The people of the village of Monte d'Olmo were one day celebrating a festival of the Church. The priests had taken their places before the altar, and numbers of devout worshippers had already assembled within the sacred edifice, while not a few still lingered over their gossip outside. Among these latter were the Vincenti and Grimaldi—two families between which a hereditary feud had existed from time immemorial. To-day they ventured to look each other in the face, as the sacred festivity compelled at least a temporary suspension of all animosities.
Somebody started the question, whether or not the priests should be made to wear the capote or cowled cloak of their order during the procession.
"No," said Orso Paolo, of the Vincenti family, "they should be made to do nothing of the kind, for it was never the custom in our forefathers' times."
"Yes," cried Ruggero, of the Grimaldi family, "they ought to wear their capotes, for that is the regulation of our Holy Church."
And the strife for and against capotes waxed hot and noisy, and filled the little square before the church with a din that could not have been exceeded, had a declaration for or against Genoa been the question to be decided. One took the word out of another's mouth; one after another sprang upon the stone bench to defend his opinion in a speech, and the by-standers hissed or applauded, shouted in derision or approbation, according as a Grimaldi or a Vincenti had advocated or denounced the capotes.
Suddenly some one let fall an insulting expression. That moment rose cries of rage and defiance, and every one drew his pistols from his belt. The Grimaldi rushed upon Orso Paolo, who fired among his assailants. Antonio, Ruggero's eldest son, fell mortally wounded.
The music of the holy mass ceased in the church. The people poured out in a body—men, women, and children, the priests in their robes, crucifix in hand.
The entire village of Olmo was one confused scene of flight and pursuit, re-echoing with yells of fury, and the reports of fire-arms. The cries of the Grimaldi were vows of death to Orso Paolo.
Orso had made for the woods with the speed of a hunted deer. But his foes saw his aim; revenge gave them wings, and they succeeded in interposing themselves between him and the hoped-for shelter.
He was surrounded. From every side he saw furious pursuers approaching; already their balls whizzed about his head. It was vain to think of reaching the wood; there was little time to ponder a new plan; he was cut off from the open country; only a house stood near on the mountain-side—the house of his deadly foe Ruggero.
Orso Paolo saw it, and in a moment he had crossed its threshold and secured the door. He had his weapons with him, his carchera was full of cartridges, there was a store of victuals in the house, and he might hold out for days. It was empty too; all its usual inmates had hurried into the village, and Ruggero's wife was occupied with the wounded Antonio. Her second son, still a child, had alone remained in the house, and lay asleep.
Scarce had Orso Paolo intrenched himself here, when Ruggero appeared with all the Grimaldi at his back; but the barrel of Orso's gun appeared at the window, and he was heard to promise its contents to the first that approached the door. No one ran the risk.
In most ungentle mood, they stood before the house uncertain what to do; Ruggero stamped with rage that his deadliest enemy should have found refuge in his own house; the tiger is not more furious when it sees and cannot reach its prey.
The crowd increased every minute, and filled the air with their vociferations; presently the wail of women was heard to mingle with their cries; it was a party carrying the wounded Antonio into the house of a relation. The sight redoubled Ruggero's fury; he rushed into a house, and snatched a firebrand from the hearth, to fling upon his own roof, and consume it and Orso Paolo together. As he swung the brand round his head, and cried to the others to follow his example, his wife threw herself distractedly in his way. "Madman," she cried, "our child is in the house! Would you burn your child? Antonio is at death's door—Francesco lies sleeping within there—will you murder your last child?"
"Let them burn to death together," cried Ruggero; "let the world be burnt to ashes, if only Orso Paolo perish in the flames!"
The shrieking woman threw herself at her husband's feet, clasped her arms round his knees, and refused to let him move from the spot. But Ruggero thrust her from him, and hurled the firebrand into his house.
The fire caught. Soon the flame rose, and the dancing sparks flew about upon the wind. The mother had sunk lifeless to the earth, and they carried her to the house where her son Antonio lay.
But Ruggero stood before his burning house, which was now completely surrounded by the Grimaldi, that Orso Paolo, if he should attempt to escape, might find their bullets in his way; Ruggero stood before his house and gazed into the flames, laughing horribly as they rose and roared, shouting mad shouts of gratified revenge and wild pain, as the beams cracked and fell in—for it seemed to him that every burning beam fell upon his own heart.
Often he thought he descried a form among the flames, but perhaps it was only a wreath of smoke, or a whirling column of fire—then, again, came sounds as of a weeping child. Suddenly the roof fell in with a crash, and smoke and tongues of flame shot up from the horrid ruin towards heaven.
Ruggero, who had been standing dumb and motionless, staring with glassy eye, body bent forward, and arm outstretched toward the house, fell with a groan to the earth. He was borne into the neighbouring house, and laid beside his wounded son. When his consciousness returned, he was unable at first to understand what had happened, but immediately the truth dawned upon him—the glare of his burning home flashed conviction and remorse into his soul, and shuddering, he recognised the dreadful enormity of his deed.
For the space of a minute he stood in deep thought, as if the lightning of heaven had scathed him to the marrow; then with a sudden start, he tore the dagger from his belt, and would have buried it in his breast. But his wife and friends arrested his arm, and deprived him of his weapons.
What had become of Orso Paolo? What of Francesco?
