and performs his tasks with exceptional discretion and tact, so that the Turkish authorities are but belatedly aware of his repeated visits to the holy city. In light of this, he also takes care not to lose the trust of his fellow-country men . . . I need

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not remark on the imperative for his work to remain secret’.98 Aboe Bakar additionally aided the renowned Islam scholar Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje (1857–1936), during his visit in 1884–5. In 1881, Snouck Hurgronje worked at the Indische Inrichting (Indian Office), training future government employees for the East Indies. The previous year he defended his dissertation at Leiden University on the hajj:  Het Mekkaansche Feest (The Meccan Festival).99 His research was mainly based on secondary sources; he had never visited Mecca or Medina. Snouck Hurgronje at that time supported the existing government policy. During the Internationale Koloniale en Uitvoerhandel Tentoonstelling (International Colonial and General Export Exhibition, 1883) in Amsterdam, he met Amin al-Madani, the spiritual leader of the mosque in Medina. This meeting further stimulated Snouck Hurgronje’s desire to visit Mecca.100 His chance came in early 1884, when he met Consul Kruyt, then on leave in the Netherlands. In 1883, Kruyt was convinced that the anti-colonial mood was related to the ongoing war in Aceh.101 In his letters, Kruyt referred to the growing problems of the Jeddah consulate. There was much distrust between the consulate and the pilgrims because of the existing regulations. The representative of the Ottoman government in Jeddah added to the tensions in 1881 by his antiChristian promulgations directed at the Javanees. Kruyt advised to hire natives from Java to spy on the pilgrims in Mecca and Medina. After meeting Snouck Hurgronje, Kruyt suggested to appoint him as special investigator. However, the Dutch government was not willing to affiliate itself directly with this mission, perhaps fearing Muslim reprisals. Instead, it offered a subsidy of 1,500 guilders to the closely affiliated Koninklijk Instituut voor Land, Taal en Volkenkunde (KILTV: Royal Netherlands Institute of Linguistics, Geography and Ethnology) to cover the travel expenses of Snouck Hurgronje. Kruyt and Snouck Hurgronje arrived in Jeddah on 28 August 1884. Snouck Hurgronje stayed at the consulate and befriended Van der Chijs and Aboe Bakar. He photographed many groups of arriving pilgrims from the East Indies at the consulate when they reported to get a visa for Mecca. Snouck Hurgronje used these sessions the query the pilgrims. In December 1884, he converted to Islam, circumcized himself, dressed like locals, changed his name and bought a slave girl. After Kruyt had left to take up his new post in Penang in late 1884, he was replaced by Consul J. A. de Vicq (1885–9); Snouck Hurgronje hired some

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rooms in Jeddah. He finally received permission from the Ottoman governor in the Hedjaz to visit Mecca and on 21 February 1885, Snouck Hurgronje entered the Holy City. He took several photographs and collected information. However, after a few months, on 5 August, he was ordered to leave because the governor could no longer guarantee his safety after his real identity was revealed in the European press. Snouck Hurgronje continued to work for the Dutch government as adviser on Muslim affairs until 1933. However, his initial ideas had changed. He no longer supported the policy introduced after 1859 and neither did he believe in the influence of pan-Islamic ideas. For the majority of pilgrims, he advised to impose no or very limited restrictions, but those who stayed in Mecca to study he considered more dangerous. In general, Snouck Hurgronje was optimistic about the future relations of the Netherlands and the East Indies.102 The Dutch policy to monitor the pilgrims and collect intelligence became harsher from the 1920s. From 1922 onwards, compulsory return tickets were required and in 1928 Muslims suspected of challenging Dutch authority in Mecca were refused a travel pass.103 The surveillance of pilgrims in the East Indies, on board of Dutch ships and in Jeddah, continued until the independence of Indonesia after the Second World War.

Conclusion Despite their self-proclaimed liberal policy, the Dutch government, like the British, began to monitor pilgrims from the East Indies from the early nineteenth century. After the 1850s, this surveillance gradually became more systematic, now including the East Indies and later the journey to Mecca on steamships of the RL and SMN. Initially, the Western governments worried more about health issues (the spread of cholera) and the problem of pauper pilgrims, than Muslim conspiracies. The sanitary conferences introduced measures to control the spread of infectious diseases, such as quarantine islands. After the Jeddah Murders of 1858, Western anxiety about Muslim conspiracies to overthrow colonialism increased. Concerns about diseases, and pauper pilgrims and the regulations to control them were relatively easily connected to the perceived danger of Islam. The Dutch and British governments started to exchange information. The Hadji Ordonnantie

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(1859) imposed new regulations for pilgrims in the East Indies. What the Dutch lacked until 1872 was a consul in Jeddah. Already in the early 1860s, some politicians urged the government to open a consulate. However, the opening was delayed because of the debate between the old Ministry for Colonies and the new Ministry for Foreign Affairs about who should bear the costs of the consulate. From 1872, the Dutch consulate in Jeddah played an important role in policing the pilgrims. The first Dutch consuls like Bake, Hanegraaff and Kruyt introduced various measures to improve the surveillance of pilgrims. Some of these were very successful, but others failed. A major problem was that the consuls had no power outside Jeddah, they could not visit Mecca and Medina. This problem was finally solved in the 1880s and 1890s by hiring Muslims from the East Indies to act as spy for the consuls. A more dramatic solution was the mission of Snouck Hurgronje. The surveillance of pilgrims continued in the twentieth century and did not end until the independence of Indonesia in 1945.

Notes 1 The other pillars are profession of faith, prayer, charity and fasting. 2 M. B. Miller, ‘Pilgrims’ Progress: The business of the Hajj’, Past & Present, 191 (2006), pp. 189–229. 3 W. L. Ochsenwald, ‘The Jidda Massacre of 1858’, Middle Eastern Studies, 13/3 (1977), p. 314. 4 Michael Christopher Low, ‘Empire of the Hajj: Pilgrims, Plagues, and Pan-Islam under British Surveillance, 1865–1926’, unpublished doctoral dissertation, Georgia State University, 2007, pp. 87–94. 5 In January 1857, slavery was officially abolished in the Ottoman Empire, but it did not really end in the Hedjaz before 1895. W. L. Ochsenwald, ‘MuslimEuropean Conflict in the Hijaz: The Slave Trade Controversy, 1840–1895’, Middle Eastern Studies, 16/1 (1980), pp. 115–26. 6 For the French policy, see Sylvia Chiffoleau ‘Economics: Agents, Pilgrims, and Profits’, in The Hajj: Pilgrimage in Islam ed. Eric Tagliacozzo and Toorawa Shawq (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), pp. 155–75. 7 Jacob Vredenbregt, ‘The Haddj: Some of Its Features and Functions in Indonesia’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 118/1 (1962), p. 94. See also Luc Chantre, ‘Le Pèlerinage à La Mecque à L’époque Coloniale, 1866–1940: France,

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8 9

10 11

12 13 14 15

16 17

18

19

20 21 22 23 24 25

Grande-Bretagne, Italie’, unpublished doctoral dissertation, Université de Poitiers, 2012, p. 181. Michael Francis Laffan, Islamic Nationhood and Colonial Indonesia: The Umma below the Winds (London: Routledge, 2003), pp. 45–6. Query in Delpher digitalized newspapers of the East Indies included mentioning Djeddah and Jeddah in articles only between 1850 and 1900. Available online: http://www.delpher.nl/. Accessed 12 July 2017. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood, pp. 37–9. Fransen van de Putte, Minister van Koloniën, Handelingen Tweede Kamer 1873– 1874, 18 December 1873 (Staatsbegroting voor het dienstjaar 1874, Beraadslaging over Hoofdstuk IX), p. 790. Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers. Available online: http://www.statengeneraaldigitaal.nl/. Accessed 29 March 2018. Vredenbregt, ‘Haddj’, p. 99. Eric Tagliacozzo, The Longest Journey: Southeast Asians and the Pilgrimage to Mecca (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 182–3. Michael Francis Laffan, ‘The Tangled Roots of Islamist Activism in Southeast Asia’, Cambridge Review of International Affairs, 16/3 (2003), pp. 397–414. Charles Jeurgens, ‘Networks of Information: The Dutch East Indies’, in Exploring the Dutch Empire. Agents, Networks and Institutions, 1600–2000, ed. Catia Antunes and Jos Gommans (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), pp. 103–5. Vredenbregt, ‘Haddj’, pp. 99–100. Ochsenwald, ‘Jidda Massacre’, pp. 317–19; Syed Muhd Khairudin Aljunied, ‘Western Images of Meccan Pilgrims in the Dutch East Indies, 1800–1900’, Sari, 23 (2005), pp. 105–22. Michael Christopher Low, ‘Empire and the Hajj: Pilgrims, Plagues, and Pan-Islam under British Surveillance, 1865–1908’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 40/2 (2008), p. 275. Michael Francis Laffan, ‘Raden Aboe Bakar: An Introductory Note Concerning Snouck Hurgronje’s Informant in Jeddah (1884–1912), Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 155/4 (1999), p. 519. Van de Putte, p. 790. Vredenbregt, ‘Haddj’, p. 100. The first regulation was abolished in 1905, while the exam was cancelled in 1902. Vredenbregt, ‘Haddj’, p. 103n.41. Yudi Latif, Indonesian Muslim Intelligentsia and Power (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2008), p. 69. Jeurgens, ‘Networks of Information’, p. 96. J. Thomas Lindblad, ‘The Global Dutchman in Indonesian Waters’, in Exploring the Dutch Empire: Agents, Networks and Institutions, 1600–2000, ed. Catia Antunes and Jos Gommans (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), pp. 168–71.

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26 Low, ‘Empire and the Hajj’, p. 276. RL and SMN in the 1920s reached an agreement with the Ocean Steam Ship Company (OSSC) that dominated the transport of pilgrims from Singapore and Malaysia. This combination (RL, SMN and OSSC) was known as Kongsi Tiga and continued to operate until the independence of Indonesia. 27 Steamship companies involved in the pilgrim business before 1900: Peninsular & OrientalSteam Company (P&O); Thomas Cook & Sons; British India Steam Navigation Company (BI); the Bombay and Persia Steam Navigation Company (1877, aka Mogul Line); the Ocean Steam Ship Company (aka Blue Funnel Line); La Compagnie desMessageriesImpériales; the Nemazee Line and the Austrian Lloyd. 28 Aiza Maslan, ‘Hajj and the Malayan Experience, 1860s-1941’, Kemanusiaan, 21/2 (2014), pp. 79–98, 81–2. 29 Chiffoleau, ‘Economics’, pp. 161–3. 30 Mark Harrison, ‘Disease, Diplomacy and International Commerce: The Origins of International Sanitary Regulation in the Nineteenth Century’, Journal of Global History, 1/2 (2006), pp. 197–217. 31 For an overview, see Valeska Huber, ‘The Unification of the Globe by Disease? The International Sanitary Conferences on Cholera, 1851–1894’, The Historical Journal, 49/2 (2006), pp. 453–76. 32 ‘Report of the International Sanitary Conference in Istanbul’ (1866), cited in Huber, ‘Unification of the Globe’, p. 455. 33 Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, p. 135. 34 Koloniaal verslag [Nederlandsch (Oost-) Indie]. Kamerstuk Tweede Kamer 1869–1870. Kamerstuknummer 26, ondernummer 2, p. 334 [Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers]. 35 Laffan, Islamic Nationhood, p. 38. 36 Indisch Staatsblad, No. 179, Ordonnantie, 13 October 1872, effective from 1 January 1873. 37 Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, 76. 38 David Kimche, ‘The Opening of the Red Sea to European Ships in the Late Eighteenth Century’, Middle Eastern Studies, 8/1 (1972), pp. 63–71. 39 Chiffoleau, ‘Economics’, pp. 163, 167–9; and William L. Ochsenwald, ‘Ottoman Subsidies to the Hijaz, 1877–1886’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 6/3 (1975), pp. 300–7. 40 Ochsenwald, ‘Jidda Massacre’, p. 316. 41 Victor M. Uribe, ‘Consuls at Work: Universal Instruments of Human Rights and Consular Protection in the Context of Criminal Justice’, Houston Journal of International Law, 19 (1997), pp. 379–84. See also Vienna Convention on Consular Relations done at Vienna on 24 April 1963.

152 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 42 More details in Ferry de Goey, Consuls and the Institutions of Capitalism, 1783– 1914 (London: Pickering & Chatto, 2014), pp. 1–15. 43 Ferry de Goey, ‘Les Consuls et les Relations Internationales au XIX Siècle’, Cahiers de la Méditerranée, No. 93 (2016), pp. 61–75; and Silvia Marzagalli and Jörg Ulbert, ‘Les Études Consulaires à L’épreuve de la Méditerranée’, Cahiers de la Méditerranée, no. 93 (2016), pp. 9–11. 44 Maurits van den Boogert, ‘Negotiating Foreignness in the Ottoman Empire: The Legal Complications of Cosmopolitanism in the Eighteenth Century’, in Exploring the Dutch Empire: Agents, Networks and Institutions, 1600–2000, ed. Antunes and Gommans (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), pp. 27–43. 45 ‘History of British Representation in Jedda’, British Library, India Office Records, PZ 6888/34; Private Papers, IOR/L/PS/12/120, both in Qatar Digital Library. Available online: https://www.qdl.qa/en. Accessed 29 March 2018. 46 The list of British consuls in Jeddah in Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, pp. 54–5, is incorrect. British agents, vice-consuls from 1852 and after 1860 salaried consuls: Jasval or Jacoul Youssouff (1829–37), Archibald Ogilvie (1838–51), Charles John Duncan Cole (1852–58), Stephen Page (1858); George Edward Stanley (1859–63), Richard Chiarranda Maery Stevens (1864–5); Arthur Raby (1865–71), Sourain (dragoman, 1871–2), Johar (same 1872) (Hafiz-ood-deen, same 1872), George de Jong Beyts (1873–9, residing in Alexandria), James Ernest Napoleon Zohrab (1879–81). See note 52 and ‘Jeddah Consulate. – Captain Beyts’, British Library: India Office Records and Private Papers, IOR/L/ PS/18/B16, in Qatar Digital Library. Available online: https://www.qdl.qa/ archive/81055/vdc_100000000788.0x0003d7. Accessed 10 July 2017. 47 Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, pp. 54–5; and Chantre, Pèlerinage à La Mecque, pp. 70–1, 230–55. 48 Ministrie van Koloniën [Ministry of the Colonies] (hereafter MK) aan [to] Ministrie van Buitenlandse Zaken [Ministry of Foreign Affairs] (hereafter BZ), 30 April 1860, Djeddah 1860–70, National Archive, The Hague, The Netherlands (hereafter NA), NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. 49 Van Geuns (Constantinople) to BZ, 15 September 1866, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. Bourgarel is mentioned in M. Gauillon, ‘Un Voyage à Djeddah en 1864’, in Annales des Voyages, de la Géographie, de l’Histoire et de l’Archéologie, ed. V. A. Malte-Brun (Paris: Commissionnaire pour la Marine, led Colonies et l’Orient, 1866), pp. 236–53. 50 Herman Constantijn van der Wijck, Onze Koloniale Staatkunde. Een beroep op het Nederlandsche Volk (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1865), p. 79. 51 Staatsbegrooting voor het dienstjaar 1868 (Departement van Buitenlandsche Zaken). Kamerstuk Tweede Kamer 1867, kamerstuknummer 2 III, ondernummer 106, 250 [Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers].

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52 On Read, see, National Library Board Singapore. Available online: http:// eresources.nlb.gov.sg. Accessed 10 July 2017. His memoirs are unfortunately rather uninformative, William Henry Macleod Read, Play and Politics, Recollections of Malaya by an Old Resident (London: Wells Gardner, Darton, 1901). 53 The Dutch Consulate in Singapore (W. H. M. Read) to BZ, 16 October 1868, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. 54 KM to BZ, 6 February 1869, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. 55 The Dutch Legation in London to BZ, 17 February 1869, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. 56 KM to BZ, 16 March 1869, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. 57 Koloniaal Verslag van 1870 (Nederlandsch Oost-Indie). Kamerstuk Tweede Kamer 1870–1871, kamerstuknummer 14, ondernummer 2, p. 402. [Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers]. 58 BZ to KM, 1 February 1871; Nota van Koloniën to BZ over Djeddah (17 February 1871) and Nota BZ over Djeddah (ongedateert, March 1871), NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 59 Copies of letter Chamber of Commerce and Manufacturing in Batavia (21 August 1871), attached to KM to BZ, 17 January 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 60 According to this Koninklijk Besluit (KB, Royal Decision. 23 July 1862, number 64), Foreign Affairs would become responsible for all consulates in Asia. KM to BZ, 2 May 1871, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 61 KM to BZ, 7 March 1870, NA 2/05/01, No. 3071. Bourgarel received a knighthood of the Order of the Netherland’s Lion for his services. 62 KM to Kabinet, 25 July 1871, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. For a list of Dutch consuls in Jeddah between 1872 and 1950, see Luitgard Mols and Arnoud Vrolijk, Western Arabia in the Leiden Collections, Traces of a Colourful Past (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2016), p. 183 (Appendix II: Dutch Diplomats in Jeddah). 63 Staatsbegrooting voor het dienstjaar 1872 (Departement van Buitenlandsche Zaken). Kamerstuk Tweede Kamer 1871–1872, kamerstuknummer 2 III, ondernummer 103, p. 9. [Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers]. 64 For his resume, drafted by Bake, see Bake to BZ, Den Haag 29 January 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 65 Bake to BZ, 6 January 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 66 BZ to the King, 5 February 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. His appointment was approved on 7 February 1872. KB van 7 February 1872 (Number 20). Instructions to Bake were included in Directeur van het Kabinet aan Bake, 13 February 1872. 67 BZ to KM, 20 February 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 68 Instructions to Bake from the Minister of Colonies. KM to BZ, 24 February 1872, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398.

154 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 69 See Bake’s letters from 26 April 1872, 12 June 1872, and 12 Jan. 1873, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 70 Michael F. Laffan, ‘ “A Watchfull Eye”: The Meccan Plot of 1881 and Changing Dutch Perceptions of Islam in Indonesia’, Archipel, 63/1 (2002), pp. 79–108. 71 Malcolm Falkus, The Blue Funnel Legend. A History of the Ocean Steam Ship Company, 1865–1973 (London: Macmillan, 1990). 72 BZ to Bake, 12 February 1873, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 73 See copy letter from Alfred Holt to Lord Grenville, Secretary of State (26 March 1873); letters from Captain Matthijs van Emmerik (SS Prince Alexander) of the SMN; SMN aan BZ, 4 August 1873 [19 attachments], NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 74 Letter of application Hanegraaff to Foreign Affairs, 15 August 1873; Appointment as consul, KB 25 August 1873; Acte de Decis, 22 June 1878. Willem Hanegraaff died in Alexandria in the Hospital Allemand des Diaconnesses, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 75 Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, 183. 76 Eindverslag der commissie van Rapporteurs over het ontwerp van wet tot vaststelling van hoofdstuk III der Staatsbegroting voor het dienstjaar 1879 (Departement van Buitenlandsche Zaken). Kamerstuk Eerste Kamer 1878– 1879, kamerstuknummer 2 V, ondernummer 2, 81–82 [Digitalized Dutch Parliamentary Papers]; Tagliacozzo, The Longest Journey, p. 183. 77 Hanegraaff to BZ, 31 October 1873, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 78 Hanegraaff to BZ, 17 November 1873, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 79 Hanegraaff to BZ, 21 December 1873, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 80 A Dutch subsidiary of the Ocean Steam Ship Company, the Nederlandsche Stoomvaart Maatschappij Oceaan, was founded in 1891. RL and SMN in the 1920s reached an agreement with the Nederlandsche Stoomvaart Maatschappij Oceaan. This combination (RL, SMN and Oceaan) was known as Kongsi Tiga and continued to operate until the independence of Indonesia. It dominated the transport of pilgrims from East India and Singapore to Jeddah. 81 Hanegraaff to BZ, 3 February 1874, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 82 W. Hanegraaff, Verzameling van Consulaire en Andere Berigten en Verslagen over Nijverheid, Handel en Scheepvaart, ed. Ministerie van Buitenlandsche Zaken (Den Haag: Van Weelden en Mingelen, 1874), pp. 515–26. 83 KM to BZ, 14 January 1874, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. 84 Van der Chijs to Hanegraaff, 14 June 1877, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. According to papers of the India Office Records and Private Papers (1877), Wylde was acting on behalf of consul George de Jong Beyts, employed as captain for the British India Steam Navigation Company. Beyts accepted the consulship on the condition that he could remain in the Suez, while Wylde would take care of the work in Jeddah, Memorandum dated 23 April 1877, prepared by Adolphus

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85

86

87

88 89 90

91 92 93 94 95 96 97

98 99 100

101 102

155

Warburton Moore, Assistant Secretary in the Political and Secret Department of the India Office, Qatar Digital Library. Available online: https://www.qdl.qa/ archive/81055/vdc_100000000788.0x0003d7. Accessed 27 June 2017. A. B. Wylde later became the British vice-consul at Suakin, corresponding member of the British and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society and author of ‘83 to ‘87 in the Soudan, Wylde Family Papers. Available online: https://www.dur.ac.uk/ library. Accessed 27 June 2017. For Wylde, see J. Forbes Munro, Maritime Enterprise and Empire: Sir William Mackinnon and His Business Network, 1823–93 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2003), pp. 166–8. Memorandum dated 23 April 1877, prepared by Adolphus Warburton Moore. Available online: https://www.qdl.qa/archive/81055/ vdc_100000000788.0x0003d7. Accessed 27 June 2017. Hanegraaff to BZ, 1 February 1874, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. Hanegraaff to BZ, 6 February 1877, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. Sollicitatiebrief [application letter of] van Johannes Adrianus Kruijt, 27 June 1878; Marine to BZ, 29 January 1879, Betreft eervol ontslag uit de Zeedienst, aan de officier van Administratie 2e klasse [concerns a discharge from the Naval Service of] J. A. Kruyt op 12 August 1879, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. Kruyt to BZ, 18 October 1878; Kruyt aan BZ, 10 February 1879, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. Verkerk Pistorius to Kruyt, 16 February 1879; and 22 September 1879, NA 2/05/38, No. 1398. Quoted in Low, ‘Empire and the Hajj’, p. 282. Cited in Low, ‘Empire of the Hajj’, p. 98. Ibid. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood, p. 42. Michael Laffan, ‘Raden Aboe Bakar: An Introductory Note Concerning Snouck Hurgronje’s Informant in Jeddah (1884–1912)’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, 155/4 (1999), pp. 520–1. Spakler cited in Laffan, ‘Raden Aboe Bakar’, p. 523. For the Dutch text, see http://dbnl.nl/tekst/snou004mekk01_01/ snou004mekk01_01.pdf. Accessed 3 July 2017. Before 1885, about fifteen Westerners had visited Mecca, usually disguised as Muslims. These included the Swiss scholar Johan Ludwig Burckhardt in 1814 and the British explorer, consul and adventurer Sir Richard Burton in 1853. Durkje van der Wal, Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje: The First Western Photographer in Mecca, 1884–1885 (Amsterdam: Rijksmuseum, 2011), p. 14. Laffan, Islamic Nationhood, p. 43. Tagliacozzo, Longest Journey, pp. 157–76; and Vredenbregt, ‘Haddj’, pp. 101–3.

156 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 103 The 1922 regulation was intended to counteract the shipping pool in Jeddah, selling return tickets from the 1880s. This pool included amongst others, agents of shipping companies, employees of consulates, community leaders, and the Sharif of Mecca. See Chiffoleau, ‘Economics’, pp. 155–75.

7

Intelligence and conquest in nineteenth-century French North Africa Deborah Bauer1

As Francis Bacon famously noted, knowledge is power. Possessors of information wield the tools to dictate their version of ‘truth’ necessary to understand the world and order places within it. Further, information that is hidden, secret, or difficult to access, accords even greater power.2 In nineteenth-century France, power was directed towards maintaining political authority, mitigating potential threats to French autonomy and expanding influence beyond traditional borders. Knowledge, especially that uncovered by professionals, could help the French state in these projects by empowering possessors of intelligence to craft a narrative based on their information. Throughout the nineteenth century, across Europe, states increasingly began to recognize the importance of secrecy and intelligence, working to turn the quest for knowledge and information into a profession.3 Part of this process involved setting up groups and institutions with the specific aims of information-gathering, and appointing individuals to positions leading the search for information and eventual analysis of the intelligence gathered. As an embryonic intelligence profession that developed new methods and goals in France during the second half of the nineteenth century, it became the definitive authority on information that could not openly be accessed. The fact that it needed to be discovered put certain knowledge at a premium, lending it particular credibility according to its collectors. The nineteenth century in France was a time of growth and consolidation of state power, both domestically and internationally, particularly in terms of empire-building. Within the domestic borders of L’Hexagone, France’s political

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situation went from monarchy to Second Empire to Third Republic, with a population growing larger and more united by the turn of the century.4 When looking abroad, French expansion during this period seemed boundless, joining European neighbours in setting up expansive empires. The French imperial project in Africa began somewhat earlier than the others, however, with the conquest of Algeria starting in 1830, before adding to the rest of the empire during the scramble for overseas territory of the 1880s and 1890s. While the building and strengthening of modern states is a familiar story, the role of intelligence in the process has received much less attention. Although intelligence itself did not become an official part of the state bureaucracy in France until the Third Republic (1870–1940), prior to that there were groups – both military and civilian – that performed intelligence-gathering functions in order to secure French power and control. In the first half of the nineteenth century, agents of the French police served as the primary intelligencecollecting authorities at home. They were able to use information gathered for the purpose of controlling the domestic population and maintaining the authority of the regime in power. Contemporaneously, the army launched an intelligence project of its own, though far from mainland France. An integral part of the colonization of Algeria in the mid-nineteenth century was the attempt to understand and classify both the land and its population. The army’s topographical reconnaissance teams were charged with the former, while the latter was left to a new institution founded by the army, the bureaux arabes. These teams gathered intelligence about the native populations in Algeria, which the French state could then employ to ‘pacify’ the region, in order to control it and exploit its land and resources. The success of the Arab Bureaus at using knowledge to consolidate the French Empire in Algeria inspired a similar campaign in neighbouring Tunisia approximately half a century later. While over the course of these many decades intelligence organization grew more professional, the essential duties of the services sent to North Africa in the two conquests were fundamentally the same. The intelligence-gathering body in each case was attached to the French military, and each was led by a determined officer with the foresight and prescience to recognize the importance of intelligence at a time when many, both within the army and outside of it, shunned the practice.5 Marshal Thomas Bugeaud directed the Arab Bureaus in Algeria during the 1840s and 1850s,

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while Colonel Jean Sandherr led an intelligence service called the Service de Renseignements (Intelligence Service; ‘SR’) in Tunisia during the 1880s. Both men recognized the exigency of information as a tool to protect French interests. In each case, the seeking and appropriation of knowledge allowed its possessors to create a narrative that laid the groundwork for controlling populations and expanding the French Empire in North Africa. These men also demonstrated the potential of intelligence for French authority, thus contributing to its growth and professionalization in the decades prior to the First World War.

Algeria and bureaux arabes With their arrival on the shores of Algeria in the first half of the nineteenth century, the French encountered groups of different ethnicities, religions and traditions. From the first crossing of the Mediterranean in the summer of 1830, through the ‘pacification’ of Algeria over the course of the following decade, the group in charge of bringing Algerian territory under French control was the military. The conquest of Algeria began with King Charles X (1757–1836) sending troops to occupy the city of Algiers; once the territory fell to the French army, it proceeded by exiling the ruling Ottoman dey, his advisors and any remaining officials.6 While many in the coastal cities saw no option but to work with the French, others in Algeria refused to accept their new European sovereigns and mounted a resistance. Led by the Sufi cleric and military leader Emir Abdelkader (1808–83), joint groups of Algerians fought against the French military, which fought a dirty war. The French army used torture systematically and employed a scorched earth policy until the final surrender in 1847. The full extent of French control was not limited to that of the sword, however, and as years passed, dominance took the form of imposed laws and regulations.7 This latter method of control was similarly led by the military in the early years of France’s Algerian rule, this time through acquisition and use of knowledge. Having faced such strong resistance for so long, the military recognized a credible foe that served as an impediment to the establishment of French authority. Military leaders would thus put intelligence at the service of protecting French interests in its newly acquired colony.

