URSABLOG: Putting a Gunboat to Greece’s Head

Despite my own impression that Britain was always a stout defender of Greece and the Greeks – at least from Byron’s arrival until the dying days of the Second World War – in the early days of Independence, during King Otto and Queen Amalia’s reign, the Royal Navy blockaded the ports of Piraeus, Syros and Patras for three months.

I came across this little-known event whilst reading a biography of the Victorian statesman Disraeli, and it intrigued me so much I went looking for other material. I am indebted to Georgios Giannakopoulos’ recent paper for the details of this fascinating episode in Greek – and imperial British – history; if you’re interested in this kind of thing, it’s certainly worth checking out.

The roots of the blockade are local, and stem directly from the grievances of two British citizens living in Athens at the time: George Finlay (Scottish philhellene, historian and long-term resident of Athens), and Don Pacifico (a Gibraltar-born Jew and former Portuguese consul), both of whom complained that the expansion of the royal palace gardens (better known today as the National Garden) encroached on their land.

Finlay was promised compensation for the land taken from him, but this was never fully delivered, and he was aggrieved that other foreign nationals and their claims were dealt with more promptly than his. He had invested heavily in land immediately after independence, viewing it as a personal commitment and a contribution to Greece’s development. Having failed to recover what was owing locally, he resorted to petitions through diplomatic channels, framing his requests as a test of Greece’s legal reliability and its treatment of foreign investors. He wrote in measured and legalistic tones, grounded in precedent and comparison, giving the British officials to whom they were addressed a narrative of widespread institutional failure, a narrative he knew would find a receptive audience.

Don Pacifico was a completely different character, and his larger cause for complaint much more dramatic. Although he too lost part of his property to Queen Amalia’s gardens, this was nothing compared to the events of April 1847. A royal decree, in deference to a scheduled visit of the Jewish-French banker James Mayer de Rothschild to discuss Greek loans, had banned the traditional Easter burning of an effigy of Judas Iscariot, and an enraged mob ransacked the home of Pacifico, who – as a well-known foreigner and one of the most prominent Jews in Athens at the time – was an easy target for anti-Semitic violence. The attack, and the conspicuous failure of the authorities to intervene, again reinforced long-standing British perceptions of Greek lawlessness and institutional unreliability.

That both Finlay and Pacifico complained – in different tones – to the British authorities frustrated the Greek authorities a great deal; their view was that these claims should be settled in the Greek courts, and in any case what right did foreigners, even British ones, have a claim to protection that was denied to Greek citizens themselves? And as the Greek Minister of Foreign Affairs Georgios Glarakis put it: “Foreign intervention in a domestic matter would infringe upon national sovereignty.”

The British did intervene, and in a dramatic way, but their reasons for intervention were not restricted solely to the claims of Finlay and Pacifico. Their more pressing concerns were geopolitical: the balance of power in the Eastern Mediterranean.

It was Britain, together with France and Russia, that helped bring about Greece as a sovereign state. These three powers sent ships to enforce an armistice, an action that rapidly degenerated into the Battle of Navarino which annihilated the Ottoman/Egyptian fleet. These same powers then undertook to sponsor, guarantee and protect the fledgling state, also having a say in the choice of the new king, the Bavarian-born Otto.

But before that, under the Treaty of Paris in 1815, Britain was appointed “protector” of the United States of the Ionian Islands, a curious arrangement where the islanders retained their constitution, assemblies and courts, but all under the authority of a High Commissioner appointed by London. (Byron played cricket in Kefalonia during a sojourn there in 1823 on his way to Missolonghi; there is still a cricket pitch in the centre of Corfu Town.)

It was not these larger islands that were causing the British concern at the time, but two smaller – and at the time uninhabited – ones: Cervi (now known as Elafonisos, just next to Neapoli), and Sapienza (just south of Methoni). The British recognised their potential as anchorages, bunkering points (Neapoli is still a significant bunkering port), and surveillance positions as they expanded their imperial maritime infrastructure, and wanted them. The Greeks however insisted that they were historically and administratively linked to the Greek mainland. They had a point: it is a stretch of the imagination to place Elafonisos in the Ionian Sea as it is barely a few hundred metres off the shores of Laconia.

These issues remained unresolved by the time a new British Ambassador, Thomas Wyse, arrived in Athens in 1849. He was instructed by Lord Palmerston, British Foreign Secretary, to assess the growing list of unresolved claims. Wyse escalated matters, recommending stronger measures, including British occupation of Cervi and Sapienza. Foreign Minister Glarakis dismissed the demands as an “arbitrary extension” of imperial power.

There happened to be a British naval squadron hanging about the Dardanelles at the time, at a bit of a loose end after the Eastern Crisis triggered by the decision of the Ottoman Empire to grant asylum to Hungarian and Polish refugees after the revolutions of 1848. Lord Palmerston directed the fleet to Greece to stand off Salamina commanding the approaches of Piraeus, a dramatically visible symbol of naval power.

