THE COUNTRY OF SERAFINO AND MASSONI.
The next morning, at half-past seven, we left pretty Belgodere among
its wild hills, saying good-bye to the simple-hearted proprietors of
the clean little rooms, to the courteous old octogenarian, and to the
four cats.
All night long the nightingales had been shouting, from under a clear
sky, through our open windows; but the clouds began to lower as we
started, and a showery day ensued.
For several hours we continued mounting towards the Col Colombano,
the cultivated Basse Balagne lying at our feet, and the noblest views
of sea and mountain constantly before us. Belgodere was at no mean
elevation; and, as we mounted higher and still higher amongst the
"everlasting hills," ranges of mountains of every colour lay, one
behind the other, before us--red, blue and purple--some veiled in half
mists, and some shining with a far-away sunlight,--separated from us by
miles of grey atmosphere.
Over our heads and under our feet, great white masses of cloud were
constantly passing hurriedly, often wrapping us in a fine rain, and
hiding from us, for a few moments, everything but their own chilly grey
curtain.
At the summit of the Col the sun broke out for a few minutes, and lit
up a most magnificent view. It seemed as if we could go no higher.
Everything lay beneath us, to the very edge of the distant soft
horizon, and the hush of Nature in her solitude and her solemnity fell
gently over sea and land and sky.
Not a sound was to be heard among those lonely hills; and yet the
silence was eloquent, as is always such a summer silence up in the
heights.
"For when the eloquent is mute,
Silence itself is eloquent.
It is the dam upon the river,
Whereon the waters press for ever,
By their own fulness pent."[1]
The road at the Col split into two; and, taking the inland one, we
began at once to descend rapidly, leaving behind us the magnificent
views and the blue sky, and turning into monotonous green hills,
sloping down to a river bordered by willows, and a colourless
sky, whose leaden clouds were discharging themselves with a quiet
persistence that denoted their "staying" properties.
Our mid-day halt was at Ponte alle Lecchia, where the river, widening
out and dashing in white foam, throws itself over boulders of bright
green porphyry under a handsome bridge. Ponte alle Lecchia is an
inconsiderable village, but it is the junction between the Bastia and
Calvi roads, and every diligence stops here on the road from Bastia
to Corte. The little inn, before which we stopped, was wretched and
filthy, and they had absolutely nothing in the house but bread and
sardines, for which they charged us a high price. I say "nothing," for
I mean nothing eatable by civilized people. We were, as usual, offered
bacon and cheese; but, as the first was raw, and the second could have
been smelt a quarter of a mile off, these we declined.
We made, however, a good fire of blazing sticks on the open hearth,
and, surrounded by the curious eyes of all the inmates of the inn,
guests or otherwise, dried our soaked garments.
The hills between Belgodere and Ponte alle Lecchia were the home of the
celebrated bandit Serafino.
Serafino was a man of war, as is every bandit; but he appears to have
been of gentlemanly manners. His death occurred about thirty years
ago, and many stories are preserved of his courtesy to women, and his
protection of the poor. The Corsican bandit, as a rule, never robs: he
is supported, either by the produce of his flocks, which he brings in
by night to his native village, or by the voluntary contributions of
his relations.
But, on one occasion, when Serafino found it absolutely necessary that
he should possess himself of a pair of new boots, he demanded them with
so much courtesy from a solitary officer of gendarmerie, not fully
armed, that that individual must have felt the loss of his property
almost compensated for by the genteel politeness of the robber.
Serafino never permitted the poor to be molested, and it is related of
him that he one day pursued and slew with his own hand a thief, who,
under the false cover of his dreaded name, had deprived a peasant of
his wallet,--restoring his possessions to the poor traveller.
Serafino, although a bandit pursued incessantly by the law, did not
find sufficient excitement in his skirmishes with the French gendarmes,
and kept up a lively vendetta on his own account with a fellow-bandit
named Massoni.
On one of these occasions on which the brother bandits chanced to
meet each other in the lonely maquis, Massoni's shot took effect, and
deprived his enemy thenceforth of one of his fingers.
About the year 1850, Serafino met with the almost invariable end of
the bandit. He was shot dead by the soldiers whilst lying asleep in his
cave, having been betrayed by some villagers.
