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.”

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.