When Orso Paolo found the beams of the roof had taken fire, he began to seek for some place of safety, some hole or vault where he would be protected from the flames. As he wandered from chamber to chamber, he heard the weeping and terrified screaming of a child. He sprang into the room whence it issued. A child sat here upon its bed, and, bitterly weeping, stretched its arms towards him, and called for its mother. It seemed to Orso at that moment, as if the Evil One called to him from out the flames to murder the innocent child, and so punish his foe's vengeful barbarity. "Hast thou not a right of vengeance over the very children of thine enemy? Thy knife, Orso! Extinguish the last hope of the house of Grimaldi!"
A horrid thirst for vengeance glared in Orso's eye as he bent over the child. The glow from the flames bathed himself, the child, the room, in a purple tinge as of blood. He bent over the weeping Francesco, and—suddenly he snatched up the child, clasped it to his breast, and kissed it with a wild fervour. Then, still bearing it in his arms, he rushed out of the chamber, and groped his way through the burning house, seeking some spot of safety.
The house had scarcely fallen in, when the horns of the Vincenti were heard outside the village. The men of Castel d'Acqua, all of them friends or relations of Orso Paolo, had heard of his danger, and were assembled for his rescue. The Grimaldi fled from the scene of the conflagration to the house in which Ruggero, his wife, and Antonio were.
A quarter of an hour of fearful suspense passed away.
Suddenly the market-place of Olmo resounded with a loud and exulting shout, and from a hundred tongues was heard the cry: Evviva, Orso Paolo! Antonio's mother flew to the window; then with a cry of joy she rushed to the door, and after her Ruggero and the women.
Through the midst of the jubilant crowd came Orso Paolo, his face beaming with joy, and the child Franceso clasped tenderly in his arms. His clothes were singed, he was black with smoke, and covered with ashes. He had rescued himself and the child in a vault beneath a flight of stairs.
Ruggero's wife threw herself on Orso Paolo's breast, and flung her arms round him and her little son, with a joy too deep for utterance.
But Ruggero fell upon his knees before his foe, and while he embraced his feet with sobs, begged his forgiveness, and God's.
"Rise, my friend Grimaldi," said Orso Paolo; "may God so to-day forgive us both, as we forgive each other; and here, before the people of Olmo, swear eternal friendship."
The foes sank into each other's arms, and the people shouted exultingly: Evviva, Orso Paolo!
Antonio soon recovered from his wound; and gay were the festivities of that evening in the village of Monte d'Olmo, when the Grimaldi and the Vincenti celebrated their solemn feast of reconciliation. The olive-branch of peace decked the houses, and nothing was to be heard but evvivas and musket-shots, and the music of tinkling wine-glasses, violins, and mandolines.
When the Genoese were still lords of the island of Corsica, a furious contest arose between the two villages of Serra and Serrale, in the pieve of Moriani. Two houses were at bitter and bloody feud—the Dezii in Serra, and the Venturini in Serrale.
At length they had grown weary of the long war of vengeance, and both families had with solemn oath sworn peace before the Parolanti. Now these Parolanti are worthy men, appointed as arbitrators by the two parties in common; they act as witnesses of the oath of reconciliation; in their hands is lodged the written deed by which amity is ratified, and it is their duty to watch that for the future nothing be done to break the peace. On that godless man who nevertheless does break the peace, falls the scorn and contempt of all the good, and the wrath and vengeance of the Parolanti overtake his house, his field, and his vineyard.
The Dezii and the Venturini, then, had in this manner sworn peace, and a happy tranquillity reigned in the Pieve di Moriani. But as the evil spirit of contention cannot rest, but must ever be blowing upon the ashes, to see if some spark of the old grudge may not yet be awakened, it fell out one day in the market-place of Serrale, that such a spark was kindled in the fierce heart of the old Venturini. Nicolao was a grayhaired man, but in bodily vigour he was young as his sons. He had a dark look, a venomous tongue, and the cramp in his dagger-hand. He met young Dezio Dezii on the market-place—Dezio, the pride and flower of the house of his enemies. He was a comely youth, and of pleasant manners; but his temper was quick and fiery.
This old man with the dark look, addressed sneering and bitter words to Dezio, nor was it known why he should have done so; for the youth had given him no provocation. When the words fell on Dezio's ear, his heart filled with shame and indignation; but he thought on the Parolanti, on his oath of peace, and the gray hairs of Nicolao; and he quieted his swelling heart, and passed silently out of the village of Serrale.
It so happened, however, that on the same evening the old man and the youth met in the open field. When Dezio saw Nicolao approaching, observing that he was unarmed, he left his gun leaning on a tree, that the Evil Spirit might not provoke him to injure a man who carried no weapon; then, going up to old Nicolao, he demanded haughtily the ground of his insult.
The old man replied contemptuously; and after a few fiery words had passed, he seized the youth by the breast, and gave him a blow in the face. Dezio staggered back; the next moment he sprang to his musket, and in another second Nicolao fell, shot to the heart.
The unhappy Dezio fled as if pursued by the avenging angel, and made his way from crag to crag far into the heights of Monte Cinto, where he threw himself, weeping, into a cave.
The Parolanti had hastened to the scene of this deed of blood. They cried, "Wo over Dezio and all his race!" and assembled in a body before his dwelling. His young wife was in the house. They told her that she must leave her home, for it had fallen under the ban of justice; and as soon as the sobbing woman had crossed the threshold, they set the house on fire, and burned it to the ground. They then entered Dezio's chestnut-grove and olive-orchard, and, with the hatchet, barked every tree, in token that the owner had broken his oath and shed blood, and that the curse of angry Heaven had fallen upon him and all that was his. And this they did according to ancient and sacred custom.
