Chant of the Plymouth Dock-Hand

When the sobbing sea is squally,
Then,—look out for Walter Raleigh!
He’s the fellow whom Queen Bess is said to love.
He’s a reckless, handsome sailor,
With a ‘Vandyke’ like a tailor,
He can coo fond words of loving like a dove.
Faith! I like this gallant rover,
Who has ploughed the wild seas over,
Who has passed the grim and wild equator’s ring.
And I cheer, whene’er I view him,
For—my Boy—off Spain I knew him
When he trimmed the Spanish cruisers, like a King.”

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SIR WALTER RALEIGH

SIR WALTER RALEIGH
PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS
(1552-1618)
“When the sobbing sea is squally,Then,—look out for Walter Raleigh!He’s the fellow whom Queen Bess is said to love.He’s a reckless, handsome sailor,With a ‘Vandyke’ like a tailor,He can coo fond words of loving like a dove.Faith! I like this gallant rover,Who has ploughed the wild seas over,Who has passed the grim and wild equator’s ring.And I cheer, whene’er I view him,For—my Boy—off Spain I knew himWhen he trimmed the Spanish cruisers, like a King.”
—Chant of the Plymouth Dock-Hand.
BOYS! You have all heard about the Square Deal. Well—Here is the story of a man who didn’t get one.
Walter Raleigh was a brave man; he was an able seafarer; his younger manhood was spent in the midst of the most brilliant Royal Court which England has known. He proved his courage and military prowess in more than one bitterly contested battle-field and naval conflict. His love of his own land and his hatred of his enemies was ardent.
He was also a fellow of wit, and, as an author, took rank with the great literary lights of the Elizabethan [Pg 56] Age. He was an adventurer, and, in middle life, as well as in old age, braved the great deep and perils of savage lands in the magnificent attempt to make discoveries and to settle English colonies in the New World. Chivalrous in actions and feeling; of handsome person; graceful manners and courtly address; it is no wonder that he had a host of enemies: those fellows who couldn’t do anything worth while themselves, and wanted to “pull the other fellow down.” There are plenty of them around, to-day, doing the same thing in the same, old way.
As an Englishman he loved England to such an extent, that—upon the return from one of his numerous voyages—he dropped upon one knee and kissed the sand.
“My men,” said he to his followers, “I love this land as nothing else on earth!”
The hostility of his rivals subjected him to harsh ill treatment. It did not dampen his love for England.
The silly caprices of Queen Elizabeth, who—like most women—was swayed, not by her reason, but by her sentiments, made him suffer imprisonment. Yet, it did not dampen his love for England.
The terrible and bitter dislike of King James—who succeeded the Virgin Queen—finally led to his trial for treason; his execution; and his death.
Yet, it did not dampen his love for England.
If England can produce men of such a mold, nowadays, she will continue to be a mighty world power.
Do you think that you could be as patriotic as Sir [Pg 57] Walter Raleigh? Particularly if you were treated as he was treated? Think it over!
________________________________________
One day, the ancient palace of Greenwich, which stood on the banks of the Thames—a few miles below London—presented a lively and brilliant scene. Courtiers, arrayed in gorgeous colors and glittering ornaments, walked about, chattering gaily,—like a flock of sparrows. Fine, young cavaliers were there, attired in rich velvets, sparkling with gems, armed with gold-hilted swords. Grave statesmen wandered around,—with beards as white as their ruffles. Stately dames, with heavy and gaily trimmed trains, peered at the beautiful belles, and said:
“My, isn’t she a fright!” or
“Goodness, what dreadful manners the Duchess so-and-so has!”
Just as they do to-day. Times do not change.
Trumpets blared a fan-fa-rade and lines of soldiers gave forth inspiriting sounds, with many musical instruments. There was a stir and flutter in the crowd; and some one called out:
“She’s coming! Hats off to the Queen!”
So all the men took off their hats,—for they were courtiers, and it was their business to do so, whenever Her Royal Highness came around. Many of them didn’t like to do it but if they hadn’t done so, some spy would have cried out “Treason!” And they would have been hustled off to the Tower. You just bet they took off their hats!
Descending the broad flight of steps, with proud [Pg 58] and majestic mien, the tall and slender figure of Elizabeth—the maiden Queen of England—was seen approaching.
She was then in the mature ripeness of middle age, but she still preserved not a few remnants of the beauty of her youth. Her form was straight and well proportioned. Her large, blue eyes were yet bright and expressive; her complexion was still wonderfully fair and smooth. Her well arranged hair was luxuriant and was of a light red. A large, fan-like collar of richest lace rose from her slender neck, above her head behind; and her tresses were combed high from her forehead. Jewels blazed from her dress. Her attire was far more splendid than that of any of the ladies of her court.
As it happened, a heavy shower had just passed over, and little puddles of water stood all around upon the gravelled paths. Bursting through the fast-vanishing clouds, the sun cast its rays upon the trees still dripping with glittering drops; and upon the smiling Queen, who—surrounded by a gay group of courtiers—set forth upon a promenade through the park. She chatted affably with all. They tried to make themselves as agreeable as possible, for he who was most agreeable received the best plums from the Royal Tree. Politics haven’t changed any since that day.
The Queen walked on, playing with a beautiful, white greyhound, and, pretty soon she came to a muddy spot in the path.
“Zounds!” said she (or it may have been something stronger, for historians say that she could “swear [Pg 59] valiantly”). “Zounds! Now I will spoil my pretty shoes!”
“And also your pretty feet,” interjected a courtier. He received a smile for this compliment and the Queen mentally made a note of it,—for future use in the distribution of Court Favors.
She hesitated, looked around aimlessly, and stood still.
At this instant a young noble—six feet tall and elegantly attired—stepped forward; and, throwing aside his richly embroidered cloak, spread it over the muddy pool.
“Prithee, pass onward!” said he, bowing low.
Elizabeth was delighted.
“Good Walter Raleigh,” said she, smiling. “You are truly a gallant knight!” And she tripped gaily across the embroidered mantlet. “I will reward you right well for this!”
But the courtiers, the Ladies, and the Statesmen glanced with undisguised envy at the young gallant who had so readily pleased their Mistress; and they scowled at him as Elizabeth kept him at her side during the rest of her promenade. “The Beggar’s outdone us all!” said one. “Down with him!”
But they could not down Sir Walter just then. After awhile they had “their innings.”
Rough, vain, whimsical Queen Bess was fond of handsome, and especially of witty and eloquent young men. She grew more attached to Sir Walter Raleigh every day. He rapidly rose in power and influence, and, as a poet, became well known. His verses were [Pg 60] read in the luxurious halls of the palace with exclamations of delight, while the tales of his military exploits were eagerly repeated from mouth to mouth; for Raleigh had fought valiantly in France and had helped to suppress an insurrection in Ireland.
And still the jealous courtiers murmured among themselves.
Raleigh was appointed “Warden of the Stanneries,” or mines, in Cornwall and Devonshire, from which he derived, each year, a large income. He was made Captain of the Queen’s Guard. He was created Lord Lieutenant of Cornwall and Vice-Admiral of Devon. He received vast estates in Ireland and many privileges and licenses, so that he was fast becoming a rich man. He was splendid and extravagant in his dress. He grew arrogant. He had, in fact, “too much Ego in his Cosmos.”
So, the jealous courtiers continued to murmur among themselves.
Elizabeth was fickle as well as sentimental. Her fancy passed lightly from one gallant to another. For some time Leicester (who had once been her sole favorite, and who desired to regain his position) had been growing jealous of Raleigh’s ascendency; and he had been delighted to see that Queen Bess had taken a violent fancy to the impetuous Earl of Essex. A quarrel took place between Raleigh and the Ruler of England. He was affronted before the whole court and retired to his chambers, overwhelmed with grief.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
And all the jealous courtiers punched each other [Pg 61] beneath the ribs, and laughed “Ha! Ha! Ha! What did we tell you?”
It took the “Ego” out of Raleigh’s “Cosmos.”
But the gallant courtier had a half-brother—Sir Humphrey Gilbert—who had just returned from a voyage around the world in the good ship Golden Hind.
“Let’s fit out a small fleet,” said he to Raleigh, “and establish an English colony in Newfoundland.”
“I’m with you,” cried Sir Walter. “We’ll found another England in far distant America! On with it!”
Thus, an expedition of five ships sailed from Plymouth, in the early summer of 1583. Sir Humphrey boarded the Squirrel, and bade his kinsman an affectionate adieu.
“You must remain behind,” said he, “and regain our position at court!”
