CHAPTER VIII.

SOME MORE ABOUT BANDITS.

Some of the Corsican bandits have been, not only objects of admiration, but of love, to their fellow-countrymen in general, who willingly contributed to their support. Even if their first adoption of lawless life were not due to their dislike of a foreign government--for long not quite palatable to the free wild people of the interior--yet their after-life consisted of a series of skirmishes against, and contests with, a police towards whom the majority of the islanders owed some grudge or other. One of the most celebrated of these men, and one who became, in the eyes of his own people, a hero of romance, was a bandit of the name of Teodoro, who lived at the commencement of the present century.

Teodoro became a bandit, not from any private quarrel, or from fear of the consequences of any deed of violence, but to escape joining the ranks of the French soldiery, by whom he had been somewhat roughly seized and enrolled amongst their number.

The young Corsican had no objection to a warlike occupation, but he did not choose to lose his liberty, nor had he any wish to fight for the masters of his country.

So he escaped to the mountains, by his daring spirit and love of adventure becoming at once the terror of his enemies and the darling of his countrymen.

He called himself King of the Mountains, and imposed taxes upon the villagers around to keep up his state; but they were grudged by few, for the king was handsome, fascinating, and generous. His life was full of wild, bloody, and romantic incidents; but meanness was never connected with his name. He was a staunch friend, and even a forgiving foe. His companions, besides his queen, were an uncle named Angellone, and another bandit called Brusco.

Brusco and Teodoro were bound together by the ties of a tender friendship, but this friendship was the cause of secret jealousy to Angellone. One day a quarrel took place in Teodoro's absence, and the elder man murdered his nephew's friend, then escaping to the maquins.

Teodoro, heart-broken at the loss of Brusco, swore a furious oath to avenge him at the hands of his murderer. According to ancient fashion, he began to let his beard grow, as a solemn witness to this oath.

But not for long. The murderer could not long escape his pursuing hand, and ere long the King of the Mountains re-appeared with a smooth chin.

Teodoro shared the usual fate of the outlaw. He was betrayed, whilst lying ill in his mountain home, to the gendarmes, who showed little mercy to the dying man. Sick though he was, however, he fought even then to the death, and laid two of his assailants low, before his arms fell motionless and his proud spirit succumbed to the last of his foes.

It is reported that, after his death, some of the villagers came up the hill-side, and, under the influence of love or fear to the memory of the famous bandit, offered the contributions due to the King of the Mountains towards the support of his queen and her infant child.

Probably of a different stamp was a young brigand whose execution at Bastia, in the summer of 1852, is so pitifully described by Gregorovius in his book on Corsica, himself being an eye-witness of part of the scene.

He was but three and twenty, beautiful of face, strong as a lion, and brave and fierce as a wild beast; but the accusation against him was that he had murdered ten men out of "caprice"!

What an extraordinary madness must that have been which incited this poor young Corsican, probably from no reason but the insensate lust of blood, for no purposes of robbery or even adequate anger, to murder his fellow-men!

The very unnaturalness of the phenomenon arouses pity from those whose bringing-up makes such a wild-beast madness incomprehensible to them. One wonders in what atmosphere poor Bracciamozzo had been reared--whether he had been brought up in the bandit's cave, accustomed to sights of brutal ferocity and the indulgence of every fierce passion, and growing up to find his hand against every man.

This was the probable commencement of a life which, at three and twenty, was to end stained by so much crime. That the young brigand was all bad, it is impossible to believe, reading Gregorovius' account.

Death was no terrible stranger to him; he had been accustomed to its pale face from boyhood, and he was not likely to flinch even before its more horrible appearance on the public scaffold.

With his one arm bound behind his back (for he had lost the other in a fight with the gendarmes), he walked to his death firmly and quietly. There was no vulgar air of braggadocio about him, no attempt to excite any momentary popular sympathy by dramatic means. He died unflinchingly, not as a hero, but as a penitent, acknowledging his black deeds. "I pray God and the world for forgiveness," said the young murderer, with native brevity, on the scaffold, "for I acknowledge that I have done much evil."

I will not here stop to speak of the Bella Coschia brothers, the last two bandits whose wild deeds have made them famous in Corsica. They are yet alive, and not much beyond middle age; but their history belongs to another part of the island, where I heard much of them.

I must close this chapter with a dirge, or _vocero_, roughly translated from the Corsican patois, and which was improvised at the funeral of a bandit called Canino, some years ago.

These voceri are one of the peculiarities of Corsica. Until quite lately, it was constantly the custom, at the funeral of any great or popular person, or, indeed, over the coffin of any man, woman, or child whose death was due to accident, murder, or any sudden and terrible circumstance, for the nearest of kin (usually the sister or mother of the dead person) to break out into some impromptu song of lamentation, couched in rude but often stirring verse.

