Into the Breach
A view of northern Bonifacio from a boat in the bay. The Carotola is visible on the right.
The loss of Corsica’s flagship would have been terrible news even if it had occurred in the context of a successful and victorious war, but by mid-November the meetings of the Council of State were becoming increasingly fretful and anxious. Diplomatically, the conflict had begun well; the emperor had refused to intervene, and while France had insisted on hosting peace negotiations they had declined to simply quash Corsica with naked force as the Genoese had hoped. After nearly seven weeks, however, Bonifacio remained in Genoese hands and Foreign Minister Giovan Cuneo d’Ornano was uncertain how much longer he could delay before the Most Christian King decided to put his Most Christian Foot down.
The reports of General Cesare Petriconi had once been a boastful litany of roads cut, batteries raised, enemy guns silenced, and towers shattered, but now Petriconi’s letters contained only begging. He needed more guns, more munitions, more supplies, and everything else needed by a besieging army wholly dependent on naval supply. The reality that Corsica did not actually produce anything of military value besides
men was starting to be keenly felt,
[1] for while the country had started the war with a considerable stockpile of materiel the siege of Bonifacio had consumed more than anyone in the Corsican leadership had anticipated.
If there was any good news to be had it was in the Ligurian Sea, where Admiral Lorenzo had brought the unique set of skills he had learned in the eastern Mediterranean. The republic had been slow to start organizing armed convoys, and in early November the admiral had taken advantage of the panic following the Battle of Cape Feno to actually place Genoa itself under blockade. This lasted only a few days, and was never repeated; the risk of a counterattack was too great, particularly in sheltered waters where Genoa’s galley flotilla could be mobilized. Even here, however, there were signs that the war might not be developing to Corsica’s advantage. The French had insisted that the Corsicans withdraw all
lettere di corsa given to foreigners, which limited Corsica’s raiding force to only the assets of the state navy and a handful of native ships. Even after the loss of the
Minerva this navy was larger than it had been at the start of the war owing to the capture of several ships, but none could replace the loss of a frigate - which left the door open for Genoa to make its own bid for naval supremacy.
King Theodore II was deeply dismayed by the loss of the
Minerva, but what truly ate at him was that there seemed to be no action he could take to remedy any of this. The fate of the war seemed to be in the hands of distant diplomats, bureaucrats, and naval captains, while the king waited impatiently for the next state council in the hopes of hearing better news. Theo did not tolerate inactivity well, especially in a time of such crisis, and he soon hit upon a solution. The King of Corsica announced to his cabinet that, in his capacity as commander-in-chief of the Corsican military, he would travel to Bonifacio and take personal command of the army. He did not intend to sack Petriconi, but clearly Corsica’s soldiers would benefit from the presence and leadership of their monarch.
None of the king’s ministers considered this to be a good idea. Now 26 years old, Theo had absolutely no military experience or training aside from his relatively brief stint at the Royal Academy of Turin. At best, he would accomplish nothing other than to expose himself to danger; at worst, he might endanger the army with some act of incompetence or be slain by a stray cannonball. Even traveling to the army camp involved putting the king on a ship, which did not seem like the wisest idea given recent events. Queen Laura, who was several months pregnant, joined his ministers in urging him not to go. When Theo was convinced of something, however, he was almost impossible to dissuade. Moreover, he had a ship on hand to take him - the newly-acquired
Medusa, a large tartane captured from the Genoese which was presently being outfitted as a corvette in Bastia harbor.
[2]
The king may well have believed that his presence would reassure his soldiers, and it no doubt assuaged his sense of powerlessness to engage in some sort of military activity, however performative. But Theo was also consciously emulating his grand-uncle. Although it had occurred nearly a decade before he was born, Theo knew all about King Theodore’s “tour” at the Siege of Calvi. Not content with merely viewing the battle from afar in his spyglass, Theodore had waded into the trenches to bolster the spirits of his men and display his personal bravery (and was very nearly struck by a cannonball in the process). Particularly in his youth, Theo seems to have been burdened with a constant anxiety that he was not living up to the legacy of his hero and namesake. Would the
pater patriae have waited idly in Bastia while his loyal soldiers fought? Certainly not.
