Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
JEFF BENSON, OR THE YOUNG COASTGUARDSMAN, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.
CHAPTER ONE.
OUR HERO INTRODUCED WITH SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.
A poor schoolmaster named Benson died, not long ago, in a little town on
the south-east coast of England, which shall be called Cranby.
He left an only son, Jeffrey, and an elder brother, Jacob, to mourn his
loss. The son mourned for his father profoundly, for he loved him much.
The brother mourned him moderately, for he was a close-fisted,
hard-hearted, stern man of the law, whose little soul, enclosed in a
large body, had not risen to the conception of any nobler aim in life
than the acquisition of wealth, or any higher enjoyment than a social
evening with men like himself.
The son Jeffrey was a free-and-easy, hearty, good-natured lad, with an
overgrown and handsome person, an enthusiastic spirit, a strong will,
and a thorough belief in his own ability to achieve anything to which he
chose to set his mind.
Up to the time of his father's death, Jeff's main idea of the desirable
in life was--_fun_! Fun in all its more innocent phases seemed to him
the sum of what was wanted by man. He had experienced it in all its
scholastic forms ever since he was a little boy; and even when, at the
mature age of fifteen, he was promoted to the rank of usher in his
father's school, his chief source of solace and relaxation was the old
play-ground, where he naturally reigned supreme, being the best runner,
rower, wrestler, jumper, gymnast, and, generally, the best fellow in the
school.
He had never known a mother's love, and his father's death was the first
blow that helped to shatter his early notions of felicity. The cloud
that overshadowed him at that time was very dark, and he received no
sympathy worth mentioning from his only relative, the solicitor.
"Well, Jeff, what d'you think of doing?" asked that austere relative,
two days after the funeral. "Of course at your age you can't carry on
the school alone."
"Of course not," answered the boy, with a suppressed sob.
"What say you to entering my office and becoming a lawyer, Jeff?"
"Thanks, uncle, I'd rather not."
"What will you do, then?" demanded the uncle, somewhat offended at this
flat rejection of his proposal.
The lad thought for a moment, and then said quietly but decidedly, "I'll
go to sea."
"Go to the world's end if you like," returned the uncle, who was proud
and touchy, and hated the sea; "but don't ask me to help you."
"Thank you, uncle," replied the lad, who was as proud as himself, though
not touchy, and had a strong affection for the sea; "having no
particular business at the world's end just now, I'll put off my visit
to a more convenient season."
They parted, and we need scarcely add that the brief intercourse of
uncle and nephew which had thus suddenly begun as suddenly ceased.
It is not usually difficult for a strong, active lad, with merry black
eyes and cheery manners, to obtain employment. At least Jeffrey Benson
did not find it so. A few miles from his native town there was a
seaport. Thither he repaired, and looked about him. In the harbour lay
a small vessel which looked like a yacht, it was so trim and clean. On
the quay near to it stood a seafaring man with an amiable expression of
countenance.
"Is that your schooner?" asked Jeff of this man.
"Yes, it is."
"D'you want a hand?"
"No, I don't."
Jeff turned on his heel, and was walking away, when the seafaring man
recalled him.
"Have 'ee ever bin to sea, lad?" he asked.
"No, never."
"D'ye know anything about ships?"
"Next to nothing."
"D'ye think you could do anything, now, aboard of a ship?"
"Perhaps."
"Come along, then, wi' me to the office, an' I'll see to this."
Thus was Jeff introduced to the skipper of the coasting vessel in which
he spent the succeeding six years of his life. At the end of that time
his schooner was totally wrecked in a gale that sent more than two
hundred vessels on the rocks of the British Isles. The skipper was
washed overboard and drowned, but Jeff was saved along with the rest of
the crew, by means of the rocket apparatus.
By that time our hero had become a tall, powerful man, with a curly
black beard and moustache. Through the influence of a friend he was
offered a situation in the coastguard; accepted it, and, to his great
satisfaction, was stationed in the neighbourhood of Cranby, his native
town.
Now, near to that town Jeff had a confidante, into whose sympathetic
bosom he had poured his joys and sorrows from the days of little
boyhood. Of course this confidante was a woman--a thin, little, elderly
creature, with bright blue eyes, and grey hair that had once been
golden, who had a sort of tremble in her voice, and whose frame was so
light that the fishermen were wont to say of her that if she was to show
her nose outside when it was blowing only half a gale she'd be blowed
away like a fleck of foam. Nevertheless Miss Millet was a distinct
power in Cranby.
Being off duty one fine afternoon, our coastguardsman walked along the
beach in the direction of Cranby, bent on paying a visit to Miss Millet,
whom he had not seen for several years. On his way he had to pass a
piece of common close to the town, where he found that a number of the
townsmen and some of the fishermen from the neighbouring hamlet had
assembled to hold high holiday and engage in athletic exercises. The
memory of school-days came strong upon him as he watched the sport, and
he longed to join, but was modest enough to feel that his offering to do
so in connection with games which seemed to have been already organised
might be an intrusion.
Two men were wrestling when he joined the circle of spectators--one was
a fisherman, the other a huge blacksmith of the town. They were well
matched; for, although the fisherman was shorter than the blacksmith, he
was an unusually powerful man.
Great was the excitement as the two herculean men strove for the
mastery, and loud was the cheer when at last the blacksmith prevailed
and threw his adversary.
