Corporal Cameron

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CORPORAL CAMERON OF THE NORTH WEST MOUNTED POLICE

A TALE OF THE MACLEOD TRAIL


By Ralph Connor




BOOK I


I THE QUITTER

II THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD

III THE FAMILY SOLICITOR

IV A QUESTION OF HONOUR

V A LADY AND THE LAW

VI THE WASTER'S REFUGE

VII FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR

VIII WILL HE COME BACK?


BOOK II


I HO FOR THE OPEN!

II A MAN'S JOB

III A DAY'S WORK

IV A RAINY DAY

V HOW THEY SAVED THE DAY

VI A SABBATH DAY IN LATE AUGUST

VII THE CHIVAREE

VIII IN APPLE TIME


BOOK III


I THE CAMP BY THE GAP

II ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM

III THE STONIES

IV THE DULL RED STAIN

V SERGEANT CRISP

VI A DAY IN THE MACLEOD BARRACKS

VII THE MAKING OF BRAVES

VIII NURSE HALEY

IX "CORPORAL" CAMERON




CORPORAL CAMERON




BOOK ONE


CHAPTER I

THE QUITTER


"Oh-h-h-h, Cam-er-on!" Agony, reproach, entreaty, vibrated in the clear
young voice that rang out over the Inverleith grounds. The Scottish
line was sagging!--that line invincible in two years of International
conflict, the line upon which Ireland and England had broken their
pride. Sagging! And because Cameron was weakening! Cameron, the
brilliant half-back, the fierce-fighting, erratic young Highlander,
disciplined, steadied by the great Dunn into an instrument of Scotland's
glory! Cameron going back! A hush fell on the thronged seats and packed
inner-circle,--a breathless, dreadful hush of foreboding. High over the
hushed silence that vibrant cry rang; and Cameron heard it. The voice he
knew. It was young Rob Dunn's, the captain's young brother, whose soul
knew but two passions, one for the captain and one for the half-back of
the Scottish International.

And Cameron responded. The enemy's next high punt found him rock-like
in steadiness. And rock-like he tossed high over his shoulders the
tow-headed Welshman rushing joyously at him, and delivered his ball far
down the line safe into touch. But after his kick he was observed to
limp back into his place. The fierce pace of the Welsh forwards was
drinking the life of the Scottish backline.

An hour; then a half; then another half, without a score. And now the
final quarter was searching, searching the weak spots in their line. The
final quarter it is that finds a man's history and habits; the clean of
blood and of life defy its pitiless probe, but the rotten fibre yields
and snaps. That momentary weakness of Cameron's like a subtle poison
runs through the Scottish line; and like fluid lightning through the
Welsh. It is the touch upon the trembling balance. With cries exultant
with triumph, the Welsh forwards fling themselves upon the steady Scots
now fighting for life rather than for victory. And under their captain's
directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their
attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding. In vain
Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is
done. Only five minutes to play, but one minute is enough. Down upon
him through a broken field, dribbling the ball and following hard like
hounds on a hare, come the Welsh, the tow-head raging in front, bloody
and fearsome. There is but one thing for Cameron to do; grip that
tumbling ball, and, committing body and soul to fate, plunge into
that line. Alas, his doom is upon him! He grips the ball, pauses a
moment--only a fatal moment,--but it is enough. His plunge is too late.
He loses the ball. A surge of Welshmen overwhelm him in the mud and
carry the ball across. The game is won--and lost. What though the Scots,
like demons suddenly released from hell, the half-back Cameron most
demon-like of all, rage over the field, driving the Welshmen hither and
thither at will, the gods deny them victory; it is for Wales that day!

In the retreat of their rubbing-room the gay, gallant humour which the
Scots have carried with them off the field of their defeat, vanishes
into gloom. Through the steaming silence a groan breaks now and then. At
length a voice:

"Oh, wasn't it rotten! The rank quitter that he is!"

"Quitter? Who is? Who says so?" It was the captain's voice, sharp with
passion.

"I do, Dunn. It was Cameron lost us the game. You know it, too. I know
it's rotten to say this, but I can't help it. Cameron lost the game, and
I say he's a rank 'quitter,' as Martin would say."

