On Saving B. F. Hean

 

Who Knew? On Saving B. F. Hean

By Bruce Chadbourne – August 9, 2022

 

 Caption: Melbourne General Cemetery c.1900, where B. F. Hean’s remains rest in a pauper’s grave.

NEW Year’s Day 1896, St. Kilda Beach, Melbourne, Australia. On viewing the body lying in the sand, police constable Patrick Keaney noticed a curious set of footprints and a faint trail of blood proceeding directly away down the beach into the surf. A thought to be certain to write that into his report slipped from his mind as he turned to determine the man’s identity...

[SIDEBAR – There is no namesake “Saint” Kilda, for whom the beach and district of Melbourne are named. The region got its name from a schooner “Lady of St. Kilda” which had moored at the beach in 1842.  The name originated with the archipelago of that name in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland (for more information see https://marvmelb.blogspot.com/2013/08/the-origin-of-names-st-kilda.html). 

The beach area became a fashionable area for the wealthy and elites, with mansions and grand hotels (but would later decline into an amusement park with roller coaster and promenades). Ironically, though now destitute, B. F. Hean found the prosperity of St. Kilda a comforting reminder of Lebanon and Cornwall where he had been accustomed to the wealth of the Colemans and Freemans.

The following account is fiction – the author having imagined an hopeful ending to B. F. Hean’s story, a continuation of "On Being B. F. Hean, Parts 1 and 2," as published by LebTown.com .]

Caption: Marine Parade, St. Kilda, Melbourne (1905) (Source: Internet)

As it turns out Hean did not sit alone on that warm St. Kilda beach for those last hours of December 1895. Late in the day, as he gazed into the waves reflecting on his circumstances a man walked up the bluff and quietly sat beside him. "I've been looking for you Frank..." he murmured. 

Sipping from his ginger ale, Hean scowled at the man. For a moment he thought he recognized the eyes, “Do I know you?”

The man waited for recognition before speaking. "I held that bloody bandage against your wound in Chancellorsville. Your life almost slipped through my fingers.”

“I thought maybe I’d seen you at Petersburg with Lee’s army,” Hean replied.

“Yeah – that’s where you shot me with that revolver of yours.”

The weary, 53-year-old Hean noticed the moist blood stain but didn’t react, not in the mood for much talk. For the longest time he just sat in the warm sand and gazing into the blue water, a gentle breeze cooling his face. The stranger sat quietly with him.

 

“What am I doing here!” Hean finally erupted.  “These aren’t my people.  The iron business here has failed. I’d have to be a sheep rancher.”

“It’s a noble profession.”

“Well, I can’t start all over – I’ve got no money.”

They sat quite a while as the evening sun dipped into Port Phillip Bay. Looking down he saw the last of the two tarts he had bought with his remaining coins. With a grunt, he shifted in the sand and picked it up. “Here, you must be hungry.”

Giving thanks, Jesus took it, broke it and handed a piece back to Hean. A brief smile passed Hean’s lips. He stole a glance at the stranger before returning to squint into the fading sun. Together, they chewed silently, enjoying a last meal.

“You’re a good man, Frank Hean.” “No, I’m not – I’ve done some  …things.”

“I know --  but back in London you showed that beggar such kindness, feeding him and giving him your satchel.”

“That was you, too I suppose?”  “Mm-mmm. And I heard you calling me from the deck of the ship.”

More silence, then “Where did I go wrong?”

“You let temptation get the better of you.”

“After all of  -- (sighing with exasperation) this life, I just wanted something for myself,” he confessed. “Was that so wrong?”

 

More time passed, “Here…” Hean chuckled, handing over the bottle of ginger ale. His friend took it with ceremony, holding it up to the beauty of sky and sea. A passing gull called out. Taking a deep draft he sighed and handed the rest back to Hean, who polished it off and laid the empty bottle in the sand.

 

Later that evening they watched the clear night sky as the planets and stars began to shine. The southern lights shimmered like a heavenly veil. 

“Thanks for being, for coming here I mean… I’ve wasted everything. I have no one.”

“You have John Campbell. He took kindly to you on the Orient.”

“No, I just took him for a fool and took his money.”

“I know John, he spoke to me about you. He’s concerned – He’s walking the Marine Parade right now hoping to find you.”

“No use, I can’t pay him back.”

“John doesn’t mind; he’s glad to help.   …And, he needed a companion on that ship as much as you did. You were kind to him.”

 

Church bells tolled at midnight, then the sound of firecrackers and cheering voices wafted over the bluff.

“Frank, it’s time you went home to Lebanon,” Jesus said to the prodigal.

“I can’t…    I have no money”

“I know the rector at that church, tell him your story and he will gladly get you home.”

“I can’t .., the folks in Lebanon … I’m sure to go to jail.”

“More than likely…”

“I’ll never have the life I had.”

“You’re right, it will be a different one… but a new one.”

“I can’t… too ashamed…”

 

Much later still, the night sky began to glow ever so slightly. The colors of the beach warmed.

Frank stole a sideways glance at his companion. Picking up the revolver, “I just can’t…”

“Frank, don’t,” But with a flash Frank was gone.

Jesus wept.

He stood and lifted Frank’s soul in his arms, and walked down to the water.

John 3:17, 19 God sent Jesus into the world not to condemn, but to save… Light has come into the world, but people choose darkness instead of light.

For Frank, and Hugh, and Keith, and Brian, and …