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Historians and anthropologists have long understood the importance of learning details of behaviour, attitudes and intentions of another group in order to assert control.8 Within the first decade of the French occupation of Algeria, Alexis de Tocqueville (1805–59) made it clear that while force and strength were necessary to conquer foreign lands, the occupying power required knowledge to transform those lands into a colony.9 In carrying out the project of pacification of Algeria during the nineteenth century, French authorities demonstrated this understanding by collecting knowledge about colonial populations in order to determine policy towards them. As noted above, the initial intelligence-gathering project in Algeria was undertaken by groups of officers who formed military institutions known as the bureaux arabes. The Arab Bureaus were officially established in 1844, and were set up across Algeria. Intended for these officers to be attached to each military division, their numbers grew from 43 officers in 1847 to 195 in 1870.10 An early directive noted the aim of the bureaux as intending ‘to assure the lasting pacification of the tribes through a just and regular administration, and to prepare the way for our commerce by maintaining public safety, the protection of all legitimate interests, and increased well-being among the indigenous population’.11 In her seminal work on the importance of assigning identity to the Algerian populations, Patricia Lorcin stresses the liberal, Saint-Simonian bent of the officers working with the Arab Bureaus, calling them arabophiles, as reflected in this early directive seeking the indigenous population’s wellbeing.12 Yet, regardless of attitude towards the locals, the Arab Bureaus had a principally informative function, being conceived essentially to assure the ‘intellectual conquest’ of Algeria and to maintain order.13 As time went on, the role of this service expanded. Officers participated in both ‘active’ and ‘sedentary’ functions, making them ‘at the same time, military men, diplomats, administrators, directors of public works, tax collectors, agricultural counsellors, and more’.14 While their functions were to consist in large part of the activity of ‘renseignement ’, translated often as information- or intelligence-gathering, the Arab Bureaus also developed authority over policing, justice, fiscal policy, education and administration.15 Due to this reach, some opponents of the Bureaus called them an ‘Arab Government’.16 To mete out justice to Muslims and teach their children, the officers of the Arab Bureaus needed sufficient knowledge, which was

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to be recorded in accounts and reports. This required significant effort on the ground to inquire and learn about their native subjects. Officers of the Arab Bureaus were thus dealing with the unknown, unearthing information that, while not ‘secret’ in the same way as a mobilization plan would be, was equally mysterious and needed somehow to be unlocked. The information they collected on native populations subsequently allowed the French state to reach conclusions about Algerians’ primitiveness, and the need for benevolent European ‘civilization’.17 The mastermind behind the bureaux arabes was Marshal Thomas Robert Bugeaud, Algeria’s governor general appointed in 1840. In an 1844 text written for the military men in Algeria, Bugeaud laid out his current understanding of the native population, including their racial composition and contemporary layers of leadership, before instructing officers of the Arab Bureaus how to project authority.18 While he advocated that the French military maintain the existing native structures of governance, he also insisted that the Arab Bureaus work to understand the various chiefs in order to assert French power over the conquered territory. To achieve this, he stressed the importance of knowledge for those employed by the Arab Bureaus. ‘The primary concern of these officers, who must understand and speak the indigenous language,’ Bugeaud wrote, ‘will be to acquire a thorough knowledge of the country, by studying the customs established there, the laws in force, etc., and by gathering, in a word, all of the information [renseignements] necessary to enlighten authorities as to what measures they will need to take.’19 He stressed the need for an ‘active and intelligent surveillance’ of the native leadership, noting the importance for officers in understanding and observing, rather than merely trusting in those whose interests might not be aligned with the French.20 Beyond working to understand the individuals heading up the tribes, Bugeaud instructed the officers charged with Arab affairs to investigate a variety of social and cultural practices. The officer should thus gather facts on ‘religious customs, public morality, local or general law’, as well as learning details of the soil, weights and measures, public markets and the relationships among and between the various tribes.21 But, argued Bugeaud, ‘the most essential of this statistical work was that dealing with the history of the tribes, which must be supplemented little by little with information on all of the families and all of the political leaders that can be found’.22 The combination of

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these details would allow Bugeaud and the officers of the Arab Bureaus to have a complete picture of the society that they were seeking to control. This would allow them to either work peacefully with the leaders, or as was often the case, to facilitate the total war strategy that Bugeaud and his army undertook. For example, the army’s tactics of raid and plunder were successful for the French conquerors thanks to understanding where the many villages were located, and knowing their military strength and economic resources. Marshal Bugeaud’s role in the construction of an information-gathering apparatus in Algeria is particularly significant in tracing the history of the growth of French intelligence in the nineteenth century. Bugeaud himself is a notable character for intelligence historians, as he was one of the few individuals within the military who championed the use of spies at a time when nearly everyone else held them in disrepute. Bugeaud’s Aperçus sur le Détail de la Guerre (1832) discussed a number of different reconnaissance activities, from the need to sketch unknown terrain to the utility of scouts in the field.23 In this and in subsequent works, Bugeaud raised the question of espionage, and asserted it to be ‘one of the most important parts of the art of war’, noting that ‘the general who knows how to employ it skilfully will take from it considerable advantage’.24 His willingness to utilize a variety of methods impressed his colleagues, as well as strategists of the next generation. In fact, the proliferation of texts at the end of the nineteenth century discussing the need to foster and improve professional intelligence invariably cited Bugeaud as one of their inspirations.25 Not only did Bugeaud’s plans for the Arab Bureaus show acuity regarding the necessity to gather knowledge, but they also demonstrate a keen understanding of the value of assessment and compilation of the information collected. In the 1844 text advising the work in Algeria, Bugeaud wrote, The collection of all of these documents, however incomplete to begin, will eventually constitute, in each division, archives, with the major advantage of not losing or forgetting any of the knowledge gathered, and preventing any potential disturbance stemming from the turnover of our agents. As for the content of these archives, they will compile even the contradictory information; for it is only by comparing different data about the same question that we can discover the truth. These archives must, as much as possible, be clear, well-ordered, detailed, and dated.26

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Again, Bugeaud demonstrated prescience in making this assertion, as one of the important steps in the creation of professional intelligence organizations later in the century would involve the separation and storing of knowledge.27 Certainly, the ability to access archived data has been recognized as essential for laying the groundwork for power and control within the centralized state.28 Observations collected by Bugeaud and the bureaux arabes quickly gained traction because these military leaders were able to set themselves up as experts on the new colony. As Moshe Gershovich affirms, officers of the Arab Bureaus, chosen from among the army’s elite, ‘were supposed to become France’s experts on Arab affairs’.29 The notion of expertise took on significant ballast in the positivist nineteenth century, with social scientists and ethnographers joining these officers in being at the forefront of knowledge production about the exotic colonies.30 Like the work of France’s renowned ethnographers, the writings of the officers of the Arab Bureaus represented serious scholarship, showing, as Abelmajid Hannoum writes, a concerted ‘effort to extract the truth about Algeria, to determine exactly what it was and how it should be governed’.31 The military men filling positions within the bureaux were historians and ethnographers themselves, lauded by the nineteenth-century scholar Augustin Bernard (1865–1947) as possessing a ‘remarkable aptitude at collecting, coordinating, and interpreting native intelligence’.32 They observed their subjects in their natural habitat, and learned about their culture and history through conversation and study. The intelligence gathered, analysed and disseminated by the officers of the Arab Bureaus laid the groundwork for initial French views on the land of Algeria and its inhabitants. Among the most important of the contributions to French understanding of its newly colonized peoples, the officers described a population at odds with itself stemming from previous Arabic and Ottoman invasions, individuals with tenuous control over the land of interest to French settlers and groups, regardless of origin, needing to be civilized. To begin, a text published in 1847 by Colonel Daumas and Captain Fabar introduced French readers to the region of Grande Kabylie. This text set out the dichotomy between the Kabyle, or Berbers, and the Arabs, with the former embodying traits similar to those of Europeans, in contrast with the Arabs, who were naturally aggressors.33 As Lorcin describes in Imperial Identities, this narrative became the dominant framework to understand the Algerian population, and

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allowed for a conquest that set one group against the other.34 Although other members of the Arab Bureaus would dispute the exceptionalism of the Kabyle, characterizing them as Arabs as well, the distinction remained in the French imagination, and regardless, both were painted as inferior to the French. The means by which these early intelligence officers represented indigenous subjects dictated how they would be approached by authorities and policy makers at the time and in the decades to follow. Regardless of the position taken regarding the history of the different groups, discourse from the Arab Bureaus tended to agree with what Hannoum described as the ‘situation of lack’, referring to a lack of progress, lack of order, lack of security and, naturally, lack of civilization.35 Consequently, a population without a positive civilization of its own would surely benefit from that offered by a more advanced society, something at the core of the French mission of empire in the years of the Third Republic to follow.36 Finally, another element unearthed by the investigations of the bureaux arabes surrounded the relationship between native Algerians and their land. Through a variety of understandings of both Islamic law and the laws of conquest, French experts and military observers identified larger tracts of land which were legally in possession of the occupying French state, as well as some smaller plots of land which could also legally be sold and purchased.37 These assessments sat well with the French government, as well as with the waves of settlers arriving on the northern coast of Africa looking to set up new lives. Since the larger tracts of land were determined never to have been the personal property of the inhabitants, regardless of whether Arab or Kabyle, this land could be expropriated by the French colony and sold to the highest bidder. As Hannoum notes from his perusal of the records of the bureaux arabes, the conquest of Algeria was in fact a ‘conquest of knowledge’.38 He states, ‘knowledge is a means by which and through which an institution not only justifies its practices, but also rules others. Thus, it is a weapon and precisely because it is so, it is a disputed realm of conflict and struggle.’39 The representation of the natives as, among other things, aggressive, lacking, uncivilized and not attached to any particular property, allowed French authorities to conceive of the best way that they could be governed. Understanding the population was the first step to managing, relocating and policing it, undertakings that were central to the French colonial project throughout the nineteenth and

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twentieth centuries. Intelligence provided the knowledge used to reach a variety of administrative decisions, and thus, as officers honed it at the end of the nineteenth century, it became an ever-greater weapon of control.

Intelligence, the Third Republic, and the French conquest of Tunisia By the 1860s, the Arab Bureaus in Algeria had begun to decline both in prestige and in utility for the French Empire. Three decades of military control had resulted in the Algerian colony becoming an established reality in French and European minds. When power in the Hexagon shifted in 1870, following Louis-Napoleon’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian War from the Second Empire to the Third Republic, direction of the colony moved from military to civilian control. The change in political structures in France in 1870 also meant a change for the organization and practice of intelligence. The French army reorganized in the wake of defeat to Bismarck’s forces, striving to be more prepared in the event of any future hostilities. Part of this restructuring included the creation of official bodies dedicated to intelligence-gathering and analysis, not only during times of war but also to exist permanently in times of peace. The main office designated for this end was a part of the army’s general staff, and was called the Deuxième Bureau. The army also charged a smaller group, known alternately as the SR and as the Section de Statistique (the Statistical Section), with performing the more covert work of espionage and counter-espionage. These services worked at times alongside and at times separately from, other intelligence-gathering bodies within the civilian administration, such as police forces and diplomats. While the main focus for French military intelligence at the turn of the century was to be on Germany, officers of these sections also had a hand in the practice of intelligence-gathering in France’s empire across the Mediterranean. The modernization and professionalization of intelligence by the French state and its military under the Third Republic aimed to defend France from future enemies and to protect French interests and autonomy. The colonies were viewed as critical to the French national image, and defence of French

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interests overseas could easily be equated with national defence and survival. Thus, as the French nation set its sights on expanding the empire at the end of the nineteenth century, it became clear that the practices that had served the military well in Algeria could likely be exported to other areas of interest. Looking specifically at North Africa, France saw opportunities in Tunisia and Morocco, where intelligence helped to familiarize the army with these territories in preparation for future invasions and to help maintain a military presence after the invasion occurred. France had already manifested an interest in Tunisia during the Second Empire, where it competed for both financial and commercial benefits with other European powers, in particular, Britain and Italy. The three powers maintained expatriate communities in the small North African territory as well as consulates.40 At the time of the establishment of the Third Republic, Tunisia was a province of the Ottoman Empire but maintained a fair amount of autonomy under a bey (local sovereign). Following a Russian defeat of the Ottoman Empire in 1877, several European nations met to discuss a partition of some of the North African Ottoman territories. At the Berlin Conference of 1878, France was granted the overlordship of Tunisia, though it did not immediately act upon a takeover. Two major financial controversies in 1880, however, demonstrated the extent of Italian designs on curbing French hegemony in Tunisia, and French diplomats thus began ‘looking for a new incident to precipitate intervention’.41 The incident they sought occurred in March of 1881, when a skirmish started by the Tunisian Khoumir tribe along the border between Tunisia and Algeria resulted in the death of a number of Algerians. The French used this incursion into their territory to send in armed forces in the middle of April. On 12 May 1881, the Tunisian bey signed the Treaty of Bardo, granting France a protectorate over Tunisia. However, even after the signing of the agreement, a number of insurrections occurred, causing France to declare that according to the treaty, the French ‘were obligated to expand our occupation to all points of the regency and increase our number of occupying troops’.42 The occupying army maintained an intelligence service called the Service des Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation, whose stated mission was to understand the roles played by various tribes in the insurrections and to discover which individuals in Tunisia the army could trust.43 This intelligence

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service was for all intents and purposes a revival of the bureaux arabes system, an indication that ‘the 1881 Tunisian campaign required the kind of expertise and commitment no civilian organisation could offer’.44 In line with the military’s aims of defending French liberties and autonomy, intelligence officers assessed the French intervention as motivated by the need to maintain the protectorate and its ruling bey, as well as ‘our own defense and the safeguard of our interests’.45 Intelligence, the army believed, would help to validate its noble cause. As part of the army’s quest to gather intelligence in Tunisia, the war ministry in Paris put together a special team to conduct both licit and illicit reconnaissance activity. Heading this team was Colonel Sandherr, detached from the army’s service de renseignements, who would later direct the Statistical Section in Paris from the end of 1886 until his illness at the height of the Dreyfus Affair. At the time of his deployment to Tunisia, Sandherr had already garnered experience in African issues and intelligence. Upon his exit from the Ecole de Guerre in 1875, he was sent to North Africa, where he undoubtedly familiarized himself with intelligence by working with former officers of the bureaux arabes. Returning to Europe, the army sent him on a number of reconnaissance missions in Germany at the end of the 1870s that won him great praise from his superiors. In 1880, he joined the deuxième bureau’s service de renseignements under Colonel Grisot.46 In April 1881, the new director of the SR in Paris, Colonel Vincent, was informed that Sandherr had been chosen to lead an intelligence mission in Tunisia as part of the occupying army’s intelligence service. Writing to the head of the French army in Africa, the war minister informed him that Sandherr would ‘watch the movements and behaviour of Italian agents in Algeria and in Tunisia and keep you completely informed on this front’.47 The war minister noted that Sandherr would ‘remain in constant communication with the head of my General Staff, from whom he will receive special instructions . . . for the accomplishment of my confidential mission’. Sandherr was given full power upon his arrival, a special military interpreter at his disposal, and access to the funds that he needed. Sandherr’s intelligence mission during his year in Tunisia was twofold, centring on observation and assessment of both the native Tunisian and the Italian populations. On the one hand, the French army and state were concerned

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with the role of the various tribes in uprisings against the bey and against French influence. The officers worried that public opinion was turning against the French, based on insurrections, a string of bad press and attacks upon French workers and residents. The intelligence team prepared many analyses of the different tribes, looking at their background, composition, attitudes and motives for future action. The compilation of intelligence on rural and tribal populations of Tunisia greatly resembled that urged by Marshal Bugeaud and put together by the bureaux arabes in Algeria decades earlier and that which would take place in Morocco during the 1890s.48 The French state would use this intelligence to justify its intervention in Tunisia, as well as its institution of a protectorate in Morocco in 1912. Sandherr and his team closely monitored the actions and attitudes of the native Tunisian population. They were to observe the bey and his entourage in order to determine the nature of his associations. Close attention went to the attitudes of dissidents and various tribes, travelling throughout the country to get a complete overview. Officers assessed local Tunisian feelings towards the French, Italians and Turks who seemed prepared to provide aid and reflected on the enthusiasm of the local population for such help. Intelligence agents speculated on Muslim fanaticism and the role of Islam in bringing together a variety of France’s opponents. They also made a point to measure the response of various parties to the French penetration into Tunisia, and they worked to assess reactions among the local native and European populations to any future takeover or aggression.49 These reports taking the pulse of the populations under surveillance had critical importance for the colonial project, serving as a means to resolve problems or manipulate interests. On the other hand, intelligence gathered by Sandherr and his team was used to help construct the narrative of Italy’s desire to erode French hegemony in North Africa. An analysis prepared by intelligence officers claimed that as early as 1862 Italy ‘had begun to dream of playing a role in Africa’, viewing Tunisia ‘as a future Italian Algeria’, and therefore sought to increase the number of Italian settlers there.50 As a result, claimed the report, speculators began to turn their sights to undeveloped land.51 France clearly desired to maintain influence in Tunisia, and also expressed concern for Algeria in the event that there would be ‘a rival and hostile European presence’ immediately adjacent

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to its colony. Intelligence reports thus confirmed the narrative of protecting Algeria from aggressive neighbours, exactly the case that gave France the impetus to invade in 1881. The intelligence-gathering project in Tunisia also reflects the army’s strategy of using knowledge to define the need to protect French interests. In Tunisia, the army saw not only a chance to broaden France’s colonial holdings, but also the opportunity to redeem the nation after an embarrassing defeat in Europe. The intelligence summary that assessed the projects in 1885 – after the invasion and protectorate – had noted, ‘Our disasters of 1870 and 1871, whose echoes continued to be heard for a long time in the West, have doubtless undermined our authority in Tunisia’, and that learning about Tunisia in order to ‘protect’ it (through invasion) was ‘important for our national honour and the reestablishment of our authority in the East’.52 Intelligence played a large role in attempting to curb Italian ambitions and in trying to discover if the Italians and the Tunisians could work together to undermine the French role in the country, and therefore its global prestige as well. The Italians in Tunisia had raised French concerns, as they were employing a number of tactics to secure a place in North Africa, including using spies and agents of their own. Thus, before his arrival, Sandherr’s superiors had identified a number of individuals working as espionage agents for the Italian government, and informed him that he and his agents should follow them, become familiar with their associates and discern the purpose of their missions in Tunisia.53 In addition to these agents, the French sought to learn whether the Italian agents were corresponding with their counterparts in Algeria or with other foreign influences. Besides the agents, the French were supposed to watch the Italian colonists, military and other leaders. Regardless of whether knowledge collection was aimed at native Tunisian tribes or Italian agents, the intelligence gathered here permitted the creation of a narrative of French interests being increasingly endangered. By representing indigenous groups as hostile or Italian settlers as resentful and covetous of French resources, the army’s intelligence team provided the framework for intervention from the metropole. Authority depended on understanding any threats to French honour and autonomy in this case, and thus with those established, French power could more easily be asserted.

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Imperial knowledge and the development of French intelligence The examples of Algeria and Tunisia show a progression of French intelligence practices in the nineteenth century. Leaders like Bugeaud and Sandherr recognized the need to collect information about the people that France sought to dominate and the importance of employing modern practices of establishing expertise, working within an institution and sorting and analysing the lessons learned. Both situations also show how the successful gathering of knowledge could be exploited to benefit aims of both defence and expansion. Whereas the two institutions under consideration in this chapter, the Arab Bureaus and the SR, diminished in need and importance in the years following their initial contribution, their methodology and the utility of intelligence to state aims continued.54 Although in Algeria, the Arab Bureaus themselves were practically dismantled as part of the transition from military to civilian control in the move from Second Empire to Third Republic after 1870, the story that their intelligence had crafted remained well in place. After nearly twenty years of information collection, the discourse of the Arab Bureaus had become the dominant French narrative, now in the hands of civilian administrators. The new civil administration equally accepted and propagated the representation of the natives as apart and uncivilized, pliable yet violent and needing control by Europeans. Intelligence gathered in the early years of colonial rule had set up the colony, and that knowledge was sustained not only in Algeria but throughout the entire imperial enterprise. While the links between the practice of intelligence in the empire and back in France were never made explicit through any kind of command structure or training manual, there is little doubt that the practice of informationgathering in the colonies had an influence on the development of espionage and counter-espionage practices back home. Notably, nearly every officer who would take the lead in designing or directing French intelligence at the beginning of the Third Republic had served in Africa, where because of the Arab Bureaus, intelligence practices were commonplace. Fathers of French intelligence theory Jules Lewal (1823–1908) and Theodore Jung, as well as early heads of the high command’s intelligence section, Abraham Samuel,

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Emile Louis Campionnet and Paul Grisot, all served in campaigns in Africa in the 1850s or 1860s.55 Finally, Colonel Sandherr’s mission in Tunisia would lay the groundwork for his becoming one of the Third Republic’s intelligence masters, appointed head of the Deuxième Bureau’s Statistical Section in 1886. Indeed, the impact of Sandherr’s mission in Tunisia went beyond the details of the knowledge gained. The means by which it was gathered would also have an influence on the development of French intelligence practices. For Sandherr, this experience was educational, demonstrating the role that intelligence could play in dictating diplomatic relations. Through his observations, one can get a sense of the purpose and use that Sandherr derived from intelligence and his style of collecting it. Like the Arab Bureaus before, the intelligence gleaned from Tunisia centred on social, political and economic information rather than purely military intelligence. It paid heed to gossip and rumours, collecting and assessing viewpoints from a variety of angles. Sandherr looked for relations between groups in Tunis and groups in Algiers, moving beyond his immediate surroundings to predict future movements. Sandherr’s service in Tunisia appeared to follow the Machiavellian dictum of collecting information ‘by any means necessary’, as the documents show him willing and interested to procure information from a wide variety of sources. He hired natives to spy on each other, Jews friendly to France, Italian turncoats and other supposedly disreputable characters, to help him gather intelligence from the heterogeneous population.56 Sandherr’s service sought to use money to purchase information from the Italian agents, and if not the agents themselves, then, as Sandherr suggested, presumably it would be ‘possible to pay off the mistresses of [Italian agents] Maccio or Martorelli’.57 His reliance on these sources indicates a desire to unearth hidden knowledge in order to produce a complete account. Similarly, Bugeaud’s writings on military strategy, and his advocacy for espionage as a means of intelligence-gathering in particular, also demonstrated this Machiavellian attitude. Bugeaud had argued that intelligence work should be conducted by officers and soldiers, as these individuals would be much more efficient than ‘the Jews, women and hawkers that we employ now in this profession’.58 He had stressed the importance of experts as the ones to gather information, which would then assure the soundness of their advice in the creation of policy that would surely follow. These ideas put forth first in the

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middle of the nineteenth century eventually gained support and became a reality when intelligence became professional in the last third of the century. By the time Sandherr’s team found itself posted to Tunisia, the centrality of intelligence to the state-building project could not have escaped him. Authorities in Paris had insisted on a close connection between the military working in the colonies and leaders in France. Sandherr therefore kept a register of all his telegrams that indicates his both sending and receiving correspondence from military and civil leaders like Paul Grisot, Charles de Freycinet, the head of the general staff in Paris, as well as army leaders in Bone, Tripoli and Tunis. In addition to the correspondence that told the story of agents’ observations in Tunisia, Sandherr kept detailed records of his activities. Like Bugeaud, who had set up the archives of the bureaux arabes, Sandherr made a point to hold onto notes and scraps, and also put together an extensive diary of his daily operations. The diary, reflecting all of Sandherr’s observations and conclusions, was filed away along with topographic maps and other studies of the Tunisian population, giving credence to the account constructed by this intelligence professional. Returning to Paris a few years later, Sandherr would continue to craft the history of perceptions of others, the next time that of his European neighbours. Back in the empire, the use of knowledge to control populations continued and was adopted by civilian leadership as well. As governor general of Algeria from 1891–7, Jules Cambon recognized that part of the civilizing mission, whereby French leaders sought to ‘protect Arab society against itself ’ entailed France slowly stamping out native practices and replacing them with those considered more civilized.59 This aim would be achieved through watching and understanding the population, as had his military predecessors. George Trumbull, in Empires of Facts, explains that Cambon offered regulations on how to observe and police family relations, religious figures, itinerant traders and even snake charmers. An exercise in colonial power, surveillance rapidly expanded the penetrating gaze of French authority into areas of Algerian society, such as religion and the family.60 Whereas the first round of intelligencegathering categorized and represented tribes by their histories, relations, and land use, the continued project of knowledge collection expanded into all realms of native life.

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The use of intelligence for empire continued to unfold even beyond the shores of North Africa. In Empires of Intelligence, a work on the role of intelligence in maintaining imperial control in the British and French colonies in the twentieth century, historian Martin Thomas mentions the colonial leader Joseph Gallieni, noting that his strategies of pacification in places like Indochina and Madagascar relied on intelligence for directing communications, orchestrating administration and meting out force. ‘Intelligence’, writes Thomas, ‘played a vital role in policy formulation throughout the process.’ He cites knowledge of local topography, regional economy and an understanding of tribal cultures and local elites as crucial in administering the colonies across the French Empire.61 For French leaders embarking on foreign lands across the Mediterranean and eventually much further afield, confrontations with natives required an immediate assessment of how best to understand lands and their inhabitants. Through a project of knowledge acquisition, colonists would then be able to assess and order these foreign peoples, and restructure their very being. As Hannoum wrote regarding the Arab Bureaus, ‘to govern one needed to know, and knowing is nothing more than representing’.62 The intelligence officers heading the expeditions in Algeria and Tunisia were the first Frenchmen on the ground to gather information, and therefore the first to offer their expertise in describing and representing what they saw. Informing policymakers in the colonies and back in the metropole what the natives were like allowed administrators the opportunity to assess how the colony needed to be governed and controlled. In this way, intelligence laid the groundwork for the efficient enterprise of constructing and ruling the French Empire.

Notes 1 The author would like to thank Andrew Hakes for help with this chapter. 2 Richard W. Wilsnack, ‘Information Control: A Conceptual Framework for Sociological Analysis’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 8/4 (1980), pp. 467– 99. Ritchie P. Lowry, ‘Toward a Sociology of Secrecy and Security Systems’, Social Problems, 19/4 (1972), p. 438.

174 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 3 On the growth of an intelligence community in Britain, see Christopher Andrew, Her Majesty’s Secret Service: The Making of the British Intelligence Community (New York: Viking, 1986); for France, see Sébastien Laurent, Politiques de l’ombre: État, renseignement et surveillance en France (Paris: Fayard, 2009); and for Germany, see Holger H. Herwig, ‘Imperial Germany’, in Knowing One’s Enemy: Intelligence Assessment Before the Two World Wars, ed. Ernest R. May (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), pp. 62–97. 4 Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870–1914 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1976). 5 Deborah Bauer, ‘Planting the Espionage Tree: The French Military and the Professionalization of Intelligence at the end of the Nineteenth Century’, Intelligence and National Security, 31/5 (2016), pp. 660–1. 6 John Ruedy, Modern Algeria: The Origins and Development of a Nation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992). 7 Ibid., pp. 86–9. 8 Patricia M. E. Lorcin, Imperial Identities: Stereotyping, Prejudice and Race in Colonial Algeria (London: I. B. Tauris, 1995); George R. Trumbull, An Empire of Facts: Colonial Power, Cultural Knowledge, and Islam in Algeria, 1870–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Clifford Geertz, Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983). 9 Alexis de Tocqueville, De la Colonie en Algérie, cited in Abdelmajid Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge in Algeria: The Archives of the Arab Bureau’, History and Anthropology, 12/4 (2001), p. 344. 10 Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 344. 11 Vincent Monteil, ‘Les Bureaux Arabes Au Maghreb (1833–1961)’, Esprit, no. 300 (1961), p. 582. He is citing a directive from Colonel Daumas in 1840. 12 Lorcin, Imperial Identities, pp. 79–85. 13 Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 345. 14 Monteil, ‘Les Bureaux Arabes’, pp. 582–3. 15 For a full description of the tasks assigned to this office, see Instruction réglementaire sur le service des bureaux arabes du 21 mars 1867 avec une note sur ce service, réponse aux attaques dirigées contre le gouvernent de l’Algérie en 1868, Archives de la Service Historique de la Défense (SHD) 1H 238. See also Jacques Frémeaux, Les bureaux arabes dans l’Algérie de la conquête (Paris: Denoël, 1993). 16 Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, pp. 345–6. 17 See Lorcin, Imperial Identities, chapters 6–7. 18 Thomas Robert Bugeaud, Exposé de l’ état Actuel de la Société Arabe, du Gouvernement et de la Législation qui la Régit (Algiers: Imprimerie du Gouvernement, 1844).

