A borough, like Vasa, held one common family, and the inhabitants looked with pride on the high green battlements of Korsholm.
The long-credited story, confirmed by Messenius, that Korsholm was built by Birger Jarl, and received its name from a large wooden cross raised as a symbol, refuge, and sign of victory, was founded on the old tradition that the great "Jarl," on his expedition to Finland, landed on this very coast. Later researches have thrown some doubt on this story of Korsholm's origin; but it is certain that the fortress is very old, so old that it is beyond calculation. It has never been besieged; its situation renders it of no importance to Finland; and after Uleä and Kajana castles were built, shortly before the time of our story, it had ceased to be considered a military position. It now served as the residence of the Governor of the Northern districts, to lodge other crown officials, and serve as a prison; and its so-called "dairy" yielded a nice income to the Governor. The Stadtholder of Northern Finland, Johan Mansson Ulfsparre of Tusenhult, lived only at intervals at Korsholm, and it is said that his seventy-year-old mother, Mistress Marta, ruled with a stern hand over both castle and dairy in his absence. Between the peasants and burghers an unnatural and injurious rivalry prevailed at that time, owing to the efforts of the Government to suppress the country trade for the benefit of the towns, and in a very ignorant way to regulate the exchange of commodities. Therefore, when the rich old peasant with his daughter drove in through the country toll-gate on the Lillkyro side, a few of the citizens, it is true, nodded a greeting to the well-known old man for the sake of his wealth; but the proudest amongst the merchants, who feared his influence with the king, gazed on him with hostile eyes, and gave vent to their ill-feelings in sarcastic words, uttered loud enough to reach the old man's ears.
"Here comes the peasant king of Storkyro!" they said, "and Vasa has no triumphal arch! He considers himself too good to thrash in the barn; he means to enter the army and become commander at once. Take care! Do you not see how angry he looks, the log-house king? If he had his way, he would plough up the whole town and make it into a rye-field!"
The hot-tempered Bertila concealed his resentment, and hurried up the horse, so as to arrive quickly at the widow's house, where he generally resided when in town. He had not gone far, however, up Kopman Street, which was not one of the widest, before it was blocked by a crowd of drunken recruits, who, in an ale-house near by, had inaugurated their new comradeship and strengthened themselves for the long journey ahead. Two sub-officers had joined the crowd as its self-appointed leaders, and rushed with a bold "out of the way, peasant!" towards the new-comer.
Bertila, already irritated and unable to control himself, answered the summons with a cut of the whip, which knocked off the foremost sub-officer's broad-brimmed hat with an eagle's feather. At once the affray began. The man struck rushed upon the chaise, and the whole crowd followed him.
"Aha, old fellow!" exclaimed the jovial serjeant, Bengt Kristerson, whom Bertila had so ignominiously expelled from his house, "now we have got you, and I will recompense you for your gracious treatment yesterday. Make way, boys; the old fellow is mine; this fish I will scale myself."
Bertila was too old to rely upon the power of his fists, and he looked around for a place of refuge. Whip in hand, he leaped from the chaise, which had stopped close to the entrance of a shop, and gave the horse a lash, so that the latter, chaise and daughter, rushed through the yielding crowd and galloped up the street. But before Bertila could find a refuge in the shop, the door was slammed in his face by the timorous owner. The old champion, seeing escape cut off, placed his back to the door, and menaced the assailants with his long whip.
"Let us thrash the proud Storkyro peasant," cried a young Laihela boy, who, by carrying a musket for a week, had forgotten his peasant origin, but not his rustic language.
"Your father was a better man, Matts Hindrickson," said Bertila contemptuously, "instead of assailing his own people, he helped us, like an honest peasant, to pommel Peder Gumse's cavalry in former days."
"Do you hear that, boys?" cried one of the subalterns; "the dog boasts of thrashing brave soldiers."