The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (80 page)

The new Queen’s grandmother-in-law and namesake had died, in her home at Sainte-Adresse near Le Havre, less than two months after Mercedes. Her second husband, Muñoz, had already been long in his grave, so her body was brought back to Spain and buried near that of her first, Ferdinand VII, at the Escorial. And then, on 25 November 1885–just three days before his twenty-eighth birthday–King Alfonso died of tuberculosis. His little daughter, the five-year-old Infanta Mercedes, became Queen of Spain, but not for long: Queen Maria Christina, who had loved her husband dearly despite his countless infidelities and in his last days had never left his bedside, was three months pregnant, and in May 1886 she gave birth to a boy–born a reigning king, the first in five centuries. His father had wanted him to be named Fernando, but Maria Christina had determined otherwise. Five days later, with a miniature Order of the Golden Fleece around his neck, he was baptised Alfonso–inauspiciously enough, the thirteenth of that name.

Meanwhile, the baby’s grandmother, old Isabel–now the last queen but two–lived on, still interfering whenever she had the chance, and even making a determined attempt to take over the regency from her daughter-in-law. When this failed she eventually yielded to pressure and returned to Paris and the life of endless party-going and entertaining that she had always loved. Her other proclivities also remained undiminished; she had by now found a new ‘secretary-treasurer’, a man of villainous aspect by the name of Haltman, who never left her side. She remained nevertheless every inch a queen, corresponding with both Queen Victoria and her fellow exile the Empress Eugénie, widow of Napoleon III. Indeed, it was probably her insistence on waiting in a draughty corridor for the Empress’s arrival, and again to bid her farewell, that brought about her death. The resulting nasty cough turned to pneumonia, and on 9 April 1904 she died. She was seventy-three.

CHAPTER XXX

Egypt and the Canal

The first Suez Canal was dug by Pharaoh Necho in the seventh century
BC
. So, at least, we are informed by Herodotus, who adds that 120,000 Egyptians perished during the digging, and that the finished canal was four days’ journey in length and wide enough for two armies abreast. But there was little or no trace of it two and a half millennia later, when Napoleon ordered the first detailed survey of the isthmus. His chief surveyor, Jean-Baptiste Le Père, concluded that the extremities of a canal would be at different levels–he actually estimated the southern end to be some ten metres higher–but the theory soon became academic: by the time he produced his final report the French were no longer in Egypt, and the British who had ejected them were determined to get out themselves as soon as possible. The project was once again forgotten, and remained so for another half-century.

Then, in 1854, the Ottoman Sultan’s Khedive (or viceroy)–by now Mohammed Ali’s fourth son, Saïd–granted to a young French visionary named Count Ferdinand de Lesseps, acting on behalf of his French-owned company, the right to construct a canal running almost exactly 100 miles across the isthmus, from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea. Work began in 1859 and took ten years instead of the six that de Lesseps had estimated; there were early labour troubles among the largely Egyptian workforce and in 1865 an outbreak of cholera which threatened to bring the whole enterprise to an end. But the difficulties were eventually overcome, Le Père’s anxieties proved unfounded–the Canal has no locks–and at half past eight on the morning of 17 November 1869 the French imperial yacht, the
Aigle
, with the Empress Eugénie and de Lesseps himself on board, entered it at Port Said. This was followed by forty-five more vessels bearing the Khedive–by this time Saïd had been succeeded by his nephew Ismail–and his official guests, the foreign ambassadors and other high dignitaries. On the morning of the 20th the
Aigle
entered the Red Sea, and the ship’s band struck up, somewhat inappropriately, with
‘Partant pour la Syrie’
.

There is a popular misconception that Verdi’s
Aida
was written to celebrate the opening of the Canal. In fact, the historic event seems to have left him cold–so cold, indeed, that he deliberately turned down a commission to produce an inaugural hymn for the occasion. It was not until the early months of 1870 that he was sent a scenario by the French Egyptologist Auguste Mariette, based on an invented story set in Egyptian antiquity. This had an immediate appeal for him. An opera was commissioned by the Khedive Ismail, and he set to work with a will. Although the première was scheduled for Ismail’s new opera house in Cairo, it was decided that the sets and costumes should be prepared in Paris–an unfortunate decision, as it turned out, since the Franco-Prussian War and the consequent siege of the city held them up for weeks. They were freed at last, and the opera duly opened on Christmas Eve 1871. Verdi was, somewhat surprisingly, not present, though he did attend the Milan première early the following year.

For the lands and seaports of the eastern Mediterranean, the opening of the Suez Canal was a godsend–though it took them a little time to realise the fact. No longer were they stuck in a comparative backwater; now at last they could recover their old status as important stopping places on the trade routes of the world. Even the countries of the Far East profited, as their own commercial links with the west were strengthened. The world had become a smaller place.

