Our fishing resulted in the loss of our artificial minnow, no sport, and we put up our tackle. The Qvam churchyard on the right of the road was near us. Our party had not come up. Then we strolled round the church which, as usual, was built of wood, with very large porches. Flowers had been placed on one grave. It is here that Col. George Sinclair is buried. In 1812, Col. Sinclair landed on a farm near Veblungsnœs, in Romsdalen, in command of nine hundred Scotch troops. They marched towards Sweden to aid Gustavus Adolphus against Christian IV. King of Denmark.
At a hill called the Kringelen, beyond Qvam, near Solheim, the peasants rolled down large quantities of rocks on his troops, who were either crushed to death, drowned in the river below, or killed by the peasants who attacked them when in disorder. Only two are said to have survived.
We have never seen any minute particulars of the tragic end of this military expedition. It is said that a young lady, hearing that one of her own sex was with the Scotch, sent her lover for her protection. Unfortunately, as he approached, Mrs. Sinclair mistook his object, and shot him dead.
The other Scotch and Dutch troops, who landed at Thronjhem, reached Stockholm, and helped the Swedish King to conclude advantageous terms of peace. What became of Mrs. Sinclair, we do not know; or where the Scotch soldiers were buried. The colonel seems to have been a bold and daring man. The Norwegian peasants gave their enemy a quiet resting place in the pleasant churchyard of Qvam, and his melancholy history is another illustration of the uncertainty of human hope.
Soon after 6 o’clock Noah, Zachariah, and Esmeralda came up with the donkeys. Noah was limping along very lame. In taking one of the donkeys to be loaded, the animal slipped over a rock and fell across his leg. Noah walked with difficulty, and was very sleepy—in fact, when we had left Qvam, and the sun became warm, we could scarcely keep our eyes open as we pushed on along the road as fast as we could for several miles.
At a turn of the road, some distance from Qvam, we saw a number of men without uniform marching towards us. Zachariah was at first rather frightened. The men advancing took up nearly the whole of the road.
Our friend, Monsieur le Capitaine, was marching at the head of his men, who were going to their periodical militia training. We were looking out to see which side the road to take, when Monsieur le Capitaine opened out his men right and left, and we passed through their centre, which afforded them ample opportunity of observing our cavalcade.
“Bon jour, Monsieur Smith,” said the Captain; “pleasant journey.”
We also wished him “bon jour,” and with mutual salutations each passed on our different routes.
They were a very fine body of men—an army of such men, properly handled, need not fear any other soldiers on equal terms. Had the opportunity permitted, we should have enjoyed a visit to one of their militia camps.