But the enthusiasm was somewhat damped by the boastful manner in which
the victor behaved; for it is not easy to sing the praises of a man
whose looks and words show that he greatly overrates himself.
"You don't need to look so cocky, Rodger," cried a cynical voice in the
crowd. "There be lots o' men as could throw thee, though they ben't
here just now."
Rodger turned sharply round, intending to give an angry defiance to the
speaker; but seeing that it was only Reuben Drew, a white-haired old
shoemaker of small stature, he burst into a sarcastic laugh.
"Well, I don't deny," he said, "that there may be many men as could
throw me, but I defy any of 'ee now present to do it."
This was an opening for Jeff Benson, who was not slow to avail himself
of it. Stepping into the ring he threw off his coat.
"Come along, Rodger," he said, with a good-humoured look; "you'll have
to make good your words."
Of course our hero was received with a cheer of satisfaction; for
although Jeff was two inches shorter than his adversary--the latter
being six feet two--it could be seen at a glance that he was at least
his match in breadth of shoulder and development of muscle. But in
truth the young coastguardsman was much more than the blacksmith's
match, for at school he had received special training in the art of
wrestling from his father, who was a Cornishman, and hard service in the
coasting trade had raised his strength of limb to the highest possible
point.
"Surely I've seen that young man somewhere," whispered one of the
spectators to Reuben.
"So have I," returned the latter. "Don't he look uncommon like the old
schoolmaster's son? Hallo!"
And well might Reuben exclaim "hallo!" for Jeff, instead of grasping his
opponent round the waist, had suddenly seized him with one hand by the
neck, with the other by the leg, and lifting him completely off the
ground, had flung him on his back.
The people were too much astonished at first to cheer. They burst into
a fit of laughter, which, however, extended into a hearty cheer when
Reuben cried out, "It is Jeffrey Benson, as sure as I'm alive," and
claimed him as a townsman.
"You're right, Reuben," said Jeff, as he put on his coat, "though I am a
good bit changed, no doubt, since I was here last."
"Then the townsman have beaten the seaman after all," exclaimed one who
was inclined to triumph.
"Not so," returned Jeff quickly, "for I'm a seaman myself and take sides
with the fishermen."
"Well said; give us your hand, mate," cried John Golding, one of the
latter, holding out his hand, which our hero grasped warmly, for he had
known the man in former years.
"You've done well in credit o' the sea."
"An' better still," said little Reuben, "in doing credit to the land by
refusin' to boast."
Nevertheless, though Jeff Benson did not boast, it is but just to say
that he _felt_ considerable satisfaction in his triumph, and rejoiced in
the possession of so powerful a frame, as he continued his walk to Miss
Millet's house. It did not occur to him, however, to thank God for his
strength of body, because at that time "God was not in all his
thoughts."
Miss Millet was a woman of action and projects. Her whole being was
absorbed in one idea--that of doing good; but her means were small, very
small, for, besides being exceedingly poor, she was in delicate health
and getting old. She subsisted on quite a microscopic annuity; but,
instead of trying to increase it, she devoted the whole of her time to
labours of love and charity. The labour that suited her health and
circumstances best was knitting socks for the poor, because that
demanded little thought and set her mind free to form unlimited
projects.
The delight which Miss Millet, experienced in meeting with her old
friend Jeffrey Benson was displayed in the vivacity of her reception of
him and the tremulosity of her little cap.
"It's just like coming home, auntie--may I still venture to call you
so?"
Jeff had been wont to sit on a stool at the good lady's feet. He did so
now--on the old stool.
"You may call me what you please, Jeff. It was your child-fancy to
accord to me that honourable relationship; so you may continue it if you
will. How you are grown, too! I could not have known you had I met
you--so big, and with that horrible black beard."
"Horrible! Miss Millet?"
"Well, terrible, if you prefer it. It's so bushy and unnatural for one
so young."
"That can hardly be, auntie," rejoined the youth, with a smile that sent
quite a ripple down the objectionable beard, "because my beard was
provided by Nature."
"Well, Jeff," returned the spinster promptly, "were not scissors and
razors provided by--no, it was art that provided _them_," she continued
with a little smile of confusion; "but they _are_ provided all the same,
and--But we won't pursue that subject, for you men are incorrigible!
Now tell me, Jeff, where you have been, and why you didn't come to see
me sooner, and why your letters have been so few--though I admit they
were long."
We will not inflict on the reader all the conversation that ensued.
When Jeff had exhausted his narrative, Miss Millet discovered that it
was tea-time; and, while engaged in preparations for the evening meal,
she enlarged upon some of her projects, being encouraged thereto by
Jeff, whose heart was naturally sympathetic.
"But some of my projects are impossible," she said, with a little sigh.
"Some small things, indeed, I have accomplished, with God's blessing;
but there are others which are quite beyond me."
"Indeed! Tell me now, auntie, if you had Aladdin's wonderful lamp, what
would you ask for?"
"I'd ask for--let me see (the old face became quite thoughtful here)--
I'd ask for a library. You see, Cranby is _very_ badly off for books,
and people cannot easily improve without reading, you know. Then I
would ask for a new church, and a school room, and a town-hall where we
might have lectures and concerts, and for a whole street of model-houses
for the poor, and a gymnasium, and a swimming-bath and--"
"A swimming-bath, auntie!" exclaimed Jeff. "Isn't the sea big enough?"