The kinsmen of Dezio remained quiet, for they acknowledged that in all this was nought but justice. But Luigione, son of the murdered Nicolao, allowed his beard to grow, signifying thereby that he had resolved to avenge his father's blood. He took his gun, and ranged the hills to find Dezio; and, as he could not come upon his traces, though he lay night and day among the rocks, he took service with the Genoese, who formed the watch in the Tower of Padulella, thinking, that with their help, he might perhaps surprise his foe.
Dezio, meanwhile, lived with the fox, the deer, and the wild sheep, and roamed about in desert fastnesses, every night seeking a new shelter, ever wandering, and ever bearing with him in his heart sadness and alarm. One day he escaped in a ship with sailors, who were his friends, to Genoa. He enlisted in the service of the Genoese, and in this banishment long years went by.
At length there awoke in him a longing to see his native country and his wife. He obtained his discharge, and took with him from Genoa a letter of protection, which ordained that he was to live free and unharmed in Corsica, and outlawed any one that should seek to injure him.
Perhaps, too, Dezio hoped that Luigione's thirst for vengeance had in the course of time gone to sleep. He returned accordingly to his village, found his wife again, and remained quietly within her house. Nobody knew that he had come back; for he never showed himself, going only into the woods, and to lonesome places, where he was certain that no one would meet him. But the shadow of old Nicolao was always by his side.
Weeks and months passed thus, and nobody knew or spoke of Dezio. One day, Luigione, who was famous in these mountains as a hunter, said to his wife, "I dreamt last night that I shot a fox in the hills. I shall go out to-day; perhaps I may have good luck." So he threw his gun upon his shoulder, and went into the hills.
He started a fox. It took cover in a thicket, and Luigione hastened after. The spot was wild and lonely. As soon as he got among the bushes, he found a narrow shepherd's track, which wound about and about, and led him always deeper and deeper into the savage country. Suddenly, Luigione stopped. Below a clump of wild olives, he saw a man lying in deep sleep. Beside him lay his double-barrelled gun and his zucca. A long and bushy beard partly concealed his face. Luigione remained motionless as a statue; but with a feverish eagerness his eyes devoured the sleeping man. The blood shot seething hot to his cheeks, and then again they became deadly pale; his heart was beating so loud that it might almost have given the alarm to the sleeper.
He made a single step forwards—another; he gazed into the stranger's face. Yes; it was Dezio—his father's murderer! A wild smile lit up Luigione's face. He drew the dagger from his belt.
"God has given thee into my hands," he murmured, "that I may kill thee this day. My father's blood be upon thee!" and he raised the two-edged blade. But a swift thought sped like an angel between him and his sleeping foe, and suspended the weapon in the air. The words of the angel were, "Luigione, forbear to murder sleep!"
Luigione sprang suddenly backwards. Then, with a fearful shout, he cried—
"Dezio! Dezio! rise, and stand to thy weapon!"
The sleeper leapt to his feet, and caught up his gun.
"I could have murdered thee sleeping," said Luigione to him; "but it would have been the deed of a villain. Now defend thyself, for my father's blood cries for revenge!"
Dezio, shocked to death, gazed for one moment on the terrible man, then he hurled his gun far into the bushes, tore pistol and dagger from his belt, and flung them both away, and, baring his breast, cried—
"Luigione, shoot, and avenge thy father! Then I shall have rest in my grave! Kill me!"
Luigione looked at his enemy in amazement, and for a while both were silent. Luigione then laid down his gun, went up to Dezio, and offered him his hand. "God," he said, "gave thee into my hand; but I forgive thee. Peace be with the blood of my father! Now, come and be my guest."
The two men went down into the village side by side; and they remained friends. And as Luigione had no children of his own, he stood godfather to the child of Dezio, as a solemn token that they were reconciled before God; and this he did according to ancient custom.
Dezio grew weary of the world, and became a monk. So pure and God-fearing was his walk, that he was beloved by all till the day of his death; and the blessing of his pious and peace-making spirit diffused itself far and wide among the hills.
On his burial-day, the villages of all the region accompanied him to his grave; and still in the pieve of Moriani they speak of Dezio the comely youth, Dezio the murderer, Dezio the bandit, Dezio the monk, Dezio the priest, Dezio the saint.
Sartene is encircled by a range of bleak mountains, to the north of which stand the Incudine and Coscione. The Coscione is celebrated for its rich pasture-grounds, which are watered by the beautiful streams of the Bianca and the Viola. To these grounds the herdsmen of Quenza bring their flocks in summer, spending the winter on the coast of Porto Vecchio. One of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Sartene is an immense rock of a very remarkable shape; its appearance from a distance is that of a giant lifting his monstrous and misshapen head into the clouds. The mountain goes by the name of the Man of Cogna. In this part of the country are also to be found the remains of Menhirs and Dolmens—those ancient mementos of the Sabian ritual, which are not unfrequently met with in the islands of the Mediterranean, and in countries inhabited by Celtic nations. They consist of stones—not very unlike pillars—placed in a circle, and are here called Stazzone. Corsica has preserved but few remains of these heathen temples; but they are peculiarly abundant in Sardinia. I regretted exceedingly that I had no time, when in Sartene, to pay a visit to these curious remains.
On the surrounding mountains stand ruins of many of the old castles of the brave Renuccio, and the famous Giudice della Rocca. The estates of these old seigniors lay in the neighbourhood of Sartene. The canton of Santa Lucia de Tallano still preserves a memorial of Renuccio in the ruins of the Franciscan convent which was founded by this brave hero, with whom fell the power of the old Corsican barons. In the church is shown the tomb of his daughter Serena, with a marble statue of her in a recumbent posture, a chaplet in her hand, and attached to it a gold purse, as a symbol of her great benevolence.
