He was born in 1758, had fought for the French in East India, as well as in the war of 1788-90. He distinguished himself at the battles of Siikajoki, Lappo, Kauhajoki, and at many others. In the battle near Porrassalmi (1789) he was seriously wounded in the forehead by a bullet. Like the wound of Amfortas, it never healed, and through all his remaining life he wore a black band around his head. The wound often caused him great suffering, and thence betimes a violent temper.
When Adlercreutz became Adjutant-General of the army, Dobeln succeeded him as commander of the Bjorneborg brigade.
His best known victory was at Juutas, September 13, 1808. Three days before, he had hither marched with his brigade; and leaving it on the morning of the great battle, had betaken himself to Nykarleby, 4 km to the north, to obtain some repose; for he had been ill for some months from the cold and exposure of fording the river here. At Nykarleby, upon his couch of sickness lay Dobeln, racked with pain, burned with fever, hearing the cannonading at Juutas, which meant retreat or death of his own leaderless soldiers. Then would the entire Swedish-Finnish army be forced to surrender, surrounded on all sides by the enemy.
At this point the story opens which Runeberg has told so graphically. Dobeln arose, joined his army, and drove back the Russians. After this marvelous triumph, and after his prayer to the God of Victory in the final four stanzas — one of the loftiest prayers that ever emanated from mortal lips — Dobeln returned to Nykarleby and again took to his bed of sickness.
Later, he became Major General, and after a varied career died in 1820, and lies buried in St. Johannes’ churchyard at Stockholm.
Upon this poem, with its iambic pentameters, Runeberg has bestowed the pomp and stateliness of the English Epic, whose lofty tone is maintained throughout.
XVIII. DOBELN AT JUUTAS.
“A heathen Dobeln is,” the provost muttered,
“Condemned to death eternal, should he die;
I came, I warned, and words of comfort uttered,
And calm he heard awhile without reply;
Then sudden raised him on his bed of languor:
“Drive out the priest!” He bade his man in anger,
“Beware, if entrance he again has won!”
Is this meet word for one who nears death’s portal?
Yet he must answer for his doom as mortal;
My duty both as man and priest is done!”
Thus o’er his mid-day meal of ample measure
The provost spoke, regaled in all his state.
As he discoursed, he heaved a sigh of pleasure,
And cut another slice of steak, and ate.
But on his bed lay Dobeln, weary, turning,
With heaving chest, and eyes like fire-flames burning,
While fever on his face its flush had wrought;
In long march northward late had moved his numbers,
And through the last two days had missed their slumbers,
While he himself Nykarleby had sought.
His pulse was beating hot, but in him burning
He bore a yet more all-consuming flame;
If in his eye you looked, you were discerning
An unrest deeper than from fever came.
Each hour he reckoned o’er as it departed, —
He seemed to listen, waiting anxious-hearted,
And often on the door his glance would rest.
It opened; through the hall, with manner lowly,
A young man to the general’s couch moved slowly,
And Dobeln thus addressed his youthful guest:
“Sir Doctor, shams are many and enthralling,
And mid free-thinkers I my place sustain;
Yet two things taught me to revere your calling, —
My broken forehead and my friend, Bjerkén.
And all your orders I have therefore followed, —
Here like a child have lain, and meekly swallowed
The potions you have ranged upon my board;
I know, your arts you follow to the letter;
But if for hours and days my power they fetter,
Then “break them like a man,” — that is my word!
“I would, I will be well! Words naught can boot us!
I must arise, e’en though the grave I cheat!
Attend! You hear the cannons roar at Juutas,
Where even now the Finnish troops retreat!
I there must go, before my men are shaken!
Shall roads be barred, shall Adlercreutz be taken?
What fate then, valiant army, would you meet?
No, doctor; frame some mixture, you, my keeper,
That makes my pain to-morrow seven-fold deeper,
But puts me for to day upon my feet!”
These words the young physician’s ardor ended,
But o’er his noble face the light soon broke;
His arm he o’er the table calm extended,
And swept it empty at a single stroke!
“Now, general, let my art no bar be counted!”
On Dobeln’s cheeks a deeper crimson mounted,
And up he sprang, though racked and weak thereby:
“Thanks! Let me kiss your brow, my youthful brother
For you have read my heart as has none other;
You are a man, and such am likewise I!”
* * *
At Juutas was the cannonading over,
And Death his first grim harvest there had reaped;
The Finnish army, powerless to recover,
Prevailed no more, stood broken, ruin-steeped.
One charge they scarce had checked upon their border,
When Kosatschoffski set his troops in order,
Prepared to crush them by an onset new.
A dismal silence fell, not to be banished,
As when a storm-cloud, from the sky late vanished,
Returns with double menace to the view.
