[Illustration: Cover art]
The Naval Cadet
A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea
BY
DR. GORDON STABLES
Author of "In the Great White Land" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I._
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
_Printed in Great Britain by
Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_
CONTENTS.
Chap.
I. The Hermit of Kilmara
II. The Night came on before its Time
III. The Storm
IV. Story of the Skye Clearings
V. A Terrible Adventure
VI. In Search of Adventure
VII. Lost in a Highland Mist
VIII. Creggan and Oscar
IX. On Board the Gunboat _Rattler_
X. War Ahead!
XI. The City of Blood
XII. Capture of the City of Benin
XIII. In a Wild and Lovely Mountain-land
XIV. A Fearful Night
XV. Welcome Back to Skye
XVI. Life on the Good Ship _Osprey_
XVII. Mess-room Fun
XVIII. St. Elmo's Fire
XIX. The Burning Ship
XX. Gun-room Fun
XXI. Jacko Steals the Captain's Pudding
XXII. In the Wilds of Venezuela
XXIII. Dolce Far Niente
XXIV. On the Lonesome Llanos
XXV. Promotion
XXVI. Adventure in a Papuan Lake-Village
XXVII. A Terrible Tragedy
XXVIII. "The Battle rages Loud and Long"
XXIX. Like a Battle of Olden Times
XXX. Court-martialed
XXXI. Safely Home at Last
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Ju-Ju king sprang up ... _Frontispiece_ [Missing from source book]
Creggan kept the boat head-on to each threatening wave
"Well, my lad, you're one of the 'Rattler's' middies, aren't you?"
Just in the nick of time, Creggan fires [Missing from source book]
"Antoine was in a state of mesmeric fascination, and pale as death"
THE NAVAL CADET.
CHAPTER I.
THE HERMIT OF KILMARA.
There was something in the reply given by young Creggan M'Vayne to
Elliott Nugent, Esq., that this gentleman did not altogether relish.
He could not have complained of any want of respect in the boy's
utterance or in his manner, but there was an air of independence
about the lad that jarred against his feelings, and made him a trifle
cross--for the time being, that is.
For Nugent was a great man,--in his own country at all events. He
was an ex-secretary from one of the Colonies, and at home in
Australia he had been like the centurion we read of in the New
Testament, and had had many men under him to whom he could say "Do
this" with the certainty of finding it done, for in his own great
office his word had been law.
But here stood this kilted ghillie with his collie dog by his
side--stay, though, till I present my young hero to you, reader. You
will then know a little more of the merits of the case.
Than young Creggan M'Vayne, then, no boy was better known on land or
at sea, all along the wild rocky shores that stretch from Loch
Snizort to the very northernmost cape of Skye, well-named in the
Gaelic "The Island of Wings". At any time of the day or by moonlight
his little skiff of a boat might be met by sturdy fishermen speeding
over the waves of the blue Minch, or lazily floating in some
rock-guarded bay, while its solitary occupant lured from the dark,
deep water many a silvery dancing fish. But inland, too, he was
well-known, on lonely moor and on mountain brow.
And Creggan was welcome wherever he went. Welcome when he appeared
at the doors of the rude huts that were huddled along the sea-shore,
welcome in the shepherd's shieling far away on the hills, and welcome
even at the firesides of gamekeepers themselves.
Up to the present time, at all events, Creggan's life had been a
half-wild one, to say the least of it. Though tall for his years,
which barely numbered fourteen, he was as strong and well-knit as the
sinewy deer of the mountains. Good-looking he certainly was, with a
depth of chin that pronounced him more English than Scotch; the
bluest of eyes, a sun-kissed face, and fair, curly hair of so
self-assertive a nature that Creggan's Highland bonnet never by any
chance got within three inches of his brow.
From that same bonnet, then, down to his boots, or rather brogues,
the lad looked every inch a gentleman. He was just a trifle shy in
presence of his elders and those who moved in a superior walk of life
to him; but every really good honest-hearted lad is so. Among the
peasantry, however, he was always his own manly self.