“That I will endeavor to do,” answered Raleigh. “Good luck and God speed.”
The expedition was a failure from the start. Scarcely had the shallops gone to sea, than one of them—the Raleigh—deserted its companions and put back. The rest reached Newfoundland, but the men were lawless and insubordinate.
“This is the Deuce of a cold place for a colony,” they said. “Home to Merrie England!”
Gilbert was forced to yield to their angry demands, and re-embarked.
“Don’t sail in that rattle-trap of a Squirrel,” said his officers to him. “She’ll founder!”
[Pg 62] But Sir Humphrey had that obstinacy which characterized General Braddock.
“No: I will not forsake the little company, going homeward,” said he. “I’ll stick to my ship.”
He stuck—and—when they hailed him one stormy night, he said:
“Be of good cheer, my friends: we are as near to Heaven by sea as by land!”
That night the Squirrel was sailing a little in advance of the other ships, and, as those on board the Golden Hind watched the frail barque, they saw her lurch, heave, and then sink from view. Thus the soul of brave Raleigh’s kinsman found a watery grave. He had paid for his obstinacy with his life.
Raleigh was overwhelmed with grief when he learned of the death of his heroic half-brother.
“I’ll yet found my Colony,” said he. “And I’ll go myself.”
This pleased the jealous courtiers more than ever, for they would now have him out of the way for all time.
With his ample wealth, the indefatigable adventurer found no difficulty in fitting out an expedition, and, in the year after the death of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, he sent forth two vessels to explore the coast of the Carolinas.
“I’m going to stay at home and face my enemies!” said the gay blade. “Again good luck and God Speed!”
They had a fortunate voyage, and, when they returned, the Captains told of the beautiful harbors, fine rivers, magnificent forests and abundance of game. [Pg 63] The Queen was delighted, and at once named the fair country for herself, with characteristic egotism. That men might know that this fruitful land was explored in the time of the Virgin Queen, it was called “Virginia.” Raleigh was wild with delight.
And the jealous courtiers looked dejected and sad.
A fleet of seven vessels—with one hundred colonists—was now sent to Virginia, under the command of one Grenville, who was eager to become suddenly rich: a disease as common now as in those venturous days. No sooner had the people landed, than they began to treat the savages with such harshness and rapacity—that they had to gain their own food, as the natives would have nothing to do with them. Dissensions tore the little community into shreds. So they were only too glad to return with the gallant old sea-dog, Sir Francis Drake, when he happened that way, with a large amount of booty which he had just taken from the Spaniards in the southern seas.
Another expedition was sent over by Raleigh; and yet another. They were failures. But there was one, single thing which was not a failure. This was the discovery of a herb called “Yppowoc,” or tobacco, the leaves of which—when dried—were smoked by the natives in long pipes.
Curious Sir Walter had a jeweller in London make him a silver pipe, after the fashion of those used by the native Virginians. In this he began to smoke the tobacco, and soon grew to like it very much; so much, indeed, that he was scarcely ever without this comforter, when enjoying the quiet of his home.
[Pg 64] One day he was sitting cosily by his fire with his Long Nine in his mouth, and the smoke was curling gracefully over his head. Just as he was puffing out a particularly thick cloud, one of his servants happened to enter the room with a tankard of ale, for the luncheon table.
“Ye Gods!” cried he. “My Master’s on fire!”
Swash!!
Over Sir Walter’s head went the ale, and the frightened lackey dashed down the steps.
“H-e-l-p! H-e-l-p!” cried he. “My Master is burning up! H-e-l-p!”
But Sir Walter did not burn up this time. Instead he near split his gallant sides with laughing.
Now, Boys, don’t smile! ’Tis said that good old Queen Bess tried, herself, to smoke a Long Nine. But—hush—“she became so dizzy and ill from the effects that she never ventured upon the experiment again!” (Keep this quiet! Very quiet! Will you!)
On one occasion she was watching Sir Walter blowing circles of smoke over his head, and said to him—
“Zounds! (or something stronger) Sir Walter! You are a witty man; but I will wager that you cannot tell me the weight of the smoke which comes from your pipe!”
“I can, indeed,” was the confident reply of the gallant courtier. “Watch me closely!”
At once he took as much tobacco as would fill his pipe and exactly weighed it. Having then smoked it up, he—in like manner—weighed the ashes.
[Pg 65] “Now, Your Majesty,” said he, smiling. “The difference between these two weights is the weight of the smoke.”
And again Queen Bess remarked “Zounds!” (or Eftsoons!). At any rate, she paid the wager, for—with all her frailties—she was a Good Loser.
Raleigh, in fact, shortly became reinstated in Royal favor, and, when he aided Drake and Hawkins—soon afterwards—in dispersing the Invincible Armada, he was again in the good graces of his sovereign.
There was, however, a pretty, young Maid-of-Honor at court, called Elizabeth Throgmorton, and no sooner had the bright eyes of Sir Walter fallen upon her, than he fell in love. In paying court to this amiable lady he was compelled to use great caution and secrecy, for jealous Queen Bess watched him narrowly, and with suspicion. In spite of her preference for Essex, Elizabeth was quite unwilling that Raleigh—her less favored lover—should transfer his affections to another. So, in making love to Elizabeth Throgmorton, the gay courtier was compelled to use the utmost care.
But Murder (or Love) will out!
It chanced one day, that the Queen discovered what was going on between her Maid-of-Honor and the cavalier. Her rage knew no bounds. She berated Raleigh before her ladies, and forbade him to come to court. She fiercely commanded the Maid-of-Honor to remain a prisoner in her room, and, on no account to see Raleigh again. So the venturous Knight turned his attention once more to wild roving upon the sea.
[Pg 66] Now the jealous courtiers fairly chuckled with glee. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed they. “Ho! Ho! Ho! He! He! He!”
But Sir Walter engaged very actively in fitting out some squadrons to attack the Spanish ships.
“Egad! I hate a Spaniard!” he said. “They are my country’s special enemies and I intend to do them all the harm that I can!”
The Queen was glad enough to separate him from his lady love and not only consented to his project, but promised to aid him in it. Ere long fifteen vessels were anchored in the Thames—all ready to sail—but, before he set out, the gallant commander made up his mind that he would marry his beloved Maid-of-Honor. It was not difficult to find a clergyman who would splice him tighter than he ever spliced a rope aboard ship. The deed was done. He set sail. All was going propitiously.
“I’ll attack the Spanish ships in the harbor of Seville,” said Raleigh. “Then—off to the Spanish Main and sack the town of Panama.” He laughed,—but what was that?
Rapidly approaching from the coast of England came a swift pinnace. It gained upon the squadron in spite of the fact that all sail was hoisted, and, at last came near enough to give Raleigh a signal to “Heave to.” In a few moments her commander climbed aboard.
“The Queen has changed her mind about your expedition,” said he. “She has sent me—Sir Martin Frobisher—to tell you to come home.”
[Pg 67] Raleigh said things which made the air as blue as the sea, but he put back—for he could not disobey the Royal command. He was soon at court.
The Queen was furious with anger.
“You have disobeyed my commands,” said she. “I find you have secretly married my Maid-of-Honor. To the Tower with you! To the dungeons of the Tower!”
And all the jealous courtiers were so happy that they danced a can-can in the ante chamber.
What do you think of this? Thrown into prison because he loved a Maid and married her! Nowadays “all the World loves a Lover.” In those times all the world might have “loved a Lover” except Queen Bess,—and a number of courtiers hanging around within easy call: They kicked a Lover. And then they all got together and said:
“Fine! Fine! Now we’ve got him where he ought to be. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho!”
But women relent; that is one of their chief characteristics. Queen Bess softened, grew lukewarm, finally became molten.
“Sir Walter Raleigh can go free,” said she.
The gallant courtier returned to his country estate, where—with his wife and children he enjoyed the luxuries and comforts of country life. And the jealous courtiers began to look strangely sober.
Still the sea called. The sea sang its old song, and, fired with the spirit of adventure, Sir Walter decided upon another expedition: this time to the coast of Guiana, in South America, where, it was said, “billets [Pg 68] of gold lay about in heaps, as if they were logs of wood marked out to burn.” With a large fleet at his command he soon started upon this expedition for plunder and for fame. This time no Sir Martin Frobisher sailed after him to bring him back to a dungeon in the Tower and he was able to reach his destination.
