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Famous Privateersmen
AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA
Their rovings, cruises, escapades, and
fierce battling upon the ocean
for patriotism and for
treasure
By
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON
Author of "Famous Cavalry Leaders," "Famous
Indian Chiefs," "Famous Scouts," etc.
Illustrated
[Decoration]
BOSTON
THE PAGE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES
BY
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON
Each one volume, large 12mo, illustrated, $1.50
[Decoration]
FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS
FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS
FAMOUS SCOUTS
FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN
FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN
[Decoration]
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: From "The Army and Navy of the United States."
"AGAIN THE CANNON MADE THE SPLINTERS FLY."
(_See page 273._)]
_Copyright, 1911,_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, November, 1911
Second Impression, November, 1914
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF
George Alfred Henty
THE MOST STIMULATING AUTHOR OF BOOKS FOR BOYS
THAT THE PAST HALF CENTURY HAS PRODUCED,
AND A WRITER WHO HAS KEPT ALIVE THE
SPIRIT OF MANLY SPORT AND ADVENTURE
WHICH HAS MADE THE ANGLO-SAXON
PEOPLE A RACE OF WORLD CONQUERORS.
MAY THEY NEVER
RETROGRADE!
_Thanks are due the Librarian of Congress, and particularly to Mr.
Roberts of the Department of Prints, for numerous courtesies extended
to the author during the compilation of this volume._
PREFACE
MY DEAR BOYS:--The sea stretches away from the land,--a vast sheet of
unknown possibilities. Now gray, now blue, now slate colored, whipped
into a thousand windrows by the storm, churned into a seething mass of
frothing spume and careening bubbles, it pleases, lulls, then
terrorizes and dismays. Perpetually intervening as a barrier between
peoples and their countries, the wild, sobbing ocean rises, falls and
roars in agony. It is a stoppage to progress and contact between races
of men and warring nations.
In the breasts of all souls slumbers the fire of adventure. To
penetrate the unknown, to there find excitement, battle, treasure, so
that one's future life can be one of ease and indolence--for this men
have sacrificed the more stable occupations on land in order to push
recklessly across the death-dealing billows. They have battled with
the elements; they have suffered dread diseases; they have been
tormented with thirst; with a torrid sun and with strange weather;
they have sorrowed and they have sinned in order to gain fame,
fortune, and renown. On the wide sweep of the ocean, even as on the
rolling plateau of the once uninhabited prairie, many a harrowing
tragedy has been enacted. These dramas have often had no
chronicler,--the battle was fought out in the silence of the watery
waste, and there has been no tongue to tell of the solitary conflict
and the unseen strife.
Of sea fighters there have been many: the pirate, the fillibusterer,
the man-of-warsman, and the privateer. The first was primarily a
ruffian and, secondarily, a brute, although now and again there were
pirates who shone by contrast only. The fillibusterer was also engaged
in lawless fighting on the sea and to this service were attracted the
more daring and adventurous souls who swarmed about the shipping ports
in search of employment and pelf. The man-of-warsman was the
legitimate defender of his country's interests and fought in the open,
without fear of death or imprisonment from his own people. The
privateersman--a combination of all three--was the harpy of the
rolling ocean, a vulture preying upon the merchant marine of the enemy
to his country, attacking only those weaker than himself, scudding off
at the advent of men-of-warsmen, and hovering where the guileless
merchantman passed by. The privateersman was a gentleman adventurer, a
protected pirate, a social highwayman of the waters. He throve, grew
lusty, and prospered,--a robber legitimized by the laws of his own
people.
So these hardy men went out upon the water, sailed forth beneath the
white spread of new-made canvas, and, midst the creaking of spars, the
slapping of ropes, the scream of the hawser, the groan of the
windlass, and the ruck and roar of wave-beaten wood, carved out their
destinies. They fought. They bled. They conquered and were defeated.
In the hot struggle and the desperate attack they played their parts
even as the old Vikings of Norway and the sea rovers of the
Mediterranean.
Hark to the stories of those wild sea robbers! Listen to the tales of
the adventurous pillagers of the rolling ocean! And--as your blood is
red and you, yourself, are fond of adventure--ponder upon these
histories with satisfaction, for these stalwart seamen
"Fought and sailed and took a prize
Even as it was their right,
Drank a glass and kissed a maid
Between the volleys of a fight.
_Don't_ begrudge their lives of danger,
_You_ are better off by far,
But, if war again comes,--stranger,
Hitch _your_ wagon to their star."
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON.
The bugle calls to quarters,
The roar of guns is clear,
Now--ram your charges home, Lads!
And cheer, Boys! Cheer!