"Look here, Nesbitt," the captain's voice was quiet, but every man
paused in his rubbing. "I know how sore you are and I forgive you that;
but I don't want to hear from you or from any man on the team that word
again. Cameron is no quitter; he made--he made an error,--he wasn't
fit,--but I say to you Cameron is no quitter."

While he was speaking the door opened and into the room came a player,
tall, lanky, with a pale, gaunt face, plastered over the forehead with
damp wisps of straight, black hair. His deep-set, blue-grey eyes swept
the room.

"Thanks, Dunn," he said hoarsely. "Let them curse me! I deserve it all.
It's tough for them, but God knows I've got the worst of it. I've played
my last game." His voice broke huskily.

"Oh, rot it, Cameron," cried Dunn. "Don't be an ass! Your first big
game--every fellow makes his mistake--"

"Mistake! Mistake! You can't lie easily, Dunn. I was a fool and worse
than a fool. I let myself down and I wasn't fit. Anyway, I'm through
with it." His voice was wild and punctuated with unaccustomed oaths; his
breath came in great sobs.

"Oh, rot it, Cameron!" again cried Dunn. "Next year you'll be twice the
man. You're just getting into your game."

Right loyally his men rallied to their captain:

"Right you are!"

"Why, certainly; no man gets into the game first year!"

"We'll give 'em beans next year, Cameron, old man!"

They were all eager to atone for the criticism which all had held in
their hearts and which one of them had spoken. But this business was
serious. To lose a game was bad enough, but to round on a comrade was
unpardonable; while to lose from the game a half-back of Cameron's
calibre was unthinkable.

Meanwhile Cameron was tearing off his football togs and hustling on his
clothes with fierce haste. Dunn kept his eye on him, hurrying his own
dressing and chatting quietly the while. But long before he was ready
for the street, Cameron had crushed his things into a bag and was
looking for his hat.

"Hold on! I'm with you; I'm with you in a jiffy," said Dunn.

"My hat," muttered Cameron, searching wildly among the jumble.

"Oh, hang the hat; let it go! Wait for me, Cameron. Where are you
going?" cried Dunn.

"To the devil," cried the lad, slamming the door behind him.

"And, by Jove, he'll go, too!" said Nesbitt. "Say, I'm awfully sorry I
made that break, Dunn. It was beastly low-down to round on a chap like
that. I'll go after him."

"Do, old chap! He's frightfully cut up. And get him for to-night. He
may fight shy of the dinner. But he's down for the pipes, you know,
and--well, he's just got to be there. Good-bye, you chaps; I'm off!
And--I say, men!" When Dunn said "men" they all knew it was their
captain that was speaking. Everybody stood listening. Dunn hesitated a
moment or two, as if searching for words. "About the dinner to-night:
I'd like you to remember--I mean--I don't want any man to--oh, hang it,
you know what I mean! There will be lots of fellows there who will want
to fill you up. I'd hate to see any of our team--" The captain paused
embarrassed.

"We tumble, Captain," said Martin, a medical student from Canada, who
played quarter. "I'll keep an eye on 'em, you bet!"

Everybody roared; for not only on the quarter-line but also at the
dinner table the little quarter-back was a marvel of endurance.

"Hear the blooming Colonist!" said Linklater, Martin's comrade on
the quarter-line, and his greatest friend. "We know who'll want the
watching, but we'll see to him, Captain."

"All right, old chap! Sorry I'll have to cut the van. I'm afraid my
governor's got the carriage here for me."

But the men all made outcry. There were other plans for him.

"But, Captain; hold on!"

"Aw, now, Captain! Don't forsake us!"

"But I say, Dunn, see us through; we're shy!"

"Don't leave us, Captain, or you'll be sorry," sang out Martin. "Come
on, fellows, let's keep next him! We'll give him 'Old Grimes!'"

Already a mighty roar was heard outside. The green, the drive, the
gateways, and the street were blocked with the wildest football fanatics
that Edinburgh, and all Scotland could produce. They were waiting for
the International players, and were bent on carrying their great captain
down the street, shoulder high; for the enthusiasm of the Scot reaches
the point of madness only in the hour of glorious defeat. But before
they were aware, Dunn had shouldered his mighty form through the
opposing crowds and had got safely into the carriage beside his father
and his young brother. But the crowd were bound to have him.

