This is the 26th instalment of #deanehistory. It’s a request job: thank you, @KingBobIIV!

Thomas Pellow, from Cornwall, was 11 years old when he was serving in the summer of 1715 as a cabin boy on a ship captained by his uncle.
They sailed across the Bay of Biscay & at had reached Cape Finisterre when captured by Barbary pirates.

(Perhaps the most successful pirates in history. Threats by Barbary corsairs to US shipping were directly responsible in part for the creation of the US Navy.)
Pellow became a slave of Sultan Moulay Ismail Ben Sharif.

The Sultan was not known for kindness. Once, the story goes, he came with his army to river with no bridge. Having prisoners with him, he ordered them killed & their bodies lashed together to fashion a bridge from them.
The Sultan gave Thomas to his son, Muley Spha, who promptly tortured him until he converted to Islam.

Shortlived success, Muley Spha– the Sultan ordered Thomas to be sent to learn Arabic; when his son refused said order the Sultan had him killed on the spot. In front of Thomas.
So when he was asked if he’d like to become a soldier for the Sultan, Pellow said… oh, yes, please. And, as it happens, he learned Arabic PDQ.
He became a leading light in the Sultan’s elite fighting corps of European slaves. Most, like him, seized as children & raised in an indoctrinated system.

Pellow fought in 3 campaigns, often leading fellow slaves into battle, & once leading a slave-capturing expedition himself.
He bided his time & eventually escaped, aboard a ship bound for Gibraltar.

When he arrived there, he was initially barred from disembarking – because he was taken to be a Barbary pirate. Which, in a sense, he was.
He had spent 23 years of his life in captivity, in service to the Sultan.

On his return home to Cornwall, he could not recognise his own parents – and, for their part, they only “recognised” him as they had been told of his impending return.
He was an alien in the land to which he had longed to return for two decades, and likely more at home in the land from which he’d devoutly wished to flee.
What’s today’s lesson? It’s hard to see one. Home isn’t always home. Harder still: sometimes, no matter how much we wish it to be different, there *is* no “home” anymore.
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