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
CARLO ZENO: HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 1
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: ROVER AND SEA RANGER 23
SIR WALTER RALEIGH: PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS 53
JEAN BART: THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH 83
DU GUAY-TROUIN: THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE" 113
EDWARD ENGLAND: TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS 137
WOODES ROGERS: THE BRISTOL MARINER 153
FORTUNATUS WRIGHT: THE MOST HATED PRIVATEERSMAN
OF THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA 173
GEORGE WALKER: WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT
OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL 199
JOHN PAUL JONES: THE FOUNDER OF THE AMERICAN
NAVY 239
CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT: STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF
NEW ENGLAND 283
CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY: THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE 299
ROBERT SURCOUF: THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO 319
LAFITTE: PRIVATEER, PIRATE, AND TERROR OF THE
GULF OF MEXICO 341
RAPHAEL SEMMES: DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE 373
EL CAPITAN 393
RETROSPECT 397
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"AGAIN THE CANNON MADE THE SPLINTERS FLY"
(_See page 273_) _Frontispiece_
ZENO'S FLEET 18
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE 28
DRAKE'S GREATEST VICTORY ON THE SPANISH MAIN 44
YOUNG RALEIGH AND A COMPANION LISTENING TO TALES OF
THE SPANISH MAIN 55
SIR WALTER RALEIGH 60
JEAN BART 86
"JEAN BART LED HIS BOARDERS OVER THE SIDE OF THE
DUTCH VESSEL" 108
COMBAT BETWEEN DU GUAY-TROUIN AND VAN WASSENAER 135
"'LEFT US ENGAGED WITH BARBAROUS AND INHUMAN ENEMIES'" 146
"THE BOARDERS WERE REPULSED WITH GREAT SLAUGHTER" 193
ACTION BETWEEN THE "GLORIOSO" AND THE "KING GEORGE"
AND "PRINCE FREDERICK" UNDER GEORGE WALKER 231
AMERICAN PRIVATEER TAKING POSSESSION OF A PRIZE 239
"BEGAN TO HULL THE 'DRAKE' BELOW THE WATER-LINE" 261
"THEY SWARMED INTO THE FORECASTLE AMIDST FIERCE
CHEERS" 277
"TALBOT, HIMSELF, AT THE HEAD OF HIS ENTIRE CREW,
CAME LEAPING ACROSS THE SIDE" 289
AMERICAN PRIVATEER CAPTURING TWO ENGLISH SHIPS 298
"SURCOUF SCANNED HER CAREFULLY THROUGH HIS GLASS" 336
RAPHAEL SEMMES 376
"THE MEN WERE SHOUTING WILDLY, AS EACH PROJECTILE
TOOK EFFECT" 386
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344-1418)
"Paradise is under the shadow of swords."--MAHOMET.
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344-1418)
Zeno, noble Zeno, with your curious canine name,
You shall never lack for plaudits in the golden hall of fame,
For you fought as well with galleys as you did with burly men,
And your deeds of daring seamanship are writ by many a pen.
From sodden, gray Chioggia the singing Gondoliers,
Repeat in silvery cadence the story of your years,
The valor of your comrades and the courage of your foe,
When Venice strove with Genoa, full many a year ago.
The torches fluttered from the walls of a burial vault in ancient
Venice. Two shrouded figures leaned over the body of a dead warrior,
and, as they gazed upon the wax-like features, their eyes were filled
with tears.
"See," said the taller fellow. "He has indeed led the stalwart life.
Here are five and thirty wounds upon the body of our most renowned
compatriot. He was a true hero."
"You speak correctly, O Knight," answered the other. "Carlo Zeno was
the real warrior without fear and without reproach. He has fared
badly at the hands of the Republic. But then,--is this not life? Those
most worthy seem never to receive their just compensation during their
living hours. It is only when they are dead that a tardy public gives
them some recognition of the great deeds which they have done, the
battles which they have fought, and the honor which they have brought
to their native land. Alas! poor Zeno! He--the true patriot--has had
but scant and petty praise."
So saying the two noble Venetians covered the prostrate form of the
dead warrior--for they had lifted the brown robe which enshrouded
him--and, with slow faltering steps, they left the gloomy chamber of
death.
Who was this Venetian soldier, who, covered with the marks of battle,
lay in his last sleep? Who--this hero of war's alarms? This patriotic
leader of the rough-and-ready rovers of the sea?
It was Carlo Zeno,--a man of the best blood of Venice,--who,
commanding fighting men and fighting ships, had battled strenuously
and well for his native country.
The son of Pietro Zeno and Agnese Dandolo, this famous Venetian had
been well bred to the shock of battle, for his father was for some
time Governor of Padua, and had won a great struggle against the
Turks, when the careening galleys of the Venetian Squadron grappled
blindly with the aggressive men of the Ottoman Empire. There were ten
children in the family and little Carlo was named after the Emperor
Charles IV, who sent a retainer to the baptism of the future seaman,
saying, "I wish the child well. He has a brave and noble father and I
trust that his future will be auspicious."
Little Carlo was destined for the Church, and, with a Latin eulogium
in his pocket (which his Venetian school-master had written out for
him) was sent to the court of the Pope at Avignon. The sweet-faced boy
was but seven years of age. He knelt before the prelate and his
retainers, reciting the piece of prose with such precision, grace, and
charm, that all were moved by his beauty, his memory, his spirit, and
his liveliness of person.
"You are indeed a noble youth," cried the Pope. "You shall come into
my household. There you shall receive an education and shall be a
canon of the cathedral of Patras, with a rich benefice."
But little Carlo did not remain. Although dressed like a mimic priest
and taught with great care, the hot blood of youth welled in his veins
and made him long for a life more active and more dangerous. So he
looked about for adventure so thoroughly that he was soon able to have
his first narrow escape, and a part in one of those many brawls which
were to come to him during his career of war and adventure.
Sent by his relations to the University of Padua, he was returning to
Venice from the country, one day, when a man leaped upon him as he
walked down a narrow road.
"Who are you?" cried Carlo fearfully.
But the fellow did not answer. Instead,--he struck him suddenly with
a stout cudgel--knocked him senseless on the turf, took all the
valuables which he had, and ran silently away into the gloom.