Ah! Who could join our scattered forces loyal,
A remnant now from days of triumph dear?
Of valor, strength, of faith gold-clear and royal,
Enough was found, but leader none was here.
The man who in our need woke hope of glory,
Who brought, through hundred famous combats gory,
His Bjorneborgers brave to victory, —
He was not now to see their fate impending,
His veterans brave with very death contending,
While Chance alone should lead them, — no, not he!
That you were on the field, was not o’ersighted,
Who fought so frequent, in all strife awake, —
You in whose name our land has e’er delighted,
And deep has mourned your fate, — O valiant Eek!
Ah, yes! Both you and all your friends so glorious
Knew how to fight, but not to lead victorious;
This was the sick man’s art, the sole one versed.
You stood there, you, but mute, with blade uplifted;
Gronhagen silent rode, slow Kothen drifted,
And wrathful roared Von Schantz, while Konow cursed!
* * *
Stop! Hark! A loud huzza mounts to the azure!
A man on horse approaches! Who is he?
Hear! What a storm of cries! What brings the pleasure
That rings from man to man in jubilee?
Hurrah! Hurrah! O’er field and hillock bounding,
The sound sweeps all, it broadens, grows, resounding, —
An avalanche of voices down the dale.
Ha! He himself is come! It is none other,
With band around his brow, our little brother;
Our noble, valiant general now we hail!
He silence bids. Now hear his voice! His orders
He shouts to men whom strife has sundered wide;
As rides he forth, they join him from all borders,
And system reigns anew on every side.
In lines compact again the army glitters,
And tho
ugh begrimed, with garments torn in flitters,
It stands in order, terrible once more;
No longer do they wait for death inglorious;
They only think of battle all-victorious;
Their hearts another spirit hovers o’er!
Now Dobeln to his army’s front proceeded
When he had found all safe and strong again;
It seemed his watchful eye unceasing heeded
Each rank, each file, each individual man.
To Swedes and Finns the thought seemed ever nearer
That in his mind great plans were growing clearer;
And silent more than wonted he had grown;
To-day appeared he milder yet of feature,
And oft his serious face smiled on some creature,
Some gruff old warrior ‘mong the troops well known.
Von Kothen’s troop had one such, old and battered,
And he was corporal number seven, — Standar;
He wore upon one foot a shoe all tattered,
The other foot was bleeding and was bare.
Then Dobeln, to the aged man advancing,
With hand on forehead stood, and darkly glancing
In silence, viewed the gray-haired warrior’s plight;
At last he spoke: “On Lappo’s plain so gory,
At Kauhajoki’s fight, you earned your glory;
Is this your wage for our victorious fight?”
“Sir general,” was the veteran’s answer spoken,
See, in my hand, the gun you gave to me;
The weapon’s barrel still remains unbroken,
The hammer still strikes fire, — enough for me.
That I am meanly clad will pass with brothers,
One is not worse for being like the others;
That clothes are not the man, believe I, too;
And shod or unshod is a trifling matter;
If you but see we bravely stand, not scatter,
The foot will help itself without a shoe!”
And Dobeln spoke no more, but elevated
His hat in honor of the old man’s word;
Then rode he forth to Brakel’s troop; there waited
A moment more to see the drummer Nord, —
He was an old man, known since eight and eighty;
Now grown so stiff in arms, in movements weighty,
He scarce could beat a rolling tremolo;
Though seldom to parade he was permitted,
In bloody scenes the ranks he never quitted;
To him the general spoke, discoursing so:
“Say, comrade, are you cloyed with battle never?
Is there no younger man at hand than you?
Here you have stood all day, and stiffened ever,
And now what can your arms with drum-sticks do?”
The brave man heard this question, half offended;
“Sir general, true, on me has age descended,
Which from the drill of youth has me debarred;
But strength of arm is better far in battle;
Shout now, like Armfelt: “March! The drum now rattle!”
And Nord beats slow his roll, but beats it hard!”
And Lappo’s hero smiled, his arm extended
To him who valiant Armfelt’s days had graced.
Then rode he hence, and to the strand descended
Where Gyllenbogel’s volunteers were placed.
There stood a young man from the plow late parted;
The general at his pallid features started,
Held in his horse, and roared in wrathful tone:
“Who are you, peasant? Speak! What is the matter?
And does a glimpse of death your courage shatter?
Your cheek is white! Are you a weak poltroon?”
But forth the youth advanced, his arm upthrowing,
And open tore his jacket worn and gray;
There on his breast a scarlet wound was glowing,
With fresh blood streaming to the light of day.
“Sir General, late in battle have I gained it,
And chance too much have bled since I obtained it,
And so my cheek still holds its pallid hue;
If I can add yet to our hero-story,
I glad will fall; but let me seek the glory;
For since your coming feel I strength anew!”