"Yes, but children won't learn in the sea. They're too fond of running
about the edge, and of romping in the shallow water. Besides, the bath
could be used in winter, when the sea is too cold. But I'm praying for
all these things. If God sees fit, He will give them. If not, I am
content with what He has already given."
A somewhat sceptical smile rested for a moment on the young man's lips.
Happily his heavy moustache concealed it, and saved Miss Millet's
feelings. But she went on to vindicate the ways of God with man, and to
impress upon Jeff the fact that in His good wisdom "ills" or "wells,"
and things that seem to us only evil, work out gracious ends.
Jeff listened, but said little, and evidently his difficulties were not
all removed. Presently, observing that three cups were laid on the
table, he asked, "Do you expect company?"
"Yes, my brother the captain is coming to tea. He is about to start for
China, and I'm so glad you happen to be here; for I'd like you to know
each other, and you're sure to like him."
Jeff did not feel quite so sure on that point, for he had counted on a
long _tete-a-tete_ with his old friend. He took care, however, to
conceal his disappointment, and before he had time to reply, the door
opened with a crash.
"What cheer, old girl? what cheer?" resounded in bo'sun's-mate tones
through the house, and next moment a rugged sea-captain stood before
them.
CHAPTER TWO.
A SEA-CAPTAIN RELATES HIS ADVENTURES, AND REFUSES TO DRAW MORALS.
Captain Richard Millet, like his sister, was rather eccentric. Unlike
her, however, he was large, broad, and powerful. It would have taken
considerably more than "half a gale" to blow _him_ away. Even a gale
and a half might have failed to do that.
"Glad to meet you," he said, extending his solid-looking hand with a
frank, hearty air, on being introduced to Jeff. "My sister Molly has
often spoken of you. Sorry to hear you've left the sea. Great mistake,
young man--great mistake. There's no school like the sea for teaching a
man his dependence on his Maker."
"The school is not very successful, if one may judge from the character
of most of its pupils," replied the youth.
"Perhaps you misjudge their character," returned the captain, with a
look of good-natured severity.
"I'm _sure_ he does," cried Miss Millet, with enthusiasm.
"Noble-hearted, simple men, who would probably never go wrong at all if
it were not for their unsuspecting trustfulness and bad companions!
Come, sit down, Dick. Tea is ready."
"Yes, young man," continued Captain Millet "you misjudge 'em. You
should not judge of a school by the shouting and mischief of the worst
boys, who always flaunt their colours, while the good ones steer quietly
on their course. You'll understand that better when your beard is grey.
Youth is fond o' lookin' at the surface, an' so is apt to misjudge the
character of men as well as the ways of Providence."
Jeff took the rebuke in good part, readily admitted that youth was prone
to err, and slily expressed a hope that in his case coming in contact
with age might do him good.
"If you mean that for a shot at me," cried the captain, with a loud
guffaw, "you've missed the mark; for I'm only forty-five, an' that isn't
age; is it, Molly?"
"Of course not. Why, you're little more than a baby yet," replied Miss
Millet who greatly enjoyed even a small joke--indeed, she enjoyed almost
everything, more or less, that was not wicked. "But now, Dick, I want
you to tell Jeff some of your adventures in foreign parts--especially
those that have a moral, you know."
"Why, Molly, that's a hard job--you don't want me to _draw_ the moral,
do you? I never was good at that, though I've known fellows with that
peculiar cast o' brain as could draw a moral out of a marline-spike if
they were hard put to it. Seems to me that it's best to let morals draw
themselves. For instance, that time when I was wrecked on the South
American coast, I came to a shallow river, an' had to wade across, but
was too lazy to pull off my boots, 'cause they were long fisherman's
boots, right up to the hip an' rather tight; so in I went boots an' all.
Just as I was gettin' to the other side, a most awful alligator seized
hold o' my right foot. It's wonderful how easy my boot came off just
then! Although I was used to tug, an' shove, and gasp, and pull, at
that boot of a night, no sooner did the alligator lay hold on it than my
leg came out like a cork out of a bottle, and I was out o' the water and
up the bank like a squirrel. Now, Molly, what would you say was the
moral that should be drawn from that--Never use an alligator as a
boot-jack--eh?"
"I should say, Never wade across a South American river without your
boots on," suggested Jeff.
"Well, now, _I_ should say, Never wade across a South American river at
all," said Miss Millet; "but, brother, that's not what I meant. Before
you arrived, Jeff and I had been talking about God's ways with man, and
I was trying to show that disasters and what we call misfortunes are not
necessarily evil, but are often the means of great blessing. I don't
think Jeff quite sees that. I can't explain myself clearly, brother;
but you know what I mean."
While the old lady was speaking, the captain had become thoughtful.
"Yes, I know what you mean," he replied, "and I agree with you heartily.
Is it not written of our Saviour, `He hath done all things well?' and
is He not unchangeable? Of course it is not to be expected that we
shall always see through and understand His ways though we can always
trust Him; but sometimes He lifts a corner of the veil and lets us see.
Very odd, Molly," continued the captain, extracting a large black
pocket-book with some difficulty from a breast-pocket, "very odd that
you should have touched on this question, for I have somethin' to say to
you that bears on it. Look here. What's that?"
He handed an oblong piece of paper to his sister, who examined it
slowly.
"Why, Dick, it's a cheque for 500 pounds."
"Just so, old girl, an' it's yours."
