This man was called, from his wily but inexorable temper, Il Bizarro,
_i.e._ the Bizar. He was captain of a gang of banditti, whom he governed
by his own authority, till he increased them to 1000 men, both on foot
and horseback, whom he maintained in the mountains of Calabria, between
the French and Neapolitans, both of which he defied, and pillaged the
country. High rewards were set upon his head, to very little purpose, as
he took care to guard himself against being betrayed by his own gang,
the common fate of those banditti who become great in their vocation. At
length a French colonel, whose name I have forgot, occupied the country
of Bizarro, with such success that he formed a cordon around him and his
party, and included him between the folds of a military column.
Well-nigh driven to submit himself, the robber with his wife, a very
handsome woman, and a child of a few months old, took a position beneath
the arch of an old bridge, and, by an escape almost miraculous, were not
perceived by a strong party whom the French maintained on the top of the
arch. Night at length came without a discovery, which every moment might
have made. When it became quite dark, the brigand, enjoining strictest
silence on the female and child, resolved to steal from his place of
shelter, and as they issued forth, kept his hand on the child's throat.
But as, when they began to move, the child naturally cried, its father
in a rage stiffened his grip so relentlessly that the poor infant never
offended more in the same manner. This horrid [act] led to the
conclusion of the robber's life.
His wife had never been very fond of him, though he trusted her more
than any who approached him. She had been originally the wife of another
man, murdered by her second husband, which second marriage she was
compelled to undergo, and to affect at least the conduct of an
affectionate wife. In their wanderings she alone knew where he slept for
the night. He left his men in a body upon the top of an open hill, round
which they set watches. He then went apart into the woods with his wife,
and having chosen a glen--an obscure and deep thicket of the woods,
there took up his residence for the night. A large Calabrian sheepdog,
his constant attendant, was then tied to a tree at some distance to
secure his slumbers, and having placed his carabine within reach of his
lair, he consigned himself to such sleep as belongs to his calling. By
such precautions he had secured his rest for many years.
But after the death of the child, the measure of his offence towards the
unhappy mother was full to the brim, and her thoughts became determined
on revenge. One evening he took up his quarters for the night with these
precautions, but without the usual success. He had laid his carabine
near him, and betaken himself to rest as usual, when his partner arose
from his side, and ere he became sensible she had done so, she seized
[his carabine], and discharging [it] in his bosom, ended at once his
life and crimes. She finished her work by cutting off the brigand's
head, and carrying it to the principal town of the province, where she
delivered it to the police, and claimed the reward attached to his head,
which was paid accordingly. This female still lives, a stately,
dangerous-looking woman, yet scarce ill thought of, considering the
provocation.
The dog struggled extremely to get loose on hearing the shot. Some say
the female shot it; others that, in its rage, it very nearly gnawed
through the stout young tree to which it was tied. He was worthy of a
better master.
The distant encampment of the band was disturbed by the firing of the
Bizarro's carabine at midnight. They ran through the woods to seek the
captain, but finding him lifeless and headless, they became so much
surprised that many of them surrendered to the government, and
relinquished their trade, and the band of Bizarro, as it lived by his
ingenuity, broke up by his death.
A story is told nearly as horrible as the above, respecting the cruelty
of this bandit, which seems to entitle him to be called one of the most
odious wretches of his name. A French officer, who had been active in
the pursuit of him, fell into his hands, and was made to die [the death]
of Marsyas or Saint Polycarp--that is, the period being the middle of
summer, he was flayed alive, and, being smeared with honey, was exposed
to all the intolerable insects of a southern sky. The corps were also
informed where they might find their officer if they thought proper to
send for him. As more than two days elapsed before the wretched man was
found, nothing save his miserable relics could be discovered.