CHAPTER XIII
THE KING OF THE BANDITS
The most famous bandit of modern times died early in the year 1907. The story of his life, interesting as it is in itself, is still more interesting as illustrating what was said in a former chapter about those who “take to the maquis.”
Antonio Bellacoscia, the King of the Bandits, was born not far from Ajaccio. His father was already living in the Bush. When the boy was seventeen, a quarrel arose between certain members of his family and the Mayor of Tavera. Antoine, feeling that his family had been insulted, took his gun and shot the Mayor, thus avenging the insult in the ordinary manner. No sooner had the deed been done than he fled to the maquis and prudently hid himself. So carefully did he choose his hiding-place that for weeks and weeks no one knew what had become of him. One morning, however, he suddenly reappeared again, seized the father of a young girl with whom he was in love, and carried him off into captivity. The father had refused to allow his daughter to marry the young bandit, and had betrothed her to a more respectable suitor. For this offence he was now shut up in a cave, and Antoine kept guard over him, waiting for him to change his mind. The young man to whom the girl had been betrothed also felt called upon to take the law into his own hands. So, accompanied by several friends, he set off with the idea of releasing the father of his sweetheart and of punishing his rival. But, unfortunately for him, he got captured too, and Bellacoscia could only be persuaded to spare his life and set him free on condition that he would renounce his intention of marrying the disputed maiden. He promised all that was asked of him, but no sooner did he find himself at liberty than he once more sought the hand of the maiden. When Bellacoscia heard that his rival had failed to keep his word, he went in search of him, and, having found him, promptly shot him.
The soldiers made many attempts to capture the outlaw, but nearly every attempt ended in the death of one or more of their comrades. As they could not get what they wanted in the ordinary way, they offered a large reward to anyone who would betray the bandit into their hands. It happened that Bellacoscia had a nephew of whom he was very fond, but this nephew had no love for his outlaw uncle, and he promised to betray the fugitive to the gendarmes. He set off with a party of nine soldiers, all in the highest spirits, because they felt sure of success at last. But the bandit knew of their coming, and from the shelter of a rock he fired upon his enemies. One man fell with a hole in his forehead, another was shot through the breast, and the rest took to their heels. After this, Bellacoscia hid himself in the densest part of the thicket, away amongst the deepest and the darkest of the mountain gorges. There he lived for nearly forty years, his food being often only the chestnuts that grew around him, and his only drink the water that trickled from the springs amongst the rocks. The officers of the law sent bands of soldiers from time to time to look for him, but they never could find him. As a rule, if they had any idea where he was, they kept out of the reach of his terrible gun. But, in revenge, they seized his property, sold his flocks, and put some of his relatives in prison. Still, he never gave in, and finally they determined to leave him alone, hoping that if no one interfered with him he would be so kind as not to shoot anybody else. All this time, despite the murders he had committed, the people of the country-side looked upon him as a brave and honourable man. They admired his skill with the rifle; they boasted of his courage and determination; and they praised the unfailing cunning that had helped him to escape all the traps that had been set for him.
Round their firesides, during the long dark evenings of the winter, they told wonderful stories of his daring. Some of these stories show us a cruel man, but a brave one; some of them reveal him as patient and watchful, and full of resource in time of danger. Once, when his home was surrounded by soldiers, he put the bell of one of his own goats round his neck, got down on all fours, and, making a great noise, crawled right through a crowd of gendarmes, who were only waiting for the daylight to seize him and carry him off to prison. On another occasion he had been tracked for three hours, and his pursuers were at his heels. The shots were whistling about his head. He came to the bank of a river. It was swollen with recent rains, and to attempt to swim it was almost certain death; for, even if he were not dashed to pieces on the rocks, he would certainly be seen by the soldiers and shot like a dog. He had just made up his mind to plunge into the roaring torrent, when he noticed a swamp a little to his right. He rushed down to the water’s edge, pulled up a long reed, cut it off between two of the knots, and so provided himself with a hollow tube. He put this in his mouth, and then, falling on his back, allowed himself to sink completely under the mud. There he remained quite hidden for twelve long and terrible hours, breathing through the reed, one end of which was in his mouth, while the other was just above the surface of the water. The soldiers looked everywhere for him, but failed to find him, though he was almost in their hands. They departed at last, completely bewildered as to what could have become of him. When he was quite certain that his foes were far from the river’s edge, he crawled out from the swamp, and was once more free and safe.
The people honoured him. They said that in taking the law into his own hands in the first instance to avenge his real or fancied wrongs, he had but acted as his fore-fathers had always done. And if the gendarmes got killed when they pursued him—well, so much the worse for the gendarmes; they should have kept out of the way. Bellacoscia became the most noted man in Corsica, and many famous people who visited the island from time to time were taken to see him in his retreat amongst the hills. At last the old man got tired of his solitary life, and in 1892 he came out of his hiding-place and surrendered himself to the captain of the gendarmes. He had no fear for his life, for, according to the French law, a man cannot be hung for murder thirty years after it has been committed. The prisoner was taken to Bastia, and there tried in the assize courts. The Judge solemnly reminded him that for his early offences he had been three times sentenced to death, and once to penal servitude for life. He was set free, but, lest he should return to his old pursuits, he was ordered to leave the country and live in Marseilles. A pension of £100 a year was given to him to provide for his wants and to keep him quiet.
But he was unable to live out of his native land, and he returned to Corsica without asking the permission of either Judge or General. He went back to his native village, and the police very wisely left him in peace. The villagers treated him as a hero, and were more than a little proud of the fact that he had once more come to live amongst them. He gave no more trouble, looked after his chestnut-trees, tended his farm, and in his spare moments hunted the wild boar and the wild sheep. In the evening he would tell stories of his adventurous career to a few chosen friends, and occasionally he would even condescend to go to the village inn and take a hand at cards with the soldiers.
To the end of his life he remained a fine, handsome old man. He had a long snowy beard, a grave sweet face, and bright sparkling eyes. No one, looking at him, would have taken him for anything but one of the kindest and tenderest of men.
He died in 1907, over eighty years of age, having passed fifty years of his life in hiding amongst his native thickets. As the French are gradually tightening their hold upon the island, brigandage of this kind must ere long happily become a thing of the past. The young men of the present day are already beginning to realize that there are finer ways of spending their lives than in wandering in wild places, fugitives from justice.