Little Carlo came to his senses after many hours, and, staggering
forward with weakened steps, reached Mestre, where kind friends
dressed his wounds.
"I shall catch this assailant," cried he, when he had revived. "He
shall rue the day that he ever touched the person of Carlo Zeno." And
forthwith he secured a number of bloodhounds with which to track the
cowardly ruffian of the highway.
Luck was with the future commander of the galleons and fighting men. He
ran the scurvy assailant to earth, like a fox. He captured him, bound
him and handed him over to the justice of Padua,--where--for the
heinousness of the offense--the man was executed. So ended the first
conflict in which the renowned Carlo Zeno was engaged,--successfully--as
did most of his later battles.
Not long afterwards young Zeno returned to his studies at the
University, but here--as a lover of excitement--he fell into bad
company. Alas! he took to gambling, and frittered away all of his
ready money, so that he had to sell his books in order to play. The
profit from these was soon gone. He was bankrupt at the early age of
seventeen.
Ashamed to go home, the future sea rover disappeared from Padua and
joined a fighting band of mercenaries (paid soldiers) who were in the
employ of a wealthy Italian Prince. He was not heard of for full five
years. Thus, his relatives gave him up for dead, and, when--one
day--he suddenly stalked into the house of his parents, his brothers
and sisters set up a great shout of wonder and amazement. "Hurrah!"
cried they, "the dead has returned to his own. This is no ghost, for
he speaks our own native tongue. Carlo Zeno, you shall be given the
best that we have, for we believed that you had gone to another
world."
Pleased and overwhelmed with affection, young Carlo stayed for a time
with his family, and then--thinking that, as he had been trained for
the priesthood, he had best take charge of his canonry of Patras--he
went to Greece.
"Hah! my fine fellow," said the Governor, when he first saw him, "I
hear that you are fond of fighting. It is well. The Turks are very
troublesome, just now, and they need some stout Venetian blood to hold
them in check. You must assist us."
"I'll do my best," cried Zeno with spirit, and, he had not been there
a week before the Ottomans swooped down upon the city, bent upon its
demolition. The young Venetian sallied forth--with numerous fighting
men--to meet them, and, in the first clash of arms, received such a
gaping wound that he was given up for dead. In fact, when carried to
the city, he was considered to be without life, was stretched upon a
long settee, was clothed in a white sheet, and prepared for interment.
But in the early morning he suddenly opened his eyes, gazed
wonderingly at the white shroud which covered him, and cried, with no
ill humor,
"Not yet, my friends. Carlo Zeno will disappoint all your fondest
hopes. Once more I am of the world."
And, so saying, he scrambled to his feet, much to the dismay of the
sorrowing Venetians, who had been carefully spreading a number of
flowers upon the prostrate form of the supposedly dead warrior.
But so weak was the youthful hero that he had to be taken to Venice in
order to recover. When strong again he resumed his studies for the
ministry and was sent to Patras, a city that was soon threatened by an
army of twelve thousand Cypriotes and Frenchmen.
"Here, Zeno," cried the Bishop of Patras to the virile young
stripling. "We have seven hundred riders in our city. With this mere
handful, you must defend us against our enemies. The odds are fifteen
to one against you. But you must struggle valiantly to save our
beautiful capital."
"Aye! Sire!" cried the youthful student of church history. "I shall do
my best to free your capital from these invaders. May the God of Hosts
be with us! My men salute you."
So saying the valiant youth led his small and ill drilled company
against the besiegers, and, so greatly did he harass his adversaries,
that they abandoned the enterprise, at the end of six months; made
peace; and retired.
"Hail to Zeno!" cried many of the soldiers. "He is a leader well worth
our respect. Without him the great city would have surely fallen. Yea!
Hail to young Zeno."
These words of praise reached the ears of a certain Greek Knight
named Simon, and so roused his envy, that he audaciously accused Carlo
of treachery, which was soon told to the hot-headed young warrior. He
acted as one would well expect of him.
"I challenge you to single combat," cried he. "The duel shall be
fought in Naples under the eye of Queen Johanna."
In vain Carlo's friends besought him to forgive the loose-tongued
Simon--his patron, the Bishop, exhausted his eloquence in the endeavor
to reconcile the two. The hot blood of youth would out. It was fight
and no compromise. But before the trial, the bold and unyielding
soldier threw up his position with the Church and married a rich and
noble lady of Clarenta, whose fortune well supplanted the large income
which he had forfeited by his resignation.
Now honor called for deeds. Almost immediately he was obliged to leave
for Naples in order to meet the detractor of his valor, and, to his
surprise, the Queen spoke lightly of the quarrel. "It is a question of
law," said she. "An inquiry shall be had. There must be no bloodshed."
An inquiry was therefore in order, and it was a thorough one. "Simon
is in the wrong," said the fellow acting as clerk for those sitting
upon the case. "He must pay all the expenses to which Zeno has been
put, and there shall be no duel."
"My honor has been cleared," cried Zeno. "I must return to Greece."
There--strange as it might seem--he was at once named Governor of a
province, though not yet twenty-three. Events were going well with
him. But his wife died, he was cheated of his dowry by her relations,
and so he turned once more to Venice,--saddened, older and nearly
penniless. The wheel of fortune had turned badly for this leader of
fighting men and future general of white-winged galleons of the sea.
But now there was a really good fight--such a fight as all true
sailors love--a fight which tested the grit and courage of Zeno to the
full. It was the first of those heroic deeds of arms which shed
undying lustre on his name, and marked him as a seaman of the first
rank,--a captain of true courage, resources and ambition.