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25

26 27 28 29 30

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

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Ibid., p. 75. Ibid., p. 76. Ibid., p. 79. Ibid. Thomas Robert Bugeaud, Aperçus sur Quelques Détails de la Guerre (Paris: Duverger, 1832). Thomas Robert Bugeaud, Maximes, Conseils et Instructions sur l’art de la Guerre ou Aide-mémoire Pratique de la Guerre a l’usage des Militaires de Toutes Armes et de Tous Pays (Paris: Leneveu, 1863), p. 65. See, for example, James Violle, L’Espionnage Militaire en Temps de Guerre (Paris: L. Larose, 1903), 86; Jules Lewal, ‘Tactique des Renseignements’, Journal des Sciences Militaires (1881); A. Froment, L’espionnage Militaire et les Fonds Sécrets de la Guerre en France et à L’ étranger (Paris: F. Juven, 1897). Bugeaud, Exposé, p. 80. Jules Lewal, Études de Guerre: Tactique des Renseignements (Paris: L. Boudoin & Ce., 1881). Jacob Soll, The Information Master: Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s Secret State Intelligence System (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2009). Moshe Gershovich, French Military Rule in Morocco: Colonialism and its Consequences (London & Portland: Psychology Press, 2000), p. 84. See Lorcin, Imperial Identities and Trumbull, Empire of Facts; also Alice Conklin, In the Museum of Man: Race, Anthropology, and Empire in France, 1850–1950 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013). Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 347. Augustin Bernard (1912), cited in Trumbull, p. 32. Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 348. Lorcin, Imperial Identities. Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 361. Alice L. Conklin, A Mission to Civilize: The Republican Idea of Empire in France and West Africa, 1895–1930 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997). Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, pp. 355–6. Ibid., p. 344. Ibid., p. 353. Robert Aldrich, Greater France: A History of French Overseas Expansion (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1996), pp. 28–31. Ibid., p. 30. ‘Service des Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation; l’Occupation de la Tunisie, 1881–1883’, SHD 2H 35. Ibid. Gershovich, French Military Rule in Morocco, p. 84.

176 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 45 ‘Service des Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation; l’Occupation de la Tunisie, 1881–1883’, SHD 2H 35. 46 See letter appointing Sandherr to the Service des Renseignements dated 18 December 1881. For examples of praise for work in Germany, see letter from Minister of War Gresley dated 18 December 1879, and letter from Minister of War General Farre dated 12 July 1881, SHD 1K 171. 47 SHD 2H 1. 48 On Morocco, see SHD 3H 21. 49 SHD 1K 171. 50 ‘Service des Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation; l’Occupation de la Tunisie, 1881–1883’, 1 February 1885, SHD 2H 35. 51 Aldrich, Greater France. 52 ‘Service des Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation; l’Occupation de la Tunisie, 1881–1883’, SHD 2H 35. 53 SHD 2H 1. 54 Moshe Gershovich explains that ‘the rapid establishment of civilian order in Northern Tunisia decreased the dependency on the military for the administration of the indigenous population . . . The much reduced Service des Renseignements was transferred to the southern part of the country and as of 1887 was officially given the task of extending French influence there.’ Gershovich, French Military Rule in Morocco, p. 84. 55 See the officers’ individual files in SHD: 1K 732 (Jung), 10Yd 340 (Campionnet), 9Yd 170 (Grisot), 7Yd 1616 (Lewal), 5Yf 41489 (Samuel). 56 SHD 1K 171. 57 Notes from ‘absolutely confidential’ book titled ‘Mission Sandherr’ from April to December 1881, SHD 2H 1. 58 Bugeaud, Maximes, p. 67. 59 Jules Cambon, Instruction sur la Surveillance Politique et Administrative des Indigenes Algériens et des Musulmans Étrangers (Algiers: Imprimerie Pierre Fontana et Cie, 1895), cited in Trumbull, Empire of Facts, p. 17. 60 Trumbull, Empire of Facts, p. 18. 61 Martin Thomas, Empires of Intelligence: Security Services and Colonial Disorder after 1914 (Berkeley : University of California Press, 2008), p. 56. 62 Hannoum, ‘Colonialism and Knowledge’, p. 356.

8

To save a Kaiser: Imperial German intelligence and protective security in the Orient, 1898 Shlomo Shpiro

Protective security is a key role for intelligence services worldwide. The political repercussions of the assassination of a senior political figure could potentially be severe, as amply demonstrated by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914. The activities of anarchists in the second half of the nineteenth century created an enormous challenge for the nascent intelligence services of the European powers. Indeed, the need for effective protective security prompted the creation, and later expansion, of intelligence services in Germany as well as in other countries. These services had to develop from scratch the structures and procedures for risk assessment, covert collection of information, intelligence analysis and cooperation with police and other authorities in their efforts to prevent political assassinations. The visit of the German Kaiser Wilhelm II to the Orient in 1898 was a defining moment in the history of the Eastern Mediterranean region, and for Palestine in particular. For four centuries, Palestine had been a distant and neglected corner of the vast Ottoman Empire. Preparations for the Kaiser’s visit included a much-needed modernization of its urban and transport infrastructures. The visit also reinforced the growing nationalist sentiments in the region. German officials feared an assassination attempt on Wilhelm’s life during the visit, which could have had huge political ramifications. Their fears were not unfounded, as a group of anarchists did plot the Kaiser’s assassination. Their attempts were thwarted through an almost unprecedented international intelligence and security effort. This chapter examines the activities of Imperial Germany’s intelligence services to counter that threat and ensure that the visit was a political success.

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Germany and the Eastern Question The relations between the great powers of Europe and the Ottoman Empire over their interests in the Middle East  – often referred to as the ‘Eastern Question’ – presented German politicians and diplomats with the challenge of expanding their influence and prestige in an area over which they knew very little about. There was a lack of understanding not only of local politics but also of the activities of other competing powers in the region, particularly France and Britain. Throughout the nineteenth century, the Eastern Question became ever more volatile, especially during the Greek War of Independence (1821–32), the Crimean War (1853–6) and the Eastern Crisis (1875–8). By the mid-nineteenth century, Prussia dispatched Protestant missionaries to various parts of the Ottoman Empire, including Palestine.1 As the Eastern Question became an important element in Imperial Germany’s foreign policy, German decision makers, headed by Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, and later by Kaiser Wilhelm II, sought to expand their knowledge over the Middle East.2 In order to enhance their decision-making capabilities regarding relations with the Ottoman Empire and politics in the Middle East, the German government had to develop ways of obtaining reliable and accurate information on this region. This was done through the development of intelligence mechanisms responsible for collecting and distributing information of political and military value. Imperial German intelligence activities in the Middle East were based on the activities of Germany’s newly created civilian and military intelligence services. It also brought about one of the first truly international intelligence cooperation efforts, involving the intelligence and police services of European and Middle Eastern countries in an attempt to foil the activities of anarchists seeking to assassinate the Kaiser.3

Early development of German intelligence The development of the German intelligence services passed a key turning point on 7 May 1866. On that day, a disaffected student who believed he

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could change history tried to assassinate the ‘Iron Chancellor’ Bismarck. The assassin, Ferdinand Cohen-Blind, lay in wait for Bismarck in Unter den Linden, Berlin’s main thoroughfare, as the chancellor returned from a visit to the Kaiser. Cohen-Blind fired a pistol twice at Bismarck, but the chancellor was only slightly injured and was able to wrestle with his assailant until help arrived. Cohen-Blind was arrested and committed suicide in police custody the following day.4 This assassination attempt shocked German political life. The fact that no official government service was able to detect or prevent such an assassination attempt, which occurred on a busy street at the city centre, was the catalyst for the emergence of official intelligence services in Germany. Dismayed at the lack of official information on terrorists and anarchists, Bismarck called into government service Dr Wilhelm Stieber. The son of a prominent lawyer from Merseburg, Stieber was born in 1818. He studied law and worked as a private lawyer for several years. But Stieber found himself more often solving the crimes of his clients rather than defending them. He joined the Berlin criminal police and later served for ten years as its director. In the early 1860s, Stieber was forced to resign from the police following allegations over his rough investigation methods.5 He opened a private detective agency and developed contacts all over Europe with police and security officials. From 1863, he had been acting as a secret emissary for Bismarck on special missions abroad. After Cohen-Blind’s failed assassination attempt, Bismarck asked Stieber to return to government service in a new job – to build a German secret intelligence service which would help protect the state and its leaders from domestic and international threats. Bismarck’s aims in setting up an independent secret intelligence service were threefold: he needed a reliable security service which could protect the monarchy from political trouble; he wanted to impose press censorship on the German press, which he perceived as being a political threat; and he wanted to have a source of information which was independent of the Prussian General Staff. Stieber seemed the right man for the job. He was not connected to the army, and his political allegiance was to Bismarck alone. He was also opposed to the free press, believing that newspapers can threaten the stability of the monarchy through spreading ‘dangerous ideas’. On 23 June 1866, the King of Prussia, later to become Kaiser Wilhelm I  of Germany, signed a special

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order giving Stieber wide powers as a special police advisor to the crown. He was ordered to establish a ‘Political Police’, later renamed ‘Secret Field Police’ (Geheime Feldpolizei). Although Stieber’s was a civilian service, its tasks also included supporting the army through obtaining secret information on Germany’s enemies. With Stieber’s secret police, the uniting Germany had for the first time an official intelligence organization dedicated to collecting information for the security of the state. Stieber had little time to organize his new service. Prussia was secretly preparing for war against the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and the new secret police dispatched spies to Vienna to collect information on the military strength of the Austrians. Despite the short time available, Stieber was very successful in providing the Prussian General Staff with accurate information on the opposing Austrian forces. On 1 August 1866, Stieber moved his organization to the Foreign Office (Auswärtiges Amt) under a new name  – Central Intelligence Bureau (Central-Nachrichten-Büro). The Bureau had covert representatives in Paris, London and Vienna, and Stieber set about building a modern intelligence service that could collect political and military information for the new German Empire.6 The success of Stieber’s civilian intelligence service was viewed with envy by the influential General Staff, headed by General Helmuth von Moltke. In February 1867, von Moltke established his own intelligence service, the ‘Intelligence Office of the Great General Staff ’ (Nachrichtenbüro des Grossen Generalstab). From a small office with only two officers, and an annual budget of 2,000 Talers, this intelligence office was to collect and evaluate information for Prussia’s coming war with France. Later, a naval intelligence service was also established at the German admiralty. This service became more important as Germany embarked on a naval race with Britain.7 During the 1870–1 war with France, Stieber’s Central Intelligence Bureau was expanded to over 30 officers and 150 men. The Bureau ran networks of spies in France and Switzerland, who supplied Berlin with information on the French forces and on political developments in Paris. A master at the delicate art of recruiting people for espionage work, Stieber even established a ‘Prostitutes’ Recovery Fund’ to recruit prostitutes at major urban areas for his espionage work. Stieber was also quick to exploit the media as a source of propaganda. Through careful leaks to the press, he was able to create legendary successes

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for his service. Some papers reported that Stieber’s Central Intelligence Bureau had over 30,000 spies in France alone. Although these numbers were vastly exaggerated, the myth created by the media assisted Stieber in recruiting agents in all major French cities. It also gave him considerable political weight in Berlin.8 In the aftermath of Germany’s 1870–1 war with France, the Intelligence Office of the General Staff was expanded, headed by Major Walter Nicolai. Also known as Section IIIB, it placed special intelligence officers (Nachrichtenoffiziere – NO) at all German division and corps headquarters, to provide the army generals with up-to-date information processed in Berlin. Section IIIB sent journalists to report on French railway construction activities in order to analyse French mobilization potential in case of a European war. It also sent agents to report on the Suez Canal, a key to Britain’s control of India.9 The scale of its covert intelligence activities must have been very wide; in 1891 Graf Waldersee, the chief of the General Staff, requested one million Marks, a huge amount in those days, to use as budget for Section IIIB. The development of both civilian and military intelligence services gave Germany a strong capability to collect vital information for its policies in Europe. As German foreign policy spread towards the Middle East, these services also expanded their activities in this region, collecting information and recruiting agents to advance German policies. Their first security challenge in the Middle East arose as their monarch decided to pay a personal visit to that volatile and often dangerous region.

German intelligence and protective security The need for an effective intelligence apparatus as means of enhancing dignitary protective security in Germany became even more apparent after several unsuccessful assassination attempts against Kaiser Wilhelm I. In the summer of 1878, two failed attempts were carried. Both of them took place at Unter den Linden, where the Kaiser was seen almost daily making his tours through the Tiergarten. The first attempt took place on 11 May 1878. An unemployed apprentice plumber, Max Hödel, waited for Wilhelm as he was driven in an open carriage. Hödel fired a pistol at the Kaiser from a close

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distance but missed his target. As a crowd of people rushed in, Hödel tried to escape while shooting at passers-by. However, he was overpowered by the crowd, disarmed and arrested. Investigations conducted by the secret police showed that Hödel was an active member of the Socialist Workers’ Party (Sozialistische Arbeiterspartei  – SAP). He may have been inspired by other anarchist attempts to kill rulers in Europe in the second half of the nineteenth century. Hödel was sentenced to death and executed. Only three weeks after Hödel’s attack, another attempt was made on the Kaiser’s life. Karl Nobiling, the son of a landowning family and a graduate of the Leipzig University, fired a double-barrelled shotgun at Wilhelm from a secondfloor window. The Kaiser was injured by many pellets and was rushed back to the palace. As police and angered citizens arrived at the scene, Nobiling shot himself in the head. He was arrested and interrogated but shortly afterwards lost consciousness and later died. His motivation for the assassination attempt remains unclear, though in his initial interrogation he professed to be a social democrat sympathizer.10 Two assassination attempts on the Kaiser within one month were obviously too much. The German intelligence services were instructed to intensify their activities in the field of protective security. The main intelligence challenge was that of providing early warning. Both Hödel and Nobiling were most likely each acting alone and used imprecise weapons with little or no previous training. The real threat lay in an organized assassination attempt made by a determined, and possibly well-trained, group of anarchists. The Central Intelligence Bureau increased its penetration of extremist political groups in Berlin in an attempt to obtain early warning on such plans. At the time, Berlin was the centre of various radical fringe groups, many of them advocating the use of violence for political aims. In retaliation to the assassination attempts, Bismarck enacted a new ‘Anti-Socialist Law’ in October 1878. The new law banned the Social Democratic Party, as well as workers’ mass organizations and the socialist press. Intelligence was only one aspect of increasing protective security for the Kaiser and Imperial Germany’s political leadership. Physical security was also expanded, especially around imperial palaces and along the routes likely to be used by the dignitaries. As long as the Kaiser was in Berlin or in Potsdam, in one of his numerous palaces, his personal security could be greatly enhanced

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by additional guards, high perimeter fences, plainclothes police and other protective measures. However, once the Kaiser was away from his official residences, and especially abroad, the danger to his life multiplied. The newly created German intelligence services were now expected not only to provide early warning and security for the Kaiser inside Germany but also to liaise with their counterparts in other countries over potential threats abroad. Despite increased security, another assassination attempt took place on 18 September 1883. A group of anarchists attempted to kill Wilhelm with a bomb as he was unveiling a new memorial in Rüdesheim. Due to the wet weather, the explosive failed to ignite and the Kaiser’s life was saved again. After the death of Wilhelm I in 1888, security precautions continued to be applied to his successors, Friedrich III and Wilhelm II. The threat of assassination was everpresent in German political life during the late nineteenth century.

Spies, anarchists and threats The announcement of Kaiser Wilhelm II’s planned visit to the Ottoman Empire in 1898 brought about frenzied intelligence activities. The political importance of this visit, the first such visit of a German monarch in the region since the Crusades, seemed to cross borders and denominations. The preparations for the visit went beyond those for any such stately tour beyond Europe’s borders.11 The planned visit caused consternation at the German intelligence services, which were worried over the activities of anarchists who set out to attack monarchs all over Europe. Only two weeks before the Kaiser’s announcement of his journey, the highly popular Austrian Empress Elisabeth, wife of Emperor Franz-Josef, was assassinated in Geneva by an Italian anarchist.12 This assassination further increased the threat of a similar attack against Wilhelm II during his journey in the Middle East. The German intelligence services set out to plan the protection of the Kaiser and the prevention of any possible threat to the success of this historic journey. In their efforts to prepare the ground for Wilhelm II’s visit in the Orient, Imperial Germany’s intelligence services relied on the existing system of German consulates throughout the Middle East. Prussian diplomatic missions were established in the Middle East well before Germany’s unification,

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including consulates in Cairo and Beirut.13 As early as 1842, the Prussian consulate in Ottoman Beirut appointed a consul in Jerusalem. In 1871, Prussian consulates in the Middle East were taken over by the newly founded Germany. In Palestine, Germany had three consulates, Jerusalem, Jaffa and Haifa.14 The consulates were a valuable source of reliable intelligence, able to counter some of the more exaggerated reports originating from other sources in the Middle East.15 Once preparations began for Wilhelm’s visit, German consuls in the Middle East were instructed to report on the security situation in their respective countries. Further support for the security of the Kaiser could be expected from Germany’s Templer colonies in Palestine. These colonies were established from 1869 by messianic Christian Templers for religious reasons. The Templers built colonies in Jaffa, Jerusalem and Haifa and successfully engaged in modern economic activities, including mechanized agricultural production, trade and light industry, even establishing one of the first hotels in Palestine. The colonies were supported, both financially and politically, by influential German leaders and partially funded by generous donations from Wilhelm II. The Templers had in the past proved to be a very useful source of intelligence. Until 1895, the German navy maintained naval patrols along the Syrian coastline, collecting military and civilian intelligence relating to German interests in the region. The Templers were looking forward to benefiting politically from the Kaiser’s visit, especially as the Ottoman authorities began to tax them heavily on their land holdings. They also hoped that the visit would encourage German investments and business ventures in Palestine.16 On 17 September 1889, a highly disturbing report arrived in Berlin from the German consul in Alexandria. Consul von Hartmann reported the presence of suspected anarchists in Egypt, who were being observed by the local police. Von Hartmann indicated that no less than twenty-eight known anarchists arrived from Italy to Cairo and Port Said and that a well-known anarchist, known as Di Pompeo, planned to travel to Jerusalem and carry out an assassination attempt against Wilhelm II.17 Von Hartmann’s report caused great consternation in Berlin. Egypt was a hotbed of Italian anarchists and other political exiles from Europe in the late nineteenth century. The migration of thousands of Italian workers for the building of the Suez Canal created a thriving working-class Italian community in Egypt, in which anarchist ideas

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found a solid support base. In 1878, a number of Italian anarchists fled Italy and arrived in Alexandria. By the end of the nineteenth century, anarchists were well organized and played a leading role in introducing radical political ideas to the main cities of Egypt.18 Their leaders included Ugo Icilio Parrini, a veteran political activist who used his wine shop in Alexandria as a meeting place for anarchists, and Pietro Vasai, a central figure of the anarcho-syndicalist movement which advocated workers’ associations as the vehicle for social liberation. Vasai arrived in Egypt in 1898, where he was promptly arrested by the Egyptian police, probably through a tip-off from Italian intelligence officers who were tracking his movements. After his release, Vasai embarked on a career of radical political activism which spanned well into the First World War.19 Following the warnings from Consul von Hartmann in Cairo, the German Central Intelligence Bureau was tasked with making urgent enquiries over the Italian Di Pompeo. Frantic investigations revealed that the person in question was Enrico Di Pompeo, an Italian journalist working for the newspaper Capitale in Rome, who was dispatched by his newspaper to Cairo to cover the forthcoming Imperial German visit. Di Pompeo was known for his sympathy and connections to known anarchists. Urgent discussions were held between the Central Intelligence Bureau and the German Foreign Office over the best ways to protect the Kaiser against this new and acute threat. It was agreed that a contingent of intelligence officers should urgently be dispatched to the various stops of the planned journey in order to liaise with local law enforcement and intelligence officials. A group of twenty-one elite intelligence officers was assembled and dispatched with great haste to Turkey, Egypt and Palestine. These officers were empowered to represent German security interests in the region and to demand from the local authorities special security measures along the Kaiser’s planned route.20 German intelligence officers took up positions in Constantinople, Haifa, Jaffa, Jerusalem and Alexandria, where they advised on the security measures implemented by the Ottoman police and military, and liaised with British and Egyptian police officers in Cairo and Alexandria. Risk analysis conducted by the Central Intelligence Bureau concluded that the three most dangerous points along the journey were Constantinople, Jaffa and Jerusalem. Constantinople was known to be harbouring many dissident elements, including Greeks,

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Armenians and Bulgarians who might have been tempted to use the Imperial German visit to embarrass the Ottoman regime. Jaffa, one of the central ports of the Eastern Mediterranean, was an international city with many minorities and suspicious characters. Jerusalem, as the holy city to the three main monotheistic religions, had an enormous political importance. It was also the source of numerous religious quarrels, many of which were based on the traditional rights of different Christian churches at the holy sites in Jerusalem. Many feared that the visit of Wilhelm II, who was a Protestant, could upset the religious and political balance in Jerusalem. Any attempt to assassinate the Kaiser in one of these three cities, even if unsuccessful, could have had serious repercussions on the relationship between the Great Powers in Europe. Beyond the threat of anarchists, however, an even greater threat was perceived by the German Intelligence Office of the Great General Staff:  a French military attack against Germany.21 France was experiencing turmoil and political divides of the Dreyfus Affair, which involved military intelligence officers in perverting the course of justice and shook the very foundations of French politics.22 Many French politicians disapproved of the Kaiser’s planned journey, not least because it threatened French Catholic interests in the Holy Land. German military intelligence officers feared that French army generals would use Wilhelm II’s absence in order to attack Germany, possibly also to deflect French public attention from Dreyfus’s coming appeal. These intelligence reports were passed on to the General Staff, which deemed them serious enough and requested the Kaiser to leave behind in Berlin signed mobilization orders to be implemented in case of a French military attack. Even Wilhelm himself seems to have been disturbed by these reports. He did not leave such a signed order but made sure that he could be contacted by telegraph throughout his journey.23

International intelligence cooperation Meanwhile in Alexandria, the German consul von Hartmann cooperated closely with Harrington Bey, the British commandant of the Cairo police, and with other security officials over the anarchist threat.24 At the time, British reforms in Egypt’s police force were taking affect, modernizing police structures

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and reducing the rates of crime. British and Egyptian authorities had every reason to prevent such a potentially embarrassing attack in their territory and acted accordingly. On 27 September 1898, Hartmann reported to Berlin the impending arrests of some anarchists. The British-led Egyptian police used covert intelligence tactics against the anarchists, including intercepting and opening their mail. But even the arrest of some of the anarchists would not completely eliminate the threat. Von Hartmann warned Berlin that it would be very difficult to protect the Kaiser in the narrow and crowded streets of Cairo. Alerted by the intelligence reports from Cairo, a special meeting of the German Cabinet was convened in order to decide what steps should be taken to prevent a possible assassination attempt against Wilhelm II. Although Foreign Minister Bernhardt von Bülow, who was to accompany the Kaiser, maintained that such warnings were routinely received in advance of every royal trip, it was decided that Wilhelm should be fully informed of the current threat. When informed of the details of the situation, the Kaiser decided to cancel his visit to Egypt. Instead, he would proceed directly from Constantinople to Palestine, avoiding any anarchists who may be waiting in Cairo or Alexandria. Wilhelm also decided that the public must not be informed about the reason for the change of route. It was not proper, he maintained, that the German Kaiser should be forced to change his plans just because of the presence of a few political terrorists.25 Once the change in the plan was announced, many newspapers, especially outside Germany, speculated about the reasons for the change. The official announcement was that Wilhelm wished to be back in Berlin in time for the opening ceremony of the new Reichstag building, planned for 13 December 1898. German secret police censorship made sure that this reasoning was reported throughout the German press and that no mention was made of any anarchists or threats. The secret police also planted an article in the popular newspaper Kölnische Zeitung, which pre-empted any speculation about the change in the journey being due to anarchists’ threats.26 This article accused the foreign press of spreading false rumours not only about the cancellation of the visit to Egypt but also against the whole idea of a German Kaiser visiting Constantinople. But it was indeed the foreign press, and especially the London Daily Chronicle, which overcame the German censorship and reported correctly the reason for the change of plan.27 The British government, however,

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was not unduly disturbed by the change in the Kaiser’s planned route. The visit was planned to include different parts of the Ottoman Empire. While still formally an Ottoman territory, Egypt was to all intents and purposes ruled by Britain, and the British Foreign Office was not keen to put this control to the test. British authorities were therefore relieved to hear that the Kaiser would not be coming to Cairo after all. Nevertheless, the threat of anarchists in Egypt remained present and the British and Egyptian authorities continued to cooperate closely with their German colleagues against the Italian anarchists. On 14 October 1898, Consul von Hartmann reported to Berlin the arrests of nine anarchists in Egypt.28 They were arrested by a joint operation involving the Italian consulate and the local Egyptian secret police. The most disturbing element in Hartmann’s report was the fact that the police found two selfconstructed bombs ready for action, hidden in the anarchists’ lodgings. Apparently, Italian anarchists were planning to throw these bombs at the Kaiser on a busy Cairo street. Von Hartmann also reported that the suspected journalist, Di Pompeo, together with another Italian named Santurelli, was arrested in Port Said, as they waited for a steamer which would bring them to Jaffa.29 Back in Berlin, the German intelligence services discovered that Santurelli was another Italian journalist, working for the newspaper Corriere di Napoli, who was also dispatched by his paper to cover the Imperial German visit. The German Foreign Office immediately forwarded this information to its ambassador in Constantinople, Adolf von Bieberstein, instructing him to pass it on to the Ottoman secret service and request action accordingly. Shortly after, the arrest of the Italian suspects was reported all over the world by the Reuters wire service. Reuters reported that, upon hearing of the Kaiser’s change of plans, the anarchists bribed a waiter working on a steamship travelling between Alexandria and Jaffa to take their bombs to Palestine, where they would be used during the Kaiser’s visit to Jerusalem. One of the anarchists even managed to obtain temporary work at a Jerusalem hotel as effective cover for his stay.30 While the Egyptian police was questioning the suspected anarchists, Kaiser Wilhelm II was being received with full imperial honours in Constantinople, where the Ottoman police and military took extreme security precautions to ensure his safety. Hundreds of soldiers lined the

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streets on every route where Wilhelm’s procession was to pass. The Ottoman secret police made hundreds of arrests among known disaffected elements and deported numerous people from Constantinople for the duration of the Kaiser’s visit. The prisons of Constantinople were filled to capacity with Armenians, Greeks and Italians suspected of being sympathetic to the anarchist cause. The Ottoman authorities were assisted in their work by a strong contingent of German intelligence and secret police officers. Protective security measures were undertaken at every venue. The Jewish Zionist leader Theodor Herzl, who came to Constantinople to plead with Wilhelm II for an independent Jewish state in Palestine, noted that secret police officers even searched inside his cylinder hat as he took it off to greet the monarch, to ensure that there was no bomb hidden inside.31 From Constantinople, the Kaiser travelled to Jerusalem by way of Haifa. German intelligence officers who accompanied Wilhelm were especially interested in obtaining information on Haifa because of its strategic importance as a deep-water harbour, potentially much more suitable for navy ships than the shallow waters of Jaffa. The Ottoman authorities, very nervous over journalists who may in fact be anarchists, did their best to make life as difficult as possible for media representatives who were covering the imperial visit. Reuters reported that Ottoman police detectives followed every journalist in Jaffa and later even prevented journalists from accompanying the Kaiser’s entourage on its way from Jaffa to Jerusalem. British journalists seem to have been marked for especially harsh treatment by the Ottoman authorities. Some journalists were threatened with drawn bayonets, and a company of Turkish cavalry threatened to shoot the correspondent for the London Times who, to them, seemed to be too diligent at his work.32 When Wilhelm II arrived in Jerusalem, security precautions reached their peak. Soldiers and police officers controlled all buildings along the Kaiser’s route. In order to prevent ambushes along the way, the actual daily plans were kept secret. One of the possible assassination scenarios was a gunman firing at Wilhelm from a tall building. To prevent such an attack, the Kaiser was often surrounded by soldiers and officials during the visit. French journalist Georges Gaulis ridiculed the excessive security measures undertaken by the German and Ottoman authorities. All that the local population could see of the Kaiser, he reported, were the tips of his shiny boots, since he was constantly being

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surrounded by tall security officers on their horses. This clearly indicates that even in Jerusalem under a heavy security cordon, German officials were still worried over a possible sharpshooter attack from a rooftop. During the Kaiser’s visit to Palestine, the two Italian journalists suspected in Egypt as being anarchists were released after several days of interrogations in Port Said, but their movements were being secretly monitored by German intelligence officers. One of them, Santurelli, boarded a steamship and travelled to Jaffa, intending to continue his coverage of the German visit. Two hours after his arrival in Jaffa he was promptly arrested by Ottoman police detectives. However, during these two hours of freedom he apparently managed to write an article criticizing the high cost of the imperial visit. The Ottoman authorities used the pretext of this article to have him arrested, and he was imprisoned for two weeks. ‘The Turkish government is suffering from an acute attack of Pressophobia,’ commented the British Daily Mail on the Ottoman policy of harassing the press.33 In the end, no attacks were undertaken against the Kaiser during his travels in the Orient. The prevention of attacks was the result of successful German– Ottoman–British–Egyptian intelligence cooperation, but probably also due to the fact that the anarchists were not organized enough to operate effectively outside their own country. Once the alarm over Italian anarchists was out, any Italian national in Constantinople, Egypt or Palestine became a potential suspect. The Ottoman secret police, reinforced with German intelligence officers, were able to apprehend and imprison anyone who appeared to present a threat. Hundreds of innocent people endured weeks of incarceration in notorious Ottoman prisons and were only released after the Kaiser was safely back in Berlin. The success of Germany’s intelligence services in thwarting an attack on the Kaiser in the Orient gained them much-needed credibility at home. The German public was deeply concerned by the discovery of the anarchists and their bombs in Cairo. These discoveries caused a debate in the German public and media over the response the German state should adopt towards political terrorism. The conservatives called for strong measures against these new enemies of the state. Indeed, the influential Kreuz-Zeitung assured its readers in plain language that while it ‘did not support Middle Ages justice’, such terrorists could only be deterred by the threat of physical pain and that a terrorist should

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thus only ‘be assured of a painless death, after several comfortable months in prison and a good last meal’. The liberals warned against unchecked and excessive police and intelligence powers. Some liberal papers claimed that in a few instances, assassination plots were made up by secret intelligence services in order to provide them with successful ‘discoveries’. The conservative press responded by blaming liberal papers for encouraging anarchists, some even claiming that the Italian assassin who murdered Austrian Empress Elisabeth decided to do so after reading liberal German newspapers.34 This debate was carried on well after the Kaiser’s return to Berlin.

