Robert Michael Ballantyne - Jeff Benson, or the Young Coastguardsman

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.