The Genoese (or inhabitants of Genoa) and the Venetians, were
continually at war in these days, and when--in patriotic zeal--Carlo
Zeno seized the island of Tenedos, the Venetian Senate, fearing lest
the Genoese would seek to recover the lost possession, sent a fleet of
fifteen ships to guard it, under one Pietro Mocenigo. There were also
two other vessels, one commanded by Carlo Zeno himself. The mass of
galleys floated on to Constantinople, for the Greeks had allied
themselves with the Genoese, had seized a Venetian man-of-war, which
had been captured, and had then retired. Three lumbering hulks were
left to protect the fair isle of Tenedos,--under Zeno, the war-like
Venetian.
"Aha," said a Genoese seaman. "There are but three galleys left to
save our isle of Tenedos. We shall soon take it with our superior
force. Forward, O sailors! We'll have revenge for the attack of the
wild men from Venice."
"On! on!" cried the Genoese seamen, and without further ado,
twenty-two galleys careened forward, their white sails bellying in the
wind, their hawsers groaning, spars creaking, and sailors chattering
like magpies on a May morning.
Carlo Zeno had only three hundred regular soldiers and a few archers,
but he occupied the suburbs of the town and waited for the attackers
to land. This they did in goodly numbers, for the sea was calm and
motionless, although it was the month of November.
"Men!" cried the intrepid Zeno, "you are few. The enemy are as
numerous as blades of grass. Do your duty! Fight like Trojans, and, if
you win, your grateful countrymen will treat you as heroes should be
respected. Never say die, and let every arrow find an opening in the
armor of the enemy."
The Genoese came on with shouts of expectancy, but they were met with
a far warmer reception than they had anticipated. The air was filled
with flying arrows, as, crouching low behind quickly constructed
redoubts, the followers of the stout-souled Zeno busily stretched
their bowstrings, and shot their feathered barbs into the mass of
crowding seamen. Savage shouts and hoarse cries of anguish, rose from
both attackers and attacked, while the voice of Zeno, shrilled high
above the battle's din, crying: "Shoot carefully, my men, do not let
them defeat us, for the eyes of Venice are upon you." So they
struggled and bled, until the shadows began to fall, when--realizing
that they were unable to take the courageous Venetians--the Genoese
withdrew to their ships.
There was laughter and song around the camp fires of Zeno's little
band, that night, but their leader spoke critically of the morrow.
"Sleep well, my men," said he, "for I know that our foes are well
angered at the beating we have given them. Next morn we shall again be
at war. Let us keep our courage and have as a battle cry, 'Venice! No
retreat and no quarter!'"
When morning dawned the Genoese were seen to land engines of war, with
the apparent intention of laying siege to the town. Their preparations
showed that they meant to attack upon the side farthest from the
castle, so Carlo Zeno--the quick-witted--placed a number of his men in
ambush, among a collection of half-ruined and empty houses which stood
in that quarter. "Stay here, my men," said he, "and when the enemy has
advanced, charge them with fury. We must win to-day, or we will be
disgraced."
Meanwhile the rest of the Venetians had retreated inland, and,
crouching low behind a screen of brush, waited patiently for the
Genoese to come up. "Be cautious," cried Zeno, "and when the enemy is
within striking distance, charge with all the fury which you possess."
"Aye! Aye! Good master," cried the stubborn soldiers. "We mark well
what you tell us."
Not long afterwards the attacking party came in view, and, without
suspecting what lay in front, advanced with quick gait towards the
supposedly defenseless town. But suddenly, with a wild yell, the
followers of Zeno leaped from behind the screening bushes, and dashed
towards them. At the same instant, the soldiers who had been placed in
hiding, attacked suddenly from the rear. Arrows poured into the ranks
of the Genoese, and they fell like wheat before the scythe of the
reaper. Hoarse shouts, groans, and cries of victory and death, welled
above the battle's din.
In the midst of this affair Carlo Zeno gave a cry of pain. An arrow
(poisoned 'tis said) had entered his leg and struck him to the ground.
But, nothing daunted, he rose to cry shrilly to his men, "On! On!
Drive them to the ocean." And, so well did his soldiers follow these
commands, that the Genoese fled in confusion and disorder to their
ships. The day was won.
As was natural, Zeno paid no attention to his wound, and, when the
enemy hurried to shore the next day for another attack, they were
greeted with such a terrific discharge of artillery that they gave up
their idea of capturing the island and sailed away amidst cries of
derision from the delighted Venetians.
"Hurrah!" cried they. "Hurrah for Zeno!" But so exhausted was the
intrepid leader by reason of his wound that he fell into a spasm as if
about to die. His iron constitution pulled him through, however, and
soon he and the faithful band returned to Venice, covered with glory,
and full satisfied with their hard won victory.
The daring Zeno was well deserving of praise, for he had beaten a
fleet and an army by sheer genius, with three ships and a handful of
men. To Venice had been preserved the valuable island which guards the
entrance to the Dardanelles, and to her it was to remain for years,
although the Genoese tried many times and oft to wrest it from her
grasp.
Now came another struggle--the war of Chioggia--a struggle in which
Carlo Zeno played a great and noble part,--a part, in fact, that has
made his name a byword among the grateful Venetians: a part in which
he displayed a leadership quite equal to that of a Drake, or a
Hawkins, and led his fighting galleons with all the courage of a lion.