The expedition was a howling success. Whenever and wherever Sir Walter could inflict injury on the Spaniards, whom he so bitterly detested, he did so with eagerness. A Spanish ship was soon seen, chased, and—after a brief, hot fight—surrendered and was boarded.
“Egad!” cried Raleigh. “Here’s luck, for the cargo’s of fire arms. I’ll stow them away in my own vessel and let the captive go!”
Proceeding on his voyage, he not long afterwards encountered and captured another prize; a Flemish ship sailing homeward with a cargo of fine wine. Twenty hogsheads were transferred to the hold of Raleigh’s ship and the captured craft was allowed to sail on,—empty.
Things continued to go well. The Island of Trinidad (off Venezuela) was reached at last. The natives were friendly and told of vast deposits of gold far up the river Orinoco. “But would Raleigh not please besiege the Spanish town of St. Joseph?” said they, “and rescue some of their chiefs whom the Spaniards held prisoners—in chains.”
“I always strike a Spaniard when I can,” said Raleigh. “On, men, we’ll sack this proud city!”
St. Joseph speedily fell into his hands. The chiefs [Pg 69] were released. They were so gratified, that they paddled him far up the river, where they found glittering gold, which they tore out of rocks with their daggers. The Englishmen were delighted, and, collecting a mass of nuggets to show to those at home, they put back to the ships, set sail, and were soon in England again.
The people were astonished at this exploit, but the jealous courtiers did all they could to deprive Raleigh of the renown which was justly his due.
“What this fellow has told is a lie,” whispered they into the ears of good Queen Bess. “There is no such place as Guiana. Raleigh has been down upon the coast of Spain and hidden himself. He has not crossed the Atlantic at all.”
Which proves that no one can ever do anything adventurous without stirring up the hammers of the Envious: the Little Men. Is it not so to-day? Look around! You can hear the carping critic at any time that you may wish! Do something big, sometime. Then put your ear to the ground and listen!
But the sea called for the fifth time. A vast English fleet was hurled against the Spanish at Cadiz,—a great English fleet, accompanied by an army. England was bound to get even with the Spaniards for daring to launch the supposedly invincible Armada against them—and Sir Walter eagerly sailed for the coast of Spain.
The harbor of Cadiz was seen to be fairly jammed full of stately galleons and men-of-war. Arranged in compact rows, close to shore, just below the towering [Pg 70] and frowning castle of Cadiz; they were protected, on either side, by fortresses, whence heavy guns peeped forth to defend them. There were nearly sixty large vessels in all, four of which were galleons, and twenty of which were galleys: well-manned and well-armed with small cannon. There were many more ships than in the attacking fleet.
It was the evening of June the 20th, 1596. The British vessels rapidly sailed into the harbor, Raleigh leading, in the flagship, the Water Sprite; behind him the Mary Rose, commanded by his cousin, Sir George Carew; and the Rainbow under Sir Francis Vere. All were eager for the fray, and it was not long before their approach was observed by the Spanish fleet. Instantly a huge galleon, the Saint Philip—the largest in the Spanish Navy—swung out of her position, followed by the Saint Andrew, second only to her in size.
“They’re coming to meet me!” cried Raleigh—joyously.
Instead of that, the galleons sailed for a narrow strait in the harbor—followed by the rest of the Spanish fleet—and cast anchor just under the stout fortress of Puntal. They arranged themselves in close array and awaited the attack of the English.
The English fleet anchored, but at daybreak, the impetuous Raleigh bore down upon the formidable mass of hulking galleons. The sun rays streamed over the old, Spanish town, gilding the pinnaces and spires of the churches, shining brightly upon the flapping pennons of Britisher and Don. The white sails flapped, spars creaked and groaned, the sailors cheered, [Pg 71] and—in a moment—the cannon began to bark, like wolf hounds. The fight had begun.
Raleigh was the incarnation of battle. Passing rapidly from point to point upon the deck of his vessel, he encouraged and urged on his men, exposed himself as freely as the rest; and whenever a man faltered, there he appeared to urge the faint heart on with words of inspiration and hope.
Roar! Roar! Roar! Zoom! Zoom! Crash!
The arquebusses spittled and spat; cannon growled; and iron crashed into solid oak planking.
The orders were not to board until the fly-boats (long, flat-bottomed vessels with high sterns) came up, which were manned by Dutch allies. For three hours the battle raged, but the fly-boats did not arrive. The Earl of Essex—the commander of this expedition—now ordered his flagship to pass through the advance line of vessels, and make the way to the front. Raleigh was chafing with rage because the fly-boats did not come, yet, in spite of the danger of being shot, he jumped into a light skiff, and was rowed over to the galleon of Essex.
“I’ll board the Saint Philip,” cried he, “if the fly-boats do not soon arrive. Even though it be against the orders of the Admiral. For it is the same loss to burn, or to sink, and I must soon endure one or the other.”
“Go ahead!” yelled Essex, over the bow. “I’ll second you, upon my honor!”
Raleigh hastened with all speed to the deck of the Water Sprite, where his men were pounding away at [Pg 72] the Spanish galleons with all their might and main. No sooner had he mounted the poop, than he saw, with anger, that two vessels of his own squadron had forced themselves into a position in front of his own; for their commanders wanted to win first honors in this battle at sea.
Raleigh, himself, wished to have the honor, just like other sea captains in later battles. But,—that’s another story.
So, the gallant seaman ran the Water Sprite between the two other ships and took up his position as leader. Sir Francis Vere of the Rainbow was resolved to keep in front as well as Raleigh.
As the Water Sprite passed him he slyly cast a rope to a sailor, who tied it to her stern, and his own vessel thus kept abreast of the lumbering galley of his chief. “But,” writes Sir Walter, “some of my company advising me thereof, I caused the rope to be cast off, and so Vere fell back in his place, where I guarded him—all but his very prow—from the sight of the enemy. I was very sure that none would outstart me again for that day.”
The guns of the fort appeared to be silent and the big galleons lay apparently helpless in the face of the valiant enemy. Raleigh moved on, but, as he was about to clutch his splendid prize, it escaped him, for the Spaniards—finding that they would be captured—made haste to run the Saint Philip, and several of her sister ships, aground on the sand.
“Blow them up!” came the order.
The Spanish sailors and soldiers came tumbling out [Pg 73] of the ships into the sea in heaps—“as thick as if coals had been poured out of a sack into many pots at once.” Then a terrific roar boomed forth. The air was filled with flying splinters, canvas, iron, and lead. The portions of the galleons were now floating upon the waves and the water was alive with the struggling bodies of the Spaniards as they desperately endeavored to save themselves.
The spectacle was lamentable. Many drowned themselves. Many, half burned, leaped into the water; while others hung by the ropes’ ends; by the ships’ sides; under the sea, even to their lips. “If any man had a desire to see Hell, itself,” wrote Sir Walter, “it was there most lively figured!”
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
The English sailors were cheering, for victory was theirs, and of all the gallant warriors of that day, Raleigh had been the most persistently daring and heroic.
“The Saint Andrew’s still afloat, good Sire!” cried one of his sailors at this moment.
“Then we’ll take her!” cried Raleigh.
She was boarded and captured with little difficulty, while yet another galleon—the Saint Matthew—fell into his hands. These were the only vessels of all that proud Spanish fleet which had escaped the flames.
Raleigh, himself, had been severely wounded in the leg, but he refused to release the command of his ship. He gave orders that all lives should be spared, and although these mandates were rigidly obeyed by the English soldiers, the Dutch cruelly slaughtered many [Pg 74] of their hapless prisoners, for their hatred of the Spaniards was bitter and savage.
Cadiz had not yet fallen and Raleigh was determined to go on shore with the troops and witness the taking of the town, in spite of his wound. A litter was prepared for him—he was lowered into one of the boats—rowed ashore, carried upon the shoulders of some of his faithful soldiers, and witnessed the furious struggle which now ensued. Cadiz fell. Although the lives of the people were spared; the castle, fortifications and the greater part of the town itself, were burned and demolished. If you go there, to-day, you will still find the marks of this great and stirring strife.
There was nothing left but to put the Spanish prisoners aboard the galleons, collect the plunder, and set sail for England. When the fleet again swung into the little harbor of Plymouth it was received by the people with wildest enthusiasm and delight. All England rang with the praise of the valor and courage of her heroes, for Spain had been stripped of her ability to injure her English rival and England’s power was supreme upon the sea. Raleigh and his comrades had done this,—and the descendants of Raleigh and his comrades have continued to uphold the supremacy. Hurrah for Raleigh!