From the day of the Canal’s opening, however, the Suez Canal Company was in financial trouble. The shareholders, persuaded by de Lesseps that they had invested in a gold mine, wanted an immediate return on their money; but Europe was slow to take advantage of the new possibilities. In its first year of operation, fewer than two ships a day passed through the Canal. De Lesseps had expected an annual income of ten million francs; he received only four. There followed a fierce international argument over the finances, which a conference called by the Sublime Porte did little to settle. At last a furious de Lesseps threatened to close down the Canal altogether, whereupon the Khedive–backed up by the Porte–sent a military force to the Canal and two warships to Port Said, with instructions to seize the Canal if the Company persisted in its plans. France, which had previously backed de Lesseps, now withdrew its support and he had to admit defeat.

But the Franco-Prussian War had dealt the Second Empire its death blow, and French influence in Canal affairs was on the wane. That of Britain, on the other hand, was rapidly increasing. The government of Lord Palmerston and its successors had violently opposed the construction of the Canal, which they had seen as a French imperialist threat, but now that the French were effectively out of the way, opinion in London was changing fast. Suddenly, the distance to India had been halved; from Bombay to Calcutta, what was later to be known as the tourist industry took wing. Within twenty years the annual influx of marriageable young women arriving in India in search of husbands–generally known as the Fishing Fleet–became an institution.
²⁶⁶
From 1873 onwards the fortunes of the Canal itself began to improve, with more and more ships using it with every passing year. Two-thirds of those vessels were British, and the Khedive told the British Agent in Cairo not only that he would be glad to see the Canal the property of an English company, but that in the event of such a company being formed he would do everything in his power to facilitate its transfer into their hands.

Egypt, meanwhile, was plunging further and further into debt, and by November 1875 the Khedive found himself in urgent need of some four million pounds to meet his obligations. His only course was to sell or mortgage his own shares in the Suez Canal Company. Two separate groups of French bankers began contending with each other in Paris, but neither was as quick or decisive as Benjamin Disraeli, who had recently succeeded Gladstone as Prime Minister and who was being kept informed of exactly what was going on by his friend Lionel de Rothschild, with whom he regularly dined on Sunday evenings. Negotiations dragged on for a while, but on 24 November 1875 it was agreed that the British government would purchase from the Khedive of Egypt 177,642 shares in the Suez Canal Company for four million pounds sterling. ‘You have it, Madam,’ Disraeli wrote to the Queen. ‘The French government has been out-generalled.’ The Queen replied that this was indeed ‘a great and important event’. ‘The great sum,’ she added characteristically, ‘is the only disadvantage.’
²⁶⁷

But the four million pounds still had to be raised. Once again Disraeli turned to de Rothschild, to whom he sent his Private Secretary, Montagu Lowry Corry. In later years Corry loved to tell the story of how he went to Rothschild’s office and told him that the Prime Minister wanted four million pounds.

‘When?’ asked Rothschild.

‘Tomorrow.’

Rothschild picked up a muscatel grape, ate it, spat out the skin, and asked: ‘What is your security?’

‘The British government.’

‘You shall have it.’

A few days later the shares were delivered to the British Consulate-General in Cairo. They were counted, and were found to number only 176,602–1,040 short of the number contracted for. The price was accordingly reduced to £3,976,582. Lionel de Rothschild was not, one suspects, unduly concerned.

Britain, it should be emphasised, had not bought the Canal; she had not even bought control. With her 40 percent holding, however, she had prevented that control from passing entirely into French hands, as it would assuredly have done had she not acted as she did. She now had the right to appoint three out of the twenty-four directors on the board of the Company–a figure which a few years later was to be increased to ten. Of all the shareholders, moreover, she was the strongest and the richest.

Was her purchase of the shares in some degree a prelude to the reestablishment of a British presence in Egypt? The Liberal Opposition certainly suspected–and suggested–as much. In fact, Disraeli seems to have had no particular interest in anything of the kind. At the same time, it was obviously of vital importance that the Canal should be adequately protected, and whereas in former days such protection might have been satisfactorily afforded by the Ottoman government, the Sultan’s power had now been effectively assumed by the Khedive, who had shown again and again by his extravagance and irresponsibility that he could not be trusted–to the point where in 1876 the Egyptian budget was placed under the supervision of two controllers, one British and one French. The Dual Control, as it was called, checked the collapse to some extent, but all too soon it became clear that the Khedive would have to go. Britain and France made a joint appeal to the Sultan, and in June 1879 he was deposed. His son Tewfik, who succeeded him, was almost immediately faced with a major revolt by the Egyptian nationalists who in 1881 staged a
coup d’état
, establishing what was in effect a military dictatorship. This was followed nine months later by riots in Alexandria, during which more than fifty Europeans were killed.

