The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (53 page)

With the prospect of the Turkish war, which had begun so magnificently, grinding to an ignominious halt, the Venetians looked once again to their Doge for active leadership. Morosini, now seventy-four, had never properly recovered his health; nevertheless, when he was invited to resume his command he did not hesitate. He sailed from Venice, amid scenes of great pomp, on 25 May 1693–but his last campaign proved another sad anticlimax. The Turks had taken advantage of the winter and spring to strengthen the defences of both Euboea and of Canea in Crete. Contrary winds persuaded Morosini against another attempt on the Dardanelles. He reinforced the garrison in Corinth and one or two other strong-points in the Peloponnese, and chased a few Algerian pirates; finally–in order not to return completely empty-handed–he occupied Salamis, Hydra and Spetsai before putting in to Nauplia for the winter. By then it was clear that his exertions had taken their toll. Throughout December he was in constant agony from gallstones, and on 6 January 1694 he died. Never again until the fall of the Venetian Republic was a Doge of Venice to go to war.

In the history of Venice’s tragic attempt to regain control of the Mediterranean, only one short chapter remains. The island of Chios had been one of the four possible objectives considered by Francesco Morosini and Count von Königsmark in 1686. It boasted a predominantly Christian population, both Catholic and Orthodox, each with its own bishop; the Turkish garrison was thought to number some 2,000 at the most. Antonio Zen, the Venetian Captain-General who on 7 September 1694 landed 9,000 men on the island, expected no difficulties.

Nor, at the outset, did he encounter any. The bombardment began at once; the harbour, together with three Turkish ships that chanced to be lying at anchor, was captured without a fight and the garrison surrendered on the 15th in return for a guarantee of safe conduct to the mainland. Venetian spirits were high, and they rose higher still when reports reached Chios of a Turkish fleet of some fifty sail, rapidly approaching. For years now the Turks had done their utmost to avoid naval engagements, and Zen’s captains had little admiration for their seamanship or indeed their courage. Unfortunately, just as the Captain-General was about to emerge from the narrow straits that separate Chios from the mainland and to make for the open sea, the wind dropped. In the flat calm that followed, no confrontation was possible, and when on the 20th a very faint breeze sprang up it threatened the Turks–who, seeing their danger, quickly made for home and reached the harbour of Smyrna before the Venetians could catch up with them. Zen, still ready to fight, anchored in the roadstead outside the harbour, but no sooner had he done so than he was visited on board his flagship by the local consuls representing the three European powers outside the league–England, France and the Netherlands–who implored him not to risk Christian lives and property in the city by any unprovoked attack–backing up their entreaties, it is reported, with a considerable sum of money. Knowing that he was also running short of supplies, Zen agreed and returned to Chios.

But the great sea battle that most of the Venetian captains so eagerly awaited was not much longer to be delayed. The Sultan, furious at the loss of one of his most valuable offshore islands, had given orders for its immediate recovery, and early in February 1695 a new Ottoman fleet was signalled, consisting of twenty of his heaviest capital ships–
sultanas
, as they were called–supported by twenty-four galleys. Antonio Zen at once sailed out to meet it with a roughly comparable fleet–it included a sizable squadron made available by the Knights of Malta–and on the morning of the 9th battle was finally joined at the northern end of the straits. The fighting was long and violent, marked by several deeds of outstanding courage on the part of the Venetians–and probably on that of the Turks too, though these are not recorded in the Venetian reports; but when the two fleets separated at nightfall, despite heavy casualties on both sides–for the Venetians, 465 dead and 603 wounded–the result was inconclusive.

