From a flag-staff, stepped on the outermost pile, hung a huge red English ensign, every now and then stirring in the breeze, half unrolling its lazy folds and then dropping motionless against its staff. Moodie was very particular about this flag, and hoisted it every morning with his own hands,—for ever since he had fairly turned his back upon his native land, he had become intensely national.
In the front and beneath them the broad, clear, deep, still, brimming river, full four hundred yards from bank to bank, glided quietly along with a calm unbroken surface, and a motion hardly sufficient to bring a strain upon the chain cable of the little cutter that was moored some twenty yards off the head of the pier, with her triangular burgee fluttering out in the breeze that was not strong enough to move the heavier ensign, and displaying the red cross and the golden R.Y.S. so well known in every port in Europe. It was a singular thing to see it here though, a hundred miles in the heart of Sweden, with the tremendous Falls of Trollhättan between it and the sea.
Made fast to the rails of the jetty were half a dozen boats, of all shapes and sizes—from the long narrow galley with its four well-scraped ashen oars, to the little white flat-bottomed duck-punt,—for Gäddebäck, though not, strictly speaking, an island, except during the freshets of early summer, was so perfectly insulated by the sluggish brook and the marshy ground through which it flowed, as to make all communication with the main land, except by boat, extremely precarious.
Dinner had been over for some time, and the party had adjourned to the jetty, as the coolest place they could find. They were sitting with their wine glasses before them, while two or three bottles of light claret were towing overboard, suspended in the cool water of the river by as many night-lines.
“Upon my word,” said the Captain, throwing open his waistcoat, “the West Indies is a fool to this; and it is not unlike a tropical climate either,—moist, damp, and hot,—stewing rather than broiling.”
“To tell you the truth,” said the Parson, “I am surprised at your selecting this spot for your residence, beautiful as it certainly is; with all this marsh land about it, it cannot fail to be unhealthy.”
“Well, I do not know,” said Moodie, “they do talk of agues, certainly, but these things never hurt me, and the place suits me well enough; there is plenty of shooting—ducks and snipes without end; and on the other side of that range of heights, not three miles from us, is a royal forest, well preserved, in which I have full permission to kill anything I like, except stags, elks, and perhaps peasants, though they do not make much fuss about a man or two either; and, besides, the Ofwer Jagmästere is a particular friend of mine. And as for fishing, it is not altogether such as I should choose, no doubt, for it is mostly trolling,—but there is some capital fishing, such as it is. I will show you what we can do to-morrow at the upper rapids,—we have not been there yet. It is a singular sort of sport, certainly; but if you are half the poacher you used to be, you will like it for its novelty. However, the greatest attraction that the place has in my eyes, lies in its situation: this river is the high road from Gotheborg to Stockholm, and steamers pass it every day. Living on this Robinson Crusoe island of mine, I can command the best market in the country, and in fact, I do realize a very fair income by my fish and my game. Look at my yacht, too, where else could I put it to so great use. A short canal and a single lock passes me into the great lake Wener, where I command some of the best rivers and some of the best bear-country in Sweden. If I want to smell salt water again, I have but to put my cutter in tow of the market-tug, and to steam away to Gotheborg; and when I want to be sulky, here I am, looking after my menagerie of Scandinavian birds and beasts, and adding odds and ends to my museum. I dare say people wonder at the old flag ‘that braved a thousand years, the battle and the breeze,’ as they pass backward and forward in the steamers; but no one stops here, and you may be sure no one would find me out by land. This is just the place for me; besides, it is not always so hot as it is now,—I have driven my cariole across this river, many a time.”
“By the way, what do you do with yourself in the winter?” said the Captain; “you were never very much given to reading, and your shooting and fishing must fail you then.”
“Fishing, yes; shooting, no,” said Moodie; “the finest bear shooting is in the winter.”