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Title: Lightships and Lighthouses

Author: Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

Release date: August 16, 2016 [eBook #52817]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIGHTSHIPS
AND LIGHTHOUSES ***

LIGHTSHIPS AND
LIGHTHOUSES

By permission of Messrs. Siemens Bros. & Co., Ltd.

THE 43,000,000 CANDLE-POWER BEAMS
THROWN FROM THE HELIGOLAND
LIGHTHOUSE.
Being projected from a height of 272 feet above the sea, the
beacon has a range of 23 miles, and on a clear night the rays
are seen from Büsun, 35 miles away.
Frontispiece.

CONQUESTS OF SCIENCE

LIGHTSHIPS AND
LIGHTHOUSES

BY

FREDERICK A. TALBOT
AUTHOR OF

“MOVING PICTURES,” “RAILWAY CONQUEST OF THE WORLD,”
“THE STEAMSHIP CONQUEST OF THE WORLD,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT
COMPANY
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1913

Printed in England.

PREFACE
Romances innumerable have been woven around the flaming guardians
of the coast, but it is doubtful whether any purely imaginative work is so
fascinating and absorbing as the plain unvarnished narrative of how some
famous lightship or lighthouse has been brought into existence. And the
story of construction is equalled in every way by that relating to the
operation and maintenance of the light, against all odds, for the guidance of
those who have business upon the ocean.
This volume is not a history of lightships and lighthouses; neither is it a
technical treatise. Rather my object has been to relate how the difficulties,
peculiar and prodigious, have been overcome by the builders in their efforts
to mark some terrible danger-spots, both on the mainland and isolated sea-
rocks.
While the lines of the lightship and lighthouse are familiar to all,
popular knowledge concerning the internal apparatus of the building or ship
is somewhat hazy. Therefore I have explained, with technicalities simplified
as much as possible, the equipment of the tower and vessel, and the
methods whereby both visual and audible warnings are given. The very
latest developments in this field of engineering and science are
incorporated, so as to render the subject as comprehensive as possible
within the limits of a single volume.
In the compilation of this book I have received the heartiest assistance
from those who are prominently associated with the work of providing
adequate aids to navigation, and am particularly indebted to the engineers to
the Commissioners of Northern Lights, Messrs. D. and C. Stevenson;
Lieutenant-Colonel William P. Anderson, the Engineer-in-Chief to the
Lighthouse Department of the Canadian Government; the various officials
of the Lighthouse Board of the United States of America; the Engineer-in-
Chief to the French Service des Phares; the lighthouse authorities of New
South Wales and New Zealand; Mr. Gustaf Dalén and his assistants; Messrs.

Chance Brothers and Company, Limited, of Birmingham; Messrs.
Edmondsons, Limited, of Dublin; Samuel Strain, Esq., the Director of the
Lighthouse Literature Mission, Belfast; the Scientific American, and the
Syren and Shipping, etc.
FREDERICK A. TALBOT.
June, 1913.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE ORIGIN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE 1
II. BUILDING A LIGHTHOUSE 11
III. THE LIGHT AND ILLUMINANTS 28
IV. FOG-SIGNALS 57
V. THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE 72
VI. SOME FAMOUS LIGHTS OF ENGLAND 81
VII. THE BELL ROCK AND SKERRYVORE
LIGHTS 96
VIII. THE LONELY LIGHTS OF SCOTLAND 108
IX. THE FASTNET, THE OUTPOST OF
EUROPE 121
X. LIGHTHOUSES BUILT ON SAND 132
XI. SOME LIGHT PATROLS OF THE
FRENCH COAST 148
XII. THE GUARDIAN LIGHTS OF
CANADA’S COAST 161
XIII. THE MINOT’S LEDGE LIGHT 176
XIV. THE TILLAMOOK ROCK LIGHT-
STATION 183
XV. THE COAST LIGHTS OF THE UNITED
STATES 196

XVI. THE LAMP-POSTS OF THE GREAT
LAKES OF NORTH AMERICA 208
XVII. THE MOST POWERFUL ELECTRIC
LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD 218
XVIII. SOME LIGHTHOUSES IN
AUSTRALIAN WATERS 229
XIX. THE SIGNPOSTS OF THE
SANDBANKS 240
XX. A FLAMING SENTINEL OF THE
MALACCA STRAITS 257
XXI. UNATTENDED LIGHTHOUSES 267
XXII. FLOATING LIGHTHOUSES 284
XXIII. THE LIGHT-KEEPER AND HIS LIFE 301

INDEX 318

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
The 43,000,000 Candle-Power Beams Frontispiece
thrown from the Heligoland
Lighthouse
How the Beachy Head Lighthouse was
built 6
Workmen returning by the Aerial
Cableway to the Top of Beachy Head 7
The Sanganeb Reef Lighthouse in the Red
Sea 14
The Alcatraz Lighthouse under
Construction 15
The Alcatraz Lighthouse completed 15
The Thimble Shoals Light 22
Setting the Last Stone of the Beachy Head
Lighthouse 23
The Hyperradial Apparatus for the Manora
Point Light, Karachi, India 48
First Order Triple Flashing Light of 920
Millimetres Focal Distance for Chilang
Lighthouse, China 49
Looking up the Lantern of the Needles
Lighthouse 52
Fixed Apparatus of the Fourth Order for
Sarawak 53
A Modern Lighthouse Siren Plant 58
The Sirens of the Lizard 59
The Acetylene Fog-Gun 64
The Rattray Head Lighthouse 65

Sule Skerry Light 65
The Eddystone, the Most Famous
Lighthouse of England 76
A Thrilling Experience 77
The “Bishop,” the Western Outpost of
England 82
The Wolf Rock Lighthouse 83
The Longships Light 88
The Godrevy Light, Scilly Islands 89
The Chicken Rock Lighthouse, off the Isle
of Man 92
How the Skerryvore is built 93
The Skerryvore, Scotland’s Most Famous
Lighthouse 102
Barra Head Lighthouse, Scotland 103
The Homes of the Keepers of the
Skerryvore and Dhu-Heartach Lights 103
The Dhu-Heartach Lighthouse 110
The North Unst, Britain’s most Northerly
Lighthouse 111
The North Unst Light 116
Landing Water at the North Unst 116
The Flannen Islands Light-Station 117
Building the Fastnet Rock Lighthouse 122
Building the Fastnet Tower 123
Erecting the Fastnet Lantern 123
The Fastnet, the Outpost of Europe 128
The Lantern of the Fastnet Rock
Lighthouse 129
The Rothersand Lighthouse 136
The Fourteen-Foot Bank Lighthouse, built
on Sand 137
The Heaux de Bréhat Light 150
Fitting the Lantern of La Jument Light 151

Preparing the Foundations of the Jument
Tower 154
The Jument Light recently erected off
Ushant 155
The Cape Race Lighthouse, Newfoundland 162
Cann Island Lighthouse, on the East Coast
of Newfoundland 163
The Light at the Southern End of Belle Ile 166
The North Belle Ile Lighthouse 167
A Magnificent Canadian Light on the
Pacific Coast 168
The West End Guardian of Sable Island 168
St. Esprit Island Light, Nova Scotia 169
The Gull Island Light, Newfoundland 169
The Batiscan Front Range Lighthouse,
River St. Lawrence 170
Isle St. Thérèse Upper Range Back
Lighthouse, River St. Lawrence 170
Upper Traverse Lighthouse in the River St.
Lawrence 171
An “Ice Shove” upon the Back Range
Light in Lake St. Peter 171
The Minot’s Ledge Light 178
Tender landing Building Material upon the
Tillamook Rock 179
The Tillamook Rock Light-Station from
the South 186
The Conquest of the Tillamook 187
The Terrible Tillamook Rock 187
Famous United States Lighthouses of Two
Centuries 192
The Race Rock Light 193
The Carquinez Strait Light 198
A Church as a Lighthouse 199

The Bonita Point Lighthouse off the
Californian Coast 202
Point Pinos Light-Station, California 203
The Farallon Rock and Light 204
The Farallon Lighthouse off San Francisco 204
The Punta Gorda Light-Station, California 205
A Lighthouse on the Great Lakes in the
Grip of Winter 210
Building the Barre à Boulard Light in the
River St. Lawrence 211
Colchester Reef Lighthouse, Lake Erie 214
The Latest Development in Lighthouse
Engineering 215
The Electric Searchlights of the Heligoland
Lighthouse 222
The Heligoland Lighthouse 223
Green Cape Lighthouse, New South Wales 232
The Sentinel of Sugar Loaf Point, New
South Wales 232
“Bungaree Norah” Station, New South
Wales 232
The Cape Byron Lighthouse, New South
Wales 233
The Macquarie Lighthouse, South Head of
Sydney Harbour 233
Painting the Troubridge Lighthouse, South
Australia 234
Green Point Lighthouse, Natal 235
The Pacific Outpost of the United States of
America 235
The Seven Stones Lightship 242
The San Francisco Lightship 243
The Norderney Lightship 250
The Fire Island Lightship, the Atlantic
Outpost of the United States 251

Completing the One-Fathom Bank
Lighthouse in the Malacca Straits 262
The One-Fathom Bank Lighthouse,
Malacca Straits, in Course of Erection 263
The Platte Fougère Lighthouse under
Construction 268
The Platte Fougère Lighthouse 269
Setting the Compressed-Air Reservoir at
Fort Doyle 270
The Fort Doyle Siren 271
An Unattended Beacon Light placed upon
a Wild Part of the Scottish Coast 272
The Gasfeten Light: a Lonely Beacon in
Swedish Waters 273
The Dalén “Sun-Valve,” the Most
Wonderful Invention of Modern
Lighthouse Engineering 274
The Gas Accumulators Employed with the
Dalén Automatic System 275
The Lagerholmen Lighthouse 278
An Unattended Beacon Light in the Straits
of Magellan 279
An Automatic Lightboat 279
The Wigham Thirty-One Day Unattended
Petroleum Light 280
Willson Automatic Gas and Whistling
Light off Egg Island, Nova Scotia 281
The “Outer Automatic” Combined Gas and
Whistling Light, Halifax, Nova Scotia 281
The Kalkgrundet, Sweden’s Latest
Automatic Lightship 293
The Svinbādan Unattended Lightship in
Swedish Waters 292
The Lantern used in the Wigham
Automatic Petroleum Beacon 298

The “6-Bar” Floating Wigham Light in
Portsmouth Harbour 299
The Pumps whereby the Oil is lifted from
the Lowest Floor to the Lantern Room 306
Combined Kitchen and Living-Room in
the Lighthouse 307
Keeper cleaning the Lamp after it has
cooled down 312
A Lighthouse Bedroom 313

CHAPTER I

THE ORIGIN OF THE LIGHTHOUSE

The mariner, in pursuit of his daily business, is exposed to dangers
innumerable. In mid-ocean, for the most part, he need not fear them
particularly, because he has plenty of sea-room in which to navigate his
ship, and in case of thick fog he can ease up until this dreaded enemy lifts
or disperses. But in crowded coastal waters his position is often precarious,
for he may be menaced by lurking shoals or hidden reefs, which betray little
or no indication of their whereabouts, and which may be crossed with
apparent safety. If the ship blunders on in ignorance, it is brought up with a
thud as it buries its nose in the sucking sand, or gives a mighty shiver as it
scrapes over the rocky teeth, perhaps to be clasped as in a vice, or to be
battered and broken so fearfully that, when at last it tears itself free and
slips off into deep water, it can only founder immediately. Here, if fog blots
out the scene, the ship is in danger of being lured to certain destruction by
currents and other natural forces, since the captain is condemned to a
helplessness as complete as of a blind man in a busy street.
It is not surprising, then, that the captain, as he approaches or wanders
along a tortuous shoreline, scans the waters eagerly for a glimpse of the
guardian monitor, which, as he knows from his reckonings and chart,
should come within sight to guide him on his way. The danger-signal may
be one of many kinds—a misty, star-like glimmer thrown from a buoy
dancing on the waves, the radiant orb from a lightship bobbing up and
down and swinging rhythmically to and fro, a fixed flare-light, or dazzling,
spoke-like rays revolving across the sky. If sight be impossible owing to
fog, he must depend upon his ear for the measured tolling of a bell, the
shriek of a whistle, the deep blare of a siren, or the sharp report of an
explosive. When he has picked up one or other of these warnings, he feels

more at ease, and proceeds upon his way, eyes and ears keenly strained for
warning of the next danger ahead.
The lighthouse is the greatest blessing that has been bestowed upon
navigation. It renders advance through the waters at night as safe and as
simple as in the brilliancy of the midday sun. But for these beacons the safe
movement of ships at night or during fog along the crowded steamship
highways which surround the serrated shores of the five continents would
be impossible. It is only natural, therefore, that the various nations of the
world should strenuously endeavour to light their coasts so adequately that
the ship may proceed at night as safely and as comfortably as a man may
walk down an illuminated city thoroughfare.
Whence came the idea of lighting the coastline with flaring beacons? It
is impossible to say. They have been handed down to modern civilization
through the mists of time. The first authentic lighthouse was Sigeum, on the
Hellespont, which undoubtedly antedates the famous Pharos of Alexandria.
The latter was a massive square tower, 400 feet high, and was known as one
of the Seven Wonders of the World. It was built about 331 B.C. The warning
light was emitted from a huge wood fire, which was kept burning at the
summit continuously during the night; the illumination is stated to have
been visible for a distance of forty miles, but modern knowledge disputes
this range. The precise design of this wonderful tower is unknown, but it
must have been a huge structure, inasmuch as it is computed to have cost
the equivalent in modern money of over £200,000, or $1,000,000.
For sixteen hundred years it guided the navigators among the waters
from which it reared its smoking crest, and then it disappeared. How, no
one knows, although it is surmised that it was razed by an earthquake; but,
although it was swept from sight, its memory has been preserved, and the
French, Italian, and Spanish nations use its name in connection with the
lighthouse, which in France is called phare; in the other two countries
mentioned, faro.
The Romans in their conquest of Gaul and Britain brought the
lighthouse with them, and several remains of their efforts in this direction
are to be found in England, notably the pharos at Dover.
In all probability, however, the lighthouse in its most primitive form is
at least as old as the earliest books of the Bible. Undoubtedly it sprang from

the practice of guiding the incoming boatman to his home by means of a
blazing bonfire set up in a conspicuous position near by. Such a guide is a
perfectly obvious device, which even to-day is practised by certain savage
tribes.
When the Phœnicians traded in tin with the ancient Britons of
Cornwall, their boats continually traversed the rough waters washing the
western coasts of Spain, where, for the safer passage of their sailors,
doubtless, they erected beacons upon prominent headlands. The oldest
lighthouse in the world to-day, which in some quarters is held to be of
Phœnician origin, is that at Corunna, a few miles north of Cape Finisterre.
Other authorities maintain that it was built during the reign of the Roman
Emperor Trajan. In 1634 it was reconstructed, and is still in existence.
At the mouth of the Gironde is another highly interesting link with past
efforts and triumphs in lighthouse engineering. The Gironde River empties
itself into the Bay of Biscay through a wide estuary, in the centre of which
is a bunch of rocks offering a terrible menace to vessels. This situation
achieved an unenviable reputation in the days when ships first ventured out
to sea. Being exposed to the broad Atlantic, it receives the full force of the
gales which rage in the Bay of Biscay, and which make of the Gironde
River estuary a fearful trap. The trading town of Bordeaux suffered severely
from the ill fame attached to the mouth of the waterway upon which it was
dependent, for both the sea and the roads exacted a heavy toll among the
ships which traded with the famous wine capital of Gascony. How many
fine vessels struck the rocks of Cordouan and went to pieces within sight of
land, history does not record, but the casualties became so numerous that at
last the firms trading with Bordeaux refused to venture into the Gironde
unless a light were placed on the reef to guide their captains. Alarmed at the
prospect of losing their remunerative traffic, the citizens of Bordeaux built a
tower upon the deadly reef, with a beacon which they kept stoked with
wood, four men being reserved for its service. In return the authorities
exacted a tax from each vessel arriving and leaving the port, in order to
defray the expense thus incurred. Probably from this action originated the
custom of lighthouse dues.
This bonfire served its purposes until the Black Prince brought
Gascony under his power. He demolished the primitive beacon, and erected
in its place another tower, 40 feet high, on which the chauffer was placed, a

hermit being entrusted with the maintenance of the light at night. Near the
lighthouse—if such it can be called—a chapel was built, around which a
few fishermen erected their dwellings. When the hermit died, no one
offered to take his place. The beacon went untended, the fishermen
departed, and the reef once more was allowed to claim its victims from
shipping venturing into the estuary.
In 1584 an eminent French architect, Louis de Foix, secured the
requisite concession to build a new structure. He evolved the fantastic idea
of a single building which should comprise a beacon, a church and a royal
residence in one. For nearly twenty-seven years he laboured upon the rock,
exposed to the elements, before he (or rather his successor) was able to
throw the welcome warning rays from the summit of his creation. This was
certainly the most remarkable lighthouse that has ever been set up. It was
richly decorated and artistically embellished, and the tower was in reality a
series of galleries rising tier upon tier. At the base was a circular stone
platform, 134 feet in diameter, flanked by an elegant parapet surrounding
the light-keepers’ abode. This lower structure was intended to form a kind
of breakwater which should protect the main building from the force of the
waves. On the first floor was a magnificent entrance hall, leading to the
King’s apartment, a salon finely decorated with pillars and mural
sculptures. Above was a beautiful chapel with a lofty roof supported by
carved Corinthian columns. Finally came the beacon, which at that date was
about 100 feet above the sea-level.
Access to the successive floors was provided by a beautiful spiral
staircase, the newels of which were flanked by busts of the two French
Kings, Henry III. and Henry IV., and of the designer de Foix. The architect
died not long before his work was completed, but the directions he left
behind him were so explicit that no difficulty was experienced in
consummating his ideas, and the Tour de Cordouan shed its beneficial light
for the first time over the waters of the Bay of Biscay in 1611. So strongly
was the building founded that it has defied the attacks of Nature to this day,
although it did not escape those of the vandals of the French Revolution,
who penetrated the tower, where the busts of the two Henrys at once excited
their passion. The symbols of monarchy were promptly hurled to the floor,
and other damage was inflicted. When order was restored, the busts were
replaced, and all the carvings which had suffered mutilation from mob law

were restored. At the same time, in accordance with the spirit of progress,
the tower was modified to bring it into line with modern lighting principles;
it was extended to a height of 197 feet, and was crowned with an up-to-date
light, visible twenty-seven miles out to sea. For more than three centuries it
has fulfilled its designed purpose, and still ranks as the most magnificent
lighthouse that ever has been built. Its cost is not recorded, but it must
necessarily have been enormous.
In Great Britain the seafarer’s warning light followed the lines of those
in vogue upon the older part of the Continent, consisting chiefly of wood
and coal fires mounted on conspicuous lofty points around the coast. These
braziers were maintained both by public and by private enterprise. Patents
were granted to certain individuals for the upkeep of beacons in England
and Scotland, and from time to time the holders of these rights came into
conflict with the public authority which was created subsequently for the
maintenance of various aids to navigation around the coasts. In England
these monopolies were not extinguished until 1836, when the Brethren of
Trinity House were empowered, by special Act of Parliament, to purchase
the lights which had been provided both by the Crown and by private
interests, so as to bring the control under one corporation.

Photo by permission of Messrs. Bullivant & Co., Ltd.

HOW THE BEACHY HEAD LIGHTHOUSE
WAS BUILT.
To facilitate erection a cableway was stretched between the top of
Beachy Head and a staging placed beside the site of the tower in
the water. A stone is being sent down.

The chauffer, however, was an unsatisfactory as well as an expensive
type of beacon. Some of these grates consumed as many as 400 tons of coal

per annum—more than a ton of coal per night—in addition to vast
quantities of wood. Being completely exposed, they were subject to the
caprices of the wind. When a gale blew off the land, the light on the sea side
was of great relative brilliancy; but when off the water, the side of the fire
facing the sea would be quite black, whereas on the landward side the fire
bars were almost melting under the fierce heat generated by the intense
draughts. This was the greater drawback, because it was, of course,
precisely when the wind was making a lee shore below the beacon that the
more brilliant light was required.
When the Pilgrim Fathers made their historic trek to the United States,
they took Old World ideas with them. The first light provided on the North
American continent was at Point Allerton, the most prominent headland
near the entrance to Boston Harbour, where 400 boatloads of stone were
devoted to the erection of a tower capped with a large basket of iron in
which “fier-bales of pitch and ocum” were burned. This beacon served the
purpose of guiding navigators into and out of Boston Harbour for several
years.
When, however, the shortcomings of the exposed fire were realized,
attempts were made to evolve a lighting system, which does in reality
constitute the foundation of modern practice. But the beacon fire held its
own for many years after the new principle came into vogue, the last coal
fire in England being the Flat Holme Light, in the Bristol Channel, which
was not superseded until 1822.
In Scotland the coal fire survived until 1816, one of the most important
of these beacons being that on the Isle of May, in the Firth of Forth, which
fulfilled its function for 181 years. This was a lofty tower, erected in 1636,
on which a primitive type of pulley was installed for the purpose of raising
the fuel to the level of the brazier, while three men were deputed to the task
of stoking the fire. It was one of the private erections, and the owner of the
Isle of May, the Duke of Portland, in return for maintaining the light, was
allowed to exact a toll from passing vessels. When the welfare of the
Scottish aids to navigation was placed under the control of the
Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses, this body, realizing the
importance of the position, wished to erect upon the island a commanding
lighthouse illuminated with oil lamps; but it was necessary first to buy out
the owner’s rights, and an Act of Parliament was passed authorizing this

action, together with the purchase of the island and the right to levy tolls, at
an expenditure of £60,000, or $300,000. In 1816 the coal fire was finally
extinguished.

Photo by permission of Messrs. Bullivant & Co., Ltd.

WORKMEN RETURNING BY THE
AERIAL CABLEWAY TO THE TOP OF
BEACHY HEAD.