On November 27th, King Theodore II disembarked at Santa Manza after a short and uneventful voyage. He had left Bastia with little notice and was traveling very lightly for a monarch, accompanied only by about a dozen servants and a small detachment of the Noble Guard. Also present was Justice Minister Pasquale Paoli, who had opposed the trip as “unconscionably reckless” but ultimately insisted on joining the expedition.
Someone with sense had to look after the king, and Paoli may have imagined he might have something to contribute - after all, he had been the adjutant to the Prince of Porto Vecchio during the
first siege of Bonifacio many years ago and was familiar with the territory.
A schematic map of the siege with batteries and major fortifications marked. The proposed route of the flatboats to the Carotola is indicated with a dashed line. (Click to expand)
General Petriconi could not have been terribly excited to receive this state visit, but it did not go as badly as he might have feared. At the Convent of San Giuliano, Petriconi’s brigade headquarters, the general rolled out maps and briefed the king on the progress of the siege. While Theo “took great interest” in all this information and asked many questions, he made no attempt to overrule Petriconi or place himself in
functional command of the army. Whatever personal flaws Theo may have had, micromanaging was not one of them. Clearly he wanted to remind Petriconi that his monarch was paying close attention to his progress, but Theo had no intention of assuming his role. He had appointed Petriconi believing that he could do the job, and he assured the general that he still held the royal confidence.
It no doubt helped that Petriconi had by this point developed a new plan. Although his deliberate terrorizing of the people of Bonifacio was deplorable, Petriconi had inflicted this bombardment upon the city because he believed it was the
least bloody option. In an ideal situation the city would simply be starved out, but Petriconi could not be certain as to how long that would take or how much time the diplomats would be able to buy him. If Bonifacio could not be terrorized into submission, then the only way to beat the clock was to take the city by storm. Petriconi had seen enough sieges to know that this would be a brutal affair, if it was even possible. Not only would Corsicans probably die in droves, but a city taken by storm rarely received good treatment. Whatever horrors had been inflicted by shot and shell would pale in comparison to what was likely to happen if a few battalions of enraged and bloodied Corsican infantrymen broke through the ramparts and were unleashed upon the city. Petriconi still hoped to avoid such an outcome, but he had come to the conclusion that he had to at least
threaten to take the city by storm if he was to obtain its surrender. That, in turn, would require making a breach.
A traditional “Vaubanian” approach to the fortress was not possible. Digging a series of concentric parallel trenches in the bare limestone of the Bonifacio headland was impractical under any circumstances, and Petriconi did not have the time or labor to attempt it. The two bastions on the city’s eastern end were large and solid works, equipped with the heaviest guns the Genoese had, and he would not enjoy the advantage in elevation which had allowed him to drive the defenders from the San Nicola bastion in the north.
Instead Petriconi directed his focus to
La Carotola (originally meaning “small cove”), a ravine that descended down from the Bonifacio plateau into the bay. The original entrance to the medieval city had once been here, as well as Bonifacio’s original port prior to the renovations of the late 16th century. It was also the place where the city’s defensive circuit was lowest, for the walls here began scarcely above sea level. The builders of Bonifacio’s early modern defenses understood the topographical weakness of this point and had labored to reinforce it against any sort of escalade. The Carotola was overlooked from the west by the Bastion of San Nicola, and the curtain retaining wall at the bottom of the ravine (a segment about 60 yards long) was set back by twenty yards and flanked by towers bristling with firing loops as well as cannon ports set into the “shoulders” of the fortification which could sweep the curtain wall with canister shot.