Hark, then, to the story of this unfortunate affair! Hark! and let
your sympathy be stirred for Carlo Zeno, the indefatigable navigator
of the clumsy shipping of the Italian peninsula!
For years the Republics of Genoa and Venice remained at peace, but,
for years the merchants of the two countries had endeavored to outwit
each other in trade; and, thus, when the Genoese seized several
Venetian ships with rich cargoes, in 1350, and refused to give them
up, war broke out between the rival Republics. In two engagements at
sea, the Venetians were defeated; but in a third they were victorious,
and forever sullied the banner of St. Mark, which flew from their
Admiral's mast-head, by causing nearly five thousand prisoners of war
to be drowned. Fired by a desire for immediate revenge upon their foe,
the Genoese hurried a mighty fleet to sea, and ravaged the Italian
coast up to the very doors of Venice itself. Several other
engagements followed, in most of which the Venetians were defeated;
and then there were twenty years of peace before another conflict.
Finally war broke out afresh. Angry and vindictive, the Genoese bore
down upon the Venetian coast in numerous lumbering galleys,
determined--this time--to reach Venice itself, and to sack this rich
and populous city. With little difficulty they captured Chioggia, a
seaport, a populous city and the key to the lagoons which led to the
heart of the capital. They advanced to the very outskirts of Venice,
and their cries of joyous vindictiveness sounded strangely near to the
now terrified inhabitants, who, rallying around their old generals and
city fathers, were determined to fight to the last ditch.
As winter came, the victoriously aggressive Genoese retreated to
Chioggia, withdrawing their fleet into the safe harbor to await the
spring; leaving only two or three galleys to cruise before the
entrance, in case the now angered Venetians should attack. But they
were to be rudely awakened from their fancied seclusion.
"Lead us on, O Pisani," the Venetians had cried in the broad market
space of their beloved city. "We must and will drive these invaders
into their own country. Never have we received before such insults.
On! On! to Chioggia."
So, silent and vengeful, the Venetian fleet stole out to sea on the
evening of December twenty-first. There were thirty-four galleys,
sixty smaller armed vessels, and hundreds of flat-bottomed boats.
Pisani was in the rear, towing two heavy, old hulks, laden with
stones, to sink in the entrance of the harbor and bottle up the fleet,
even as the Americans were to sink the _Merrimac_ in the Harbor of
Santiago, many years afterwards.
The Genoese were unready. The cruisers, on duty as sentinels, were not
where they should have been, and so the gallant Pisani scuttled the
hulks across the harbor entrance and caught the bold marauders like
rats in a trap. The fleet of the enemy was paralyzed, particularly as
another river's mouth, some two miles southward, was also blockaded.
Smiles of satisfaction shone upon the faces of the outraged Venetians.
Carlo Zeno was hurrying up with a strong fleet manned by veteran
seamen, but the now victorious followers of Pisani wished to return to
Venice.
"It is the Christmas season," cried many. "We have fought like lions.
We have shut up our enemy. We have averted the extreme danger. Let us
return to our wives and our children!"
"You cannot go," said Pisani, sternly. "You are the entire male
population of Venice. Without you the great expedition will come to
naught, and all of our toil will have been thrown away. Only be calm.
Carlo Zeno will soon be here, and we can then take Chioggia!"
Alas! Like Columbus, he saw himself upon the verge of losing the
result of all his labor for lack of confidence in him upon the part of
his men. He could not keep them by force, so wearily and anxiously he
scanned the horizon for signs of an approaching sail.
The days went slowly by for the lion-hearted Pisani. Carlo Zeno did
not come. Day after day the valiant leader fearfully looked for the
white-winged canvas of a Venetian galleon, but none came to view. On
the thirtieth day of December his men were very mutinous.
"We will seize the ships and return to-morrow to Venice," cried
several. "We have had enough of war. Our wives and daughters cry to us
to return."
Pisani was desperate.
"If Carlo Zeno does not come in forty-eight hours, the fleet may
return to Lido," said he. "Meanwhile, keep your guns shooting at the
enemy. We must make these Genoese feel that we shall soon attack in
force."
But Pisani's heart was leaden. Where, yes, where was Zeno? New Year's
Day came, and, by his promise, he must let the Venetians go. What did
this mean for him? It meant the fall of Venice, the end of the
Republic, the destruction of the population with all that they
possessed. He--their idol, their leader for ten days--could no longer
lead, for the Venetians could not bear a little cold and hardship for
his sake. Sad--yes, sad, indeed--was the face of the stout seaman as
he gave one last despairing glance at the horizon.
Ha! What was that? A thin, white mark against the distant blue! It
grew larger and clearer. It was the sail of a galley. Another, and
another, and another hove in sight,--eighteen in all, and driving
along swiftly before a heavy wind. But, were they hostile, or
friendly? That was the question. Was it Zeno, or were these more
galleons of the Genoese? Then, joy shone in the keen eyes of Pisani,
for the banner of St. Mark fluttered from the peak of the foremost
ship, and floated fair upon the morning breeze. Hurrah! It was Carlo
Zeno, the lion-hearted.
God speed brave Zeno! He had been twice wounded in fights along the
coast, en route, but nothing could diminish his energy, or dampen his
ardor. He had laid waste the Genoese coast; he had intercepted convoys
of grain; he had harassed the enemy's commerce in the East, and he had
captured a huge vessel of theirs with five hundred thousand pieces of
gold. Marvellous Zeno! Brave, courageous Venetian sea-dog, you are
just in the nick of time!
