Famous Privateersmen and Adventurers of the Sea.

by Charles H. L. Johnston.

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 ma.s.s 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 pa.s.sed by. The privateersman was a gentleman adventurer, a protected pirate, a social highwayman of the waters. He throve, grew l.u.s.ty, 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 windla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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!

CARLO ZENO

HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

(1344-1418)

Zeno, n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.ble 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 a.s.sailant," 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 a.s.sailant 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 a.s.sist 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 G.o.d 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 hara.s.s his adversaries, that they abandoned the enterprise, at the end of six months; made peace; and retired.