The English lights are maintained by the Brethren of Trinity House, and
their cost is defrayed by passing shipping. This corporation received its first
charter during the reign of Henry VIII. Trinity House, as it is called
colloquially, also possesses certain powers over the Commissioners of
Northern Lights and the Commissioners of Irish Lights, and is itself under
the sway, in regard to certain powers, such as the levy of light dues, of the
Board of Trade. This system of compelling shipowners to maintain the coast
lights is somewhat anomalous; it possesses many drawbacks, and has
provoked quaint situations at times. Thus, when the Mohegan and the Paris
were wrecked on the Manacles within the space of a few months, the outcry
for better lighting of this part of the Devon and Cornish coasts was loud and
bitter. The shipowners clamoured for more protection, but at the same time,
knowing that they would have to foot the bill, maintained that further
lighting was unnecessary.
The British Isles might very well emulate the example of the United
States, France, Canada, and other countries, which regard coast lighting as a
work of humanity, for the benefit of one and all, and so defray the cost out
of the Government revenues. Some years ago, when an International
Conference was held to discuss this question, some of the representatives
suggested that those nations which give their lighthouse services free to the
world should distinguish against British shipping, and levy light-dues upon
British ships, with a view to compelling the abolition of the tax upon
foreign vessels visiting British ports. Fortunately, the threat was not carried
into execution.
The design and construction of lighthouses have developed into a
highly specialized branch of engineering. Among the many illustrious
names associated with this phase of enterprise—de Foix, Rudyerd,
Smeaton, Walker, Douglass, Alexander, and Ribière—the Stevenson family
stands pre-eminent. Ever since the maintenance of the Scottish coast lights
was handed over to the Northern Commissioners, the engineering chair has
remained in the hands of this family, the names of whose members are
identified with many lights that have become famous throughout the world
for their daring nature, design, and construction. Moreover, the family’s
contributions to the science of this privileged craft have been of
incalculable value. Robert Louis Stevenson has written a fascinating story
around their exploits in “A Family of Engineers.”

It was at first intended that the great author himself should follow in the
footsteps of his forbears. He completed his apprenticeship at the drawing-
table under his father and uncle, and became initiated into the mysteries of
the craft. At the outset he apparently had visions of becoming numbered
among those of his family who had achieved eminence in lighthouse
construction, and he often accompanied his father or uncle on their
periodical rounds of inspection. Probably the rough and tumble life in a
small tender among the wild seas of Scotland, the excitement of landing
upon dangerous rocks, the aspect of loneliness revealed by acquaintance
with the keepers, and the following of the growth of a new tower from its
foundations, stirred his imagination, so that the dormant literary instinct,
which, like that of engineering, he had inherited, became fired.
Mathematical formulæ, figures, and drawings, wrestled for a time with
imagination and letters, but the call of the literary heritage proved
triumphant, and, unlike his grandfather, who combined literature with
lighthouse construction, and who, indeed, was a polished author, as his
stirring story of the “Bell Rock Lighthouse” conclusively shows, he finally
threw in his lot with letters.
The fact that for more than a century one family has held the exacting
position of chief engineer to the Northern Commissioners, and has been
responsible for the lights around Scotland’s troublous coasts, is unique in
the annals of engineering. Each generation has been identified with some
notable enterprise in this field. Thomas Smith, the father-in-law of Robert
Stevenson, founded the service, and was the first engineer to the
Commissioners. Robert Stevenson assumed his mantle and produced the
“Bell Rock.” His son, Alan Stevenson, was the creator of the “Skerryvore.”
The next in the chain, David Stevenson, built the “North Unst.” David and
Thomas Stevenson, who followed, contributed the “Dhu-Heartach” and the
“Chicken Rock” lights; while the present generation, David and Charles,
have erected such works as “Rattray Briggs,” “Sule Skerry,” and the
Flannen Islands lighthouses. In addition, the latter have developed
lighthouse engineering in many novel directions, such as the unattended
Otter Rock lightship, the unattended Guernsey lighthouse, and the
automatic, acetylene, fog-signal gun, which are described elsewhere in this
volume.

Some forty years ago the Stevensons also drew up the scheme and
designed the first lighthouses for guarding the coasts of Japan. The essential
optical apparatus and other fittings were built and temporarily erected in
England, then dismantled and shipped to the East, to be set up in their
designed places. The Japanese did not fail to manifest their characteristic
trait in connection with lighthouses as with other branches of engineering.
The structures produced by the Scottish engineers fulfilled the requirements
so perfectly, and were such excellent models, as to be considered a first-
class foundation for the Japanese lighthouse service. The native engineers
took these lights as their pattern, and, unaided, extended their coast lighting
system upon the lines laid down by the Stevensons. Since that date Japan
has never gone outside her own borders for assistance in lighthouse
engineering.

CHAPTER II

BUILDING A LIGHTHOUSE

Obviously, the task of erecting a lighthouse varies considerably with
the situation. On the mainland construction is straightforward, and offers
little more difficulty than the building of a house. The work assumes its
most romantic and fascinating form when it is associated with a small rocky
islet out to sea, such as the Eddystone, Skerryvore, or Minot’s Ledge; or
with a treacherous, exposed stretch of sand, such as that upon which the
Rothersand light is raised. Under such conditions the operation is truly
herculean, and the ingenuity and resource of the engineer are taxed to a
superlative degree; then he is pitted against Nature in her most awful guise.
Wind and wave, moreover, are such formidable and relentless antagonists
that for the most momentary failure of vigilance and care the full penalty is
exacted. Then there are the fiercely scurrying currents, tides, breakers, and
surf, against which battle must be waged, with the odds so overwhelmingly
ranged against frail human endeavour that advance can only be made by
inches. The lighthouse engineer must possess the patience of a Job, the
tenacity of a limpet, a determination which cannot be measured, and a
perseverance which defies galling delays and repeated rebuffs. Perils of an
extreme character beset him on every hand; thrilling escape and sensational
incident are inseparable from his calling.
The first step is the survey of the site, the determination of the character
of the rock and of its general configuration, and the takings of levels and
measurements for the foundations. When the rugged hump is only a few
feet in diameter little latitude is afforded the engineer for selection, but in
instances where the islet is of appreciable area some little time may be
occupied in deciding just where the structure shall be placed. It seems a
simple enough task to determine; one capable of solution within a few

minutes, and so for the most part it is—not from choice, but necessity—
when once the surface of the rock is gained. The paramount difficulty is to
secure a landing upon the site. The islet is certain to be the centre of madly
surging currents, eddies, and surf, demanding wary approach in a small
boat, while the search for a suitable point upon which to plant a foot is
invariably perplexing. Somehow, the majority of these bleak, wave-swept
rocks have only one little place where a landing may be made, and that only
at certain infrequent periods, the discovery of which in the first instance
often taxes the engineer sorely.
Often weeks will be expended in reconnoitring the position, awaiting a
favourable wind and a placid sea. Time to the surveyor must be no object.
He is the sport of the elements, and he must curb his impatience. To do
otherwise is to court disaster. The actual operations on the rock may only
occupy twenty minutes or so, but the task of landing is equalled by that of
getting off again—the latter frequently a more hazardous job than the
former.
The west coast of Scotland is dreaded, if such a term may be used, by
the engineer, because the survey inevitably is associated with bitter
disappointments and maddening delays owing to the caprices of the ocean.
This is not surprising when it is remembered that this coastline is of a cruel,
forbidding character and is exposed to the full reach of the Atlantic, with its
puzzling swell and vicious currents. The same applies to the west coast of
Ireland and the open parts of the South of England. The Casquets, off the
coast of Alderney, are particularly difficult of approach, as they are washed
on all sides by wild races of water. There is only one little cove where a
landing may be effected by stepping directly from a boat, and this place can
be approached only in the calmest weather and when the wind is blowing in
a certain direction. On one occasion, when I had received permission to
visit the lighthouse, I frittered away three weeks in Alderney awaiting a
favourable opportunity to go out, and then gave up the attempt in disgust.
As it happened, another month elapsed before the rock was approachable to
make the relief.
When the United States Lighthouse Board sanctioned the construction
of the Tillamook lighthouse on the rock of that name, off the Oregon coast,
the engineer in charge of the survey was compelled to wait six months
before he could venture to approach the island. In this instance, however,

his time was not wasted entirely, as there were many preparations to be
completed on the mainland to facilitate construction when it should be
commenced. Early in June, 1879, the weather moderated, and the Pacific
assumed an aspect in keeping with its name. Stimulated by the prospect of
carrying out his appointed task, the engineer pushed off in a boat, but, to his
chagrin, when he drew near the rock he found the prospects of landing to be
hopeless. He cruised about, reconnoitring generally from the water, and
then returned to shore somewhat disgusted.
A fortnight later he was instructed to take up his position at Astoria, to
keep a sharp eye on the weather, to take the first chance that presented itself
of gaining the rock, and not to return to headquarters until he had made a
landing. He fretted and fumed day after day, and at last pushed off with a
gang of men when the sea where it lapped the beach of the mainland was as
smooth as a lake; but as they drew near the Tillamook it was the same old
story. A treacherous swell was running, the waves were curling wickedly
and fussily around the islet; but the engineer had made up his mind that he
would be balked no longer, so the boat was pulled in warily, in the face of
terrible risk, and two sailors were ordered to get ashore by hook or by
crook. The boat swung to and fro in the swell. Time after time it was carried
forward to the landing spot by a wave, and then, just as the men were ready
to jump, the receding waters would throw it back. At last, as it swung by the
spot, the two men gave a leap and landed safely. The next proceeding was
to pass instruments ashore, but the swell, as if incensed at the partial
success achieved, grew more boisterous, and the boat had to back away
from the rock. The men who had landed, and who had not moved a yard
from the spot they had gained, became frightened at this manœuvre, and,
fearing that they might be marooned, jumped into the sea, and were pulled
into the boat by means of their life-lines, without having accomplished a
stroke.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE SANGANEB REEF LIGHTHOUSE IN
THE RED SEA.
It indicates a treacherous coral reef, 703 miles from Suez. It is an
iron tower 180 feet high, with a white flashing light having a
range of 19 miles.

The engineer chafed under these disappointments, and himself
determined to incur the risk of landing at all hazards. With his tape-line in
his pocket, he set out once more a few days later, and in a surf-boat pulled
steadily into the froth and foam around the rock; while the men sawed to
and fro the landing-place, he crouched in the bow, watching his opportunity.
Presently, the boat steadying itself for a moment, he made a spring and

reached the rock. He could not get his instruments ashore, so without loss of
time he ran his line from point to point as rapidly as he could, jotted down
hurried notes, and, when the swell was growing restive again, hailed the
boat, and at a favourable moment, as it manœuvred round, jumped into it.
The details he had secured, though hastily prepared, were sufficient for
the purpose. His report was considered and the character of the beacon
decided. There was some discussion as to the most favourable situation for
the light upon the rock, so a more detailed survey was demanded to settle
this problem. This task was entrusted to an Englishman, Mr. John R.
Trewavas, who was familiar with work under such conditions. He was a
master-mason of Portland and had been engaged upon the construction of
the Wolf Rock, one of the most notable and difficult works of its kind in the
history of lighthouse engineering.
He pushed off to the rock on September 18, 1879, in a surf-boat, only
to find the usual state of things prevailing. The boat was run in, and,
emulating the first engineer’s feat, he cleared the water and landed on the
steep, rocky slope; but it was wet and slippery, and his feet played him
false. He stumbled, and stooped to regain his balance, but just then a roller
curled in, snatched him up and threw him into the whirlpool of currents.
Life-lines were thrown, and the surf-boat struggled desperately to get near
him, but he was dragged down by the undertow and never seen again. This
fatality scared his companions, who returned hastily to the mainland. The
recital of their dramatic story stirred the public to such a pitch that the
authorities were frantically urged to abandon the project of lighting the
Tillamook.
Mr. David Stevenson related to me an exciting twenty minutes which
befell him and his brother while surveying a rock off the west coast of
Scotland. They had been waiting patiently for a favourable moment to
effect a landing, and when at last it appeared they drew in and clambered
ashore. But they could not advance another inch. The rock was jagged and
broken, while its surface was as slippery as ice owing to a thick covering of
slimy seaweed whereon boots could not possibly secure a hold. Having
gained the rock with so much difficulty, they were not going away empty-
handed. As they could not stand in their boots, they promptly removed
them, and, taking their line and levels, picked their way gingerly over the
jagged, slippery surface in their stockinged feet. Movement certainly was

exceedingly uncomfortable, because their toes displayed an uncanny
readiness to find every needle-point on the islet; but the wool of their
footwear enabled them to obtain a firm grip upon the treacherous surface,
without the risk of being upset and having a limb battered or broken in the
process. Twenty minutes were spent in making investigations under these
disconcerting conditions, but the time was adequate to provide all the
details required. When they had completed the survey and had regained
their boat—a matter of no little difficulty in the circumstances—their feet
bore sad traces of the ordeal through which they had passed. However, their
one concern was the completion of the survey; that had been made
successfully and was well worth the toll exacted in the form of physical
discomfort.

THE ALCATRAZ LIGHTHOUSE THE ALCATRAZ
UNDER CONSTRUCTION. LIGHTHOUSE COMPLETED.

This tower off the Californian coast is one of the latest works of the American Lighthouse
Department. It has a range of 21 miles.

As a rule, on a wave-swept rock which only shows itself at short
intervals during the day, the preparation of the foundations is not an
exacting task. A little paring with chisels and dynamite may be requisite
here and there, but invariably the engineer takes the exposed surface as the
basis for his work. The sea has eaten away all the soft, friable material in its
ceaseless erosion, leaving an excellent foundation to which the
superstructure can be keyed to become as solid as the rock itself.
When the beacon is to be erected upon a sandy bottom, the engineer’s
work becomes more baffling, as he is compelled to carry his underwater
work down to a point where a stable foundation may be secured. When the
Leasowe lighthouse was built on the sandy Wirral shore, the builders were
puzzled by the lack of a suitable foundation for the masonry tower. An
ingenious way out of the difficulty was effected. In the vicinity an incoming
ship, laden with a cargo of cotton, had gone ashore and had become a total
wreck. The cotton was useless for its intended purpose, so the bales were
salvaged and dumped into the sand at the point where the lighthouse was to
be erected. The fleecy mass settled into the sand, and under compression
became as solid as a rock, while its permanency was assured by its
complete submersion. The stability of this strange foundation may be
gathered from the fact that the tower erected thereon stood, and shed its
welcome light regularly every night, for about a century and a half, only
being extinguished two or three years ago as it was no longer required.
In the Old World, and, indeed, in the great majority of instances, the
lighthouse is what is described as a “monolithic structure,” being built of
courses of masonry, the blocks of which are dovetailed together not only
laterally, but also perpendicularly, so that, when completed, the tower
comprises a solid mass with each stone jointed to its fellow on four or five
of its six sides. This method was first tried in connection with the Hanois
lighthouse, off the Guernsey coast, and was found so successful that it has
been adopted universally in all lighthouses which are exposed to the action
of the waves.
The upper face and one end of each block are provided with
projections, while the lower face and the other end are given indentations.
Thus, when the block is set in position, the projections fit into
corresponding indentations in the adjacent blocks, while the indentations
receive the projections from two other neighbouring pieces. The whole is

locked together by the aid of hydraulic cement. Consequently the waves, or
any other agency, cannot possibly dislodge a stone without breaking the
dovetails or smashing the stone itself. For the bottom layer, of course, the
surface of the rock is pared away sufficiently to receive the stone, which is
bedded in cement adhering to both the rock and the superimposed block. A
hole is then drilled through the latter deep into the rock beneath, into which
a steel rod or bolt is driven well home, and the hole is sealed up with
cement forced in under such pressure as to penetrate every interstice and
crevice.
The iron supports constitute the roots, as it were, of the tower,
penetrating deep into the heart of the rock to secure a firm grip, while the
tower itself resembles, in its general appearance, a symmetrical tree trunk,
this form offering the minimum of resistance to the waves. The lower part
of the tower is made completely solid by the dovetailing of the integral
blocks, and is cylindrical in shape up to a certain predetermined level which
varies according to the surrounding conditions and the situation of the light.
Some years ago the lighthouse assumed its trunk-like shape at the bottom
course, rising in a graceful concave curve to the lantern; but this method has
been abandoned, inasmuch as, owing to the decreasing diameter of the
tower as it rose course by course above its foundations, the lowest outer
rings of masonry did not have to withstand any of the superimposed weight,
which naturally bears in a vertical line. By carrying the lower part to a
certain height in the form of a cylinder, and then commencing the concave
curve of the tower, the pressure of the latter is imposed equally upon the
whole of its foundations. The latter may be stepped—i.e., one tier of stones
may project a little beyond that of the one immediately above—but this
arrangement is adopted in order to break the smashing force of the waves.
The conditions attending the actual building operations upon the rock,
which may be accessible only for an hour or two per day in calm weather,
prevent the blocks of granite being shaped and trimmed upon the site.
Accordingly, the lighthouse in the first place is erected piecemeal on shore.
A horizontal course of stones is laid to see that each dovetail fits tightly and
dead true. The next course is laid upon this, and so on for perhaps eight or
ten courses, the trimming and finicking being accomplished as the work
proceeds. Each projection has to be only just big enough to enter its relative
indentation, while the latter must be exactly of the requisite dimensions to

receive the projection, and no more. Each stone is then given an
identification mark, so that the masons on the rock may perceive at a glance
its precise position in a course, and to what ring of stones it belongs.
Therefore the mason at the site has no anxiety about a stone fitting
accurately; he has merely to set it in position upon its bed of cement.
On shore—generally in the quarry yard—when a series of courses have
been temporarily built up in this manner and have received the critical
approbation of the resident engineer, the topmost course is removed and
retained, while the other blocks are despatched to the site. This topmost
course forms the bottom ring in the next section of the lighthouse which is
built up in the yard, and the topmost course of this section in turn is held to
form the bottom course of the succeeding part of the tower, and so on from
foundation to lantern parapet.
During the past two or three years reinforced concrete has been
employed to a certain extent for lighthouse construction, but granite of the
finest and hardest quality still remains the material par excellence for
towers erected in exposed, sea-swept positions. The Russian lighthouse
authorities have adopted the ferro-concrete system in regard to one or two
shore lights, especially on the Black Sea, while another fine structure upon
this principle was built by the French Service des Phares in 1905 at the
entrance to the River Gironde. The system has also been adopted by the
Canadian lighthouse authorities; one or two recent notable lights under their
jurisdiction have been constructed in this material, although on somewhat
different lines from those almost invariably followed, so far as the general
design is concerned.
While the masonry or monolithic structure is the most durable and
substantial structure, it is also the most expensive. In many parts of the
world, notably along the Atlantic coastline of the United States, what are
known as “screw-pile lighthouses” are used. These buildings vary in form,
some resembling a huge beacon, such as indicates the entrance to a river,
while others convey the impression of being bungalows or pavilions on
stilts. The legs are stout, cylindrical, iron members, the lower ends of which
are shaped somewhat after the manner of an auger, whereby they may be
screwed into the sea-bed—hence the name. This system has been employed
for beacons over dangerous shoals; and while they are somewhat squat,
low-lying lights, they have proved to be highly serviceable.

Iron has been employed also for lighthouse constructional work, the
system in this case being a combination of the screw pile and the tower, the
latter, extending from a platform whereon the living-quarters are placed and
mounted clear of the water, on piles, being a huge cylindrical pipe crowned
by the lantern. One of the most interesting and novel of these iron
lighthouses is the Hunting Island tower off the coast of South Carolina. In
general design it resembles the ordinary lighthouse wrought in masonry,
and it is 121½ feet in height from the ground to the focal plane. It is built of
iron throughout, the shell being in the form of panels, each of which weighs
1,200 pounds.
This type of tower was selected owing to the severe erosion of the sea
at the point where it is placed. When it was erected in 1875, at a cost of
£20,400, or $102,000, it was planted a quarter of a mile back from the sea.
This action was severely criticized at the time, it being maintained that the
light was set too far from the water’s edge to be of practical value; but the
hungry ocean disappointed the critics, because in the course of a few years
the intervening strip of shore disappeared, and the necessity of demolishing
the light and re-erecting it farther inland arose. On this occasion the
engineers determined to postpone a second removal for some time. The
tower was re-erected at a point one and a quarter miles inland, and the sum
of £10,200, or $51,000, was expended upon the undertaking. The iron
system, which was adopted, proved its value in this work of removal piece
by piece, because, had the tower been carried out in masonry, it would have
been cheaper to set up a new light, as was done at Cape Henry.

Fig. 1.—Sectional Diagram of the Ar-men
Lighthouse, showing Yearly Progress in
Construction.
It guards the “Bay of the Dead,” off Cape Finisterre. Commenced
in 1867, it was not finished until 1881.

Some of the American coast lights are of the most primitive and odd-
looking character, comprising merely a lofty skeleton of ironwork. The
lamp is a head-light, such as is carried by railway engines, fitted with a

parabolic reflector. Every morning the lamp is lowered, cleaned, and stored
in a shack at the foot of the pyramid, to be lighted and hauled into position
at dusk. This is the most economical form of lighthouse which has been
devised, the total cost of the installation being only about £2,500, or
$12,500, while the maintenance charges are equally low. Lights of this
description are employed for the most part in connection with the lighting
of waterways, constituting what is known as the “back-light” in a range or
group of lights studded along the river to guide the navigator through its
twists and shallows, instead of buoying of the channel.
The task of constructing a sea-rock lighthouse is as tedious and
protracted an enterprise as one could conceive, because the engineer and his
workmen are entirely at the mercy of the weather. Each great work has
bristled with its particular difficulties; each has presented its individual
problems for solution. Few modern lighthouses, however, have so baffled
the engineer and have occupied such a number of years in completion, as
the Ar-men light off Cape Finisterre. This tower was commenced in 1867,
but so great and so many were the difficulties involved in its erection that
the light was not first thrown over the Atlantic from its lantern until 1881.
This light is situated at one of the most dreaded parts of a sinister coast.
At this spot a number of granite points thrust themselves at times above the
water in an indentation which has received the lugubrious name Bay of the
Dead. The title is well deserved, for it is impossible to say how many ships
have gone down through fouling these greedy fangs, or how many lives
have been lost in its vicinity. The waters around the spot are a seething race
of currents, eddies, and whirlpools. It is an ocean graveyard in very truth,
and although mariners are only too cognizant of its terrible character, and
endeavour to give this corner of the European mainland a wide birth, yet
storms and fogs upset the calculations of the most careful navigators.

THE THIMBLE SHOALS LIGHT.
A typical example of the American iron screw pile system. A vessel ran into this beacon and
wrecked it; the ruins caught fire, and the keepers only escaped in the nick of time.

As the streams of traffic across the Bay of Biscay grew denser and
denser, it became imperative to provide a guardian light at this spot, and the
engineers embarked upon their task. They knew well that they were faced
with a daring and trying enterprise, and weeks were spent in these troubled
waters seeking for the most favourable site. As a result of their elaborate
surveys, they decided that the rock of Ar-men offered the only suitable
situation; but what a precarious foundation upon which to lift a massive
masonry tower! The hump is only 25 feet wide by 50 feet in length; no
more than three little pinnacles projected above the sea-level, and at low-
tide less than 5 feet of the tough gneiss were exposed. Nor was this the most
adverse feature. The rock is in the centre of the bad waters, and is swept
from end to end, under all conditions of weather, by the furious swell. Some
idea of the prospect confronting the engineers may be gathered from the
fact that a whole year was spent in the effort to make one landing to take
levels.