Among the mountains of Santa Lucia is found that remarkable species of granite—peculiar to Corsica—which goes by the name of Orbicularis. The ground-colour is a grayish blue, but interspersed with black points with a white border, which appear in great numbers on the surface of the stone when broken. I saw some beautiful specimens of this stone. It has, when polished, a remarkably rich appearance, and is of peculiar value in architectural ornamentation. Nature seems to have created this stone in one of her sportive and most genial moods; it is a jewel in the rich mineralogical cabinet of the island. The orbicular granite of Santa Lucia de Tallano has been also deemed worthy of a place in the chapel of the Medicis at Florence, in the decoration of which the rarest and most beautiful stones have been employed.
North-east from Santa Lucia, in the valley of the Fiumiccioli, lies the celebrated canton of Levie, which extends to the small gulf of Ventilegne. The district is mountainous, and tolerably well wooded. It was the abode of several old noble families, particularly that of the Peretti, from whom was descended Napoleon, the friend of Sampiero, and the first of this name mentioned in Corsican history. He was not, however, a relation of Bonaparte. He was killed in a battle with the Genoese.
In Levie stands the town of San Gavino de Corbini, a place well known in Corsican history as the head-quarters of the strange sect of the Giovannalists—those old communists of Corsica, whose theories made such remarkable progress on the island, and who may be considered as the forerunners of Saint-Simonism and Mormonism. Only in a country where the inhabitants still lay in a state of the rudest and most uncultivated nature, and where a belief in the natural equality of man was the dominant trait in the national character—only in a time, moreover, of social disorder, misery, and blood—could the sect of the Giovannalists have found their origin. It is very much to be regretted that the chronicles of the country have not preserved more particular accounts of this remarkable sect. Its appearance seems to be a remarkable trait in the physiognomy of the national history; and transitory as was the phenomenon, I look upon it as forming a strongly-marked line in the portrait of this extraordinary people.
Before taking leave of Sartene, my heartiest eulogies are due to the hospitality of its inhabitants. It was my good fortune to meet with the greatest kindness from these amiable people; their noble and honest confidence cheered my heart, and I spent many a pleasant hour in their society. I could with difficulty tear myself from their hospitality; I accompanied them on their hunting expeditions among the mountains, and, above all, enjoyed myself many a summer day in their beautiful orchards. On leaving Sartene, early in the morning, I was accompanied by all those excellent gentlemen with whose friendship I had been honoured; and when bidding the company adieu, one of them—a cousin of the unfortunate Vittoria Malaspina—placed a note in my hands.
Upon opening it, I found its contents to be as follows:—
"To Signor Ferdinando.
"If you should ever happen to be in danger or in difficulty during your stay in our island, do not forget that you have a friend in Sartene.
Alessandro Casanova."
I preserve this note as a talisman, and at the same time as a testimony to the noble hospitality of Corsica. It was not sufficient for my Sartenese friend to assure me by hand and word that, as his guest, I was under his protection for the rest of my life, but he must needs add to his promise the additional guarantee of a written document.
About eight o'clock in the morning I set out from Sartene to Bonifazio, the most southerly town and fortress in Corsica. The road lay along a desolate coast, the hills sloping gradually towards the sea-shore. There is not a village to be seen all the way; and I should have perished from hunger and thirst, had not my travelling companions taken care to furnish themselves with bread and wine before setting out. Who not his bread with joy has eaten, by olive gray or vine-tree seated, He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!
We passed through the vale of Ortoli—everywhere waste hill-country, neither grain nor fruit-tree visible. The olive is no longer met with; cork-tree clumps and arbutus alone occupy the soil. We approached the south coast—still more desolate, if possible, than that which we had left behind us. Not far from the mouth of the Ortoli lies a solitary post-house, and opposite it a ridge of rock, on which stands the Tower of Roccapina. Close beside it, on the sharp edge of the cliff, there is a rugged and irregular rocky mass. It bears a striking resemblance to a colossal crowned lion, and is called among the people, Il leone coronato. This singular rock—so conspicuous an object along this line of coast, the first bit of Corsican ground which fell into the hands of Genoa when she wrested the island from the Pisans—stands there as if it were the monument or the arms of the Republic.
From the height here I got my first view of the open sea not far from me, and the coast and hills of Sardinia—a glorious spectacle. The sight of a foreign land suddenly unfolded to the view, here only showing its outline, and there revealing objects with forms characteristic of the country, rouses feelings at once strange and pleasing—anticipation, longing, and doubt. It resembles nothing so much as the fabulous fancy-pictures of childhood. Wholly an island! I stood for long on one of those bare masses of rock, in a violent wind, and in the full glow of the mid-day sun; with a deep feeling of desire, I gazed across the strait on the twin-sister of Corsica. It was entirely wrapt in an ethereal veil of blue; and the sea, stirred by the maestrale, dashed in foaming breakers round its shore.
We rested for a couple of hours, and then resumed our journey farther along the coast. It is much broken up by arms of the sea, and wears a gloomy aspect. Little streams creep sluggishly through morasses into the sea; gray turrets surmount the cliffs which occur at intervals along the coast, and hold solitary watch there. The air is unwholesome. I perceived a couple of little villages on the slope of the hill. I was informed that they were uninhabited; the people, it seems, do not leave the mountains till the first of September.