By this time Britain had sent a naval squadron to Alexandria, in response to which the nationalist leader, Lieutenant-Colonel Ahmed Orabi–known in the West as Arabi Pasha–had begun to construct new fortifications on the seaward side. The British admiral ordered him to stop, and when he refused to do so shelled the buildings to bits. A British force was then landed in the name of the Khedive and went on to occupy the city. But Arabi now replied with a new threat: to block the Sweet Water Canal, which linked the Nile with the isthmus of Suez, providing it with virtually its only supply of fresh water. With the situation fast deteriorating, a full-blown British expeditionary force under the famous General Sir Garnet Wolseley landed on 19 August 1882 at Port Said, further troops being already on their way from India to Suez. A month later, on 13 September, this force had little difficulty in inflicting a decisive defeat on Arabi at Tel el-Kebir on the edge of the delta, and occupying Cairo on the following day.

Where, it might be asked, was France during this crucial time? She too had sent a squadron to Alexandria, but this had almost immediately–and unaccountably–sailed on to Port Said, taking no part in the bombardment or the landings. Had it remained and followed the British example, Britain would certainly not have objected; indeed, she would probably have welcomed such participation. But by this time the French government seems to have lost interest. Thanks largely, we are told, to the violent opposition of the young Georges Clemenceau, it failed to vote the funds necessary for military intervention, thus sacrificing at a stroke France’s traditional influence in Egypt and giving her British rival a free hand to do as she liked. At the end of 1882 the Dual Control was abolished.

When in the past British troops had occupied Egypt, they had thought only of getting out again as soon as possible; this time, however, they had a lifeline to defend. For many years Britain was to claim that her occupation of Egypt was nothing but a temporary measure. As for full annexation, successive governments would protest that nothing was further from their minds; Egypt was part of the Ottoman Empire, and they were more than happy that she should remain so. But the Canal had to be protected, and it was Britain’s task to do it. If such protection involved the occupation of Egypt, then that was that.

Britain had now guaranteed for herself the effective control of the Canal in the event of war, but she recognised that such an
ad hoc
arrangement would not satisfy the other powers. So strategic a waterway could ultimately be protected only by a complete neutralisation. The diplomatic negotiations required before this could be achieved were delicate and complicated, but at last, on 29 October 1888, the representatives of nine nations at Constantinople signed the Suez Canal Convention, establishing ‘a definite system designed to guarantee at all times and for all Powers the free use of the Suez Maritime Canal’. The Canal was, it stipulated, to be open to all vessels of whatever provenance, in time of war as in time of peace. Its entrances were not to be blockaded, nor were any permanent fortifications to be erected on or along its banks. No belligerent warships might disembark troops or munitions in its ports or anywhere along it. Under the terms of the original concession of 1854, however, the Convention would remain in force only until 1968, ninety-nine years after the Canal’s opening. Its ownership would then revert to the Egyptian government.

This chapter requires, perhaps, a brief postscript. In November 1914 Britain declared war on the Ottoman Empire and proclaimed a protectorate over Egypt, with Khedive Abbas–his title of viceroy being no longer appropriate–being redesignated Sultan. Only four years later, however, Egypt was granted full independence (with a few reservations) and became, in its own right, a kingdom. The first ruler, King (formerly Sultan) Fuad I, was succeeded in 1936 by his son Farouk, who reigned until 1952, when a group of Egyptian army officers inspired by Colonel Gamal Abdel Nasser overturned the monarchy and declared Egypt a republic. In 1954 they concluded a treaty with Britain, whereby all British forces were to be withdrawn from the Canal Zone; two years later, on 26 July 1956–twelve years before the automatic reversion–the Canal was seized and nationalised. At the end of October, all diplomatic representations having failed, the recently formed state of Israel, joined by Britain and France, invaded Egypt with the purpose of recovering the Canal by force. British troops were landed at Port Said under cover of a naval bombardment, while the Israelis invaded the Sinai peninsula. Soon, however, international disapproval for the operation–and particularly that of the United States–became so strong that in December the Anglo-French forces were obliged to withdraw, leaving Nasser–despite severe military losses–triumphant and the Canal firmly in Egyptian hands. British influence in Egypt was at an end. Port Said was reoccupied, and the statue of Ferdinand de Lesseps–without whose vision and determination the Canal would never have come into being–was torn from its pedestal. In the hearts of dictators, gratitude is a rare emotion indeed.