Chapter 92
Chapter 92
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 92
Chapter Title: Morocco Crisis (2)
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Though the season was still summer, with the sun blazing fiercely hot, Algeciras was swept by a chill wind even colder than the depths of winter.
The cause was the delegates from the four attending nations, gathered to resolve the Morocco Crisis one way or another.
They glared at one another with murderous intent, united in their determination to force through their respective countries' demands.
Of course, the ones brimming with the will to verbally slaughter their opponents were Britain and Russia, still at odds from the Russo-Japanese War, along with France, which believed Morocco had been snatched away by Britain, that golden sun.
Germany, the actual instigator of the conflict, was nominally on Britain's side but had secretly collaborated with Russia as well, so we hung back a step, observing the sparks fly.
Moreover, given the stature of the nations involved, the participants in the conference were all heavyweights with impressive reputations.
On our German Empire's side, there was me—the Kaiser's proxy and titled diplomatic advisor—along with Foreign Minister Richthofen.
Britain had Prime Minister Arthur Balfour showing up in person alongside the Marquess of Lansdowne, while Russia sent not Foreign Minister Lamsdorff but the inexplicably present Bezobrazov accompanying Sergei Witte into the conference hall.
'Either by Nicholas II's order, or to keep the negotiation faction's Witte in check.'
They must have figured that handing the talks to Witte could lead to an outcome unfavorable to Bezobrazov himself.
Witte, for his part, seemed to have stepped in to prevent Bezobrazov from worsening an already tense situation.
"Ha! Sending a child to a place like this—does the German Empire have no decent diplomats left these days?"
Representing France was Foreign Minister Théophile Delcassé, who sneered at me standing there blankly with utter disdain.
He was a capable figure who had held the foreign minister post for seven years through government changes, having mediated the Russo-Japanese War and successfully resolved the Fashoda Incident—the finest diplomat in the French government.
He had been pro-British enough to play a major role in the Entente Cordiale, but the sour look he shot at the British delegation suggested he felt betrayed by Britain over this affair.
Still, that was mild compared to the venom in his gaze toward us.
A staunch anti-German hardliner who loathed Germany, he looked at Foreign Minister Richthofen and me like we were utter bastards.
"It's been a while, Baron."
"Minister Witte. I've heard you've been through a lot."
"It's been harder because of you. I should have thought twice when you talked about opening the Bosphorus."
"It might sound like an excuse, but I never intended for things to blow up this big."
It was the truth.
We had hoped Britain would use its Mediterranean fleet to check the Black Sea Fleet—that was all. Who could have predicted they would suddenly ignite the Morocco Crisis?
Of course, the outcome had not only soured Britain-Russia relations but also pitted France against Britain, so it was nothing but profitable for us.
"In any case, it's not a bad situation for you, Minister Witte. If we handle the talks well here, we can scrap the fleet sortie issue, pivot back to the armistice agreement."
"Heh. If only it were that simple—with that cancer lump in tow?"
Witte nodded toward Bezobrazov, who was incessantly yapping at Delcassé.
"If he doesn't get in the way, that'll be a blessing."
"...That bad?"
"Don't even ask."
Witte shook his head wearily.
Indeed, Bezobrazov was the most dangerous player here, in a way— to both foes and allies alike.
As in any game, a trolling teammate is scarier than a skilled opponent.
"Well, gentlemen, shall we get started?"
At Arthur Balfour's words, Witte and I took our seats.
Amid exchanging uncomfortable glances, the Algeciras Conference to resolve the Morocco Crisis finally kicked off in earnest.
The first to speak was Delcassé, glaring murderously at Balfour and the Marquess of Lansdowne.
"France has one demand: Britain and Germany withdraw their fleets from Morocco immediately."
"Not unless the Russian Empire first returns its Black Sea Fleet to port and commits to peace talks with Japan as originally agreed."
BAM!
When Balfour responded without an inch of retreat, Delcassé slammed his fist on the table.
"What happens in the Russo-Japanese War is none of our concern. Morocco is firmly under French influence. Britain's actions are a blatant provocation against France!"
"Is Morocco a French colony? Or a protectorate?"
"What?"
Irked by Delcassé raising his voice, Foreign Minister Richthofen shot back in a snide tone.
"Yes, French influence is strong, but Morocco remains an independent sovereign state. Britain isn't swallowing it whole—just parking its fleet in the harbor temporarily. Frankly, I don't see why France is so heated about this."
"Heh! I never dreamed Germans and Brits would be this chummy. Next thing you know, you'll be marrying into the family."
"Now, now, let's both calm down."