"Mine!"
"Ay, I might have given it to you when I first came back, but I took a
fancy to keep it as a little surprise for our last evenin' together, so
that I might leave you with a good taste in your mouth. Now, listen,
an' I'll spin you an' Jeff a yarn. But first fill up my cup. I'm fond
o' tea--nat'rally, bein' a teetotaler. Up to the brim, Molly; I like a
good bucketful. Thankee--now, let me see."
The captain put his hand to his rugged brow, became thoughtful for a few
moments, and then resumed.
"Just before startin' on my last voyage to China I ran down to
Folkestone to see Rosebud--that's my little daughter, Jeff. Surely you
must have seen her when knocking about here?"
"You forget, Captain, I have not been in these parts for six years.
Nevertheless, I did see Rosebud some ten or twelve years ago with her
nurse in this very room."
"Yes, so you did," chimed in Miss Millet. "She was six at that time,
and the dearest little angel I ever saw."
"She was all that and a great deal more," said the enthusiastic father.
"It don't become me to have much of an opinion about the angels, but I
wouldn't give my Rosebud for the whole lot o' them, an' all the cherubs
throw'd into the bargain. Well, as I was sayin', I ran down to
Folkestone to the school where she is, and as we were partin' she made
me promise when I got to Hong-Kong to run up the river to see an old
schoolmate o' hers that had gone out there with her father. I was to
give Clara Rosebud's dear love, and her photograph, and get hers in
exchange. I would have done this, of course, for my darlin', anyhow,
but I promised all the more readily because I had some business to do
with old Nibsworth, the father.
"Well, after I'd got to Hong-Kong an' seen the ship all snug, I thought
of runnin' up the river in a small steamer that was ready to start. It
so happened that I got a letter that very day from Nibsworth himself,
who had heard of my arrival, askin' me to come without delay, as there
was a grand chance of doin' a bit of business that might turn in some
thousands of pounds. But it would have to be settled next day, or the
chance would be lost. You may be sure I didn't waste time after readin'
this, but when I got to the river-side, I found that the steamer had
started, and there wasn't another till next mornin'."
"_What_ a pity!" exclaimed the sympathetic sister and Jeff in the same
breath.
"Yes, wasn't it? Of course it wasn't a personal loss, but it was the
loss of a splendid out-o'-the-way chance to do a good turn to the
owners. It was an ill wind--Jeff, almost a disaster. Hows'ever, I had
to grin an' bear it. But I couldn't rest till next day; so I hired a
native boat, determined to do my best in the circumstances, and you may
be sure I wasn't in the best of humours, as we went creepin' slowly up
that river, when I knew that the hours of opportunity were slippin'
away.
"It was not till the evenin' o' the next day that I reached old
Nibsworth's house. Just before we rounded the bend of the river that
brought it into view, I noticed smoke risin' pretty thick above the
trees. Of course I thought nothin' of it till I found that it was the
old man's house was a-fire! Didn't we bend to the oars then with a
will!
"As we drew near, we found that all the servants and work-people about
the place were runnin' here and there, shoutin' and yellin' for ropes
and ladders. Most people seem to lose their heads in a fire. Anyhow
those people had; for nobody could find a ladder long enough to reach a
top window, where I could see that someone was waving his arms for help.
The moment we touched the beach, I jumped out o' the boat and ran up to
the house. It was blazin' fiercely in the lower rooms, and I soon found
that old Nibsworth and his daughter were inside--driven to the attics by
the fire and smoke. They soon left the window where I had first seen
the arms waving, and threw open another that was further from the fire.
"I saw that the old man was frail. The girl, they told me, was
delicate. `Get straw, hay, branches--anything soft,' I shouted, `an'
pile 'em under the window.'
"`Him's too weak for jump,' gasped a native servant.
"`Do as I bid ye,' said I, with a glare that sent 'em all off
double-quick. Happily I found a rope handy in a storehouse hard by. I
made a coil of it. You know a seaman can usually heave a coil of rope
pretty well. I made a splendid heave, an' sent it right in at the
window. The old man caught it.
"`Make fast to a bed-post,' I roared, `or a table, or chest o' drawers--
anything big.'
"He understood me, I could see, and presently he looked over the window
an' shook his head. Then I could see the face of a dark-haired,
beautiful girl. Even through the increasing smoke I could tell that she
was deadly pale, and drew back with a shudder. By this time a big pile
of straw lay under the window. I saw there was no hope of such an old
man lettin' himself or his girl down by a rope, so up I went hand over
hand. Many a time had I done the sort o' thing for a lark when I was a
youngster; but bein' out o' practice, and a good deal heavier than in
old days, I found it hard work, I can tell you. Hows'ever, I managed it
and got in at the window, an' didn't my heart give a jump when I saw
that the old chap had only made the rope fast to a light bedroom chair.
If I'd bin a stone heavier, I'd have pulled that chair right over the
window!
"`God bless you!' cried the tremblin' old man; `save my Clara!'
"There was no time for pretty speeches. I made fast the end of the rope
to the leg of a table, made a loop on the other end, threw it over the
girl, caught her round the waist an' swung her over the window. I was
in such a hurry that the rope nearly took the skin off my hands; but I
landed her safe on the straw below. The old man was heavier, and not so
easy to manage; but I got him lowered safe, and then, slipping over
myself, began to descend. The flames had by that time got headway, and
were dartin' like fiery serpents' tongues out o' the windows below. One
o' them gave me a wipe in passin', an' cleared eyelashes, eyebrows, and
half the hair o' my head away. Another twined round the rope and singed
it; so that when I was half-way down, it snapped, and I came to the
ground with a thud that damaged my canvas ducks, though they were by no
means delicate. Hows'ever, the pile of straw broke the fall, and I was
none the worse.