As soon as the fleet anchored, Ambassador Wyse and Vice-Admiral Parker repaired to the royal palace to deliver their ultimatum: unless the claims of Finlay and Pacifico and others were settled, and the territorial dispute over Cervi and Sapienza was resolved – in Britain’s favour of course – then the British would impose a naval blockade. The demands were made in a private audience with King Otto and Queen Amalia, immediately prior to the Ambassador and the Vice-Admiral sitting down with their hosts at what I must imagine would have been a rather uncomfortable formal dinner.

The Greeks rejected the British demands, and so the blockade commenced, spreading to Syros and Patras. Ships were stopped, cargoes were inspected and seized. The populations of Athens and Syros were deprived of trade, as well as sustenance, and the port of Patras – the main point of departure for Greek exports – was unable to send goods to be sold abroad at a time when Greece was desperately short of foreign currency. But the blockade was neither complete, nor completely effective: non-Greek cargo interests who had chartered Greek-flagged ships objected, and Greek shipowners and merchants became skilful in finding ways through.

Nevertheless, the blockade caused great distress in Greece: a young, sovereign European nation, only recently freed from the yoke of Ottoman oppression suddenly found one of their guarantors and protectors pointing several gunboats at their heads, demanding reparation for disputes that would normally rumble on for years through the courts. That two private, foreign citizens could call upon such power – a power that no Greek citizen had – to enforce their civil claims was outrageous. But it was also a sobering reminder that their place in the world was not as secure as they thought.

It caused alarm in Britain too. Should British naval force be used in peacetime to extract redress from a small state under the protection – together with France and Russia – of the British themselves? Should the British be able to act unilaterally without the agreement of their allies? Greece evidently could not defend itself from the power of the Royal Navy, a navy that had contributed to its new-found sovereignty. Should the British use their naval might to coerce the Greek state into coughing up damages for private British subjects, as well as demanding the territory of a couple of small, uninhabited Greek islands, just because they could?

The blockade ended after three months: the Greek government capitulated and accepted British terms, putting the claims of Pacifico and Finlay on a path to resolution. The territorial dispute over Cervi and Sapienza remained unresolved.

Finlay’s analysis of the affair is instructive. As Giannakopoulos points out:

“Publicly, he criticised Palmerston’s heavy-handedness, objected to the targeting of merchants and shipowners, and rejected the inclusion of the Ionian islets in the dispute, insisting that questions of protection should have been handled collectively by the guarantor powers. Privately, however, he expressed gratitude that Britain had defended ‘the just claims even of the humblest individuals’.”

As well he might. I wonder if Harry Maguire will try his luck using the same method.

But as far as Greece’s place in the world was concerned, Finlay’s assessment was stark:

“Greece, under the protection of the three powers, and loaded with debt, could not be an independent power. False appearances always produce evil consequences.”

The Don Pacifico affair – as it is still known in British political history, but for different reasons – is fascinating. Leaving aside the echoes of the Eurogroup’s imperious attitude during the Euro crisis – coercion indeed – and the re-emergence of naval blockades as a tool of geopolitical confrontation, what strikes me is that military power, especially naval military power, is still seen as an effective method to get the weaker to do what the stronger want.

The British in the nineteenth century were the global naval power of the day, much as the US is today. But the power of a navy will always be challenged by the amount of space it can control: once a conflict spreads it is no longer localised. Even in nineteenth century Greece, the might of the Royal Navy could not make all shipping comply with its demands.

The problem with threats is that those doing the threatening have to be willing and able to carry them out, and the effects should be immediately apparent and decisive. A blockade can be useful as a coercive instrument short of war, until it’s not: it also depends on the ability and desire of those being targeted to evade the blockade, or even retaliate, sometimes in novel ways. Blockades can weaken political support for the blockaders, voters finding it heavy-handed, aggressive and inconclusive, as well as galvanising and energising the political – and military – resolve of the blockaded. Geopolitical consequences may not be immediately apparent, but they can turn out to be powerful and long-lasting.

The century of humiliation – still a galvanising political force in China – started with a British naval blockade during the first Opium War. The various closures of the Suez Canal caused a drastic re-assessment of the power of post-imperial Britain and France, and an oil shock at various times, each altering both the configuration of Middle-East relations and world trade – not to mention the structure of merchant fleets.

How will the blockade of Iranian ports – and the fightback by Iran, let alone the current restrictions to traffic in both the Strait of Hormuz and the Red Sea – inform and affect geopolitics and world trade in the future? I cannot say, and I would be foolish to think that I could.

The after-effects of naval military action are rarely felt only at sea, and are rarely short-lived. Nor – as the shipping industry is finding out right now – are they necessarily malign to everyone.

Simon Ward