to the stories of those wild sea robbers! Listen to the tales of the adventurous pillagers of the rolling ocean! And—as your blood is red and you, yourself, are fond of adventure—ponder upon these histories with satisfaction, for these stalwart seamen
“Fought and sailed and took a prize
Even as it was their right,
Drank a glass and kissed a maid
Between the volleys of a fight.
Don’t begrudge their lives of danger, You are better off by far, But, if war again comes—stranger, Hitch your wagon to their star.”
Charles H. L. Johnston.
The bugle calls to quarters,
The roar of guns is clear,
Now—ram your charges home, Lads!
And cheer, Boys! Cheer!
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344–1418)
“Paradise is under the shadow of swords.”—Mahomet.
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344–1418)
Zeno, noble Zeno, with your curious canine name,
You shall never lack for plaudits in the golden hall of fame,
For you fought as well with galleys as you did with burly men,
And your deeds of daring seamanship are writ by many a pen.
From sodden, gray Chioggia the singing Gondoliers,
Repeat in silvery cadence the story of your years,
The valor of your comrades and the courage of your foe,
When Venice strove with Genoa, full many a year ago.
THE torches fluttered from the walls of a burial vault in ancient Venice. Two shrouded figures leaned over the body of a dead warrior, and, as they gazed upon the wax-like features, their eyes were filled with tears.
“See,” said the taller fellow. “He has indeed led the stalwart life. Here are five and thirty wounds upon the body of our most renowned compatriot. He was a true hero.”
“You speak correctly, O Knight,” answered the other. “Carlo Zeno was the real warrior without fear and without reproach. He has fared badly at the hands of the Republic. But then—is this not life? Those most worthy seem never to receive their just compensation during their living hours. It is only when they are dead that a tardy public gives them some recognition of the great deeds which they have done, the battles which they have fought, and the honor which they have brought to their native land. Alas! poor Zeno! He—the true patriot—has had but scant and petty praise.”
So saying the two noble Venetians covered the prostrate form of the dead warrior—for they had lifted the brown robe which enshrouded him—and, with slow faltering steps, they left the gloomy chamber of death.
Who was this Venetian soldier, who, covered with the marks of battle, lay in his last sleep? Who—this hero of war’s alarms? This patriotic leader of the rough-and-ready rovers of the sea?
It was Carlo Zeno—a man of the best blood of Venice—who, commanding fighting men and fighting ships, had battled strenuously and well for his native country.
The son of Pietro Zeno and Agnese Dandolo, this famous Venetian had been well bred to the shock of battle, for his father was for some time Governor of Padua, and had won a great struggle against the Turks, when the careening galleys of the Venetian Squadron grappled blindly with the aggressive men of the Ottoman Empire. There were ten children in the family and little Carlo was named after the Emperor Charles IV, who sent a retainer to the baptism of the future seaman, saying, “I wish the child well. He has a brave and noble father and I trust that his future will be auspicious.”
Little Carlo was destined for the Church, and, with a Latin eulogium in his pocket (which his Venetian school-master had written out for him) was sent to the court of the Pope at Avignon. The sweet-faced boy was but seven years of age. He knelt before the prelate and his retainers, reciting the piece of prose with such precision, grace, and charm, that all were moved by his beauty, his memory, his spirit, and his liveliness of person.
“You are indeed a noble youth,” cried the Pope. “You shall come into my household. There you shall receive an education and shall be a canon of the cathedral of Patras, with a rich benefice.”
But little Carlo did not remain. Although dressed like a mimic priest and taught with great care, the hot blood of youth welled in his veins and made him long for a life more active and more dangerous. So he looked about for adventure so thoroughly that he was soon able to have his first narrow escape, and a part in one of those many brawls which were to come to him during his career of war and adventure.
Sent by his relations to the University of Padua, he was returning to Venice from the country, one day, when a man leaped upon him as he walked down a narrow road.
“Who are you?” cried Carlo fearfully.
But the fellow did not answer. Instead—he struck him suddenly with a stout cudgel—knocked him senseless on the turf, took all the valuables which he had, and ran silently away into the gloom.
Little Carlo came to his senses after many hours, and, staggering forward with weakened steps, reached Mestre, where kind friends dressed his wounds.
“I shall catch this assailant,” cried he, when he had revived. “He shall rue the day that he ever touched the person of Carlo Zeno.” And forthwith he secured a number of bloodhounds with which to track the cowardly ruffian of the highway.
Luck was with the future commander of the galleons and fighting men. He ran the scurvy assailant to earth, like a fox. He captured him, bound him and handed him over to the justice of Padua—where—for the heinousness of the offense—the man was executed. So ended the first conflict in which the renowned Carlo Zeno was engaged—successfully—as did most of his later battles.
Not long afterwards young Zeno returned to his studies at the University, but here—as a lover of excitement—he fell into bad company. Alas! he took to gambling, and frittered away all of his ready money, so that he had to sell his books in order to play. The profit from these was soon gone. He was bankrupt at the early age of seventeen.
Ashamed to go home, the future sea rover disappeared from Padua and joined a fighting band of mercenaries (paid soldiers) who were in the employ of a wealthy Italian Prince. He was not heard of for full five years. Thus, his relatives gave him up for dead, and, when—one day—he suddenly stalked into the house of his parents, his brothers and sisters set up a great shout of wonder and amazement. “Hurrah!” cried they, “the dead has returned to his own. This is no ghost, for he speaks our own native tongue. Carlo Zeno, you shall be given the best that we have, for we believed that you had gone to another world.”
Pleased and overwhelmed with affection, young Carlo stayed for a time with his family, and then—thinking that, as he had been trained for the priesthood, he had best take charge of his canonry of Patras—he went to Greece.
“Hah! my fine fellow,” said the Governor, when he first saw him, “I hear that you are fond of fighting. It is well. The Turks are very troublesome, just now, and they need some stout Venetian blood to hold them in check. You must assist us.”
“I’ll do my best,” cried Zeno with spirit, and, he had not been there a week before the Ottomans swooped down upon the city, bent upon its demolition. The young Venetian sallied forth—with numerous fighting men—to meet them, and, in the first clash of arms, received such a gaping