When construction was taken in hand the outlook was even more
appalling. It was as if the sea recognized that its day of plunder was to draw
to a close. The workmen were brought, with all materials and appliances, to
the nearest strategical point on the mainland, where a depot was established.
Yet in the course of two years the workmen, although they strove day after
day to land upon the rock, only succeeded twenty-three times, while during
this period only twenty-six hours’ work was accomplished! It is not
surprising that, when the men did land, they toiled like Trojans to make the
most of the brief interval. The sum of their work in this time was the
planting of the lighthouse’s roots in the form of fifty-five circular bars, each
2 inches in diameter and spaced 3¼ feet apart at a depth of about 12 inches
in the granite mass. By the end of 1870 the cylindrical foundation had crept
a few feet above the highest projection; this plinth was 24 feet in diameter,
18 feet in height, and was solid throughout. A greater diameter was
impossible as the wall was brought almost to the edge of the rock.
By dint of great effort this part of the work was completed by the end
of 1874, which year, by the way, showed the greatest advance that had been
attained in a single twelvemonth. As much of the foundations was
completed in this year as had been achieved during the three previous years.
Although the heavy gales pounded the structure mercilessly, so well was the
masonry laid that it offered quite effective resistance. Upon this plinth was
placed the base of the tower. This likewise is 24 feet in diameter, and about
10 feet in height. It is also of massive construction, being solid except for a
central cylindrical space which is capable of receiving some 5 tons of coal.

By permission of Messrs. Bullivant & Co., Ltd.

SETTING THE LAST STONE OF THE
BEACHY HEAD LIGHTHOUSE.

The base was completed in a single year, and in 1876 the erection of
the tower proper was commenced, together with the completion of the
approaching stairway leading from the water-level to the base of the
structure. The latter, divided into seven stories, rises in the form of a slender
cone, tapering from a diameter of 21½ feet at the bottom to 16½ feet at the

top beneath the lantern. Some idea of the massive character of the work
which was demanded in order to resist the intense fury of the waves may be
realized when it is mentioned that the wall at the first and second floors is
5½ feet in thickness, leaving a diameter of 10 feet for the apartment on the
first floor, which is devoted to the storage of water, and of 7 feet for that on
the second floor, which contains the oil reservoirs for the lamps. The living-
rooms have a diameter of 11 feet, this increased space being obtained by
reducing the thickness of the wall to 2½ feet. The erection of the
superstructure went forward steadily, five years being occupied in carrying
the masonry from the base to the lantern gallery, so that in 1881 for the first
time powerful warning was given of a danger dreaded, and often
unavoidable, from the time when ships first sailed these seas. Fifteen years’
labour and peril on the part of the engineers and their assistants were
crowned with success.
Whereas the Ar-men light off Cape Finisterre demanded fifteen years
for its completion, the construction of the Beachy Head lighthouse off the
South of England coast was completed within a few months. It is true that
the conditions were vastly dissimilar, but the Sussex shore is exposed to the
full brunt of the south-westerly and south-easterly gales. This lighthouse
thrusts its slender lines from the water, its foundations being sunk into the
chalk bed of the Channel, 550 feet from the base of the towering white
cliffs, which constitute a striking background. This beacon was brought into
service in 1902, its construction having occupied about two years. The light
formerly was placed on the crown of the precipice behind, but, being then
some 285 feet above the water, was far from being satisfactory, as its rays
were frequently blotted out by the ruffle of mist which gathers around
Beachy Head on the approach of evening.
Indeed, this is one of the great objections to placing a light upon a lofty
headland. In such a position it does not serve as an aid, but more often than
not as a danger, to navigation, owing to the light being invisible at the time
when its assistance is required and sought most urgently. Consequently
lighthouse engineers endeavour to set their towers at such a level that the
light is not raised more than from 160 to 200 feet above the water. In the
case of Beachy Head, a further reason for a new structure was the
disintegration of the cliff upon which the light stood, under the terrific

poundings of the sea, huge falls of chalk having occurred from time to time,
which imperilled the safety of the building.
When the new lighthouse was taken in hand, investigation of the sea-
bed revealed an excellent foundation in the dense hard chalk, and
accordingly a hole 10 feet deep was excavated out of the solid mass to
receive the footings of the building. As the site is submerged to a great
depth at high-tide, the first operation was the erection of a circular dam
carried to a sufficient height to enable the men to toil within. By this
arrangement the working spells were lengthened considerably, labour only
being suspended at high-tide. When the sea ebbed below the edge of the
dam, the water within was pumped out, leaving a dry clear space for the
workmen. Excavation had to be carried out with pickaxe and shovel,
blasting not being permitted for fear of shattering and splitting up the mass
forming the crust of the sea-bed.
Beside the site a substantial iron staging was erected, and from this
point to the top of the cliffs behind a Bullivant cableway was stretched, up
and down which the various requirements were carried, together with the
workmen. This cableway, designed by Mr. W. T. H. Carrington, M.I.C.E.,
consulting engineer to Messrs. Bullivant and Co., Ltd., facilitated rapid and
economical construction very appreciably. The span was about 600 feet
between the erecting stage and the cliff summit, and there were two fixed
ropes stretched parallel from point to point. One rope, 6 inches in diameter,
had a breaking strain of 120 tons; the second, 5½ inches thick, had a
breaking strain of 100 tons. At the seaward end the cables were anchored
into the solid chalk. Everything required for the constructional operations
was handled by this carrying system, and when it is recalled that some of
the blocks for the lower courses weighed from 4½ to 5 tons, it will be
recognized that such a method of handling these ungainly loads, with the
care that was demanded to preserve the edges and faces from injury, solved
an abstruse problem completely.
The base of the tower, the diameter of which is 47 feet, is solid to a
height of 48 feet, except for a central circular space for storing drinking
water. It was designed by Sir Thomas Matthews, M.I.C.E., the Engineer-in-
Chief to the Trinity Brethren, and is a graceful building, the tower rising in
a curve which is described as a “concave elliptic frustum.” From the base to
the lantern gallery is 123½ feet, and 3,660 tons of Cornish granite were

used in its construction. The over-all height to the top of the lantern is 153
feet. The building is provided with eight floors, comprising the living and
sleeping quarters for the keepers, storage of oil, and other necessaries. The
light, of the dioptric order, is of 83,000 candle-power, and the two white
flashes given every fifteen seconds are distinguishable for a distance of
seventeen miles, which is the average range of modern British lighthouses.
Although the constructional work was frequently interrupted by rough
weather, every advantage was taken of calm periods. While from the point
of daring engineering it does not compare with many of the other great
lights of the world, yet it certainly ranks as a fine example of the lighthouse
builder’s skill. Owing to the elaborate precautions observed, the
achievement was not marred by a single fatality, although there were many
thrilling moments, the sole result of which, however, was the loss of tools
and sections of the plant, which in the majority of cases were recovered
when the tide fell. The most serious accident was a crushed toe, which
befell one of the masons when a stone was being bedded.
Although the lighthouse is subjected to the full fury of wind and wave,
if skilfully erected it will withstand the ravages of both without creating the
slightest apprehensions in the engineer’s mind. The stones are prepared so
carefully that they fit one another like the proverbial glove, while the
cement fills every nook and cranny. Occasionally, however, the cement will
succumb to the natural disintegrating forces, and, becoming detached,
reveal a point vulnerable to attack. The air within the interstice becomes
compressed by the surging water, and thereby the fabric is liable to be
shattered. Some years ago one or two of the lighthouses guarding the Great
Lakes of North America were found to have become weakened from this
cause. A novel remedy was evolved by an ingenious engineer. He provided
each tottering lighthouse with an iron overcoat, enveloping it from top to
bottom. The metal was not laid directly upon the masonry, but was so
placed as to leave about a quarter of an inch between the inner face of the
metal and the surface of the masonry. Liquid cement was then admitted
under pressure—“grouting” it is called—into this annular space, and
penetrating every crack and crevice in the masonry, and adhering both to
the metal and the stonework, it practically formed another intermediate
jacket, binding the two so firmly together as to make them virtually one.
This novel procedure absolutely restored the menaced building to its

original homogeneity and rigidity, so that it became as sound as the day on
which it was built.
Nowadays, owing to the skill in designing and the workmanship
displayed, one never hears of a modern lighthouse collapsing. Expense is no
object; the engineer does not endeavour to thwart the elements, but follows
a design wherein the minimum of resistance is offered to them.

CHAPTER III

THE LIGHT AND ILLUMINANTS

While it is the tower that probably creates the deepest impression upon
the popular mind, owing to the round of difficulties overcome associated
with its erection, yet, after all, it is the light which is the vital thing to the
navigator. To him symmetry of outline in the tower, the searching problems
that had to be solved before it was planted in a forbidding spot, the risks
that were incurred in its erection—these are minor details. His one concern
is the light thrown from the topmost height, warning him to keep off a
dangerous spot and by its characteristic enabling him to determine his
position.
I have described the earliest type of light, the open wood or coal fire
blazing on an eminence. In due course the brazier gave way to tallow
candles. This was an advance, certainly, but the range of the naked light was
extremely limited. Consequently efforts were made to intensify it and to
throw it in the desired direction. The first step was made with a reflector
placed behind the illuminant, similar to that used with the cheap wall-lamp
so common in village workshops. This, in its improved form, is known as
the “catoptric system,” the reflector being of parabolic shape, with the light
so disposed that all its rays (both horizontal and vertical) are reflected in
one direction by the aid of a highly polished surface. While the catoptric
system is still used on some light-vessels, its application to important
lighthouses has fallen into desuetude, as it has been superseded by vastly
improved methods. But the reflector, made either of silvered glass set in a
plaster-of-Paris mould or of brightly polished metallic surfaces, held the
field until the great invention of Augustin Fresnel, which completely
revolutionized the science of lighthouse optics.

Fig. 2.—Fixed Apparatus of 360
Degrees.
Shows one ray throughout the complete circle.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

Fresnel was appointed a member of the French Lighthouse
Commission in 1811, and he realized the shortcomings of the existing
catoptric method only too well. Everyone knows that when a lamp is lighted
the luminous rays are diffused on every side, horizontally as well as
vertically. In lighthouse operations the beam has to be thrown in a
horizontal line only, while the light which is shed towards the top and
bottom must be diverted, so that the proportion of waste luminosity may be
reduced to the minimum. While the parabolic reflector achieved this end
partially, it was far from being satisfactory, and Fresnel set to work to
condense the whole of the rays into a horizontal beam. Buffon, a
contemporary investigator, as well as Sir David Brewster, had suggested
that the end might be met by building up a lens in separate concentric rings,
but neither reduced his theories to practice.
Fresnel invented a very simple system. He took a central piece of glass,
which may be described as a bull’s-eye, and around this disposed a number
of concentric rings of glass. But these rings projected beyond one another.
Each constituted the edge of a lens which, while its radius differed from that

of its neighbour, owing to its position, yet was of the same focus in regard
to the source of illumination. The parts were shaped with extreme care and
were united in position by the aid of fish glue, the whole being mounted in
a metal frame. The advantage of the system was apparent in the first
demonstrations. The lenses being comparatively thin, only one-tenth of the
light passing through was absorbed, whereas in the old parabolic reflectors
one-half of the light was lost.

Fig. 3.—Single Flashing
Apparatus (One Panel and
Mirror).
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

This revolutionary development was perfected in 1822, and in the
following year it was submitted to its first practical application on the tower
of Cordouan in the Gironde. Several modifications were made by the
inventor for the purpose of adapting his system to varying conditions. One
of the most important was the disposition of lenses and mirrors above the
optical apparatus for the purpose of collecting and driving back the rays
which were sent out vertically from the illuminant, so that they might be
mingled with the horizontal beam, thereby reinforcing it. At a later date

similar equiangular prisms were placed below the horizontal beam so as to
catch the light thrown downwards from the luminous source, the result
being that finally none, or very little, of the light emitted by the illuminant
was lost, except by absorption in the process of bending the rays into the
desired direction.

Fig. 4.—A Twenty-Four
Panel Light, which was
introduced into Certain
French Lighthouses.

In this ingenious manner the circle of light is divided into sections,
called “panels,” each of which comprises its bull’s-eye and its group of
concentric rings and prisms. The extent of this division varies appreciably,
as many as sixteen panels being utilized in some instances. In this direction,
however, subdivision can be carried too far. Thus, in some of the French
lighthouses no less than twenty-four panels were introduced. The
disadvantage is obvious. The total volume of light emitted from the
luminous source has to be divided into twenty-four parts, one for each
panel. But the fewer the panels, the more light is thrown through each, and
the correspondingly greater power of the beam. Thus, in a four-panel light
each beam will be six times as powerful as that thrown from a twenty-four
panel apparatus of the same type.

Fresnel also introduced the system of revolving the optical apparatus,
and by the introduction of suitable devices was able to give the light a
flashing characteristic, so that it became possible to provide a means of
identifying a light from a distance entirely by the peculiarity of its flash.
The French authorities were so impressed with the wonderful improvement
produced by Fresnel’s epoch-making invention that it was adopted
immediately for all French lights. Great Britain followed suit a few years
later, while other countries embraced the system subsequently, so that the
Fresnel lens eventually came into universal use.

Fig. 5.—A Four-Panel
Light.
The ray thrown through each panel is
six times as powerful as the beam
thrown through a twenty-four
panel apparatus.

But the Frenchman’s ingenious invention has been developed out of
recognition. To-day only the fundamental basis is retained. Marked
improvements were made by Mr. Alan Stevenson, the famous Scottish
lighthouse engineer. In fact, he carried the idea to a far greater degree than
Fresnel ever contemplated, and in some instances even anticipated the
latter’s subsequent modifications and improvements. This was
demonstrated more particularly in the holophotal revolving apparatus, the
first example of which he designed for the North Ronaldshay lighthouse in

1850, a similar apparatus being devised some years later by Fresnel. In
1862 another great improvement was made by Mr. J. T. Chance, of the well-
known lighthouse engineering firm of Birmingham, which proved so
successful that it was incorporated for first and third order apparatuses in
the New Zealand lights designed by Messrs. Stevenson in the same year.

Fig. 6.—Single Apparatus in Four
Panels.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

The French and British investigators, however, were not having things
entirely their own way. The United States played a part in these
developments, although they did not enter very successfully into the
problem. The first lighthouse at Boston Harbour carried candles until
superseded by an ordinary lamp, which was hung in the lantern in much the
same way as it might have been suspended behind the window of a private
dwelling. An inventor, Mr. Winslow Lewis, who confessed that he knew
nothing about lighthouse optics, patented what he called a “magnifying and
reflecting lantern” for lighthouse work, which he claimed was a lamp, a
reflector, and a magnifier, all in one. It was as crude a device as has ever
emanated from an inventive brain, but the designer succeeded in impressing
the Government so effectively that they gave him £4,000, or $20,000, for

his invention. The reflector was wrought of thin copper with a silvered
surface, while the magnifier, the essence of the invention, was what he
called a “lens,” but which in reality comprised only a circular transparent
mass, 9 inches in diameter, and varying from 2½ to 4 inches in thickness,
made of bottle-green glass. The Government considered that it had acquired
a valuable invention, and was somewhat dismayed by the blunt opinion of
one of its inspectors who held contrary views concerning the magnifier,
inasmuch as he reported cynically that its only merit was that it made “a
bad light worse.”

Fig. 7.—Double Flashing
Apparatus: Two Panels and
Mirror.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

Fig. 8.—Double Flashing
Apparatus: Two Groups each of
Two Panels.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

The inventor did not manifest any antagonism to this criticism, but
immediately pointed out the great economy in the consumption of oil that
was arising from the use of his idea. Indeed, he prosecuted his claims so
successfully that he clinched a profitable bargain to himself with the
Government. His apparatus had been fitted to thirty-four lights, and he
contracted to maintain them on the basis of receiving one-half of the oil
previously consumed by the lamps which his invention superseded. This
arrangement was in vogue for five years, when it was renewed, with the
difference that on this occasion the Government, concluding that the
inventor was making too much out of the transaction, reduced the
allowance to one-third. Subsequently the invention received higher
commendation from the officials than that advanced by the critical
inspector, although it must be pointed out that meanwhile the magnifying
bull’s-eye had been abandoned, and a new type of reflector introduced, so
that the sole remaining feature of the wonderful invention was the lamp.
Even that had been modified. When the Lighthouse Board was established

in 1852 it abolished the much-discussed invention, and introduced the
Fresnel system, bringing the United States into line with the rest of the
world.

Fig. 9.—Triple Flashing
Apparatus: Three Panels and
Mirror.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

One feature of the subject cannot fail to arrest attention. This is the
possibility of producing a variety of combinations by the aid of the lenses to
fulfil different requirements. The Fresnel, Stevenson, and Chance
developments in the science of lighthouse optics facilitated this work very
significantly. Accordingly, to-day a variety of lights, evolved from the
variations in the mounting of the lenses, is in vogue. For purposes of
identification they have been divided into a number of classifications, and,
for the convenience of the navigator, are described as lights of the first
order, second order, and so on. Broadly speaking, there are seven main
groups, or orders, the rating only applying to dioptric or catadioptric lights,
indicating the bending of the luminous rays in the desired direction, either

by refraction and reflection through the medium of prisms, or a
combination of both. Actually there is a distinction between these two, the
true dioptric system referring only to refraction, where the ray is bent in the
desired direction by a glass agent, known as a “refracting prism.” In the
catadioptric system, on the other hand, both methods are employed, since
the prism performs the dual purpose of reflecting and refracting the rays.
However, in modern lighthouse parlance both are grouped under the one
distinction “dioptric.”
The rating or classification of the lights varies according to the inside
radius or focal distance of the lens—in other words, the distance from the
centre of the light to the inner surface of the lens. The main groups are as
follows:

Hyperradial, 1,330 (52·3 focal
millimetres
inches) distance.
1st order, 920 (36·2
” ”
” )
2nd ” 700 (27·6
” ”
” )
3rd ” 500 (19·7
” ”
” )
3½ ” 375 (14·7
” ”
” )
4th ” 250 ( 9·8
” ”
” )
5th ” 187·5 ( 7·4
” ”
” )
6th ” 150 ( 5·9
” ”
” )

The most powerful apparatus used to-day, however, is that known as
the “hyperradiant,” and it is the largest which has yet been devised. For this,
lighthouse engineering is indebted to Messrs. Stevenson, the engineers to
the Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses. It was first suggested as far
back as 1869, and experiments were carried out which emphasized the fact
that such an apparatus was required, since it was found that when large gas-

burners were used much of the light in revolving apparatuses was out of
focus and escaped condensation. The Scottish engineers thereupon
suggested that an apparatus should be used having a focal distance of 1,330
millimetres, or 52·3 inches. In fact, they went farther and suggested even
larger apparatuses, but this idea has not matured. But it was not until 1885
that Messrs. Stevenson had such a system manufactured, and then it was
tested at the South Foreland beside the powerful lenses which had just been
built for the new Eddystone and the Mew Island lighthouses. The merits of
the theories advanced by Messrs. Stevenson were then completely proved,
for it was found that with a ten-ring gas-burner the hyperradiant apparatus
threw a light nearly twice as powerful as that given by the rival lenses with
the same burner.

Fig. 10.—Quadruple Flashing
Apparatus: Four Panels.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

At the present moment the hyperradiant is regarded as the ultima thule
of lighthouse optical engineering, and Messrs. Chance Brothers and Co., of
Birmingham, have built some very magnificent apparatuses of this order. At
present there are not more than a dozen such powerful lights in operation.
Three are on the English coast, at Bishop Rock, Spurn Point, and Round

Island, respectively; two in Scotland, at Fair Isle and Sule Skerry; two in
Ireland, at Bull Rock and Tory Island; one in France, at Cap d’Antifer; one
in China, at Pei Yu-shan; one in India, at Manora Point, Karachi; and the
Cape Race light in Newfoundland. The hyperradiant apparatus is a massive
cage of glass, standing some 12 feet in height, and, as may be supposed, is
extremely expensive.
There is another point in lighthouse optics which demands explanation.
This is the term “divergence,” which plays an important part in the duration
of the flash. In speaking about focus, the engineer follows somewhat in
Euclid’s footsteps in regard to the definition of a point; in a way it is equally
imaginary. The focal point does not mean the whole of the flame, but the
centre of the luminous source, and, as is obvious, it is impossible to secure a
flame without dimensions. It may be an attenuated, round, oval, or fan-
shaped light—the result is the same. The focal point is the theoretical centre
of the luminous source, and the rays, coming from the top, sides, and
bottom of the flame cannot come from the true focus. If they did, all the
light from one panel would be emitted in absolutely parallel lines, and
therefore in a revolving apparatus the beam would pass any given point on
the horizon in an infinitely short period of time—to be precise,
instantaneously. But the ex-focal rays of the flame, in passing through the
lens, emerge at an angle to those coming from the absolute centre, so that
the whole beam becomes “diverged,” and throws a cone of light from the
lens. Consequently the beam occupies an appreciable period of time in
passing a given point on the horizon.
As may be supposed, the intricate character of the lenses constituting
the optical apparatus of the modern lighthouse demands the highest skill
and infinite care in their preparation, while the composition of the glass
itself is a closely guarded secret. There are less than half a dozen firms in
the world engaged in this delicate and highly specialized work, of which
France claims three, Germany one, and Great Britain one. All the lighthouse
authorities of the various nations have to secure their requirements from one
or other of these organizations. The industry commenced in France, and for
many years the French reigned supreme. Then it contrived to make its
entrance into England, and was taken up by the family of Chance in
Birmingham, who soon proved themselves equal to their French leaders.

Fig. 11.—Red and White Flashing
Apparatus.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

The British firm has established a unique reputation, as it has been
responsible for the majority of the great lights of the world, some of which
are not only of huge dimensions and weight, but also of novel form. The
hyperradial apparatuses which have been placed recently in the towers of
Manora Point and Cape Race probably rank as the most powerful and the
finest in existence. These are used in conjunction with the petroleum vapour
incandescent burner. The Cape Race light, for instance, comprises a
revolving optic of four panels, subtending a horizontal angle of 90 degrees,
with a vertical angle of 121½ degrees. Each lens comprises the central disc,
or bull’s-eye, around which are placed nine rings of glass, giving a total
refracting angle of 57 degrees. In order to bend the vertical rays into a
horizontal path twenty-two catadioptric reflecting prisms are disposed
above the lens, while below are thirteen similar prisms. The total amount of
glass worked into the four panels is about 6,720 pounds, and the prisms are
mounted in gun-metal frames, which weigh approximately 4,800 pounds, so
that the total weight of the glass portion and its mounting alone, standing
some 12 feet in height, is over 11,500 pounds. The installation completed
for the equipment of the Manora Point lighthouse, Karachi, is very similar.

