This is the John Smith of... Pocahontas fame. I can't access all the pages I need in his works at Amazon or Google books, so I'm copying here the ‘Greek’ part of his story from a boys' magazine (Boys' Life, Sept 1928). But I'd love to be able to read that part of his story in his own words. (Not that he is considered to be a very reliable source as far as his own exploits are concerned.)
To make a long story short: “First he fled northward to Muscovy, then to Poland, and finally back to the Holy Roman Empire. Before returning to England, Smith completed this phase of his adventures with a tour of Germany, France, Spain, and Morocco; he also took part in a sea fight off the African coast. Smith returned to England in 1605.”
http://www.bookrags.com/biography/john-smith/
The print is from:
http://www.sonofthesouth.net/revolutionary-war/explorers/captain-john-smith.htm
Captain John Smith, wounded and unconscious, lay among the dead.
As the Tartars rushed about the battlefield, robbing the dead and slitting the throats of Christians who still lived, they came upon Smith, and by his rich armor judged him to be some great nobleman, worth a goodly ransom. He was severely wounded, and all but dead, but they cared for him tenderly, dressing his wounds and nursing him back to strength. A dead nobleman would be of no use to them; one in good health might bring much money. These things were to be considered in those days. Discovering that Smith was no nobleman, after all, and that no one would ransom him, the Tartars made the best of the matter by selling him in the slave market of Axiopolis. He was bought by Bashaw Bogall and sent to the bashaw’s “faire mistress” in Constantinople. “By twentie and twentie, chained by the neckes, they marched in files to this great citie, where they were delivered to their several masters,” Smith going to the young noblewoman, Charatza Tragabigzanda.
Bashaw Bogall, wishing to be admired by Charatza, sent her word that Smith was a Bohemian lord whom he himself, by great prowess, had overcome in battle. Certainly this fine-looking slave, with his courtly manner, well might pass for a nobleman. Indeed, the fair Charatza soon found herself quite forgetting Bashaw Bogall and becoming more than interested in this elegant young Englishman, her slave, with whom she could converse in Italian.
Admiration was never displeasing to Smith. Just now it was especially gratifying, for could he gain the friendship of Charatza, she might help him to escape. With his usual love of the truth, however, he told her that he was not a Bohemian lord and never had seen the Bashaw Bogall until he had wrestled in the slave-market to show his strength before being purchased. He was an Englishman who had won a captaincy by his valor in the Transylvanian wars, and he had been captured only when desperately wounded in Wallachia.
This merely added to Charatza’s interest in the young hero. In fact, she was fast falling in love with him. She sought every excuse to keep him beside her, even feigning illness that she might be left alone, with her favorite slave to wait upon her.
But Charatza’s mother was becoming alarmed. Her young daughter, a noblewoman, in love with a foreigner, an infidel, and a slave? She threatened to be rid of the Englishman forthwith; and Charatza, to save Smith until she should come of age and be her own mistress, sent him—closely guarded, of course—to her brother, the Timour Bashaw, in far-away Cambia, one of the provinces of Tartary. In her letter to her brother, Charatza made the mistake of revealing her affection for the handsome young slave, and intimating her intention when she came of age. This infuriated Timour, even more than it had alarmed the girl’s mother. Far from cherishing the slave, helping him to become familiar with the language and customs of the Turks, as Charatza had requested, the Timour set in to humiliate and degrade and punish him in every possible way; to be as brutal as it was possible for a Turkish overlord to be to a Christian slave.