Fortifications of the Carotola
Taking the city by this means seemed almost impossible. The Corsicans could not attack the Carotola directly by land, as that would require going entirely around the head of the bay and marching directly under the fire of the eastern bastions; they would be torn to shreds. The only alternative was to cross the bay itself. This meant that Petriconi’s soldiers would have to cross 200 yards of water on small boats while fully exposed to fire from the walls, disembark, advance another 50 yards under close-range musket and canister fire, scale a 30 foot wall with ladders, and then overcome the defenders in hand-to-hand fighting. Even if they managed to do all this, they would then find themselves at the bottom of a ravine flanked on two sides by low walls with
more musket-loops for defenders to fire down upon them.
The only way such an assault would not be utterly suicidal was if the Corsican artillery could do enough damage to the defensive works of the Carotola to make it indefensible, as they had already managed to do with the Bastion of San Nicola. Conveniently, the whole area was directly overlooked by his batteries. Moreover, while Bonifacio’s bastions were reasonably solid, much of the curtain wall was essentially medieval in its construction - well suited to defend against an escalade, but too thin to stand up to modern artillery.
By the time of the king’s arrival on the scene, the implementation of this plan was already well under way. He had four 18-pounder guns pulled from various batteries and towers across the island. Gunpowder and shot were sourced from wherever they could be found, with Count di Mari complaining that the arsenals of the
presidi were now dangerously under-supplied. The general demanded lumber, nails, and other hardware to build ladders and construct simple flatboats on the Carena beach, as the three boats his men had seized from Bonifacio harbor were not going to be enough. Not content to remain at the convent, the king insisted on touring these works, although Petriconi at least managed to convince him to delay until December 3rd when
Il Diavolo was finally silenced by the Corsican heavy guns.
[3]
At this point there were now about 25 cannon in the Capollo batteries all focused on the Carotola ramparts. Petriconi also assembled a squad of “sharpshooters” using
spingarde, enormous muskets or “rampart guns,” to fire down upon anyone manning or attempting to repair the defenses.
[4] A shot from these long guns was still tolerably accurate at 300 yards and had a devastating effect on anyone struck by it.
[A] The defenders were compelled to work only at night, but even this was not safe as the Corsicans would occasionally blast canister shot into the defensive works in the hope of hitting someone in the ensuing hail of lead. On December 8th, Petriconi decided that the Carotola wall was about as degraded as it was going to get; the parapets of the “shoulder” towers were smashed to ruins and part of the curtain retaining wall had given way. He ordered all soldiers to be brought to the San Giuliano encampment to prepare for the attack - and, just as importantly, to show the Genoese just how many men he had.
The Carotola from the perspective of a soldier on the parapet. Note the cannon-port at the far end, positioned to fire upon anyone attempting to climb the curtain wall.
On December 9th Petriconi issued an ultimatum to the “commissioner and councilors of the city.” He offered generous terms for Bonifacio’s surrender. The garrison would receive the full honors of war and would avoid internment, being transported to neutral Livorno at the nearest opportunity together with all Genoese officials. The residents would not be harmed and their property would be inviolate, save for any armaments. If his offer was refused, however, he warned that
I shall assault the city at leisure with my battalions and take it entirely within my power; and in keeping with the customs of war I shall offer no quarter to its defenders, be they regulars of the garrison or citizens in arms; and I shall put the city immediately to the sack, so that no chattels of any kind shall be left to the subjects of the Republic. (...) If the honorable Commissioner and esteemed Councilors wish to avoid these evils I urge them to consider their position in the light of Reason and Mercy and capitulate at once.
In fact General Petriconi was far from certain as to the outcome of his operation. Even with the defenses in ruins, assaulting the city by this amphibious means would still be terribly difficult and could easily fail. If the attack faltered, there would be nowhere to run - and now that Petriconi had promised no quarter, his soldiers could hardly
expect any quarter if the assault failed and they were trapped on the wrong side of the bay. Petriconi was not even ready on the 9th, for although his guns had done their job well he did not believe he had enough boats.