But how about those jealous courtiers? They were still around—Oh, yes!—And Raleigh was greeted at court as coldly as when he had departed with the fleet. He had been deprived of his office of Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and even his bravery at Cadiz did not win this back for him. Nor did he receive any [Pg 75] of the spoil which had been won by himself and his comrades. Even Queen Bess was angry because her share of the booty taken from Cadiz was not as great as she had hoped for.
“What the Generals have got,” wrote Sir Walter, “I know least. For my own part, I have got a game leg, and am deformed. I have received many good words and exceedingly kind and regardful usage; but I have possession of naught but poverty and pain.”
Not long afterwards the old Queen was persuaded to write Sir Walter to come to court, and thus he and his wife, whom Elizabeth had also forgiven, appeared daily in the brilliant throng which clustered in the halls and corridors of the Royal Palace. He was restored to his old office of Captain of the Queen’s Guard and rode forth again in all the splendor of his uniform, at the side of the sovereign.
The rest of Sir Walter’s life can be briefly narrated. With Essex he took part in a successful expedition to the Azores, where they captured many ships, and with him divided much booty and fame. But Essex became too ambitious and started a conspiracy to place himself upon the throne of England. It was a failure. He was captured by the Queen’s soldiers—a part under Sir Walter himself—was tried, and executed for High Treason.
Queen Bess soon died and was succeeded by a man who disliked Sir Walter from the start. This was James the First of Scotland—a “dour” fellow—who charged the valorous knight with treason, for it was alleged that he had conspired, with Lord Cobham, [Pg 76] to place the youthful Arabella Stuart upon the throne. He was tried, convicted, and thrown into the Tower, where he lived for twelve long, tedious years. Think of it! A fellow of his venturesome and restless spirit forced to remain in a dungeon-keep for such a time! Weep for brave Sir Walter! This was fine treatment for a patriot!
But the jealous courtiers did not weep. Oh no! They laughed.
When gallant Sir Walter was thrown into the Tower (for he had not plotted against the King) he was a hale and stalwart cavalier of fifty-two. He was released—after twelve years—when his hair and beard were grizzled, his face worn and wrinkled, his body somewhat bent, and his features grave and sorrowful. With what tearful joy he clasped to his breast his ever faithful wife and his two sons! At sixty-four his brave spirit was still unshaken; his ardent and restless ambition was as keen as ever.
He went forth with the sentence of death still hanging over his head; for King James, although giving a grudging consent to his release, had refused to pardon him. And he went forth with the understanding that he should lead an expedition to the coast of Guiana in South America; there to attack the Spaniards and gain plunder, gold, and jewels. If successful he was to go free. If non-successful, he was to suffer punishment—perhaps death!
The expedition was a failure. The Spaniards and natives were well aware of his coming, for ’tis said that King James, himself, sent them news of the expedition.
[Pg 77] “If I go home it’s off with my head,” said Sir Walter. “But I’ll risk it.”
Don’t you think if you had been Sir Walter, instead of sailing to England where you knew that a headsman’s axe awaited you, you would have coasted by the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and dropped off quietly where is the home of the canvas-back and the terrapin! Just stepped into one of the jolly-boats and peacefully drifted ashore on a dark night?
I think that you would have been strongly inclined to do so,—but you are not Sir Walter Raleigh. He was a lion-hearted adventurer.
Opportunity after opportunity came to him to escape to the shores of France. He let them go by, but, when he found that his enemies demanded his trial for treason, he thought it high time to get away. He learned that a French envoy had arranged to get him to France and had a barque for this purpose. A certain Captain King had found a small boat commanded by one of Sir Walter’s old boatmen, which lay at Tilbury awaiting his orders. It was arranged by Raleigh’s guard—one Stukeley—that he should be rowed to the little lugger on the evening of Sunday, August the 9th, 1618. The latter was sent up the Thames river to Gravesend.
At the hour designated, Raleigh, Captain King, Stukeley and his son Hart, with a page, jumped into two small wherries in order to row to the lugger. They had just shoved off, when keen Sir Walter saw another boat push out from the bank and follow them.
“How’s this?” said he to Stukeley.
[Pg 78] But silent Stukeley did not answer.
The boat rowed fast, but the pursuing craft moved with equal speed. The tide was singing and gurgling in a mad flow, and it became doubtful whether the wherries could reach Gravesend under the protection of darkness, for day was breaking, and the whirling water made progress very slow.
At last—seeing that they could not get away—the shallops were forced to turn about and retrace their passage. The pursuing boat swung, also—like a shadow of the first. Sir Walter’s heart beat tumultuously.
When the fugitives reached Greenwich—Stukeley stood up and appeared in his true colors. Laying a hand upon the shoulder of faithful Captain King, he cried—
“I arrest you in the name of our Monarch, James First!”
Raleigh looked around in anger and dismay.
“Stukeley,” he said with heat, “you are a trait’rous cur. These actions will not turn out to your credit!”
But the knave laughed derisively,—so derisively that the common people dubbed him “Sir Judas Stukeley.” And it well suited him. Didn’t it?
The boatmen rowed directly to the Tower and the boat which had pursued the wherries—which contained a courtier named Herbert (to whom Stukeley had betrayed the projected escape)—followed them close. The soldiers in her (for they had been well hidden) escorted the dejected Sir Walter to the grim walls of the dungeon.
[Pg 79] There was now no hope for that gallant adventurer: the man had brought honor and renown to England. He was tried for Treason: condemned: executed.
As he stood waiting for the axe to fall, he said:
“I have many sins for which to beseech God’s pardon. For a long time my course was a course of vanity. I have been a seafaring man, a soldier, and a courtier; and, in the temptations of the least of these there is enough to overthrow a good mind and a good man. I die in the faith professed by the Church of England. I hope to be saved, and to have my sins washed away by the precious blood and merits of our Saviour, Jesus Christ.”
A quick shudder ran through the multitude when Sir Walter had ceased to live, and many groaned aloud at the horrible sight. One stout yeoman cried out angrily, “We have not had such another head to be cut off.”
The crowd separated slowly, muttering and crying out against the enemies of the valiant man; while his friends, who were present, parted with tears coursing down their cheeks.
And the jealous courtiers said: “Magnificent!” It was now their turn to shout. And they did it, too.
________________________________________
So, you see, Sir Walter Raleigh’s patriotism was paid for by death. The trouble with him was, he was too much of a man.
Nowadays—when a soldier or sailor does something for England—they give him a Hip! Hip! Hurray!
[Pg 80] He is appreciated. He is presented with titles, honors, and a warm reception.
Then, when a man did something for England, those in power gave him the cold shoulder; the icy stare.
That’s the reason why England’s sons will do something for her now. If she had kept treating them as she did Sir Walter Raleigh she wouldn’t have many of them around when it came to a fight. And, some day, she’ll need them all!
So when a fellow does something really great, don’t greet him with frozen silence. Cheer! He needs it! Besides,—it won’t hurt you!
Give a tiger and three times three!
________________________________________
THE VANISHED SAILORS
Say, sailors, what’s happened to young Bill Jones?Jones of Yarmouth; the bright-cheeked boy?Jones who could handle a boat like a man,Jones, who would grapple a smack like a toy?
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Ahoy!”
Well, sea-dogs, where’s Thompson of Yarmouthport dock?The chap who could outwit old Hawkins, they say,The man with th’ knowledge of charts and of reefs,There wasn’t his equal from Prawle to Torquay.
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, to-day!”
Where’s Rixey of Hampton; Smith of Rexhill?Who’d coasted and traded from London to Ryde,Huggins and Muggins, all seamen of worth,Who could jibe and could sail, sir, when combers were wide?
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Last tide!”
[Pg 81] Well, seamen, when that day shall come near,When the salt sea is moved from its bed,Some will there be, who can give us the news,Of all that brave band, whom Adventure has ledTo
“Fall o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, ’tis said

