[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 ca.n.a.l, 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.blest 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 n.o.bles 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 st.u.r.dy 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 l.u.s.tre, 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 cutla.s.s; 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 cutla.s.s; 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 cutla.s.s; 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 bra.s.s, A song of Spanish galleons, Foul-bottomed as they pa.s.s.

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 gla.s.ses 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--anch.o.r.ed 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e," 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 l.u.s.ty 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.