Commissioner Domenico Aldovino was under pressure from the councilors to reject the ultimatum and resist, but he knew nothing of military operations. For this he had to rely on Captain Johannes Felsen, commander of the German garrison company and the commissioner’s sole “expert advisor” on tactics.
The Germans had thus far defended the city without complaint, but Felsen was fully aware of the terms of the ultimatum and understood that Petriconi’s “no quarter” provision applied to him and his company.
[5] It was all well and good for the councilors to act defiant; they had nothing to lose but their
property. But even if the chances of Petriconi’s assault succeeding were
low, such a success would mean the slaughter of Felsen and all his men. The Germans were no cowards, but they had not enlisted in the Genoese army expecting to be cut down to the last man in a foolhardy final stand. Perhaps Felsen really did believe that the Corsican assault would succeed, or perhaps he merely decided it wasn’t worth risking the massacre of his entire company - particularly when Petriconi’s terms of surrender were so attractive. Whatever his reasons, the captain advised Aldovino that, given the severely undermanned garrison and the dire state of the Carotola fortifications, the defense of Bonifacio was no longer tenable.
Commissioner Aldovino sent a German lieutenant to Petriconi’s headquarters to make a counteroffer, proposing to observe a 14-day armistice after which the city would surrender if it had not received any relief from Genoa. Although Petriconi wanted to haggle them down, suggesting just 7 days, he was willing to accept such an agreement in principle. At this point, however, King Theodore stepped in to overrule his general: there would be no armistice, and no waiting period. The city would surrender by noon on the following day or be taken by force. Petriconi was aghast; a bloodless conquest had nearly been in his grasp, and now he might be compelled to slaughter hundreds of his men (to say nothing of the enemy) just because of the king’s impatience.
Aldovino was equally dismayed, but given the advice he was getting from Felsen he felt that he had no other reasonable option but to capitulate. That afternoon he announced his decision to the councilors, who howled with fury; the city still had provisions, and they believed a Genoese fleet would be coming to their rescue any day now. Aldovino reiterated that he could no longer protect the city and that further resistance would only invite ruin.
Commissioner Aldovino did not anticipate just how committed to their independence the Bonifacini really were. That very evening, a group of younger and more spirited citizens attempted to storm his residence, presumably to seize the commissioner and prevent him from surrendering the city. This failed only because of the intervention of his German guards, who fought off the would-be kidnappers and threatened to fire on the crowd. One German and four citizens were injured in the melee, although nobody was killed.
This “conspiracy,” as Aldovino described it, had the opposite effect of what was intended. The commissioner seems to have been doubting himself after his meeting with the council, but seeing the garrison and citizenry actually fighting each other with clubs and bayonets left him utterly disgusted and demoralized. He was now convinced that this situation simply could not go on. The commissioner waited as long as he could, spending the morning atop the
Torrione looking out to sea, scanning the horizon for a sign of deliverance in the city’s final hour. At last, just before noon, a German officer arrived in Petriconi’s camp to formally accept his terms. The general’s reaction is not recorded, but it must have been one of profound relief.
Unusually, the surrender process began with a Corsican advance guard taking control of the Bastion of the Prisons, as Aldovino feared that otherwise when the Germans marched out the Bonifacini might seize control of the city and renege on the capitulation. Once this was done, Captain Felsen led his company out the city’s main gate with their bayonets fixed and their flags flying. General Petriconi made good on his promise of generous terms; after surrendering their weapons, Felsen’s company was immediately paroled and transported to Bastia, where they were cantoned until transportation could be arranged to Livorno.
In Corsica it became fashionable to single out the “honorable Germans” for praise, as the Corsicans never considered the “cowardly Genoese” to be worthy opponents - despite the fact that it was Felsen, not the councilors of Bonifacio, who had advocated for surrender. It suited Theo for the Germans to be held in high regard; after all, as much as he tried to portray himself as a “Corsican king,” he still belonged to a German dynasty. A later story recounts the king seeing the “
cento Tedeschi” marching out of Bonifacio and remarking “My God, just this few?” “Many are not needed, your majesty,” the general is said to have replied, “with such a position, and with such men.” In fact most of Aldovino’s forces were citizen-volunteers - none of whom were granted the “honors of war” - and far more Bonifacini than Germans died defending the ramparts, but that was not the story the Corsicans wanted to hear.