He had Smith’s face and head shaved bare; he stripped oft his fine clothing and dressed him in a single garment made of a goat’s skin, tied round the waist with a strip of rawhide; he had a heavy yoke of iron “with a long stalke bowed like a sickle” riveted about his neck. He then put him to work with other slaves and convicts and made him “slave of slaves to them all.” But this, Smith says, made little difference, “for the best was so bad a dog could hardly have lived to endure.” As the days and weeks and months dragged by, Smith never for a moment lost hope of escape. Not thus, in his boyhood days by the sea in Lincolnshire, had he planned to spend his life, a prisoner and a slave of slaves, lashed mercilessly by a cruel Turk. He plotted with fellow-slaves, but found no encouragement from them. They declared that escape was impossible; if they attempted it they would only be caught and flayed alive. In their long bondage their spirits had been crushed: they were willing to accept their terrible fate. But never would Smith’s spirit be broken. He would watch his chance and make his plans alone.
An opportunity came unexpectedly. “God,” says this good young Christian, “beyond man’s expectation or imagination, helpeth his servants when they least thinke of help, as it hapned to him.” Smith was not the man to let opportunities pass him by.
For several days he had been threshing grain, with other slaves, at a country place some distance from the Timour’s castle. The threshing was done by beating the grain out with a great bludgeon or club wielded by the slave. The Timour frequently rode over to watch the work, and he never left without showing his especial hatred for this Christian slave by giving him a lash or two across the head.
But the brutal Timour was to give one lash too many. One day when he rode up, Smith was working alone, the other slaves being out of sight. The Timour jumped off his horse, and with no more ado set in to lash Smith. Without a moment’s thought, Smith raised his threshing club and beat out the Timour’s brains.
Now, indeed, he must escape.
Even in so exciting a moment as this, however, the young Englishman remained cool-headed enough to put on the Timour’s clothes, hide the body beneath a straw pile so it would not too soon be found, fill his knapsack with corn, close the doors, and then mount the Timour’s horse and ride calmly away as the Timour would have ridden. Once out of sight, he lost no time.
For three days he rode wildly, not knowing in which direction to go, always fearing he might meet some one, the telltale yoke of a slave still riveted about his neck.
But the brave and resourceful Captain John Smith was to be saved for yet other exploits of great daring, other deeds which would send his name down through the centuries. He came out upon one of the highways which had guideposts at all the crossroads. As few people could read, the posts were marked with signs. “A picture of the sunne” indicated the road to China; “a blacke man, full of white spots,” showed the road to Persia; a half-moon, that to Tartary; while a cross marked the road leading to Russia.
As the Tartars rushed about the battlefield, robbing the dead and slitting the throats of Christians who still lived, they came upon Smith, and by his rich armor judged him to be some great nobleman, worth a goodly ransom. He was severely wounded, and all but dead, but they cared for him tenderly, dressing his wounds and nursing him back to strength. A dead nobleman would be of no use to them; one in good health might bring much money. These things were to be considered in those days. Discovering that Smith was no nobleman, after all, and that no one would ransom him, the Tartars made the best of the matter by selling him in the slave market of Axiopolis. He was bought by Bashaw Bogall and sent to the bashaw’s “faire mistress” in Constantinople. “By twentie and twentie, chained by the neckes, they marched in files to this great citie, where they were delivered to their several masters,” Smith going to the young noblewoman, Charatza Tragabigzanda.
Bashaw Bogall, wishing to be admired by Charatza, sent her word that Smith was a Bohemian lord whom he himself, by great prowess, had overcome in battle. Certainly this fine-looking slave, with his courtly manner, well might pass for a nobleman. Indeed, the fair Charatza soon found herself quite forgetting Bashaw Bogall and becoming more than interested in this elegant young Englishman, her slave, with whom she could converse in Italian.
Admiration was never displeasing to Smith. Just now it was especially gratifying, for could he gain the friendship of Charatza, she might help him to escape. With his usual love of the truth, however, he told her that he was not a Bohemian lord and never had seen the Bashaw Bogall until he had wrestled in the slave-market to show his strength before being purchased. He was an Englishman who had won a captaincy by his valor in the Transylvanian wars, and he had been captured only when desperately wounded in Wallachia.
This merely added to Charatza’s interest in the young hero. In fact, she was fast falling in love with him. She sought every excuse to keep him beside her, even feigning illness that she might be left alone, with her favorite slave to wait upon her.
