CHAPTER VII.

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."