The sea at this place forms two little gulfs—Figari and Ventilegne. They resemble Fiords, and their coast-lines are often of the most irregular form, rising like rows of ash-gray obelisks.
As we traverse the extreme point of Corsica towards the south-west, the tongue of S. Trinita, terminating in the Capo di Feno, the chalky coast of Bonifazio becomes visible. At the same time, the town itself comes into view, the most southerly and most singular town in the island, snow-white as the coast on which it stands, and perched high upon its rock—an unexpected and surprising spectacle in the midst of the wide and melancholy waste.
The shore all round is stony and shrubby; but for half a league before reaching the town, the traveller passes through olive-groves and orchards, and is astonished to see the blessings which man, when compelled to exert all his industrial power, has been able to win from the limy soil. The little land of Bonifazio gives a full supply of olives which do not yield in quality to those of Balagna. Between chalk-cliffs we drive down to the Marina of Bonifazio, lying on the shore of the gulf. The town itself can now be reached only on foot or on horseback, for we must clamber up the steep rock on a broad path of steps. Cross two drawbridges, and pass through two old gates, and we are in Bonifazio. The fortress and the tower, between which indeed there is no distinction, lie on the flat summit of the rock.
A beautiful greeting does Bonifazio give to the wayfarer who enters through the old gloomy gate; for on the front of one of the towers stands boldly out the grand word Libertas. I used to read it often on the towers and houses of Italian towns—a melancholy satire; on many a banner has this word been blazoned. But here it stands proudly and confidently out on those antique turrets, which can tell of so many glorious deeds of arms. I entered the city with the joyful sensation that I was going among valiant and free men. To the present hour the Bonifazians have the character of being the most republican as well as the most industrious and religious of the inhabitants of Corsica.
The site of Bonifazio is quite peculiar. Imagine a colossal white pyramid of rock, formed of horizontal layers planted in the sea, with its base pointing upwards, and supporting high in the air, fortress, towers, and town, and you will have some idea of this Corsican Gibraltar. The façade is deeply excavated; the whole mass seems to cling to the mainland. On two sides the sea foams round it, a narrow inlet shut in by precipitous, inaccessible hills washes it on a third, forming at once, gulf, haven, and fosse. The power of the water has torn up the coast all round, and has washed the rocks into the most grotesque forms. From beneath, viewed from the sea, which in many places has no beach, the coast rising sheer from the water, this gray rock stands out boldly. I descended to look up at it; the waves dashed round its base, the clouds above floated over it; I felt as if the rock were tottering and it was about to fall upon me—an ocular delusion the more natural, as a large mass is washed away from the bottom, and here and there huge layers of chalk blackened by the weather project boldly into the air. As soon as I saw Bonifazio, I at once comprehended how Alfonso of Arragon failed to take it.
It numbers 3380 inhabitants, and, on account of its insular position, contains no communes. Its buildings are of Pisan and Genoese origin. Old, and long inhabited, they resemble ruins more than dwelling-houses. They are built mostly of the material of the rock. They are all white; and as the walls and short towers have the same hue, the spectator has more than enough of the national colour of Corsica. It would be difficult for me to convey a distinct idea of the town itself; for it is impossible to describe this intricate confusion of narrow streets, through which the draught or the sea-breeze is continually whirling the dust, and through which, going down or up hill, one must skilfully steer his course, wandering about in perpetual astonishment at the novelty of the position, especially when the eye, finding an open space, discovers the sea far beneath it as blue as the heavens above. Beams are frequently thrown across from house to house, and dark passages often lead from one narrow street to another.
The wind whistles, and the waves dash their foam round the rock. There is something strangely uncomfortable in the sensation. The consciousness of space—so agreeable to the mind—is here lost. The lonely sentinel yonder paces up and down on the round tower in a whirlwind of lime-dust. I wish to find a piazza—to be among men. But there is no such thing here as a square. The necessary limitation admits of no open spaces; yet, strange to say, the main street is fondly called the Piazza Doria. The Bonifazians no doubt felt the need of a piazza or forum, without which a town is like a house without a family room; they consequently gave that gave that name to the main street. Want of room compelled the Bonifazians to carry their houses to a great height. The stairs are uncommonly steep, on account of the want of depth in the buildings. On many houses I saw the arms of Genoa still carved—a crowned lion-rampant holding a ring in its claw. The old emblem awakes proud memories, like the name of Doria, which still exists in Bonifazio under the form of D'Oria. For this is the proper name of those famous Genoese lords of the great family of Oria. The Corsicans hated Genoa to the death, and, when treating of the old Republic, it will be remembered that we found the same inveterate hate on its part. Every calamity which has befallen Corsica, its moral as well as its physical desolation, they ascribe to Genoa. The Bonifazians, however, are much attached to the memory of the Genoese connexion, and their history makes that quite intelligible.