In some cases the demand for a powerful light has been met with a
system differing from the “hyperradiant.” The lenses and respective groups
of refractors are superimposed, each tier having its individual burner and
flues for carrying off the products of combustion. In this way we have the
biform, comprising two such panels arranged one above the other, as in the
Fastnet and Eddystone lights; and the quadriform, wherein four tiers are
built one above the other, as installed at the Mew Island light in Ireland.
The advantage of this arrangement is that a beam of great intensity is
secured with a lantern of comparatively small diameter.
The French authorities adopted a modification of this system. Instead
of placing two lenses and refractors one above the other, they ranged them
side by side, the effect being analogous to a couple of squinting eyes, the
panels being parallel and therefore throwing out parallel beams. But these
adaptations have not come into extensive use, as they have been superseded
by more simple means of achieving similar requirements with an even more
powerful ray. The hyperradiant stands as the finest type of apparatus yet
devised, and therefore is employed when an extremely powerful light is
required.
While the design and arrangement of the optical apparatus is certainly a
most vital and delicate task, the mounting thereof upon a substantial support
in such a way that it may perform its work with the highest efficiency is
equally imperative, since the finest apparatus might be very adversely
affected by being improperly mounted.

Fig. 12.—Apparatus showing a
Double Flash, followed by a
Single Flash.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co.,
Ltd.)

Obviously, owing to the great weight of the glass, the support must be
heavy and substantial. A massive cast-iron pedestal is employed for this
purpose. When the light is of the revolving character, means have to be
incorporated to secure the requisite rotation. In the early days the turntable
upon which the lens is mounted ran upon rollers, but now a very much
better system is universally employed. This has been brought to a high
standard of perfection by Messrs. Chance of Birmingham, who have carried
out unceasing experiments in this field. The objection to rollers was the
enormous friction that was set up, and the great effort that was required, not
only to set the lenses revolving, but to keep them rotating at a steady pace.
In the modern apparatus the rollers are superseded by an iron trough filled
with mercury, upon which floats the turntable carrying the lenses. When the
apparatus is properly built and balanced, the friction is so slight that the
turntable can be set in motion by the little finger, notwithstanding that
several tons have to be moved. Although the optical part of the apparatus
floats upon the bed of quicksilver in the same way as a cork lifebelt floats
upon water, it is provided with rollers which serve to hold the whole
apparatus steady and to overcome any oscillation.

In the case of an immense apparatus such as a hyperradiant lens, which,
together with the turntable, may have a total weight of 17,000 pounds, an
enormous quantity of mercury is required. The trough of the Cape Race
hyperradiant light carries 950 pounds of quicksilver, upon which the lantern
is floated. In such an instance, also, the pedestal is a weighty part of the
apparatus, representing in this case about 26,800 pounds, so that the
complete apparatus utilized to throw the 1,100,000 candle-power beam
from the guardian of the Newfoundland coast aggregates, when in working
order, some 44,000 pounds, or approximately 20 tons.
Within the base of the pedestal is mounted the mechanism for rotating
the optical apparatus. This is of the clockwork type driven by a weight. The
latter moves up and down a tube which extends vertically to a certain depth
through the centre of the tower. The weight of the driving force and the
depth of its fall naturally vary according to the character of the light. In the
Cape Race light the weight is of 900 pounds, and it falls 14½ feet per hour.
Similarly, the length of time which the clock will run on one winding
fluctuates. As a rule it requires to be rewound once every sixty or ninety
minutes. A longer run is not recommended, as it would demand a longer
weight-tube, while many authorities prefer the frequent winding, as the man
on duty is kept on the alert thereby. As the weight approaches the bottom of
its tube it sets an electric bell or gong in action, which serves to warn the
light-keeper that the mechanism demands rewinding.

Fig. 13.—The Classification of Lights, showing the Respective
Radius or Focal Distance of Lens from 150 to 1,330 Millimetres.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co., Ltd.)

The weight and clockwork mechanism perfected by Messrs. Chance is
regarded as one of the best in service. The rotation is perfect and even,
owing to the governing system incorporated, while the steel wire carrying
the weight is preferable to the chain, which is subject to wear and is noisy
in action. In the Chance clockwork gear the weight is just sufficient to start
the apparatus from a state of rest, the advantage of such a method being
that, should the apparatus be stopped in its revolution from any untoward
incident, it is able to restart itself.
Of course, the clockwork mechanism is required only in those cases
where the lenticular apparatus has to be revolved. This introduces the
question of avoiding confusion between lights. When beacons were first
brought into service, the lights were of the fixed type, and the navigator,
although warned by the glare to keep away from the spot so marked, was
given no information as to his position. Accordingly, lighthouse engineers

sought to assist him in this direction during the blackness of the night by
providing a ready visual means of identification. Owing to the ingenuity
which has been displayed, it has been rendered possible to ring the changes
upon a light very extensively.
These may be subdivided broadly as follows:

Type of Light. Symbol. Characteristics.
Fixed F. A steady
continuous
light.
Flashing Fl. A revolving light
showing a
single flash
at regular
intervals, or a
fixed light
with total
eclipses.
Fixed and flashing F.Fl. A fixed light
varied at
regular
intervals by a
single flash
of greater
brilliancy.
Group flashing Gp.Fl. Various
combinations
of flashes
shown at
regular
intervals.
Occulting Occ. A steady light
suddenly and
totally
eclipsed at

regular
intervals.

In the foregoing classifications only a white light is used. But it may so
happen that the lighthouse, owing to its position and the dangerous
character of the spot which it marks, carries a light which changes colour
from white to red or green, which are shown alternately in various
combinations. These characteristics are indicated as follows:

Type of Light. Symbol. Characteristics.
Alternating Alt. White and colour
alternating.
Alternating flashing Alt.Fl. Flashing
alternations
by revolving
mechanism.
Alternating fixed and Alt.F.Fl. Fixed and
flashing flashing
alternating.
Alternating group Alt.Gp.Fl. Group flashing
flashing alternating.

In timing a revolving or flashing light, the cycle is taken from the
beginning of one flash to the beginning of the next. In these readings the
flash is always shorter than the duration of the eclipse, while an occultation
is shorter than, or equal to, the length of the light interval. Since flashing
and occulting may be carried out with a fixed light suddenly extinguished
or eclipsed, the characterization is determined solely according to the
relative duration of light and darkness, irrespective of the type of apparatus
employed or the relative brilliancy. There is one peculiarity of the flashing
light which may be remarked. At short distances and in clear weather a faint
continuous light may be shown.
Hand in hand with the development of the optical apparatus has been
the wonderful improvement in regard to the illuminants and the methods of
producing a brilliant clear flame. The fuel first used upon the introduction
of the oil lamp was sperm or colza oil, the former being obtained from the

whale, and the latter from seeds and a wild-cabbage. Both were very
expensive, so that the maintenance of a light was costly—so much so that
the United States authorities devoted their efforts to the perfection of a
high-class lard-oil. This proved highly satisfactory, possessing only one
drawback. In winter it congealed so much under the low temperature that it
had to be heated before it could be placed in the lamp; but once the light
was set going, the heat radiated from the burner served to keep the oil
sufficiently fluid to enable it to mount the wick to the point of combustion
under capillary action.
So far as the American authorities were concerned, the advantages of
lard-oil sufficed to bring a cheaper medium than colza-oil into vogue. A
company, which had been induced by the Government to install an
elaborate and expensive plant for the production of colza-oil, after
prolonged experiment and efforts to reduce the cost of production,
announced that it could not compete with the lard-oil, and suggested that
the latter should be employed in preference to the colza. The Government
agreed, but, to compensate the company for its trouble, purchased the plant
which the latter had laid down.
The advances in the processes for refining petroleum, and the
exploitation of the extensive resources of the latter, led to “earth-oil,” in
some form or other, being employed for lighthouse purposes. The attempt
was facilitated by the invention and improvement of the Argand burner,
whereby a brilliant white annular sheet of flame is produced. Various
lighthouse engineers devoted their attention to the improvement of this
burner in conjunction with paraffin. Their results were completely
successful, and at last paraffin became universally utilized as the cheapest
and most efficient illuminant known.
The general method of feeding the lamps was to pump the oil from a
low level to the burner, thereby producing practically a pressure-feed
system in preference to the capillary action which is used in the ordinary
household lamp. By increasing the number of rings the intensity of the
flame was increased, until at last it was thought that with this development
perfection had been attained so far as lamps were concerned.
Then came another radical revolution. The invention of the
incandescent gas mantle by Dr. von Auer, and the complete change that it

wrought in connection with gas lighting, induced lighthouse engineers to
experiment in this field. As they could not use coal-gas, they devoted their
investigations to the perfection of a gas from petroleum, which should be
capable of combustion with the incandescent burner. Many years were
devoted to these experiments, and many petroleum vapour systems were
devised. One of the best known, most successful, and most scientifically
perfect, is the Chance incandescent light. This burner is used in many of the
most powerful lights of the world and has given complete satisfaction. The
mantle varies in size with the size and type of the light, ranging from 35 to
85 millimetres in diameter, the latter, in conjunction with a hyperradial
apparatus, producing a light exceeding 1,000,000 candle-power.

By courtesy of Messrs. Chance Bros. & Co., Ltd.

THE HYPERRADIAL APPARATUS
FOR THE MANORA POINT LIGHT,
KARACHI, INDIA.
Of 1,330 millimetres focus, this is the most powerful
and largest lighthouse apparatus made.

Not only was a far more powerful light obtained in this manner with
the assistance of the petroleum vapour burner and incandescent mantle, but

the cost of maintaining the light was reduced, owing to the great economy
in oil consumption that was effected thereby, the largest mantle and burner
—85 millimetres—burning only 2½ pints of oil per hour. The light thus
obtained, while being vastly superior to that derived from a six-wick oil-
burner, enables a saving of nearly £48, or $240, per annum to be recorded,
taking the cost of the petroleum at 1s., or 25 cents, per gallon delivered to
the lighthouse.
While petroleum is generally used, some countries have adopted other
oil fuels for small permanent lights. Thus, in Germany compressed oil-gas,
water-gas associated with benzine vapour, and Blau liquid gas, are utilized.
The last-named is coming very extensively into vogue, also, in Holland,
Denmark, and Austria. Blau gas has the advantage that it can be transported
in small steel tanks under extremely high pressure—up to 100 atmospheres,
or approximately 1,400 pounds per square inch. It is an extract of oil-gas
produced at a low pressure in the gas retorts, and then compressed so
severely that it liquefies. The fuel, as it is drawn from the cylinder in which
it is stored, has the pressure reduced by means of a valve, so that it reaches
the burner in a gaseous form at a pressure equivalent to that of the coal-gas
used in private houses, and is burned in the same way with an incandescent
mantle. The advantage of this method lies in the facility with which large
volumes of gas may be transported, a steel cylinder containing 7,500 cubic
feet weighing only 132 pounds. It is also inexpensive, a bottle of the
foregoing capacity costing only 12s. 6d., or $3. In some cases the
incandescent mantles, the average life of which is about a fortnight, are of
large diameter, running up to 100 millimetres, or about 4 inches.
Recently Mr. Gustaf Dalén, of the Gas Accumulator Company of
Stockholm, the inventor of the Dalén flasher and sun-valve, which are
described elsewhere, has introduced a new illuminant, which is coming into
vogue, especially on the Continent. This is called “Daléngas,” and is a
mixture of 9 per cent. dissolved acetylene and 91 per cent. atmospheric air.
Here the dissolved acetylene gas is conducted from a storage reservoir or
high-pressure gas cylinder, of special construction, to a governor, where the
pressure is reduced, and then to the mixing apparatus, where the acetylene
gas is associated with the air in the above proportions. The idea of this
combination and method is to enable an acetylene gas mixture to be used
with the ordinary incandescent mantles.

By courtesy of Messrs. Chance Bros. & Co., Ltd.

FIRST ORDER TRIPLE FLASHING
LIGHT OF 920 MILLIMETRES
FOCAL DISTANCE FOR CHILANG
LIGHTHOUSE, CHINA.

The advantage of the Daléngas, according to present experience, is the
increased candle-power that is obtainable as compared with other systems,
the superiority being about 75 per cent. under ordinary conditions. With the

largest Fresnel lenses a lighting power of 200,000 Hefner candle-power is
secured, while with revolving lenses of the latest type a beam of 3,000,000
candle-power can be obtained. The flame is small, and thus becomes
concentrated more in the focus of the lens, so that the divergence of the
light may be diminished if desired. When a light of a certain range is to be
installed, the optical apparatus can be made smaller for Daléngas than for
other illuminants, and the cost is reduced correspondingly. Similarly, if the
system is introduced into an existing light, the latter can be made
appreciably more powerful, without changing the optical apparatus or
affecting the divergence.
In this system the gas is conducted into the lens apparatus from above,
and the lighting arrangement is quite independent of, and does not interfere
in any way with, the revolving apparatus, while the time spent in changing
the mantle is less than half a minute.
All combustible gases, mixed with air in certain proportions, may
produce more or less violent detonations when fired. But the quantity of
mixed gas in this instance is confined in the length of piping between the
burner and the mixing apparatus, and this quantity is so small that an
explosion cannot be dangerous. In fact, all such danger has been guarded
against completely—is, indeed, impossible in any circumstances.
Electric light has been adopted in one or two cases; but while the
foremost authorities agree that it throws the best, most brilliant and most
powerful beam of light, the system is generally impracticable on account of
its great cost. When tests with this light were made some years ago in
comparison with the light thrown from oil burners, it was claimed that the
latter, owing to its reddish-yellow tinge, was the most suitable from the all-
round point of view, and that it could penetrate to a greater distance in
foggy weather. I have been informed by several authorities, who have gone
more deeply into this question since, that this is a fallacy, and that the
advantage rests completely with electric light. Experience in Germany,
which has two magnificent electric lighthouses, and in Scotland, certainly
supports this contention, and I have been assured that the sole reason why
electric lighting has not been adopted more widely is the heavy cost, both of
installation and of maintenance. When electric lighting is rendered cheaper
and is brought more to the level of existing lighting arrangements, one may
expect another complete change in lighthouse practice. In this direction, as

explained in another chapter, the Germans have carried out practical
experiments in their characteristic manner, and have brought the cost of
maintaining a most powerful electric light to the minimum.
One very great advantage of the electric light is the ease with which the
power of the beam may be increased during thick weather, so as to secure
penetration to the greatest distance, and decreased to suit easier conditions
in clear weather.
This point raises the question, “From how far can a light be seen out at
sea?” This factor is influenced by climatic conditions, and also by the
curvature of the earth. The higher the light, or the spectator, or both, is
elevated above the water, the greater the distance from which the light can
be seen. The table on p. 52, prepared by Mr. Alan Stevenson, the eminent
Scottish lighthouse engineer, gives the distances at which objects can be
seen at sea, according to the respective elevations of the object and the eye
of the observer.
For instance, the passenger on a liner the boat-deck of which is 40 feet
above the water, approaching the English Channel, will sight the Bishop
Rock light from a distance of about 22 miles, because the focal plane—that
is, the bull’s-eye of the lens—is 163 feet above the water, which, according
to the following table, equals about 14½ miles, to which must be added the
height of the boat’s deck, 40 feet representing 7·25 miles. Similarly, the ray
of the Belle Ile light will come into view when the vessel is 32½ miles
distant—height of focal plane of light, 470 feet = 25 miles, + eye of
observer on board the liner, 45 feet = 7·69 miles; while the Navesink light,
being 246 feet above the water, may be picked up by the captain of a liner
from a distance of 28 miles. The range of many lights, however, owing to
the curvature of the earth, is greatly in excess of their geographical range,
and with the most powerful lights the glare of the luminous beams
sweeping the clouds overhead may be seen for a full hour or more before
the ray itself comes into view.

TABLE OF DISTANCES AT WHICH OBJECTS CAN BE SEEN AT SEA,
ACCORDING TO THEIR RESPECTIVE ELEVATIONS AND THE
ELEVATION OF THE EYE OF THE OBSERVER.

Distances in Distances in
Heights in
Statute or English Geographical or
Feet.
Miles. Nautical Miles.
5 2·958 2·565
10 4·184 3·628
15 5·123 4·443
20 5·916 5·130
25 6·614 5·736
30 7·245 6·283
35 7·826 6·787
40 8·366 7·255
45 8·874 7·696
50 9·354 8·112
55 9·811 8·509
60 10·246 8·886
65 10·665 9·249
70 11·067 9·598
75 11·456 9·935
80 11·832 10·260
85 12·196 10·570
90 12·549 10·880
95 12·893 11·180
100 13·228 11·470
110 13·874 12·030
120 14·490 12·560
130 15·083 13·080
140 15·652 13·570
150 16·201 14·220
200 18·708 16·220
250 20·916 18·14
300 22·912 19·87
350 24·748 21·46
400 26·457 22·94
450 28·062 24·30

500 29·580 25·65
550 31·024 26·90
600 32·403 28·10
650 33·726 29·25
700 35·000 30·28
800 37·416 32·45
900 39·836 34·54
1,000 41·833 36·28

By permission of the “Syren and Shipping.”

LOOKING UP THE LANTERN OF THE
NEEDLES LIGHTHOUSE.

So far as the candle-power of any light is concerned, the method of
determining this factor, varying according to the calculating methods
adopted, is somewhat misleading. So far as Great Britain is concerned, the
practice of setting out the candle-power of any light in the official list has
been abandoned, the authorities merely stating that such and such a light is

of great power. The United States and Canada, on the other hand, indicate
the approximate candle-power.

By courtesy of Messrs. Chance Bros. & Co., Ltd.

FIXED APPARATUS OF THE
FOURTH ORDER FOR SARAWAK.
The focal distance is 250 millimetres, and the diameter of
lantern inside glazing 6 feet 7¾ inches.

By combining and arranging the integral parts of the optical apparatus,
the lighthouse engineer is able to accomplish many astonishing results.
Thus, while the various types generally follow accepted broad lines,
coinciding with the order which they represent, here and there some very
striking divergences are made. The Bell Rock light is perhaps the most
interesting example in this direction. It was designed by Messrs. D. and T.
Stevenson, and built by Messrs. Chance Brothers and Co. The light is
alternating, the colours being white and red. Externally the optical
apparatus appears to be bizarre, yet it is one of the most perfect which has
ever been installed. In its design and construction almost all the known
lighthouse optical elements are incorporated, including the equiangular
refractor, the reflecting prism, the double-reflecting prism, and the dioptric
mirror. Another noteworthy fact is that, by an exceedingly ingenious
arrangement, the absorption of the rays by the glass used in producing the
red flashes is neutralized to such a vast degree that the white and red flashes
are of equal intensity.
The subsidiary light is another striking feature which the lighthouse
engineer has introduced. For instance, a light may be shown from a
dangerous reef, and give the mariner all the warning desired. But some
distance away may lurk another isolated rock, which it is just as imperative
to indicate, and yet on which another tower cannot be erected. This
necessity is met by the subsidiary light. A portion of the light from the main
apparatus is deflected and thrown to the desired spot by an ingenious
arrangement of the prisms. On the west coast of Scotland, at Stornoway, a
stream of light used to be deflected from the lantern in a vertical direction
down the tower, and there bent at right angles, to be thrown through a lower
window and fall upon a prism placed on the crest of a rock several hundred
feet distant. From the deck of a vessel, the effect of the light striking the
prism was akin to that produced by a beacon. Similarly in the case of St.
Catherine’s light in the Isle of Wight: a portion of the light, which would
otherwise be wasted over the area on the landward side, is carried vertically
down the tower by a disposal of lenses and prisms, and is projected
horizontally through a small window, after being coloured into a red ray by
passing through some glass of the desired tint, to mark a danger spot some
distance away. This method, however, is not favoured now, as the peril can
be more efficiently marked by means of an independent beacon, a system
which has become feasible owing to the vast improvements that have been

made in automatic lights requiring no attention for several weeks or months
at a time.
But in those instances where the latter expedient is not adopted, the
practice is to cover the danger with a ray thrown from an entirely different
light. When the present Eddystone tower was completed, a “low-light
room,” as it is called, was incorporated, and a low-powered light was
thrown from two Argand burners and reflectors through a window to mark a
dangerous reef some three miles distant. But perhaps the best example of a
subsidiary light is that which was carried out by Messrs. Chance in
connection with the Cap de Couedie lighthouse. In this instance two
dangers had to be indicated in a subsidiary manner, one being covered with
a red, the other with a green, ray. The red sector marks a danger spot known
as Lipson’s Reef, lying 8¾ miles distant, while the green light indicates
Casuarina Island, 1¾ miles away. This installation, it may be pointed out,
has proved highly successful, and certainly is very economical.

Fig. 14.—The Means whereby the Rays are
deflected from the Main Light to form a
Subsidiary Light.
(By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. and Co., Ltd.)

There is another point which deserves mention—the duration of the
flash in a revolving light. There was considerable discussion and difference
of opinion upon this question some years ago. It was maintained that the
shorter the duration of the flash, and the more rapidly it were thrown, the

better it would be for the mariner. The Scottish engineers realized the
significance of this problem, and, despite the hostile criticism of
contemporary engineers, adopted a specific principle which was to give a
flash of two and three-quarter seconds’ duration. Subsequently it was
reduced to one second. The introduction of the mercury float enabled the
optical apparatus to be revolved faster, and also facilitated the reduction in
the number of panels or faces, so that ultimately the Scottish engineers
reduced the flash to one of four-tenths of a second.
When Mr. Bourdelles devised the mercury float which enabled rotation
to be accelerated, the French authorities rushed to the opposite extreme.
They reduced the faces to four, and arranged for the apparatus to be
revolved at a high speed, so that the duration of the flash was only one-tenth
of a second at rapidly-recurring intervals. This type of light was called the
feu-éclair, and was adopted as a result of prolonged laboratory
investigation. But this was an instance where laboratory experiments and
scientific reasoning failed to go hand in glove with practical experience and
navigation, where the mariner has to contend with all sorts and conditions
of weather. The seafarer expressed his opinion of the one-tenth of a second
flash in uncomplimentary terms, displaying an indifferent appreciation of
artificially-produced sheet-lightning.
Eventually there was a general agreement, among all those countries
which had investigated the problem closely, that a flash of about three-
tenths of a second was the most satisfactory, and this has since become
tacitly standardized. The French authorities recognized the fallacy of their
idea, and soon came into line with the other countries.