"The gratitude o' that poor old man and his daughter knew no bounds,
specially when he found I was the father of his Clara's favourite
schoolmate.
"`Now, Captain Millet,' says he at partin', `nothin' in this world can
repay what we owe you. I know it would be insultin' to offer you money
for such service, but sometimes men like you like to help a good cause.
Will you accept of five hundred pounds for such a purpose?'
"`No sir,' says I, `I won't! But I've a sister at home who spends all
her time in tryin' to do good. If you'll be kind enough to send it to
her, she'll consider it a blessed windfall, and will lay it out to the
best possible advantage.'
"`Good,' said he, seizin' his pen an' writin' out the cheque. `Is your
sister well off?'
"`She might be better off,' said I.
"`Then pray beg her in my name to accept of a few shares in an
Australian tin-mine which came to me a few days ago. They are not worth
much, but I don't want to be troubled with them; indeed, will consider
it a favour if she will take them off my hands.'
"The old fellow said this with a laugh--so there you are, Molly, 500
pounds to the credit of your charity account an' I don't know how much
tin transferred to your own."
"O brother, how good--how kind!" Miss Millet paused here, and gazed in
silence at the cheque, for she had already begun to calculate how far
that sum would go towards the library, and the church, and the
town-hall, and the model-houses, and the gymnasium, and the
swimming-bath.
"And now, young man," said the captain, turning to our coastguardsman,
"the missin' of that steamer, at which I growled so much that day,
turned out to be a great blessin' after all, although it seemed such a
misfortune. For it caused me to arrive just in the nick of time to save
two human lives--besides givin' the old girl here somethin' to think
about and work upon for the next twelvemonth to come--whereas, if I had
arrived the day before, I would have bin sleepin' in the house, and
mayhap have bin burnt alive wi' old Nibsworth and his daughter. Seems
to me as if that little story had some sort o' bearin' on the subject
you was discussin' wi' Molly. But I'm not good at drawin' morals, so
I'll leave you to draw it for yourself."
CHAPTER THREE.
OUR COASTGUARDSMAN MEETS WITH A SERIOUS BUT VERY COMMON FALL.
Whether Jeff Benson drew the moral of Captain Millet's story for himself
or not, we cannot tell; but it is certain that his mates found him after
that date a man who was prone to solitary meditations, with occasional
fits of absence of mind. They also found him a pleasant companion and a
most active comrade in all the duties of his station.
Sometimes these duties involved great hardship, and frequent risk to
life and limb; for, as is well known, our coastguardsmen not only
perambulate our shores in all weathers, but often work the rocket
apparatus for saving life from shipwreck, and are frequently called upon
to assist the lifeboat-men by putting off to the rescue in their own
boats when others are not available. In all these duties Jeffrey Benson
did his work with tremendous energy, as might have been expected of one
so strong, and with reckless disregard to personal safety, which was
appropriate in a hero.
One evening, about a year after the period of which we have been
writing, Jeff was returning along shore with a party in charge of the
rocket-cart, after having rescued the crew of a small coasting vessel--
four men and a boy, with the skipper's wife. The service had been
prolonged and pretty severe, but feelings of exhaustion were, for the
time at least, banished from the coastguardsmen's breasts by the joy
resulting from success in their heroic work. On the way, the party had
to pass close to Miss Millet's cottage--her "cottage by the sea," as the
romantic old lady was fond of calling it.
Jeff--although fatigued and hungry, besides being drenched, dishevelled
about the hair, bespattered with mud, and bruised, as well as lacerated
somewhat about the hands--determined to pay a short visit to the
cottage, being anxious to "have it out" with his confidante about that
matter of good being made to come out of evil.
"O Jeff!" exclaimed the horrified old lady when he entered, "wounded?
perhaps fatally!"
"Not quite so bad as that, auntie," replied Jeff, with a hearty laugh,
for Miss Millet's power to express alarm was wonderful. "I'll soon put
myself to rights when I get back to the station. I ought to apologise
for calling in such a plight, but I've been thinking much since I last
saw you, and I want to have a talk."
"Not till I have bound up all your wounds," said Miss Millet firmly.
Knowing that he would gain his end more quickly by giving in, Jeff
submitted to have several fingers of both hands done up with pieces of
white rag, and a slight cut across the bridge of his handsome nose
ornamented with black sticking-plaster. He not only enjoyed the
operation with a sort of reckless joviality, but sought to gratify his
friend by encouraging her to use her appliances to the utmost, intending
to remove them all when he quitted the cottage. The earnest little
woman availed herself fully of the encouragement, but could scarcely
refrain from laughing when she surveyed him after the operation was
completed.
"Now, auntie, have you finished?"
"Yes."
"Well then, tell me, do you really think that at all times, and in all
circumstances, God causes events that are disastrous to work out good?"
