CHAPTER IV.

THE PEASANT--THE BURGHERS--AND THE SOLDIER.

When the rich Aron Bertila seated himself in his nice chaise to take a short journey to Vasa, it was decided, as a pledge of the restored good feeling between father and daughter, that Meri should take the seat by his side, and purchase in town some salt fish, hops, and certain spices, ginger and cinnamon, which already began to be seen in the houses of the wealthiest peasants. Both father and daughter had their private interests in the journey; but neither would confess that it was news from Germany which each sought. Larsson had charge in the meantime of the home work.

It was just when Gustaf Adolf and Wallenstein stood opposed at Nürnberg. Soldiers were badly wanted, and Oxenstjerna wrote constantly from Saxony to hasten the arrival of additional reinforcements. The harvesting at its height, clashed with the harvesting of war, also at its greatest altitude. A large number of conscripts were compelled to go down to Vasa from the neighbouring villages, then they were taken to Stockholm, and thence to the scene of war in Germany.

At that epoch military drill was not nearly so complicated as it is now; to stand fairly in the ranks, rush straight at the enemy on command, to aim well--as the East Bothnians had learned beforehand in the seal-hunts--and to hew away manfully, these were the chief things. Thus one can understand why many of these peasant boys, just taken from the plough, were able to fall with honour by the side of their king at Lützen.

The town of Vasa was then only twenty years old, and much smaller than now, not merely on account of its youth, but because all expansion was stopped on the south side by the crown fields of Korsholm. Around the old Mustasaari church, on the northern side of "Kopmans" and "Stora" streets, were a few rows of newly built one-storey houses, with six or eight small shops. Near the harbour stood storehouses, and that neighbourhood was also filled with fishermen's and sailors' huts in groups, for regular streets were considered superfluous by the architects of that time, and the closer the houses stood together, the greater the mutual protection in stormy periods.

A borough, like Vasa, held one common family, and the inhabitants looked with pride on the high green battlements of Korsholm.

The long-credited story, confirmed by Messenius, that Korsholm was built by Birger Jarl, and received its name from a large wooden cross raised as a symbol, refuge, and sign of victory, was founded on the old tradition that the great "Jarl," on his expedition to Finland, landed on this very coast. Later researches have thrown some doubt on this story of Korsholm's origin; but it is certain that the fortress is very old, so old that it is beyond calculation. It has never been besieged; its situation renders it of no importance to Finland; and after Uleä and Kajana castles were built, shortly before the time of our story, it had ceased to be considered a military position. It now served as the residence of the Governor of the Northern districts, to lodge other crown officials, and serve as a prison; and its so-called "dairy" yielded a nice income to the Governor. The Stadtholder of Northern Finland, Johan Mansson Ulfsparre of Tusenhult, lived only at intervals at Korsholm, and it is said that his seventy-year-old mother, Mistress Marta, ruled with a stern hand over both castle and dairy in his absence. Between the peasants and burghers an unnatural and injurious rivalry prevailed at that time, owing to the efforts of the Government to suppress the country trade for the benefit of the towns, and in a very ignorant way to regulate the exchange of commodities. Therefore, when the rich old peasant with his daughter drove in through the country toll-gate on the Lillkyro side, a few of the citizens, it is true, nodded a greeting to the well-known old man for the sake of his wealth; but the proudest amongst the merchants, who feared his influence with the king, gazed on him with hostile eyes, and gave vent to their ill-feelings in sarcastic words, uttered loud enough to reach the old man's ears.

"Here comes the peasant king of Storkyro!" they said, "and Vasa has no triumphal arch! He considers himself too good to thrash in the barn; he means to enter the army and become commander at once. Take care! Do you not see how angry he looks, the log-house king? If he had his way, he would plough up the whole town and make it into a rye-field!"

The hot-tempered Bertila concealed his resentment, and hurried up the horse, so as to arrive quickly at the widow's house, where he generally resided when in town. He had not gone far, however, up Kopman Street, which was not one of the widest, before it was blocked by a crowd of drunken recruits, who, in an ale-house near by, had inaugurated their new comradeship and strengthened themselves for the long journey ahead. Two sub-officers had joined the crowd as its self-appointed leaders, and rushed with a bold "out of the way, peasant!" towards the new-comer.

Bertila, already irritated and unable to control himself, answered the summons with a cut of the whip, which knocked off the foremost sub-officer's broad-brimmed hat with an eagle's feather. At once the affray began. The man struck rushed upon the chaise, and the whole crowd followed him.