This proved, however, to be only the first phase. The fleets anchored off Chios, just out of range of each other’s guns, and waited ten full days, watching. Then, on 19 February, with a strong north wind behind them, the Turks once again bore down upon their adversaries. As they fought, the wind rose to gale force; the sea grew increasingly rough until close manoeuvring became impossible. The Venetians fought desperately to get to windward, but gradually they were forced down the narrow channel to the harbour. In such weather entry into port was impossible; the vessels could only lie to in the roadstead, where they were raked again and again by the pursuing Turks. It was a disaster. The Venetian losses were immense, the Turkish comparatively slight. The Captain-General called a council of war, but the outcome seems to have been a foregone conclusion. There were no longer enough men available for the adequate manning of the fortress; the defences were in lamentable condition; the treasury was empty and supplies were running low. Long before any help could be expected, the Turks were bound to attack again, and when they did, the consequences would be catastrophic.

So it was that the island of Chios was won and, within less than six months, was lost again. On the night of 20 February all the war materiel that could be carried away was loaded on to the ships, the remaining defences dismantled or destroyed. Then, on the morning of the 21st, the fleet sailed out of the harbour. With it, to escape the vengeance of the Turks, went most of the leading Catholic families of the island, who were granted new estates in the Peloponnese to compensate them for what they had left behind. Even on her departure, Venice’s ill fortune went with her. Scarcely was the last ship round the mole when one of Zen’s most important remaining vessels, the
Abbondanza Richezza
, laden with arms and ammunition, struck a hidden rock. All endeavours to free her failed and she had to be abandoned with most of her cargo still intact on board.

To the people of Venice, who had so recently been celebrating the recovery of Chios, the news of its loss was a matter less for sorrow than for anger. The Senate demanded an immediate inquiry, pending which the miserable Zen, together with several other senior officers, was brought back to Venice in chains. He died in prison in July 1697 while the inquiry was still in progress. Its findings were never made known.

The Turks were not beaten; but they were undeniably battered, and seemed likely to welcome the opportunity for a negotiated peace. The Emperor Leopold for his part was anxious that they should, for he knew that a fresh crisis was approaching–not on his eastern border this time but in the west, where the half-mad and childless King Charles II of Spain obviously had not long to live. There were two principal contenders for his throne–Leopold himself and Louis XIV of France, both grandsons of Philip III and sons-in-law of Philip IV–and Leopold understandably wished to have his hands free to deal with the struggle ahead. England and Holland, horrified at the prospect of seeing France and Spain united under Louis, offered their mediation with the Sultan; Poland and Venice, on the assumption that they would retain the territories they had conquered, were only too pleased to lay down their arms after fifteen years of war. The arrangements were quickly made, and on 13 November 1698 the various powers concerned met at Karlowitz in Hungary (now the Serbian town of Sremski Karlovci).

The negotiations did not run as smoothly as had been expected, the representatives of the Sultan pointing out that their master, not having surrendered, saw no reason why he should be required to abandon all the territories now in Christian hands. In particular he had in mind certain of his Mediterranean possessions. Venice could have the Peloponnese; he would make no difficulty about that. She could also retain Leucas on one side and Aegina on the other, and a number of fortresses on the Dalmatian coast. He himself, however, was determined to keep Athens, Attica and all Greek territory north of the Gulf of Corinth. The Venetian representative objected violently, but received little support. The Emperor, once he had been assured of Hungary and Transylvania, was anxious to get home as quickly as possible; he let it be known to the Venetians that, if they insisted on making difficulties, he would have no hesitation in concluding a separate peace. For a time the Republic continued to argue, and when the treaty was signed on 26 January 1699 she was not among the signatories. But at last wisdom triumphed over pride, and on 7 February the Doge finally appended his seal.

It was as well that he did so, for the Treaty of Karlowitz is the one diplomatic instrument above all others that marks the decline of Ottoman power; and Venice, which had directly confronted that power for longer than any other Christian state, had more right than any to be a party to it. On the other hand, her forced renunciation of an important part of her conquests was not just a blow to her self-respect; it made it considerably more difficult for her adequately to defend that part which remained. There was now nothing to prevent the Turks from invading the Peloponnese from Attica, or indeed from anywhere along the north shore of the Gulf of Corinth–a point which they were, all too soon, to prove.