Having taken the city, the king now wanted to stage a triumphal entry into Bonifacio. Minister Paoli, however, would absolutely not allow it. With the citizens in such an agitated state, a triumphal parade might inflame tempers to the breaking point, and he could not guarantee the king’s safety. In any case, now that Bonifacio had fallen there was much work to do, and the king was needed back in Bastia to confer with the Council of State. Indeed, if he left quickly he could bear the news of “his” victory personally. This time Theo reluctantly listened to reason, and he prepared to return home without entering the city. As a final act before his departure, he awarded General Petriconi with the Order of the Redemption and appointed him as provisional military governor of Bonifacio.
Paoli was correct that there was still much to be done. Bonifacio had fallen, but the war was not over. It remained to be seen how the Genoese - and more importantly, the French - would react to this development. After 45 years, the Kingdom of Corsica had finally conquered the last Genoese
presidio; now they just had to keep it.
Footnotes
[1] Corsica did have many talented gunsmiths, particularly in the Castagniccia, and the army’s so-called “Bastia muskets” were assembled and repaired domestically. The stock, however, was the only part of these muskets which was truly indigenous. The barrels and locks were imported from the continent, as there were no forges in Corsica capable of producing them in quantity.
[2] The
Medusa originally carried four guns for self-defense but in Corsican service was equipped with a dozen 3-pounder carriage guns. The ship, whose original name is unknown, received the name of
Medusa because she was captured off the Tuscan island of Gorgona (Medusa being one of the three gorgons in Greek mythology), but it is unclear if the name was given to her by Theo or Lorenzo Corso.
[3] In 1783 Theo had a portrait commissioned to commemorate this event. In it, the king stands atop the cliff wearing the black-gold-scarlet uniform of the
Guardia Nobile and a blackened breastplate embossed with the insignia of the Order of the Redemption. He holds a spyglass as if he had just finished looking through it. A cannon stands behind him and Bonifacio is visible in the far background on the right side. A small, tattered Genoese flag flutters halfheartedly over the Bastion of the Standard, looking as if it is about to be carried away by the wind.
[4] While a normal musket ball typically weighed just under one ounce, the typical
spingarda shot a two or four ounce ball. The Genoese used
spingarde heavily during the Revolution, mostly to defend the
presidi and to equip coastal patrol ships that were too small to mount proper carriage guns. The published manifest of the Syndicate Fleet also included a thousand “large muskets,” although it is unclear how many of these remained in rebel possession after the Franco-Austrian occupation. Hundreds of these weapons fell into the hands of the
naziunali when they seized the presidial arsenals.
[5] Felsen had begun the siege with 130 men of the Regiment
Sprecker under his command. By the end of the siege he counted eleven dead and sixteen either too wounded or too ill to attend to their duties, for a total of 103 able-bodied soldiers (including a fair number of wounded whose injuries were deemed light enough to permit them to remain at their posts).
Timeline Notes
[A] It is unclear to me if the typical 18th century Genoese
spingarda was a rifled gun. 18th century rampart guns/wall guns/amusettes/
spingarde (different words for essentially the same thing) could come in both rifled and smoothbore varieties. During the American Revolution, Charles Lee wrote to Washington that “I am likewise furnishing myself with four-ounced rifle-amusettes, which will carry an infernal distance; the two-ounced hit a half sheet of paper 500 yards distance.” Smoothbore pieces would obviously not perform as well, but if Lee’s “rifle-amusettes” could hit “a half sheet of paper” at 500 yards it seems safe to assume that even a smoothbore version would pose a threat at 300 yards. Certainly the weapon would still be deadly at that range, even if hitting a man-sized target might not be guaranteed.