Conclusion The visit of Kaiser Wilhelm II to the Holy Land was described by the British press as one of the most important events of the nineteenth century. It was the first truly international challenge to Germany’s newly founded intelligence services. These small and as yet inexperienced services had to work far away from Germany’s borders, in areas of a very different type of regime, political culture and even weather. They had to mobilize their resources quickly and effectively to address an acute protective security threat in several places almost at the same time. There was no precedence or strict procedures to follow. The German intelligence and secret police officers dispatched to protect Wilhelm II had to learn through trial and error. Intelligence risk analysis on the threat of anarchists in Cairo made the Kaiser drop his intention to visit Egypt, avoiding the area considered most dangerous and difficult to protect. The success of thwarting an attack in Palestine was based on a combination of effective intelligence, protective security and the assistance of police and intelligence authorities of other nations. The Kaiser’s visit was one of the first cases of an institutionalized form of international intelligence cooperation. German, Ottoman, British and Egyptian intelligence and police officers worked in coordination with one another, across borders and political animosities, to avert the anarchists’ threat against Wilhelm’s life. This cooperation was made effective through the use of modern methods of communication and transportation, principally the telegraph and steamships, backed by political will and considerable resources.

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All sides involved in this cooperation understood that failure could have meant a disaster, not only in the Middle East but in Europe as well. The consequences of the assassination of the Austrian Archduke in Sarajevo in 1914 well illustrated how the fate of the European powers was linked inexorably to the security of its monarchs. Failure in the Holy Land in 1898 could well have changed the history of the region as we know it today. One cannot escape the speculation over what would have happened if intelligence and protective security measures in Sarajevo, only sixteen years later, would have been more effective. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, undoubtedly also an intelligence failure, set the stage for the outbreak of the First World War. The price of that failure was enormous. The Kaiser’s visit was only the beginning of Germany’s intelligence engagement in the Middle East. During the First World War, Germany established a special intelligence service, the Intelligence Service for the Orient (Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient – NfO), to collect information and spread propaganda in the Middle East. The NfO was the initiative of Baron Max von Oppenheim, a diplomat, traveller and archaeologist who had toured the Orient extensively before the war. The NfO dispatched spies to all corners of the Middle East, even as far as Afghanistan. It conducted extensive propaganda operations aimed against the British Empire’s hold of the region. During the Second World War, German intelligence operations intensified in the Middle East region. Spies and even saboteurs were sent to Egypt and Palestine. The Vichy French intelligence service, based in Syria and Lebanon, was also an important source of information for the Germans. After the war, military information was replaced by economic interests. In the 1950s, the newly established German Federal Intelligence Service (Bundesnachrichtendienst – BND) began to cooperate with the Israeli Mossad, as well as with the intelligence and security services of numerous Arab countries.35 The work of Germany’s intelligence services goes on in the region even today.

Notes 1 Wolfgand Schwanitz, Germany and the Middle East, 1871–1945 (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 2004).

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2 For an analysis of the Eastern Question, see Peter Hopkirk, Östlich von Konstantinopel (Vienna: Europaverl, 1996). 3 Shlomo Shpiro, ‘Journalistes et Spiones: Les Services de Renseignement et d’Information Allemands au Proche-Orient’, in De Bonaparte a Balfour: La France, l’Europe Occidentale et la Palestine, ed. Dominique Trimbur and Ran Aaronsohn (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2001), pp. 71–88. 4 Julius Schoeps, Bismarck und sein Attentäter. Der Revolveranschlag Unter den Linden am 7. Mai 1866 (Berlin: Ullstein, 1984). 5 Hermann Zolling and Heinz Höhne, General Gehlen und die Geschichte des Bundesnachrichtendienstes (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe, 1971), p. 30. 6 Ibid., pp. 30–1. 7 Thomas Boghardt, Spies of the Kaiser: German Covert Operations in Great Britain during the First World War Era (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), pp. 13–20. 8 Exaggerating its number of agents became a common practice of German intelligence, and it worked well. In 1909, some British experts believed that German intelligence had as many as 5,000 agents in Britain. William Tufnell Le Queux, Spies of the Kaiser: Plotting the Downfall of England (London: Hurst and Blackett, 1909; new edition 1996), pp. xxxiii, 219. See also Zolling and Höhne, General Gehlen, p. 31. 9 Section IIIB also used press correspondents as ‘agents of influence’ to win support overseas for German policies. See Zolling and Höhne, General Gehlen, p. 33. 10 Der Mordversuch gegen den Deutschen Kaiser Wilhelm I. am 2. Juni 1878, Volksblatt: Eine Wochenzetschrift mit Bildern, Jahrgang 1878, No. 23, pp. 177–9. 11 For a comprehensive account of the Kaiser’s trip, see J. S. Richter, Die Orientreise Kaiser Wilhelm II. 1898: Eine Studie zur Deutschen Aussenpolitik an der Wende zum 20. Jahrhundert (Hamburg: Kovač, 1997). 12 The Empress Elisabeth, known to all as Sisi, was stabbed to death by Italian anarchist Luigi Lucheni on 10 September 1898 as she took a walk by Lake Geneva. M. Matray, Der Tod der Kaiserin Elisabeth von Österreich und die Tat des Anarchisten Lucheni (Vienna: guter Zustand, 1970). 13 The first recorded diplomatic interaction between the Ottoman Empire and Prussia took place in 1701, when the Ottomans sent a diplomatic mission to participate in the Coronation of Friedrich I as King of Prussia. See E. Öncu, ‘The Beginnings of Ottoman-German Partnership: Diplomatic and Military Relations between Germany and the Ottoman Empire before the First World War’, unpublished master’s thesis (Ankara: Bilkent University, 2003). 14 For a list of the consuls, see T. Bringmann, Handbuch der Diplomatie 1815– 1963: Auswärtige Missionschefs in Deutschland und Deutsche Missionschefs im Ausland von Metternich bis Adenauer (Munich: K. G. Saur, 2001).

194 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 15 M. Fitzpatrick and F. Jensz, ‘Between Heaven and Earth: The German Templer Colonies in Palestine’, in Imperial Expectations and Realities: El Dorados, Utopias and Dystopias, ed. Andrekos Varnava (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2015), p. 156. 16 Ibid., pp. 144–6, 154–8. 17 GstA, Hauptabteilung I, Repositur 89 (2.2.1). No. 15258. Quoted in Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 30. 18 C. Paonessa, ‘What? Anarchists in Egypt!’, A Rivista Anarchica, 46/405 (2016), translated by Paul Sharkey [https://www.katesharpleylibrary.net/05qgtk]. 19 Anthony Gorman, ‘Internationalist Thought, Local Practice: Life and Death in the Anarchist Movement in 1890s Egypt’, in The Long 1890s in Egypt: Colonial Quiescence, Subterranean Resistance, ed. Anthony Gorman and Marilyn Booth (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), p. 224. 20 Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 31. 21 Ibid., p. 32. 22 Alfred Dreyfus, a senior military officer and a Jew, was accused of espionage for Germany. He was convicted, degraded in public and sent to serve a long prison sentence at the Devil’s Island off the coast of South America. Following a public and political outcry, Dreyfus was brought back to France and later cleared of all charges. 23 Richter quotes the source of this information as Count Chlodwig zu HoehenloheSchillingsfuerst. See Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 32. 24 For the structure of the Egyptian police and its control by British officers, see Harold Tollefson, Policing Islam: The British Occupation of Egypt and the AngloEgyptian Struggle over Control of the Police, 1882–1914 (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1999), pp. 53–66. 25 Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, pp. 32–5. 26 Kölnische Zeitung, 9 October 1898. The article is quoted verbatim in Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 36. 27 Daily Chronicle, 10 October 1898, quoted in Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 36. 28 Paonessa writes that thirty anarchists were arrested, including Ugo Icilio Parrini and Pietro Vasai. See Paonessa, ‘Anarchists in Egypt!’. 29 Richter notes that von Hartmann, who was mainly responsible for trade and shipping but not security issues, considered these arrests as ‘a great strike against international anarchism’. Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 38. 30 Ibid. 31 Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 42. Herzl travelled to Constantinople to try and use his contact to the Kaiser to influence Sultan Abdel Hamid’s policy towards the Jews in Palestine. On Herzl’s attempts to obtain German and Ottoman support for the idea of a Jewish homeland in Palestine, see Ernst Pawel, The

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Labyrinth of Exile: A Life of Theodor Herzl (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1989). See also, Norman Finkelstein, Theodor Herzl: Architect of a Nation (Minneapolis: Lerner, 1991). Richter, Orientreise Kaiser, p. 46, quotes from reports from the Daily Chronicle and from the St. James Gazette, 1 November 1898. Ibid., pp. 43–8. Ibid., pp. 48–51. Shlomo Shpiro, ‘Intelligence Services and Foreign Policy: German-Israeli Intelligence and Military Co-operation’, German Politics, 11/1, pp. 23–42.

9

A Japanese protégé in Pera: Fukuchi Gen’ichirō’s reports on the mixed courts of Turkey and Egypt Andrew Cobbing

On a spring morning in 1873, two unusual visitors disembarked from a mail steamer and set foot in Constantinople. At thirty-five years of age, Shimaji Mokurai was a Buddhist priest on a journey that would soon take him on to Palestine, with excursions to Jerusalem and Bethlehem as he explored the roots of Christianity. His companion, Fukuchi Gen’ichirō, was a month short of his thirty-second birthday. Now a Meiji government official, he was a veteran traveller who had been to Europe several times before as an interpreter. After several months in Britain and France, they were both making their way back to Japan. Instead of heading straight for Suez before crossing the Indian Ocean, however, they had decided to take a detour first through the Eastern Mediterranean, starting with a visit to the capital of the Ottoman Empire. They were the first travellers from Japan ever known to have set foot in Constantinople. Arriving in the city they knew as Constantinople, Shimaji and Fukuchi landed in a district called Pera on the northern shore of the Golden Horn. On the hill behind the European hotels and embassies close to the waterfront, they could see the Galata Tower, marking the site of the Genoese colony once developed here in medieval times. First, they stopped by at the customs house but could not retrieve their luggage until the superintendent arrived, so in the meantime they checked in at the Hotel de France before going out to explore. Shimaji’s diary records some of their first impressions. It was a Friday, the Muslim day of prayer, and there were large crowds, reminding him of India,

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which he had visited earlier on his passage to Europe. Street sellers were everywhere, as in Japan, and Fukuchi passed some time talking with the locals. There were also some European residents or visitors riding through the streets, as horses could be hired for ten francs and carriages were available for thirty francs. In Shimaji’s view, the local women seemed to disapprove of European couples riding side by side. Dressed in white shawls, they did not get out much, he noted, but some were to be seen travelling by carriage, smoking tobacco as they rode about town, though they did not share their compartments with any men.1 Later that day, the two Japanese travellers visited the French embassy, which Shimaji found extremely grand.2 As Fukuchi later recalled, he did ‘not feel any confidence in the peculiar laws and customs of Turkey, nor in the administration’. Accordingly, he produced his credentials at the embassy as a Japanese official and asked to ‘be taken under the protection’ of France, ‘as the country which the Minister in question represented possessed extraterritorial rights in Turkey’.3 His request was soon granted, so although not French citizens themselves, Fukuchi and Shimaji now enjoyed the status of protégés, ensuring protection from the French authorities should they be entangled in any dispute during their stay. Fukuchi now turned his attention to his appointed task: to investigate the mixed courts in Turkey and Egypt. This trip to Constantinople in 1873 was the first sign of Meiji Japan’s direct interest in the Ottoman Empire. These two societies had evolved in very different cultural settings and regional contexts, yet now, in the increasingly interconnected world of the late nineteenth century, there was a suggestion that the experiences and commonalities they shared might warrant closer inspection. This chapter traces how Fukuchi’s research marked the departure point in a dialogue over judicial reform that would appear to draw Meiji Japan closer to the Middle East. It was the onset of Japan’s strategic interest in the Mediterranean world.

Modern Japan’s introduction to the Middle East By the twentieth century there was a growing perception within Japan of a cultural heritage shared far and wide across Asia. In its broadest

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conception, this stretched as far west as the Ottoman lands on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Writing in 1904 on the theme of ‘Asia as One’, the art critic Okakura Kakuzō claimed, ‘Arab chivalry, Persian poetry, Chinese ethics, and Indian thought, all speak of a single ancient Asiatic peace, in which there grew up a common life, bearing in different regions different characteristic blossoms, but nowhere capable of a hard and fast dividing-line.’ This notion of Asia, however, was a relatively recent import to Japan. Originally developed by the Greeks and then the Romans, ‘it was, at first, a purely European idea’, only now gaining currency in the course of Meiji Japan’s engagement with the Western world.4 Nevertheless, it soon had a major impact as Okakura’s vision of shared cultural heritage led to perceptions of pan-Asian solidarity which, used to political ends, were manipulated to legitimize a leading role for Japan in a broader campaign against Western hegemony. Meiji Japan became the first state in Asia to introduce a modern constitution in 1889, and also the first to negotiate an end to extraterritorial jurisdiction a decade later. In the early twentieth century, it thus served as something of a model for various independence and nationalist leaders across this vast geographical space, among them Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the Republic of Turkey. Early Japanese overseas travellers had already noticed some cultural comparisons between their homeland and the Middle East, but the synergies they shared were not necessarily compelling, or immediately obvious. It was during the last years of the Tokugawa rule in the 1860s that diplomatic envoys began travelling through Egypt en route to Paris, London and other capitals in Europe. Until the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, this involved a journey by train from Suez to Alexandria, with a night or two in Cairo along the way. The first such mission passed through Egypt in 1862; the second in 1864 found time for a trip to nearby Giza, immortalized in a famous portrait captured by Antonio Beato, an Italian photographer, of thirty-four samurai posing in front of the Sphinx. One Tokugawa official visiting Egypt in 1865 thought that ‘many of the natives’ customs resemble our own’, and other observers found points of comparison in monks’ garments, ships and garden design. Although they expressed awe at the antiquity of the Pyramids, they were generally unimpressed by the dilapidated state of buildings in Cairo. Moreover, they expressed little real sense of cultural affinity with the local population, reserving their admiration more for the technological marvels of

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the railway and telegraph networks built by the Europeans to ferry them across the desert.5 Given such ambivalence, or even indifference, what exactly stimulated the subsequent growth of Japanese interest in the Middle East? In hindsight, it is easy to find similarities in the commercial relations they shared with the Western powers. As non-Christian states, both Japan and the Ottoman Empire had signed what are now often described as ‘unequal’ treaties, granting foreign residents, among other privileges, extraterritorial rights that protected them from local courts. In Japan, these had taken effect through the Ansei Treaties signed with the United States, Britain, France, Holland and Russia in 1858. In the Ottoman Empire, European residents had already enjoyed such privileges for centuries under the capitulations usually granted by incoming sultans. These had since become formalized through a series of treaties, such as those signed with France and Britain in 1838. In recent years, extraterritoriality had become a topical issue in international politics as part of the Eastern Question that came to a head in the 1850s with the Crimean War. Both Russia and France now projected their interests in the Eastern Mediterranean by extending their protection respectively over Greek Orthodox and Catholic subjects of the Ottoman Empire. The British, meanwhile, had granted passports to large numbers of Ionian and Maltese merchants who plied their trade in port cities such as Constantinople and Smyrna (modern-day Izmir). Besides the consular courts that offered protection to such proxy subjects, or protégés, mixed tribunals had also been set up in recent decades as Ottoman and foreign judges presided together over various suits.6 In Egypt, meanwhile, the construction of the Suez Canal contributed to the ‘judicial chaos’ prevailing in multicultural commercial centres such as Alexandria, where the foreign population had risen exponentially in the nineteenth century.7 In 1867, this growing problem prompted Egypt’s foreign minister, Nūbār Pasha, to propose a new unified system of mixed courts to replace all eighteen consular regimes in civil cases. This complex judicial landscape appears to have escaped the notice of early Japanese travellers passing through Egypt, but it soon loomed into view for the new Meiji government. Both the Western powers and Japan welcomed the opportunity provided in the Ansei Treaties, on or after 1 July 1872, to make demands for revisions on a year’s notice, ‘with a view to the insertion

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therein of such amendments as experience shall prove to be desirable’.8 For the British merchants who dominated the foreign community in the treaty ports, this presented a chance to gain access to the interior of Japan. Precedent suggested nothing less, as the first round of treaties with China in the 1840s had only opened ports along the coast, and it was the second round of treaties in the 1850s that then opened access to the Yangzi Basin and river ports deep inland. There was also broad support for the introduction of mixed courts for civil cases. The idea had been suggested already by the British diplomat Ernest Satow in 1866, after foreign businessmen complained that it was impossible to recover debts from native merchants through the Japanese courts.9 It was not a very novel plan, however, as such tribunals had existed in the Ottoman Empire for decades; the new proposals for Egypt would soon emerge, and, closer to their own experience in East Asia, experiments with mixed courts had been tried in Guangzhou in 1858, and in Shanghai since 1864.10 For the Meiji government, meanwhile, treaty revision seemed like an opportunity to reclaim control over tariff rates. Their other key grievance was the extraterritorial jurisdiction enshrined in the treaties, which in effect imposed a system of legal imperialism through the consular courts, encroaching on Japan’s sovereignty by enforcing the application of foreign laws on Japanese soil.11 In previous generations there had been no real stigma attached to traditions of legal pluralism, and patterns of overlapping jurisdiction were not considered so unusual. More recently, however, publications such as Henry Wheaton’s Elements of International Law (1837) had fostered the rise of legal positivism and a growing awareness that extraterritoriality, with its attendant consular courts, was fundamentally incompatible with the inalienable rights of a sovereign state.12 When Tokugawa negotiators concluded the Ansei Treaties in 1858, they were simply not aware of these developments in the international legal fraternity. Yet by the time the Meiji government came into power a decade later, several studies and translations in this field were already prompting the realization that the consular courts operating under these treaties would not be tolerated by any of the so-called ‘civilized states’ the new Japan now wished to emulate. Iwakura Tomomi, a leading figure in the Meiji government, exhibited not just the cultural chauvinism of a court noble raised in Kyoto when, in 1869, he expressed disgust at the presence of foreign troops on Japanese soil – a reference to the French regiments stationed at the time in Yokohama.13 By

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including foreign judges in the same category, he also showed some awareness of international law.14 The problem was that the treaty powers had no intention of exposing their own nationals to prosecution in Japanese courts for the foreseeable future, if at all. It would simply never happen so long as such tribunals were suspected of employing the ‘barbarous’ use of torture still synonymous with allegedly ‘despotic’ non-Christian regimes stretching from Tokyo to Marrakech. It would take decades of judicial reform, however, before a process of legal institutionalization based on European codes might convince the Western powers that Japan’s courts were ‘civilized’ enough to handle such cases on their own. Aware of this dilemma, in 1871 a report commissioned by Japan’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs suggested that mixed courts could be a useful interim arrangement as a stepping stone towards eventually reclaiming full control of court proceedings in Japan. Significantly, it was the power of suggestion by Western diplomats that helped Meiji officials to make this connection between potential treaty amendments and the proposal for mixed courts now under consideration for Egypt. Several months before, when the Meiji government announced its intention to revise the treaties, the German minister Max von Brandt had mentioned these plans for Egypt in his response.15 Similar counsel was offered when a high-profile Japanese embassy, led by none other than Iwakura, embarked on a global tour at the end of the year to broach the question of treaty revision. The new draft treaty he took with him to the United States incorporated the advice of Erasmus Peshine-Smith, a former US attorney general now working as a legal consultant for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Tokyo, who suggested using the Egyptian model to one of the vice ambassadors, Itō Hirobumi, shortly before the mission’s departure.16 These early treaty negotiations with the United States soon petered out, but then in Britain, on the next leg of their odyssey, the Japanese ambassadors received some more constructive advice when they visited the Foreign Office in November 1872. During their second interview there, the foreign secretary Lord Granville ‘referred to the case of Egypt where the extra-territorial jurisdiction had formerly prevailed, but where the experiment was being tried of allowing Egyptian tribunals to administer the law in civil cases’.17 Such a project was only a modification of the existing system, but it did at least

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suggest a pathway towards eventual treaty revision. As Granville put it, ‘if this experiment succeeded, it would be tried in criminal cases also, and there was no reason why a similar course should not be taken with Japan.’ The foreign secretary also explained why, for the foreseeable future, extraterritoriality must stay: ‘in all such cases the policy of the British Government was to yield [to] the local authorities jurisdiction over British subjects in precise proportion to their advancement in enlightenment and civilization’.18 Shortly after these talks at the Foreign Office, the Iwakura embassy moved on to Paris, and there in February 1873 it was decided that Japan needed to investigate the systems of mixed courts in the Eastern Mediterranean.19 The ambassadors clearly took account of Granville’s advice, but it was apparently in France that the broader context of this question came into view. According to Frederic Marshall, a British secretary attached to the Japanese legation in Paris, ‘it was not until the members of the Embassy reached Europe that they were enabled (especially during their stay in Paris) to study the question thoroughly. They perceived that the Japan Treaties are but another application of the rules and precedents which Europe has employed towards all Eastern Powers since the Capitulations were made with Turkey.’20 Marshall himself acted as the ambassadors’ guide during their stay in Paris and was in a position to guide their thinking. It was no coincidence that the same historical outlook features in an article on ‘International Vanities’ he wrote for Blackwood’s Magazine later that year. In an article on ‘Justice Abroad’ published in the Quarterly Review in 1874, moreover, he fiercely attacked the system of consular jurisdiction imposed by treaties on states such as the Ottoman Empire and Japan.21 The idea of sending a Japanese official to Constantinople, it seems, was put forward by Tanabe Yasukazu, a former Tokugawa official who had served on two diplomatic missions to France and now, as the first secretary in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, had accompanied the Iwakura embassy on its travels over the past year. A few days later, the mission was entrusted to Fukuchi Gen’ichirō, another former Tokugawa official who had been with the embassy in America, Britain and France. Like Tanabe, Fukuchi had travelled widely with early Tokugawa delegations, serving as an interpreter on the Takenouchi mission, which had visited Europe in 1862. Three years later, he had been to France and England again in the service of Shibata Takenaka. On that occasion, he was also under instructions to study international law and, following his return,

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translated the English version of de Martens’s Guide Diplomatique, which was published in 1869. In his now familiar role as interpreter, moreover, Fukuchi had been present at the recent interview in London when Lord Granville referred Iwakura to the Egyptian model of mixed courts.

