Here Tom and Torkel, both Tellemarken men, broke in simultaneously; the one swearing that, in the Tellemark, windmills were as plenty as fir trees; the other vociferating, somewhat incongruously, that no nation two degrees from actual barbarism could ever think of such a piece of machinery at all.
Birger stilled their national animosities by wishing “The Thousand” would take them all three, and their windmills into the bargain, and Jacob went on with his story.
“The eldest son,” he said, “was a sad unbeliever; he had been a very good boy as long as he had lived with his father and mother at Lerum, but when he grew up he had gone to Copenhagen and got corrupted; for, as his honour Lieutenant Birger knows, they are all sad infidels at Copenhagen.” Here was likely to be another outbreak; for the Danes, though it is quite true that a great many of them are not only sceptics in fairy mythology but in religion also, are yet vehemently regretted by the Norwegians, who were in no ways pleased with that act of the Congress of Vienna which separated them from Denmark; a fact which our friend Jacob was perfectly aware of.
Peace was again effected by a vigorous kick from his fellow-countrymen, together with some observations respecting a donkey in a state of eternal condemnation; and Jacob went on as if nothing particular had happened.
“Well,” said he, “the young man found that the best ale and sweetest cake were always given to Nyssen, so he slipped out and gobbled them up himself. During the whole year that followed that Christmas, no great harm came of it, only there was always something wrong about the windmill; now a sail blown away, now a cog broken; there was plenty of grist, trade was lively enough, it was always something to do with the wind, and, as far as that was concerned, nothing went right. Still no one suspected the reason, till Christmas Eve came round again, and another sweet cake and another bottle of strong ale were placed under the mill for Nyssen. The night was as still and as quiet as this evening is,—quieter if possible; there was not a breath of wind, and the snow looked like a winding-sheet in the moonlight. Well, the young man slipped out again; but scarcely had he stooped to pick up the bottle, when a furious gust of wind arose, scattering the snow like flour out of a sack; the sails flew round as if they were mad; it was said that a figure in a pointed cap and a red jacket sat astride on the axle, and one of the sails taking the young man on the side of the head, threw him as far as I could fling a stone. He sank into the snow, which closed over him, and no one knew what had become of him till the thaw came on. It was very late that year, for the ground was not clear till Walpurgis’ Night, and then they found him, and Nyssen’s broken bottle still in his hand. It was by that they found out how it had happened. I would not be the man to touch anything belonging to Nyssen.”
“Nor I neither,” chimed in the two Norsemen.
“Johnstone and Maxwell both agree for once,” said the Parson, laughing; “and I will tell you another thing, neither would I. But now, Mr. Jacob, that we have done everything that can be expected of us by the spirits of the air, who, I hope, in common gratitude, will give us fishermen a cloudy sky and a little bit of a breeze to-morrow, I must say I should like to take my turn at the cakes and ale; so let us have whatever you have got in your big pot there, and bring us a bucket of strawberries and cream for dessert.”
The dinner was by no means so elaborate an affair as that of yesterday; this was occasioned, in some measure, by their want of sport, but, principally, because all had been far too much engaged in the necessary business of the camp to think much of eating. The solids, such as they were, that is to say, beef and pork, out of the harness cask, were soon despatched, and the huge camp kettle, one of the old-fashioned ante-Wellingtonian affairs, as big as a mortar, and nearly as heavy, was sent down to the men, while the fishermen lounged at full length on the turf, enjoying their rest over Jacob’s plentiful provision of strawberries and cream.
Fénélon has, somewhere or other, a fable about a man who had the power of procuring, “pour son argent,” as the good Bishop says, half-a-dozen men’s appetites and digestions. The man does not seem, in the fable, to have made a very good use of his extraordinary powers, or to have derived any extraordinary pleasure from them. If he had only come out campaigning in Norway, he might have had his five appetites for nothing, and been much the better for them all.