Lightships and Lighthouses

by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

By permission of “Syren and Shipping.”

A LIGHTHOUSE BEDROOM.

Owing to the limited space the furniture is reduced to the minimum, the bunks being built against the wall.

More remarkable was the accident which happened at the Flannen Islands light-station in 1900; it remains an unsolved mystery to this day. This is one of Scotland’s lonely lights, mounting guard over a group of islets fifteen miles off the Hebrides. On December 26 the relief-tender approached the station on her usual fortnightly visit, but, to the amazement of those on board, no signs of the keepers or the usual signals were to be seen, while the lantern was not dressed in its daylight garb. The crew landed hurriedly, wondering what was amiss. They found the lighthouse absolutely deserted; not a sign of any of the three keepers was to be seen or heard. They examined the log, and found that the light had not been burning for some days, the last entry being made about 4 a.m. nearly a week previously. The rock was searched, but yielded no clue to the mystery of the complete disappearance of the men. The light had not been abandoned; it had simply burned itself out. It was a fortunate circumstance that very little shipping frequents these seas during the winter, or there would have been one or two marine disasters, as the islands are often wrapped in fog.

It is surmised that one of the men ventured outside on to a rocky ledge in the early hours of the morning. According to the log, a vicious storm was raging at the time, and probably in the darkness the man was swept off his feet and carried into the sea. The second keeper on duty, marvelling at the non-return of his assistant, evidently had roused his other companion, and the two had instituted a search in the storm, only in turn to be caught by a wave and carried away.

In Great Britain, since 1860, men only have been employed by the Trinity House Brethren for the maintenance of the lights, but in the United States women still are engaged in this duty. Some of the British lights have been controlled by one family through two or three generations. It was only a few years ago that a Darling retired from the vigil on the Longstones of Farne Islands, the scene of Grace Darling’s heroism, while for a century and a half one family kept the South Foreland light faithfully. The Casquets light off Alderney, in the Channel Islands, was maintained by one family, some of the children spending the whole of their lives on the rock, son succeeding father at the post of duty.

On the American coast, however, women are more extensively employed. Seeing that many of the lights are burned in a low tower projecting from the dwelling-house, this circumstance may be readily understood, as the duties beyond the maintenance of the light are not exacting. One of the most notable instances, however, is the Point Pino light at the entrance to Monterey Bay, on the Californian coast, the guardianship of which has been in feminine hands for the past thirty years. For something approaching half a century a woman maintained the Michigan City harbour light on the Great Lake of that name. Indeed, the associations were so deep-rooted and long that the beacon became popularly known as “Miss Colfax’s light,” after the name of its keeper. Even when she attained the age of eighty years she was as active and attentive to her charge as on the day, in 1861, when she first assumed responsibility for its safe-keeping.

In those times there was a beacon established on the end of the wooden pier, which railed off an area of the restless lake for the purposes of the inland port. Those were strenuous days. Her home was on shore, and every night and morning she tramped the long arm of woodwork to light and extinguish the lamp. Lard-oil was used, and during the winter the food for the lamp had to be heated to bring it into a fluid condition before she set out from home. It was no easy matter struggling along on a blusterous, gusty evening, with a pail of hot oil in one hand and a lamp in the other, over a narrow plank. Often, when a gale was raging, progress was so slow that by the time the beacon was reached the oil had cooled and congealed, rendering it a difficult matter to induce the lamp to burn. Once set going, however, it was safe for the night, as the heat radiated from the burner kept the lard melted. In addition to this lamp, there was another light in the tower projecting from the roof of her house, which had to be maintained, and this, being the main light, was the more important of the two.

In 1886 the pier tower was taken out of her hands for ever. A furious gale, such as is peculiar to these inland seas, and which cannot be rivalled on the ocean for fury, was raging. At dusk she started on her usual journey. Time after time she was wellnigh swept off her feet, so that she staggered rather than walked, for the spray and sand flecking her face nearly blinded her. When she gained the tower she paused, and observed that it was trembling violently. Undismayed, she ascended, lit the light, and tramped back to the shore. Scarcely had she gained the mainland, when, glancing seawards, she saw the light sway from side to side for a second or two, and then make a dive into the water. A few moments later a crash reverberated above the noise of the storm: the decrepit pier had succumbed at last. Hers was a lucky escape, but she hurried home, and sat by the main light gleaming from her roof all that night, apprehensive that some vessel might endeavour to make the harbour and come to grief. When the pier was rebuilt, a new beacon was placed on its extremity, but its upkeep was taken over by the harbour authorities, leaving only the shore light in the trusty woman’s keeping, the wicks of which for over forty years were trimmed and lit at dusk, and extinguished with the dawn, with her own hands.

During the migratory season of the birds extraordinary sights are witnessed around the light at night. The brilliant glare attracts enormous flocks, which flit to and fro. As the monster flaming spoke swings round, the birds, evidently blinded by the glare, dash with such fury against the glass panes of the lantern as to flutter to the floor of the gallery with broken necks and wings, while large numbers, dazed or killed, fall into the water. The birds are of all species, and at times may be picked up by the basketful. Then the light-keepers are able to secure a welcome change in their dietary. Moths, too, often hover in clouds round the light, and are of such variety that an hour on the gallery would bring infinite delight and rich harvests to the youthful entomologist who has to be content to hunt around electric lamps in quiet streets at night.