With all other bandits, he was hunted from hill to hill like a wild
beast by the gendarmes, who showed no mercy and gave no quarter to
the men who would have scorned to receive it, and whose whole life was
spent in outwitting and murdering them and their companions.
Wonderfully brave, and even noble hearted, were many of these Corsican
bandits; and it seems sad that apparently a mere chance of life should
throw splendid qualities, an indomitable energy, and dauntless courage,
into the cause of murder and vagabondism.
Massoni, the enemy of Serafino, roamed about the same fastnesses, and
originally belonged to a Balagna family.
He was by birth a gentleman, and brave as a lion; but the unhappy
vendetta had driven him from his home, believing himself a righteous
avenger, but pursued by the gendarmes as a murderer.
For many years he lived amongst the mountains of La Haute Balagne, in
company with his brother and another bandit called Arrighi, keeping the
French police at bay, and in their frequent contests killing numbers of
their pursuers.
The trio were supported by their relations, and were surrounded by
friendly shepherds. But treachery, incited by a rough action, overtook
them at last.
Massoni was one day visited by a friend from his own village in
Balagna, who came to ask his advice and assistance regarding the
revenge to be taken on a man of position who had insulted his family.
Massoni, wishing to treat his guest hospitably, requested a lamb from
a friendly shepherd. His request was not refused, but Massoni took
offence at the leanness of the gift. "It is for a guest; I must have a
fat one," said he; and without further ceremony he chose out his lamb,
and, shooting it down, carried it off in his arms.
The shepherd had neither the power nor the daring to resist the bandit,
or openly resent his rudeness, but he determined to pay him out for
what he had done.
Soon after the departure of Massoni he left his rocky cabin among
the hills, and, descending to the gendarmerie, offered to betray the
hiding-place of the bandits.
Cautiously, and in great numbers, the gendarmes mounted the steep
hill, until at length the shepherd paused before an almost inaccessible
cave, the mouth of which was entirely hidden by the maquis. Arrighi and
Massoni's brother were within, asleep; but Massoni himself kept watch
at the entrance.
He had not heard the soldiers creeping noiselessly up the rocky paths,
and now he was surrounded, some above, and some below. Nothing was
audible, until one of the soldiers, to find out if the men were really
there, threw a stone from above into the thick bushes at the cave's
mouth.
Massoni sprang out to see the danger, firing off his pistol to awaken
his companions, who started up from their sleep as he fell upon the
cavern floor, pierced by the balls of the soldiers.
And now Massoni's brother leapt out among the rocks, bounding like a
wild goat from point to point, until one of the many shots fired at him
took effect, and he fell dead upon the hill-side.
Arrighi, however, remained within, and when, at length, after much
hesitation, some of the gendarmes dared to enter the cave where lay hid
the dreaded bandit, he was nowhere to be found.
All night was the silent watch kept; but when, early in the morning,
some of the soldiers moved off to a neighbouring spring for water, two
shots, fired suddenly from the mysterious cavern, struck through the
heart two of their number; and the party who went to fetch in their
dead bodies lost another man from the same fatal gun.
It was of no use to fire madly into the rocky cavern, the prisoner
remained uninjured and undiscoverable.
After waiting another day or two, and vainly endeavouring to smoke
their enemy out of his concealment, an engineer with other officials
were sent for from Corte, and it was arranged that the cave should be
blown up by gunpowder. The desperate man inside, for whose death, just
though it certainly was, it seemed pitiful to think that the assistance
of so many of his fellow-creatures should be required, overheard the
proposal, and resolved at last to take flight.
He waited, however, for night, when, under cover of the darkness, he
escaped from his hiding-place. He had already got away to some distance
when a ball hit him in the leg; but, with the despair of the hunted
animal, he struggled on, leaving a bloody trail upon the ground as he
passed.
When morning dawned, the gendarmes found the outlaw, who for years
had been their terror and the object of their pursuit, lying faint and
exhausted among the rocks. Yet, even then, they feared to approach too
near the dying brave, and creeping up cautiously, they fired upon him
whilst yet he was unconscious of their approach, and in another moment
Arrighi lay upon the slope of Monte Rotondo, a dead man.
The next day the bodies of six men--three bandits and three
soldiers--were carried in a sad procession down the hill-side to the
plain below, and the French Government was rid of three of the most
celebrated and intrepid of Corsican bandits.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] "Poems written in Barracks."