Lightships and Lighthouses

by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

The keepers of such stations are marooned as completely as any castaway on a barren island. In many instances they cannot even signal to the shore. If anything should go wrong, they must wait until a ship comes in sight, to communicate their tidings by flag signals. If the call is urgent, say for illness, and the passing boat carries a doctor, she will heave to, and, if conditions permit, will launch a boat to carry the medical man to the rock to administer aid. If it is a matter of life or death, the ship will take the man off.

As may be imagined, upon a sea-rock, owing to the slender proportions of the tower, the quarters are inevitably very cramped, with no facilities for the men to stretch their limbs. The manner in which space is economized in the small circular apartments is astonishing. The essential furniture is built to the wall, and liberal cupboard space is provided, the governing consideration being to provide the men with as much open space as the restricted circumstances will permit. The only exercise that the men can obtain in the open air is upon the narrow shelf forming the landing platform, or the narrow gallery around the lantern. In the majority of circumstances it is less than that provided for the benefit of a prisoner in an exercise yard.

The lamp is lighted at dusk, and, unless it is a fixed white light, the clockwork driving the occulting and revolving mechanism has to be wound up. Seeing that this entails the lifting of a ton or so up the vertical cylinder in which the weight travels, this is no mean task in itself.

Unremitting vigilance has to be maintained while the lamp is burning. It demands attention from time to time, while, should anything serious go wrong, the attendant must bring the reserve lamp into service without a moment’s loss of time and without interruption of the ray.

“The light must not go out!” That is the inflexible rule of all attended lights between the two Poles. Even if it failed only for a minute, the circumstance would not escape observation. Some vessel would detect the breakdown; it would be recorded in the captain’s log-book. When he touched the first port, intimation would be sent to the organization responsible for the beacon, setting forth the fact that on such and such a night, at a certain hour, this light was not showing in accordance with the official light list, or was giving a warning different from that laid down for the guidance of the seafarer. An inquiry would be instituted immediately to ascertain the reason, and the light-keeper probably would find himself in an awkward position, although months might have elapsed since the incident.

There is nothing haphazard about the control of lights. The circumstances are too serious to permit the slightest deviation from hard-and-fast regulations. The passing mariner is entirely dependent upon these blazing guardians, maybe from a distance of fifteen miles or more. He has his chart wherewith he is able to steer his way, but he must have certain marks to guide him at night, so that he may be sure of his course and position. Accordingly, every lighthouse possesses some individual characteristic in regard to its light. As explained elsewhere, it may be a group flash, an occulting flash of a distinctive nature, a revolving light which completes a revolution once in a certain period of time, or a fixed blaze.

Fortunately, the men watching over the lights appreciate the gravity of their responsibility, and are reliable to an heroic degree. Each is a man picked for the duty, who is not appalled by loneliness, and is of unimpeachable precision. Of course, accidents will happen, but dereliction of duty is criminal, because it may bring about loss of life. Carelessness on the part of a light-keeper precipitated the loss of the steamer Victoria when crossing the English Channel from Newhaven to Dieppe on April 12, 1887. The French coast, as it was being approached, became shrouded by the inexorable fog-fiend. The captain lost his way, although he knew, from the time he had been steaming, that he must be perilously near the French shore. He listened for the droning of the fog-siren mounted on Pointe d’Ailly, but in vain. He sent to the engine-room to ascertain the number of revolutions the engines had made, and this convinced him that he must be close inshore, despite the silence of the fog-signal. Thinking that he might have strayed some distance east of Dieppe, he brought his vessel round, and then crawled slowly ahead. But he had scarcely settled into his forward stride when there was a crash—a terrible splitting and crunching. The vessel had kept a true course, and now had hit the very rocks which the captain had sought to avoid. The passengers, being ready to land, were got into the boats and pushed through the dense curtain for land, but some thirty passengers and crew were never seen again.

The subsequent inquiry revealed an amazing breach of duty on the part of those in charge of the light-station. The head lighthouse-keeper, off duty at the time, was asleep in bed, but his wife awoke him as she observed the fog settling upon the water. He dressed hurriedly, and rushed to see what his companion was doing. This official had failed lamentably in his duties. Instead of starting the boiler fires to raise the steam to work the siren upon the first signs of the approaching enemy, as he should have done, he had delayed the duty. The result was that an hour was wasted, and during this interval the unfortunate captain took his ship upon the rocks. To make matters worse, the keepers did not perceive the wreck until some two hours after the disaster, although they admitted that they heard the cries of people an hour and a half previously, but never suspected the cause of the turmoil.

The man on watch during the night maintains a keen lookout. The faintest signs of a gathering mist are sufficient to cause him to wake his assistant to manipulate the fog-signal, even if the precaution proves to be unnecessary. “It is better to be safe than sorry,” is the lighthouse-keeper’s motto; so he runs no risks.

When the gathering brightness of the dawn enables the form of the tower to be identified from a distance of several miles, the light is extinguished. Heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, not only to protect the lenses from the sun, but also to give a characteristic colour to the lantern. Thus, by daylight a lantern may appear to be a dull red or an intense black. To give a brilliant light by night and be a prominent landmark by day forms the dual duty of the guardian of the coast.