Lightships and Lighthouses

by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

When the responsibility for lighting the Scottish coasts was handed over to the Commissioners for Northern Lighthouses, one of their first tasks was the adequate illumination of the wave-swept Inchcape or Bell Rock, which lies some twelve miles off the Scottish mainland in the busy portal of the Firth of Tay. At that time this sinister menace to navigation was not marked in any way whatever, and apparently had remained in this unprotected condition ever since the notorious pirate, Ralph the Rover, cut away the buoy-bell which had been placed upon it by the Abbot of Aberbrothock, as narrated in Southey’s famous ballad.

The rock, or rather reef—inasmuch as it measures 2,000 feet from end to end, and lies athwart the fairway—is submerged completely to a depth of 16 feet at high spring-tides, while at lowest water only some 4 feet of its crest are laid bare here and there. This is not all. The ledge is the summit of a dangerous, slowly-rising submarine hillock, where, for a distance of about 100 yards on either side, the lead sounds only 3 fathoms. Wrecks were so numerous and terrible at this spot that the protection of the seafaring community became imperative, and the newly-appointed guardians of the Scottish coast lost no time in justifying the trust reposed in them, but erected a first-class light. The Eddystone had been conquered, and, although the conditions were dissimilar and the enterprise bolder, no tangible reason against its imitation was advanced.

The engineer John Rennie was entrusted with the work, while Robert Stevenson was appointed as his assistant. The rock was surveyed, and a tower similar in its broad lines to that evolved by Smeaton for the Eddystone was elaborated, and the authority for its construction given in the year 1806.

Work upon the rock in the earliest stages was confined to the calmest days of the summer season, when the tides were lowest, the water was smoothest, and the wind in its calmest mood. Under such conditions the men were able to stay on the site for about five hours. The engineer hoped against hope that the elements would be kind to him, and that he would be able to complete the preliminary work upon the rock in one season.

The constructional plans were prepared carefully, so that advantage might be taken of every promising opportunity. One distinct drawback was the necessity to establish a depot some distance from the erecting site. Those were the days before steam navigation, and the capricious sailing craft offered the only means of maintaining communication between rock and shore, and for the conveyance of men and material to and fro. The year 1807 was devoted to the construction of vessels for the work, and to the establishment of workshops with machinery and other facilities at Arbroath, the nearest suitable point on the mainland to the rock. A temporary beacon was placed on the reef, while adjacent to the site selected for the tower a smith’s forge was made fast, so as to withstand the dragging motion of the waves when the rock was submerged. The men were housed on the Smeaton, which during the spells of work on the rock rode at anchor a short distance away in deep water. The arrangements stipulated that three boats, which were employed to bring the men from the vessel to the rock, should always be moored at the landing-place, so that, in the event of the weather changing for the worse, the masons, forced to cease work suddenly, might regain the Smeaton safely in one trip, the three boats being able to convey thirty men, which constituted the average complement on the rock.

While the preparations were proceeding ashore, a little body of workers toiled, whenever possible, at clearing the face of the rock and carrying out the requisite excavation work. While this was in progress a disaster was averted very narrowly, which would have jeopardized the completion of the tower, owing to the superstitious natures of the men engaged. On September 2, 1807, the Smeaton, as usual, had brought out some thirty masons, had landed them safely on the rock, and was riding at anchor.

Suddenly the wind freshened, and the engineer on the rock grew apprehensive of the Smeaton dragging her cables. A party at once put off from the rock in one of the three boats and regained the ship, but were scarcely aboard when the cables parted, and the vessel, caught by the wind and tide, made off. Before the men regained control of her she had drifted some three miles to leeward. Meantime on the rock the situation was growing serious. Only Mr. Stevenson, who was supervising operations on the spot, and the landing-master were aware of its gravity. The masons were so busy hewing, boring and chiselling, that they had not noticed the Smeaton’s drift. But the engineer, observing the flowing of the tide, realized that the rock must be submerged before the ship could be brought up again. He racked his brains to find some means of getting his gang of men off safely in the nick of time, but it was a searching problem to solve with only two boats, which, at the utmost, could carry twenty-four persons. To make matters worse, one of those mists which are so peculiar to the Scottish coast began to settle down, blotting everything from sight.

The water rose higher. The men toiling on the lowest levels receded higher and higher before the advancing tide, though still too deeply occupied in their labours to bestow a thought upon the Smeaton. At last the smith’s forge was quenched, and this was the general signal to the men to prepare to leave the rock. Tools were collected, and the party strode towards the landing-stage to enter the boats. Conceive their consternation when they saw that one boat was missing! When they glanced over the water the Smeaton was not riding in her usual place—in fact, was nowhere to be seen! One and all gathered around the engineer to learn the reason for this remarkable breach in the arrangements for their safety, and yet all were too dumbfounded to question or protest. As for the luckless engineer, he was at his wits’ end and could not offer a word of explanation to the inquiring looks that besieged him. One and all, as the water lapped their feet, realized the hopelessness of the position. Suddenly, when they were beginning to despair, one of the men described the phantom form of a vessel making for the rock. “A boat!” he shouted in exultation. Sure enough the shadow matured into the familiar form of the Tay pilot-boat, the master of which, observing the workmen on the rock, the rising tide, and the absence of the Smeaton, had realized that something must have gone wrong, and approached the rock to make inquiries. He came up at the critical moment. The men were drenched, and, their feelings having been strung to a high pitch with anxiety, they nearly collapsed at the arrival of this unexpected assistance. The pilot-boat, after taking off the men, awaited the return of the Smeaton, which took them on board about midnight.

This narrow escape so terrified the men that on the following day the engineer found only eight of his staff of thirty-two, who were willing to venture upon the rock again. When this gang returned in the evening, their safety appeared to restore courage to their companions, so that next day all expressed their readiness to resume their tasks.

The fitful character of the work did not leave its mark so distinctly as might be supposed. Whenever there was a chance, the men worked with an amazing will and zeal; and although the first stone of the tower was not laid until July 10, 1808, three courses of masonry were completed when the undertaking was suspended at the end of November for the winter. The succeeding season’s toil saw the addition of about 27 feet more of the tower, which was finally completed by the close of 1810. The building was 120 feet in height, and the light was shown for the first time on February 1, 1811.