There is a difference of opinion as to the ancient name of the spot whereon Bonifazio now stands. Some consider it to have been the old Syracusanus portus, others the old town of Palæ, the last of the Corsican stations enumerated by Antoninus in the Itinerary. The Bonifazio of the present day was founded by the Tuscan margrave whose name it bears. We know that, after a naval victory obtained over the Saracens in 833, he laid the foundations of this town, that it might serve as a barrier against their piratical attacks, for they had been in the habit of effecting descents on this side of the island, from Africa, Spain, and Sardinia. Of the forts erected by that margrave, one still stands—the large old tower, called Torrione; three more tower above the rock. They are all represented on the arms of Bonifazio. At a later period, the town passed into the hands of the Pisans, together with the rest of the island; but the Genoese wrested Bonifazio from them so early as the year 1193. They surprised and took the town during the celebration of a festival. They treated it with great liberality, gave it very free laws, and permitted it to exist as a Republic under their protectorate. In the register of Bonifazio the contract is preserved, which the Genoese procurator in Bonifazio, Brancaleone d'Oria, signed and solemnly swore on the Bible to observe, on the 11th February 1321. According to the terms of this contract, complete freedom of trade and exemption from imposts in Genoese harbours, was granted to the Bonifazians; also, the right of self-government. In their popular assembly they chose a Council composed of the more elderly citizens, hence called Anziani; the Genoese podestà, who was annually sent to the town as Syndic or Commissioner, had to conform his decisions to the will of this body. The podestà could neither impose taxes nor introduce any innovation without the consent of the Anziani; nor had he the power of imprisoning any citizen of Bonifazio, whether murderer, thief, or traitor, if he could procure bail. When a new podestà was sent from Genoa, he was never put in possession of the town till he had solemnly sworn an oath on the Sacrament, to preserve inviolable all treaties and statutes of Bonifazio. This deed is signed—Per Brancaleonem de Oria et per Universitatem Bonifatii in publico Parlamento—'by Brancaleo d'Oria, and the whole community of Bonifazio, in public Parliament assembled;'—high-sounding words for a little place, consisting at that time of scarcely a thousand inhabitants.
Thus did this bold little people win for themselves freedom with all its privileges, and were able to preserve it intact on their rock for many centuries.
The Genoese paid every possible respect to the Bonifazians. When one of their vessels entered the port of Genoa, it was customary to ask—"Are you from the district of Bonifazio, or from Bonifazio proper?" Hence the popular saying: "He is a Bonifazian proper." Many Genoese nobles and citizens, induced by these privileges and rights, emigrated to this rock from their lordly Genoa; and, in this way, Bonifazio became in language, manners, and leaning, a Genoese colony. Even now, the Genoese character of the town is visible not only in the armorial ensigns, but in the people themselves.
Calvi too, has, like Bonifazio, remained true to Genoa. Both towns have occupied on this account quite a peculiar historical position, and it is remarkable to find in this fearful sea of Corsican hate, two little islands, as it were, which loved the tyrannical Genoa. Let us not grudge this to the manly Genoese; their old sin-laden but always kingly and great Republic has long since paid its debt to humanity in history, and is no more.
A Bonifazian of the name of Murzolaccio, wrote a characteristic little history of his town in 1625. It may be seen in Bologna, and is an extremely rare book. I have not been able to procure a copy, much to my disappointment, for I have a great affection for Bonifazio. But I will here relate, following the chronicle of Petrus Cyrnæus, the memorable siege of the town by Alfonso of Arragon; for indeed the heroic bravery of the Bonifazians deserves to live in the memory of men together with that of Numantia, Carthage, and, in modern times, Saragossa. I give Peter's description of it, not following him through all his details; I have shortened it also, as it is too long to give entire here.
Alfonso of Arragon, after he had examined the position of the town, took possession of a high hill lying towards the north; and from it and the sea he kept up a perpetual fire of stones from his bombs. The Spaniards had come with eighty ships, and among them twenty-three triremes; they had forced their way into the harbour after the fall of the two towers which defended it. Now, when a great part of the defences and the walls had been overthrown, and it seemed possible to force a passage into the town, King Alfonso called his captains to a council of war. He was young and fiery, and full of desire to do great deeds. "When Bonifazio has fallen," he said, "all Corsica will be ours, and then we shall sail for Italy." He promised rewards to the first man who should scale the wall and plant his banner on it, and to the second, and the third, and so on to the tenth. The Spaniards heard this with great joy, and prepared themselves for the assault. The Bonifazians suffered much from the missiles and arrows of the assailants; but with stones and long spears they hurled the enemy back into the sea, and held their post bravely. Suddenly the tower Scarincio fell with a fearful crash, and immediately the ships laid themselves close to the breach; the Spaniards sprang upon the wall and planted their standard. In the army of the king, the shout was heard, "The city is stormed." Then the marines might be seen quickly and nimbly clambering up the walls on the masts and yards; and when they came within reach of the houses they cast torches on their roofs. Now, there arose a terrible death-struggle of fugitives, brave citizens who still held their ground, and the assailants all mingled together. But Orlando Guaracchi, the heroic Margareta Bobia, and Chiaro Ghigini rushed to drive back the advancing enemy, and from their posts came Jacopo Cataccioli, Giovanni Cicanesi, and Filippo Campo, and cut down every foe who had pressed into the town, even to the last man. They then threw fire on the ships in the harbour, and the king was repulsed with great loss.
For three days had the struggle lasted, with fire and slaughter without end. Every age and sex laboured to fortify the walls anew, and to fill up the breaches with cross-beams. But alas! the granaries had been consumed. Alfonso, meanwhile, kept throwing arrows into the town with letters attached to them, offering bribes to all who should pass over to him. Two deserted, Galliotto Ristori, a Bonifazian, and Conrado, a Genoese, and they stimulated the courage of the king by telling him that within the town both bread and munitions were failing. Accordingly, the king took possession of another hill near the town; and after drawing a double chain across the mouth of the harbour, to exclude any succours which might come from Genoa, he resolved to reduce the town by blockade. The Doge, Thomas Fregoso, heard that, and equipped a fleet of seven sail; in this way the month of September passed. But the sea was so stormy during the whole of October, November, and December, that the fleet could not leave the harbour of Genoa. The Bonifazians, meanwhile, had been brought to such extremities, by the bombs and catapults, that they were compelled to leave the town, and seek shelter in the grove beside San Antonio, and in the Convent of St. Francis, as the most of their houses were now in ruins; those only remained behind who had to fill the posts of defence.