"Aha, old fellow!" exclaimed the jovial serjeant, Bengt Kristerson, whom Bertila had so ignominiously expelled from his house, "now we have got you, and I will recompense you for your gracious treatment yesterday. Make way, boys; the old fellow is mine; this fish I will scale myself."

Bertila was too old to rely upon the power of his fists, and he looked around for a place of refuge. Whip in hand, he leaped from the chaise, which had stopped close to the entrance of a shop, and gave the horse a lash, so that the latter, chaise and daughter, rushed through the yielding crowd and galloped up the street. But before Bertila could find a refuge in the shop, the door was slammed in his face by the timorous owner. The old champion, seeing escape cut off, placed his back to the door, and menaced the assailants with his long whip.

"Let us thrash the proud Storkyro peasant," cried a young Laihela boy, who, by carrying a musket for a week, had forgotten his peasant origin, but not his rustic language.

"Your father was a better man, Matts Hindrickson," said Bertila contemptuously, "instead of assailing his own people, he helped us, like an honest peasant, to pommel Peder Gumse's cavalry in former days."

"Do you hear that, boys?" cried one of the subalterns; "the dog boasts of thrashing brave soldiers."

"We will not allow anyone to lord it over us!"

"The peasant shall dance to our tune!"

"And not we to his."

And five or six of the most excited, who had lately worn the jacket of the peasants themselves, rushed to drag Bertila down the steps. The old man would have got the worst of it, had not the aforesaid jolly sergeant thrown himself between him and the assailants.

"Hold on, boys!" cried Bengt Kristerson in a stentorian voice. "What the devil are you about? Are you honest soldiers? Do you not see that the old man is seventy years old, and yet you go six to one at him! Blitz-donner-kreutz-Pappenheim (the sergeant had learned this potent oath in the proper school, and it never failed in its effect), is that warlike? What would the king say about it? Out of the way, boys; the old man is mine; I alone have the right to wash him clean. You should have seen how he threw me down the steps yesterday like an old glove. It was a fine stroke, and now it has to be repaid."

Courage and magnanimity seldom fail. The nearest willingly gave way. The sergeant advanced to the steps. Bertila could reach him with his whip, but he did not strike. He knew his people.

"Do you know what it means, peasant," cried the sergeant with an authoritative air, which would have become General Stälhandske himself, "to throw a soldier of the great king down the steps? Do you know what it means to knock off the hat of a defender of the evangelical faith, and a conqueror who has gained fourteen battles and run his sword through sixteen or seventeen living generals? Do you know, peasant, if I were in your place----?"

"If I stood in the place of a soldier of his Majesty," coolly answered Bertila, "I would respect an honest man in his own house, and a grandsire's old age. And if I stood in the shoes of Bengt Kristerson, and had conquered the Roman Emperor, and run my sword through seventeen living commanders, still I would not forget that Bengt Kristerson's father, Krister Nilsson, was a Limingo peasant, and fell on Ilmola's ice like an honest fighter against Fleming's tyranny."

The sergeant was abashed for a moment. Then he stepped close up to his opponent, and said in a bragging manner:

"Do you know, peasant, that I could impale you on this?" and so saying, he drew his long sword half-way from its sheath.

Bertila looked calmly at him with folded arms.

"Are you not afraid, old man?" resumed the hero of fourteen battles, evidently taken aback by the peasant's firm attitude.

"Did you ever see an honest Finn afraid?" said the old man, almost smiling.

The sergeant was not malicious. He suddenly felt much inclined to be generous; his fierce mien changed into the blustering, jovial air which became him so well.

"Do you know, boys," he said, with a look at his companions, "that the old ox has got both horns and hoofs? He might have become something in the world if he had been in good society. Yesterday, when they were fourteen to one--for you should know, boys, that all fourteen of the hands helped to lift me on the clodhopper's back, and then I gave everyone of them a remembrance of it--yes, as I say, yesterday I would have beaten the old fellow black and blue, had it not been for the presence of ladies at the table. But to-day we are fifteen against one, and so I propose that we let the old fellow go."

"He is as rich as Beelzebub," shouted some of the conscripts; "he shall treat us to a cask of ale."

Bertila produced a little purse, and threw some Carl IX. silver coins contemptuously among the crowd. This irritated the soldiers afresh; and again the storm threatened to burst forth, when suddenly cannon-shots were heard, and the whole crowd rushed down to the harbour. It was the Swedish man-of-war, "Maria Eleonora," saluting Korsholm.