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CARLO ZENO HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC (1344-1418)

“Paradise is under the shadow of swords.”—Mahomet.

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 [Pg 4] 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 [Pg 5] 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 [Pg 6] 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 [Pg 7] 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 [Pg 8] 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.”

[Pg 9] 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, [Pg 10] 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, [Pg 11] 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 [Pg 12] 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 [Pg 13] 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 [Pg 14] 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. [Pg 15] 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 [Pg 16] 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. [Pg 17] 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 [Pg 18] 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.”


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!

[Pg 20] 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.

[Pg 21] “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.”

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Οθωμανοί Πειρατές

Πολλά έχουν γραφτεί για την άσκηση της πειρατείας στην κεντρική και δυτική Μεσόγειο και την οργάνωση του δουλεμπορίου στη βόρεια Αφρική. Ελάχιστα όμως γνωρίζαμε για την πειρατεία στις ελληνικές θάλασσες μετά την εμφάνιση των Οθωμανών Τούρκων στο Αιγαίο πέλαγος το 1390. Από τότε δηλαδή τοποθετείται ουσιαστικά η αρχή της οθωμανικής κυριαρχίας και η προσπάθεια επικράτησης στα ελληνικά πελάγη με τη χρησιμοποίηση μουσουλμάνων πειρατών.