"We want him, Docthor," said a young giant in a tam-o'-shanter. "In
fac', Docthor," he argued with a humourous smile, "we maun hae him."

"Ye'll no' get him, Jock Murchison," shouted young Rob, standing in
front of his big brother. "We want him wi' us."

The crowd laughed gleefully.

"Go for him, Jock! You can easy lick him," said a voice encouragingly.

"Pit him oot, Docthor," said Jock, who was a great friend of the family,
and who had a profound respect for the doctor.

"It's beyond me, Jock, I fear. See yon bantam cock! I doubt ye'll hae to
be content," said the doctor, dropping into Jock's kindly Doric.

"Oh, get on there, Murchison," said Dunn impatiently. "You're not going
to make an ass of me; make up your mind to that!"

Jock hesitated, meditating a sudden charge, but checked by his respect
for Doctor Dunn.

"Here, you fellows!" shouted a voice. "Fall in; the band is going to
play! Get into line there, you Tam-o'-shanter; you're stopping the
procesh! Now then, wait for the line, everybody!" It was Little Martin
on top of the van in which were the Scottish players. "Tune, 'Old
Grimes'; words as follows. Catch on, everybody!"

"Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn,
Old Dunn, old Dunn, old Dunn."

With a delighted cheer the crowd formed in line, and, led by the little
quarter-back on top of the van, they set off down the street, two men at
the heads of the doctor's carriage horses, holding them in place behind
the van. On went the swaying crowd and on went the swaying chant, with
Martin, director of ceremonies and Dunn hurling unavailing objurgations
and entreaties at Jock's head.

Through the uproar a girl's voice reached the doctor's ear:

"Aren't they lovely, Sir?"

The doctor turned to greet a young lady, tall, strong, and with the
beauty of perfect health rather than of classic feature in her face.
There was withal a careless disregard of the feminine niceties of dress.

"Oh, Miss Brodie! Will you not come up? We can easily make room."

"I'd just love to," cried the girl, "but I'm only a humble member of the
procession, following the band and the chariot wheels of the conqueror."
Her strong brown face was all aglow with ardour.

"Conqueror!" growled Dunn. "Not much of a conqueror!"

"Why not? Oh fudge! The game? What matters the game? It's the play we
care about."

"Well spoken, lassie," said the doctor. "That's the true sport."

"Aren't they awful?" cried Dunn. "Look at that young Canadian idiot up
there."

"Well, if you ask me, I think he's a perfect dear," said Miss Brodie,
deliberately. "I'm sure I know him; anyway I'm going to encourage him
with my approval." And she waved her hand at Martin.

The master of ceremonies responded by taking off his hat and making a
sweeping bow, still keeping up the beat. The crowd, following his eyes,
turned their attention to the young lady, much to Dunn's delight.

"Oh," she gasped, "they'll be chanting me next! Good-bye! I'm off!" And
she darted back to the company of her friends marching on the pavement.

At this point Martin held up both arms and called for silence.

"Second verse," he shouted, "second verse! Get the words now!"

"Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn ain't done, old Dunn ain't done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn ain't done."

But the crowd rejected the Colonial version, and rendered in their own
good Doric:

"Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn's no' done, old Dunn's no' done,
Old Dunn, old Dunn's no' done."

And so they sang and swayed, following the van till they neared Queen
Street, down which lay the doctor's course.

"For heaven's sake, can't they be choked off?" groaned Dunn.

The doctor signalled Jock to him.

"Jock," he said, "we'll just slip through at Queen Street."

"We'd like awfully to do Princes Street, Sir," pleaded Jock.

"Princes Street, you born ass!" cried Dunn wrathfully.

"Oh, yes, let them!" cried young Rob, whose delight in the glory of
his hero had been beyond all measure. "Let them do Princes Street, just
once!"

But the doctor would not have it. "Jock," he said quietly, "just get us
through at Queen Street."

