Throughout the history or people, we have turned villains into heroes and heroes into villains. Ultimately, it is all a matter of perception. Giuseppe Musolino was a bandit and a murderer, but there were people who called him a hero. Soldiers pursued him and peasants aided him in his escapes.
This court room account of Musolino appeared in a newspaper from 1902.
Italy’s Notorious Bandit Is Proud of His Record.
The eyes of all sons of Italy, at home and abroad, are directed toward the notorious bandit Giuseppe Musolino, who for months baffled the troops sent out to capture him, but who was at last taken and has for two weeks been on trial.
Fair women are composing ballads in his honor, and from all parts of the world letters complimentary to the prisoner are being sent to the Procurator of Lucca, where the trial is held.
Musolino was captured on Oct. 16, in the streets of Urbino. His career as an outlaw is said to have begun two years ago with his escape from prison, to which he had been condemned — as he held, undeservedly — for the murder of a man who had stabbed him. He vowed, it is said, to kill the judge and prosecutor, and the fifteen witnesses who had procured his conviction, and he is charged with the death of 11 of them.
For months he held a large tract of Calabrian territory in his grasp. His mountain stronghold was blockaded, but by the aid of the peasants, with whom he was very popular, especially with the women, he made his way through the cordon of guards. Disguised as a priest on his way to see the bishop, he chatted affably with the soldiers, and offered to execute commissions for their officers.
Now, after four months of imperturbable stoicism, the bandit has told the story of some of his exploits.
“I became a bandit,” he said, “because I was cruelly wronged. The injustice done to me has taught me to feel a hatred toward all mankind — a just one.
“But I am not a brigand bent on plunder, gentlemen. No, I am an honorable bandit who kills his man because he hates him; because he has been injured by him; because he is the enemy of his clan.
“When I escaped from prison I went into the mountains and joined a band of brave fellows. On the death of their captain I was unanimously chosen to command. Chosen for my merit. I governed them by opinion. They knew that I was brave and prudent. I had many times an opportunity of showing that I had all the qualities that constitute a good general. Had I commanded an army, like Napoleon, I should have been invincible.
“Once we were besieged in the upper ranges of the Abruzzi by a company of those maledetti Carabinieri. We were enclosed on three sides by the troops, and on the other was a precipice of many hundred feet, which plunged, without a shelf or ledge of rock, into the plain.
“I had eight companions, but access to the crag on which we bivouacked was so narrow that only one could mount the pass at a time. This our enemies knew, for several of them were wounded in making a reconnoissance.
“But our provisions failed us. We were on the point of giving ourselves up fearing starvation, when I discovered an eagle’s aerie. To the wonder of our foes, we contrived, by plundering it of hares and kids, to support nature for many days. At last the eaglets flew, and then our distress returned. With it came the thought of surrender.
“I recollected, however, that opposite to where a single sentinel had been posted there was a chasm, a deep ravine, the top of which was covered with wood. One dark night, leading my little band, I crawled on hands and knees, without being perceived, and poniarded the vedette. He fell without a groan.
“We then, after overcoming incredible dangers, reached the brink of the abyss.
“My troop eyed the fissure with terror. It was narrow, but at the bottom roared a mountain torrent which at its immeasurable depth looked like a silver thread.
“I came provided with a rope, to which when he dared not go into the plain, we were in the habit of attaching a basket, which we lowered to the peasants for provisions, To this rope I adjusted a heavy dagger and hurled it across the chasm. By good fortune it was entangled at the first throw among the brushwood and stuck fast between two of the branches.
“Having drawn it tight I fastened it to a tree on our side of the ravine. My companions watched me with anxiety, wondering what next I was about to do. I spoke not a word, but suspended myself over the abyss. Hand over hand, I reached the opposite bank in safety. All followed me, with like success, save one, Pietro Pentucci, whose strength or courage failed him. He unhappily sank into the boiling gulf, but he was dead long before he reached it, so that his sufferings were less than had he been taken by the Carabinieri.”
This is but one of the many exploits Musolino recounts with pride.
His long and bony, yet athletic, form might have served as a model for a gladiator, for the muscles protrude like one of Michael Angelo’s anatomical figures, his cadaverous, sallow countenance was pale with crime, his eyes deep sunk and overhung by thick, bushy eyebrows, emitting a gloomy light as within caverns. His thin and straight upper lip with the lower underhung like that of a dog-fish, fitted him well for the bureau of Musolino.
“Have you no remorse for all the murders you have committed?” the court asked.
“Remorse,” replied the iron-faced wretch, as though he did not understand the meaning of the word. “Ought not a good soldier to obey the word of the commander? Whenever the captain said ‘kill’ I killed.”
“Did you kill many?” was the next query.
“Si, signor, moltissime (yes, sir, many),” he replied, with the greatest nonchalance.
His eye lighted up, as he spoke, with gloomy joy.
Profound silence reigned in the courtroom. The judges shuddered and turned from him as from a basilisk. [Source]