Fukuchi’s travels and report on mixed courts After spending two months in Paris, in late February 1873 the Iwakura embassy set out on the next stage of its tour across Europe, to Belgium, Holland, Germany and then Russia. Later that year, the members of the party also travelled to Austria and visited the Vienna International Exhibition, where they found displays from Japan on show in the ‘Oriental Courts’. The exhibits from the Ottoman Empire situated nearby were apparently not so impressive, but it was surely instructive to see how, in European eyes, their land and culture were categorized as ‘Asian’. Perhaps it also affected their outlook on international affairs, as through this experience, ‘Japanese found themselves sharing a common identity with much of the Islamic world.’22 Fukuchi, meanwhile, had parted company with the Iwakura embassy earlier that year, leaving Paris a week before the main party to embark on his journey to the Eastern Mediterranean. This was in February 1873, a few days after he received his orders to research the courts in Greece, Turkey and Egypt. Travelling with him was a Buddhist priest called Shimaji Mokurai, who had recently been staying in Europe and saw this as an opportunity to visit religious sites in the Holy Land before returning to Japan. Fukuchi and Shimaji first made their way overland through Switzerland and Italy and then by sea from Naples on board a French steamer bound for Athens. Fukuchi met the Greek foreign minister there and received promises of help but found little real cooperation for his enquiries. Unconvinced that the Greek judicial system had anything much to offer Japan anyway, he and Shimaji decided to continue their journey by sea. Three days after embarking at Piraeus, their ship sailed through the Sea of Marmara and arrived in Constantinople. Fukuchi had a letter of introduction from the Ottoman ambassador to France, but the foreign minister, Server Pasha, it transpired, was then too busy negotiating with Russia to grant him an audience. He found an opportunity

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to meet the Russian ambassador, however, who by chance turned out to be an old acquaintance. Nikolai Ignatiev had been in charge of negotiations on the disputed Russo-Japanese border when the Takenouchi mission visited St Petersburg in 1862, and as a young interpreter in this delegation, Fukuchi had also been involved in these talks. Now, eleven years later in Constantinople, Ignatiev warned him not to waste his time on studying the Turkish system of mixed courts, which he described as ‘unjust and inconvenient’, but recommended the Egyptian proposal as a superior model for Japan. Moreover, he arranged an introduction for Fukuchi to meet the Egyptian foreign minister, Nūbār Pasha, who happened to be in Constantinople as well for negotiations with the Ottoman government in the latest round of international talks on his proposal for mixed courts. At various stages these protracted discussions had already taken him to Paris and London, but a further settlement was now required in Constantinople, since the Khedivate of Egypt, although autonomous, was still a tributary state of the Ottoman Empire.23 Fukuchi and Shimaji met Nūbār Pasha and his legal advisor on several occasions, receiving some documents with details on the draft charter for mixed courts in Egypt. Between them, they and Ignatiev persuaded Fukuchi that the proposed system for Egypt was the most suitable model if mixed courts were to be introduced in Japan. Besides these talks, the Japanese travellers found time for some leisure, including several trips to the theatre and some excursions as well. At one point they climbed the Galata Tower to enjoy a panoramic view of the city, and through the Russian embassy they received permission to visit the Topkapi Palace and the Süleymaniye Mosque. Other visits included Hagia Sophia and a ride by train to see the Rumelian Castle overlooking the Bosphorus. Overall it was an eventful trip: walking through the streets one day they came across ‘thousands of troops in line, not allowing us past’, and they even attended a funeral in the chapel at the Russian embassy.24 After staying in Constantinople for nearly two weeks, Fukuchi and Shimaji embarked on the next stage of their journey, a five-day voyage through the Eastern Mediterranean. On the way their ship stopped off at ports of call in Smyrna and Rhodes, before reaching Alexandria in Egypt. The Japanese travellers then boarded a Russian ship bound for Palestine, which docked in Jaffa three days later at first light. Following breakfast there at the Hotel London, they took a ride inland by camel to Jerusalem, together with some

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British and American travellers, and a few days later they visited Bethlehem. Fukuchi and Shimaji spent less than a week in Palestine, but they were the first people from Japan known to have reached the Holy Land.25 Embarking again at the port of Jaffa, their Russian ship took them back to Alexandria, from where they travelled on to Cairo. During their eight days in Egypt they visited a bazaar, the Pyramids and a museum, but for Fukuchi at this point the main focus was his research on the judicial system. Next, a train ride to Suez marked the onset of the long journey back to Japan, although the following voyage across the Indian Ocean was staggered to allow time for stays in Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta. For Shimaji this offered a chance to visit ancient Buddhist sites, while for Fukuchi the days at sea gave him time to study and translate the documents he had received in Constantinople and write up notes from his recent investigations in Egypt.26 In mid-July they arrived back in Japan, nearly five months after setting out from Paris. On his first day back at the office in Tokyo, Fukuchi presented a detailed report on mixed courts to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This was addressed to Ueno Kagenori, the acting minister in the absence of Soejima Taneomi, who was away in Beijing at the time for negotiations with the Chinese government. Fukuchi’s report presented a summary of his research from the time he received his appointment in Paris to his travels in Greece, Turkey and Egypt. He attached two appendices:  one a tentative translation of the full text of Nūbār Pasha’s draft charter; the other, his own views on the merits of adopting the Egyptian model, taking into account the advice of both Ignatiev and Nūbār Pasha. While some modifications would be necessary, Fukuchi recommended introducing mixed courts in Japan. The British seemed intent on such a system anyway, and Fukuchi pointed out that Sydney Locock, the first secretary at the British embassy in Constantinople, had told him during his visit that Sir Harry Parkes, the British minister in Japan, had asked him for details on the mixed courts in Turkey and Egypt. Given that it seemed impossible to remove consular jurisdiction altogether at this early stage, he considered mixed courts to be ‘a lesser evil’ for some time to come.27 Several factors weighed against the adoption of Fukuchi’s recommendation, however. The Ministry of Justice consistently voiced doubts about introducing foreign judges into Japanese courts, claiming that Japan already enjoyed more advantageous terms than those imposed in the Middle East. This impression

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was reinforced after a Japanese translation was commissioned for James McCoan’s newly published forty-six-page report on Consular Jurisdiction in Turkey and Egypt. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, moreover, soon decided to shelve its campaign to overhaul extraterritoriality in favour of concentrating on revising tariff rates. Following the return of the Iwakura embassy later in 1873, there was increasing recognition that the treaty powers would never agree to remove consular jurisdiction until Japan had established a track record on legal reforms, a challenge that would take several years. The Ministry of Finance, meanwhile, also exerted pressure to concentrate on tariffs, as new sources of revenue were needed for a Japanese economy under severe strain following the abolition of the domains in 1871. By this time, Fukuchi had returned to his former post in the Ministry of Finance, but he did not stay there long. In 1874 there was a wave of highprofile government resignations, including that of Kido Takayoshi, to whom both Fukuchi and Shimaji had looked for support. Fukuchi followed suit, abandoning his career as a bureaucrat to accept a post as chief editor of the Nichi-nichi shinbun newspaper instead. Fukuchi was no novice in the field of journalism, having opened and run the Kōkō shinbun [The World] newspaper in Edo (Tokyo) in the last year of the Tokugawa shogunate. During the civil war that brought the new Meiji regime to power, his editorials in support of the failing Tokugawa cause even placed him in danger when Edo fell to the Imperial Army, as he was arrested in the summer of 1868 and imprisoned for eight days before friends secured his release.28 Five years later, he would go on to play a key role in raising the profile and influence of the Nichi-nichi, using his contacts in the corridors of power to carry official announcements and projecting an often pro-government message. According to Nakaoka San’eki, Fukuchi never again expressed any opinion on the Ottoman Empire or Egypt.29 In his newspaper editorials, however, he certainly made regular comments on the ongoing issue of treaty revision, writing seventy articles on the subject during the second half of the 1870s, an average of fourteen each year.30 These editorials also show that not only did he mention mixed courts but he highlighted the common experience that Japan shared with the Ottoman Empire in the guise of commercial treaties and consular jurisdiction. On ‘the vital question of extra-territoriality’ in 1880, for example, Fukuchi pinpointed why mixed courts were such a topical issue

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when he asked, ‘Shall extra-territoriality be abolished? This would, we think, be far the best course to adopt, but if it is found impracticable to do away with it at once: Shall measures be taken so as to gradually accomplish the same end? This would be pursuing a middle course.’31 Fukuchi then pointed out to Nichi-nichi readers that both Japan and the Ottoman Empire had experienced the interference of foreign legal regimes in the shape of consular jurisdiction. The summary he gave on the historical origins of the capitulations in the Middle East, moreover, bore a striking resemblance to the rhetoric previously employed by Marshall in his published works on the subject. This similarity, moreover, conceivably bears out Marshall’s own claim that it was during their stay in Paris, and probably under his guidance, that the leaders of the Iwakura embassy first grasped the full range of the issue, prompting them to despatch Fukuchi to Constantinople. As Fukuchi explained, It is now a very long time since extra-territoriality was first in force in some parts of the world. We read that when the Turks conquered the Eastern Roman Empire, seizing Constantinople and making it their capital city, they entered into Treaties of amity and commerce with various European nations. The Turks granted permission to the subjects of those nations with whom they made Treaties to reside at a place called Pera, in the vicinity of Constantinople but separated from it by a river. Here then the foreigners established themselves, just as they now do at Yokohama, Nagasaki and other places in Japan. And from that time to the present it has been the rule that the European residents of Pera are governed by their own laws. The example of Turkey has formed the precedent for extra-territoriality, although it is stated that the custom was known in the ancient days of Greece and Rome.32

Back in 1862, during the Takenouchi mission’s travels across Europe, Fukuchi had once been part of a team of scholars who were under instructions to investigate the state of affairs in each country visited. In the case of Britain, for example, it was noted with a tone of surprise that ‘there is no segregation of foreigners into special settlements, so they are all treated in the same way’.33 Until this time, it would seem, Tokugawa officials had simply not yet realized that designated foreign settlements such as those in treaty ports like Yokohama were, by comparison with Europe, an exception to the norm. It is a measure of just how far Japanese awareness of international affairs had progressed in the

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years since then that Fukuchi could now draw this connection between treaty ports in Japan and the European quarter in Constantinople. Pera, in short, was the nearest equivalent to a treaty port in Europe.

Subsequent reports on mixed courts After several years of preparation, Nūbār Pasha’s new system of mixed courts was finally inaugurated in the summer of 1875. If Egyptian officials were hoping this would provide a mechanism for rolling back foreign interference, however, they would have been disappointed. In practice, the system served only to entrench the intervention of foreign judges in local affairs. As Granville once promised, steps were gradually taken to extend the system beyond civil cases, but progress was painfully slow. From 1900, criminal jurisdiction was added to the mixed courts over bankruptcy cases, and by the late 1930s a criminal code was in place to replace consular jurisdiction altogether. This never came into full effect, however, and the system of mixed courts itself remained in operation until 1949, by which time extraterritorial jurisdiction had already been removed practically everywhere else.34 In these early years, however, Egypt’s new system attracted considerable attention from international legal experts, and more than passing interest from Meiji Japan. Mitsukuri Rinshō, the scholar who probably translated James McCoan’s Consular Jurisdiction in Turkey and Egypt in 1873, received further commissions from the Ministry of Justice, translating documents on amendments to the new system in 1875 and an overview of the mixed courts in 1878.35 In the summer of 1874, the year after Fukuchi’s report, the Ministry of Public Works also set up a commission on mixed courts at the behest of the new minister, Itō Hirobumi, who in future years became Japan’s first cabinet prime minister. Itō also attended some meetings of this committee, which consisted of foreign experts in legal affairs then serving in the Meiji government: Erasmus Peshine-Smith (foreign ministry), J. F. Lowder (head of the Yokohama Customs House), G. W. Hill and George H. Bousquet (justice ministry), besides John R. Davidson, a British legal consultant working for the Ministry of Public Works.36

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These discussions in Tokyo led to some early diplomatic overtures with the Ottoman Empire. In 1875, the foreign minister, Terashima Munenori, sent a letter to Ueno Kagenori, the Japanese minister in London, instructing him to make contact with his Turkish counterpart, the Ottoman ambassador to Britain. Although the two empires did not yet have commercial relations, he explained, there was enough common ground to justify promoting cordial ties. More specifically, Terashima wanted Ueno to procure a letter of introduction for a Meiji official and conduct a further investigation on mixed courts.37 Initial plans to despatch Motono Morimichi, the then first secretary in London, did not materialize, but the following year two Meiji diplomats stationed in Europe passed through Constantinople on their way back to Japan. Nakai Hiromu and Watanabe Hiromata, who had been serving in London and Vienna, respectively, were received by the Ottoman foreign minister Rashid Pasha during their stay. In the same year in Paris, meanwhile, Nūbār Pasha discussed the newly established system of mixed courts in Egypt with Nakano Kenji, the Japanese chargé d’affaires to France.38 In the event, it was not a Meiji diplomat but Davidson, the British legal expert now based in Tokyo, who carried out the next round of on-site research. Armed with a letter of introduction arranged in London, in 1877 he travelled to Egypt to hold talks with John Scott, the British judge of the Mixed Court of Appeal, and Sharif Pasha, the Egyptian Minister of Justice and Foreign Affairs.39 On his return to Japan he presented two reports to the Ministry of Public Works. The first of these submitted in June was simply a factual overview, but the second in August included some analysis on whether Japan should adopt ‘the Egyptian system, or a system analogous to the Egyptian system?’40 Davidson was not impressed by all he had seen, commenting that the mixed courts gave away ‘too extensive concessions’ to the foreign powers. In his view, therefore, ‘the adoption of the Egyptian judicial system, surrounded as it is with all these foreign-imposed conditions, would be inconsistent with the dignity of Japan’.41 He even criticized ‘this Egyptian scheme’, quite perceptively given the outcome, as ‘almost practically equivalent to establishing in the country a permanent foreign institution under permanent foreign control’.42 Despite these reservations, Davidson believed that as long as the necessary modifications were made, a system ‘some what analogous to that of Egypt’ would ‘procure the judicial independence of Japan most surely, and most

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speedily’.43 To contain foreign interference he thought foreign judges should be hired only by the Meiji government. The foreign powers, he pointed out, must have nothing to do with these appointments, which should be arranged instead through independent legal bodies, making them ‘agents of Japan just as the Oriental Bank and Mr. [Hugh] Matheson of Lombard street London have been the agents of Japan in the selection of hundreds of other government servants’.44 Davidson also felt that the arrangements at the end of a five-year trial appeared to be too one-sided, as ‘the foreign powers can practically do what they please at the end of the quinquennial period’. At the end of such a probation period, he stressed, the Meiji government should also have the power to stipulate a return to consular jurisdiction if the expected benefits failed to materialize.45 This second report then concluded with a detailed twenty-point programme for implementing mixed courts in Japan. While based on the recommendations of the 1874 commission, Davidson now included his own detailed commentary, ‘suggesting alterations and additions’, together with ‘a large number of additional provisions’ so as ‘to render the scheme complete’.46 Further links were being forged between Meiji Japan and the Ottoman Empire at this time. A singular example was the visit to Constantinople of the Seiki, the first battleship in the Japanese Imperial Navy to be built in a domestic shipyard by the Meiji government. In 1878 she was in the Mediterranean as part of a naval training exercise involving, for a Japanese vessel, a pioneering voyage to Europe and back. The Sublime Porte permitted the Seiki to dock in Constantinople, and her captain Inoue Yoshika received an audience with the Sultan Abdülhamid II during a twelve-day stay.47 Then in 1880–1, Yoshida Harufumi, a foreign ministry official, led a ten-man delegation that travelled through Persia and the Ottoman Empire to explore the potential for cultivating commercial relations.48 In the 1880s, meanwhile, the question of mixed courts remained topical in Japan, as the new foreign minister Inoue Kaoru orchestrated two multilateral conferences on treaty revision in Tokyo. In 1886 a judge called Hasegawa Takashi suggested conducting further research on Egypt’s mixed courts during his voyage back to Japan after attending the International Conference for the Compilation of Commercial Codes in Belgium. Unlike Fukuchi or Davidson, Hasegawa had spent several years handling cases in Kobe and then as president of the Yokohama court, so he brought to the enquiry first-hand

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experience of judicial cases involving foreigners. In January 1887 he spent two weeks in Egypt, interviewing Nūbār Pasha, who was now prime minister as well as minister of both foreign affairs and justice. Apart from two defects, his host seemed content with the progress of the Egyptian experiment. He was less than satisfied, however, with the same lack of control over appointing foreign judges that Davidson had mentioned a decade before. He also complained of the foreign powers’ apparent reluctance to introduce amendments in recognition of Egypt’s recent development, despite the rhetoric by diplomats like Granville on ceding jurisdiction to local courts in due course.49 On returning to Japan the following month, Hasegawa submitted his own detailed report on the mixed courts to the justice minister, Yamada Akiyoshi.50 This expressed some reservations about the situation in Egypt, such as the ‘Tower of Babel’ effect of judges from various countries speaking so many different languages and the bias of foreign judges who tended to favour their own country’s interests. He also took note of an opinion voiced by Friedrich de Martens, the judge of the Mixed Court of Appeal in Egypt, who was dissatisfied with the varying competence of judges appointed by so many different foreign powers.51 Hasegawa’s report was timely because, in October 1886, while he was still away in Europe, an Anglo-German plan that included mixed courts had been proposed to the second conference on treaty revision then being held in Tokyo. After several months of discussion, Inoue Kaoru even agreed to a revised treaty draft based on this plan the following spring. Besides Hasegawa’s report, however, reservations were soon raised by French legal advisor Gustave Boissonade, who in June submitted his written objections to the introduction of foreign judges in Japanese courts. Public indignation over this prospect followed after Boissonade’s views were leaked, and the agriculture and commerce minister, Tani Tateki, resigned in protest. Such was the strength of popular feeling that Inoue was forced out of office by September. Ultimately, the Meiji foreign policy agenda of treaty revision, which had promised to draw Japan and the Ottoman world closer together, would inhibit the development of closer relations. Despite some diplomatic overtures since the 1870s, a formal treaty was never signed. In 1881, during Yoshida Harufumi’s visit to Constantinople, the Ottoman foreign minister had shown some receptivity to a bilateral treaty on equal terms. Yet the Meiji

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government always insisted on capitulations to protect Japanese subjects in Ottoman lands, just as the French embassy had protected Fukuchi in 1873. At the same time, there were some notable expressions of goodwill and ceremonial gestures, such as Imperial Prince Komatsu Akihito’s visit to Constantinople in 1887, the same year that Hasegawa compiled his report on Egypt. Three years later, the compliment was repaid when the Ertuğrul, an aged frigate in the Ottoman navy, made the long voyage to Japan and docked for a month and a half at Yokohama. Her captain, Osman Pasha, made a round of courtesy calls in nearby Tokyo, but tragedy struck when cholera broke out on board, killing 36 of the crew. Still worse, just a day after embarking on the voyage home, the Ertuğrul sank in a heavy storm off the Wakayama coast, with the loss of more than 500 men, including Osman Pasha. The 69 Ottoman survivors were taken back on two Japanese warships, the Hiei and the Kongō, reaching Constantinople by the end of 1890.52 In an editorial for the Nichi-nichi announcing the arrival of the Ertuğrul mission the previous year, Fukuchi had again focused on the experience both empires shared due to the ‘overbearing system of extraterritoriality’ enforced by the Western powers.53 Yet his own sympathetic outlook on the struggles of the Ottoman Empire was always framed within the context of Japan’s own quest for sovereignty. Some Meiji intellectuals had begun discussing the theme of friendship across Asia, as far as Ottoman lands, but in the realm of international politics the challenges of overcoming legal imperialism still kept these empires apart.

Notes 1 Shimaji Mokurai, ‘Kōsei Nissaku’, in Shimaji Mokurai Zenshū, vol. 6 (Kyoto: Honganji Shuppan Kyōkai, 1973), p. 77. 2 Ibid. 3 ‘Japan: Treaty of 1858 and Tariff Convention of 1866 Revision. Parts 3–5, etc.’ (1871–82), the National Archives, London (hereafter TNA), PRO 30/29/312. 4 Michael Penn, ‘East Meets West: An Ottoman Mission in Meiji Japan’, in The Islamic Middle East and Japan: Perceptions, Aspirations and the Birth of Intra-Asian Modernity, ed. Renée Worringer (Princeton, NJ: Marcus Weiner, 2007), p. 45.

214 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 5 Andrew Cobbing, The Japanese Discovery of Victorian Britain: Early Travel Encounters in the Far West (Folkestone: Japan Library, 1998), pp. 59–60. 6 Turan Kayaoğlu, Legal Imperialism: Extraterritoriality in the Ottoman Empire, China and Japan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 114–18. 7 Jasper Brinton, The Mixed Courts of Egypt (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1968), p. 9. 8 Article XXII, Treaty of Yedo. Laurence Oliphant, Narrative of the Earl of Elgin’s Mission to China and Japan in the Years 1857, ’58, ’59 (Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1859), p. 469. 9 The Japan Times, 19 May 1866. 10 Pär Kristoffer Cassel, Grounds of Judgment: Extraterritoriality and Imperial Power in Nineteenth-Century China and Japan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 58, 66. 11 The phrase is from Kayaoğlu’s Legal Imperialism. 12 Henry Wheaton, Elements of International Law (Philadelphia, PA: Carey, Lea & Blanchard, 1836), p. 98. 13 French troops had been posted to Yokohama since 1863, British troops since 1864. These foreign regiments finally left in 1875. 14 This has been described as ‘the intellectual beginning of revision’. Michael Auslin, Negotiating with Imperialism: The Unequal Treaties and the Culture of Japanese Diplomacy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), p. 157. 15 Nakaoka San’eki, ‘Japanese Research on the Mixed Courts of Egypt in the Earlier Part of the Meiji Period in Connection with the Revision of the 1858 Treaties’, Sophia University Repository for Academic Resources, 1988, p. 31. 16 Auslin, Negotiating with Imperialism, p. 173. 17 Memorandum of an Interview between Earl Granville and Iwakura, Chief Japanese Ambassador, at the Foreign Office, 27 November 1872, TNA, PRO 881/2138. 18 Ibid. Criminal jurisdiction was extended to the mixed courts in Egypt for bankruptcy cases in 1900. A criminal code was in place by the late 1930s to replace consular jurisdiction but remained largely inoperative. Brinton, The Mixed Courts of Egypt, pp. 89, 107, 192. 19 Iwakura Tomomi to Sanjō Sanetomi, 6 February 1873, p. 258. Jōyaku kaisei kankei dainihon gaikō bunsho: 1 [Diplomatic documents of Japan on treaty revision, Vol. 1] (Tokyo: Gaimushō, 1941), p. 258. 20 Memorandum by Frederic Marshall, 6 May 1874, in Ian Nish (ed.), British Documents on Foreign Affairs: Reports and Papers from the Foreign Office Confidential Print. Part I, From the mid-nineteenth century to the First World War. Series E, Asia, 1860–1914, vol. 1 (Frederick, MD: University Publications of America, 1989), pp. 330–1.

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21 Frederic Marshall, ‘International Vanities (No. VI Diplomatic Privileges)’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 118 (1874), pp. 345–64; Frederick Marshall, ‘Justice Abroad’, Fortnightly Review (July 1874), pp. 143–5. 22 Michael Penn, ‘East Meets East: An Ottoman Mission in Meiji Japan’, in The Islamic Middle East and Japan, ed. Renee Worringer (Princeton, NJ: Markus Weiner, 2007), p. 46. 23 Nakaoka San’eki, ‘Fukuchi Gen’ichirō no Ejiputo kongō saiban chōsa’, Kokusai shōka daigaku ronso, 32 (September 1985), p. 46. 24 Ibid., p. 80 25 James L. Huffman, Politics of the Meiji Press, The Life of Fukuchi Gen’ichirō (Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1980), p. 71. 26 Shimaji, ‘Kōsei Nissaku’, pp. 82–93. 27 Nakaoka, ‘Ejiputo kongō saiban chōsa’, p. 48 28 Huffman, Politics of the Meiji Press, p. 59. 29 Nakaoka, ‘Ejiputo kongō saiban chōsa’, pp. 51, 55. 30 Huffman, Politics of the Meiji Press, p. 122. 31 Enclosure of Nichi-nichi editorial translated in the Japan Times. Kennedy to Granville, 22 February 1880, TNA, PRO 30/29/312. 32 Ibid. 33 ‘Eikoku Tansaku’, reproduced in Nihon shisō taikei, vol. 66: Seiyō kenbun shū, ed. Numata Jirō and Matsuzawa Hiroaki (Tokyo: Iwanami, 1974), p. 544. Cobbing, Japanese Discovery of Victorian Britain, p. 182. 34 Extraterritoriality was removed in Japan in 1899, Turkey in 1923, Persia in 1927, Siam in 1936 and China in 1943, though it still remained in Tangier and the Gulf States until later in the twentieth century. Brinton, The Mixed Courts of Egypt, pp. 89, 107, 192. 35 Mitsukuri Rinshō, ‘Ejiputo-koku saiban kaisei shorui’ [Documents concerning Amendments of the Courts System in Egypt], Ministry of Justice, 1875; Mitsukuri Rinshō, ‘Eijiputo hōritsusho: zen’ [Complete Egyptian Laws], Ministry of Justice, 1878 (Kokuritsu Kōbunshokan). 36 John R. Davidson, Mixed Courts – Second Report: An Examination of the Question of Japanese Judicial Reform and Codification Viewed in the Light of the Report on the Egyptian System of Mixed Courts Dated June 1877 (National Diet Library), p. 9. 37 Terashima to Ueno, 22 July 1875. Dainihon gaikō bunsho, vol. 8 [Diplomatic documents of Japan] (Tokyo: Gaimushō, 1938–40), pp. 42–3. 38 Nakaoka, ‘Japanese Research on the Mixed Courts of Egypt’, p. 40. 39 Nakaoka, ‘Ejiputo kongō saiban chōsa’, p. 56. 40 Davidson, Mixed Courts – Second Report, pp. 1–2. 41 Ibid., p. 4.

216 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 42 43 44 45 46 47

48

49 50

51 52 53

Ibid., p. 5. Ibid., p. 6. Ibid., p. 7. Ibid., p. 8. Ibid., pp. 9–59. Selçuk Esenbel, ‘Japanese Perspectives of the Ottoman World’, in The Rising Sun and the Turkish Crescent: New Perspectives on the History of Japanese-Turkish Relations, ed. Selçuk Esenbel and Inaba Chiharu (Istanbul: Bogazici University Press, 2003), p. 16. Renée Worringer, Ottomans Imagining Japan: East, Middle East, and NonWestern Modernity at the Turn of the Twentieth Century (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), p. 84. Nakaoka, ‘Japanese Research on the Mixed Courts of Egypt’, pp. 39–40. Transcript of Hasegawa Takashi, The Report on the Realities and Practices of the Mixed Courts of Egypt, Constitutional History Materials Room, National Diet Library, Tokyo. Nakaoka, ‘Japanese Research on the Mixed Courts of Egypt’, pp. 39, 42. Penn, ‘East Meets East’, pp. 34–9. Ibid., p. 47.

10

Annual reports of United States consuls in the Holy Land as sources for the study of nineteenth-century Palestine Ruth Kark1

In 1881 the American consul in Jerusalem, J. G. Willson, reported as follows: There is no other country in the world of equal area of territory, of which so much has been written, and of which so little is really known, as Palestine. Few persons have remained long enough in the country to make trustworthy observations and reports or to understand the peculiarities of the people or the relation of the facts as recorded in the different eras, Phoenician, Hebrew, Persian, Macedonian, Roman, Saracenian, Crusaders. One book writer copies the statements of predecessors and the travellers remaining only a few days derive their information from native guides, who know but little English or French, and who with the fatal infirmity of the Oriental mind, know no difference between fact and fiction. The English and American newspapers, secular and religious, are full of items of news, and marvelous statements of wonderful discoveries, which have little or no foundation; in fact many persons are incapable of reading Palestine, because of the habit of interpreting current historical events in the light of unfulfilled prophecies, and thus obtaining support for their peculiar theories, theological and political. The imagination misleads the judgement, sentiment prevails over the dictates of reason. There is a feverish state of expectation, which attaches to events transpiring in Palestine, out of importance to their intrinsic value.2

In many ways Consul Willson’s remarks are still pertinent. Faced with an abundance of contemporary sources dealing with Palestine, the historian must approach them with caution and critical acumen. Various kinds of sources have formed the basis for the study of the history of Palestine during the second half of the nineteenth century. Among them are the following:

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1. Documents of the Ottoman government, including official decrees, census and other records, and correspondence; foreign government documents, especially from their consulates; records of the Jewish settlements, institutions, companies and private individuals. 2. Contemporary publications, including newspapers and periodicals published in several languages in Palestine and abroad. Scientific surveys, such as those conducted by the British Palestine Exploration Fund, the German Deutschen Palästina Vereins or the American Palestine Exploration Society. 3. Scientific and semi-scientific publication of works by scholars such as Edward Robinson and Joseph Schwartz, and articles by Conrad Schick, Philip Baldensperger and others. Privately conducted censuses and population counts, such as the ‘Montefiore Counts’ in the Jewish community, and those of various Christian communities. 4. Tourist guides and almanacs. 5. Diaries, memoirs, novels and other works by local inhabitants, travellers, visitors and foreigners who spent several years in Palestine, such as the British consul James Finn and American consul Henry Gillman. 6. Visual materials such as maps, engravings, photographs, drawings and aerial photographs. Physical relics, including buildings and various types of agricultural and industrial installations. This chapter focuses on the annual and special reports sent by the American consuls in Jerusalem and by the vice consuls in Jaffa and Haifa to the State Department in Washington from 1856 to 1917.3 Their contents are analysed and compared with consular reports of other lands and evaluated as sources for the examination of various themes, developments and trends pertaining to Palestine at the end of the Ottoman period.