Η πειρατεία ήταν προηγουμένως ενοχλητική και επικίνδυνη, αλλά ποτέ δεν είχε τη μορφή και την έκταση πληγής που είχε τους 15ο και 16ο αιώνες.
Γιατί τότε η Οθωμανική Αυτοκρατορία υπέθαλψε και χρησιμοποίησε άμεσα και έμμεσα τους Τούρκους πειρατές για την αύξηση της σφαίρας επιρροής της στο θαλάσσιο χώρο της Μεσογείου.
Άμεσα, γιατί υποχρεωτικά επάνδρωνε τα καράβια του στόλου της με το δυναμικό των Τούρκων πειρατών της Μικράς Ασίας· έμμεσα, γιατί υποθάλποντας τη δράση των μουσουλμάνων πειρατών καταπονούσε τη δύναμη των χριστιανών αντιπάλων της και έκανε ζωντανή την παρουσία της σε όλη τη Μεσόγειο.
Οι πιο γνωστοί πειρατές ήταν ο Κεμάλ ρέις, ο Καρακασάν, ο αδελφός του Καραδορμής, οι Κούρτογλου και άλλοι.

Η στάση της Πύλης απέναντι στην πειρατεία μπορεί σε πρώτη ματιά να φανεί αντιφατική ή πάντως όχι ξεκαθαρισμένη.
Όμως στην πραγματικότητα ήταν μία και ενιαία: η Πύλη καταδίωκε τους Τούρκους πειρατές, μικρούς ή μεγάλους, όταν η δράση τους ήταν υπερβολικά ανεξάρτητη και ασκούσαν πειρατεία μόνον για το προσωπικό τους όφελος, όταν ενεργούσαν σαν επαναστάτες στην ηγεμονία της.
Αντίθετα, τους υποστήριζε και τους προστάτευε όταν δέχονταν να ενταχθούν στην υπηρεσία του επίσημου οθωμανικού στόλου.
Το 1497 ο μεγάλος πειρατής Κεμάλ Ρέις χωρίς συζήτηση δέχτηκε να ενταχθεί στη δύναμη του επίσημου οθωμανικού στόλου. Σε περίοδο ειρήνης ο σουλτάνος ακολουθούσε πολιτική ανοχής των μουσουλμάνων πειρατών γιατί η δράση τους καταπονούσε και εξασθένιζε τα αντίπαλα χριστιανικά κράτη.

Στις σχέσεις Οθωμανών πειρατών-Πύλης υπήρχε μία αλληλεξάρτηση. Γιατί οι πειρατές όσο περισσότερο ισχυροί γίνονταν και πολλαπλασίαζαν τα μεγέθη του στόλου τους τόσο μεγαλύτερη ανάγκη είχαν την Πύλη και το σουλτάνο.
Δεν μπορούσαν απαρατήρητοι να αρματώσουν την άνοιξη και να ξαρματώσουν το χειμώνα τα σκάφη τους σε ασφαλές οθωμανικό έδαφος ούτε να τα επανδρώσουν με λεβέντες.
Είχαν ανάγκη την ανοχή και προστασία του σουλτάνου ή άλλων ισχυρών εκπροσώπων της περιφερειακής διοίκησης της αυτοκρατορίας. Παράλληλα η Πύλη και οι κατά τόπους πασάδες στηρίζονταν στις ικανότητες των λεβέντηδων.

Υπήρχε όμως και ένας άλλος παράγοντας: το κέρδος. Οι σαντζάκ μπέηδες των παράλιων περιοχών της Μικράς Ασίας αλλά και οι πασάδες στην Κωνσταντινούπολη ήταν οι κύριοι χρηματοδότες των πειρατικών επιχειρήσεων.
Με τα κεφάλαια που διέθεταν χρηματοδοτούσαν όχι μόνο το νόμιμο εμπόριο, αλλά και την επικερδέστερη πειρατεία. Τα κέρδη τους δεν ήταν μόνον οικονομικά αλλά και πολιτικοστρατιωτικά.
Διέθεταν ιδιόκτητη ναυτική προστασία. Με αυτήν επέβαλλαν τη θέλησή τους και έκαναν εγγραφές και για το μέλλον. Βέβαια η κατασκευή και συντήρηση κωπήλατων σκαφών, κατάλληλων για άσκηση πειρατείας, και η επάνδρωσή τους με άνδρες τολμηρούς και επιδέξιους, ο στοιχειώδης εφοδιασμός αρχικά με όπλα και τρόφιμα προϋπέθεταν κεφάλαια.
Γι' αυτό ορμητήρια των Τούρκων πειρατών ήταν τα προφυλαγμένα λιμάνια των ανατολικών και νότιων παραλίων της Μικράς Ασίας, γύρω από τη Σμύρνη και την Αττάλεια. Οι σαντζάκ μπέηδες ήταν οι χρηματοδότες τους. Εκεί συγκέντρωναν και τα προϊόντα της λείας.

Επίκεντρο των επιθέσεων ήταν πρώτα απ' όλα τα νησιά του Αρχιπελάγους. Όταν το 1416-1420 ο μοναχός Μποντελμόντι (Buondelmonti) περιηγήθηκε τα νησιά του Αιγαίου, αναφέρει ότι πολλά ήταν ακατοίκητα και στα άλλα οι κάτοικοι ζούσαν στην αθλιότητα και τον τρόμο.
Στη Σύρα οι κάτοικοι τρέφονταν με ψωμί από χαρούπια και κρέατα τράγου. Στη Σίφνο οι άνδρες ήταν ελάχιστοι· αντιστοιχούσε ένας άνδρας σε 16 γυναίκες. Στην Άνδρο και τη Νιό οι κάτοικοι διανυκτέρευαν μέσα σε πύργο ή φρούριο για το φόβο των επιδρομών.
Το 1479, 400 ξεκληρισμένες οικογένειες της Σαντορίνης κατέφυγαν στην Κρήτη, μη μπορώντας να υποφέρουν τους σεισμούς και τις πειρατικές επιδρομές. Οι πειρατές τους 14ο-16ο αι., ακόμη και το 17ο, λεηλατούσαν όχι μόνον τα πλεούμενα αλλά και τα παράλια και νησιά ολόκληρα.
Αποβίβαζαν άνδρες και προχωρούσαν στο εσωτερικό των περιοχών σκλαβώνοντας τους κατοίκους και αρπάζοντας τα γεννήματα και τα ζώα. Ανάγκαζαν έτσι τους πληθυσμούς να εγκαταλείπουν ομαδικά τα παράλια και να δημιουργούν νέους οικισμούς σε κρυφές και απόκρημνες τοποθεσίες.

