The last shift was headed by an old caisson-man named Griffin, who bore the record of having stood seventy-five pounds of air-pressure in the famous Long Island gas tunnel. Just as the men were ready to leave the caisson the gas suddenly burst up again with something of explosive violence. Instantly the workmen threw down their tools and made a dash for the air-shaft. Here a terrible struggle followed. Only one man could go up the ladder at a time, and they scrambled and fought, pulling down by main force every man who succeeded in reaching the rounds. Then one after another they dropped in the sand, unconscious.
Griffin, remaining below, had signalled for a rope. When it came down, he groped for the nearest workman, fastened it around his body, and sent him aloft. Then he crawled around and pulled the unconscious workmen together under the air-shaft. One by one he sent them up. The last was a powerfully built Irishman named Howard. Griffin's eyes were blinded, and he was so dizzy that he reeled like a drunken man, but he managed to get the rope around Howard's body and start him up. At the eighteen-inch door of the lock the unconscious Irishman wedged fast, and those outside could not pull him through. Griffin climbed painfully up the thirty feet of ladder and pushed and pulled until Howard's limp body went through. Griffin tried to follow him, but his numbed fingers slipped on the steel rim, and he fell backward into the death-hole below. They dropped the rope again, but there was no response. One of the men called Griffin by name. The half-conscious caisson-man aroused himself and managed to tie the rope under his arms. Then he, too, was hoisted aloft, and when he was dragged from the caisson, more dead than alive, the half-blinded men on the steamer's deck set up a shout of applause—all the credit that he ever received.
Two of the men prostrated by the gas were sent to a hospital in New York, where they were months in recovering. Another went insane. Griffin was blind for three weeks. Four other caisson-men came out of the work with the painful malady known as "bends," which attacks those who work long under high air-pressure. A victim of the "bends" cannot straighten his back, and often his legs and arms are cramped and contorted. These terrible results will give a good idea of the heroism required of the sea-builder.
Having sunk the caisson deep enough the workmen filled it full of concrete and sealed the top of the air-shaft. Then they built the light-keeper's home, and the lantern was ready for lighting. Three days within the contract year the tower was formally turned over to the Government.
And thus the builders, besides providing a warning to the hundreds of vessels that yearly pass up the bay, erected a lasting monument to their own skill, courage, and perseverance. As long as the shoal remains the light will stand. In the course of half a century, perhaps less, the sea-water will gnaw away the iron of the cylinder, but there will still remain the core of concrete, as hard and solid as the day on which it was planted.
It is fitting that work which has drawn so largely upon the highest intellectual and moral endowments of the engineer and the builder should not serve the selfish interests of any one man, nor of any single corporation, nor even of the Government which provided the means, but that it should be a gift to the world at large. Other nations, even Great Britain, which has more at stake upon the seas than any other country, impose regular lighthouse taxes upon vessels entering their harbours; but the lights erected by the United States flash a free warning to any ship of any land.
Peter Cooper Hewitt.
With his interrupter.