Jeff Benson, or the Young Coastguardsman

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.”