CHAPTER XIX

The Wars of Succession

On Friday, 1 November 1700, King Charles II of Spain died in his palace in Madrid. Weak in body as in mind, he had come to the throne at the age of four on the death of his father, Philip IV, and one glance at the luckless child had been enough to convince the court of his total inadequacy for the tasks that lay ahead of him. Charles looked like a caricature of a Habsburg, his chin and jaw projecting so far that the lower teeth could make no contact with the upper ones. He was always ill, to the point where many suspected witchcraft. Few of his subjects believed for an instant that he would grow up to assume power over his immense dominions. But grow up he did, and after a ten-year regency under his mother, Mariana–daughter of the Emperor Ferdinand III–he took over, at least in theory, the reins of government. Thus, from the day of his accession in 1665 and for the next thirty-five years Spain was effectively a great monarchy without a monarch. Never was there a suggestion that Charles might have a personal policy of his own. He was hardly ever at his desk except when there were papers–almost always unread–for him to sign, and the day in May 1694 when he was obliged to miss his lunch caused such astonishment that it was recorded in a contemporary journal. Government of the country was left to a succession of Prime Ministers of varying ability, and to the grandees of Spain.

And, above all, to the Church and its principal instrument, the Inquisition. As the King himself told the British ambassador, he never meddled in religious affairs. Jews and Protestants were the Inquisition’s most usual victims, but in fact no foreigner was safe. When the ambassador’s chaplain died in 1691 he had to be buried in secret; even then, his body was subsequently dug up and mutilated. And there is no doubt that the expulsion of the Moriscos
¹⁶¹
in 1610–achieved by the Inquisition acting with the dreadful Duke of Lerma–had dealt Spain a blow from which it took centuries to recover. On the Moriscos had depended much of the agricultural production of the country: cereals, sugar, rice, cotton, even paper. What little industry Spain could boast had also been in their hands. Thus by 1700 Seville and Toledo, Segovia and Burgos were pale shadows of what they had been a hundred years before. For the peasantry and the working-class populations of the towns, conditions grew bleaker with every year that passed. In 1699 came famine: a crowd of 20,000 assembled before the royal palace, and a full-scale revolution was narrowly averted.

It came as no surprise that Charles II, despite two marriages, had failed to produce any offspring, and as the century drew to its close the question of who should succeed him grew steadily in importance. The problem was that the Spanish crown was coveted–and indeed claimed–by the two mightiest dynasties of Europe. Of the two daughters of King Philip III the elder, Anne, had been married to Louis XIII of France; the younger, Maria, to the Emperor Ferdinand III of Austria. Anne had in due course given birth to the future Louis XIV, Maria to the Emperor Leopold I. Louis might have been thought to have a secondary claim through his wife, Maria Teresa, who was Charles II’s elder sister; unfortunately for him, however, his bride had been obliged on her marriage formally to renounce all her hereditary rights in the Spanish dominions.

Charles’s younger sister Margaret, on the other hand, had made no such renunciation when she had married the Emperor Leopold I; her small grandson Joseph Ferdinand–son of her daughter Maria Antonia and Max Emanuel, Elector of Bavaria–was consequently the Habsburg claimant. Already the scene seemed to be set for a struggle. When in 1698 Charles made a will confirming Joseph Ferdinand as his heir and successor, the matter might have been thought to be settled, but in February 1699 the young prince unexpectedly died. His sudden death was attributed, rather unconvincingly, to smallpox; there were many, among them the boy’s own father, who suspected poison and did not hesitate to say so. Once again, intricate diplomatic negotiations began–not only among the three powers most directly concerned, but also with the participation of England and Holland.
¹⁶²
These two maritime countries both carried on immensely profitable trade with Spain; there were several British and Dutch merchants permanently resident in Cadiz and other Spanish ports. Through much of the seventeenth century the two had been at loggerheads; now, however, they shared a common concern: to keep out the French. If Spain were to pass from the hands of the weakest monarch in Europe into those of the strongest, what chance was there that trade would be allowed to continue?