As Richthofen and Delcassé geared up for a verbal brawl, I intervened to rein them in.
It wasn't good for tensions to flare this badly so early on.
I said,
"Shouldn't we hear from the Russian side first?"
"Quite right. The root of all these problems lies with the Russian Empire, after all."
The Marquess of Lansdowne agreed and turned to Witte and Bezobrazov across the table.
Witte opened his mouth to speak, but the tactless Bezobrazov cut in first.
"Britain demands we proceed with peace talks per the agreed terms, but I believe the terms themselves are the problem from the start."
"Your government—not to mention the Tsar himself—already agreed to those terms. Are you reneging now?"
"W-well, things can change depending on the situation, can't they?"
As Balfour's tone grew menacing, Bezobrazov stammered, visibly cowed.
Witte clutched his forehead like he had a migraine.
Bezobrazov pressed on.
"We didn't even lose the war, so giving up not just Korea but Lushun too—that's too much."
"In exchange, you're annexing northern Manchuria with our tacit approval, plus Mongolia on top."
"That's not enough."
"Not enough? You're saying it's not enough? I'm going mad. What more do you want us to concede?!"
Balfour and Lansdowne raised their voices incredulously at Bezobrazov.
Even Delcassé, nominally Russia's ally, wore a look that screamed, 'Does this bastard have a conscience?'
"You're giving up influence over Korea and a minor Far Eastern power for far vaster territories ceded to Russia—that's more than generous, I'd say."
I fixed Bezobrazov with a cold stare as well.
We weren't handing over colonies; we were expanding Russian territory massively.
But Bezobrazov wouldn't budge.
"Fine for Korea since Japan occupied it, but Lushun—we absolutely can't give that up."
"Then no peace! Britain agreed to Russia's terms premised on withdrawal from Lushun and Korea."
"This isn't an official Russian demand—just one opinion among many. Let's keep talking and find the best compromise."
As Bezobrazov kept poisoning the atmosphere for his own gain, Witte, sweating bullets, jumped in.
"Listen, Minister Witte! What are you—"
"Shut your mouth for once, please!"
"I can't do that!"
Despite Witte gritting his teeth and hissing for silence, Bezobrazov blundered on, oblivious to the mood.
Delcassé let out a long sigh, looking exhausted at his sole ally's farce.
"...This conference is going to drag on."
As expected, the Algeciras Conference showed no sign of ending even as summer gave way to autumn and the calendar flipped.
Word even came from Germany that Crown Prince Wilhelm had gotten engaged to Duchess Cecilie of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, who would become the German Empire's crown princess—yet I was still stuck in Spain.
The reason the talks dragged was Bezobrazov's relentless trolling, heedless of friend or foe.
Witte tried steering toward a compromise everyone could accept, but Bezobrazov repeatedly torpedoed it with unacceptable demands.
At this point, even I wondered if he had come to negotiate or to deliberately stall.
Britain naturally refused to withdraw from Morocco, leaving France fuming and desperate.
"At this rate, we'll spend the whole year in Spain."
"Minister Witte, talk to your Tsar. Do something about that idiot Bezobrazov!"
"If His Majesty listened to me, this Morocco mess wouldn't have happened in the first place."
We—Balfour, Delcassé, and I—groaned at Witte's haggard face, aged a decade overnight.
In the end, transcending nationalities, we three jointly begged Nicholas II in letters to remove Bezobrazov, but our Nicky was as clueless as his crony.
"Aaaarrrghhh───!!"
Balfour bellowed in outrage at Nicholas II's gall, right in front of us.
The original goal of pitting Britain against Russia had succeeded beyond expectations.
'Still, it's time to wrap up this tedious conference.'
We couldn't keep the fleet in Morocco forever.
The four nations' fleets amassed there were growing weary as talks dragged; no one was exempt.
Admiral Coester complained that crew discipline was slipping and begged either to end the standoff soon or let them clash properly with the French-Russian fleets.
Not wanting to spark a world war a decade early, I somehow soothed him to hold out a bit longer.
'Bezobrazov looks worn out too, energy fading. A little pressure should do it.'
"Baron! Big trouble!"
But ominous premonitions always hit the mark.
"What happened?"
"An accidental clash broke out between the four nations' fleets anchored off Tangier!"
"What?!"
I snatched the report from the urgent messenger and scanned it.
My eyes narrowed at one unmistakable battleship name.
"Potemkin..."
Knyaz Potemkin Tavrichesky.
The battleship that, in original history, sparked mutiny among mistreated sailors—overturning not just the Black Sea Fleet but all of Russia—had finally caused an incident.