American consular activities in nineteenth-century Palestine The interaction between the United States and the Ottoman Empire in the first half of the nineteenth century was primarily non-political. On the American side, this relationship was maintained by a variety of missionaries, merchants,

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scholars and writers, philanthropists, scientists, engineers and adventurers.4 From a political perspective, America’s interest in the Ottoman Empire during the entire century was rather remote. The policy of non-intervention and neutrality generally adopted by the United States is expressed in the 1871 dispatch of Richard Beardsley, the American consul in Jerusalem: ‘The United States are not suspected of having any political design, as are all European nations. We have no direct interest in the Eastern question.’5 But the American government did conduct negotiations with the Sublime Porte at the turn of the century for privileges similar to the capitulations enjoyed by European powers. These were granted in May 1830 under the Treaty of Amity and Commerce. From 1831 on, American Foreign Service officials were appointed to the Ottoman Empire, of which the representative in Constantinople was the most important; then came the consuls in Alexandria, Beirut and Smyrna.6 Two periods of American consular activity in Palestine may be discerned. Between 1831 and 1856, the general approach of the US Congress was to provide for no more than limited consular services in Turkey. In those years, consular agents were sporadically active in central Palestine, residing in Jerusalem, Jaffa and Ramleh. In addition, a consul responsible for the northern part of the country was based in Beirut. These agents (David Darmon and Jasper Chasseaud) were local inhabitants who possessed foreign, though not American, citizenship. They received no salary, and the American government was not satisfied with the way they performed their functions. In 1844, Warder Cresson, an American citizen, was appointed as consul in Jerusalem, but he did not remain long, and the situation soon reverted to its previous condition. Beginning in 1856, the US Government formally established separate consular districts in Palestine and Syria. The central and southern parts of the country were included in the district of Palestine, while Galilee and the consular agency in Haifa were under the jurisdiction of the consul at Beirut for most of the time. However, in many cases, especially where Jews were concerned, this separation was not rigidly maintained, and all of Palestine came under the responsibility of the consulate in Jerusalem. The consuls were American citizens who received a salary; their primary duty was to assist tourists and pilgrims. The vice-consuls in Jaffa and Haifa were generally local inhabitants.7 There may well be a connection between the timing of the appointment of the first official American consul in Jerusalem (May 1856) and

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the increasing influence of the European powers over the Ottoman Empire (after the Crimean War and the signing of the Treaty of Paris at the end of March 1856), alongside the growing religious and historical interest by Americans in Palestine. The opening of the American consulate in Jerusalem came relatively late, after those of Britain (1839), Prussia (1842), France and Sardinia (1843), and Austria (1849). These consulates acted in accordance with the Capitulation Agreements, and their position and influence became stronger as the century progressed.8 The status and salary of the American consul in Palestine were low in comparison with both those of other foreign consuls and those of other Americans in the Foreign Service in the East.9 Sixteen consuls and several acting consuls served in Jerusalem from 1856 to 1917. Most remained at their posts for one to five years. A notable exception was Selah Merrill, who served as consul for a total of sixteen years, in three separate terms. The consuls reported directly to the State Department in Washington, sometimes complying with specific requests or guidelines they had previously received. The consular agents in Jaffa, although they were under the jurisdiction of the consulate in Jerusalem, corresponded directly from time to time with the State Department. The consular agents in Haifa were answerable to the consulate in Beirut and sent their reports to Beirut (interestingly, from 1872 to 1891, Gottlieb Schumacher, an American of the local German colony, served as consular agent in Haifa all by himself). Besides writing reports, the primary task of both the consuls and the consular agents was to aid American tourists and travellers, as well as American nationals residing in Palestine. Their duties included obtaining permits and protecting the Americans’ physical safety, their property and their legal rights.10 Fulfilling their instructions from Washington, the consuls in Jerusalem managed to file ‘annual’ reports nearly every year. During the 1860s and 1870s these reports were prepared at the end of September; during the 1880s and 1890s they were written in October, November and even in December. The vice-consuls in Jaffa frequently wrote additions and special reports and enclosed them with the annual reports. The early annual reports were relatively brief and gave a cursory overview of many topics. From 1877 to 1891, when J. G. Willson, Selah Merrill and Henry Gillman served as consuls, the reports became longer and more encompassing. Besides their annual reports, the

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consuls often wrote special reports on such topics as ‘Turkish Financing’, ‘Business and Commerce in Palestine’, ‘Irrigation as Practiced in Palestine’ and ‘Jews and Jewish Colonies in Palestine.’

Contents of the reports The contents of the annual and special reports are reviewed according to subject matter, rather than by discussing the activities of each consul separately, as is the general practice in studies dealing with this period.11 Four principal areas of interest may be discerned.

Government and politics This may be broken down into three sub-topics. The first deals with Ottoman governors, administration, security, army and police, municipal administration, courts, taxes and revenues from the districts, the Turkish mail and telegraphs, the weakness and corruption of the Turkish authorities, and development plans and reforms. The second pertains to the American consulate and the other foreign consulates. The reports discuss the performance of the American consulate, the consul’s salary, rights and obligations; other positions within the consulate; the consulate building; American citizens; protection offered to Jews; and the activities of the consuls of the other powers. The third area relates to international events, wars, the Great Powers, the ‘Eastern Question’, Britain, the Berlin Convention, the Paris Exhibition, the visit of the Prussian crown prince to Palestine, and so on.

Population This subject includes reports on different sectors of the population  – urban dwellers, fellahin and Bedouins – and characteristics of and relations among various religious and ethnic groups, including the Christian and Jewish communities (on the Jews, information is provided on the size of the community, immigration, pertinent government edicts, their economic situation, charities and education). Quantitative data are supplied about population and

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occupations, and also accounts of immigration and population distribution. The character of the various segments of the population and their lifestyles are also described, and topics such as education and health (epidemics, famine, sanitation, hospitals, infirmaries and drugs) are touched upon.

Settlement The geographic information on Palestine is reviewed, including climatic conditions (rain, temperature, etc.). Settlement of Palestine, both past and contemporary, is described, with emphasis on the neglect and abandonment of villages and lands. A  topic of great interest to the consuls was foreign settlement in Palestine. Understandably, they paid special attention to American colonization attempts. Detailed correspondence exists about the Adams colony in Jaffa in the 1860s and the American colony in Jerusalem from the 1880s onwards. The reports also mention German colonies (Templers), Jewish agricultural settlements, the colony at Artas and Laurence Oliphant’s 1879 proposal for settling Jews in Gilead, Transjordan. In connection with urban development (information is provided mainly on Jerusalem, Jaffa and Haifa), the role played by local and foreign Christians is emphasized, including that of the monasteries and missionaries. The consuls also found it important to report on the scholarly research and archaeological digs being conducted in the country (for instance, by the American Palestine Exploration Society and Claude Conder’s discoveries).

The economy The reports were particularly detailed about this area. A  central theme was agriculture: its potential in Palestine, yields and prices, natural adversities such as locusts and drought, water availability and irrigation, the status of the fellah and his living expenses, and the types of farms and agricultural methods – for instance, animal husbandry (sheep and wool, cattle, manure), irrigated crops (watered gardens, citrus fruits, cotton, rice and sugar) and unirrigated crops (wheat, barley, sorghum, tobacco, liquorice, olives, figs and grapes). Regarding manufacturing and crafts, the reports described the production and use of sesame oil, soap, wool and cloth, sacred artefacts, shoes, leather and food. An

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attempt was also made to investigate certain natural resources such as land (ownership in villages; its availability for purchase, initiative and capital; and mortgaging), coal, charcoal, salt, lead and zinc. Commerce was another important topic treated in the reports. Foreign trade was dealt with in even greater detail than local trade. Under foreign trade, the following subjects were broached:  imports and exports, customs, shipping lines, possibilities for trade with the United States (including the importation of American petroleum) and investment in Palestine. In addition, the reports mentioned technological innovations (agricultural equipment, carriages, carriage roads and railroads) and the profitability of bringing in American agricultural machinery, grinding mills, saw machines, stones, wood and other commodities. A large amount of material is also found on miscellaneous related subjects:  monetary affairs (exchange rates, devaluation of Turkish currency, interest rates, middlemen and moneylenders, mortgaging and investment of capital); transportation (camels, roads, railroads, ports, canals, concessions and development); mail and telegraph; construction (building permits, paving and sewers, especially in Jerusalem); pilgrims and tourists (quantitative data, with emphasis on US citizens and income generated from tourists and accommodations); insurance; and the cost of living (commodities and housing). A most interesting document is Report on the Condition of Labor and the Laboring Class in Palestine.12

Examples of selected topics in the reports Two annual reports, prepared by different individuals in the late 1860s, are illuminating. The first, dated 24 July 1867, is by Victor Beauboucher, who served as consul from December 1865 to October 1869. He was temporarily removed from his position between 27 February and 1 October 1868. During this period he was replaced by Acting Consul Lorenzo M.  Johnson, who normally served as American vice-consul in Jaffa. Johnson filed his own report on 30 September 1868.13 Only the contents of the reports are discussed here, not their value as historical sources. Johnson’s report is twice as long as Beauboucher’s. The

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writing of both consuls seem spontaneous rather than systematic; both touch on a wide range of subjects, including tourism and pilgrimage, the heavy taxation imposed by the Ottoman administration, the consulate in Jerusalem, the Jaffa–Jerusalem road, the American colony in Jaffa, agriculture in Palestine, and repair of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Johnson has a tendency to provide more details about some of these topics. Certain subjects are treated only by Beauboucher:  improving security in Palestine, Ottoman government relations with foreigners and foreign consulates, the non-Muslim communities, the port of Jaffa, control of local trade by Christian Arabs and Greeks, the cost of living and the exchange rates of foreign currencies in Jerusalem. Johnson alone writes about the following: the political situation, the Bedouins, the import of petroleum, the export of agricultural products, and first-time travels of a European in Transjordan without an escort. About Jerusalem, he has information on the erection of the Russian Compound, private construction outside the city walls, archaeological excavations, the city’s general population and the Jews in particular, and the American cemetery.14 Most of the consuls were concerned about trading possibilities with the United States, though the discussion of this particular issue remained for the most part purely theoretical.15 Sometimes they attempted to explain why trading relations between America and Palestine were not closer. In their view, the main deterrents were distance and the lack of direct shipping lines, both of which greatly inflated the price of products. Beauboucher, writing in 1867, thought that ‘no American vessel has yet touched at Jaffa, neither would it be an advantage in the present state of things’.16 This situation remained relatively unchanged in the following decades, despite the absolute growth in foreign trade in those years and the increase in regular shipping lines between Europe and Palestine:  ‘With the United States there is but little trade. The distance is too great, shipment is not direct, and the cost of transfer at Liverpool and Alexandria too onerous.’17 Even as late as 1894, the consular agent in Haifa wrote that the lack of a direct commercial line between the United States and the coast of Syria accounted for the fact that the price of American products was not competitive.18 Among the goods the consuls recommended as imports from the United States to Palestine were cutlery, garden tools, light farming implements,

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ironware, petroleum, zinc, lead, kitchen stoves, sewing machines, lumber, furniture, drugs (cod liver oil, quinine), cotton textiles, shoes, flour, bacon, corned beef, potatoes, apples and canned fruit.19 In his annual report of 1889, Consul Gillman seemed somewhat optimistic about the chances for some of these items: It would seem from judicious management and intelligent agencies a larger demand for various good manufactured in the United States might here be stimulated, while a market for some articles which have not yet been introduced might be created. The superiority of our cotton textiles is unquestionable, and is generally recognized. There is no reason why, with proper representation, they should not secure a good share of the trade. Cotton textiles are imported into this district from England to the amount of $120,000 per annum. I constantly receive many inquiries on the subject from our American merchants, to which I give prompt and careful attention doing what lies in my power to fasten the introduction of this class of our goods as well as others into this market. My report upon cotton textiles imported into this district under date of July 18th, last, gives full particulars; and renders it unnecessary I should say further upon the subject. Among other of our manufacturers which should find a ready market here are sewing machines, drive pumps, agricultural implements, carpenters’ and other tools, stoves and ranges, cooking utensils, cutlery, hardware of various kinds, labor saving machines, improved lamps, novelty manufactures, engines and boilers.20

But the trade potential envisioned by the consuls was not realized in the second half of the nineteenth century. Imports from America were limited to a few commodities brought into Palestine on the initiative of private individuals, mainly Europeans or Americans, for their businesses or private use. These items were of an ‘advanced’ technological nature and luxury commodities as well: agricultural machinery, mills for grinding wheat and sawing olive wood, steam engines, sewing machines, ironware, guns and food articles such as flour, bacon, corned beef and dried fruit.21 In the 1870s, Duisberg and Company, a German firm based in Jerusalem, with branches in Jaffa and Haifa, made an attempt to import American products via Liverpool. However, Mr Duisberg was reported as saying that shipping expenses were so prohibitive that no further thought could be given to an

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additional order, at least until a direct shipping line was established between the United States and Alexandria or Beirut. The reporting consul also mentioned other trade limitations, such as the poverty of the local population, the lack of adequate retail stores, the need to hand out baksheesh to the local authorities and the fact that imported goods were damaged as they lay in the harbour and custom house.22 An agent of the New York Life Insurance Company who visited Palestine in the 1880s succeeded in selling many expensive policies, expressing surprise at the number of transactions he had completed.23 There was one commodity, strange as it may seem today, that was regularly imported for more than four decades from America to Palestine. This was kerosene, introduced into Palestine for home consumption, primarily for lighting, in 1865–6.24 Until the late 1870s, kerosene was brought only from America, being shipped in ever-increasing numbers of tins, packaged in wooden crates, each holding two cans. A wide variety of uses was found for the empty crates and tins.25 After the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–8 and the annexation of the port city of Batumi by the Russians, Russian kerosene began to compete with the American product in Palestine. This was despite what the American consuls considered the greatly inferior quality of the Russian item. We learn about this competition and the eventual reduction of the import of American kerosene from Palestine from a number of consular reports written at the end of the 1880s: A deplorable feature in the commercial results of the year presents itself in the fact that American Petroleum has been almost eclipsed by the Russian oil. The rapid increases in the demand for the American oil, as shown in my last annual report, when the sales amounted to $36,400, as compared with $22,000 worth the previous year, was a hopeful sign which has not been sustained. As shown by the annexed Return of Imports, the sales this year have fallen to $1,560, the import of Russian oil advancing to $38,376. This result cannot be altogether attributed to the want of care in forwarding only the best article from the United States, and keeping the price as low as possible, by selling at a fair remuneration, as recommended in my former report. The advantages of Russia in such a competition are manifest. Her greater proximity to this market would alone give her advantages not easily overcome. Added to this, the quality of Russian petroleum has been greatly improved, while it is sold at from 12 to 15 percent cheaper than the

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American oil. In short our former lead in this import was due altogether to the natural objection has [sic] to the poor character of the oil sent here by the Russian forwarders, which objection they have now taken care to remove.26

According to these consular sources, the value of American kerosene imports fell from $40,000 in the mid-1880s to less than $2,000 by the end of the decade. Yet the total quantity and value of imported kerosene and other petroleum products continued to increase until the beginning of the First World War. Besides its domestic applications, petroleum began to be used as fuel for motors, pumps and flour mills. In 1913 the value of kerosene imports reaching the country by way of the port of Jaffa was $400,000, but American kerosene had long since ceased to play a part in this trade.27 The consuls also reported on the few products exported from Palestine to the United States, mainly items that had religious or sentimental value and were manufactured in Bethlehem or Jerusalem. Such sales increased in proportion to the growing interest in the Holy Land. Among such goods were objects made of olive wood, mother-of-pearl, Dead Sea stone and native wood, as well as specimens of minerals and sacramental wine. An attempt was also made to export oranges from Jaffa to New York. The limited extent of this trade is evident in the report for the year 1884–5, when the total value of oranges sent from the Jerusalem consular region to the United States amounted to no more than $4,500.28 The consular documents dealing with trade, both real and potential, between Palestine and the United States represent a most interesting chapter in the economic history of both countries. They show that while the European nations – Britain, Germany and Russia – increased their volume of trade with Palestine in the last decades of Ottoman rule, the United States demonstrated little interest in this field.29 This policy reflects the lack of a consistent political and economic interest from the American government and business community in the Ottoman Empire in general, and in Palestine in particular.30

The influence of the consuls’ personalities How should the value of the American consular reports be assessed? Should one agree with Manuel, who writes that ‘from time to time these agents of a

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young democracy at the other end of the world sent objective intelligence of the land’? Or should one perhaps be more cautious and refrain from searching for objective historical truth: ‘Since all historical judgments involved persons and points of view, one is as good as another and there is no “objective” historical truth’?31 Whatever one’s opinion on these questions, all historical research that uses these reports must take into consideration the personalities of the consuls who composed them, their preconceived notions, their personal inclinations and the American world view regarding the ‘Orient’ that frequently emerges from the texts. For example, Lorenzo Johnson called the Bedouins ‘Oriental savages’,32 while John Hay mentioned ‘a noted fact throughout the East, that the Mahometans are gradually decreasing in number and lack that energy of character and enterprise which the native Christian population possess in marked degree’.33 Even Willson accepted the view of the ‘Immovable East’ and its negative influence: ‘Meanwhile all things continue as they were,’ he argued. ‘The Orient is unchanged and apparently unchangeable . . . The European residents become orientalised, enfeebled, and sooner or later yield to the dominant Arabic influences and tendencies.’34 Henry Gillmann noticed the ‘fatalism of the East’, explaining the miserable and poverty-stricken condition of the fellahin in Palestine by ‘an almost sublime reliance upon Providence, attributing everything that befalls them, whether good or evil to “the will of God”, and doing little or nothing to arrest the consequences of adverse circumstances’.35 The consuls’ personal backgrounds also influenced their decisions and reports on other topics, as Bartur and Dudman have shown to be the case in their attitudes regarding Jews and colonization attempts by Americans.36 Consul Selah Merrill represents the best example of bias. Born in 1837 in Connecticut, he completed his doctorate in theology and served as chaplain in the Union forces during the American Civil War (1861–5). Later, he taught Hebrew at Andover Theological Seminary and published an essay called The Galilee in the Time of Christ.37 In 1874, he was appointed as archaeologist of the American Palestine Exploration Society, which sent him to the Middle East in the following year. Between 1875 and 1877, he took part in four of the society’s research expeditions, most of which concentrated on the Transjordan area. Returning to America upon completion of his assignment, he continued

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to be employed by the society, writing reports and assisting in the preparation of survey maps. At the same time, he also worked on his book East of the Jordan.38 In 1882, Merrill was appointed as American consul in Jerusalem, where he remained for two years. He returned to that post in 1891, serving almost continuously until 1906. Beginning in the 1870s, he had written a number of books and studies on Palestine’s past and present. Despite being a graduate of a theological seminary, he declined to use the title ‘minister’, preferring to emphasize that he was a scholar, geographer and explorer. He considered himself an authority on both ancient and modern topics relating to Palestine and the Middle East. From the start of his first term as consul, which paralleled the beginning of the First Aliyah (massive Jewish immigration to Palestine) in 1882–3, Merrill expressed his misgivings about the new settlers. Another wave of Jewish immigrations, beginning in 1890 and known as the Second Aliyah or Tyomkin Period, preceded his second tenure in Jerusalem. This period was characterized by intensive activity centring on the immigration of thousands of Jews and Jewish attempts to acquire large tracts of land for dozens of new, independent settlements. These projects were mainly initiated by the Hovevei Zion (‘Lovers of Zion’) in Russia. They enjoyed the support of both Jewish and Christian circles in Europe and America, who enthusiastically favoured the return of the Jews to Zion.39 Merrill’s doubts in the face of this widespread encouragement (the ‘Blackstone Memorial’, too, had been presented in March 1891) prompted him to write a report on 3 October 1891, describing the situation in a ‘realistic’ manner and focusing on the ‘real characteristics of the Jews’, which, he contended, had been ignored by their supporters. The result was a compilation of information on such topics as the reasons for the Jews’ arrival in and exodus from Palestine, their numbers in the urban and rural settlements, the booming land market, the position of the Ottoman government on land acquisition, and Jewish immigration. On the basis of his so-called objective information and clearly revealing his anti-Semitic prejudices, Merrill analysed the deficiencies of the Jewish personality and Jewish culture, especially as these affected the Jews’ settlement in agricultural colonies.40

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Steeped in Puritan traditions and imbued with missionary zeal, Merrill also exhibited an extreme antipathy towards those Americans who belonged to ‘obscure sects’, who, along with their ‘ignorant’ leaders, had landed in Palestine believing that ‘their coming is connected with some crude religious notions which they expect will be realized the moment they have planted their feet upon the soil of the Holy Land’.41 This is the background for Merrill’s ongoing conflict – which continued throughout his years of service – with the Americans who founded a colony in Jerusalem in 1881. He accused them of apostasy, ‘communism’ and sexual perversion. This antagonism between the consul and the members of the American colony apparently led to Merrill’s eventual removal from his post.42

Critical assessment of the reports Despite their subjectivity, it seems that the consuls tried to exercise a measure of self-criticism regarding the information they forwarded. Some of them, conscious of this problem, reported on how difficult it was to obtain reliable statistics on population size, the extent of commerce, the cost-of-living expenses of the fellah and other questions. Moreover, some of them were aware – as we are today – of the lack of credibility of the literature, newspapers and periodicals dealing with Palestine in their day. The consuls thus advised their superiors in the State Department to read the reports with a healthy measure of caution and scepticism.43 Gillman wrote about the population of Jerusalem in this manner: As to the population of the city of Jerusalem, there has been more or less doubt, owing to the difficulty of obtaining statistics of any and every kind in this country, and the absence of any properly taken census. My exertions to be exact in this matter have not been as successful as I hoped and expected. I have been obliged to fall back on the official returns of the government, which usually would be considered sufficient.44

However, these limitations did not hamper the consuls in presenting information as well as various statistical data. Lorenzo Johnson wrote in his annual report that the total population of Jerusalem in 1868 was 18,000.45 These

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figures are identical or quite close to those provided by other sources: 18,000 by British Consul Noel Temple Moore in 1866; 20,000 by German Consul F.  Rosen in 1867; 20,850 by Father Liéven in his guidebook in 1869. While all these statistics are in the same range and may well derive from the same source, there is a discrepancy between Johnson’s figures and those of Moses Montefiore. The latter found only 5,650 Jews in Jerusalem, not the 9,000 Johnson had counted.46 The extreme position taken by Justin McCarthy, who studied population data for the Ottoman Empire, is relevant here. He contends that ‘no population statistics other than Ottoman governmental statistics were in any way reliable . . . no journalist, consul, or traveller, however astute, could have known enough of any large geographic area to be able to estimate population accurately’. He admits that data on the population of the Arab provinces of the empire were neither published nor readily available before 1878 and that he was unable to locate printed Ottoman population statistics for Jerusalem. In the end, he found it necessary to resort to statistics culled by Yehoshua Ben-Arieh from Western sources.47 It is possible to cite many examples of inexact information and statistics, late, inadequate and superficial reports, and contradictions between different sources. A small illustration is the widely divergent estimate of the American and British consuls of the volume of petroleum imported in 1889:  the first spoke of a total of 53,700 crates, while the other quoted a figure of 35,000 in his report for the same year.48 In addition to problems stemming from the consuls’ personal prejudices and their objective difficulties in obtaining information, the reliability of their reports was further limited by their ignorance of the local languages.49 Although some consuls saw themselves as experts on the region and even published books and articles on Jerusalem and Palestine, for the most part they were not intimately acquainted with the many ethnic and religious groups comprising the local population.50 Should modern investigators of nineteenth-century Palestine reject these consular reports out of hand because of their drawbacks? No such suggestion, of course, is advanced. It is important to view the annual and special reports of the American consuls and vice-consuls who served in Palestine in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the wider context of the memorandums and reports dispatched by their counterparts to their governments in Great

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Britain, Germany, Austria, France, Russia and elsewhere.51 As Eliav indicates, the consuls generally observed events as they transpired, and their surveys and reports reflected the political, religious, economic and social situation of various sectors of the population – or, rather, their own interpretation of events and processes. Thus, they are a first-rate historical source for the study of life in Palestine and the development of the country.52 Moreover, even though the reports of the American consuls were quite modest in comparison with the reports (and activities) of the officials and agents of other countries, they remain an important source for the historian. Obviously, it is not possible to reconstruct from these reports alone a complete and accurate picture of Palestine, and of the trends and processes at work in that part of the world at the end of the Ottoman period. But their contribution to piecing together the completed mosaic, made up of parts from many different types of sources, is invaluable. Besides their use as critical and comparative tools for verifying different kinds of other sources (indicated at the beginning of this chapter), American consular reports also bring up subjects about which no other information exists. Often they are the only source for a given situation or development. Good examples of this are the reports containing information about work and labourers, and irrigation. Unique evidence is also provided by the American consuls – not in their reports as much as in their correspondence with the State Department – about American settlement attempts in Jaffa and Jerusalem. While the consuls and vice-consuls had their own views of the American settlers and their leaders, their lifestyles and the chances for the success of their projects, there is no doubt that the whole picture could not be reconstructed without the consular reports and correspondence. One may attempt to balance these materials by delving into other sources  – which are usually one-sided as well. The same applies to what consular sources have to say about Jewish settlement.53 E. H. Carr described the role of the historian in integrating sources as follows: No document can tell us more than what the author of the document thought  – what he thought had happened, what he thought ought to happen or would happen, or perhaps only what he wanted others to think he thought, or even only what he himself thought he thought. None of this means anything until the historian has got to work on it and deciphered it. The facts, whether found in the documents or not, have still to be processed

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by the historian before he can make any use of them: the use he makes of them is, if I may put it that way, the processing process.54

In the case of the American consular reports, the documents must be ‘processed’ within the context of Palestine in the last decades of Ottoman rule, a time when the region was emerging from a quarter millennium of neglect and decline. Around 1800, Palestine was still a backward province of the Ottoman Empire, for the most part rural and sparsely populated, with an economy that was both traditional and poor. Half a century later, there began a process of change that led the country to a marked resurgence and development. An important feature of the American consular reports is their pragmatic approach and their attempt at quantification. They provide valuable information on such topics as agriculture, manufacturing and industry, and the introduction of new technology into Palestine. The consular correspondence and reports in general, and those of the Americans in particular, constitute important ‘raw material’ for the modern researcher eager to assess the characteristics and determinants of the transformation of the country because they were recorded by men present when the events occurred. Until recently, such primary sources were utilized mainly by scholars of political and administrative history, or of the history of the Jews in Palestine. The time may now have arrived to make fuller use of them to write the economic and social history of Palestine and to describe the settlement patterns and trends of all its inhabitants, Jews and non-Jews alike.

Notes 1 A longer version of this paper was published in M. Davis (ed.), With Eyes toward Zion, vol. 2 (New York: Praeger, 1986), pp. 127–77. 2 J. G. Wilson to Robert R. Taft, Jerusalem, 7 October 1881, United States National Archives (USNA), Record Group 59–Jerusalem, T471 (henceforth USNA T471). 3 There are four series of correspondence and reports in the USNA, in Record Groups 59 and 84. Correspondence and reports of US consuls in Jerusalem, 1856–1906; letters and reports from diplomatic and consular officials as well as State Department correspondence, 1920–9; correspondence and reports of US consular agents in Jaffa, 1866–1917; and correspondence and reports of

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4

5

6

7 8 9

10

11 12 13

14

US consular agents in Haifa, 1872–1917. For further details see M. Davis (ed.), Guide for America–Holy Land Studies, Specimen Pages (Jerusalem: Institute of Contemporary Jewry, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1973), pp. 42–50. N. M Kaganoff (ed.), Guide to America–Holy Land Studies, Vols 1–3 (New York: Praeger, 1980–3); M. Kaufman and M. Levine (eds), Guide to America–Holy Land Studies, vol. 4 (New York: Praeger, 1984); M. L. Gustafson, ‘Records in the National Archives Relating to America and the Holy Land’, in With Eyes toward Zion, ed. M. Davis (New York: Arno Press, 1977), 129–38. I am grateful to Judy Wisch and Reuven Amitai for their help with the documentary sources. D. H. Finnie, Pioneers East: The Early American Experience in the Middle East (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), p. 3; N. M. Kaganoff, ‘Observations on America–Holy Land Relations in the Period before World War I’, in Davis, With Eyes toward Zion, p. 81; R. T. Handy (ed.), The Holy Land in American Protestant Life, 1800–1948 (New York: Arno Press, 1981), pp. xi–xxv. Beardsley to Second Assistant Secretary of State, Jerusalem, 30 September 1871, USNA T471. See also R. H. Davison, ‘The Search for Sources’, in Davis, With Eyes toward Zion, pp. 88–99. F. E. Manuel, The Realities of American–Palestine Relations (Washington, DC: Public Affairs Press, 1949), pp. 6–12; R. Bartur, ‘Episodes in the Relations of the American Consulate in Jerusalem with the Jewish Community in the 19th Century (1856–1906)’ [in Hebrew], Cathedra 5 (October 1977), pp. 109–11. Manuel, Realities, pp. 6–12; Bartur, ‘Episodes’, pp. 109–11; Finnie, Pioneers East, p. 180. M. Eliav, ‘The Austrian Consulate in Jerusalem and the Jewish Community’ [in Hebrew], Cathedra 18 (January 1981), p. 73. Hay to US State Department, Jaffa, 30 September 1870, USNA T471; Schumacher to Gibson, Haifa, 31 August 1896, USNA Haifa; see also Gustafson, ‘Records’, pp. 135–6. J. G. Willson, 7 October 1881, USNA T471; Merrill to Adee, Jerusalem (Commercial Report), 15 November 1884, USNA T471; Merrill to Adee, 2 January 1885, USNA T471. Based mainly on dispatches from the US consuls in Palestine, 1856–1906, USNA T471, and documents described in note 2, above. Merrill to Adee, 5 July 1884, USNA T471. Beauboucher to Seward, Jerusalem, 24 July 1867, USNA T471. For Johnson’s report, see Johnson to Seward, Jerusalem, 30 September 1868. On the dismissal of Consul Beauboucher and related matters, see M. Eliav, ‘The Sarah Steinberg Affair’ [in Hebrew], Sinai 64 (1969), pp. 78–88. For a brief assessment of the Johnson report, see Manuel, Realities, pp. 13–14.