Backwards and forwards shuttled the ambassadors between the European capitals, until in June 1699 what was known as the Second Treaty of Partition (never mind the First) was signed by William III of England and Louis XIV of France; it was hoped that the States-General of Holland and the Emperor Leopold would give their assent later. By its terms the formerly Spanish kingdoms of Naples and Sicily were allotted to France, together with the Spanish lands along the coast of Tuscany and–in exchange for Milan–the Duchy of Lorraine. Spain and the rest of Charles II’s inheritance would fall to the Emperor’s younger son, the Archduke Charles. In March 1700 the States-General signed up; only Leopold held out. He saw no reason why France should help herself to any imperial territories, and he was particularly incensed at the idea that he should surrender Milan. So far as he was concerned, his son should assume the entire Spanish inheritance–and he was prepared to fight for it.

Leopold’s reactions were moderate, however, in comparison to those of the Spanish court when, in June, the terms of the treaty were communicated to Madrid. It was reported that, on receipt of the news, the King ‘flew into an extraordinary passion, and the Queen in her rage smashed to pieces everything in her room’. Clearly, Spain’s greatest hope of support lay with Austria, a natural ally against the partitioning powers. Letters flew between King and Emperor, and the prospect of war began to loom larger still. But Charles had one more surprise up his sleeve. By the autumn of 1700 it was plain that he had not long to live, and on 3 October he put his tremulous signature to a new will, by the terms of which he left all his dominions without exception to Louis XIV’s seventeen-year-old grandson, Philip, Duke of Anjou. A month later he was dead.

What caused this sudden change of heart in favour of France? Above all, the Church. The Inquisition, and indeed the whole hierarchy and clergy of Spain, had long favoured a French solution, and Pope Innocent XII–who was actually to die five weeks before the King–had himself written to him recommending the Duke of Anjou. With the consciousness of approaching death and the voice of his father confessor whispering into his ear, Charles no longer had the strength to argue.

‘Never,’ wrote King William III of England on 16 November 1700, ‘did I much rely on engagements with France; but I must confess I did not think they would have broken, in the face of the whole world, a solemn treaty before it was well accomplished.’ He cannot in truth have been all that surprised; Louis–or at least his grandson–had been offered on a plate far more than he could ever have hoped for, and the King’s character was certainly not such as to pass it all up for the sake of a treaty upon which the ink was scarcely dry. Well aware that Leopold would not accept this new dispensation without protest, he lost no time in packing the young claimant off to Madrid to assume his throne without delay, in company with a bevy of French officials to take over all the key posts of government and, as his special guide and mentor, the redoubtable Princesse des Ursins.
¹⁶³
In fact, Philip V was to be readily accepted in his new kingdom, only Catalonia proving hostile, but this was by no means enough to ensure an uncontested succession. What Louis could not have known was how long and how desperate the ensuing war would be, or what a price he would have to pay for his grandson’s throne.

The Treaty of Partition was now hardly worth the paper it was written on; clearly it would have to be replaced. And so, on 7 September 1701 at the Hague, representatives of England, Holland and the Empire signed what was to become known as the Grand Alliance. In certain areas its terms were left deliberately vague, but its principal objectives for the coming war–the imminence of which could no longer be in doubt–were plain enough. The imperial aims were frankly political: Leopold was out to recover for the Empire all the Spanish possessions in Italy. Those of England and Holland, on the other hand, were almost exclusively commercial: they wished only to secure the future of their navigation and trade.

But seven months before, in February of that same year, Philip of Anjou had entered Madrid as Philip V of Spain, and French troops had occupied the Spanish Netherlands.
¹⁶⁴
The war had already begun.