"All right, Sir," replied Jock with great regret. "It will be as you
say."

Under Jock's orders, when Queen Street was reached, the men at the
horses' heads suddenly swung the pair from the crowd, and after some
struggling, got them safely into the clear space, leaving the procession
to follow the van, loudly cheering their great International captain,
whose prowess on the field was equalled only by his modesty and his
hatred of a demonstration.

"Listen to the idiots," said Dunn in disgust, as the carriage bore them
away from the cheering crowd.

"Man, they're just fine! Aren't they, Father?" said young Rob in an
ecstasy of joy.

"They're generous lads, generous lads, boy," said Doctor Dunn, his old
eyes shining, for his son's triumph touched him deeply. "That's the only
way to take defeat."

"That's all right, Sir," said Dunn quickly, "but it's rather
embarrassing, though it's awfully decent of them."

The doctor's words suggested fresh thoughts to young Rob. "But it was
terrible; and you were just on the win, too, I know."

"I'm not so sure at all," said his brother.

"Oh, it is terrible," said Bob again.

"Tut, tut, lad! What's so terrible?" said his father. "One side has to
lose."

"Oh, it's not that," said Rob, his lip trembling. "I don't care a sniff
for the game."

"What, then?" said his big brother in a voice sharpened by his own
thoughts.

"Oh, Jack," said Rob, nervously wreathing his hands, "he--it looked as
if he--" the lad could not bring himself to say the awful word. Nor was
there need to ask who it was the boy had in mind.

"What do you mean, Rob?" the captain's voice was impatient, almost
angry.

Then Rob lost his control. "Oh, Jack, I can't help it; I saw it. Do
you think--did he really funk it?" His voice broke. He clutched his
brother's knee and stood with face white and quivering. He had given
utterance to the terrible suspicion that was torturing his heroic young
soul. Of his two household gods one was tottering on its pedestal. That
a football man should funk--the suspicion was too dreadful.

The captain glanced at his father's face. There was gloom there, too,
and the same terrible suspicion. "No, Sir," said Dunn, with impressive
deliberation, answering the look on his father's face, "Cameron is
no quitter. He didn't funk. I think," he continued, while Rob's
tear-stained face lifted eagerly, "I know he was out of condition; he
had let himself run down last week, since the last match, indeed, got
out of hand a bit, you know, and that last quarter--you know, Sir, that
last quarter was pretty stiff--his nerve gave just for a moment."

"Oh," said the doctor in a voice of relief, "that explains it. But," he
added quickly in a severe tone, "it was very reprehensible for a man on
the International to let himself get out of shape, very reprehensible
indeed. An International, mind you!"

"It was my fault, Sir, I'm afraid," said Dunn, regretfully. "I ought to
have--"

"Nonsense! A man must be responsible for himself. Control, to be of any
value, must be ultroneous, as our old professor used to say."

"That's true, Sir, but I had kept pretty close to him up to the last
week, you see, and--"

"Bad training, bad training. A trainer's business is to school his men
to do without him."

"That is quite right, Sir. I believe I've been making a mistake," said
Dunn thoughtfully. "Poor chap, he's awfully cut up!"

"So he should be," said the doctor sternly. "He had no business to get
out of condition. The International, mind you!"

"Oh, Father, perhaps he couldn't help it," cried Rob, whose loyal,
tender heart was beating hard against his little ribs, "and he looks
awful. I saw him come out and when I called to him he never looked at me
once."

There is no finer loyalty in this world than that of a boy below his
teens. It is so without calculation, without qualification, and without
reserve. Dr. Dunn let his eyes rest kindly upon his little flushed face.

"Perhaps so, perhaps so, my boy," he said, "and I have no doubt he
regrets it now more than any of us. Where has he gone?"

"Nesbitt's after him, Sir. He'll get him for to-night."

But as Dunn, fresh from his bath, but still sore and stiff, was
indulging in a long-banished pipe, Nesbitt came in to say that Cameron
could not be found.

"And have you not had your tub yet?" said his captain.

"Oh, that's all right! You know I feel awfully about that beastly remark
of mine."

