CALVI
Calvi was the second colony founded in Corsica by the Genoese. These
“colonies” were not places like the English colonies of Canada, South
Africa, and elsewhere, where people emigrate to trade and live and
make a home for themselves and their families. They were rather strong
fortresses, where soldiers were kept in readiness to subdue rebellious
natives. As has already been pointed out in the case of Bonifacio,
the colonists had special privileges, and in times of trouble could
generally be relied upon to prove loyal to the power to which they
belonged.
The Genoese were not the first to build a fort at Calvi, for one had
been erected there in the thirteenth century by the leader of one of
those many Corsican factions that were always fighting each other when
there was no need to fight anybody else. Once, when the builder of
the fort was absent, it was attacked and captured by another powerful
island family. In course of time the dwellers within and without the
walls rebelled against their lords, and drove them away. The place
fell finally into the hands of the Genoese, who, in 1278, gave to their
colonists the same privileges that they had granted to the settlers
at Bonifacio. As usual in such cases, the rulers reaped the reward of
their kindness and their foresight, for when, in 1553, a combined army
of Turks and French tried to capture Calvi, the women mounted the walls
by the side of their husbands, and fought bravely for their foreign
overlords.
As English people we have a special interest in Calvi. In 1793 we
were at war with the French Republic. It was decided by the English
Government that, amongst other places in the Mediterranean that
ought to belong to England, that might be useful to us, and which we
therefore ought to possess, was Corsica. It must be remembered that by
this time Corsica had passed completely from the possession of Genoa,
and was now in the hands of France. The Corsicans had fought against
the French, as they had fought against the Genoese. Their leader at
this time was a man named Paoli. He asked the English to help him to
drive out the French, and promised that in return for that help the
island should be ceded to us. Amongst the sailors who were employed to
help the Corsicans in the capture of the forts was Nelson. In 1794 he
wrote home: “This island is to belong to England, to be governed by its
own laws as Ireland, and a Viceroy placed here, with free ports. Italy
and Spain are jealous of our obtaining possession; it will command the
Mediterranean.”
When Bastia had been captured, an attack was made on Calvi. The work
was very difficult. The guns had to be dragged at least a mile and a
half, always over bad roads, and often up steep slopes. While Nelson
was superintending the bombardment, a shell from the enemy fell almost
at his feet. It burst among some sand-bags, and when Nelson rose from
the ground, he complained that there was something in his right eye.
The doctors examined the eye, but said they could only see a little
sand in it. They did not regard the matter as serious, but the eye was
so badly injured that Nelson eventually lost the use of it.
One day, a few years ago, I steamed into the little station of Calvi,
and as I looked at the still blue waters of the bay and the grim grey
flanks of the snow-capped mountains on the other side of the harbour, I
could not help thinking of that eventful day in 1794 when the English
pitched 4,000 bombs into the town and reduced it to a heap of ruins.
After I had duly lunched on Corsican wine and sausage, I strolled down
to the shore of the little bay. I sat down on the jetty to think. My
eye wandered to the spot where a part of the fort came down to meet the
water. My meditations upon Nelson and his deeds were interrupted by a
small boy in scarlet knickerbockers and a blue jersey. I turned to him
eagerly, as I was in want of information. He was young enough to be
at school, and therefore not old enough to have forgotten all he had
learned there.
“Have you ever heard of Nelson?” I asked.
“Non, monsieur. Where does he live?”
“I can’t say exactly. He came to Calvi more than a hundred years ago.”
“Then he must be dead?”
“Yes; he is dead.”
“Donnez-moi un sou.”
[Illustration: CALVI.]
I passed along the almost deserted quay. Old men and young were taking
refuge from the sun in shady nooks and corners. Straggling up from
the sea to the rocks above were tiny crooked little streets, houses
with curious balconies, outside staircases, and powerful odours. The
quay was closed at the far end by the walls of the fort. A bank of
prickly pear covered the mound that led from the sea to the wall of the
citadel. Here I photographed, surrounded by a troop of small children.
One urchin in particular attracted my attention. He had on a blue coat
and trousers. On his head was a flat blue cap. Round his neck he wore
a pink and white striped handkerchief. His feet were bare, but it was
so long since they had been washed that the covering of grime upon them
served for boots.
“Have you ever heard of Nelson?” I asked.
“No; who was he?”
“An English sailor.”
“Is he on the Nice boat?”
“No.”
“Is he on the Marseilles boat?”
“No.”
“Then he never comes to Calvi. Donnez-moi un sou.”
As I politely refused his request, he climbed to the top of a high
rock, and began to hurl stones at me. I found that in the Basse Ville,
where the sailors and the shop-keepers live, there was little chance of
getting any information about our greatest naval hero. But far above
me, dark and frowning, high and strong, were the walls of the citadel.
I made my way up a pebbly incline, and presently found myself at the
entrance to the fort itself. Inside, a roughly paved road ascended
rapidly by means of steps, winding round and round, and ever getting
nearer the summit of the rock on which the fort is built. Narrow
streets dodged hither and thither. Houses played hide-and-seek in all
sorts of strange and smelly places. Hospitals, churches, barracks,
houses, canteens, were piled about and on top of one another as though
somebody had accidentally upset the whole lot out of a sack.
I noticed two intelligent-looking little girls, and I entered into
conversation with them. After a time I asked, “Do you go to school?”
“Certainly.”
“And do you learn history?”
“Truly.”
“Then who was Nelson?”
“Who?”
“Nelson.”
“Who was he?”
I explained, but she knew nothing about him. She had never even heard
his name. And yet he blew her native town to pieces, and lost his
right eye while he was doing it! A boy who had been listening to
our conversation now joined in and said, “I know about Christopher
Columbus.”
“Well,” said I, “what do you know about him?”
“He was born here. I am one of his descendants. Shall I show you the
house where he was born?”
Now this was the first time that I had ever heard that Christopher
Columbus was a Corsican, but I followed the guide, and presently we
arrived in front of a ruined house. Near to what had once been a
doorway there was a white marble slab, on which were the following
words: “Here was born, in 1441, Christopher Columbus, immortalized
by his discovery of the New World at a time when Calvi was under the
domination of the Genoese. He died at Valladolid on the 20th May, 1550.”
So my ramble to Calvi had resulted in my finding, not the spot where
Nelson had lost his eye, but the place where the Corsicans say
Christopher Columbus was born.
At Bonifacio we found a cork-factory. At Calvi there is a pipe-factory.
One of the chief shrubs that clothe this island like a carpet of green
is the white heath, or _bruyère_. It has a heavy red root, which is
used in the manufacture of _briar_ pipes. The word “briar” is only a
corruption of the word _bruyère_. The briar-wood is boiled in big vats
for sixteen hours, and then sawn into blocks that are more or less
of the shape of a pipe. The blocks are sent to Europe to be finally
carved into proper shapes. Many of the so-called “French briars”
really come in the first instance from Corsica. Perhaps it is because
briars are so plentiful that the Corsican peasant smokes a pipe. Nearly
everywhere else in the south of Europe the poorest classes of people
smoke cigarettes and cigars. In Corsica cigarettes are rarely seen,
and cigars are not much more common. The proper native cigar is a
strange-looking brown stump, about two inches long and three-quarters
of an inch thick.