"Thanks be to Heaven that you have come," cried Pisani, tears welling
to his eyes. "Now we will go in and take Chioggia. It means the end of
the war for us. Again, I say, thanks be to Heaven."
With renewed hope and confidence the Venetians now pushed the siege.
Seeing that their fleet could never escape, the Genoese started to dig
a canal to the open sea, by which the boats could be brought off
during the night. The work was begun, but Carlo Zeno discovered it in
time. Volunteers were called for, a force was soon landed, and, under
the leadership of Zeno, marched to intercept the diggers of this, the
only means of escape.
"The Venetians are going towards 'Little Chioggia,'" cried many of the
Genoese. "We must hasten there to stop them."
[Illustration: From an old print.
ZENO'S FLEET.]
But Zeno had only made a feint in this direction. Throwing his main
force in the rear of the Genoese, he soon began to cut them up badly.
They were seized with a panic. They fled towards the bridge of
Chioggia, trampling upon each other as they ran, pursued and slashed
to ribbons by Zeno's men. The bridge broke beneath the weight of the
fugitives and hundreds were drowned in the canal, while thousands
perished near the head of this fateful causeway. It was a great and
signal victory for Zeno; the intrepid sea-dog and campaigner on land.
This was a death blow. That night some of the garrison hastened to
desert, and, as the siege progressed, the drinking water began to
fail, the food gave out, and starvation stared the holders of Chioggia
in the face. On the twenty-fourth of June the city surrendered; and
four thousand one hundred and seventy Genoese, with two hundred
Paduans--ghastly and emaciated--more like moving corpses than living
beings--marched out to lay down their arms. Seventeen galleys, also,
were handed over to the Venetians: the war-worn relics of the once
powerful fleet which had menaced Venice itself.
As a feat of generalship, Pisani's blockade of the Genoese fleet is
rivalled by Sampson's blockade of Cervera's squadron at Santiago in
1898, and the military operation by which Carlo Zeno tempted the
garrison of Brondolo into the trap which he had set for them, and
drove them, like a flock of sheep into Chioggia, by sunset, is surely
a splendid feat of arms. All honor to this intrepid sea-dog of old
Venice!
How fickle is Dame Fortune! Jealous of the reputation of this noble
Venetian, the patricians, whose advice, during the war, he had
consistently declined to follow; refused to make him a Doge of the
City. It was thought that the election of the bravest captain of the
day might be dangerous to the Republic. Instead of doing him honor,
they imprisoned him; and was he not the noblest patriot of them all?
When over seventy years of age,--the greatest and truest
Venetian--loaned a small sum of money to the Prince Carrara, once a
power in Venetian politics. He had saved his country from destruction.
He had served her with the most perfect integrity. Yet, he reaped the
reward which fell to the share of nearly every distinguished Venetian;
he was feared by the government; hated by the nobles whom he had
out-stripped in honor, and was condemned to prison by men who were not
worthy to loose the latchet of his shoes. Although he had often paid
the mercenary soldiers to fight for Venice, in the War of Chioggia,
from his own pocket, he was sent to jail for loaning money to an
unfortunate political refugee.
When called before the Council of Ten on the night of the twentieth of
January, 1406, the warrant for his examination authorized the use of
torture. But even the Ten hesitated at this.
"He is a brave man," said one. "Pray allow him to go untouched."
The prisoner admitted that he had loaned the money. His explanation
was both honorable and clear. But the Ten were obdurate that night.
"He shall go to the Pozzi prison for a year," said they. "Besides
this, he shall suffer the perpetual loss of all offices which he has
held."
Like a brave man, Carlo Zeno accepted the sentence without a murmur,
and his sturdy frame did not suffer from the confinement. For twelve
years longer he lived in perfect health; made a pilgrimage to
Jerusalem; commanded the troops of the Republic once again; defeated
the Cypriotes, and died peacefully,--a warrior with a name of
undiminished lustre, most foully tarnished by his own compatriots. His
is a reputation of undying glory, that of his judges is that of
eternal shame. All honor to Carlo Zeno, the valorous Venetian, who
could fight a ship as well as a squadron of foot soldiers on land!
_Salve, Venetia!_
"Dip the banner of St. Mark,
Dip--and let the lions roar.
Zeno's soul has gone above,
Bow--a warrior's life is o'er."
HARKEE, BOYS!
Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the torrid, Spanish Main,
Where the tarpons leap and tumble in the silvery ocean plain,
Where the wheeling condors circle; where the long-nosed ant-bears sniff
At the food the Jackie "caches" in the Aztec warrior's cliff.
_Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout,_
_Hurray for the life on the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers we will be._
Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the men of Morgan's band,
Of Drake and England--rascals--in the palm-tree, tropic land.
I'll tell you of bold Hawkins, how he sailed around the Horn.
And the Manatees went _chuck! chuck! chuck!_ in the sun-baked,
lazy morn.
_Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout,_
_Hurray for the life on the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers we will be._
Harkee, Boys! You're English, and you come of roving blood,
Now, when you're three years older, you must don a sea-man's hood,
You must turn your good ship westward,--you must plough towards
the land
Where the mule-train bells go _tink! tink! tink!_ and the bending
cocoas stand.
_Oh! You will be off on a galleon stout,_
_Oh! You will be men of the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers you will be._
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
ROVER AND SEA RANGER
(1540-1596)
"The man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold,--
He smiles, when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs through wet and dry."