Οι ομαδικές αιχμαλωσίες των πληθυσμών δημιούργησαν στο Αιγαίο οξύ δημογραφικό και κοινωνικό πρόβλημα. Το 1475 οι Τζουστινιάνι (Justi-niani) της Χίου αποφάσισαν τη μεταφορά όλων των κατοίκων της Σάμου και των Ψαρών στη Χίο. Εκατό χρόνια έμεινε έρημη η Σάμος. Αλλά και οι άλλοι πληθυσμοί που παρέμεναν στις αρχικά οχυρωμένες θέσεις ζούσαν με το φόβο και τη μιζέρια.
Δεν τολμούσαν να παράξουν περισσότερα αγαθά από τα αναγκαία, γιατί ήταν βέβαιοι ότι θα τα άρπαζαν οι πειρατές. Η πειρατεία εμπόδισε την εντατική καλλιέργεια της γης και την ανάπτυξη του εμπορίου και της ναυτιλίας. Καλλιέργησε κλίμα αδράνειας και εσωστρέφειας.
Παράλληλα η συνεχής απειλή των πειρατών και η επιθυμία επιβίωσης ώθησαν τα δυναμικά στοιχεία του ελληνικού πληθυσμού στην εξωμοσία και τον εξισλαμισμό. Πολλοί Έλληνες μικροπειρατές αλλαξοπίστησαν. Το πιο κλασικό παράδειγμα ήταν των αδελφών Βαρβαρόσσα.

Οι αδελφοί Βαρβαρόσσα, Έλληνες από τη Μυτιλήνη, γιοι τσουκαλά και εγγονοί παπά, όχι μόνον αλλαξοπίστησαν αλλά και αντελήφθησαν από την αρχή το πρόβλημα της εξάρτησης από πασάδες.
Μόλις αύξησαν τη δύναμή τους σε πλοία, διέρρηξαν την εξάρτηση από τοπικούς παράγοντες, άσκησαν επικερδώς πειρατεία στην κεντρική Μεσόγειο και εγκαταστάθηκαν στην Μπαρμπαριά, όπου δημιούργησαν μία ανεξάρτητη δύναμη, όχι μόνο πειρατική αλλά και πολιτική, εκμεταλλευόμενοι την εχθρότητα των Μαυριτανών του Αλγερίου με τους Ισπανούς. Ένα κράτος που διατηρήθηκε 300 χρόνια.
Ο μεγαλύτερος ο Αρούτζ (Arudj), ο επιλεγόμενος Βαρβαρόσσας, γιατί αυτός είχε κόκκινα μαλλιά και γένια, εξέδωσε νομίσματα που έφεραν τη μορφή του.
Πέθανε το 1518 και τον διαδέχθηκε ο αδελφός του Χέζρ (Hezr), ο επιλεγόμενος Χαϊρεντίν. Πιο διπλωμάτης από τον αδελφό του, αναγνώρισε την επικυριαρχία του σουλτάνου, που τον διόρισε μπεηλέρμπεη του Αλγερίου.
Με τους συντρόφους του άσκησε ευρείας έκτασης πειρατεία στη δυτική Μεσόγειο και αποκόμισε τεράστια κέρδη και φήμη.
ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΑ ΚΡΑΝΤΟΝΕΛΛΗ

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Πειρατεία στο Αρχιπέλαγος

Η ναυμαχία της Ναυπάκτου υπήρξε σταθμός στις σχέσεις Ανατολής-Δύσης. Οι ενωμένοι χριστιανικοί στόλοι διέλυσαν το στόλο των Οθωμανών. Οι Έλληνες δυστυχώς υποχρεώθηκαν να μετέχουν ως πληρώματα και στις δύο παρατάξεις. Έχασαν πολύτιμο ανθρώπινο υλικό. Οι χριστιανικές δυνάμεις δεν θέλησαν να εκμεταλλευτούν τη συντριπτική νίκη και να προχωρήσουν σε επίθεση κατά της Τουρκίας. Αδράνησαν. Όμως ένα άλλο ισχυρό δυναμικό που ξεπήδησε από τη βάση εκμεταλλεύτηκε το γεγονός: οι χριστιανοί πειρατές και κουρσάροι. Ξεχύθηκαν στις θάλασσες της Ανατολής που δεν τολμούσαν πριν να πλησιάσουν και άσκησαν καταδρομές με το μανδύα του Ιερού πολέμου, χρηματοδοτούμενοι από τις ισχυρές οικονομικές δυνάμεις. Είχαν πάψει να φοβούνται τους Τούρκους.
Έφθαναν κατά κύματα Μαλτέζοι, Φλωρεντινοί, Σικελοί, Ναπολιτάνοι, Ισπανοί, Κορσικανοί. Είχαν καπετάνιους, πιλότους, πληρώματα Έλληνες που συνέτασσαν τους πορτολάνους των ελληνικών παραλίων, όπου επρόκειτο να δράσουν.
Το σημαντικότερο είναι ότι τα χριστιανικά πλοία, στα οποία υπηρετούσαν Έλληνες, γίνονταν δεκτά με αγάπη από το νησιωτικό πληθυσμό και έδιναν σαφείς πληροφορίες στους κουρσάρους, ενώ αντίθετα παραπλανούσαν με ψεύτικες ειδήσεις τις προϊστάμενες αρχές.

Οι επιδρομές, εντατικές και αλλεπάλληλες, επαναλαμβάνονταν κάθε χρόνο. Κύριος στόχος τους ήταν η καραβάνα, η νηοπομπή εμπορικών πλοίων που επέστρεφε από την Αίγυπτο κομίζοντας το χαράτσι και πλούσια προϊόντα ανεφοδιασμού της Κωνσταντινούπολης και άλλων αστικών κέντρων.
Οι επιτυχείς καταδρομές προκάλεσαν άνοδο στις τιμές των αγαθών. Το 1608 τα λάφυρα μόνον των 8 ιστιοφόρων της Φλωρεντίας ανέρχονταν σε 1.000.000 δουκάτα. Είναι χαρακτηριστικό ότι η μεγάλη δούκισσα της Τοσκάνης, πριγκίπισσα Χριστίνα της Λορένης, επένδυσε τα χρήματα της προίκας της σε πειρατικά ιστιοφόρα και ανέθεσε στο Γάλλο πειρατή Ζακ Πιέρ (Jacques Pierre) να κουρσεύει με τα εμβλήματά της.

