France. Gentlemen, the guns have fallen silent.”
It could be done. The French would be furious, but they would have to join in the cease-fire, or take the risk that Britain might make a separate peace and leave them to certain defeat. The peace settlement would be hard on France and Belgium, but not as hard as the loss of millions more lives.
It would be an act of great statesmanship. It would also be the end of Lloyd George’s political career: voters would not elect the man who lost the war. But what a way to go out!
Fitz was waiting in the Central Lobby. Gus Dewar was with him. No doubt he was as eager as everyone else to find out how Lloyd George would respond to the peace initiative.
They climbed the long staircase to the gallery and took their seats overlooking the debating chamber. Ethel had Fitz on her right and Gus on her left. Below them, the rows of green leather benches on both sides were already full of M.P.s, except for the few places in the front row traditionally reserved for the cabinet.
“Every M.P. a man,” Maud said loudly.
An usher, wearing full formal court dress complete with velvet knee breeches and white stockings, officiously hissed: “Quiet, please!”
A backbencher was on his feet, but hardly anyone was listening to him. They were all waiting for the new prime minister. Fitz spoke quietly to Ethel. “Your brother insulted me.”
“You poor thing,” Ethel said sarcastically. “Are your feelings hurt?”
“Men used to fight duels for less.”
“Now there’s a sensible idea for the twentieth century.”
He was unmoved by her scorn. “Does he know who is the father of Lloyd?”
Ethel hesitated, not wanting to tell him but reluctant to lie.
Her hesitation told him what he wanted to know. “I see,” he said. “That would explain his vituperation.”
“I don’t think you need to look for an ulterior motive,” she said. “What happened at the Somme is enough to make soldiers angry, don’t you think?”
“He should be court-martialed for insolence.”
“But you promised not to-”
“Yes,” he said crossly. “Unfortunately, I did.”
Lloyd George entered the chamber.
He was a small, slight figure in formal morning dress, the overlong hair a bit unkempt, the bushy mustache now entirely white. He was fifty-three, but there was a spring in his step, and as he sat down and said something to a backbencher, Ethel saw the grin familiar from newspaper photographs.
He began speaking at ten past four. His voice was a little hoarse, and he said he had a sore throat. He paused, then said: “I appear before the House of Commons today with the most terrible responsibility that can fall on the shoulders of any living man.”
That was a good start, Ethel thought. At least he was not going to dismiss the German note as an unimportant trick or diversion, in the way the French and Russians had.
“Any man or set of men who wantonly, or without sufficient cause, prolonged a terrible conflict like this would have on his soul a crime that oceans could not cleanse.”
That was a biblical touch, Ethel thought, a Baptist-chapel reference to sins being washed away.
But then, like a preacher, he made the contrary statement. “Any man or set of men who, out of a sense of weariness or despair, abandoned the struggle without the high purpose for which we had entered into it being nearly fulfilled, would have been guilty of the costliest act of poltroonery ever perpetrated by any statesman.”
Ethel fidgeted anxiously. Which way was he going to jump? She thought of Telegram Day in Aberowen, and saw again the faces of the bereaved. Surely Lloyd George-of all politicians-would not let heartbreak of that nature continue if he could help it? If he did, what was the point of his being in politics at all?
He quoted Abraham Lincoln. “‘We accepted this war for an object, and a worthy object, and the war will end when that object is attained.’ ”
That was ominous. Ethel wanted to ask him what the object was. Woodrow Wilson had asked that question and as yet had got no reply. No answer was given now. Lloyd George said: “Are we likely to achieve that object by accepting the invitation of the German chancellor? That is the only question we have to put to ourselves.”
Ethel felt frustrated. How could this question be discussed if no one knew what the object of the war was?
Lloyd George raised his voice, like a preacher about to speak of hell. “To enter at the invitation of Germany, proclaiming herself victorious, without any knowledge of the proposals she proposes to make, into a conference”- here he paused and looked around the chamber, first to the Liberals behind him and to his right, then across the floor to the Conservatives on the opposition side-“is to put our heads into a noose with the rope end in the hands of Germany!”
There was a roar of approval from the M.P.s.
He was rejecting the peace offer.
Beside Ethel, Gus Dewar buried his face in his hands.
Ethel said loudly: “What about Alun Pritchard, killed at the Somme?”
The usher said: “Quiet, there!”
Ethel stood up. “Sergeant Prophet Jones, dead!” she cried.
Fitz said: “Be quiet and sit down, for God’s sake!”
Down in the chamber, Lloyd George continued speaking, though one or two M.P.s were looking up at the gallery.
“Clive Pugh!” she shouted at the top of her voice.
Two ushers came toward her, one from each side.
“Spotty Llewellyn!”
The ushers grabbed her arms and hustled her away.
“Joey Ponti!” she screamed, and then they dragged her out through the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – January and February 1917
Walter Ulrich dreamed he was in a horse-drawn carriage on his way to meet Maud. The carriage was going downhill, and began to travel dangerously fast, bouncing on the uneven road surface. He shouted, “Slow down! Slow down!” but the driver could not hear him over the drumming of hooves, which sounded oddly like the running of a motorcar engine. Despite this anomaly, Walter was terrified that the runaway carriage would crash and he would never reach Maud. He tried again to order the driver to slow down, and the effort of shouting woke him.
In reality he was in an automobile, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes 37/95 Double Phaeton, traveling at moderate speed along a bumpy road in Silesia. His father sat beside him, smoking a cigar. They had left Berlin in the early hours of the morning, both wrapped in fur coats-it was an open car-and they were on their way to the eastern headquarters of the high command.
The dream was easy to interpret. The Allies had scornfully rejected the peace offer that Walter had worked so hard to promote. The rejection had strengthened the hand of the German military, who wanted to resume unrestricted submarine warfare, sinking every ship in the war zone, military or civilian, passenger or freight, combatant or neutral, in order to starve Britain and France into submission. The politicians, notably the chancellor, feared that was the way to defeat, for it was likely to bring the United States into the war, but the submariners were winning the argument. The kaiser had shown which way he leaned by promoting the aggressive Arthur Zimmermann to foreign minister. And Walter dreamed of charging downhill to disaster.
Walter believed that the greatest danger to Germany was the United States. The aim of German policy should be to keep America out of the war. True, Germany was being starved by the Allied naval blockade. But the Russians could not last much longer, and when they capitulated, Germany would overrun the rich western and southern regions of the Russian empire, with their vast cornfields and bottomless oil wells. And the entire German army would then be able to concentrate on the western front. That was the only hope.
But would the kaiser see that?
The final decision would be made today.