CHAPTER IV

FOG-SIGNALS

Notwithstanding the wonderful ingenuity that is displayed in the
concentration of light into powerful beams, these all count for nothing when
fog settles upon the sea. The ray of 1,000,000 candle-power is almost as
futile then as the glimmer from a tallow dip.
Fog is the peril of the sea which the mariner dreads more than any
other. The blanket of mist, descending upon the water, not only shuts
everything from sight, but deadens every sound as well. The sea is
absolutely calm, so that no intimation of danger ahead is conveyed by the
breaking of the waves upon rock, shoal, sandbank, or iron-bound coast.
It is in times of fog that the navigator must be given the greatest
protection. As this is impossible to accomplish visually, appeal must be
made to his ear. In the early days of lighthouse engineering the methods of
conveying audible warning were very crude. The discharge of a gun was the
most popular, but it was neither serviceable nor reliable, and was made
upon somewhat haphazard lines. Thus, in the case of a dangerous headland
on the North American coast, which the Boston steamer had to round on its
journey, the keepers mounted guard at the probable time of the vessel’s
arrival off this point. They listened eagerly for the steamer’s whistle, and
when it came screaming over the water they began hurriedly firing a
carronade, keeping up the blank-cartridge bombardment until another shriek
told them that those on the vessel had heard their signals. Sometimes the
whistle was heard from a distance of six miles; at others from not more than
two miles away. It depended upon circumstances. Obviously, such a
primitive system was attended with considerable danger, as an accident was
liable to happen to the men in their feverish haste to load and discharge the
gun, while the plight of the boat was far from being enviable at times.

By permission of Messrs. Chance Bros. & Co., Ltd.

A MODERN LIGHTHOUSE SIREN PLANT.
Showing gas engines and air-compressors in duplicate, with siren at side.

In the early days every lighthouse tower was provided with a heavy
bell. Indeed, the ponderous dome of metal projecting from the lantern
gallery was considered indispensable. The bell varied in weight from 1,200
to 2,240 pounds, was fitted with a massive clapper, and when struck emitted
a deep musical note. In order to enable the seafarer to gain some idea of his
whereabouts, the fog-signals were given a sound-characteristic somewhat
upon the lines of those in connection with the light. Thus, one lighthouse
would give one stroke every ten seconds; another would give two strokes in
quick succession, followed by a long silence, and so on. This system suffers
from the severe handicap that the sound does not travel very far during
foggy weather.
Another ingenious engineer recommended the utilization of the
locomotive whistle, giving a high-toned, ear-piercing shriek, but the same
objection as attended the use of the bell prevailed: the sound could not be
heard more than a short distance away. The British lighthouse authorities

submitted the idea to a series of searching investigations to ascertain its
possibilities, but eventually were compelled to conclude that it was not
superior to, if as good as, the other systems then in vogue. The United
States authorities, as a result of their independent experiments, expressed a
similar opinion; but in Canada practical application gave this whistle a
favourable verdict.
Rockets also have been adopted, and are highly successful. Indeed, this
method of conveying audible warning prevails still in many countries. The
practicability of such a means of throwing sound over a wide area was
advanced by Sir Richard Collinson, when Deputy-Master of Trinity House,
and his idea comprised the insertion of a gun-cotton charge, timed to
explode at a given height, in the head of the rocket. The height could be
varied up to about 1,000 feet, and the weight of the charge fluctuated
according to requirements. The rocket system was tested very severely, and
in some instances the report was heard as many as twenty-five miles away.
It received the approbation of Professor Tyndall, and, although superior
methods of signalling have been devised since, there remain one or two
lighthouse stations where it is considered to be the most satisfactory fog-
signalling device, notably the station on the island of Heligoland, where the
rocket is hurled into the air to explode at a height of nearly 700 feet.
In many lighthouses the detonation of gun-cotton constitutes the means
of conveying warning to passing vessels, but is accomplished in a different
manner. The charge, instead of being sent into the air to be exploded, is
attached to a special device which is supported upon a simple frame at a
point above the lantern, so that no damage may be inflicted upon the glass
of the latter from the concussion. The apparatus is fitted with a safety
device which prevents premature explosion, so that the keeper is preserved
from personal injury, and, unless culpable negligence is manifested, the
charge cannot be ignited until it has been raised to its designed position.
The report is of great volume, and as a rule can be heard a considerable
distance; but in this, as in all other cases, the atmosphere plays many
strange tricks. Still, it has not been superseded yet for isolated sea-rock
lighthouses, such as the Eddystone, Skerryvore, and Bell Rock, where there
is lack of adequate space for the installation of any other equally efficient
fog-signalling facilities.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE SIRENS OF THE LIZARD.
Owing to the importance of the Lizard Station and the fact that
the coast often is obscured by fog, a powerful fog-signalling
station is imperative.

In the early seventies an American investigator, Mr. C. L. Daboll,
contrived an entirely new system, which developed into the foundation of
one of the most successful fog-signalling devices for lighthouses which has
been discovered—the siren. The Daboll invention was a huge trumpet,

recalling a mammoth phonograph horn. It was 17 feet in length, and its
mouth was 38 inches in diameter. In the lower end of this trumpet—the
throat—was placed a tongue of steel measuring 10 inches in length and
secured at one end to form a reed. It was blown by air compressed in a
reservoir to the desired degree, and then permitted to escape through the
trumpet. The mad rush of the expanding air through the constricted passage
set the reed vibrating violently, causing the emission of a penetrating,
discordant bellow. When Daboll commenced his experiments, he suffered
from the lack of a suitable mechanical means for compressing the air, and
made shift with a donkey for this purpose until the hot-air engine was
improved, when the latter was substituted.
Trinity House adopted the idea and found it serviceable; but the
Canadian authorities, after four years’ experiment, dissented from this view,
remarking that the trumpet was expensive to maintain, unreliable in
working, and liable to break down when most urgently needed. In fact, they
characterized the Daboll trumpets which they had installed as “sources of
danger instead of aids to navigation.”
From the trumpet to the siren was not a very big step. The history of the
latter’s invention is somewhat obscure, but it was brought before the United
States Government in a primitive form. The American engineers,
recognizing its latent possibilities, took it up, and endeavoured to improve it
to such a degree as to render it suitable for lighthouse work. Their efforts
were only partially successful. The solution of the many difficulties
attending its perfection was effected in Great Britain by Professor Frederick
Hale Holmes, whose magneto-electric machine brought electricity within
reach of the lighthouse as an illuminant, and it was due to the efforts of this
scientist that the siren became one of the most efficient sound-producing
instruments which have been discovered for this class of work.
The reason that made Professor Holmes bring his energies and
knowledge to bear upon this subject was somewhat curious. The siren in its
first form made its way from the United States to Great Britain. The British
Admiralty realized the power and penetration of its sound, and forthwith
adopted it in the navy, operating it by steam instead of by air. At this there
arose a great outcry from the mercantile marine. Captains argued that the
similarity of the signals confused and often misled them, as they could not
tell in the fog whether the sound proceeded from a warship or a lighthouse.

The Board of Trade was forced to intervene, but, as it had no jurisdiction
over the Admiralty, it sought to extricate itself from an awkward situation
by inviting Professor Holmes to perfect a siren which would emit a
distinctive sound. His efforts were crowned with complete success.

Fig. 15.—The Fixed (A) and
Revolving (B) Parts of the
Siren.

Professor Holmes exhibited his wonderful device at the Paris
Exhibition of 1867. He installed it in working order, and the visitors
displayed an anxiety to hear it. It was brought into action, and those around
never forgot the experience. It was the most diabolical ear-splitting noise
which had been heard, and, apprehensive that serious results might arise
from its demonstration when the buildings were thronged with sight-seers,
the authorities refused to permit it to be sounded again. The humorous
illustrated papers did not suffer such a golden opportunity to escape.
Grotesque and laughable cartoons appeared depicting the curious effects
produced by the blast of the instrument, one showing the various statues
being frightened off their pedestals proving exceptionally popular.
The siren in its simplest form is an enlarged edition of the “Deviline”
toy whistle. There is a Daboll trumpet with a small throat, in which is
placed horizontally, not a reed, but a metal disc, so as to fill the whole
circular space of the throat. The sheet of metal is pierced with a number of
radial slits. Behind this disc is a second plate of a similar character, and
likewise pierced with radial slits of the same size, shape and number; but
whereas the first disc is fixed, the second is mounted on a spindle. The free
disc rotates at high speed, so that the twelve jets of air which are driven

through the throat are interrupted intermittently by the blanks of the
revolving disc coming over the openings in the fixed disc, while when the
two slits are in line the air has a free passage. If the revolving disc
completes 3,000 revolutions per minute, and there are twelve slits in the
discs, then a total of 36,000 vibrations per minute is produced while the
instrument is in operation. The speed of the revolving disc, as well as the
number and size of the openings, varies according to the size and class of
the siren; but in any case an intensely powerful, dense and penetrating
musical tone is emitted, which can be heard a considerable distance away.
The blast of a high-powered large siren has been heard at a distance of
twenty to thirty miles in clear weather, though of course in thick weather its
range is reduced.
While Professor Holmes was experimenting with this device, another
investigator, Mr. Slight, of Trinity House, was wrestling with the same
problem. Indeed, he may be described as the inventor of the modern siren.
Although he effected only an apparently slight modification, it was the
touch which rendered the instrument perfect, while it also removed the
possibility of a breakdown at a critical moment, as he rendered the moving
part freer in its working and eliminated the severe strains to which it was
subjected. The improvement was appreciated by Professor Holmes, who
adopted it immediately.
While these indefatigable efforts were in progress, ingenious attempts
were made to press Nature herself into operation. As is well known, there
are many “blowing-holes” distributed throughout the world, where the
water by erosion has produced a long, narrow cavern in the base of a rock,
with a constricted outlet into the outer air. The waves, rushing into the cave,
compress the air within, which, in its escape at high velocity through the
small vent, produces a bellowing sound. It was this curious phenomenon
which gave the Wolf Rock its name. General Hartmann Bache, of the
United States Engineers, attempted in 1858 to make use of a blowing-hole
on one of the Farallon Isles, lying forty miles off the entrance to San
Francisco Bay. A chimney was built with bricks above the orifice, through
which the air compressed by the waves below made its escape, and on top
of this shaft a locomotive whistle was placed. The first effort was a dead
failure, because the force of the rush of air was so great that it carried away
the chimney; but in the second attempt success was achieved, and an

excellent automatic whistle blared out night and day almost continuously
and was audible for some distance out to sea. The only drawback was that
in foggy weather, when the most intense sound was required, the signal was
dumb owing to the smoothness of the water. This novel signal was
maintained for some time and then was superseded by a powerful siren.
One of the most interesting fog-signalling installations in service is that
on the bald formidable hump of rock lying in the estuary of the Clyde,
known as Ailsa Craig. For years this rock constituted a terrible menace to
the crowded shipping of this important marine thoroughfare, and its victims
were numerous. While the Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses
mitigated its terrors as far as possible by the provision of a powerful light,
they recognized the fact that a visual warning did not meet the situation
completely. But the installation of a fog-signal was a somewhat peculiar
problem, owing to the configuration of the rock. A single station would not
meet requirements, because it was necessary to throw the warning from
both sides of the obstruction. The provision of two sound-stations would
have been an expensive matter, even if it had been feasible, which it was
not, owing to the precipitous nature of the cliffs.
An ingenious solution was advanced by Mr. Charles Ingrey, C.E. He
proposed to erect a central power-station and to control the sounding of two
sirens, placed on opposite sides of the island, therefrom, the compressed air
being led through underground piping. The plans were submitted to Messrs.
Stevenson, the engineers to the Northern Lighthouse Board, who, after
examining the proposal thoroughly, gave it their approval. But when it came
to obtaining the sanction for the requisite expenditure from the Board of
Trade, that august body, despite the fact that the project had been
investigated and had received the approbation of the engineers to the
Northern Lighthouse Commissioners, declined to permit public money to
be expended upon an untried scheme. Such is the way in which pioneering
effort and ingenuity are stifled by Government departments.

THE ACETYLENE FOG-GUN.
The latest ingenious device for giving both
audible and visual warning automatically.

Many another engineer would have abandoned the project after such a
rebuff, but Mr. Ingrey without any delay laid down a complete installation
upon the lines he contemplated on the island of Pladda, where a Holmes
fog-horn was in service. With the aid of a workman whom he took from
Glasgow, the light-keepers and some farm labourers, this trial installation

was completed, the piping being carried round the island from the air-
compressing plant to the fog-signal. The work occupied about a fortnight,
and then, everything being ready to convince the sceptical Board of Trade,
the inspecting engineers were treated to a comprehensive and conclusive
demonstration. They were satisfied with what they saw, appreciated the
reliability of the idea and gave the requisite sanction. Forthwith the Ailsa
Craig Island installation was put in hand and duly completed.
This plant possesses many ingenious features. As the light is derived
from gas distilled from crude oil, a small gas-making plant is installed on
the island, and this is used also for driving a battery of five eight-horse-
power gas-engines—four are used at a time, the fifth being in reserve—to
supply the thirty-horse-power demanded to operate the fog-signal. The
energy thus developed drives two sets of powerful air-compressors, the four
cylinders of which have a bore of 10 inches by a stroke of 20 inches, the air
being compressed to 80 pounds per square inch and stored in two large air-
receivers which hold 194 cubic feet. From this reservoir pipes buried in a
trench excavated from the solid rock extend to the two trumpets, placed on
the north and south sides of the island respectively. The length of piping on
the north side is 3,400 feet, and on the south side 2,500 feet. At places
where the pipe makes a dip, owing to the configuration of the rock,
facilities are provided to draw off any water which may collect. Extreme
care had to be displayed in connecting the lengths of piping, so that there
might be no leakage, in which event, of course, the pressure of the air
would drop and thereby incapacitate the signal.

THE RATTRAY HEAD
LIGHTHOUSE.
A very exposed Scottish rock tower. It is unique
because a full-powered siren fog-signal is
installed therein.

Each signal is mounted in a domed house built of concrete, the mouth
of the trumpet extending from the crown of the roof. Within the house is an
air-receiver 9 feet in height by 4½ feet in diameter, of about 140 cubic feet
capacity, which receives the compressed air transmitted through the piping
from the compressing-station. It also contains the automatic apparatus
whereby the signal is brought into action at the stipulated intervals, so as to
produce the requisite sound characteristic. This is a self-winding clockwork
mechanism which admits and cuts off the supply of air to the trumpets, its
chief feature being that the clock is wound up by the compressed air itself,
so that it is entirely free from human control. However, as a breakdown
even with the best-designed and most-carefully-tended machinery cannot be
circumvented entirely, there is a duplicate electrical mechanism, also
automatically controlled from the power-generating station, the electric
cables for which are laid in the pipe trenches. This acts as an emergency
control.

By courtesy of Messrs. D. and C.
Stevenson.

SULE SKERRY LIGHT.
A lonely light of Scotland. The nearest
land is the Butt of Lewis, 30 miles distant.

The two signals are not sounded simultaneously; neither are they alike
nor of the same tone. The north signal gives a single blast of high tone,
lasting five seconds, and then is silent for 175 seconds. On the south side
the siren gives a double note, although there are three blasts—viz., high,
low, high—corresponding to the letter R of the Morse code. The notes are
sounded for two seconds, with similar intervening periods of silence, and
silence for 170 seconds between the groups. The complete signal from the
two stations is given once in three minutes, the north signal commencing to
sound ninety seconds after the south signal has ceased. The high note
corresponds to the fourth E in the musical compass, there being 38,400
vibrations per minute; while the low note is tuned to the third D in the
musical compass, with 16,800 vibrations per minute. The notes are
purposely timed more than an octave apart and made discordant, as thereby
the sound is more likely to attract attention and to be readily distinguished.

About eighteen minutes are required to bring the apparatus into
operation—that is, to start compressing and to raise the pressure of the air
to the requisite degree—but, as fogs descend upon the Clyde with startling
suddenness, the signals may be started within five minutes of the fog-alarm.
The air-reservoirs are kept charged to the working pressure, the machinery
being run once or twice for a short time every week for this purpose and to
keep the plant in working order.
Up to this time it had been the practice to place the siren in close
proximity to the air-compressing machinery, but the installation at Ailsa
Craig proves conclusively that this is not essential to success; also it
demonstrates the fact that a number of signals can be operated reliably and
effectively from a central station. Indeed, this Scottish plant aroused such
widespread interest that the Pulsometer Engineering Company of Reading,
who had acquired Professor Holmes’s patents and who carried out the
above installation, received several inquiries from abroad with regard to its
suitability for similar situations. In one instance the compressed air was to
be transmitted for a distance of nearly four miles.
While the siren has been adopted and found adequate by the majority of
nations, the Canadian Government has installed a far more powerful
instrument upon the River St. Lawrence, as the ordinary siren signals
originally established near the mouth of the river, although of great power,
were found to be inadequate. The new apparatus, which is known as the
“diaphone,” gives an extraordinarily powerful sound. It comprises a
cylindrical chamber, in the walls of which are cut a number of parallel slits.
Concentrically disposed within the chamber is a cylindrical hollow piston,
with similar slits and a flange at one end, the whole being enclosed in an
outer casing. Air under pressure is admitted into the outer casing, and drives
the piston backwards and forwards with great rapidity. The result is that the
air effects its escape through the orifices, when they come into line, in
intermittent puffs.
While the broad principle is not unlike that of the conventional siren,
the main difference is that in the latter there is a rotary motion, whereas in
the diaphone the action is reciprocating. The great advantage of the latter is
that all the vibrations are synchronous, owing to the symmetrical
disposition of the slits, and consequently the note produced is very pure.
The mechanism is so devised that the piston’s motion is controlled to a

nicety, and the sound is constant. Experience has proved that the best results
are obtained by using air at a pressure of 30 pounds per square inch. The
sound thus produced is intensified to a markedly greater degree by means of
a resonator properly attuned.
This instrument has displaced the siren among the stations upon the St.
Lawrence River. The general type of apparatus has a piston 4½ inches in
diameter, and uses 11 pounds of air per second during the sounding of the
blast. But at more important stations a far larger and more powerful class of
apparatus is used, the diaphone at Cape Race having a piston 8½ inches in
diameter and using 27 feet of air per second while sounding. This does not
indicate the limit of size, however, since the builders of this terrible noise-
producer are experimenting with an apparatus having a piston 14 inches in
diameter. The sound issuing from such a huge apparatus would be almost as
deafening as the report of a big gun and should succeed in warning a
mariner several miles away.
The atmosphere, however, plays many strange pranks with the most
powerful sound-producing instruments. To-day, for instance, a fog-signal
may be heard at a distance of ten miles; to-morrow it will fail to be audible
more than a mile away. This aberration of sound is extraordinary and
constitutes one of the unsolved problems of science. Innumerable
investigations have been made with the object of finding the cause of this
erratic action, but no conclusive explanation has been forthcoming. Another
strange trick is that, while a sound may be audible at distances of two and
four miles during a fog, it fails to strike the ear at three miles. It is as if the
sound struck the water at a range of two miles, bounded high into the air,
and again fell upon the water at four miles, giving a second leap to hit the
water again farther on, in much the same way as a thin flat stone, when
thrown horizontally into the water, will hop, skip, and jump over the
surface. This trick renders the task of the lighthouse engineer additionally
exasperating and taxes his ingenuity to the utmost, as it appears to baffle
completely any attempt towards its elimination.
Recently another ingenious and novel system has been perfected by
Messrs. D. and C. Stevenson. This is an acetylene gun which acts
automatically. Hitherto an unattended fog-signal—except the bell-buoy
tolled by the movement of the waves, which is far from satisfactory, or the
whistling buoy, which is operated upon the same lines and is equally

ineffective except at very short range—has found little favour. The
objections to the bell and whistle buoys are the faintness of the sounds,
which may be drowned by the noises produced on the ship herself; while, if
the wind is blowing away from the vessel, she may pass within a few feet of
the signal, yet outside its range. Thus it will be recognized that the fog-gun
serves to fill a very important gap in connection with the warning of
seafarers during thick weather.
As is well known, even a small charge of acetylene, when fired, will
produce a loud report, and this characteristic of the gas induced Messrs.
Stevenson to apply it to a fog-signal. They have developed the automatic
acetylene system of lighting to a very high degree around the coasts of
Scotland, and there are now more than twenty lights of this class, mostly
unattended, in operation, some of which have been established for many
years. These lights have proved highly satisfactory. There has never been an
accident, a freedom which is due to the fact that Moye’s system is used,
wherein the possibilities of mishap are surmounted very effectively.
Accordingly, the engineers saw no reason why a similar system should not
be adapted to the emission of sound instead of light signals, or, if desired, of
both simultaneously. Their experiments have been crowned with complete
success, and, as the gun uses no more gas than would be consumed if a
flashing light system were used, the cost of operation is very low.
The general features of the acetylene fog-gun may be observed from
the illustration (facing p. 64). The acetylene, dissolved in acetone, is
contained under pressure in a cylinder, and thence passes through a
reducing valve to an annular space, where it is ignited by an electric spark.
A trumpet is attached to the firing chamber, so that the sound becomes
intensified. If desired, the explosion can be effected at the burner, so that, in
addition to a sound-signal, a flashing light is given.
The applications vary according to the circumstances. Suppose there is
an unlighted bell-buoy at the bar of a port. Here the procedure is to install a
gun and light combined, so that the flash of the explosion may give visual
and the report audible warning. Or, should there be a lighted buoy already
in position, its effectiveness may be enhanced by adding the gun, the
detonation alone being employed for warning purposes. The size of the
cylinder containing the dissolved acetylene may be varied, so that renewal
need only be carried out once in one, two, or more months, according to

conditions. If the increasing traffic around a certain rock demand that the
latter should be marked, a combined sound and light apparatus can be
installed. It may be that the head of a pier which is accessible only at certain
times, or a beacon which can be reached only at rare intervals, may require
improved facilities. In this case the gun can be set up and a cable laid to a
convenient spot which may be approached at all times by an attendant.
Then the latter, by the movement of a switch, can bring the gun instantly
into action upon the alarm of fog, and it will keep firing at the set intervals
until, the fog lifting, the gun is switched off.
In some cases, where the apparatus is set upon a lonely rock, a
submarine cable may be laid between the marked point and the control-
station. The cable is not a very costly addition. There are many lights where
wages have to be paid merely for a man to bring the fog-signalling bell
machinery into action. In such cases a fog-gun can be installed and the
annual cost of maintenance decreased enormously, thereby enabling the
outlay on the gun to be recouped within a very short time; while the light
may be improved by using the flashes, so that the warning can be rendered
more distinctive.
The invention is also applicable to lightships, many of which are
manned by four men or more at a large cost per annum. In the majority of
cases an unattended Stevenson lightship—such as described in another
chapter, six of which are in use around the coasts of Scotland, and which
give, not only a first-class light, but, by the aid of the fog-signal gun, can be
made to give an excellent fog-signal as well—offers a means of reducing
the heavy maintenance charges arising in connection with a manned light-
vessel. In many instances existing lightships can be converted to the
automatic system and completed by the gun. Each case must, of course, be
decided upon its merits as regards the time the gun and light are required to
work upon a single charge of acetylene, but there are no insuperable
obstacles to its utilization.
Of course, in an isolated station lying perhaps some miles off the
mainland, it may be necessary to keep the gun going night and day in fog
and in clear weather alike. In this case, naturally, the great number of
explosions involves considerable expense; but the inventors are carrying out
experiments with a view to switching the gun on and off, as required, from
a distant point by means of wireless telegraphy, so as to effect a saving in

the expenditure of acetylene when there is no need on account of fine
weather to keep the gun going. Still, it must not be supposed that the
detonations even during clear weather are altogether abortive, inasmuch as
a sound-signal at sea, where the atmosphere has a long-distance-carrying
capacity as a rule, in conjunction with a light, draws double attention to a
danger spot. Under such circumstances the waste of acetylene gas during
periods of clear weather is more apparent than real.
The contest against the elements is still being waged, and slowly but
surely engineering science is improving its position, and is hopeful of
rendering audible signals as completely effective as those of a visual
character.

