"You talk like a goose, my brother," replied Captain Svanholm, the postmaster. "In our days one must have different stuff to make soldiers of. By my soul, I think you consider us warriors like chickens!"
"Yes," added the surgeon, when the captain was about to continue, "I know what you wish to say: exactly like Fieandt at Karstula."
However, the fact was, that the surgeon had one fine April day gone to the sea-shore on a shooting expedition, with artificial decoy ducks. He was accompanied by an old one-eyed corporal called Ritsi (Finnish for Fritz), who had been a pedlar in his youth, and wandered over Germany with a pack on his back; but he brought home nothing except a change in his name.
The ice still remained in patches, with gaps between; both the old men strolled along the edge, and discharged a shot every now and then; but it amounted to very little, as both of them had rather poor eyesight. It happened early one morning that Bäck thought he saw a pair of fine ducks at the further end of the ice, which could only be reached by making a long circuit. He set off, and sure enough the ducks were there. He crept as near as he dared, aimed, and fired ... the ducks' feathers were slightly agitated, but they did not stir from the spot. "Those creatures are pretty tough," thought Bäck; he reloaded, and fired again at thirty paces. The same result followed. Much astonished, Bäck went nearer, and discovered for the first time that he had been shooting at his own decoy ducks, which the wind had imperceptibly driven from the inner to the outer edge of the ice.
The old gentleman now thought about returning; but this was easier said than done. The wind had separated the ice on which he stood, from the ice which held Ritsi, and the loose block was drifting out to sea. The two old friends looked sadly at each other; scarcely a dozen yards separated them, and yet the corporal could not assist his companion, for there was no boat. Bäck was drifting slowly and steadily out to sea.
"Good-bye, now, comrade," cried the surgeon, whilst still within hearing. "Tell Svenonius and Svanholm that my will is locked up in the bureau-drawer to the right. Tell them to have the bells rung for me next Sunday. As for the funeral, you need not give yourself any trouble; I will attend to that myself."
"God have mercy!" yelled the corporal, putting the wrong side of his jacket to his eyes, and returning to the shore slowly and tranquilly, as if nothing had happened.
For the honour of the good town, it must be said, that the rest of the surgeon's friends were far from taking the matter like the corporal. The postmaster cursed and swore; the schoolmaster marched out at the head of his boys; and the old grandmother quietly sent off a couple of able-bodied pilots in their boats to cruise between the blocks of ice. The greatest excitement prevailed; confusion and running about everywhere; and those who made the most fuss accomplished the least.
Two days passed without any trace of the surgeon; on the third the pilots came back from a fruitless search. All gave the surgeon up for lost. There was sincere mourning in the town for such an old institution as Bäck—everyone's friend, and everybody's confidant—he was one of the little town's house-spirits, without whom the community could not get on. But what could be done? When the third Sunday arrived, without any news of the unfortunate bird-hunter, the bells were rung for his soul, according to custom, and a fine eulogy composed by Svenonius, was read in the church, and the city magistrate appointed a day in the ensuing week for taking an inventory of his effects.
I hope, however, that the reader, who has noticed the title of this veracious story, will not be alarmed. In reality it would be very hard if the surgeon should be called away just now, when Regina sits imprisoned at Korsholm, under Fru Marta's stern control, and Bertel lies bleeding on the battlefield of Lützen. And what would become of the gentle Meri, of the peasant king of Storkyro, and of so many other important personages in this narrative? Patience! the surgeon had certainly gone through worse experiences in his day ... he had not been born for nothing on the same day as Napoleon!