Part 6

Pisani was desperate.

"If Carlo Zeno does not come in forty-eight hours, the fleet may return to Lido," said he. "Meanwhile, keep your guns shooting at the enemy. We must make these Genoese feel that we shall soon attack in force."

But Pisani's heart was leaden. Where, yes, where was Zeno? New Year's Day came, and, by his promise, he must let the Venetians go. What did this mean for him? It meant the fall of Venice, the end of the Republic, the destruction of the population with all that they possessed. He--their idol, their leader for ten days--could no longer lead, for the Venetians could not bear a little cold and hardship for his sake. Sad--yes, sad, indeed--was the face of the stout seaman as he gave one last despairing glance at the horizon.

Ha! What was that? A thin, white mark against the distant blue! It grew larger and clearer. It was the sail of a galley. Another, and another, and another hove in sight,--eighteen in all, and driving along swiftly before a heavy wind. But, were they hostile, or friendly? That was the question. Was it Zeno, or were these more galleons of the Genoese? Then, joy shone in the keen eyes of Pisani, for the banner of St. Mark fluttered from the peak of the foremost ship, and floated fair upon the morning breeze. Hurrah! It was Carlo Zeno, the lion-hearted.

God speed brave Zeno! He had been twice wounded in fights along the coast, en route, but nothing could diminish his energy, or dampen his ardor. He had laid waste the Genoese coast; he had intercepted convoys of grain; he had harassed the enemy's commerce in the East, and he had captured a huge vessel of theirs with five hundred thousand pieces of gold. Marvellous Zeno! Brave, courageous Venetian sea-dog, you are just in the nick of time!

"Thanks be to Heaven that you have come," cried Pisani, tears welling to his eyes. "Now we will go in and take Chioggia. It means the end of the war for us. Again, I say, thanks be to Heaven."

With renewed hope and confidence the Venetians now pushed the siege. Seeing that their fleet could never escape, the Genoese started to dig a canal to the open sea, by which the boats could be brought off during the night. The work was begun, but Carlo Zeno discovered it in time. Volunteers were called for, a force was soon landed, and, under the leadership of Zeno, marched to intercept the diggers of this, the only means of escape.

"The Venetians are going towards 'Little Chioggia,'" cried many of the Genoese. "We must hasten there to stop them."

But Zeno had only made a feint in this direction. Throwing his main force in the rear of the Genoese, he soon began to cut them up badly. They were seized with a panic. They fled towards the bridge of Chioggia, trampling upon each other as they ran, pursued and slashed to ribbons by Zeno's men. The bridge broke beneath the weight of the fugitives and hundreds were drowned in the canal, while thousands perished near the head of this fateful causeway. It was a great and signal victory for Zeno; the intrepid sea-dog and campaigner on land.

This was a death blow. That night some of the garrison hastened to desert, and, as the siege progressed, the drinking water began to fail, the food gave out, and starvation stared the holders of Chioggia in the face. On the twenty-fourth of June the city surrendered; and four thousand one hundred and seventy Genoese, with two hundred Paduans--ghastly and emaciated--more like moving corpses than living beings--marched out to lay down their arms. Seventeen galleys, also, were handed over to the Venetians: the war-worn relics of the once powerful fleet which had menaced Venice itself.

As a feat of generalship, Pisani's blockade of the Genoese fleet is rivalled by Sampson's blockade of Cervera's squadron at Santiago in 1898, and the military operation by which Carlo Zeno tempted the garrison of Brondolo into the trap which he had set for them, and drove them, like a flock of sheep into Chioggia, by sunset, is surely a splendid feat of arms. All honor to this intrepid sea-dog of old Venice!

How fickle is Dame Fortune! Jealous of the reputation of this noble Venetian, the patricians, whose advice, during the war, he had consistently declined to follow; refused to make him a Doge of the City. It was thought that the election of the bravest captain of the day might be dangerous to the Republic. Instead of doing him honor, they imprisoned him; and was he not the noblest patriot of them all?

When over seventy years of age,--the greatest and truest Venetian--loaned a small sum of money to the Prince Carrara, once a power in Venetian politics. He had saved his country from destruction. He had served her with the most perfect integrity. Yet, he reaped the reward which fell to the share of nearly every distinguished Venetian; he was feared by the government; hated by the nobles whom he had out-stripped in honor, and was condemned to prison by men who were not worthy to loose the latchet of his shoes. Although he had often paid the mercenary soldiers to fight for Venice, in the War of Chioggia, from his own pocket, he was sent to jail for loaning money to an unfortunate political refugee.

When called before the Council of Ten on the night of the twentieth of January, 1406, the warrant for his examination authorized the use of torture. But even the Ten hesitated at this.

"He is a brave man," said one. "Pray allow him to go untouched."

The prisoner admitted that he had loaned the money. His explanation was both honorable and clear. But the Ten were obdurate that night.

"He shall go to the Pozzi prison for a year," said they. "Besides this, he shall suffer the perpetual loss of all offices which he has held."

Like a brave man, Carlo Zeno accepted the sentence without a murmur, and his sturdy frame did not suffer from the confinement. For twelve years longer he lived in perfect health; made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; commanded the troops of the Republic once again; defeated the Cypriotes, and died peacefully,--a warrior with a name of undiminished lustre, most foully tarnished by his own compatriots. His is a reputation of undying glory, that of his judges is that of eternal shame. All honor to Carlo Zeno, the valorous Venetian, who could fight a ship as well as a squadron of foot soldiers on land! Salve, Venetia!

"Dip the banner of St. Mark, Dip--and let the lions roar. Zeno's soul has gone above, Bow--a warrior's life is o'er."

HARKEE, BOYS!

Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the torrid, Spanish Main, Where the tarpons leap and tumble in the silvery ocean plain, Where the wheeling condors circle; where the long-nosed ant-bears sniff At the food the Jackie "caches" in the Aztec warrior's cliff.

Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout, Hurray for the life on the sea, Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike; Wild rovers we will be.

Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the men of Morgan's band, Of Drake and England--rascals--in the palm-tree, tropic land. I'll tell you of bold Hawkins, how he sailed around the Horn. And the Manatees went chuck! chuck! chuck! in the sun-baked, lazy morn.

Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout, Hurray for the life on the sea, Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike; Wild rovers we will be.

Harkee, Boys! You're English, and you come of roving blood, Now, when you're three years older, you must don a sea-man's hood, You must turn your good ship westward,--you must plough towards the land Where the mule-train bells go tink! tink! tink! and the bending cocoas stand.

Oh! You will be off on a galleon stout, Oh! You will be men of the sea, Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike; Wild rovers you will be.

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE

ROVER AND SEA RANGER