But Charatza’s mother was becoming alarmed. Her young daughter, a noblewoman, in love with a foreigner, an infidel, and a slave? She threatened to be rid of the Englishman forthwith; and Charatza, to save Smith until she should come of age and be her own mistress, sent him—closely guarded, of course—to her brother, the Timour Bashaw, in far-away Cambia, one of the provinces of Tartary. In her letter to her brother, Charatza made the mistake of revealing her affection for the handsome young slave, and intimating her intention when she came of age. This infuriated Timour, even more than it had alarmed the girl’s mother. Far from cherishing the slave, helping him to become familiar with the language and customs of the Turks, as Charatza had requested, the Timour set in to humiliate and degrade and punish him in every possible way; to be as brutal as it was possible for a Turkish overlord to be to a Christian slave.
He had Smith’s face and head shaved bare; he stripped oft his fine clothing and dressed him in a single garment made of a goat’s skin, tied round the waist with a strip of rawhide; he had a heavy yoke of iron “with a long stalke bowed like a sickle” riveted about his neck. He then put him to work with other slaves and convicts and made him “slave of slaves to them all.” But this, Smith says, made little difference, “for the best was so bad a dog could hardly have lived to endure.” As the days and weeks and months dragged by, Smith never for a moment lost hope of escape. Not thus, in his boyhood days by the sea in Lincolnshire, had he planned to spend his life, a prisoner and a slave of slaves, lashed mercilessly by a cruel Turk. He plotted with fellow-slaves, but found no encouragement from them. They declared that escape was impossible; if they attempted it they would only be caught and flayed alive. In their long bondage their spirits had been crushed: they were willing to accept their terrible fate. But never would Smith’s spirit be broken. He would watch his chance and make his plans alone.
An opportunity came unexpectedly. “God,” says this good young Christian, “beyond man’s expectation or imagination, helpeth his servants when they least thinke of help, as it hapned to him.” Smith was not the man to let opportunities pass him by.
For several days he had been threshing grain, with other slaves, at a country place some distance from the Timour’s castle. The threshing was done by beating the grain out with a great bludgeon or club wielded by the slave. The Timour frequently rode over to watch the work, and he never left without showing his especial hatred for this Christian slave by giving him a lash or two across the head.
But the brutal Timour was to give one lash too many. One day when he rode up, Smith was working alone, the other slaves being out of sight. The Timour jumped off his horse, and with no more ado set in to lash Smith. Without a moment’s thought, Smith raised his threshing club and beat out the Timour’s brains.
Now, indeed, he must escape.
Even in so exciting a moment as this, however, the young Englishman remained cool-headed enough to put on the Timour’s clothes, hide the body beneath a straw pile so it would not too soon be found, fill his knapsack with corn, close the doors, and then mount the Timour’s horse and ride calmly away as the Timour would have ridden. Once out of sight, he lost no time.
For three days he rode wildly, not knowing in which direction to go, always fearing he might meet some one, the telltale yoke of a slave still riveted about his neck.
But the brave and resourceful Captain John Smith was to be saved for yet other exploits of great daring, other deeds which would send his name down through the centuries. He came out upon one of the highways which had guideposts at all the crossroads. As few people could read, the posts were marked with signs. “A picture of the sunne” indicated the road to China; “a blacke man, full of white spots,” showed the road to Persia; a half-moon, that to Tartary; while a cross marked the road leading to Russia.
To make a long story short: “First he fled northward to Muscovy, then to Poland, and finally back to the Holy Roman Empire. Before returning to England, Smith completed this phase of his adventures with a tour of Germany, France, Spain, and Morocco; he also took part in a sea fight off the African coast. Smith returned to England in 1605.”
http://www.bookrags.com/biography/john-smith/
The print is from:
http://www.sonofthesouth.net/revolutionary-war/explorers/captain-john-smith.htm
