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.” [Illustration: CALVI.] 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.”