CHAPTER V

THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE

It is doubtful whether the name of any lighthouse is so familiar
throughout the English-speaking world as the “Eddystone.” Certainly no
other “pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day,” can offer so romantic a story
of dogged engineering perseverance, of heartrending disappointments,
disaster, blasted hopes, and brilliant success.
Standing out in the English Channel, about sixty miles east of the
Lizard, is a straggling ridge of rocks which stretches for hundreds of yards
across the marine thoroughfare, and also obstructs the western approach to
Plymouth Harbour. But at a point some nine and a half miles south of Rame
Head, on the mainland, the reef rises somewhat abruptly to the surface, so
that at low-water two or three ugly granite knots are bared, which tell only
too poignantly the complete destruction they could wreak upon a vessel
which had the temerity or the ill luck to scrape over them at high-tide. Even
in the calmest weather the sea curls and eddies viciously around these
stones; hence the name “Eddystones” is derived.
From the days when trading vessels first used the English Channel the
reef has been a spot of evil fame. How many ships escaped the perils and
dangers of the seven seas only to come to grief on this ridge within sight of
home, or how many lives have been lost upon it, will never be known. Only
the more staggering holocausts, such as the wreck of the Winchelsea, stand
out prominently in the annals of history, but these serve to emphasize the
terrible character of the menace offered. The port of Plymouth, as may be
supposed, suffered with especial severity.
As British overseas traffic expanded, the idea of indicating the spot for
the benefit of vessels was discussed. The first practical suggestion was put

forward about the year 1664, but thirty-two years elapsed before any
attempt was made to reduce theory to practice. Then an eccentric English
country gentleman, Henry Winstanley, who dabbled in mechanical
engineering upon unorthodox lines, came forward and offered to build a
lighthouse upon the terrible rock. Those who knew this ambitious amateur
were dubious of his success, and wondered what manifestation his
eccentricity would assume on this occasion. Nor was their scepticism
entirely misplaced. Winstanley raised the most fantastic lighthouse which
has ever been known, and which would have been more at home in a
Chinese cemetery than in the English Channel. It was wrought in wood and
most lavishly embellished with carvings and gilding.
Four years were occupied in its construction, and the tower was
anchored to the rock by means of long, heavy irons. The light, merely a
flicker, flashed out from this tower in 1699 and for the first time the
proximity of the Eddystones was indicated all round the horizon by night.
Winstanley’s critics were rather free in expressing their opinion that the
tower would come down with the first sou’-wester, but the eccentric builder
was so intensely proud of his achievement as to venture the statement that it
would resist the fiercest gale that ever blew, and, when such did occur, he
hoped that he might be in the tower at the time.
Fate gratified his wish, for while he was on the rock in the year 1703
one of the most terrible tempests that ever have assailed the coasts of
Britain gripped the structure, tore it up by the roots, and hurled it into the
Channel, where it was battered to pieces, its designer and five keepers
going down with the wreck. When the inhabitants of Plymouth, having
vainly scanned the horizon for a sign of the tower on the following
morning, put off to the rock to investigate, they found only the bent and
twisted iron rods by which the tower had been held in position projecting
mournfully into the air from the rock-face.
Shortly after the demolition of the tower, the reef, as if enraged at
having been denied a number of victims owing to the existence of the
warning light, trapped the Winchelsea as she was swinging up Channel, and
smashed her to atoms, with enormous loss of life.
Although the first attempt to conquer the Eddystone had terminated so
disastrously, it was not long before another effort was made to mark the

reef. The builder this time was a Cornish labourer’s son, John Rudyerd,
who had established himself in business on Ludgate Hill as a silk-mercer. In
his youth he had studied civil engineering, but his friends had small opinion
of his abilities in this craft. However, he attacked the problem boldly, and,
although his tower was a plain, business-looking structure, it would have
been impossible to conceive a design capable of meeting the peculiar
requirements of the situation more efficiently. It was a cone, wrought in
timber, built upon a stone and wood foundation anchored to the rock, and of
great weight and strength. The top of the cone was cut off to permit the
lantern to be set in position. The result was that externally the tower
resembled the trunk of an oak-tree, and appeared to be just about as strong.
It offered the minimum of resistance to the waves, which, tumbling upon
the ledge, rose and curled around the tapering form without starting a
timber.
Rudyerd, indeed, may be considered to be the father of the science of
modern lighthouse designing, because the lines that he evolved have never
been superseded for exposed positions even in these days of advanced
engineering science, greater constructional facilities, and improved
materials. Rudyerd’s ingenuity and skill received a triumphant vindication
when the American engineers set out to build the Minot’s Ledge and
Spectacle Reef lighthouses, inasmuch as these men followed slavishly in
the lines he laid down, and their achievements are numbered among the
great lighthouses of the world to-day.
Rudyerd built his tower with infinite care, although he was harassed in
his operations by the depredations of French privateers, who haunted this
part of the British coast. On one occasion the whole of the men were
surprised while at their work, and were borne off in triumph as prisoners of
war to France. Louis XIV., however, heard of the capture, and the
privateers, instead of being honoured for the catch, as they anticipated, were
strongly reprimanded and compelled to release their captures. “Their work
is for the benefit of all nations. I am at war with England, not with
humanity,” was the Sovereign’s comment; and by way of compensation the
prisoners were loaded with presents and reconveyed to the rock, to resume
their toil.
For forty years Rudyerd’s structure defied the elements, and probably
would have been standing to this day had it not possessed one weak point. It

was built of wood instead of stone. Consequently, when a fire broke out in
the lantern on December 4, 1755, the flames, fanned by the breeze, rapidly
made their way downwards. The keepers were impotent and sought what
refuge they could find under projecting crags below, as the lead which had
been employed in construction melted into drops and rained down on all
sides, so that the unfortunate men were exposed to another and more
alarming danger. In fact, one man, while watching the progress of the fire,
was drenched with a shower of molten metal, some of which, he declared,
had entered his open mouth and had penetrated into his stomach. When
rescued he was writhing in fearful agony, but his story was received with
incredulity, his comrades believing that the experience had turned his brain
and that this was merely one of his delusions. When the man died, a post-
mortem examination was made, and the doctors discovered ample
corroboration of the man’s story in the form of a lump of lead weighing
some seven ounces!
No time was lost in erecting another tower on the rock, for now it was
more imperative than ever that the reef should be lighted adequately. The
third engineer was John Smeaton, who first landed on the rock to make the
surveys on April 5, 1756. He was able to stay there for only two and a
quarter hours before the rising tide drove him off, but in that brief period he
had completed the work necessary to the preparation of his design. Wood
had succumbed to the attacks of tempest and of fire in turn. He would use a
material which would defy both—Portland stone. He also introduced a
slight change in the design for such structures, and one which has been
universally copied, producing the graceful form of lighthouse with which
everyone is so familiar. Instead of causing the sides to slope upwards in the
straight lines of a cone, such as Rudyerd adopted, Smeaton preferred a
slightly concave curve, so that the tower was given a waist at about half its
height. He also selected the oak-tree as his guide, but one having an
extensive spread of branches, wherein will be found a shape in the trunk, so
far as the broad lines are concerned, which coincides with the form of
Smeaton’s lighthouse. He chose a foundation where the rock shelved
gradually to its highest point, and dropped vertically into the water upon the
opposite side. The face of the rock was roughly trimmed to permit the
foundation-stones of the tower to be laid. The base of the building was
perfectly solid to the entrance level, and each stone was dovetailed securely
into its neighbour.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE EDDYSTONE, THE MOST FAMOUS
LIGHTHOUSE OF ENGLAND.
To the right is the stump of Smeaton’s historic tower.

From the entrance, which was about 15 feet above high-water, a central
well, some 5 feet in diameter, containing a staircase, led to the storeroom,
nearly 30 feet above high-water. Above this was a second storeroom, a
living-room as the third floor, and the bedroom beneath the lantern. The
light was placed about 72 feet above high-water, and comprised a
candelabra having two rings, one smaller than, and placed within, the other,
but raised about a foot above its level, the two being held firmly in position
by means of chains suspended from the roof and secured to the floor. The
rings were adapted to receive twenty-four lights, each candle weighing

about 2¾ ounces. Even candle manufacture was in its infancy in those days,
and periodically the keepers had to enter the lantern to snuff the wicks. In
order to keep the watchers of the lights on the alert, Smeaton installed a
clock of the grandfather pattern in the tower, and fitted it with a gong,
which struck every half-hour to apprise the men of these duties. This clock
is now one of the most interesting relics in the museum at Trinity House.
The first stone of the tower was laid on a Sunday in June, 1757, as the
date on the block indicates; and although work had to be pursued fitfully
and for only a few hours at a time between the tides, in the early stages,
Smeaton seized every opportunity offered by the wind and sea to push the
task forward. For four years the men slaved upon the rock, and, although
the mechanical handling appliances of those days were primitive, the tower
was completed without a single mishap. The solidity of the structure, and its
lines, which, as the engineer stated, would offer the minimum of resistance
to the Atlantic rollers, but at the same time would insure the utmost
stability, aroused widespread admiration, for it was felt that the engineer
had triumphed over Nature at last. Many people expressed a desire to see
how the tower would weather such a storm as carried away Winstanley’s
freakish building, especially as, in a roaring sou’-wester, the waves hurled
themselves upon the ledge to wreathe and curl upwards to a point far above
the dome, blotting the light from sight. The supreme test came in 1762,
when the lighthouse was subjected to a battering and pounding far heavier
than any that it had previously known. But the tower emerged from this
ordeal unscathed, and Smeaton’s work was accepted as invulnerable.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

A THRILLING EXPERIENCE.
Landing upon the Eddystone by the crane rope during a rough
sea.

The lighthouse had been standing for 120 years, when ominous reports
were received by the Trinity Brethren concerning the stability of the tower.
The keepers stated that during severe storms the building shook alarmingly.
A minute inspection of the structure was made, and it was found that,

although the work of Smeaton’s masons was above reproach, time and
weather had left their mark. The tower was becoming decrepit. The binding
cement had decayed, and the air imprisoned and compressed within the
interstices by the waves was disintegrating the structure slowly but surely.
While there was no occasion to apprehend a sudden collapse, still it was
considered advisable to take precautionary measures in time. Unfortunately,
it was not feasible to strengthen Smeaton’s tower so adequately as to give it
a new lease of life, while lighthouse engineering had made rapid strides in
certain details since it was completed. Another factor to be considered was
the desire for a more elevated light, capable of throwing its rays to a greater
distance.
Under these circumstances it was decided to build a new tower on
another convenient ledge, forming part of the main reef, about 120 feet
distant. Sir James Douglass, the Engineer-in-Chief to Trinity House,
completed the designs and personally superintended their execution. The
Smeaton lines were taken as a basis, with one important exception. Instead
of the curve commencing at the foundations, the latter comprised a perfect
cylindrical monolith of masonry 22 feet in height by 44 feet in diameter.
From this base the tower springs to a height which brings the focal plane
130 feet above the highest spring-tides. The top of the base is 30 inches
above high-water, and the tower’s diameter at this point being less than that
of its plinth, the set-off forms an excellent landing-stage when the weather
permits.
The site selected for the Douglass tower being lower than that chosen
by Smeaton, the initial work was more exacting, as the duration of the
working period was reduced. The rock, being gneiss, was extremely tough,
and the preliminary quarrying operations for the foundation-stones which
had to be sunk into the rock were tedious and difficult, especially as the
working area was limited. Each stone was dovetailed, not only to its
neighbour on either side, but below and above as well. The foundation-
stones were dovetailed into the reef, and were secured still further by the
aid of two bolts, each 1½ inches in diameter, which were passed through the
stone and sunk deeply into the rock below. The exposed position of the reef
enabled work to be continued only fitfully during the calmest weather, for
often when wind and sea were quiet the rock was inaccessible owing to the

swell. Upon the approach of bad weather everything was made fast under
the direct supervision of the engineer—a man who took no chances.
From the set-off the tower is solid to a height of 25½ feet, except for
two fresh-water tanks sunk in the floor of the entrance-room, which hold
4,700 gallons. At this point the walls are no less than 8½ feet thick, and the
heavy teak door is protected by an outer door of gun-metal, weighing a ton,
both of which are closed during rough weather.
The tower has eight floors, exclusive of the entrance; there are two
oilrooms, one above the other, holding 4,300 gallons of oil, above which is
a coal and store room, followed by a second storeroom. Outside the tower at
this level is a crane, by which supplies are hoisted, and which also
facilitates the landing and embarkation of the keepers, who are swung
through the air in a stirrup attached to the crane rope. Then in turn come the
living-room, the “low-light” room, bedroom, service-room, and finally the
lantern. For the erection of the tower, 2,171 blocks of granite, which were
previously fitted temporarily in their respective positions on shore, and
none of which weighed less than 2 tons, were used. When the work was
commenced, the engineer estimated that the task would occupy five years,
but on May 18, 1882, the lamp was lighted by the Duke of Edinburgh, the
Master of Trinity House at the time, the enterprise having occupied only
four years. Some idea may thus be obtained of the energy with which the
labour was pressed forward, once the most trying sections were overcome.
Whereas the former lights on this rock had been of the fixed type, a
distinctive double flash was now introduced. The optical apparatus is of the
biform dioptric type, emitting a beam of some 300,000 candle-power
intensity, which is visible for seventeen miles. In addition to this measure of
warning, two powerful Argand burners, with reflectors, were set up in the
low-light room for the purpose of throwing a fixed ray from a point 40 feet
below the main flashing beam, to mark a dangerous reef lying 3½ miles to
the north-west, known as Hand Deeps.
When the new tower was completed and brought into service, the
Smeaton building was demolished. This task was carried out with extreme
care, inasmuch as the citizens of Plymouth had requested that the historic
Eddystone structure might be re-erected on Plymouth Hoe, on the spot
occupied by the existing Trinity House landmark. The authorities agreed to

this proposal, and the ownership of the Smeaton tower was forthwith
transferred to the people of Plymouth. But demolition was carried out only
to the level of Smeaton’s lower storeroom. The staircase, well and entrance
were filled up with masonry, the top was bevelled off, and in the centre of
the stump an iron pole was planted. While the Plymouth Hoe relic is but
one half of the tower, its re-erection was completed faithfully, and,
moreover, carries the original candelabra which the famous engineer
devised.
Not only is the Douglass tower a beautiful example of lighthouse
engineering, but it was relatively cheap. The engineer, when he prepared the
designs, estimated that an outlay of £78,000, or $390,000, would be
incurred. As a matter of fact, the building cost only £59,255, or $296,275,
and a saving of £18,000, or $90,000, in a work of this magnitude is no mean
achievement. All things considered, the Eddystone is one of the cheapest
sea-rock lights which has ever been consummated.

CHAPTER VI

SOME FAMOUS LIGHTS OF ENGLAND

The captain of the lordly liner, as he swings down Channel or
approaches the English coast from the broad Atlantic, maintains a vigilant
watch until the light or the slender proportions of the lonely outpost rising
apparently from the ocean’s depths off the south-west corner of the Scilly
Islands, become visible. This is the Bishop Rock, the western sentinel of the
English Channel, mounting guard over as wicked a stretch of sea as may be
found anywhere between the two Poles, where the maritime traffic is
densest and where wrecks, unfortunately, are only too frequent; for the toll
levied by the sea off the Cornish coast is fearful.
Among these islands was planted one of the first beacons erected off
the British coasts. At the outset it was merely a wood bonfire, then a brazier,
and finally a lighthouse, which crowned St. Agnes’s height, to guide the
mariner on his way. But to-day the St. Agnes light is no more than a
memory. Two or three years ago the keepers quenched the light in the misty
grey of the dawn for the last time. The vigil which had been maintained
over shipping uninterruptedly through some 230 years was ended. On a
neighbouring point a superior modern light had been planted which took up
the sacred duty. Although established in 1680, the St. Agnes was not the
oldest light in England. This distinction belongs to the North Foreland light
on the East Kentish coast, which was set going as far back as 1636. This
warning was shed from a tower of timber, lath, and plaster, built by Sir John
Meldrum, but it fell a victim to fire forty-seven years later. The light was
reconstructed promptly, and to-day throws a red and white gleam of 35,000
candle-power, which may be picked up twenty miles away.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE “BISHOP,” THE WESTERN OUTPOST OF ENGLAND.
This tower marks a treacherous reef, rising from the depths of the Atlantic off the Scilly Islands. Its
slim proportions are familiar to Transatlantic passengers.

The south-western extremity of England, however, is far more to be
dreaded than the south-eastern. Here Nature mixed land and water in an
inextricable maze during her moulding process. Deep, tortuous, wide
channels separate rugged granite islets, while long, ugly ridges creep
stealthily out to sea beneath the pall of water, ready to trap the unsuspecting
vessel which ventures too closely. If one were to take a map of this part of
the country, were to dig one leg of a compass into the Lizard Head,
stretching the other so as to reach the Eddystone light, and then were to
describe a circle, the enclosed space would contain more famous sea-rock
lights than a similar area on any other part of the globe. Within its
circumference there would be the Eddystone, Bishop Rock, Wolf, and
Longships, each of which lifts its cupola above a wave-swept ledge of
rocks.
The need for an adequate indication of the Scillies was felt long before
the Eddystone gained its ill fame. These scattered masses of granite,
numbering about 140 in all, break up the expanse of the Atlantic about
twenty miles south-west of the Cornish mainland. Now, the maritime traffic
flowing in and out of the English Channel is divided into two broad classes
—the coastal and the oversea trade respectively. The former is able to creep

through the dangerous channel separating the Scillies from the mainland,
but the latter has to make a détour to the south. One fringe of the broken
cluster is as dangerous as the other, so that both streams of trade demand
protection.
On the south side the knots dot the sea in all directions. They are mere
black specks, many only revealing themselves at lowest tides; others do not
betray their existence even then. The outermost ledge is the Bishop Rock,
where disasters have been fearful and numerous. One of the most terrible
catastrophes on record happened here, when three vessels of Sir Cloudesley
Shovel’s fleet went to pieces in the year 1707, and dragged 2,000 men down
with them, including the Admiral himself. In more recent times, some two
or three years ago, the Atlantic transport liner Minnehaha dragged her
lumbering body over the selfsame attenuated rampart, and was badly
damaged before she could be rescued. As may be supposed, in days gone by
the awful character of the coast brought prosperity to the inhabitants of
Cornwall, who reaped rich harvests from the inhuman practice of wrecking,
in which horrible work the Scilly Islanders were easily pre-eminent and
more successful, since they held the outer lines upon which the majority of
ships came to grief.
In the forties of last century it was decided that this graveyard should
be marked, but there was one great difficulty. This was the exposure of the
low-lying rock to some 4,000 miles of open Atlantic, where the rollers rise
and fall with a force that turns the waters for miles around into a seething
maelstrom of foam and surf. The aspect presented at this spot during a stiff
south-westerly or westerly gale is terrifying in the extreme, and it is not
surprising that approaching vessels stand so far off that the tower is often
barely discernible against the background of cloud and banks of mist caused
by the spray hurled into the air from the breakers smashing on the rocks.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE WOLF ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.
One of the famous lights of England. Owing to the rocks being exposed to the full fury of the
Atlantic, its erection was attended with prodigious difficulty.

When it was proposed to build a lighthouse upon a crag in the heart of
this vortex, many people who knew the neighbourhood shook their heads
doubtfully. The ledge was so small, the force of the elements so powerful,
that it appeared to be tempting Fate unduly to attempt the erection of a slim
stalk of stonework thereon. Some records of the wind pressure exerted
during the heaviest tempests were taken, and they showed that the pressure
of the wind at times exceeded 7,000 pounds per square foot. It was decided
to provide a structure which should offer the minimum of resistance to the
waves. This assumed the form of the iron screw-pile tower so common in
American waters. The legs were cast-iron tubes sunk into the solid granite,
braced and stayed by means of wrought-iron rods. The engineers
maintained that the waves would be able to roll unrestrainedly among the
piles, instead of being obstructed, so that the skeleton building would
escape the heavy buffetings which solid masonry would experience.