There was one thing concerning Creggan's wild life that he did not
care for anyone to know, not even his best friend, M'Ian the
minister. And it was this: he was kind to the very poor. The fact
is, that the lad was always either in pursuit of game, as he chose to
call even rabbits, or fishing from his skiff or from the rocks, so
that he had generally more than sufficed for his own needs and those
of his guardian, whom I shall presently introduce to you. So when he
appeared at the door of widow M'Donald, M'Leod, or M'Rae, as the case
might be--for they were nearly all Macs thereabout,--you couldn't
have guessed that he was carrying a beautiful string of codling or a
"sonsy" rabbit, so carefully was it concealed in his well-worn and
somewhat tattered plaid.
I am quite sure that Creggan's faithful collie, whose name was Oscar,
quite approved of what his master did; he always looked so pleased,
and sometimes even barked for joy, when Creggan presented those
welcome gifts, and while the recipients called blessings down from
heaven on the boy's curly head.
But not only did the poorest among the crofters, or squatters as they
might have been called, love the winsome, happy-visaged boy, but many
of them looked upon him with a strange mixture of superstition and
awe. He was supposed to bear a kind of charmed life, because a
mystery hung over his advent which might never, never be cleared up.
For Creggan was an ocean-child in the truest sense of the word. When
a mere infant he had been found in a small boat which was stranded on
the rock-bound Isle of Kilmara, off the shores of Skye, one morning
after a gale of wind. In this islet, which indeed is but little more
than a sea-girt rock, he had dwelt for many years with the strange
being who had picked him up half-frozen, and had wooed him back to
life, and became not only a father to him but a tutor as well.
A strange being indeed was old Tomnahurich, the Hermit of Kilmara,
the name by which he was generally known. Only old people could
remember his coming to and taking possession of the island, which
probably belonged to no one in particular, although in summer-time a
few sheep used to be sent to crop the scanty herbage that grew
thereon. But one beautiful spring morning,--with snow-white
cloudlets in the blue sky, and a light breeze rippling the Minch,
till from the mainland of Skye it looked like some mighty river
rolling onwards and north 'twixt the Outer and Inner Hebrides,--some
fisher-lads on landing were confronted by a tall, brown-bearded
stranger, dressed in seaman's clothes, and with a cast of countenance
and bearing that showed he was every inch a sailor. He had come out
from a cave, and into this, with smiles and nods and talking in the
purest of Gaelic, he had invited the young fellows. They found a
fire burning here, and fish boiling; there was a rude bench, several
stools, and various articles of culinary utility, to say nothing of a
row of brown stone bottles, the contents of one of which he begged
them to taste.
But where the hermit had come from, or how or why he had come, nobody
could tell, and he never even referred to his own history.
He had ceased to dwell in the cave after a time, and with wood from a
shipwrecked barque he had built himself, in a sheltered corner, a
most substantial though very uncouth kind of a dwelling-hut. As the
time went on, silver threads had begun to appear in the brown of the
hermit's beard; and now it was nearly white. He was apparently as
strong and sturdy as ever, notwithstanding the wintryness of his
hair, and the boy loved his strange guardian far more than any friend
he had, and was never so happy anywhere as at the rude fireside of
his island home.
We never think of what Fate may have in store for us, especially when
we are young, nor at what particular date fortune's tide may be going
to flow for us.
This morning, for instance, when Creggan came on shore with Oscar, he
had no idea that anything particular was going to happen. He had
first and foremost drawn up his little boat--the very skiff it was in
which he had been cradled on the billowy ocean,--then gone straight
away up to the manse. Here he was a great favourite, and M'Ian, the
kind-hearted minister, had for years been his teacher, educating the
boy with his own two children, Rory and Maggie, both his juniors.
I am not going to say that Creggan was more clever than children of
his age usually are, but as the instruction he received was given
gratuitously or for love, he felt it to be his bounden duty to learn
all he could so as to gratify his teacher.