The king had been strengthened by reinforcements and ships from Spain; but, notwithstanding, he preferred negotiation, and gave a solemn promise to the besieged that, if they would yield to him, they should have permission to live free, and according to their laws. The Bonifazians purposely prolonged negotiations with the ambassadors, and as they looked in wretched plight, pale and exhausted with hunger, and as the Arragonese taunted them with their condition, saying that they would be soon forced to submit, it is said that, in order to give him the lie, they threw bread over the walls down among the enemy's outposts, and sent a cheese made of woman's milk as a present to the king. Alfonso next moved all his engines and ships close to the walls. Two vessels lashed together bore towers. The assault began afresh from the sea and the heights. To oppose the machines on board the ships, the Bonifazians had likewise planted engines on various parts of the ramparts; on the more distant vessels they propelled stones of immense weight; on those more near they threw stones of smaller size and missiles of all kinds, as thick as hail. Although they themselves were almost overwhelmed by the storm of missiles, and many of them lay mangled and dying, they yet persevered with astonishing valour. Those who still retained their strength filled up the places of the fallen—the son that of the wounded father, the brother of the brother; the women brought projectiles, wine, and bread, and carried off the wounded. Arming themselves with shields and lances, too, they took their place upon the ramparts wherever there was a vacant spot. Many of them could not carry off or succour their fallen relations, till they had hurled back the enemy from the walls. The assailants also suffered dreadfully; many were drowned, being dragged into the sea by the swords, hooks, and curved lances, thrown by the besieged upon the floating towers. Very many were dashed to pieces with beams and stones, as they were scaling the walls with ladders. In other places, the besieged threw torches, tow, and pitch upon the enemy, so that often they did not know whither to run, or on what side to defend themselves first.
The Bonifazians were now exhausted by the ceaseless contest, which had already raged without intermission for many days, and the king resolved once more to collect all his strength in order to make a grand assault on the following day. So the fight raged anew, and more terribly than before, for the foe brought every engine, tower, and catapult to bear upon the town, and almost buried it under a shower of stones, arrows, and steel hooks.
Only at the tower of Scarincio the bombarding ceased, for the besiegers feared to overwhelm the Spaniards—who had already at that point forced their way into the town—in the same destruction with the citizens. There, armed women fought untiringly beside the men, and threw harpoons on the assailants. From the ship-towers and the cross-trees, the Spaniards kept up a ceaseless shower of darts, and propelled leaden acorns out of certain cast-metal hand-bombs, which were bored like a reed, and went by the name of Sclopetus. (This is Peter of Corsica's description of a musket, which in those days was a rare, but is now too common a weapon in Corsica.) They threw also showers of sulphur, followed by fire, on the houses and men, so that many were half burnt, and others were precipitated headlong through the breach. In this way the breach, which was near the tower of Preghera, stood open to the foe. As soon as the sulphur-smoke, which had wrapt it in thick darkness, had cleared off, matrons, the unarmed, and crowds of children, could be seen carrying stones and missiles of every kind to the wall, to supply the combatants; when they found the breach deserted, they raised loud cries of lamentation. Then, with wailing and tears, the mother besought her son, the daughter her father, the wife her husband, to return to the breach. The priests and monks also took up arms, and hurled down flaming bundles of tow and slacked lime. This had such great effect that very many, stupified and almost blinded by the dust and the floating vapour, were forced to shoot at random. As the flames subsided a little, the besieged sallied from the gate.
This day had been the most severe which the citizens had yet endured; but it had been a destructive one to the enemy.
As the besieged became from day to day more hardly pressed, the more frequent became the letters despatched to the Doge and Senate of Genoa, begging them to come to the help of Bonifazio. The king, meanwhile, having been again reinforced, gave the signal to his men to renew the assault. By land and sea a fierce onset was then made in seven places at once; but into the city Alfonso could not get. For fresh wall was erected almost as quickly as it was thrown down, and armed men even placed themselves in the breaches, and formed a living rampart. Then the king ordered a mole to be thrown up, eight feet high, running towards the great gate. Thereon was erected a tower of ten stories, so high as to overtop the walls. Under cover of a shower of missiles, the mole and tower were gradually nearing the gate, when one day it was suddenly flung open, and the people sallying out, flung torches and fire on the mound, and fascines into the tower, and in that way destroyed this laborious work, which had already occupied so long a time.
Neither night nor day did the assault slacken; and nothing was for a moment intermitted by the Bonifazians which could retard the progress of the besiegers, whether it was the erection of new walls, or perpetual sallies on the enemy's works. The poor citizens had not a moment's rest; and, quite exhausted by continual exertion, were wasting away with hunger, wounds, and daily and nightly watching. No day passed without burial of the dead; death stood before every eye, and day and night the sound of lamentation was heard. Meanwhile the necessity had become so great, that they were compelled to eat disgusting weeds; and how long were they still to wait for aid from Genoa? The power of endurance which the people of Bonifazio exhibited under hunger and privations the most severe, almost exceeds human conception. Horse and ass-flesh were in those days dainties. Some ate herbs of all kinds—herbs which even the cattle refused to touch—roots and wild fruits, the bark of trees, and animals never before eaten by man. Despairing now of relief, many would have willingly ended their lives, weeping and bewailing, and many of the wounded, too, would have died of starvation on the walls, had it not been for the compassion of the women. For the pious wives of Bonifazio freely gave of their milk to relations, brothers, children, connexions, and godfathers. And there was no one in that beleaguered town who had not sucked a woman's breast.