These mournful dirges were striking in their rugged but earnest simplicity; and fortunately some of them have been preserved and printed at Ajaccio.

The custom of singing the vocero, like most other ancient and romantic customs, is now, however, slowly but surely dying out in the island.

VOCERO OVER THE DEAD BODY OF CANINO, A BANDIT.

BY HIS SISTER.

Now shall my voice re-echo Loud as the thunder roars, Where San Pietro nestles, Or Vizzavona soars; By which to many a distant land Gallona bears her witness grand.

In Luco Nazza see a crowd Met together for the chase: Bandits[2] and soldiers all as one-- A right accursèd race: With bloody hands but yesterday They started all upon their way.

In the valley's deepest gorges Might be heard the roaring wind, From Ghisoni bringing evil-- Terror, in its wake behind-- In its hollow notes proclaiming Coming treachery and wailing.

At the horn's shrill sounding gathered, Wolves and lambs together showed: Marched alongside in their union, Quickly up the rocky road, Till upon the pass they stood, Where they shed thy heart's life blood.

When I heard the loud lamenting I threw wide the lattice pane, Asking, "What has happened? tell me?" "'Tis your brother--he is slain! Captured in his mountain lair, He was foully slaughtered there!"

Now thy skill can spare thee nothing-- Of what use thy bravery? What thy dagger or thy pistol Now can do for thee? What avail thy charm to wear, Or to hug thy secret prayer?[3]

At the sight of all thy gashes, Anguished grows my wailing. Wherefore comes no answer from thee? Is thy courage failing? Cani, thy sister's heart grows strange And all my nature seems to change.

In the neighbourhood of Nazza A blackthorn I will grow, To show that of our race no longer Any shall come or go: Because at last, not two or three, But five opponents worsted thee!

Oh, for thy shoulders broad! Oh, thine activity! Like to a stalwart, budding branch-- None could compare to thee. Save for thy memory alone, My weary life could not drag on.

Beneath the flowering chestnut-tree, There will I take my rest, Because that there, O much beloved, They pierced thy bleeding breast. Now will I drop my woman's garb, Take gun and pistol in my hand, The tarzitta will buckle on, And gird the weapon band. Cani, a sister's heart will know How to wreak vengeance on thy foe!

IN MORTE DI CANINO, BANDITO,

VOCERO DELLA SORELLA.

(_Dialetto della pieve di Ghisoni._) Eo buria che la me' voci Fusse tamant'e lu tonu, Chi passasse per la foci Di San Petru e Vizzavonu; Per chi soni in ogni locu La gran prova di Gallonu.

Quandu intesi li brioni, M'affaccai a lu purteddu Dimandai: chi nova c'eni?-- Hanu tombu u to frateddu: L'hanu presu in du la serra; N'hanu fattu lu maceddu.

Nun ti valse lu curaggiu, Nun ti valse la schiuppetta, Nun ti valse lu pugnali, Nun ti valse la tarzetta; Nun ti valse ingermatura, Nè razione binadetta.

A guardà le to ferite Mi s'accresci lu dulori. Perchè più nun mi rispondi? Forse ti manca lu cori? O Canì, cor di suredda, Hai cambiatu di culori.

A lu paese di Nazza Eo ci vogliu pianta un prunu, Perchè di la nostra razza Un ci passi più nisunu: Perchè un funu duji nè treni, Ma cinque omini contr'unu.

Tutti a lu Lucu de Nazza Tutti s'eranu aduniti Cun quella barbara zazza Li sullati e li banditi: Cu a tempesta d'eri mani Tutt'insemme so partiti.

In fondi di lu rionu Si sentia rugghia la ventu, Chi purtava da Ghisoni Lu malori e lu spaventu: Si vidia chi per aria Bèra accidiu e tradimentu.

Somo subitu partiti Tutti i lupi cull'agneddi, E merchiavanu aduniti A lu son di cialambeddi. Quandu junsenu a la serra Ti taglionu i garganeddi.

Lu me' largu di spallera! Lu me' minutu di vita! Cume teni, nun ci n'era; Parii una mazza fiurita. Solu u pinzeru di teni Or sustene la me' vita.

A lu pe' di stu pullonu Ci ogliu piantà lu m'è lettu; Parchì qui, u me' frateddonu, Ti tironu a mezzu pettu. Bogliu leche lu buneddu, Bogliu armà schioppu e stilettu.

Bogliu cinghie la carchera, Bogliu cinghie la tarzetta: O Canì, cor di suredda, Bogliu fà la to bindetta.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Personal enemies of Canino, who betrayed him to the soldiers.

[3] A little prayer enveloping some relic, and worn as a charm about the person.