--DRAKE.
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
ROVER AND SEA RANGER
(1540-1596)
Sing a song of stout dubloons,
Of gold and jingling brass,
A song of Spanish galleons,
Foul-bottomed as they pass.
Of roaring blades and stumbling mules,
Of casks of malmsey wine,
Of red, rip-roaring ruffians,
In a thin, meandering line.
_They're with Drake, Drake, Drake,_
_He can make the sword hilt's shake,_
_He's a rattling, battling Captain of the Main._
_You can see the Spaniards shiver,_
_As he nears their shelt'ring river,_
_While his eyelids never quiver_
_At the slain._
So,--
Here's to Drake, Drake, Drake,
Come--make the welkin shake,
And raise your frothing glasses up on high.
If you love a man and devil,
Who can treat you on the level,
Then, clink your goblet's bevel,
To Captain Drake.
"Take care, boy, you will fall overboard. Take care and do not play
with your brother near the edge of our good ship, for the water here
is deep, and I know that you can swim but ill."
The man who spoke was a rough, grizzled sea-dog, clad in an old
jersey and tarpaulins. He stood upon the deck of an aged, dismantled
warship, which--anchored in the shallow water near Chatham,
England,--swung to and fro in the eddying currents. Around him, upon
the unwashed deck, scampered a swarm of little children, twelve in
all, and all of them his own.
"Very good, Father," spoke the curly-haired youngster. "I'll mind what
you tell me. You're wrong, though, when you say that I cannot swim,
for I can, even to yonder shore. Do you want to see me do it?"
"Nay, nay," chuckled the stout seaman. "You're a boy of courage,
Francis. That I can well see. But do not try the water. It is cold and
you will have a cramp and go under. Stick to the quarter-deck." And
laughing softly to himself, he went below, where a strong smell of
cooking showed that there was something upon the galley stove to feed
his hungry crew of youthful Englishmen.
It was surely a strange house to bring up a troop of merry children
in. The sound of wind and waves was familiar to them at night and they
grew to be strong and fearless. But is not this the proper way to rear
a sea-dog?
These little ducklings, descended from a Drake, must have early set
their hearts upon adventure and a seafaring life. In fact, one of
them, young Francis, was to be one of the best known seamen of the
centuries and knighted for his services to the Crown. Reared in a
ship, he, by nature, loved the sea as only a child of the ocean could
have done. The brine ran in his blood.
Being the son of a poor man, he was apprenticed to a master of a small
vessel which used to coast along the shore and carry merchandise to
France and the Netherlands. He learned his business well. So well,
indeed, that at the death of the master of the vessel it was
bequeathed "to Francis Drake, because he was diligent and painstaking
and pleased the old man, his master, by his industry." But the
gallant, young sea-dog grew weary of the tiny barque.
"It only creeps along the shore," he said. "I want to get out upon the
ocean and see the world. I will therefore enlist with my stout
kinsmen, the Hawkins brothers, rich merchants both, who build and sail
their own ships."
This he did, and thus began the roving life of Francis Drake:
dare-devil and scourge of the West Indian waters.
About fifty years before this lusty mariner had been born, America was
discovered by Christopher Columbus--an Italian sailor in the service
of Spain--and this powerful country had seized a great part of the new
found land. There was no love lost between the Spaniards and the men
from the cold, northern British Isles and thus Francis Drake spent his
entire career battling with the black-haired, rapacious, and
avaricious adventurers who flew the banner of King Philip of Arragon.
Sometimes he was defeated, more often he was successful. Hark, then,
to the tale of his many desperate encounters upon the wide waters of
the surging Atlantic.
Drake had said, "I'm going to sea with the Hawkins and view the
world," and, as John Hawkins was just about to sail for the West
Indies in six ships, the youthful and eager mariner was given an
opportunity to command a vessel called the _Judith_. The fleet at
first had good success. Slaves were captured upon the African coast
and were sold in the West Indies, though with difficulty, because the
Spaniards had been forbidden by their king to trade with the English.
Laden with treasure and spices, the ships were about to start for
home, when fearful storms beset them. Their beams were badly
shattered.
"We must seek a haven," cried Hawkins. "Ready about and steer for Vera
Cruz, the port of the City of Mexico! There we can buy food and repair
our fleet!"
"'Tis well," cried his men, and, aiming for the sheltering harbor,
they soon ploughed into the smooth water of the bay. But there was
consternation among the Spaniards of the town.
"We have treasure here," they whispered to each other. "See, those
English dogs have come to rob us! We must fight, brothers, and fight
hard to keep the cruel Islanders away." And they oiled their pistols
and sharpened their cutlasses upon their grindstones.
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS DRAKE.]
But luck was with the inhabitants of Vera Cruz. Next morning thirteen
careening galleys swept into the quiet waters of the bay and joy
shone in the black eyes of the Spaniards.
"It is a Mexican fleet," cried they. "It returns with a new Viceroy or
Governor, from good King Philip of Spain." And they laughed
derisively.
But in the breasts of Drake and Hawkins there was doubt and suspicion.
"They are sure to attack us," said Hawkins, moving among his men. "Let
every fellow be upon his guard."
The Spanish were full of bowings and scrapings. They protested their
deep friendship for the English and wished to be moored alongside.
"We are very glad to see you, English brothers," said one. "We welcome
you to the traffic and trade of the far East." So they peacefully
dropped anchor near the suspicious men of England, still smiling,
singing, and cheerfully waving a welcome to the none-too-happy
sailors.