"Indeed I do," returned Miss Millet, becoming very serious and earnest
as she sat down opposite her young friend. "No doubt there is much of
mystery connected with the subject but I can't help that any more than I
can help my beliefs. Of course we know, because it is written, that
`_all_ things work together for good to them that love God;' but even in
the case of those who do _not_ love Him, I think He often sends sorrow
and trouble for the very purpose of driving them out of trust in
themselves, and so clearing the way to bring them to the Saviour. And
is it not written, `Surely the wrath of man shall praise Thee?'"
The young man remained silent for a few moments.
"Well, now," he said, "what think you of this case? The skipper whom we
rescued this afternoon, along with his wife, told me that he has been
reduced to beggary. He owned the vessel which now lies out on the rocks
there, a total wreck. It was his last venture. He had put all that he
possessed into it, and not a scrap of the cargo will be saved. Having
been a lucky man all his life previously, he said he had determined to
`chance his luck' this time, and did not insure vessel or cargo: so that
all is gone. His wife and several children are dependent on him. He
has no relatives rich enough, or willing enough, to help him; and, poor
fellow, he has received injuries while being rescued, which will
probably render him helpless for the rest of his life. Now, do you
think that good will come out of all that?"
"I am _sure_ it will," returned Miss Millet confidently, "and good to
_him_ too if he seeks it; though of course I know not how or when."
"But why are you so sure?"
"Because, Jeff, it is written that God does not `afflict the children of
men willingly.' He does it for their good, and that good cannot fail of
accomplishment, unless they refuse the good and choose the evil."
Again Jeff became silent and thoughtful. "I have meditated much of
late," he said, "about Captain Millet's adventure in China--"
"By the way," interrupted Miss Millet, "that reminds me that the
captain's little girl Rose--Rosebud, as he calls her--is to come here
this very evening to stay with me for a week."
"Indeed? that will be pleasant, auntie. I must come and see her as an
old acquaintance."
"Oh yes, you must, Jeff. You've no idea what a sweet girl she has
become. I am quite charmed with her--so modest, and unselfish, and
clever, and good, and--and, in short, I call her the four F's, for she
is fair, fragile, fervent, and funny."
"What a catalogue!" exclaimed the youth, laughing; "you may well be
charmed with her. But what do you mean by funny? Does she try to make
people laugh?"
"Oh dear, no! In company she can scarce be made to speak at all, but
she _is_ so fond of fun--has such a lively appreciation of humour, and
laughs _so_ heartily. She has grown quite into a woman since I last saw
her when her father went to sea. There she is!"
Miss Millet sprang from her chair with the agility almost of a young
woman, and ran to open the door, for a cab was heard pulling up in front
of the cottage.
There was a delighted little shriek from "Auntie!" and the warmest
salutations of welcome; and the next moment Miss Millet, with the
captain's daughter, arm in arm, embracing one another, entered the
parlour.
The coastguardsman was transfixed, for there, before him, flushed and
panting, stood--
"A maid with eyes of heavenly blue,
And rippling hair of golden hue;
With parted lips of Coral too,
Disclosing pearls--and--"
All the rest of it! Yes, no wonder that Jeffrey Benson was transfixed.
Still less wonder that Rosebud stood in much the same condition; for, a
young giant in pilot-cloth, damp and dirty, dishevelled, bespattered
with mud, tied up about the fingers and plastered over the nose, was not
precisely what she had expected to find in Aunt Millet's parlour.
They were soon introduced, however, and on the best of terms; for the
shrinking from Jeff's filthy appearance changed in a moment to
hero-worship in the romantic heart of Rose, when she was told the cause
of the youth's condition, and heard all the details of the rescue from
his own manly lips.
It was love at first sight with both of them; more than that, it was
first love at first sight! We have profound sympathy with young people
thus circumstanced, especially when they are reticent, and don't give
way to sentimental silliness. A good manly and womanly case of this
sort of love, in which the parties concerned take a serious header and
go deep down, without the smallest intention of ever coming up again, is
pleasant to contemplate and agreeable to record.
Of course it must not be supposed that Rose Millet understood what had
happened. She was fully aware, indeed, that something unusual had
occurred within her inexperienced breast, but she quietly set it down to
hero-worship. She had read Carlyle on that subject. She had seen
occasional reference in newspapers and magazines to lifeboat work, and
she had been thrilled by the record of noble deeds done by heroic seamen
and coastguardsmen. At last it was her lot to come athwart one of those
heroes. He quite came up to her conception--nay, more than came up to
it! She regarded Jeff with feelings approaching to awe. The idea of
love in connection with a damp, dirty, wounded, nose-plastered,
hair-ravelled giant, with beard enough to make an average hearth-broom,
never entered her fair head. If suggested to her she would have laughed
it to scorn--had it been possible for one so bright and "funny" to
become scornful.
As for Jeff--he more than suspected what had happened in regard to
himself. His experience of life had been varied and extensive for his
years--at least in a nautical direction--and that is saying a great
deal.
"Done for!" he remarked to himself that evening, as he left the
residence of Miss Millet and sauntered slowly homeward, divesting his
fingers of the wrappings in an absent manner as he went along; but he
forgot the plastered nose, and was taken to task about it by his
comrades.
"Why, wherever did you get the stickin'-plaster?" asked David Bowers, an
Anglo-Saxon much like himself in form and size, only that his locks and
beard were yellow instead of dark brown.
"From a friend," replied Jeff.
"A female friend?" asked Bowers, with a sly glance.