His English was therefore exceptionally good already, and he had made
good progress in geography, history, arithmetic, and knew the first
two books of Euclid; and he could even prattle in French, which he
had learned from the hermit. It was usual for Creggan to spend an
hour or two playing with Rory and little winsome Maggie, after
lessons, but to-day they were going with their father to the distant
town of Portree, so, after bidding them good-bye he shouldered his
little gun, a gift from M'Ian, and, whistling for Oscar, went off to
the cairns to find a rabbit or two.
The cairns where the rabbits dwelt were small rounded hills about a
quarter of a mile inland from the wild cliffs that frowned over the
deep, dark sea. These knolls were everywhere covered with stones,
and hundreds of wild rabbits played about among these. But no sooner
had Creggan shot just one than the rest disappeared into their
burrows as if by magic. The boy had plenty of patience, however, so
he simply lay down and began to read. Not to study, though. His
school-books he had left in the graveyard on an old tombstone, and
near to the last resting-place of the romantic Flora M'Donald, the
lady who had saved the unfortunate Prince Charlie Stuart.
After half an hour he secured two more rabbits, and as the sun began
to wester, he strolled slowly backwards towards the spot where he had
beached his boat, with no intention, however, of putting out to sea
for some little time.
With the exception of his school-books poor Creggan's library was
wonderfully small, and his literature was nearly always borrowed or
given to him. For instance, even in the most squalid huts he had
often found books that gave him no end of pleasure. They were mostly
in the grand old Gaelic; but Creggan could read the language well,
and in the long dark forenights of winter he used to delight the old
hermit by trotting out the mysterious and Homeric-like lines of
Ossian's poems. Then tourists, to whom he acted in the capacity of
guide in summer-time, sometimes gave him a book, and M'Ian's library
was always at his service.
So to-day he had thrown himself on his face on the green cliff-top,
and had commenced to read his Ossian.
What a glorious summer afternoon! There was the blue Minch asleep in
the sunshine, and stretching away and away far over to the hazy hills
of Harris and Lewis. White gulls were floating on its billows close
inshore, or wheeling high in air around the stupendous cliffs, where
their nests were,--their plaintive, melancholy notes mingling with
the song of the lark, the mavis, and the merle, while the solemn boom
of the breaking waves made a sweet but awful diapason.
The air all around was warm and balmy, and laden with the sweet
breath of wild thyme.
And Creggan M'Vayne was just reading one of his favourite, because
most romantic passages, when the dry and business-like tones of
Elliott Nugent fell upon his ear. Beautiful, indeed, did the boy
consider every line of that wild and weird poem _Carric-Thura_. The
ghost scene therein made him shudder; but it was the death of the
lovers on the field of battle--the death of Connal and Crimora that
affected him most. She had given him his arms with sad and woesome
foreboding, but at the same time had determined to follow him into
the fight.
_Here was the din of arms; here the groans of the dying. Bloody are
the wars of Fingal, O Connal, and it was here thou didst fall! Thine
arm was like a storm; thy sword a beam of the sky; thy height a rock
upon the plain; thine eyes a furnace of fire. Warriors fell by thy
sword as the thistles by the staff of a boy. Then Dargo the mighty
came on, darkening in his wrath._
_Bright rose their swords on each side; loud was the clang of their
steel._
_But Crimora was near, bright in the armour of man. Her yellow hair
is loose behind, her bow is in her hand._
_She drew the string on Dargo; but--erring--she pierced her Connal.
He falls like an oak on the plain; like a rock from the shaggy hill.
What now can she do, O hapless maiden? See how he bleeds, her Connal
dies!_
_All night long she weeps and all the livelong day. O Connal, O
Connal, my love and my friend!_
But with grief the maiden dies, and in the same grave they sleep.
Undisturbed they now sleep together; in the tomb on the mountain they
rest alone, and the wind sighs through the long green grass that
grows twixt the stones of the grave.
_Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mists rest on the hills. Dark
rolls the river through the narrow plain. A tree stands alone on the
hill and marks the slumbering Connal. The leaves whirl round in the
wind and strew the grave of the dead. Soft be their rest, hapless
children of streamy Loda._
Here Creggan had closed the book with a sigh.
"Boy, are you willing to earn an honest shilling? Keep back that
dog, please!"
The boy had sprung to his feet and seized the all-too-impetuous Oscar
by the collar.
Nugent's appearance was somewhat out of keeping with the grandeur of
the scenery around him. Thin and wan he was, with close-trimmed
whiskers turning to gray, a London coat, and a soft felt hat.
"Earn a shilling, sir?"
"I said earn a shilling, an honest shilling. But perhaps you are
above that sort of thing. You Skye Highlanders are, as a rule, so
lazy."
"Thank you, sir, but I am not a Skyeman, though I should not be
ashamed to be. I was born on the high seas, and I have neither
mother nor father."
Nugent's voice softened at once. His whole bearing was altered.
"Poor boy!" he said. "I fear I talked harshly. But come, we were
directed here by an old man who told us you could guide us over the
mountains inland. My wife is an artist, and wants to make a sketch
or two. See, yonder she comes, and my little daughter, Matty. Come,
you seem to be a superior sort of lad, you shall have half a crown."
"I don't want your money. I sha'n't touch it. But if you wait a few
minutes I will guide you to a strange land far away among the hills.
There will just be time to return before sunset."
"And you will take no reward?"
"Oh yes, sir, I will. I love books. I would have a book if you
could lend it to me."
"That we will, with pleasure. I have a boy just about your
age--sixteen, and he lives in books. You are a little over sixteen,
perhaps?"
Creggan smiled.
"No, sir," he replied, taking off his bonnet now, for Mrs. Nugent and
Matty had come up; "I want some months of fourteen."
"You are a very beautiful Highland boy," said Matty, gazing up at
Creggan with innocent admiration; "and if you is good, mamma will
paint you."
"Hush, dear, hush!" cried the stately mother.
Creggan looked at the child. He had never seen anyone so lovely
before, not even in Portree. But there was a little green knoll high
up in a glen that he knew of, on which, as the old people told him,
fairies danced and played in the moonlight. He had never seen any of
these, though many times and oft he had watched for them. But he
thought now that Matty must just be like one.
I must confess that there was a small hole in each of the elbows of
Creggan's tweed jacket, but nevertheless when he stepped right up, as
if moved by some sudden impulse and shook Matty's tiny hand, his
bearing was in keeping with the action, and even Nugent himself
admitted afterwards that he looked a perfect little gentleman.
"I wish you were my sister."
That is all he said.
But for the next few minutes very busy was Creggan indeed.
First and foremost he made a flag of his handkerchief and hoisted it
on the end of his gun. This he waved in the air, until presently an
answering signal could be seen on the distant island.
Then to right and to left, alow and aloft, he made signals with the
flag, much to the delight of little blue-eyed Matty, ending all by
holding his gun perpendicularly and high in air, after which he
turned to his new acquaintances.
"I'm quite ready," he said.
The march towards the mountains was now commenced. But the road led
past the manse, and thither ran Creggan, returning almost immediately
with a tiny Shetland pony. This consequential little fellow was
fully caparisoned, with not only a child's saddle but saddle-bags.
Into the latter Mrs. Nugent's sketching-gear was put, and then
Creggan picked Matty up and placed her on the saddle. Oscar barked,
and the child screamed with joy, as off they headed for the wild
mountains.
* * * * * * * * * * *
High above the blue-gray hills of Harris lay streak on streak of
carmine clouds, with saffron all between, as Creggan's skiff went
dancing over the waves that evening, towards his little island home.
But the boy saw them not, saw nothing in fact till his boat's keel
rasped upon the beach, where his foster-father stood, ready to haul
her up.
For Creggan's thoughts were all with his newly-found friends and the
doings of this eventful day.