When the war of 1808 broke out, the surgeon became an assistant physician in one of the Finnish regiments; he no longer fought for glory and the 15th of August. He took part in the campaigns of 1808 and 1809. Then he fought manfully with misery, disease, and death; cut off arms and legs, dressed wounds, applied plasters, solaced the wounded, with whom he shared his flask, bread, purse, and what was much more, his unalterable good humour, and told a thousand funny stories gathered in his travels. He was called the "tobacco doctor," because he was always ready to share his pipe and quid. One can be a Christian even with tobacco. The surgeon was not so stuck up that he, like Konow's corporal, went about
"With two quids from sheer pride."
On the contrary, he went without himself when the need was great, and a wounded comrade had got the last bit of the roll in the pocket of his yellow nankeen vest. Hence the soldiers loved the tobacco doctor.
When peace was concluded between Russia and Sweden in 1809, the latter having lost Finland through a foreign traitor, who gave up Sveaborg to the enemy, and so many Finns went over to Sweden, the surgeon thought it more honourable to remain and share the fortunes of his native land. He travelled round the country and practised amongst the peasantry. But the Medical Faculty of Abo finally forbade him to continue, and he therefore settled down at Jacobstad, his native place, and took to fishing. In the days of his prosperity the surgeon had been too liberal; he now only owned his old brown cloak, yellow nankeen vest, a hundred fish hooks, and his cheerful disposition. But he now obtained the appointment of public vaccinator, which allowed him to roam about the country twice a year, like old times. No one knew better than he how to lull the little children to rest, whilst he pricked the fine soft flesh of their arms; almost before they knew it the pain was over.
This gained for him the goodwill of all the mothers; they even forgave him the ugly habit of chewing tobacco—it was too late to cure it now.
Then the snow of old age stole gently o'er the surgeon's head. He had gone through the storms of life without losing faith in humanity; never hardening under adversity, nor unduly puffed up when fortune smiled. He was throughout a good soul.
Often in our childhood and first youth we sat up there in the old garret chamber around his leather-covered arm-chair, by the light of the crackling fire, listening to his tales from the world of fiction and from life. His memory was inexhaustible, and as the old runa says, that even the wild stream does not let its waves flow by all at once, so had the surgeon continually new stories of his own time, and still more from periods which had long passed away.
It sometimes happened after we had been listening to the old man, that he took out an electric battery, and drew from it a succession of sparks.
"In that way the world sparkled when I was young," he said smiling; "one had only to apply a finger, and click it flashed in all directions. But then it was our Lord who turned the machine."
But rarely had he a story written like that of the Duchess of Finland. Most of them were given orally. Many years have since passed; part I have forgotten, and some I have compared with traditions and books. If the reader finds a pleasure in them, then the surgeon will not have told his tales in vain during the long winter evenings.