From Dobeln’s eye then stole a tear-drop tender;
“Well now, my noble men, to strife away!
Full well I’ve seen that fear no help can render; —
Our war is great, — to-day is Dobeln’s day!
Sir adjutant, our grain is ripe; bear orders
O’er hill and plain, through groves, to farthest borders,
That all shall boldly take the forward trade!
Not here, but there, we prove our swords and lances;
With such troops, world-defiant one advances, —
With them one ne’er awaits, but gives, attack!”
Soon o’er the lines a jubel-call was bounding:
“March forward, march! To victory or death!”
Your voice, Standar, like thunder was resounding,
And old man Nord he drummed with quickened breath.
The youth whose bosom had been penetrated,
Marched o’er the ground that his own blood had sated,
While Dobeln foremost rode with unsheathed sword;
And ere the evening shadows had descended,
The Russian army’s might and fire were ended,
And Adlercreutz was saved, his path restored.
The battle forces were already scattered
Far from the spot where first the fray began,
But on the field where lines were sorest shattered,
At evening’s latest calm, there stood a man.
And close beside him was his war-steed tethered;
Alone he stood, mid ghastly shadows gathered,
Mid death and ravage on the blood-stained earth.
The distant air by victory-shouts was riven;
The pallid man raised calm his eyes toward heaven,
And from his lips these words serene came forth:
“One task is done, my army is victorious;
One duty more remaineth yet for me:
Freethinker I am called, — the name is glorious;
Free-born am I, and all my thoughts are free.
Yet know I that where’er my thought has hovered,
Thee first it sought, and Thee alone discovered, —
Thee who the paths of life dost oversee.
It is to Thee mine eyes are heavenward turning;
Here, where the eyes of death have no discerning,
I, with no witness, offer thanks to Thee.
“Thou fatherland and friends to me restorest,
Though all our hopes in darkness deep were spent;
O scan my heart, for Thou all things explorest, —
Behold if well I prize what Thou hast sent!
The slave may prone in dust his god petition;
I cannot crawl, to beg had no tuition;
I ask no favor, no reward would bear.
I would but stand before Thee, free and tearless,
With glowing heart, with brow upraised and fearless; —
This is my manly wish and earnest prayer.
“Thou’st given me strength my warriors to assemble
For unresisted march from field to field;
My form is broken, and my limbs now tremble;
What could of mine own power have been the yield?
Yea, I have conquered. Late beset, surrounded, —
Now Finland’s army sees its path unbounded, —
The way to glorious deeds revealed through me.
Yet it is Thou alone hast brought salvation,
Though “God” or “brother” be Thine appellation; —
Thou Triumph-giver, be all thanks to Thee!”
The man had spoken, and his eye was sinking;
; His horse he mounted, and was seen no more;
The day had vanished now, and Death was drinking
Night’s tears that fell the mournful harvest o’er.
O fatherland, who shall thy fate foretoken?
Thy future lot as yet remains unspoken,
Thy fortune good or ill can none portray;
But howe’er much of joy or grief thou bearest,
Thou ever shalt, of all thy days the fairest,
Remember this — remember Dobeln’s day!
LATER COLLECTION: 1860
CANTO NINETEENTH. THE SOLDIER BOY.
In this simple and spontaneous lyric, the child associates the memory of his valiant father (who had died so glorious a death) with a series of victories from Siikajoki to Lappo, both parishes being in Osterbotten, and at both of which the Finns won decisive victories. The Battle of Siikajoki was the first great victory for the Finns over their enemy. But the victory at Lappo was the most celebrated of all during the entire war.
Uttismalm is a place north of Fredrikshamn; and here, on June 18, 1789, the Swedes won a great victory over the Russians. Gustaf III himself took part in this battle.
Villmanstrand is a town on the southern shore of Lake Saima. Here the Swedes suffered a defeat August 23, 1741.
The admiration of a child for his father’s rank, his grandeur, his keen eye, his lofty look, his glorious life, his unwavering valor, even his magnificent death, — all destined to be enshrined abidingly in the child’s memory — Is a poetic and inspiring theme.
A fine musical setting to this poem has been composed by Fr. Pacius.
XIX. THE SOLDIER BOY.
My father was a soldier young, the fairest that could be;
At fifteen years he carried arms, a man at seventeen he;
On glory’s field, — his world entire, —
Wherever placed, stood glad my sire,
In hunger, blood, in frost and fire; —
My father such you see.
I was a child when us he left, and days of peace were o’er,
Yet I recall his stately walk, recall it evermore;
His hat, his plume, the skin dark grown,
The shadow neath his eyebrow thrown,
Ah! ne’er from memory have flown, —
The glorious look he bore.
But quickly from the highest North the news to us was brought,
How brave he was, how strong he was, how in each strife
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 11