His Right Hand Was First Cut Off
And The Stump Bound, Not Out Of Compassion Or Regard For His Life, But
In Order That All His Blood Might Not Flow Out Of The Opened Veins,
Seeing That He Was Reserved For A More Miserable Death.
Not a cry
escaped him, and when he saw that the first operation was over, he
voluntarily laid his
Left hand upon the block and coldly watched the
second mutilation, and saw his two amputated hands lying on the ground,
which were then tied together by the thumbs and hung round his neck; an
awful and piteous spectacle. This happened at Cosenza. On the same day
he began his march to San Giovanni in Fiore, the escort resting at
intervals; one of them offered the man food, which he accepted;
he ate and drank what was placed in his mouth, and not so much in order
to sustain life, as with real pleasure. He arrived at his home, and
slept through the following night; on the next day, as the hour of
execution approached, he refused the comforts of religion, ascended the
gallows neither swiftly nor slowly, and died admired for his brutal
intrepidity." [Footnote: This particular incident was flatly denied by
Manhes in a letter dated 1835, which is quoted in the "Notizia storica
del Conte C. A. Manhes" (Naples, 1846) - one of a considerable number of
pro-Bourbon books that cropped up about this time. One is apt to have
quite a wrong impression of Manhes, that inexorable but incorruptible
scourge of evildoers. One pictures him a grey-haired veteran, scarred
and gloomy; and learns, on the contrary, that he was only thirty-two
years old at this time, gracious in manner and of surprising personal
beauty.]
For the first time since long Calabria was purged. Ever since the
Bruttians, irreclaimable plunderers, had established themselves at
Cosenza, disquieting their old Hellenic neighbours, the recesses of this
country had been a favourite retreat of political malcontents. Here
Spartacus drew recruits for his band of rebels; here "King Marcene"
defied the oppressive Spanish Viceroys, and I blame neither him nor his
imitators, since the career of bandit was one of the very few that still
commended itself to decent folks, under that regime.
During the interregnum of Bourbonism between Murat and Garibaldi the
mischief revived - again in a political form. Brigands drew pensions from
kings and popes, and the system gave rise to the most comical incidents;
the story of the pensioned malefactors living together at Monticello
reads like an extravaganza. It was the spirit of Offenbach, brooding
over Europe. One of the funniest episodes was a visit paid in 1865 by
the disconsolate Mrs. Moens to the ex-brigand Talarico, who was then
living in grand style on a government pension. Her husband had been
captured by the band of Manzi (another brigand), and expected to be
murdered every day, and the lady succeeded in procuring from the
chivalrous monster - "an extremely handsome man, very tall, with the
smallest and most delicate hands" - an exquisite letter to his colleague,
recommending him to be merciful to the Englishman and to emulate his own
conduct in that respect.
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