Coming out of Porto-Vecchio, and turning north-west towards the centre
of the island, the ground is seen to rise very rapidly, and, after three
hours' walk by tortuous paths, blocked by large boulders of rocks, and
sometimes cut by ravines, the traveller finds himself on the edge of a
very broad _mâquis_, or open plateau. These plateaus are the home of the
Corsican shepherds, and the resort of those who have come in conflict
with the law. The Corsican peasant sets fire to a certain stretch of
forest to spare himself the trouble of manuring his lands: so much the
worse if the flames spread further than is needed. Whatever happens, he
is sure to have a good harvest by sowing upon this ground, fertilised by
the ashes of the trees which grew on it. When the corn is gathered, they
leave the straw because it is too much trouble to gather. The roots,
which remain in the earth without being consumed, sprout, in the
following spring, into very thick shoots, which, in a few years, reach
to a height of seven or eight feet. It is this kind of underwood which
is called _mâquis_. It is composed of different kinds of trees and
shrubs mixed up and entangled as in a wild state of nature. It is only
with hatchet in hand that man can open a way through, and there are
_mâquis_ so dense and so thick that not even the wild sheep can
penetrate them.
If you have killed a man, go into the _mâquis_ of Porto-Vecchio, with a
good gun and powder and shot, and you will live there in safety. Do not
forget to take a brown cloak, furnished with a hood, which will serve as
a coverlet and mattress. The shepherds will give you milk, cheese,
chestnuts, and you will have nothing to fear from the hand of the law,
nor from the relatives of the dead, except when you go down into the
town to renew your stock of ammunition.
When I was in Corsica in 18-- Mateo Falcone's house was half a league
from this _mâquis_. He was a comparatively rich man for that country,
living handsomely, that is to say, without doing anything, from the
produce of his herds, which the shepherds, a sort of nomadic people, led
to pasture here and there over the mountains. When I saw him, two years
after the event that I am about to tell, he seemed about fifty years of
age at the most. Imagine a small, but robust man, with jet-black, curly
hair, an aquiline nose, thin lips, large and piercing eyes, and a deeply
tanned complexion. His skill in shooting passed for extraordinary, even
in his country, where there are so many crack shots. For example, Mateo
would never fire on a sheep with swanshot, but, at one hundred and
twenty paces, he would strike it with a bullet in its head or shoulders
as he chose. He could use his gun at night as easily as by day, and I
was told the following example of his adroitness, which will seem almost
incredible to those who have not travelled in Corsica. A lighted candle
was placed behind a transparent piece of paper, as large as a plate, at
eighty paces off. He put himself into position, then the candle was
extinguished, and in a minute's time, in complete darkness, he shot and
pierced the paper three times out of four.
With this conspicuous talent Mateo Falcone had earned a great
reputation. He was said to be a loyal friend, but a dangerous enemy; in
other respects he was obliging and gave alms, and he lived at peace with
everybody in the district of Porto-Vecchio. But it is told of him that
when at Corte, where he had found his wife, he had very quickly freed
himself of a rival reputed to be equally formidable in love as in war;
at any rate, people attributed to Mateo a certain gunshot which
surprised his rival while in the act of shaving before a small mirror
hung in his window. After the affair had been hushed up Mateo married.
His wife Giuseppa at first presented him with three daughters, which
enraged him, but finally a son came whom he named Fortunato; he was the
hope of the family, the inheritor of its name. The girls were well
married; their father could reckon in case of need upon the poniards and
rifles of his sons-in-law. The son was only ten years old, but he had
already shown signs of a promising disposition.
One autumn day Mateo and his wife set out early to visit one of their
flocks in a clearing of the _mâquis_. Little Fortunato wanted to go with
them, but the clearing was too far off; besides, it was necessary that
someone should stay and mind the house; so his father refused. We shall
soon see that he had occasion to repent of this.
He had been gone several hours and little Fortunato was quietly lying
out in the sunshine, looking at the blue mountains, and thinking that on
the following Sunday he would be going to town to have dinner at his
uncle's, the corporal,[1] when his meditations were suddenly interrupted
by the firing of a gun. He got up and turned towards that side of the
plain from which the sound had proceeded. Other shots followed, fired at
irregular intervals, and each time they came nearer and nearer until he
saw a man on the path which led from the plain to Mateo's house. He wore
a pointed cap like a mountaineer, he was bearded, and clothed in rags,
and he dragged himself along with difficulty, leaning on his gun. He had
just received a gunshot in the thigh.
This man was a _bandit_ (Corsican for one who is proscribed) who, having
set out at night to get some powder from the town, had fallen on the way
into an ambush of Corsican soldiers.[2] After a vigorous defence he had
succeeded in escaping, but they gave chase hotly, firing at him from
rock to rock. He was only a little in advance of the soldiers, and his
wound made it out of the question for him to reach the _mâquis_ before
being overtaken.