The War of the Spanish Succession is, for most of us, associated with the great Duke of Marlborough; and it was in northern Europe, not in the south, that he created his magnificent legend. Those blood-soaked battlefields of Blenheim and Ramillies, of Oudenarde and Malplaquet, are hundreds of miles from the Mediterranean and no business of ours. But the Middle Sea too played its part; indeed, the war began with a brief land campaign on Italian soil, during which the French were able to secure various formerly Spanish possessions in Lombardy and the Po valley; and at the very outbreak of hostilities in 1701, a considerable allied army had assembled in the south Tyrol under the command of Prince Eugene of Savoy
¹⁶⁵
with the object of expelling them. Meanwhile the French commander, the splendidly named Marshal Nicholas Catinat de la Fauconnerie, who had no intention of being expelled and assumed that the Prince would follow the valley of the Adige, drew up his army on the shores of Lake Garda and awaited the attack. But Eugene was too clever for him. Sending a small detachment along the right bank of the Adige as a feint, he brought the bulk of his army–16,000 foot and some 6,000 horse–by narrow and obscure mountain paths over Monte Baldo, finally approaching the French unexpectedly, on their right flank.

Catinat lost his head. Taken completely off guard and uncertain of Eugene’s intentions, he spread out his army in small detachments over some sixty miles. It was a fatal mistake, of which the Prince took full advantage. Attacking one detachment after another, he scored a succession of small but decisive victories–culminating in a midwinter raid on Cremona to capture another marshal, the Duc de Villeroi
¹⁶⁶
–and threw the French into total confusion. The following year they recovered: Catinat had been succeeded by the Duc de Vendôme–an infinitely better general–whose army had received massive reinforcements sent by Philip of Spain from Naples. Eugene, his lines of communication with Vienna suddenly cut off, was thrown for the first time on to the defensive. By then, however, the epicentre of the war had shifted. Italy was largely forgotten.

But not the Mediterranean. Already at the time of the Partition Treaty, the future of the Middle Sea had been much in King William’s mind. It was not only the continuation of trade with Spain that preoccupied him; it was also the realisation that, if Spain were to pass into Bourbon hands, England might be excluded from the entire Mediterranean basin unless she could find herself a secure stronghold within it. He had long had his eye on Minorca, and he was also planning with his admiral, Sir George Rooke, to occupy Cadiz before the French could do so.
¹⁶⁷
William’s death in March 1702 put paid to this latter idea; Rooke had never had much enthusiasm for it, and his attack on the port the following autumn proved a fiasco. Two years later, however, he redeemed it in full–when, with an Anglo-Dutch fleet, he captured Gibraltar.

The Rock had been in Spanish hands since 1462, and in 1501 had been formally annexed to Spain by Queen Isabella; but its defences were poor and its tiny garrison showed little appetite for resistance. It surrendered to Rooke on 4 August, having held out for just three days, at a cost to the attackers of sixty killed and some 200 wounded. The admiral had a real chance to show his mettle only three weeks afterwards when, on 23 August, off the Spanish coast near Malaga, he ran into a French fleet of about fifty sail under the Count of Toulouse. What followed was later described by Rooke as ‘the sharpest day’s service I ever saw’. Losses were high on both sides. There was no doubt, however, that the British had the best of it; when day broke on 27 August there was not a Frenchman in sight. The French fleet had withdrawn to Toulon, and for the rest of the war made no effort to dispute the allied control of the Mediterranean.

The capture of Gibraltar had not immediately made it a British colony. Technically, Rooke had taken it on behalf of the imperialist claimant, the Archduke Charles, and almost exactly a year after its fall, on 2 August 1705, the Archduke had disembarked from a British naval vessel and had been formally recognised there as King Charles III of Spain. Meanwhile the Rock was garrisoned by two British and two Dutch regiments, and although its governor, Major-General Sir John Shrimpton, was an Englishman, he and his staff continued to acknowledge Charles’s sovereignty. On the King’s birthday in 1705 three rounds from thirty-five guns were fired in salute; on that of Queen Anne five months later, there was only one round from twenty-one guns. But these were early days, when Charles still seemed to have a fair chance of winning the Spanish throne. Later, as those chances diminished, the future of Gibraltar took on a different complexion. Surely there could be no question of its passing to the hated Philip V–and through him, for all anybody knew, to his still more hated grandfather, Louis XIV? How much safer if it were kept, permanently, in British hands…