As up to that moment there had been no signs of any help in their sore extremity, the Bonifazians entered into an agreement that if the Genoese did not come to their relief within forty days, they would deliver themselves up to the Spaniard. They gave two men and thirty children of the noblest citizens as hostages. But it was a matter of great anxiety to the Bonifazians that King Alfonso had not allowed them meantime to send messengers to Genoa. Accordingly, they built a little ship in great haste, and in the darkness of the night they let it down into the sea by ropes, on that side of the rock which fronted Sardinia and was averted from the enemy, and in a similar manner they let down the young men, twenty-four in number, who were to be the messengers and crew. The chief magistrate had given them letters for Genoa, and a great multitude of citizens had accompanied them to the edge of the cliff, wishing them a successful expedition. One after the other, the women gave them their breasts to suck before setting out, for they had no food with them. After many perils by sea, and being long retarded by contrary winds, these bold messengers at last reached Genoa, and informed the Senate that the city of Bonifazio was brought to the last extremity.
Meanwhile, in Bonifazio, they resolved in solemn procession to beseech God for deliverance from the enemy, and for forgiveness of all their sins. The procession walked from the Cathedral of the Holy Mary to St. Jacob's, then to San Domenico, and all the churches in succession; and although the winter cold was very severe, yet all walked barefoot; and as they walked, they sang hymns with great fervour. From an early hour till late at night, prayers were offered up in the churches, and every mind was intently hoping for relief or for some news of the messengers.
At last, on the fifteenth day, the messengers returned to Bonifazio in their little ship, in the darkness of the night, and having given the signal, they were drawn up by ropes. Every one in the city seemed beside himself with joy. As the messengers walked to the Church of the Holy Mary, where the senate sat in council day and night, all the people poured in a living stream after them to hear the news. They delivered the letters of the Doge, which were read by the magistrates, and then taken out to the assembled people. Picino Cataccioli, the chief of the messengers, gave them a detailed account of the expedition, and assured them that the Genoese fleet was all equipped, and only waited for a favourable wind to set sail. The senate of Bonifazio now ordered a public thanksgiving of three days; and the joy in the city was quite uncontrollable when what little grain the messengers had brought back with them was distributed among the people.
Meanwhile, the day of surrender was fast approaching, but the Genoese fleet had not yet made its appearance, and the ambassadors of the king were already pressing the senate to fulfil their agreement. "If, in the following night," declared the Anziani, "the Genoese do not appear, we shall then surrender." Then began a wailing and lamentation of women and children, and great sorrow and dejection filled every mind. But the senate called an assembly that they might learn the sense of the people about the matter. Guglielmo Bobia earnestly maintained that they should hold out, and he conjured the shade of the Count Bonifazio (the founder of the city) to fill the Bonifazians with his spirit, so that none should think of parting with his freedom. Accordingly, they resolved to wait to the last moment. Suddenly a cry arose in the night, that the Genoese were at hand. All the bells began to ring, and fire-signals blazed on every turret; endless shouts of joy rose to heaven. The Spaniards were astonished, and lid not know what to think, as they could see no sign of the Genoese. Their ambassadors lost no time in presenting themselves before the gate at dawn, and demanded the surrender of the city, according to the agreement. The men of Bonifazio, however, replied, that during the night they had received the Genoese auxiliaries; and, behold! armed men displaying the Genoese standard were seen to march thrice along the walls, bristling with lances and sparkling weapons. For all the women had during the past night put on armour, so that the number of the Bonifazians seemed to be trebled. When Alfonso of Arragon saw this, he exclaimed: "Have then the Genoese wings, that they can enter Bonifazio when we occupy every approach?" And again he directed all his engines against the town.
At last, however, on the fourth day after the stipulated period had run out, the Genoese came in reality, and cast anchor in the offing of the strait. Angelo Bobia and a few other brave men swam during the night to their ships, and horrified all with their wasted forms and hunger-pale faces. But the Genoese captains declared that they dared not venture to attack the Spaniards. Bobia laid his fore-finger on his mouth, as if thunderstruck, and then said, "We have trusted in God alone, and in you—you shall attempt it, and we will help you!" The Genoese were afraid.
Alfonso immediately turned a part of his ships towards the Genoese, and directed his missiles upon the harbour, to cut off their entrance. The Genoese ships, however, would not venture to attack the Spanish till the young Giovanni Fregoso, Rafael Negro, and other leading men insisted on their risking an engagement. But especially Jacopo Benesia, the most valorous and daring of them all, decided for the battle. For seven hours the struggle lasted at the entrance of the harbour and before the rock—a fearful struggle—ship lying close to ship, as the confined space rendered it quite impossible to move about; the Bonifazians, meanwhile, hurled down missiles and torches on the Spaniards. At last the Genoese burst through the chain, and forced a passage into the harbour; and indescribable was the joy of the starving people, when seven ships full of grain were moored in the harbour, and discharged their freight.
Then Alfonso of Arragon perceived that he could not reduce the town of Bonifazio, and accordingly he raised the siege, taking the hostages with him; and, deeply ashamed and vexed at heart, he set sail for Italy in January 1421.