But engineering science proved woefully frail when pitted against the
unharnessed forces of Nature. A heavy gale sprang up one night; the waves
rose and fell upon the stilts, broke them up like reeds, and carried away the
whole of the superstructure. The following low-tide revealed only a few
short lengths of broken and bent tubes, around which the waves bubbled
and hissed as if in triumph at their victory. Thus ended the first attempt to
provide the Bishop Rock with a lighthouse.
The engineer, though defeated, was not dismayed. As a skeleton
structure was impotent, he would erect a massive masonry tower which not
all the force of the waves could avail to demolish. Although the reef is
about 150 feet in length by 52 feet in width, the engineer, James Walker,
was not afforded much space upon which to place his creation. He
reconnoitred the ridge, and finally chose a small lump just sufficiently large
upon which to effect a foothold. The Smeaton type of tower was his model,
and the surface of the rock was trimmed to receive the first blocks. This was
the greatest difficulty. Unless the sea were as smooth as a millpond, he was
helpless, as the lowest blocks had to be laid a foot beneath low-water mark.
A heavy cofferdam was erected around the site, and the water within was
pumped out, so that the masons might be able to toil upon a dry rock-face.
The exposed, isolated character of the spot rendered the housing of the
workmen a problem in itself. They could not be accommodated on the site;
a temporary dwelling on piles for their accommodation could not be
established, as it would come down with the first gale, and housing on a
tender was equally impracticable. There was a small uninhabited islet
within convenient distance of the reef, and on this the living-quarters and
workshops were erected, the men being transported to and fro whenever the
conditions were suitable. Traces of this bygone industrial activity still
remain on the island, but the sea-fowl have once more claimed it
exclusively as their home. The working spells were brief, as well as being
somewhat few and far between, while the base was being prepared. The
granite was brought to the island depot, fashioned into shape, and then sent
to the Bishop for erection. Granite was used exclusively, and in 1878, after
seven years’ arduous labour, the tower, 120 feet in height, capped by a
powerful light, was completed: the dreaded Bishop Rock was conquered at
last.

When it was first commissioned, four men were deputed to watch this
light, three being on the rock, and the fourth man on leave at St. Mary’s.
The duty was for three months continuous, one man being relieved every
month if possible; but, as a matter of fact, the spell on the rock often was
increased, owing to the weather rendering it impossible to exchange the
men. The character of their duty, under the terrible assaults of the sea,
played havoc with the constitutions and nerves of the lighthouse-keepers.
They became taciturn, and inevitably fell victims to neurasthenia, owing to
their long periods of isolation. Accordingly the authorities gradually relaxed
the spell of duty, until now it comprises a month on the rock, followed by a
fortnight ashore, while six men, instead of four, are appointed to the station.
The Bishop light demands watchers of iron constitution and prolonged
experience of the rigours of imprisonment upon a lonely rock. The men
appear to suffer most from the fear that one day the seas will regain the
upper hand and carry the slender-looking shaft of masonry away. When the
Atlantic is roused to fury, the din created by the waves smashing against the
tower and reef is so deafening that the keepers can only converse by signs.
The attacks which this tower has to withstand are fearful. When the
equinoxes are raging, it is no uncommon circumstance for the waves to roll
up the side of the tower and hurl themselves clean over the lantern. The
enormous force of the water was brought home very startlingly to the
attendants of the light one night, when a more than usually wicked breaker
slid up the curved round face and wrenched the fog-bell, weighing 550
pounds, from its fastenings on the lantern gallery. The ponderous piece of
metal was dashed on to the reef and smashed to fragments. A small piece
was recovered after the gale, and is now preserved in the Trinity House
museum as an interesting memento of the night when the Atlantic almost
got the upper hand. The nerves of the men are tried severely, also, by
memories of the terrible marine disasters which have happened on or near
the ridge, such as that of the German packet Schiller, which went down in
1875 with the loss of 331 lives.
It is not surprising that the ceaseless attacks of the waves should have
left their traces at last. The light had been burning for about twenty years,
when tremors and quakings, similar to those observed in connection with
Smeaton’s Eddystone tower, were reported to the authorities. Sir James
Douglass visited the rock, and made a minute inspection. It was apparent

that the lighthouse demanded extensive overhauling and strengthening if it
were to be preserved. In fact, this was the only feasible course of action, as
there was not another suitable spot whereon a new structure could be raised.
The Eddystone had been completed, and as the same tackle was available,
the protective work was undertaken at once. In conjunction with this
enterprise, the engineer also advocated an increase in the height of the
tower.
His plans met with approval, and an ingenious means of strengthening
the existing building was evolved. Virtually it comprised the erection of a
new tower around the old shaft, and connected to the latter, so as to form
one homogeneous structure. In order to strengthen the foundations, massive
blocks of masonry were sunk into the rock, cemented, and held in position
by heavy bolts. From the masons’ point of view, the task of overhauling was
more exciting and dangerous than that which had attended the erection of
the original tower; for the men had to toil on narrow, swinging platforms,
cutting notches in the face of every stone in the existing structure to receive
dovetails on the blocks of the new outer shell. Thus the latter were
dovetailed to adjacent blocks on five out of their six faces. A massive chain
was slung round the upper part of the tower, from which life-lines hung
down to the men working below. A man was stationed as a lookout. When
he saw a breaker approaching he gave a signal; each man clutched his life-
rope tenaciously and retained his foothold as best he could on his perilous
perch while the water swept over him. Often the men were submerged by a
rushing wave, and when the water subsided shook themselves like dogs
emerging from the water. But the provision of the life-ropes prevented
serious injury and loss of life, although the masons at times were
considerably knocked about.
The tower has been given an enormous, massive, cylindrical base,
while the shaft is solid to the entrance level, except for the usual water-
tanks. The attachment of the outer shell reinforced it remarkably, the walls
at the entrance being increased to a thickness of 8 feet. The addition of the
four extra floors elevated the light by a further 40 feet, the focal plane now
being 163 feet above high-water. The light, of 622,500 candle-power,
visible for eighteen miles, is a white group-flash, there being two flashes,
each of four seconds’ duration, with an intervening eclipse of five seconds,
while the groups are separated by intervals of forty-seven seconds.

Off the northern shores of the Scillies, standing in the strait which
provides a short-cut around the toe of England, is another magnificent
tower. This is the Wolf Rock lighthouse, marking the reef of that name,
which lies eight miles off Land’s End in the fairway of the coastal traffic.
The cluster of rocks from which it rises is just as dangerous as that to the
south, and is exposed likewise to the full fury of the south-westerly gales
coming in from the Atlantic. It was one of the most attractive spots to the
old Cornish wreckers, for ships which lost their way during the fogs which
hang about this coast invariably blundered into the reef, to be smashed to
pieces within a very short time.
This spot was not so greatly feared by the seafarer when heavy gales
prevailed. There was a hollow rock on the ridge, into which the waves were
driven. In so doing they compressed the air within the space, which, as it
escaped, produced a long, distinctive wail, recalling the cry of the wolf. It
was this natural phenomenon which gave the rock its name. The harder the
wind blew, and the higher the waves rose, the louder was the reverberating
bellow, and, as it could be heard distinctly above the music of the storm, the
navigator was able to steer clear of the formidable obstruction. On the other
hand, during periods of heavy fog, when the waves were usually quiet, there
was scarcely any perceptible sound.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE LONGSHIPS LIGHT.
In the background is the forbidding iron-bound Cornish coast, where wrecks unfortunately are
frequent.

The Wolf Rock would be growling to this day had it not been for the
inhuman action of the Cornish plunderers. They detested the weird noise as
cordially as the mariner blessed it. It robbed them of so many rich hauls that
at last they decided to silence the rock for ever. They filled the cavity with
large boulders, which were carried out in boats from the mainland and
dumped overboard. Then the Cornishmen met with a spell of enhanced
prosperity from the increased number of wrecks which occurred.
When the exigencies of commerce demanded that the reef should be
guarded, a most fantastic device was prepared. An attempt was made to
restore artificially the natural siren. A fabric wrought in copper in the form
of a huge wolf with distended jaws was contrived, the designers averring
that the air would rush in and produce a distinctive whistle. This grotesque
danger-signal never reached its destination. It would have been absolutely
useless even had it been placed over the rock, as the first lively sea would
have carried it away, while the noise produced, if any, would have been
inaudible more than a few feet away.
The Trinity Brethren at last took the matter up, but their investigations
caused them to doubt the possibility of building a lighthouse on such a

forbidding spot. They did the next best thing. They drove a thick oak joist
into the rock, and attached a coloured sphere to its upper extremity. This
constituted a valuable landmark by day, but was useless at night. But its life
was brief. The first storm which swept the reef after the erection of the
beacon tore it up by the roots. It was replaced by a heavy mast of wrought-
iron, which suffered a similar fate, as did also a third iron pole 9 inches in
diameter. At last a low conical stump was built upon the ridge, with the staff
and sphere projecting from its centre. This defied wind and wave
successfully for many years. Its permanency impressed the builders of the
Bishop Rock light, who came to the conclusion that, as the small conical
tower held hard and fast, a masonry tower could be given just as firm a
hold.
When the engineer approached the reef to make his surveys, he found
the water boiling and bubbling madly, and it was some time before he could
get a foothold. He completed his examination, and then found, to his
dismay, that the boat could not approach to take him off. He could not stay
where he was, as the tide, which was rising, would engulf the reef within a
short time, so he resorted to a bold expedient. He had taken the precaution
to bring a life-line with him, so that he was in touch with the boat. He
looped this round his waist securely, and then, telling the men to pull as
hard as they could, he plunged into the water. In this manner he was
dragged through the furious surf and pulled into the boat, thoroughly
drenched, but otherwise none the worse for his adventure.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE GODREVY LIGHT, SCILLY ISLANDS.
It marks a forbidding clump of rocks, landing on which is always exciting.

The work was begun in 1862, when the masons were despatched to the
rock to prepare the face for the reception of the bottom masonry blocks. The
tedious and exceptionally dangerous character of the work was emphasized
very forcibly upon those engaged in the task. It was seldom that the water
was sufficiently placid to enable a landing to be made. Then, as the working
spell was very brief, being restricted to low-tide, the men could pause only
for a few minutes at a time, and even during these were menaced by the
breakers. During the first working season only eighty-three hours of labour
were possible—a fact which conveys a graphic idea of the exposed
character of the site, its difficulty of access, and the short time available for
work between the tides.
While excavations were under way, the preparation of a landing-stage
was taken in hand. As only small blocks of stone could be used, naturally it
occupied a considerable time. It was, however, essential, in order to permit
the erection of a derrick by which the heavy blocks for the tower could be

lifted from the construction boat to the rock. On the rock-face itself the
masons toiled strenuously, chipping, scraping, and paring away all the
faulty pieces of gneiss, so that a firm, solid foundation was secured, into
which the bottom course of stones was dovetailed and anchored.
Owing to the frequency with which the rock was swept by the seas,
special precautions had to be adopted to insure the safety of the workmen.
Iron dogs were driven into the rock at frequent points, to which ropes were
fastened and allowed to trail across the rock, each mason being urged to
keep one of these life-lines always within arm’s length. As an additional
precaution he was compelled to wear a lifebelt, which, although it
hampered free movement somewhat, yet gave the wearer, if he lost his
foothold or were thrown into the water, a chance of keeping afloat until the
lifeboat standing by was able to reach him. A Cornish fisherman, who was
familiar with the seas on this part of the coast, and who could judge a
breaking wave from a distance, acted as a lookout. When he saw a comber
about to creep over the rock, he gave a signal, when the workmen clutched
their life-lines, and, with feet firmly planted and the ropes drawn taut, or
throwing themselves prostrate, with heads pointed to the advancing wave,
allowed the breaker to roll over them and expend its violence harmlessly.
Time after time the masons were buried beneath huge tumbling hills of
water. Work under such conditions was decidedly irksome, and progress
was very appreciably retarded, but the safety of the workmen was, of
course, the pre-eminent consideration. Curiously enough, these men who
face the perils, privations, and exciting incessant dangers, incidental to
lighthouse building, are extremely superstitious. If an undertaking such as
the Wolf were attended by a disaster and loss of life in its initial stages, the
completion of the task might be seriously jeopardized. The rock would be
regarded as a “hoo-doo,” and would be shunned like a fever-stricken city.
Therefore the engineer will go to any lengths to secure, so far as is humanly
possible, the preservation of the lives and limbs of those in his employ. This
is the chief reason why the erection of these wonderful towers has been
attended by so few accidents or fatalities, while the men fitted for the task
are so few that the engineer cannot afford to disturb their peace of mind.
The Wolf tower follows the generally accepted lines, and is solid at the
base. It is wrought throughout of granite, the stones being joggled together.
One ingenious measure was adopted in connection with the lower courses

in order to prevent the action of the waves from breaking up the cement in
the exposed joints and setting up disintegration. The upper surface of each
stone is given a wide rabbet, and the stone above fits into the recess so that
the horizontal joint between the two is covered by the outer fillet, thereby
protecting it completely. This practice was followed throughout all the
lower courses to a height of 39 feet, and the security thus obtained is
reflected by the strength of the tower to-day after half a century’s wear.
Work proceeded so slowly in the early stages, owing to the abnormal
conditions, that by the end of 1864 only thirty-seven stones in the second
course of masonry were laid. In the meantime, however, the landing-stage
had been practically completed, and the erection of the crane enabled the
blocks for the tower to be transferred to the rock with greater ease and
rapidity. The tower, 135 feet in height, was completed on July 19, 1869,
while the light was brought into service early in the following year. Eight
years were expended upon the enterprise, and during this period 296
landings were effected upon the rock and 1,814 hours of labour were
consummated. This is equal to about 101 working days of ten hours each,
or, on the average, less than one hour every day of the years occupied in the
undertaking. The lantern throws a powerful white light, which in clear
weather may be seen from twenty to twenty-five miles away. The cost of
the enterprise was £62,726, or $313,630—nearly twice that of the first
Bishop Rock light.

By courtesy of Messrs. D. and C. Stevenson.

THE CHICKEN ROCK LIGHTHOUSE, OFF THE ISLE OF MAN.
It marks a dangerous reef. The revolving light of 143,000 candle-power is visible for sixteen miles.
Although the lantern is 143 feet above the water, the waves frequently engulf it.

Another gaunt structure rears itself from a reef a few miles to the north-
west of the Wolf, and a short distance off the Land’s End. This is the
Longships light. The name itself suggests a light-vessel, and a stranger is
surprised to learn that it is an imposing building, worthy of comparison with
the two other structures already described which guard the Scillies.
Although it is within a short distance of the mainland, its exposed situation
rendered its construction as exasperatingly difficult as that of both the
Bishop and Wolf lights. A few miles farther north another powerful light
indicates the “Kingdom of Heaven,” as the black hump of Lundy Island,
rising out of the Bristol Channel, is colloquially called, from the name of its
clerical owner.
On the opposite side and due north of this bight, the Pembrokeshire
coast breaks off abruptly at St. David’s Head, only to reappear out at sea in
some twenty little rugged islets known as The Smalls. They occur some

twenty-one miles off the mainland, and for years they played havoc with the
shipping plying between North of England ports and the Bristol Channel.
These rocks—for they are little else—were the private property of a
Liverpool gentleman, who became so distracted by the frequency of disaster
that, in 1773, he decided to crown them with a beacon. He selected a
musical instrument manufacturer named Whiteside as his engineer, and this
amateur mechanic, after an inspection, decided to place the warning light on
a tiny crag which projected about 5 feet above high-water. It is somewhat
strange that the adequate safeguarding of two devastating parts of the south-
western coast of England should have been placed in the hands of men who
were not professional engineers. Rudyerd, the silk-mercer, was responsible
for the second Eddystone, and here was an instrument-maker taking over
one of the most difficult enterprises it was possible to find. Yet both these
amateur engineers inscribed their names ineffaceably upon two of the most
evil spots around the coasts of the British Islands. Rudyerd gave us the true
conical design, which has never been superseded for strength and stability;
while Whiteside evolved a skeleton tower which braved the most
tempestuous seas for some eighty years. In the first instance the latter
carried out his work in iron, thinking that metal would prove irresistible, but
within a short time he replaced it with heavy legs of oak. The frail-looking
structure was submitted to storms of almost seismic violence, but it
withstood them all for over half a century, when a peculiarly vicious wave,
as it rolled between the supports, suddenly flew upwards, driving the floor
of the keepers’ quarters into the roof. It was an exceptional accident, which
no engineer could have foreseen. When the Trinity House Brethren took
over the light, their chief engineer, Mr. James Walker, looked upon the
erection as such a fine piece of work that the damage was repaired, and the
Whiteside light gleamed for a further twenty years before it gave place to
the present graceful stone building.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

HOW THE SKERRYVORE IS BUILT.
In the centre, a vertical section. At sides, transverse sections at different masonry courses, showing
method of laying the stones.

It was a grim episode at this light which brought about the practice of
appointing three men at least to a sea light-station. When first completed,
The Smalls was provided with only two keepers, and on one occasion one
of the two died. His companion refrained from committing the body to the
sea, lest he might be suspected of foul-play, so he constructed a rough shell,
in which he placed the body of his dead chum, and stood the grisly burden
on end beside his flag of distress on the gallery outside the lantern. As the
spell of duty in those days was four months, it was some time before the
relief came out. Then they discovered a shattered human wreck tending the
lights, who had never neglected his duty under the onerous and weird
conditions, but who nevertheless had become broken down and aged under
the terrible ordeal. After this experience three men instead of two were
placed on duty at all such exposed and inaccessible lights. It may be
recalled that Alphonse Daudet tells a similar creepy story which was related
to him by a light-keeper on the rugged Corsican coast, and which he
narrates in the “Phares des Sanguinaires.” A similar experience is also
associated with Rudyerd’s Eddystone light.
Off the North Welsh coast there are the famous lights of the South
Stack and the Skerries, the latter rising out of the water on a dangerous
cluster of rocks off Carmel Head. The Isle of Man also possesses a
magnificent specimen of lighthouse engineering in the Chicken Rock light,
the work of the brothers Stevenson, which, although in the Irish Sea, comes
within the jurisdiction of the Commissioners of Northern Lights. This tower
stands on a reef which is submerged by 6 feet of water even at high neap-
tides. When a gale is raging and the spring-tides are at their highest, the
waves frequently engulf the lantern, although it is perched 143 feet above
the water. The light is of 143,000 candle-power, of the revolving type, and
visible for sixteen miles in clear weather.
Entering the English Channel from the Scillies, the voyager observes
the powerful Lizard light gleaming like two brilliant white stars from a
prominent elevated point on the cliff. Formerly three lights were shown, but
two were found to meet the necessities of the situation adequately. The

steamship lane lies across the chord of the arc formed by the coastline
between the Lizard and Start Point, leaving the Eddystone to the north. The
next important light is the Needles, at the entrance to the Solent. A few
miles farther on the brilliant spoke-light flashes of St. Catherine’s,
described in another chapter, compel attention. No other light after this is
seen until Beachy Head is approached. Another dreary stretch brings the
vessel abeam the nose of Kentish coast known as Dungeness, a particularly
notorious danger spot. Here there is a continual struggle between the
engineers and the sea. While the waves gnaw into the coastline at other
neighbouring places, here they surrender their capture, so that the headland
is persistently creeping farther and farther out to sea. It is lighted, and has
been guarded for years, but the tower is left at a constantly increasing
distance from the water’s edge. The light has been moved once or twice, so
as to fulfil its purpose to the best advantage, but the engineer will be kept
on the alert until the currents change their courses and refrain from piling
up further drift at this point. This light, coming as it does at the entrance to
the bottle-neck of the English Channel, is of prime importance to
navigation, because vessels, after they have rounded the South Foreland,
make a bee-line for this headland.
Since the eastern coast of England is flanked by sandbanks and shoals,
the lighthouse is not in powerful evidence, the aids to navigation consisting
chiefly of light-vessels, which are distributed liberally so as to patrol
completely a treacherous stretch of shoals. Northwards the sandy, low-lying
wastes give way to towering cliffs, amongst which Flamborough Head and
its light are conspicuous. At the far northern limit of the operations of
Trinity House comes the Longstones, mounting guard over the terrible
Farne Islands and their rocky outposts. Who has not heard of the heroism of
Grace Darling, the light-keeper’s daughter, and the thrilling rescue, in the
teeth of a hurricane, of the exhausted survivors of the Forfarshire?
Complaints have been made often regarding the paucity of powerful
lights around the coast of England, but the criticism scarcely is deserved.
All the prominent and most dangerous spots are lighted adequately, and, as
may be recognized, the provision of these lights has proved an exacting and
costly enterprise. What England may lack in numbers in this particular field
of engineering is compensated for by the daring nature of the works

completed, which are regarded throughout the world as marvellous
achievements.

CHAPTER VII

THE BELL ROCK AND SKERRYVORE
LIGHTS

At first sight it seems somewhat remarkable—some might feel
disposed to challenge the assertion—that so small a country as Scotland
should stand pre-eminent among the nations of the world as being that
possessed of the greatest number of imposing sea-rock lights. But such is
the case. Moreover, North Britain offers some of the finest and most
impressive specimens of the lighthouse builder’s resource and skill to be
found in any part of the globe.
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.
In view of the difficulties which had to be surmounted, this “ruddy gem
of changeful light,” as it is described by Sir Walter Scott, was not
particularly costly. By the time it was brought into commission, £61,330, or
$306,650, had been expended. In 1902, after nearly a century’s service, the
tower was provided with a new light-room, so as to bring it into conformity
with modern practice.
While the Bell Rock tower stands as a monument to the engineering
ability of Robert Stevenson, the Skerryvore, on the western coast, is a
striking tribute to the genius of his son, Alan. For forty years or more
previous to 1844 one ship at least had been caught and shattered every year

on this tumbled mass of gneiss. From the navigator’s point of view, the
danger of this spot lay chiefly in the fact that it was so widely scattered. The
ridge runs like a broken backbone for a distance of some eight miles in a
west-south-westerly direction, and it is flanked on each side by isolated
rocks which jut from a badly-broken sea-bed. The whole mass lies some
distance out to sea, being ten miles south-west of Tyree and twenty-four
miles west of Iona. In rough weather the whole of the rocks are covered,
and the waves, beating heavily on the mass, convert the scene into one of
indescribable tumult.
The Commissioners of Northern Lights acknowledged the urgent need
of a light upon this ridge, but it was realized that its erection would
represent the most daring feat of lighthouse engineering that had been
attempted up to this time. There was only one point where a tower could be
placed, and this was so exposed that the safe handling of the men and
materials constituted a grave responsibility. The rock has to withstand the
full impetus of the Atlantic waves, gathered in their 3,000 miles’ roll, and
investigations revealed the fact that they bear down upon the Skerryvore
with a force equal to some 3 tons per square foot. It was apparent that any
masonry tower must be of prodigious strength to resist such a battering,
while at the same time a lofty stack was imperative, because the light not
only would have to mount guard over the rock upon which it stood, but also
over a vast stretch of dangerous water on either side.
After he had completed the Bell Rock light, Robert Stevenson attacked
the problem of the Skerryvore. In order to realize the magnitude of the
undertaking, some of the Commissioners accompanied the engineer, but the
experience of pulling out into the open Atlantic on a day when it was
slightly ruffled somewhat shook their determination to investigate the reef
from close quarters. Sir Walter Scott was a member of the party, and he has
described the journey very graphically. Before they had gone far the
Commissioners on board expressed their willingness to leave the matter
entirely in the hands of their engineer. With grim Scottish humour, however,
Robert Stevenson insisted that the rock should be gained, so that the
Commissioners might be able to grasp the problem at first hand.
But after all nothing was done. The difficulties surrounding the work
were only too apparent to the officials. They agreed that the expense must
be prodigious and that the risks to the workmen would be grave.