"Yes," replied Jeff, so promptly, and with a look of such benignity,
that the Anglo-Saxon felt constrained to give up his intended badinage.
That night curiously enough, Rose and Jeff were beset by dreams exactly
similar in kind, though slightly modified in form. Both were in the
midst of howling blasts and raging billows; but while the one was saving
a fair and slender girl in circumstances of great but scorned risk, the
other was being rescued by a young giant with a brown beard, in a style
the most heroic, and in the midst of dangers the most appalling.
Next day, when Jeff--having got rid of the nose-plaster, and removed the
mud, and brushed the dishevelled hair, and put on dry garments--paid
another visit to Miss Millet, the Rosebud formed a more correct estimate
of her condition, became alarmed, and shrank like a sensitive plant
before the gaze of the coastguardsman; insomuch that she drove him to
the conclusion that he had no hope whatever in that quarter, and that he
was foolish to think of her seriously. What _was_ she, after all? A
mere chit of a school girl! It was ridiculous. He would heave her
overboard forthwith, and trouble his head no more about her. He would
not, however, give up visiting his old confidante on _her_ account--oh
dear, no!
It was wonderful what an amount of guarding seemed to be required by the
coast in the vicinity of Miss Millet's cottage during the following
week! Any one observing the frequency of Jeff's visits to it, and his
prolonged earnest gazing at the sea, would have imagined that the
ancient smuggling days had revived, or that the old tendency of the
French to suddenly come o'er and find the Britons awaiting them on
shore, was not yet extinct.
One evening our hero, after paying a little unwonted attention to his
toilet prepared to set out for Miss Millet's cottage. He had obtained
leave of absence for the evening, and had made up his mind to spend an
hour or two in metaphysical discussion. Rose had not yet left her aunt
but no matter. If she could not assist in the conversation, she could
at all events listen, and might be benefited.
In passing through the station, the officer on duty called to him.
"I want you, Benson, to take Wilson's place to-night. He is unwell and
off duty. We may possibly require all our force, for the barometer has
suddenly fallen much lower than usual."
No shade of disappointment betrayed itself on the grave countenance of
the well-disciplined Jeff as he replied, "Very well, sir," and went out;
but profound disappointment nevertheless harrowed his broad bosom, for
he had promised himself such a long and pleasant evening of discussion;
possibly of benefit to the young girl for whom he cared nothing now--a
mere passing fancy, pooh! But even while ejecting the "pooh!" he
wondered why the disappointment was so severe. Was it possible that he
was being taught by experience the lesson which Miss Millet's reasoning
powers had failed to inculcate?
It was blowing hard when Jeff reached the cliffs, and, bending forward
to the increasing blast made his way to the rugged coast which was to be
the scene of his night vigil. As he stood on the shore with hands in
pockets and legs apart, to steady himself, and gazed out upon the
darkening sea, he saw plainly enough that the prophetic barometer was
right. Far out on the water a ledge of rocks, barely covered at high
water, caught the billows as they rolled shoreward, broke them up, and
sent them spouting into the air in volumes of foam. On the horizon the
clouds were so black that the shrieking sea-birds passed athwart them
like flakes of snow. Low muttering thunder was heard at intervals; and
as night drew on, gleams of lightning flashed in the obscurity.
During one of these flashes Jeff thought he saw a vessel labouring
heavily. He could not be quite sure, for by that time spray, borne on
the whistling wind, was blinding him. Suddenly a red flash was seen,
followed by a report. It was a signal of distress.
Every thought and feeling save that of duty was instantly banished from
the mind of our coastguardsman, as he hurried away to give the alarm and
join in the rescue.
CHAPTER FOUR.
A WRECK AND RESCUE.
Terrible was the gale which burst that night upon the shores of old
England, and awful the fate that awaited many of the vessels which were
nearing port at the time. Better far for many of them had they met the
foe in the open field of what seamen term blue water, for no place is so
dangerous as the shallow waters off the coast when the storm-fiend is
abroad.
Perhaps it may be news to some readers that the losses of this country
by shipwreck form a perennial drain of life and wealth as regular and
certain as the recurrence of the seasons. Nearly two thousand ships,
two millions sterling, and little short of a thousand lives are lost
each year on the shores of the United Kingdom--sometimes more, sometimes
less,--each and every year. We give round numbers, because they are
more easily remembered.
On the particular night of which we write, many a gallant ship was
driving over the sea, making for her port, nearing home and friends,
rushing to her doom! Passengers and crews alike had by that time,
doubtless, become so familiar with whistling gales and heaving seas,
that they had ceased to fear them; but some among them had yet to learn,
when too late, that the dangers of the deep are insignificant compared
with the perils of the shore.
Among these hapless ships was one to which we direct the reader's
particular attention. She was a large ship, with a crew of between
twenty and thirty men, bound from China to the Thames. She carried no
passengers, and was commanded by our friend, Captain Millet.
No captain in the mercantile navy of Britain was better qualified than
he to take his ship across the trackless main, and, if need be, carry
her safely into port; but seamanship and knowledge of channels and bars
and currents avail nothing when the sails and cordage of a ship are
unseaworthy and her timbers worn out.
The owners of the _North Star_ cared little for human lives. They were
economists of the strictest kind. Hence her condition was bad.