Οι συνέπειες των χριστιανικών επιδρομών μετά το 1571 ήταν μακροχρόνιες αλλά σημαντικές. Η Πύλη φοβήθηκε από τις επιθέσεις των Δυτικών κουρσάρων. Έτσι η διοικητική εποπτεία στο νησιωτικό χώρο έγινε υποτυπώδης και το 17ο αιώνα οι νησιωτικές κοινότητες κατόρθωσαν να οργανωθούν και να αυτοδιοικούνται.
Οι κάτοικοι τόλμησαν να επανοικήσουν τα λιμάνια και τις εύφορες πεδινές εκτάσεις. Κατασκεύασαν καΐκια και καλλιέργησαν τη γη. Οι οθωμανικές αρχές χρησιμοποίησαν συστηματικά τα ελληνικά καΐκια για τις θαλάσσιες μεταφορές τους προς τα λιμάνια της οθωμανικής επικράτειας. Από τη Μαύρη Θάλασσα μέχρι την Αλεξάνδρεια.
Δύο είναι λοιπόν οι ευνοϊκές συνέπειες της ξένης πειρατείας για τους Έλληνες: η οργάνωση της κοινοτικής αυτοδιοίκησης ήδη από το 17ο αιώνα και η δραστηριοποίηση της μικρής ελληνικής ναυτιλίας.

Οι Έλληνες επωφελήθηκαν από τον πειρατικό πυρετό για να ασκήσουν οι ίδιοι πειρατεία μικρής έκτασης και τοπικού χαρακτήρα, γιατί δεν διέθεταν κεφάλαια ούτε σημαία προστασίας.
Οι Μανιάτες παράλληλα με την πειρατεία ξηράς ασκούσαν πειρατεία στη θάλασσα με φελούκες και βάρκες στις γειτονικές περιοχές τους. Στο διάστημα του 25ετούς Κρητικού πολέμου (1645-1669) οι Βενετοί επιζητούσαν από τους Μανιάτες τη διάσπαση του τουρκικού αποκλεισμού και τον ανεφοδιασμό τους με πολεμικά εφόδια και τρόφιμα, όπως και την πειρατική δραστηριότητα των Σφακιανών στα νότια της Κρήτης.
Το 1667 μανιάτικα πειρατικά αναμίχθηκαν με τα τουρκικά πλοία που πολιορκούσαν τον Χάνδακα και κατόρθωσαν να πυρπολήσουν μέρος του οθωμανικού στόλου. Δέκα άνδρες συνελήφθησαν από το βεζίρη Αχμέτ Κιοπρουλή και ανασκολοπίστηκαν.
Πρότεινε στους Μανιάτες να τους προσλάβει στην υπηρεσία του, με διπλό μισθό, αλλά αυτοί αρνήθηκαν. Προτιμούσαν να ασκούν πειρατεία ελεύθεροι και να συχνάζουν στη Φολέγανδρο, όπου κοιμούνταν στο δάπεδο μιας παραθαλάσσιας εκκλησίας.
Τότε συνέλαβε ο βεζίρης τον Λυμπεράκη Γερακάρη, που από κωπηλάτης στις βενετικές γαλέρες είχε εξελιχθεί σε φοβερό πειρατή με ιδιόκτητο πλοίο. Οι Μανιάτες τα λάφυρά τους τα μετέφεραν στη Μάνη. Στο Οίτυλο γινόταν εκτεταμένο εμπόριο δούλων και τροπαίων των θαλάσσιων επιδρομών.

Μετά το τέλος του πολέμου οι τουρκικές αρχές δεν μπορούσαν να επιβληθούν στις νησιωτικές περιοχές, να αποκαταστήσουν την τάξη.
Ζούσαν με το φόβο των χριστιανών πειρατών, κυρίως Γάλλων ιπποτών της Μάλτας. Ο καδής της Μήλου δεν παραμένει το χειμώνα στο νησί γιατί στον μεγάλο κόλπο της Μήλου συχνάζουν και διαχειμάζουν πειρατές. Το 1671 έτρεψαν σε φυγή τον τουρκικό στόλο.
Στην Κίμωλο πολλοί Γάλλοι και Μαλτέζοι πειρατές, λησμονώντας τις νόμιμες γυναίκες τους, είχαν παντρευτεί ντόπιες ή συζούσαν ελεύθερα μαζί τους. Από την εκποίηση λαφύρων είχαν αγοράσει γη και οι γυναίκες την καλλιεργούσαν. Οι Μανιάτες συνεργάζονταν με τους Γάλλους πειρατές, ιδιαίτερα με τον Κρεβιλιέ (Creviliers), που επεδίωκε μία μόνιμη εγκατάσταση στα ελληνικά εδάφη.

Παράλληλα με τους Μαλτέζους πειρατές δρούσαν στο Αιγαίο στα τέλη του 17ου αιώνα μεγάλα πειρατικά ιστιοφόρα που ανήκαν σε κεφαλαιούχους, εμπόρους δούλων, του Λιβόρνο.
Οι καπετάνιοι ήταν διαφόρων εθνικοτήτων, Κορσικανοί, Προβηγκιανοί, Άγγλοι, Ολλανδοί, και τα πληρώματα προέρχονταν από τα αποβράσματα των λιμανιών της Μεσογείου.
Άρπαζαν σκλάβους καταδιώκοντας Έλληνες καραβοκύρηδες στη θάλασσα και με συστηματικές αποβάσεις στη Ρόδο, την Κύπρο, τη Συρία. Οι εφοπλιστές κέρδιζαν εκμεταλλευόμενοι τους σκλάβους χωρίς να διακινδυνεύουν οι ίδιοι στην πειρατεία.

Οι Έλληνες στους τρεις αιώνες της Τουρκοκρατίας αντιμετώπισαν πολλές μορφές πειρατικών επιδρομών τουρκικών και χριστιανικών, πρωτόγονων και οργανωμένων. Αντέδρασαν σε κάθε περίπτωση διαφορετικά. Υποχρεώθηκαν να αλλαξοπιστήσουν, μετανάστευσαν, οχυρώθηκαν σε απόμακρες θέσεις, συμμάχησαν με όσους το ζητούσαν οι περιστάσεις.
Αλλά πέτυχαν παρόλα αυτά να επιζήσουν, να οργανώσουν κοινοτική αυτονομία, να αφομοιώσουν τα ξένα στοιχεία και κυρίως να μάθουν να ταξιδεύουν στις ανοιχτές θάλασσες, όπως θα αποδείξει η δράση τους το 18ο αιώνα.
ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΑ ΚΡΑΝΤΟΝΕΛΛΗ

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Παρουσίαση του Μονόφθαλμου στην Άρτα

Παρασκευή, 30 Οκτωβρίου 2009, 8:30 μμ
Οι Εκδόσεις Καστανιώτη και το βιβλιοπωλείο Η πολυθρόνα του Νίτσε σας προσκαλούν στην παρουσίαση του νέου βιβλίου της Κατερίνας Καριζώνη Ο Μονόφθαλμος και άλλες πειρατικές ιστορίες. Για την συγγραφέα και το έργο της θα μιλήσουν οι Ελπιδοφόρος Ιντζέμπελης, συγγραφέας-βιβλιοκριτικός και Φίλιππος Φιλίππου, συγγραφέας.
Βιβλιοπωλείο Η πολυθρόνα του Νίτσε Φιλελλήνων 26-28 Άρτα , 26810 77631

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H Πρώτη Πειρατική Εφημερίδα

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