"Avast," cried Francis Drake, "and sleep on your arms, my Hearties,
for to-morrow there'll be trouble, or else my blood's not British." He
was but a young man, yet he had guessed correctly.
As the first glimmer of day shone in the dim horizon, a shot awoke the
stillness of the morn. Another and another followed in rapid
succession. Then _boom!_ a cannon roared, and a great iron ball buried
itself in the decking of the _Jesus_; the flagship of gallant Hawkins.
"We're attacked," cried Drake. "Man the decks! Up sails and steer to
sea! Fight as you never fought before! Strike and strike hard for
dear old England!"
But his warning almost came too late, for two Spanish galleons ranged
alongside and swung grappling irons into his rigging in order to close
with the moving vessel. The Englishmen struck at them with oars and
hand-spikes, knocking the tentacles of the on-coming octopus aside,
and, with sails flying and shots rattling, the _Judith_ bore towards
the open sea.
The fight was now furious. Two of the English ships were sunk and the
_Jesus_, Hawkins' own boat, was so badly damaged that she lay
apparently helpless in the trough of the surging ocean.
"Back, my Hearties," cried Drake, "and we'll see what we can do to
save our gallant captain."
So back they sailed, and, firing their little cannon with rapidity,
soon held off the Spanish ship which threatened Hawkins himself with
capture. Some of the English sailors jumped into their boats and rowed
away, some gave in to the Spaniards, and some fought relentlessly.
Thus raged the battle until the evening.
As night fell, Drake ordered the _Judith_ to put to sea, Hawkins
followed, and wandering about in these unknown parts, with little
water and a scarcity of food, hunger forced the weary sailors to eat
hides, cats, dogs, mice, rats, parrots and monkeys.
"It was the troublesome voyage," wrote Hawkins, and such, indeed, it
had proved to be. Some of the sailors asked to be placed on land
rather than risk shipwreck and starvation in the overcrowded boat.
Some of them reached England after years of suffering and weary
journeying to and fro. Some were captured by the Spaniards and were
put to death as heretics. A few were sent to the galleys as slaves.
Others, more fortunate, were rowed ashore to serve in monasteries,
where the monks made kind and gentle masters.
And what of the youthful and danger-loving Drake? Five days before the
wind-swept _Jesus_ struggled into Plymouth harbor with Hawkins and a
famine-driven crew, Drake and his own adventurous Englishmen steered
the little _Judith_ to the rocky headland which hides this sheltering
refuge from the fury of the sea.
"I am indeed right glad to reach Merrie England again," said he, "for
we have had a rough and dangerous voyage. The Spaniards are
treacherous dogs. They betrayed us, and henceforth I, for one, shall
show them no quarter."
So saying he journeyed to London to see the good Queen Elizabeth.
"It is impossible for me to wage war upon Philip of Spain," said the
valiant Mistress of England's destinies, when she heard his story of
loss of kinsmen, friends and goods of great value. "I have a poor
country. The navy of my fathers has been ruined. I have no proper army
with which to avenge the treachery of Spain, and I have trouble with
both France and Scotland. If you would have revenge, take matters into
your own hands."
"Philip is the mightiest monarch in the world to-day," answered the
well-bronzed mariner, bowing low. "I am only a humble seafarer
without either ships or money, but, most gracious Majesty, I am going
to help myself in my quarrel with the King of Spain. From henceforth
there will be war to the death between myself and the men of the
south."
The good Queen smiled, for she truly loved a valiant man.
"May God be with you," said she.
It was not long before the danger-loving mariner was again headed for
the West Indies and the Spanish Main, with a crew of seventy-three men
and boys.
"We believe in our leader," said one. "He will take us on to fortune
and to fame." And this was the sentiment of all, for who does not love
a voyage after gold and treasure?
Ploughing relentlessly across the deep, the two ships which carried
these roving blades, reached the palm-clad West Indies in twenty-five
days. All were cheerful and gay, for before them was danger,
excitement, battle, and Spanish gold. "Lead on, Captain Drake," cried
one of the men. "We wish to land at Plymouth with our pockets stuffed
with Spanish dubloons."
"I'll take you to the seaport of Nombre de Dios," said the bluff sea
ranger. "There is gold and silver in this spot, and by the hogshead.
Furthermore," he added chuckling, "most of it will be in the hold of
our stout ships, the _Pascha_ and the _Swan_, before another moon."
So the sailors were drilled in attack and sword play, while arms were
distributed, which, up to now, had been kept "very fair and safe in
good casks." All were in a cheerful mood, for the excitement of
battle had begun to stir the hot blood in their veins.
Late in the afternoon, the pinnaces (which had been carried on deck)
were launched, and climbing aboard, the men of Merrie England set sail
for the Spanish town. They lay under the shore, out of sight, until
dark. Then they rowed with muffled oars to the shadows of the
precipitous cliffs which here jutted into the rolling ocean, and
quietly awaited the dawn.
At three in the morning, while the silvery light of a half moon was
just reddened with the first flush of dawn, the eager buccaneers
landed upon the sandy beach. "Hark!" cried a youth, "We are already
discovered."
As he spoke, the noise of bells, drums, and shouting, came to the
startled ears of the invaders.
"Twelve men will remain behind to guard the pinnaces," cried Drake.
"The rest must follow me and fight even to the last ditch. Forward!"