The gale overtook the _North Star_ when she was not far from the coast
where nestled her captain's native town of Cranby. A pilot had been
signalled for in vain, for the night was thick as well as stormy. At
last one was obtained, and all went fairly well until the vessel was off
the black rocks on which the eyes of Jeff Benson had been resting for
some time. Fearing that he was too near that point of danger, the pilot
gave orders to go about. While the vessel was in stays, one of the
ropes parted, and she missed. At the same moment a squall came down on
her, and carried away the main and fore-topmasts with the jib-boom.
Instantly the vessel was unmanageable, and drifted bodily towards the
rocks.
Captain Millet and his men toiled like heroes to clear away the
wreckage, and orders were given to fire the signal-gun. As we have
seen, our coastguardsman was swift to carry the alarm to his station,
and without delay the lifeboat was launched. At the same time orders
were given to get ready the coastguard boat, in case its services should
be required.
The regular crew of the lifeboat had, as usual, been on the alert, and
the bright blue boat of mercy was at once run down to the beach, until
her carriage reached the edge of the foaming sea.
"Now, lads, jump in!" shouted the coxswain.
It was found, however, when they had taken their places and seized the
oars, that two of the crew were missing. Volunteers were instantly
called for, and Jeff, with his friend David Bowers, answered to the
call. They put on the cork life-belts, took the vacant seats, and
grasped the oars. Then the transporting carriage, with the boat and
crew on it, was pushed by many willing hands as far into the sea as
possible, the men bending forward with the oars out, ready to pull at a
moment's notice.
The launching ropes were already manned. At another signal from the
coxswain, the boat plunged into the boiling surf, the oars were dipped,
ten strong backs were bent, and away they shot on their errand of
mercy--drenched and filled by the first great billow through which they
cut their way, but not swamped, for the water ran out through the
discharging tubes as fast as it came in.
An hour of hard toil brought them within sight of the wreck. Keeping
well to windward, the coxswain cast anchor, and the bowman, taking a
turn or two of the cable round the bollard, allowed the boat to drop
down to the wreck, stern foremost.
"Can't you get round to leeward of the wreck?" asked Jeff, who sat near
the stern of the boat, keeping a firm grasp of his oar, which the
rushing and breaking seas well-nigh forced out of his hands.
"No, not as the rocks lie," replied the coxswain curtly.
On drawing a few yards nearer, it became evident that no boat could live
in the seething caldron of rocks and foam that lay under the lee of the
wreck. Their only chance lay in approaching from the weather side,
which was not only a difficult and dangerous operation, but was rendered
doubly so by the violent swaying of the wreck from side to side.
The roaring of the gale and thunder of the seas, combined with the
darkness and the hurtling spray, rendered it impossible for the men in
the life-boat to distinguish anything clearly, until close to the wreck.
Then it was seen that the whole crew had taken to the rigging of the
mainmast--the topmast of which had been carried away by the fall of the
foremast and mizzen.
A lusty cheer told that the shipwrecked men were still strong in hope,
though their situation was terrible; for every lurch of the hull shook
the swaying top so violently as almost to tear even the strong seamen
from their grasp.
"Jeff," said Bowers, who sat on the same thwart with his friend, "did ye
not recognise a voice in that cheer?"
"Ay, that I did," returned Jeff, with feelings of great anxiety. "'Twas
uncommon like Captain Millet."
"Look out for the rope!" roared one of the lifeboat men, as he swung and
discharged the loaded stick with a line attached.
The heave was successful. The men on the maintop of the wreck caught
the line, and by means of it passed a stout warp between the mast and
the boat, down which they began to shin like squirrels, for the prompt
appearance of their rescuers had not left time for the exhaustion of
their strength.
"Is your vessel the _North Star_, commanded by Captain Millet?" shouted
Jeff in the ear of the first arrival, for the noise of raging elements
rendered ordinary tones almost useless.
"Ay, she is," replied the man; "but you won't see _him_ till the last of
us is safe aboard."
"Hallo! Captain Millet!" cried Jeff, with a roar that almost equalled
the elements.
"Ay, ay, is that you, Jeff?" came back in a similar roar (but greatly
softened by distance) from the swirling spray-clouds that raged above
the wreck.
"Cheer up, Captain; we'll save you all right," returned our
coastguardsman in another enthusiastic roar, which of itself did
something to cheer up all who heard it.
About a dozen of the sailors had been got into the lifeboat, when a
tremendous rending sound was heard, followed by a loud cry of alarm, as
the mast broke off a few feet above the deck, and plunged, with the men
still upon it, into the boiling sea. To add to the confusion and
terror, some part of the cordage caught the lifeboat, and completely
sank as well as overturned it.
To an ignorant observer it might have seemed that all hope was gone--
that every man must perish. But this was not so. The buoyant qualities
of the magnificent lifeboat brought it to the surface like a cork the
instant it was freed. Its self-righting qualities turned it on its
keel. The self-acting discharging tubes emptied it in less than two
minutes; and the crew, supported by their cork life-belts, caught the
life-lines festooned round the boat's side for this very purpose, and
clambered into her.
Of the men of the wreck who had been tumbled into the sea along with
them, some clung to their rescuers, whose belts could easily sustain
two. Others were able to lay hold of the boat, and a few held on to the
floating wreckage till they were saved.
Suddenly the voice of Captain Millet was heard, "Hold on, lads; don't go
without me. My foot's jammed here, and I can't--"
He stopped abruptly, for the head of the mast plunged under water at the
moment, taking the captain along with it.