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15 Gillman to Wharton, Jerusalem (Lead and Zinc Mining Report), 3 October 1890, USNA T471; Schumacher to State Department, Haifa (Commercial Report on the Import of Flour), 20 January 1894, USNA, Haifa. 16 Beauboucher to Seward, Jerusalem, 24 July 1867, USNA T471. 17 Willson to Taft, 7 October 1881; see also R. Kark, ‘The Decline and Rise of the Coastal Towns in Palestine, 1800–1914’, in Ottoman Palestine 1800–1914, ed. G. G. Gilbar (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1990), pp. 69–90. 18 Schumacher to State Department, 20 January 1894. 19 Willson to Seward, Jerusalem, 10 May 1879 (Turkish Reforms and Commercial Facilities between Palestine and the United States), USNA T471; Merrill to Adee, 15 November 1884; Gillman to Porter, 16 December 1886 and 21 November 1887, USNA RG59 T471/6; Gillman to Porter, 21 November 1887; Gillman to Wharton, 3 October 1890; Schumacher to State Department, 20 January 1894. 20 Gillman to Wharton, 17 December 1889. 21 Willson to Steward, 10 May 1879; Willson to Hay, 8 October 1880; Merrill to Adee, 10 October 1882; Schumacher to US consul in Beirut, 17 August 1898. 22 Willson to Taft, 10 May 1879. 23 Gillman to Porter, 21 November 1887. 24 S. Avitzur, The Rise and Decline of the Port of Jaffa, 1865–1965 [in Hebrew] (Tel Aviv : Milo, 1972), pp. 50–2. 25 Johnson to Seward, Jerusalem, 30 September 1868; Willson to Hunter, 5 October 1878 and 4 October 1879; Willson to Hay, 8 October 1880; Merrill to Porter, 10 November 1885. 26 Gillman to Porter, 21 November 1887; see also Gillman to Porter, 16 November 1881; Gillman to Wharton, 17 December 1889 and 21 October 1890. 27 Gillman to Wharton, 17 December 1889; Avitzur, Port of Jaffa, pp. 50–2. 28 Willson to Taft, 7 October 1881; Merrill to Adee, 17 July 1884; Merrill to Porter, 10 November 1885. 29 For comparative data, see Avitzur, Port of Jaffa, 62–63 and tables 2 and 14. On the interest of the US State Department and Department of Agriculture in examining possibilities for marketing American goods in Syria and Palestine, see the reports of US consular agent G. Schumacher, Haifa, 20 January 1894 and 16 February 1895. 30 M. Ma’oz, ‘America and the Holy Land during the Ottoman Period’, in Davis, With Eyes toward Zion, pp. 66–7; Davison, ‘Search for Sources’, pp. 96–7; Kaganoff, ‘Observations’, pp. 79–82. 31 Manuel, Realities, 12; G. Clarke, cited in E. H. Carr, What Is History (London: Penguin, 1971), p. 8. 32 Johnson to Seward, 30 September 1868; Gustafson, ‘Records’, pp. 135–7.

236 Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Nineteenth-Century Mediterranean World 33 Hay to State Department, Jaffa, Annual Report – Jaffa, 30 September 1870, USNA T471. 34 Willson to Taft, 7 July 1881. 35 Gillman to Wharton, 21 October 1890. 36 Bartur, ‘Episodes’, pp. 129–31; H. Dudman, ‘The History of the American Colony in Jerusalem’ [in Hebrew], Keshet, Vol. 12 (1976), pp. 166–77. 37 Selah Merrill, The Galilee in the Time of Christ (Boston, MA: Congregational Publishing Society, [1874] 1881). 38 Selah Merrill, East of the Jordan (London: C. Scribner's Sons, 1881). 39 R. Kark, ‘Land Acquisition and New Agricultural Settlement in Palestine during the “Tyomkin Period”, 1890–1892’ [in Hebrew], Zionism, Vol. 9 (1984), pp. 179–94. 40 Merrill to Wharton, Jerusalem (Jews and Jewish Colonies in Palestine), 3 October 1891, USNA T471. 41 Merrill to Adee, 5 July 1884. 42 Dudman, ‘History of the American Colony’, pp. 168–77; Gustafson, ‘Records’, p. 134. 43 Beardsley to Second Assistant Secretary of State, Jerusalem (Annual Report and Commercial Report), 22 November 1871, USNA T471; Willson to Taft, 4 October 1881 and 7 October 1881; Merrill to Adee, 10 October 1882. 44 Gillman to Porter, 21 November 1887. 45 See Johnson to Seward, Jerusalem, 30 September 1868. 46 For data on the population of Jerusalem, 1799–1931, see R. Kark, ‘The Development of the Cities Jerusalem and Jaffa from 1840 up to the First World War’ (PhD diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1977), pp. 109–13. It is worthwhile noting that Montefiore possessed detailed information on Jerusalem’s Jewish population; Extracts from the Report of Noel Temple Moore, British consul in Jerusalem, 1866, The Jewish Chronicle, 26 April 1867, p. 3. 47 J. McCarthy, ‘The Population of Ottoman Syria and Iraq, 1878–1914’, Asian and African Studies, 15 (1981), pp. 4, 25–9. 48 Gillman to Wharton, 17 December 1889; Avitzur, Port of Jaffa, pp. 50–2. 49 Ma’oz, ‘America and the Holy Land’, pp. 70–2. 50 Merrill, East of Jordan; Merrill, The Galilee; H. Gillman, Hassan: A Fellah (Boston: Little, Brown, 1898); E. S. Wallace, Jerusalem the Holy (New York: Fleming H. Revell, 1898); G. Schumacher, Across the Jordan, etc. (New York: Scribner, 1886); G. Schumacher, The Jaulan (London: R. Bentley, 1888); see also articles by J. Hay, Jewish Chronicle, 28 November 1879, p. 12; J. G. Wilson, Jewish Chronicle, 17 September 1880, p. 11; G. Schumacher, numerous papers in the Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement and Zeitschrift der Deutschen Palästina Verein.

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51 Eliav, ‘Austrian Consulate’, pp. 73–110; M. Eliav, The Jews of Palestine in German Policy [in Hebrew] (Tel Aviv : Ha-Kibbutz ha-Meuchad, 1973), pp. 7–36; A. Carmel, ‘Historical Sources on the History of Eretz Isarel during the Ottoman Period in Archives in Austria and Germany’ [in Hebrew] Cathedra, 1 (1976), pp. 148–57; T. Parfitt, ‘The French Consulate and the Jewish Yishuv in Palestine in the 19th Century’ [in Hebrew] Cathedra, 5 (1977), pp. 144–61. 52 Eliav, ‘Austrian Consulate’, p. 74. 53 B. Spafford Vester, Our Jerusalem (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1950); see also R. Kark, ‘Millenarianism and Agricultural Settlement in the Holy Land in the Nineteenth Century’, Journal of Historical Geography, 9 (1983), pp. 1–19. 54 Carr, What Is History?, p. 16.

Index Page numbers in italics denote figures. Abdelkader, Emir 159 Aberdeen Bill 107; see also anti-slaving bill abolitionism 18–19, 29, 31, 33 Aceh War 136 Aden 140 Admiral Napier 92–4 Admiral Stopford 92–4 Adriatic Sea 58–9, 80 Aegean Sea 27 Afghanistan 133, 192 Africa central 40, 42, 47, 51 East 39, 44 North 12, 17–19, 22–3, 25–7, 32–3, 37–40, 44–5, 52, 137, 144, 157–9, 166–9, 173 West 107–8 African Association 44, 51 African interior 43, 45, 47, 49–51 Akademie Diplomatische 82 Albania 30, 59, 70, 83, 91 Alexander I 59, 64 Alexandria 83, 92, 95, 140, 144–5, 184–200, 205–6, 219, 224, 226 Algeria 9, 85, 158–70, 172–3 Algiers 18–19, 27, 39, 41, 93, 159, 171 Ali, Mohamed 39 Ali II 19 al-Kanemi, Muhammed al-Amin 45, 47 al-Nasr, Abd’ al-Jalil Saif 43, 47 al-Swid, Kajd Mohammed 28 America 1, 21, 106, 203, 219, 225–6, 228–9; see also United States American Civil War 228 consular activities in Palestine 218–21 contents of consuls’ reports from the Holy Land 221–3

economy 222–3 example topics 223–7 foreign settlement 222 government and politics 221 influence of personalities on reporting 227–30 population 221–2 recommended imports 224–6 critical assessment of reports 230–3 Foreign Service 219–20 intelligence 1, 12, 228 interest in Ottoman Empire 218–19 kerosene sales competition with Russia 226–7 Palestine Exploration Society 218, 222, 228 policy of non-intervention 219 representatives in Ottoman Empire 219 trading possibilities with Palestine 222–6 Treaty of Amity and Commerce (with the Sublime Porte) 219 views on ‘Orient’ 228 War of Independence 9 American-Swedish blockade of Tripoli 21–2 American-Tripoleen War 21 anarchists 7, 177–9, 182–91 anarcho-syndicalist movement 185 ancien régime 4 Ansei Treaties 200–1; see also Japan, ‘unequal’ treaties anti-colonial mood 147 anti-Semitic 8, 229 anti-slaving bill 107; see also Aberdeen Bill Arab Bureaus 158, 160–5, 170–1, 173; see also bureaux arabes dismantling of 170 arabophiles 160

240

Index

Arabs 146, 163–4, 224 Archduke Franz Ferdinand 177, 192 assassination of 177, 192 Frederik Leopold 92–3 John 83 Armenians 186, 189 artists 12, 113, 117, 121 Asia 106, 133, 198–9, 213 East 201 pan-Asian solidarity 199 Southeast 137–8 Atatürk, Kemal 199 Athens 27, 62, 70, 93, 201, 204 Atlantic slave trade 12, 29–31, 107 Austria access to Western diplomats’ mail 84, 97–8 ambassadors in the Ottoman Empire 82; see also internuntii diplomats 11, 81–2 Empire 85, 89 foreign policy 79, 83, 85 indirect support to the Ottoman Porte 90 intelligence 11, 79–98 intelligence-gathering 1, 81–4, 97 interests in the Greek Revolution 84–90 intervention in Syria 90–4 national interests in the Mediterranean 79–99 naval involvement in the Greek Revolution 89–90 neutrality 11, 88–90, 96–8 training of diplomats 82–4; see also Orientalische Akademie use of military measures 85–98 Austro-Hungarian Empire 180 Auswärtiges Amt 180; see also German Foreign Office Awjila 27, 39 Bacon, Francis 157 Bagge, Christian 27 Bainbridge, William 22 Bait-al-Mal, Mohamed 50–1 Bake, Rudolph Willem Johan Cornelis de Menthon 142–3, 149 Baldensperger, Philip 218

Balkans 10, 57, 72 ‘Barbary consuls’ 39 Barbary slave-merchants 30 Barbary States 20 Batavia 136, 140–1 Bathurst, Henry 43 Battle of Navarino 89–90 Batumi 226 Bauer, Deborah 12, 157 Bayly, C. A. 3, 7 Beardsley, Richard 219 Beato, Antonio 199 Beauboucher, Victor 223–4 Bedouins 143–4, 221, 224, 228 Beijing 206 Beirut 92–3, 96, 184, 219–20, 226 Belgium 204, 211 Bello, Mohamed 42, 47; see also Sultan Bello Ben-Arieh Yehoshua 231 Benghazi 27, 30, 39, 42, 45 Ben-Mohammed, Ali 20 Berbers 163 Bergh, Isak Nikolaus 19 Berlin 116, 166, 179–82, 184, 186–8, 190–1, 221 Bernard, Augustin 163 Bertani, Agostino 118 Bethlehem 197, 206, 227 bey (local sovereign) 27–8, 58, 166–8 Bey, Abdoula 59 Bey, Harrington 186 Bey, Kemal 65 Bey, Mohammed 23 Bey, Mustafa 60 Beyts, George de Jong 144–5 Bieberstein, Adolf von 188 Bismarck, Otto von 98, 165, 178–9, 182 assassination attempt 179 enactment of ‘Anti-Socialist Law’ 182 Black Sea 27, 58, 95, 105 Blackwood’s Magazine 203 Blessing, Major 20 Boissonade, Gustave 212 Bologna 111, 118 Bombay 206 Bonaparte, Napoleon 5, 38 Bone 172 Borneo 135

Index Bosphorus 205 Bourbon monarchy 80, 114 Bousquet, George H. 209 Brandt, Max von 202 Brazil 40, 80, 107–10, 117 Breakspear, Alan 2, 3 Britain 1, 19, 29, 32, 37–40, 43, 46–8, 63, 86, 89–91, 95, 98, 102, 104, 107–10, 112–16, 121, 123, 125, 133, 166, 178, 180–1, 188, 197, 200, 202–3, 208, 210, 220–1, 227, 232 Victorian 5, 11 British Admiralty Office 40, 46 Colonial Department 38, 40–4, 46–9, 51–2; see also War and Colonial Department commercial and political presence in North Africa 37–52 East India Company 140 Foreign Office 29, 40–1, 46, 51, 103–4, 110, 112, 122, 188, 202–3 India 140 India Steam Navigation Company 144–5 intelligence 1, 3–7, 9–12, 37–52 interests in Italy and support to Piedmont 112–13 invasion of Afghanistan 133 military intelligence 5, 7, 9–10 occupation of Egypt 133 reforms in Egypt’s police force 186 Royal Navy 50, 107, 109, 136 Topographical and Statistical Department 7 War and Colonial Department 38; see also Colonial Department War Office 7 Brownrigg, Sir Robert 9 Bugeaud, Thomas Robert 7, 158, 161–3, 168, 170–2 use of spies 162 Bulgarians 186 Bülow, Bernhardt von 187 Bulwer, Henry Lytton 111, 118 bureaucracy 6, 83, 158 bureaux arabes 158–65, 167–8, 172; see also Arab Bureaus areas of information-gathering 161 Burström, Per Niklas 11, 17, 21–6

241

Bushati, Ibrahim 59 Buxton, Sir Thomas Fowell 31 Cairo 184–8, 190–1, 199, 206 Calamatta, Luigi 119 Calcutta 206 Cambon, Jules 172 Campionnet, Emile Louis 171 Canning, Stratford 89 Capitale 185 Capitulation Agreements 220 Captain Fabar 163 Caravana, Pietro 45 Cardinals Antonelli 117 Wiseman 117 Caribbean 2 Carr, E. H. 232 Carter, Nick 11, 101 Caspian Sea 105 Cattley, Charles 10 Caucasus 103, 105 Cavicchioli, Silvia 120 Cavour, Camillo 101, 114–19, 122–3, 125 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) 1 Chasseaud, Jasper 219 Chijs, Pieter Nicolaas van der 143–7 China 201 Christianity 197 Christian slavery 22, 29–30; see also slavery, slave trade Christians 25, 29, 31–2, 58, 61, 65–7, 70, 72, 136, 146, 222 ciphering 9, 232 Circolo degli Artisti 118 civilian intelligence services 158, 165, 170, 178, 180–1 Circassia 103–5 British support of Circassians against Russia 104–5 Clapperton, Hugh 45 Cobbing, Andrew 12, 197 coercion 4, 108 coercive diplomacy 11 Cohen-Blind, Ferdinand 179 collector 3, 103, 121, 157, 160 Colonel Daumas 163 Colonel Vincent 167

242

Index

colonial powers 2, 12, 98, 172 project 80, 164, 168 slavery 29; see also slavery, slave trade wars 136 colonialism 148 ‘Colonial Report’ 141 commercial agents 105, 139 intelligence 49, 104 interests 2, 11, 17, 19, 104, 140 relations 139, 200, 210–11 communications network 38, 47, 49 La Compagnie hollandaise 144–5 Concert of Europe 98 Conder, Claude 222 Congress of Vienna 29, 46, 79 Connecticut 228 Constantinople 10, 18–20, 26–7, 30, 61–4, 80, 82–4, 87, 89, 91, 95, 98, 104, 106, 123, 139–40, 185, 187–9, 197– 8, 200, 203–6, 208–9, 210–13, 219 consular activities 11–12, 32, 218–19 agents 3–5, 8, 45, 58, 82, 105, 139–40, 219–20, 224 community 24, 31–2 correspondence 22, 32, 41, 64, 233 courts 200–1 establishments 8, 17; see also consulate intelligence-gathering 18, 28; see also intelligence, information jurisdiction 203, 206–9, 211 networks 3, 8, 11, 17–18, 26, 28–9, 32–3, 38–40, 44–7, 50–2, 57, 60, 81 presence 31–2, 38 protection 136, 139 reports 18, 23, 144, 218, 226–7, 231–3 sources 227, 232 consulate 18, 23–7, 31–2, 38–9, 44–6, 49–51, 57–8, 60, 62–3, 67–72, 92, 94, 134, 139–40, 142–7, 149, 166, 183–4, 188, 218–19, 220–1, 224 ‘contested space’ 1–2 continental European powers 6, 9, 84 Convoy Office 18, 20–2, 24, 26, 31, 33; see also Swedish Convoy Office Corfu 59, 61, 69, 71 Corinth 63, 70

Coron 60 correspondence 8–9, 28, 37, 43, 46, 49, 52, 67, 104, 116–17, 120, 122, 172, 222–32 consular 22, 32, 41, 64, 233 Corriere di Napoli 188 corsair activity 18–19, 21 Cöster, Anders 20–1 couriers 9, 69 covert action 5, 165, 177, 180 agents 9 intelligence 181, 187 missions 11, 103–4 Cresson, Warder 219 Crete 27 Crimean Peninsula 38 Crimean War 5, 7, 9, 10, 96–7, 178, 200, 220 Croatia 6 Cronstedt, Carl-Olof 25 Crusades 92, 183, 217 Curato, Federico 102 Cyprus 92, 94 Dagestan 104 Daily Chronicle 187 Daily Mail 190 Danube 86 Danubian Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia 9, 98 Darmon, David 219 Dashkov, Dmitrii V. 64 Davidson, John R. 209–12 Davis, George 25 d’Azeglio, Emanuele 118, 123 d’Azeglio, Massimo 113–14, 118–19, 120–1 de Bonneval, Comte 24 de Burgh, Lord Hubert 119 de Freycinet, Charles 172 de Goey, Ferry 12, 133 Delhi 206 de Martens, Friedrich 204, 212 Denham, Dixon 49 Denmark 19–20 and neutrality 19 Department of Public Safety 8 Depot of Military Knowledge 9 Derna 27, 30, 39, 45

Index Deuxième Bureau 7, 165, 171 de Velasco, Juan Velázquez 6 D’Ghies, Hassuna 43, 50 Dickson, John 50 di Collegno, Margherita Provana 120 D’Ideville, Henri 119–20 diplomacy British 102–3 coercive 11 and commerce 4, 8, 17 culture-based 121 and intelligence 1–13 diplomatic agents 4, 5, 8 establishments 8, 11, 17 history 2, 12, 102 networks 3, 8, 11, 17–18, 26, 28–9, 33, 37–40, 44–7, 50–2, 57, 60, 81, 103, 117, 120–1, 180 posts 83, 105, 111 Di Pompeo, Enrico 184–5, 188 di Salerno, Federico Sclopis 120 Djajadiningrat, Aboe Bakar 146–7 d’Ohsson, Abraham Constantin Mouradgea 20 dragomen 50, 60, 63, 70, 146 Dreyfus Affair 8, 167, 186 Dubrovnik 6, 59 Duff, Grant 121 Duke Leopold V 92–3 Duma, Apostolos 61–2 Dupuis, Joseph 42–3, 46, 49 Dutch empire in the East Indies 137 establishment of consulate in Jeddah 139–42 Indische Inrichting (Indian Office) 147 intelligence activities 1, 12, 136, 146, 148 policing of pilgrims in Jeddah 142–8 policy regarding Muslim pilgrims 134–8 steamship companies in policing pilgrims 137 Dutch-British intelligence cooperation 12, 140–6 early modern Europe 8 period 1–2, 4, 6–7 Eastern Crisis 133, 178

243

East Indies 134–8, 140–9; see also Indonesia Ecole de Guerre 167 Edo 207; see also Tokyo Efendi, Ebubekir Ratib 5, 9 Effendi, Omar Nassir 144–5 Egypt 30, 38–40, 44, 51, 83, 91, 95, 97, 133, 137, 184–8, 190–2, 197–202, 205–7, 209–13 eighteenth century 2, 5, 17–19, 21, 26–7, 80, 82 ElGaddari, Sara 11, 37 embassies, 61, 64, 104, 106, 123, 140, 198, 203, 205–8, 213 Emperor Franz-Josef 183 Empress Catherine II 58 Elisabeth 183, 191 Maria Theresia 82 Epirus 59, 61 espionage 4–8, 12, 162, 165, 169–71, 180 counter- 165, 170 Espionage Act 7 European fears of Muslim conspiracy 141, 146 imperialism 13, 133; see also imperialism spying of Mecca 146–7 exiles 12, 114, 117, 119, 136, 184 expeditions 44, 173, 228 exploration 6, 51; see also American Palestine Exploration Society exploratory mission 42, 45, 47, 49 explorers 48–9, 51, 229 extra-European powers 1–2, 12 extraterritoriality 61, 200–1, 203, 207, 213 Meiji government’s concern regarding 201–2 extraterritorial jurisdiction 199, 201 Eveillard, Emmanuel Gabriel Charles 136 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) 1 female slaves 27, 30 Fezzan 17, 26, 29, 30, 43, 47 Finn, James 218 Finland 28 Finley, George 66 First Aliyah (Jewish immigration to Palestine) 229

244

Index

First Barbary War 22 First World War 5, 159, 185, 192, 227 Fiume 80–1, 95 Florence 28, 101, 111–12, 116, 124 foreign policy 4, 79, 80, 83, 85, 125, 178, 181, 121 service 58, 219–20; see also American Foreign Service Foreign Office British 29, 40–1, 46, 51, 103–4, 110, 112, 122, 145, 188, 202–3 German 180, 185, 188; see also Auswärtiges Amt fourteenth century 6 France 1, 4–5, 7, 19, 27, 32, 40, 63, 80, 85– 6, 89, 91, 93, 95–8, 105, 112, 115, 117, 123, 125, 133, 140, 157–9, 163, 165–6, 168–9, 170–2, 178, 180–1, 186, 197–8, 200, 203–4, 210, 220, 232 Second Empire 7, 158, 165–6, 170 Third Republic 158, 164–6, 170–1 professionalization of intelligence in 165, 172 Franco-Piedmontese War 122 Franco-Prussian War 5, 165 French army’s intelligence project 158 conquest of Algeria 158–60 as ‘conquest of knowledge’ 164 depictions of Algerian population 163–4 empire-building and expansion 157–8, 170 goals and targets of monitoring in Tunisia 168–9 intelligence-gathering 1, 5, 157–73; see also ‘renseignement ’; Section de Statistique intelligence as groundwork for ruling 173 intelligence officers and practices 7–8, 161, 164, 166, 170–3 intelligence to justify intervention 157–70 North Africa 157–73 reconnaissance teams in Algeria and Tunis 158–9, 167–9, 172 Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars 9

scope and impact of intelligence missions 170–3 Service de Renseignements (Intelligence Service; ‘SR’) 159, 165, 167, 170 Service de Renseignements de la Division d’Occupation 166 Takeover of Tunis 133, 165, 168 Fresnel, Fulgence 140 Friedrich III 183 The Friend of India 141 Fukuchi, Gen’ichirō 12, 197–8, 203–9, 211, 213 impressions of mixed courts 204–9 Galata Tower 197, 205 Galilee 219 Gallieni, Joseph 173 Garibaldi 117–18, 122–3, 125 Gaspari, Antonio 27 Gaulis, Georges 189 Gazzetta Piemontese 117 Gee, Thomas 143 Geneva 183 Genoa 28, 118–20 German attitude to the Eastern Question 178 Central Intelligence Bureau (CentralNachrichten-Büro) 180–2, 185 consul von Hartmann 184–8 creation and expansion of intelligence services 177–83, 191–2 Empire 98, 180 Federal Intelligence Service (Bundesnachrichtendienst) 192 Foreign Office (Auswärtiges Amt) 180, 185, 188 foreign policy 178, 181 imperial intelligence 12, 177–92 intelligence and 181–3 ‘Intelligence Office of the Great General Staff ’ (Nachrictenbüro des Grossen Generalstab) 180–1, 186 intelligence officers (Nachrichtenoffiziere) 181 Intelligence Service for the Orient (Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient) 192 international intelligence cooperation 178, 185

Index ‘Political Police’ 180 press censorship 179, 187 ‘Prostitutes’ Recovery Fund’ 180 protective security 177–92 public discussion of German security services 190–1 ‘Secret Field Police’ (Geheime Feldpolizei) 180, 182, 187, 189, 191 Germanos, Gregorios 63–6, 69, 72 German–Ottoman–British–Egyptian intelligence cooperation 190 Germany 165, 167, 177–84, 186–7, 190–2, 204, 227, 232 war with France 181 Gershovich, Moshe 163 Ghadames 30 Gianni, Jean 70 Gibraltar 28, 40 gift-giving, gifts 4, 20, 24, 26, 31–2, 42, 51, 121 Gilead 222 Gillman, Henry 218, 220, 225, 228, 230 Giucich, Christopho 61–2 Giza 199 Gladstone, William 117–18, 122, 124–5 Glenelg, Baron 41; see also Grant, Charles Golden Horn 197 Goletta 27 Gordon, Thomas 62, 71 Grande Kabylie 163 Grant, Charles 41; see also Glenelg, Baron Great Sudan 17; see also Kanem-Bornu Greater Mediterranean 1, 18 Greece 62, 71–2, 85–7, 90, 96, 204, 206, 208 Greek Revolution 57, 62–72, 86–90; see also Greek War of Independence clashes between Muslims and Christians 66 damage to consular establishments 69 expectation for Russian intervention 62 War of Independence 11, 57, 62–72, 86–91, 104, 178; see also Greek Revolution Green, Philip 63, 67 Green, Richard 66–7