"Oh, let it go," said Dunn. "That'll be all right. You get right away
home for your tub and get freshened up for to-night. I'll look after
Cameron. You know he is down for the pipes. He's simply got to be there
and I'll get him if I have to bring him in a crate, pipes, kilt and
all."

And Nesbitt, knowing that Dunn never promised what he could not fulfil,
went off to his tub in fair content. He knew his captain.

As Dunn was putting on his coat Rob came in, distress written on his
face.

"Are you going to get Cameron, Jack?" he asked timidly. "I asked
Nesbitt, and he said--"

"Now look here, youngster," said his big brother, then paused. The
distress in the lad's face checked his words. "Now, Rob," he said
kindly, "you needn't fret about this. Cameron is all right."

The kind tone broke down the lad's control. He caught his brother's
arm. "Say, Jack, are you sure--he didn't--funk?" His voice dropped to a
whisper.

Then his big brother sat down and drew the lad to his side, "Now listen,
Rob; I'm going to tell you the exact truth. CAMERON DID NOT FUNK. The
truth is, he wasn't fit,--he ought to have been, but he wasn't,--and
because he wasn't fit he came mighty near quitting--for a moment, I'm
sure, he felt like it, because his nerve was gone,--but he didn't.
Remember, he felt like quitting and didn't, And that's the finest thing
a chap can do,--never to quit, even when he feels like it. Do you see?"

The lad's head went up. "I see," he said, his eyes glowing. "It was
fine! I'm awfully glad he didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it.
You tell him for me." His idol was firm again on his pedestal.

"All right, old chap," said his big brother. "You'll never quit, I bet!"

"Not if I'm fit, will I?"

"Right you are! Keep fit--that's the word!"

And with that the big brother passed out to find the man who was
writhing in an agony of self-contempt; for in the face of all Scotland
and in the hour of her need he had failed because he wasn't fit.

After an hour Dunn found his man, fixed in the resolve to there and then
abandon the game with all the appurtenances thereof, and among these the
dinner. Mightily his captain laboured with him, plying him with varying
motives,--the honour of the team was at stake; the honour of the country
was at stake; his own honour, for was he not down on the programme for
the pipes? It was all in vain. In dogged gloom the half-back listened
unmoved.

At length Dunn, knowing well the Highlander's tender heart, cunningly
touched another string and told of Rob's distress and subsequent relief,
and then gave his half-back the boy's message. "I promised to tell you,
and I almost forgot. The little beggar was terribly worked up, and as
I remember it, this is what he said: 'I'm awfully glad he didn't quit,
'specially when he felt like it.' Those were his very words."

Then Cameron buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud, while Dunn,
knowing that he had reached his utmost, stood silent, waiting. Suddenly
Cameron flung up his head:

"Did he say I didn't quit? Good little soul! I'll go; I'd go through
hell for that!"

And so it came that not in a crate, but in the gallant garb of a
Highland gentleman, pipes and all, Cameron was that night in his place,
fighting out through the long hilarious night the fiercest fight of his
life, chiefly because of the words that lay like a balm to his lacerated
heart:

"He didn't quit, 'specially when he felt like it."



CHAPTER II

THE GLEN OF THE CUP OF GOLD


Just over the line of the Grampians, near the head-waters of the Spey, a
glen, small and secluded, lies bedded deep among the hills,--a glen that
when filled with sunlight on a summer day lies like a cup of gold; the
gold all liquid and flowing over the cup's rim. And hence they call the
glen "The Cuagh Oir," The Glen of the Cup of Gold.

At the bottom of the Cuagh, far down, a little loch gleams, an oval of
emerald or of sapphire, according to the sky above that smiles into
its depths. On dark days the loch can gloom, and in storm it can rage,
white-lipped, just like the people of the Glen.

Around the emerald or sapphire loch farmlands lie sunny and warm, set
about their steadings, and are on this spring day vivid with green,
or rich in their red-browns where the soil lies waiting for the seed.
Beyond the sunny fields the muirs of brown heather and bracken climb
abruptly up to the dark-massed firs, and they to the Cuagh's rim. But
from loch to rim, over field and muir and forest, the golden, liquid
light ever flows on a sunny day and fills the Cuagh Oir till it runs
over.