245

Grigorakis, Tzanetakis 58 Grisot, Paul 167, 171–2 Guangzhou 201 Habsburgs 79 court 83 Empire 112 government 83 interests 79, 116 monarchy 80, 97 Hadji Ordonnantie (trans. Hajj Ordinance) 136, 140, 148 Hague 106–7, 116, 136 Hahr, Adolf 11, 17, 22–3, 31–2 Haifa 184, 185, 189, 218–20, 222, 224–5 hajj 133, 135–6, 147; see also pilgrimage Hamilton, Hamilton Charles James 107–8 Hamilton-Gordon, George 44 Hanegraaff, Willem 143–5, 149 Hannoum, Abelmajid 163–4, 173 Hanover 106 Hasegawa, Takashi 211–13 Hay, R. W. 43 Hedjaz 134, 139, 146, 148 Hemsö, Jakob Gråberg af 11, 17, 22, 26, 28–31, 33 Herman, Michael 4 Herzl, Theodor 189 Hill, G. W. 209 Hödel, Max 181 Hofkammer (the Austrian finance bureau) 81, 96 Holland 41, 63, 67, 69, 200, 204 Holt, Alfred 143–4 Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian 79 Horton, Wilmot 43, 49 House of Commons 108–9, 122 Hovevei Zion 229 Hudson, Sir James 11–12, 101–25 attitude to war in Italy and the ‘Italian Question’ 124–5 diplomatic career 103–24 informal intelligence network 117–22 interest in arts 121–2 Hugues, Louise Marie Jeanne 28 Hurgronje, Christiaan Snouck 147–9 conversion to Muslim and collection of information in Mecca 147–8 Huskisson, William 42–3

246 Iberian Peninsula 9 Ignatiev, Nikolai 205–6 imperial agents 11, 39, 47 ambitions 44 control 173 court 47, 60 elites 83 enterprise 170 German intelligence 177–8 German visit 185–6, 188 Germany 177–8, 182–3 intelligence cooperation 12 intelligence gathering 3, 37 intelligence network 37 knowledge 170 policies 12 space 38 Imperial Prince Komatsu Akihito 213 imperialism 13, 133, 201, 213 India 3, 38–9, 136, 138, 141, 181, 197 Indian Ocean 133, 137, 197, 206 Indochina 173 Indonesia 134, 148–9; see also East Indies informant 6, 8, 40, 47, 50, 57, 117, 146 information acquisition and management of 8, 159, 173 collection of 2, 170 dissemination of 2–5, 8, 38 distortion of 3 manipulation of 2, 3 networks 17, 26, 28 system 3 ‘information order’ 3, 7 Inoue, Kaoru 211–12 Inoue, Yoshika 211 intelligence activities 11–12, 178, 181–2 agencies 1, 7, 9–10 American 1, 12 Austrian 1, 11, 79, 81–4 British 1, 3–7, 9–12, 37–52 bureaus 1, 7, 10, 158–65, 167–8, 170–3, 180–2, 185 commercial 4, 49, 104 conception of 5 cooperation 12, 178, 186, 190–1 definition of 2–3

Index French 1, 5, 7–8, 11–12, 162, 170–3, 192 -gathering 1, 3–4, 7, 10–13, 26, 28, 37–40, 44, 47, 50–1, 71, 81, 97, 118, 158, 160, 165, 169, 171 German 12, 177–92 history 1, 12 institutionalization of 2, 6–8 institutions 1, 3–4, 7, 81–2, 134, 157–8, 160, 164, 170 international cooperation 12, 177–8, 186–91 Japanese 1, 204–13 methods to capture and advance 4, 8, 11, 83, 157, 159, 162, 170, 179, 191 military 5, 7, 9–10, 165, 171, 178, 181, 186 networks 8–9, 12, 37, 117, 120 intelligence networks as knowledge spaces 37 officers 4, 7–9, 164, 167–8, 173, 181, 185–6, 189–90 operational 9 organizations 1–2, 7, 10, 158, 163, 180 political 49–51 ‘raw’ 3 reports 5, 136, 169, 186–7 Russian 1, 10–11, 71 strategic 9 strategies 12 structures 6, 10 Swedish 1, 11, 17–18, 23, 26–31 intermediaries 3, 11, 17, 20, 24, 27–8, 60, 117, 120 internuntii 82; see also Austrian ambassadors in the Ottoman Empire interpreters 9–10, 17, 167, 197, 203–5 Ionian Islands 59, 61–2, 64–5, 67, 70 Irish Fenians 7 Islam 20, 24, 28, 133–4, 146–8, 168 Islamic culture 133 Islamic law 164 Islamic World 27, 204 Istanbul 47 Italian anarchists in Egypt 184–5 ‘Italian Question’ 102, 115–16, 125 unification 102; see also Risorgimento Wars of Independence 96

Index Italy 4, 11, 28–9, 101–5, 109, 111–26, 166, 168, 184–5, 204 Italophile 112, 119, 122 Ithaca 58–9, 67, 70 Itō, Hirobumi 202, 209 Iwakura, Tomomi 201–4, 207–8 Jackson, Peter 1 Jaffa 184, 185–6, 188–90, 205–6, 218–20, 222–5, 227, 232 Japan 12, 197–213 cultural comparisons with the Middle East 198–9 interest in the Middle East 200 Iwakura embassy 203–4, 207–8 notion of ‘Asia as One’ 199 reception of the idea of mixed courts 206–7 strategic interest in the Mediterranean 198 Takenouchi mission 203, 205, 208 ‘unequal’ treaties 200; see also Ansei Treaties Java 135, 146–7 Jeddah 133–49 ‘Jeddah Murders’ 136, 148 Jerusalem 59, 184, 186, 217–20, 222–5, 227, 229–32 Jewish community 218 Jews 171, 219, 221–2, 224, 228–9, 231, 233 Johnson, Lorenzo M. 223–4, 228, 230–1 Jung, Theodore 170 Kabyle 163–4 Kaiser Wilhelm I 179, 181 assassination attempt 181–3 Kaiser Wilhelm II 12, 177–8, 183, 188, 191 assassination attempt 12, 177, 184, 187 visit to the Orient 177, 183–91 Kalamata 63 Kalavrita 65 Kamaran Island 138, 143 Kanem-Bornu 17, 47; see also Great Sudan Kapodistrias, Ioannis 61, 63, 68, 71 Kark, Ruth 12, 217 Katakazy, Gavriil 71 Kido, Takayoshi 207 King Charles II 8

247

Charles X 159 Ladislas II 79 Kingdom of Naples 112, 114 of Norway-Sweden 144; see also Swedish-Norwegian union of Sardinia 101–3 of Wadai 44 ‘knowledgeable people’ 3 knowledge-production 3, 26 Kōkō shinbun 207 Kölnische Zeitung 187 Kolokotronis, Theodoros 63, 65 Kotor 59 Kreisky, Bruno 96 Kreuz-Zeitung 190 Kripofille, Demetrios 61 Kruyt, Johannes Adrianus 133, 145–7, 149 Kuka 45 Kyoto 201 Kyriako, Athanasios 63 Lacaita, James 120, 124 Laing, Alexander Gordon 51 Langford, William Wass 38, 45 Law of Nations 41, 139 Layard, Henry 119 Lefkada 59, 63 Levant 26, 30, 39, 41, 79–81, 84, 88–9, 94–5, 97–8 Levant Company 39, 41 Lewal, Jules 170 L’Hexagone 157, 165; see also France Libya 17 Liverpool 224–5 Livorno 58, 62 Locock, Sydney 206 Lombardy 113–14, 117 London 11, 29, 38, 41–2, 45–6, 49–51, 91, 108, 112, 115–18, 120–2, 141, 180, 187, 189–99, 204–5, 210–11 Convention 91 Gazette 112 Magazine 30–1 Times 189 Lorcin, Patricia 160, 163 Lord Abercromby 120 Aberdeen 44, 107

248

Index

Clarendon 114–15, 117 Cowley 113, 115–16, 121 Derby 115–16, 122 Granville 111, 202–4, 209, 212 Malmesbury 115–17, 120–2, 125 Minto 113, 118 Normanby 116 Palmerston 103–12, 114–19, 122–3, 125 Russel, John 108, 111–13, 116–19, 122–5 Shaftesbury 123 Lowder, J. F. 209 Lucas, Simon 45 Ludwigshafen 142 Madagascar 80, 173 McCarthy, Justin 231 McCoan, James 207, 209 McDonogh, Bryan 25, 45 Madrid 9 Maitland, Sir Thomas 39, 71 Maghreb 19 Malta 23, 32, 39–40, 46, 61 Marrakech 202 Marseille 32 Marshall, Frederic 203, 208 Massari, Giuseppe 117–18, 120 Matsumoto-Best, Saho 121 Mavromichalis, Petros 64 Mazzini, Giuseppe 117–19 Mecca 12, 133–7, 139–40, 142–4, 146–9 media 180–1, 189–90; see also newspapers mediation of knowledge 11, 47–51 medieval period 2, 4, 6–7 times 197 Medina 12, 133–4, 139, 146–7, 149 Mediterranean 1, 2, 4, 11–13, 17–19, 21, 24–7, 29–33, 37–40, 44, 46, 48, 52, 57–8, 62, 71, 79–81, 89–90, 93–8, 105, 125, 137–8, 159, 165, 173, 177, 186, 197–8, 199–200, 203–5, 211 Eastern 11, 19, 39, 79, 81, 89–90, 93–8, 177, 186, 197, 200, 203–5 region 1, 2, 40, 44, 79, 177 slave trade 12, 31 Meiji foreign policy 212 government 12, 197, 200–2, 209, 211

interest in Ottoman Empire 198 Japan 12, 198–9, 209, 211 regime 207 Melbourne (British politician) 103 merchants 10, 27, 62–3, 69, 89 American 218, 225 Arabian 144 Austrian 80–1, 87–9, 94–5 British 27, 105, 143, 201 Christian 62, 139 Dutch 143 European 2, 20, 27 Greek 61, 64 Muslim 140 Russian 59, 61, 70 slave- 30 Swedish 19, 21, 26–8 Venetian 8 Mérimée, Prosper 117 Merrill, Selah 220, 228–30 Merseburg 179 Messenia 58 Metternich, Klemens von 81, 84–6, 91–2, 94, 96–8 approach to the Eastern Question 84 Middle East 12, 39–40, 104–5, 125, 133, 178, 181, 183–4, 192, 198–200, 206, 208, 228–9 Milan 111, 124 Minghetti, Marco 118, 120 military 5, 7–9, 11, 18–20, 22, 39, 49, 57–9, 61–2, 70, 82, 85, 88, 160–7, 169–72, 178, 180, 185–6, 188, 192 intelligence 5, 7, 9–10, 165, 171, 178, 181, 184, 186 Military Intelligence Branch 7 Minchaky, Matvei I. 60 Mitsukuri, Rinshō 209 missionaries 178, 218, 222 mixed courts 12, 197–8, 200–7, 209–12 Modena 117, 119 modern -day Izmir 200 -day Lebanon 92 intelligence agencies 1, 7, 9–10 intelligence service 180 Japan 198 methods of communication 191 period 1–2, 4

Index states 7, 13, 158 warfare 7 modernization of British military intelligence 5 economic 113 of intelligence 165 of police structures 186 Modon 60 Moltke, Helmuth von 180 Moluccas 135 monarchy Bourbon 80 French 158 Habsburg 80, 97 Ottoman 83 Prussian 179 Spanish 6, 8 Montefiore, Moses 231 Moore, Noel Temple 231 Morea 57, 60–5, 67, 70 Morocco 28, 166, 168 mosque 66, 147, 205 Motono, Morimichi 210 Moustoxidis, Angelo 71 Mozambique 80 Murzuk 26 Murzuq 45 Muslims 60, 65–6, 134, 137, 139, 141, 144–6, 148–9, 160 hatred of European imperialism 133 pilgrimages 133–49 ‘Muslim threat’ 12; see also Western anxiety about Muslim conspiracy Nafplion 61–2, 71 Nagasaki 208 Nagib, Mustafa 19 Nakai, Hiromu 210 Nakano, Kenji 210 Nakaoka, San’eki 207 Nandi (‘Naudi’), Xavier 50 Naples 41, 111–12, 114, 116, 118, 204 Napoleon, Louis 112, 115, 165; see also Napoleon III Napoleon III 105, 112, 117, 121; see also Napoleon, Louis Napoleonic Wars 9, 19, 27, 59, 80, 95 Nassir, Omar 145; see also Effendi, Omar Nassir

249

nationalism in Austria 81, 85 in the Balkans 72 in Greek 58, 86 Italian 112 sentiments in the Eastern Mediterranean 177, 199 Navarino 60, 89–90 Navarro Bonilla, Diego 6 Neapolitan revolution 116 Near East 72, 95–6 negotiation 4, 11, 20, 22–4, 26, 80, 88, 202, 205–6, 219 neutrality; see Austrian, Danish, Swedish, United States neutrality neutral powers 19, 89–90, 97 newspapers 6, 62, 71, 109, 117, 134, 135, 136, 141, 179, 185, 187–8, 191, 207, 217–8, 230 Nice 123, 125 Nichi-nichi shinbun 207 Nicolai, Walter 181 Nikobar islands 80 Nikolaos, Stavros 63 Nile 50 nineteenth century 1–5, 7, 10, 12, 46, 50–1, 57, 62–3, 71, 81–5, 96–7, 139, 157, 159–60, 162–3, 165–6, 170, 172, 177, 182, 185, 191, 200, 217–18, 225, 231 early 11, 21, 27, 79–80, 94, 148 late 183–4, 198 mid- 103, 134, 158, 178 Nobiling, Karl 182 Nordenskiöld, Otto Henrik 22 Odessa 63 Office of Strategic Services (OSS) 1 Ogilvie, Archibald 140 Öhman, Johan 28 Okakura, Kakuzō 199 Oppenheim, Max von 192 Orientalism 25, 217, 228 Orientalische Akademie 11, 82; see also Austria training of diplomats Orientalische Kompanie 80 Orthodox Christians 10, 58 Osten, Anton Prokesch von 81, 83, 86–9 Östlund, Joachim 11, 17

250

Index

Ottenfels-Gschwind, Franz Xaver 82 Ottoman affairs 60, 71 army 5, 9–10, 19, 58, 60–2, 67, 89, 90, 213 authorities 5, 37, 65–8, 70, 144, 184, 189–90, 221 ayan 59 Empire 11–12, 17, 24, 27, 31, 39, 47, 64, 79–84, 89, 91, 94–8, 134, 137, 139, 166, 177–8, 183, 188, 197–8, 200, 203–5, 207–8, 210–11, 213, 218–19, 220, 227, 231, 233 government 10, 19, 57, 62, 64, 72, 84, 138, 147, 205, 224, 229 judicial system 12 officials 5, 9, 18, 23, 37, 63 Porte 38–9, 48, 51, 90; see also Porte, Turkish Porte, Sublime Porte pro-Ottoman 10 secret police 189–90 secret service 188–90 spies 5 trade 90, 95 Ottomans 10, 19, 59, 65–6, 71, 79–80, 82, 85, 89, 98 Oudney, Walter 45 Page, Stephen 136 Palestine 12, 177–8, 184–5, 187–92, 197, 205–6, 217–33 American Palestine Exploration Society 218, 222, 228 British Palestine Exploration Fund 218 Deutschen Palästina Verein 218 Panhellenism 85; see also philhellehism Pan-Islamism 133, 148 Panizzi, Antonio 117–19, 124 Papal States 47, 110, 114, 118; see also Pope Paparrigopoulos, Ioannis 60, 63–4, 71 Parga 59, 63 Paris 96, 113–15, 117, 167, 172, 180, 199, 203–6, 208, 210, 220–1 Peace Congress 114 Parkes, Sir Harry 206 Parma 114, 119 Parrini, Ugo Icilio 185 pasha (a high-ranking Ottoman officer, governor etc.) 21, 23–7, 29, 31–3, 40–3, 46, 50–2, 67–70

Pasha Humbaracı Ahmet 24 Ibrahim 91 Küçük Hüseyin 20 Mehmet Ali 83, 91 Mustafa Nagib 19 Mustafa Negib 37 Nūbār 200, 205–6, 209–10, 212 Osman 213 Rashid 210 Safranbolulu Izzet Mehmet 20 Server 204 Shakir Ahmet 60 Sharif 210 Tepelenli Ali 57, 59–61, 64, 70, 72 Yusuf 67–8, 70; see also Qaramanli, Yusuf Passarowitz, peace treaty of 80 Patras 57, 60, 62–72 Peace of Pressburg 80 peace treaties 17, 20, 27 Peel, Sir Robert 103–4 Pellisier, Hadjoute 142 Peloponnese region 60–2, 64, 67, 69–71, 89 Penang 136, 147 Peninsular War 9 Pera 197, 208–9 Persia 82, 104, 199, 211, 217 personal interests 11, 39 Peshine-Smith, Erasmus 202, 209 Pharoan, Henry 97 philhellehism 86–7 Philiki Etaireia (Friendly Society) 58, 63 Philimon, Ioannis 63 Piedmont 103, 112–19, 121–2, 125; see also Kingdom of Sardinia pilgrimage 12, 133, 135–6, 146, 224; see also hajj business 137, 139, 144–6 development of Dutch policy toward 135–48 epidemic disease related to 137–8 European powers’ attitudes to 133–4 pilgrims 12, 133–49, 219, 223–4 measures to control and police 134, 142–8 piracy 11, 18, 68, 86–9, 107 Piraeus 204 Poerio, Carlo 116, 118

Index policing activities 12, 133–4, 138, 142, 149, 160, 164 political police 7, 180 Ponsonby, John 47, 104–6 Pope 28, 117; see also Papal States Port Said 184, 188, 190 Porte 23, 82, 84, 91, 93; see also Ottoman Porte, Turkish Porte, Sublime Porte Porter, Bernard 6 postmodern age 102 Potsdam 182 Pouqueville, Hugues 63, 66–8, 70 press 28, 168, 180; see also media, newspapers British press 101, 105, 124, 190–1 conservative 191 European 148 Italian press 101, 117 German 179, 187 liberal 191 in Malta and the Ionian Islands 61 socialist 182 Turkish 190 Pressophobia 190 Preveza 59–60, 64, 69 Prince George 120 prisoners 10, 60 exchange of 4 political 116, 118 of war 8, 10, 22 protection costs 26, 32–3 protective security 12, 177, 181–2, 189, 191–2 Prussia 1, 5, 63, 67, 91, 178, 180, 220 diplomatic missions in the Middle East 183–4 Qaramanli Ahmed 18 Ali 18, 41, 43–4, 46, 48; see also Ali II dynasty 18–19, 30, 37, 40, 50–1 Mohamed (‘Emhamed’) 41, 43–4, 48 Yusuf 18–24, 30, 39–40, 42–3, 45, 47, 50, 67–8, 70 Quarterly Review 203 Queen Victoria 111–12, 123 Ragusa 6; see also Dubrovnik Ramleh 219 ransoming 20–2

251

rayah (non-Muslims) 57 Read, William Henry Macleod 140–1 reconnaissance 6, 9, 158, 162, 167 Red Sea 2, 39, 133, 139, 141–2 refugees 8, 71 Regencies of Tripoli, Algiers and Tunis 18–19, 39, 41 Regency of Tripoli 18–19, 37–40, 42–5, 47– 50; see also Tripoli Regency civil war in 19, 22–3, 37, 47–8 Renaissance 103, 121–2, 124 Regiginiani, Benedetto 45 ‘renseignement ’ 160–1, 167; see also French intelligence-gathering Reynolds, Rear Admiral 108–9 Rhodes 205 Ricasoli, Bettino 124 Ricci, Alberto 120 Rio de Janeiro 107, 109–11, 116 Risorgimento 102–3; see also Italian unification Robinson, Edward 218 Rochussen, Jan Jacob 136 Rodd, Sir James Rendell 121 Rofsoni, Giacomo (James) 42, 45 ‘rogue informants’ 8 Romagna 119 Rome 68, 111–12, 117, 124, 185, 208 Rönling, Olof 27 Rüdesheim 183 Rumelian Castle 205 Russel, Odo 123 Russia 200, 204, 227, 229, 232 Russian -British rivalry in the Mediterranean 57 consulate in the Morea 57–72 Empire 58, 71 intelligence-gathering 1, 71 intelligence activities 11 -Ottoman War 58–9, 133 secret police’s Third Section 10 -Turkish War 226 Russophobes 104 Sahara 19–20, 26, 29–31, 33, 47 St. Petersburg 11, 58–9, 63–4, 70, 116, 123, 205 Samuel, Abraham 171 Salonika 27 Sandherr, Jean 159, 167–72

252

Index

San Stefano 118 Santurelli, Italian journalist 188, 190 Sardinia 87, 95, 101, 103, 114–15, 123, 220 Satow, Ernest 201 Savoy 123, 125 Scandinavian countries 20 Schick, Conrad 218 Schriffl, David 11, 79 Schumacher, Gottlieb 220 Schwartz, Joseph 218 Sciotos, Stratis 61 Scoutmaster, position of 6 Sea of Marmara 204 Second Aliyah 229; see also Tyomkin Period Second World War 1, 148, 192 Secret Intelligence Department 7 Secret Intelligence Service (MI6 or SIS) 1 Secret Service Bureau (SSB) 1 secret police 6, 10, 180, 182, 187–91 secret state 8 Section de Statistique (the Statistical Section); 165 see also French intelligence-gathering Security Service (MI5) 1 Šedivý, Miroslav 81, 93 Seniavin, Dimitri N. 59 Seven Years’ War 9 Shanghai 201 shaykhs 144 Shibata, Takenaka 203 Shimaji, Mokurai 197–8, 204–7 Shpiro, Shlomo 12, 177 Sicily 125 Sinai Peninsula 138 Singapore 136, 138, 140–1 Simmons, Lintorn 9–10 slavery 22, 29–33, 65, 109, 133, 138 slave trade 11, 12, 17–18, 26–7, 29–31, 43, 107–10, 143, 145 Brazilian 107–8 Mediterranean 12, 31 Muslim-Christian 31 trans-Atlantic 31, 107 trans-Saharan 19 Slave Trade Abolition Act 107 Smyrna 27, 71, 83, 87, 95, 200, 205, 219 Smyth, William Henry 45 Social Democratic Party, German 182

Socialist Workers’ Party (Sozialistische Arbeiterspartei) 182 Società del Whist 118 Soejima, Taneomi 206 Sokoto Caliphate 42, 48 Solair, Jean 63 Somerville, James 45 sources on Palestine 217–18 Spain 1, 63, 69 Spanish King Charles II 8; see also King Charles II; King Charles X Special Branch of the London Metropolitan Police 7 Spring Rice, Thomas 41 spies, spying 4–6, 8–10, 146–7, 149, 162, 169, 171, 180–1, 183, 192 Spyridon, Destunis 71 Standard 124 Stanley, George Edward 142 Stockholm 17–18, 20, 22–4, 26, 32 St. Petersburg 11, 58–9, 63–4, 70, 116, 123, 205 Stieber, Wilhelm 179–81 strategic deception 5 Stroganov, Grigorii 62, 65, 67, 70 Stoiser, Josef 98 Sublime Porte 19, 27, 39, 48, 69, 71, 82, 94, 211, 219, 228; see also Ottoman Porte, Porte, Turkish Porte Suez Canal 2, 133, 136–7, 142, 181, 184, 199, 200 Süleymaniye Mosque 205 Sultan Abdülhamid II 133, 211 Bello 17, 42, 47; see also Bello, Mohamed Mahmud II 82 Sumatra 135 surveillance 7, 10, 71, 134, 141–2, 148–9, 161, 168, 172 Swedish -American joint blockade 22 Convoy Office 20, 22 gathering of intelligence 1, 11, 17–18, 23, 26–31 officials 17, 23 National Archive 18 neutrality 19, 23, 32 -Norwegian consulate 32 -Norwegian expedition 22

Index -Norwegian union 25; see also Kingdom of Norway-Sweden Switzerland 180, 204 Syracuse 58 Syria 38, 79, 81, 90–1, 93–4, 97, 184, 192, 219, 224 Tangier 26, 28 Tanabe, Yasukazu 203 Tani, Tateki 212 Tanski, Joseph 7 taxation 19, 22, 63, 68, 94, 139, 144, 221, 224 Taylor, Sir Herbert 103–6, 110 Templer colonies 184, 222 Terashima, Munenori 210 terrorism 8, 190 terrorists 179, 187, 190 Thessaloniki 71 Thessaly 70 Thomas, Martin 173 threats 3, 4, 22, 39, 83, 157, 169, 179, 183, 187 Timbuktu 48, 50 The Times 101, 123–4 Tocqueville, Alexis de 160 Tokugawa 199, 201, 203, 207–8 Tokyo 202, 206–7, 210–13; see also Edo Toole, Ernest 45 Topkapi Palace 205 Tory 107, 112, 115–16 Transjordan 222, 224, 228 translators 9, 17, 49 travel books 9 Treaty of Bardo 166 of Campo Formio 81 of Paris 96, 220 of Tilsit 60 of Vienna 80 of Villafranca 122 Trieste 71, 80–1, 84, 95 Tripoli 11, 17–33, 37–52, 65, 68, 92, 172 economy of 19, 26, 29, 173 Tripoli Regency 18–19, 37–40, 42–5, 47–50; see also Regency of Tripoli Tripolitsa 65, 68 Trumbull, George 172

253

Tsapari, Hasan Agha 59 Tsar Paul I 58 Tsiandino, Niccola 61 Tully, Richard 27 Tunis 18–19, 27, 30, 39, 41, 133, 171, 172 Tunisia 158, 159, 165, 165–73 Turin 101, 103, 108–9, 112–13, 115–16, 118–22, 124–5 Turkey 30, 83, 104, 106, 185, 197–9, 203–4, 206, 208, 219 Turkish mixed courts 12, 197–8, 200–3, 205–7, 209–11 Turkish Porte 105; see also Ottoman Porte, Porte, Sublime Porte Turnbull, David 37 Tuscany 28, 41–2, 87, 110, 119 Twist, A. J. Duymaer van 136 Tyomkin Period 229; see also Second Aliyah Tyrwhitt, John Terrence 45, 49 Ueno, Kagenori 206, 210 United Kingdom 101 United States 19, 107, 200, 202, 217–19, 223–7; see also America, American consuls in the Holy Land 217–33 neutrality 19, 219 State Department 218, 220, 230, 232 Unter den Linden 179, 181 Urquhart, David 104–5 Ushakov, Fedor F. 59 Vasai, Pietro 185 Vatican 117 Vlassopoulos, Ioannis Nikolaevich 11, 57–72 Venetia 113 Venetian Republic 8, 9, 58 Venice 6, 58, 81, 95, 111 Verdi, Giuseppe 119–20 vice-consular networks 11, 37, 40, 44–7, 50, 52 vice-consuls 21, 27, 38, 40, 42–3, 45–6, 48–9, 52, 96, 136, 139, 140, 144–6, 219–20, 223, 231–2 Vichy French intelligence service 192 Vicq, J. A. de 147 Victor Emanuel II 119, 120, 123

254 Victorian Britain 5, 11; see also Queen Victoria Vienna 5, 11, 29, 46, 71, 79–89, 94–8, 180, 204, 210 Vienna International Exhibition 204 Vienna Settlement 95, 98 Villari, Pasquale 102 Vlassopoulos, Ioannis Nikolaevich 11, 57–71 Vonitsa 59 Wahhabism 133 Waldersee, Graf 181 warfare 4, 7–8, 66 Warrington, Hanmer Georg 11, 29, 32–3, 37–52 Washington 106–7, 111, 218, 220 Watanabe, Hiromata 210 Western anxiety about Muslim conspiracy 134, 148; see also ‘Muslim threat’ Western powers 22, 85, 133, 200, 202, 231 West Indies 43

Index Wheaton, Henry 201 Whig 103, 108, 111–12, 115 ‘white slavery’ 29, see also Christian slavery Widell, Johan 11, 17, 20–2 Wijck, Herman Constantijn van der 140 Wijnberg, Jöns 27 Wilkie, Patrick (Pat) 45 William IV 103, 105, 110 Willson, J. G. 217, 220, 228 women accompanying the Pasha 25 Wood, Thomas 42 Wylde, Augustus Blandy 144–5 Yamada, Akiyoshi 212 Yangzi Basin 201 Yokohama 201, 208–9, 211, 213 Yoshida, Harufumi 211–12 Youssouff, Jacoul 140 Zakynthos 63 Zanuko, Sefer Bey 104 Zohrab, James Ernest Napoleon 146