On the east side of the loch, among some ragged firs, a rambling Manor
House, ivy-covered and ancient, stood; and behind it, some distance
away, the red tiling of a farm-cottage, with its steading clustering
near, could be seen. About the old Manor House the lawn and garden
told of neglect and decay, but at the farmhouse order reigned. The trim
little garden plot, the trim lawn, the trim walks and hedges, the trim
thatch of the roof, the trim do'-cote above it, the trim stables, byres,
barns and yard of the steading, proclaimed the prudent, thrifty care of
a prudent, thrifty soul.

And there in the steading quadrangle, amidst the feathered creatures,
hens, cocks and chicks, ducks, geese, turkeys and bubbly-jocks, stood
the mistress of the Manor and prudent, thrifty manager of the farm,--a
girl of nineteen, small, well-made, and trim as the farmhouse and its
surroundings, with sunny locks and sunny face and sunny brown eyes. Her
shapely hands were tanned and coarsened by the weather; her little feet
were laced in stout country-made brogues; her dress was a plain brown
winsey, kilted and belted open at the full round neck; the kerchief that
had fallen from her sunny, tangled hair was of simple lawn, spotless
and fresh; among her fowls she stood, a country lass in habit and
occupation, but in face and form, in look and poise, a lady every inch
of her. Dainty and daunty, sweet and strong, she stood, "the bonny like
o' her bonny mither," as said the South Country nurse, Nannie, who had
always lived at the Glen Cuagh House from the time that that mother was
a baby; "but no' sae fine like," the nurse would add with a sigh. For
she remembered ever the gentle airs and the high-bred, stately grace of
Mary Robertson,--for though married to Captain Cameron of Erracht,
Mary Robertson she continued to be to the Glen folk,--the lady of her
ancestral manor, now for five years lain under the birch trees yonder by
the church tower that looked out from its clustering firs and birches
on the slope beyond the loch. Five years ago the gentle lady had passed
from them, but like the liquid, golden sunlight, and like the perfume of
the heather and the firs, the aroma of her saintly life still filled the
Glen.

A year after that grief had fallen, Moira, her one daughter, "the bonny
like o' her bonny mither, though no' sae fine," had somehow slipped
into command of the House Farm, the only remaining portion of the wide
demesne of farmlands once tributary to the House. And by the thrift
which she learned from her South Country nurse in the care of her
poultry and her pigs, and by her shrewd oversight of the thriftless,
doddling Highland farmer and his more thriftless and more doddling
womenfolk, she brought the farm to order and to a basis of profitable
returns. And this, too, with so little "clash and claver" that her
father only knew that somehow things were more comfortable about the
place, and that there were fewer calls than formerly upon his purse
for the upkeep of the House and home. Indeed, the less appeared Moira's
management, both in the routine of the House and in the care of the
farm, the more peacefully flowed the current of their life. It seriously
annoyed the Captain at intervals when he came upon his daughter
directing operations in barnyard or byre. That her directing meant
anything more than a girlish meddling in matters that were his entire
concern and about which he had already given or was about to give
orders, the Captain never dreamed. That things about the House were
somehow prospering in late years he set down to his own skill and
management and his own knowledge of scientific farming; a knowledge
which, moreover, he delighted to display at the annual dinners of the
Society for the Improvement of Agriculture in the Glen, of which he was
honourary secretary; a knowledge which he aired in lengthy articles in
local agricultural and other periodicals; a knowledge which, however,
at times became the occasion of dismay to his thrifty daughter and her
Highland farmer, and not seldom the occasion of much useless expenditure
of guineas hard won from pigs and poultry. True, more serious loss was
often averted by the facility with which the Captain turned from one
scheme to another, happily forgetful of orders he had given and which
were never carried out; and by the invincible fabianism of the Highland
farmer, who, listening with gravest attention to the Captain's orders
delivered in the most definite and impressive terms, would make
reply, "Yess, yess indeed, I know; she will be attending to it
immediately--tomorrow, or fery soon whateffer." It cannot be said that
this capacity for indefinite procrastination rendered the Highlander any
less valuable to his "tear young leddy."