In 1834 a second expedition was despatched to the reef under Alan
Stevenson, who had accompanied his father on the previous occasion, and
who now occupied the engineering chair. He surveyed the reef thoroughly,
traversing the dangerous channels around the isolated humps, of which no
less than 130 were counted, at great risk to himself and his companions.
However, he achieved his object. He discovered the best site for the tower
and returned home to prepare his plans.
His proposals, for those days, certainly were startling. He decided to
follow generally the principles of design, which had been laid down by his
father in regard to the Bell Rock. But he planned something bigger and
more daring. He maintained that a tower 130 feet high, with a base diameter
of 42 feet, tapering in a curve to 16 feet at the top, was absolutely necessary.
It was the loftiest and weightiest work of its character that had ever been
contemplated up to this time, while the peculiar situation of the reef
demanded pioneering work in all directions.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE SKERRYVORE, SCOTLAND’S MOST
FAMOUS LIGHTHOUSE.
The erection of this tower upon a straggling low-lying reef 24
miles off Iona, and exposed to the full fury of the Atlantic,
ranks as one of the world’s engineering wonders.

The confidence of the Commissioners in the ability of their engineer
was so complete that he received the official sanction to begin, and in 1838
the undertaking was commenced. The engineer immediately formulated his
plans of campaign for a stiff struggle with Nature. One of the greatest
difficulties was the necessity to transport men, supplies and material over a
long distance, as the Scottish coast in this vicinity is wild and sparsely
populated. He established his base on the neighbouring island of Tyree,
where barracks for the workmen, and yards for the preparation of the
material, were erected, while another colony was established on the Isle of

Mull for the quarrying of the granite. A tiny pier or jetty had to be built at
this point to facilitate the shipment of the stone, and at Tyree a small
harbour had to be completed to receive the vessel which was built specially
for transportation purposes between the base and the rock.
Another preliminary was the provision of accommodation for the
masons upon the reef. The Atlantic swell, which rendered landing on the
ridge precarious and hazardous, did not permit the men to be housed upon a
floating home, as had been the practice in the early days of the Bell Rock
tower. In order to permit the work to go forward as uninterruptedly as the
sea would permit, a peculiar barrack was erected. It was a house on stilts,
the legs being sunk firmly into the rock, with the living-quarters perched
some 40 feet up in the air. The skeleton type of structure was selected
because it did not impede the natural movement of the waves. It was an
ingenious idea, and fulfilled the purpose of its designer admirably, while the
men became accustomed to their strange home after a time. For two years it
withstood the seas without incident, and the engineer and men came to
regard the eyrie as safe as a house on shore. But one night the little colony
received a shock. The angry Atlantic got one or two of its trip-hammer
blows well home, and smashed the structure to fragments. Fortunately, at
the time it was untenanted.
The workmen, who were on shore waiting to go out to the rock to
resume their toil, were downcast at this unexpected disaster, but the
engineer was not at all ruffled. He promptly sent to Glasgow for further
material, and lost no time in rebuilding the quaint barrack upon new and
stronger lines. This erection defied the waves successfully until its
demolition after the Skerryvore was finished.
Residence in this tower was eerie. The men climbed the ladder and
entered a small room, which served the purposes of kitchen, dining-room,
and parlour. It was barely 12 feet across—quarters somewhat cramped for
thirty men. When a storm was raging, the waves, as they combed over the
rock, shook the legs violently and scurried under the floor in seething foam.
Now and again a roller, rising higher than its fellows, broke upon the rock
and sent a mass of water against the flooring to hammer at the door. Above
the living-room were the sleeping-quarters, high and dry, save when a
shower of spray fell upon the roof and walls like heavy hail, and
occasionally percolated the joints of the woodwork. The men, however,

were not perturbed. Sleeping, even under such conditions, was far
preferable to doubtful rest in a bunk upon an attendant vessel, rolling and
pitching with the motion of the sea. They had had a surfeit of such
experience during the first season’s work, while the barrack was under
erection.

BARRA HEAD LIGHTHOUSE, SCOTLAND.
The tower is 60 feet in height, but owing to its position on the
cliffs, the white occulting light is 683 feet above high water, and
is visible 33 miles.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE HOMES OF THE KEEPERS OF THE
SKERRYVORE AND DHU-HEARTACH
LIGHTS.
On the Island of Tiree, Argyllshire, 10 miles away.

Yet the men could not grumble. The engineer responsible for the work
shared their privations and discomforts, for Alan Stevenson clung to the
rock night and day while work was in progress, and he has given a very
vivid impression of life in this quaint home on legs. He relates how he
“spent many a weary day and night—at those times when the sea prevented
anyone going down to the rock—anxiously looking for supplies from the
shore, and earnestly looking for a change of weather favourable for
prosecuting the works. For miles around nothing could be seen but white
foaming breakers, and nothing heard but howling winds and lashing waves.
At such seasons much of our time was spent in bed, for there alone we had
effectual shelter from the winds and spray, which searched every cranny in
the walls of the barrack. Our slumbers, too, were at times fearfully
interrupted by the sudden pouring of the sea over the roof, the rocking of
the house on its pillars, and the spurting of water through the seams of the
doors and windows—symptoms which, to one suddenly aroused from
sound sleep, recalled the appalling fate of the former barrack, which had
been engulfed in the foam not 20 yards from our dwelling, and for a
moment seemed to summon us to a similar fate.”

The work upon the rock was tedious and exasperating in the extreme.
The gneiss was of maddening hardness and obstinacy—“four times as
tough as Aberdeen granite” was the general opinion. The Atlantic, pounding
the rock continuously through the centuries, had faced it smoother than
could any mason with his tools, yet had not left it sufficiently sound to
receive the foundations. In the external layer, which the masons laboured
strenuously to remove with their puny tools, there were cracks and crevices
here and there. The stubborn rock played havoc with the finest chisels and
drills, and clearing had to be effected for the most part by the aid of
gunpowder. This powerful agent, however, could only be used sparingly
and with extreme skill, so that the rock-face might not be shivered or
shattered too severely. Moreover, the men ran extreme risks, for the rock
splintered like glass, and the flying chips were capable of doing as much
damage, when thus impelled, as a bullet.
While the foundations were being prepared, and until the barrack was
constructed, the men ran other terrible risks every morning and night in
landing upon and leaving the polished surface of the reef. Five months
during the summer was the working season, but even then many days and
weeks were often lost owing to the swell being too great to permit the
rowing-boat to come alongside. The engineer relates that the work was “a
good lesson in the school of patience,” because the delays were frequent
and galling, while every storm which got up and expended its rage upon the
reef left its mark indelibly among the engineer’s stock-in-trade. Cranes and
other material were swept away as if they were corks; lashings, no matter
how strong, were snapped like pack-threads. Time after time the tender
lying alongside had to weigh anchor hurriedly, and make a spirited run to its
haven at Tyree.
When the barrack was erected, the situation was eased somewhat, but
then the hours became long. Operations being confined to the summer
months, the average working day was from four in the morning until nine in
the evening—seventeen hours—with intervals for meals; but the men were
not averse to the prolonged daily toil, inasmuch as cessation brought no
welcome relaxations, but rather encouraged broodings over their isolated
position, whereas occupation served to keep the mind engaged. Twice the
men had severe frights during the night. On each occasion a violent storm
sprang up after they had gone to bed, and one or two ugly breakers, getting

their blows home, shook the eyrie with the force of an earthquake. Every
man leaped out of his bunk, and one or two of the more timid, in their
fright, hurried down the ladder and spent the remaining spell of darkness
shivering and quaking on the completed trunk of the lighthouse, deeming it
to be safer than the crazy-looking structure which served as their home.
Two years were occupied upon the foundations, the first stone being
laid by the Duke of Argyll on July 7, 1840. This eminent personage evinced
a deep interest in the work and the difficulties which had to be overcome,
and as proprietor of the island of Tyree extended to the Commissioners free
permission to quarry any granite they required from any part of his estate.
For a height of some 21 feet from the foundation level the tower is a
solid trunk of masonry. Then come the entrance and water-tanks, followed
by nine floors, comprising successively coal-store, workshop, storeroom,
kitchen, two bedrooms, library, oil-store, and light-room, the whole
occupying a height of 130 feet, crowned by the lantern. As a specimen of
lighthouse engineering, the Skerryvore has become famous throughout the
world. The stones forming the solid courses at the bottom are attached to
one another so firmly and ingeniously as to secure the maximum of strength
and solidity, the result being that nothing short of an earthquake could
overthrow the stalk of masonry.
The erection of the superstructure was by no means free from danger
and excitement. The working space both on the tower itself and around the
base was severely cramped. The men at the latter point had to keep a
vigilant eye upon those working above, since, despite the most elaborate
precautions, falls of tools and other heavy bodies were by no means
infrequent. Notwithstanding its perilous character, the undertaking was free
from accident and fatality, and, although the men were compelled by force
of circumstances to depend mostly upon salt foodstuffs, the little colony
suffered very slightly from the ravages of dysentery.
Probably the worst experience was when the men on the rock were
weather-bound for seven weeks during one season. The weather broke
suddenly. Heavy seas and adverse winds raged so furiously that the
steamboat dared not put out of its haven, but remained there with steam up,
patiently waiting for a lull in the storm, during which they might succour
the unfortunate men on the reef. The latter passed a dreary, pitiable time.

Their provisions sank to a very low level, they ran short of fuel, their
sodden clothing was worn to rags, and, what was far worse from their point
of view, their tobacco became exhausted. The average working man will
tolerate extreme discomfort and privation so long as the friendship of his
pipe remains, but the denial of this companion comes as the last straw.
The lantern is of special design, and is one of the most powerful around
the Scottish coasts. It is of the revolving class, reaching its brightest state
once every minute, and may be seen from the deck of a vessel eighteen
miles away. Six years were occupied in the completion of the work, and, as
may be imagined, the final touches were welcomed with thankfulness by all
those who had been concerned in the enterprise. The tower contains 4,308
tons of granite, and the total cost was £86,977, or $434,885, rendering it
one of the costliest in the world. This sum, however, included the purchase
of the steam-vessel which now attends the lighthouse, and the construction
of the little harbour at Hynish.
The lighthouse-keepers live on the island of Tyree, where are provided
substantial, spacious, single-floor, masonry dwellings with gardens
attached. This is practically a small colony in itself, inasmuch as the
accommodation includes, not only that for the keepers of the Skerryvore,
but for the guardians of the Dhu-Heartach light as well.

CHAPTER VIII

THE LONELY LIGHTS OF SCOTLAND

Barren ruggedness, ragged reefs, and towering cliffs form an apt
description of the north and west coasts of Scotland, and he is a prudent
navigator who acknowledges the respect which these shores demand, by
giving them a wide berth. The Norwegian coast is serrated, the island of
Newfoundland may be likened to the battered edge of a saw, but Scotland is
unique in its formation. The coastline is torn and tattered by bays and firths,
with scattered outlying ramparts. The captain of a “tramp” who has sailed
the seven seas once confessed to me that no stretch of coastline ever gave
him the shivers so badly as the stretch of shore between Duncansby Head
and the Mull of Kintyre.
Certainly a ship “going north about” is menaced every mile of her way
between these two points unless she takes a very circuitous course. If the
weather conditions are favourable and daylight prevails, the North of
Britain may be rounded through the narrow strait washing the mainland and
the Orkney Islands, but the Pentland Firth is not an attractive short-cut. The
ships that run between Scandinavian ports and North America naturally
follow this route, as it is several hundred miles shorter than that via the
North Sea and English Channel; but they keep a sharp eye on the weather
and are extremely cautious. When the Pentland Firth is uninviting, they may
either choose the path between the Orkneys and the Shetlands, or, to
eliminate every element of risk, may stand well out to sea, and round the
most northern stretches of the Shetlands. These are lonely seas,
comparatively speaking, and yet are well lighted. Although a wicked rock
lies in the centre of the eastern entrance to the Pentland channel, it is
indicated by the Pentland Skerries light. When the mariner in his wisdom
pushes still farther north, he falls within the glare of the rays thrown from

the beacon near Muckle Flugga. This is the northernmost point of the
British Islands, and it is truly forbidding. The rock lies three-quarters of a
mile off the Shetland Islands, and is a huge fang, sheering to a height of 196
feet above high-water. On the side facing north it rears up so abruptly that it
appears to lean over, while on the opposite side it is almost as steep.
The majority of lighthouses have been called into existence by the
claims of commerce purely and simply. But it was not so with the North
Unst lighthouse, as the beacon crowning this pinnacle is called. War was
responsible for its creation, though probably sooner or later the
requirements of peace would have brought about a similar result. While the
armies of France and Britain were fighting the Russians in the Crimea, the
British fleet was hovering about these waters, watching the mouth of the
Baltic, so as to frustrate any attempts on the part of the Russian fleet to dash
around the northern coast of Scotland. In those days these lonely seas were
badly lighted, and the Admiralty realized only too well the many perils to
which the warships were exposed while cruising about the pitiless coasts of
the Orkneys and Shetlands. Accordingly, the department called upon the
Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses to mark Muckle Flugga. Time was
everything, and the engineers were urged to bring a temporary light into
operation with the least delay.
The engineers hurriedly evolved a tower which would meet the
Government needs. It was thought that the extreme height of the rock would
lend itself to the erection of a building which, while possible of early
completion, would be adequate for subsequent purposes. The materials for
the light, together with a lantern, and a second building for the storage of
the oil and other requisites, were shipped northward from Glasgow.
Simultaneously the engineers, with another small gang of men who had
already reached the rock, pushed on with the preliminary preparations, so
that when the constructional vessel arrived erection might go ahead
straightforwardly and rapidly.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE DHU-HEARTACH LIGHTHOUSE.
To the left is the lower part of the temporary structure in which the builders lived while erection
was in progress.

The engineers tried the rock from all sides to find a safe landing. This
was no light matter, owing to the steepness of the slope even upon the
easiest face of the pinnacle. The attempt represented a mild form of
mountaineering, for the sea had battered away the projection of the lower-
lying levels, and the men found it trying to effect a foothold, even in
stepping from the boat on to the rock. They had to climb hand over hand up
the precipice, with life-lines round their waists, taking advantage of every
narrow ledge. With infinite labour they gained the summit, and then they
found that there was just sufficient space, and no more, upon which to plant
the lighthouse buildings.
The top was cleared quickly, and then the advance party set to work to
improve the landing-place on the south side of the rock for the reception of
the building materials. A small site was prepared with great difficulty, as the
tough rock offered a stern resistance to the chisels, drills, and wedges; while
in addition the men had to cut steps in the flank of the rock to facilitate the
ascent to the site.

On September 14, 1854, the constructional vessel Pharos hove in sight,
and, the weather being favourable, the landing of the material was hurried
forward. The men had to become pack-animals for the time, carrying the
loads on their backs. In this manner they tramped laboriously up and down
the cliff-face with material and stores of all descriptions. The heavier and
bulkier parts were hauled up by rope and tackle, a few feet at a time, and
this task was quite as exacting. In all, 120 tons were conveyed to the top of
the crag. Construction was hastened just as feverishly, and on October 11,
1854, twenty-six days after the Pharos anchored off Muckle Flugga, the
North Unst light shone out for the first time. This is probably one of the
most brilliant exploits that has ever been consummated in connection with
lighthouse engineering, the merit of which is additionally impressive from
the fact that almost everything had to be accomplished by manual effort.
While the light was admittedly of a temporary character, the
importance of the outpost had been appreciated, and it was determined to
erect a permanent light upon the rock for the guidance of those who
compass the North of Scotland in order to pass from and to the North
Atlantic. It was decided to commence the permanent masonry building the
following year, and a gang of men volunteered to stay behind on the rock
throughout the winter to complete all the essential preparations for the
foundations. Accommodation was available for this staff in a substantial
iron shelter, in which they made themselves comfortable for the winter.
But it is during this season that the winds from the north, lashing the
sea to fury, create huge rollers which thunder upon the base of the pinnacle
to crawl up its perpendicular face in the form of broken water and spray.
The men standing on the brink often watched these rollers, but never for a
moment thought that one would be able to leap to a height of nearly 200
feet and sweep over the rock. The December gales dispelled this illusion
very convincingly. One morning the workmen, while breakfasting in their
warm shelter, received a big surprise. A terrific blow struck the door, which
flew open as if hit by a cannon-ball. It was followed instantly by a three-
foot wall of water. The broken wave rushed round the apartment, seething
and foaming, and then out again. The workmen were dumbfounded, but had
scarcely recovered from the shock when another roll of water came
crashing in and gave the apartment another thorough flushing out. One of
the Scottish workmen vouchsafed the remark that the man responsible for

cleaning the floors that day would be spared his job, but he was silenced
when, a few seconds later, another angry sheet of water dropped on the roof
of the building and threatened to smash it in.

THE NORTH UNST, BRITAIN’S MOST NORTHERLY LIGHT.
The tower is perched on the top of a precipitous crag, the light being 260 feet above the sea.
Despite this height, the waves often dash over the lantern.

The closing month of that year was particularly boisterous. Time after
time when the sea rose, the lighthouse tower was drenched in water. One
might think it impossible that a wave could get up sufficient impetus to
mount a height of 200 feet; but this experience offered conclusive testimony
to the contrary and to the immense power of the waves when they have an
uninterrupted run over several hundred miles of open ocean.
In a way, the terrifying experience of these marooned workmen was
invaluable. They reported the bare facts to the engineers upon the first
opportunity, and this intelligence brought about a revision in the designs for
the permanent masonry structure.

The present North Unst lighthouse is a massive masonry building,
standing in the centre of the small flat space on the top of the pinnacle, with
heavy masonry walls bounding it on all sides. The tower is 64 feet in height,
while the red and white light may be seen from a distance of twenty-one
miles in clear weather. That the winter storms of 1854 were by no means
exceptional has been proved up to the hilt on several occasions since. When
the nor’-wester is roused thoroughly, the breaking waves curl up the cliff
and rush over the lantern. Such a climb of 260 feet conveys a compelling
notion of the force of the sea. The weight of the water thrown into the air
has threatened to overthrow the massive boundary walls, while now and
again the invader leaves tangible evidences of its power by smashing the
windows of the lantern. Upon one occasion it burst open the heavy door,
which weighs the best part of a ton.
The light-station is served by four keepers, two on duty simultaneously,
their homes being on the island of Unst, four miles away. For the
conveyance of water, fuel, provisions, and other requirements, from the
landing-stage to the lighthouse 200 feet above, an inclined railway has been
provided on the easier slope, so that the men are no longer called upon to
pack their provisions, like mules, from the water-level up a steep cliff, as
was formerly required.
Rounding these island dangers, the navigator picks up the light of Cape
Wrath, glimmering from a height of 370 feet above the water-level and
standing at the western corner of the rectangular head of the Scottish
mainland. Going south, he has two passages available—the inner, which
extends through the Minches and inside the Hebrides; or the outer, which
lies beyond the latter rampart. In making the outer passage he comes within
range of the light shining from the summit of a lonely group of rocks
standing some twenty-two miles out to sea off the Isle of Lewis. These are
the Flannen Islands, or Seven Hunters, one of many similar lonely Scottish
stations. The tower is mounted upon the crown of one of the highest points,
and the white group-flashing light is visible over a radius of twenty-four
miles. Farther south the seafarer picks up and drops the Monach Islands
light, likewise lying out in the Atlantic, some ten miles from the nearest
land. Finally, rounding Barra Head, the most southerly point of the reef
lying off Barra Island, the light from which is cast 580 feet above the water
owing to the height of the cliff, the vessel slips into a huge indentation,

where isolated rocks peep above the Atlantic, one of the most dangerous of
which is indicated by the Skerryvore lighthouse.
I have described the Skerryvore light in the previous chapter; but
nineteen and a half miles to the south-east of the latter is another reef, just
as exposed, which is as perilous in every respect. Indeed, it may be said to
constitute a greater menace to the navigation of these waters, since it lies in
the cross-roads of the entrance to the Irish Channel, the Firth of the Clyde,
and the Minches. A powerful light mounts guard on the Rhins of Islay,
twenty-seven miles due south, but between the latter and Skerryvore there
are forty-three miles of coast, as dangerous as the mariner could wish to
avoid, with this rock looming up almost halfway.
This peril is the Dhu-Heartach, lying out to sea in deep water, fourteen
miles from the nearest point of the mainland. The physical configuration of
the sea-bed at this point is somewhat similar to that prevailing at
Skerryvore. The Ross of Mull tumbles abruptly into the Atlantic, to
reappear out to sea in the form of the Torrin Rocks, which run for a distance
of four and a half miles in the direction of Dhu-Heartach. Then the reef
comes to a sudden stop, to be seen once more, nine miles farther out, in the
rounded hump of Dhu-Heartach, this being practically the outermost point
of the ridge. Being so isolated and projecting so suddenly from deep water,
this ledge claimed many victims among the vessels frequenting these
unlighted waters. The Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses were
assailed for not marking the danger spot in some form or other. The
authorities, however, were fully alive to the need of such protection, but it
was not until 1867 that they were able to proceed with the erection of a
lighthouse.
The situation is peculiar, and the engineers, Messrs. D. and T.
Stevenson, were faced with a somewhat perplexing problem recalling those
which had arisen in conjunction with the Skerryvore, not far distant. Indeed,
the Dhu-Heartach undertaking might very well be described as a repetition
of those struggles, with a few more difficulties of a different character
thrown in. The rock itself in reality is a series of islets, or hummocks,
surrounding the main hump, which is 240 feet in length by 130 feet in
breadth, the highest point of the rounded top being 35 feet above high-water
at ordinary spring-tides. On all sides the lead marks very deep water, the
result being that in times of storm and tempest the rollers of the Atlantic,

having a “fetch” of some 3,000 miles or more, thunder upon it with terrific
force, the broken water leaping high into the air. It is very seldom that the
rock can be approached even in a small boat and with a calm sea, as the
hump is invariably encircled in a scarf of ugly surf. The swell strikes the
western face of the rock, is divided, flows round the northern and southern
ends of the obstruction, and reunites on the eastern side. Consequently the
rock is nearly always a centre of disturbance.
The distance of the rock from the mainland complicated the issue very
materially. A suitable site had to be prepared on shore as a base, where the
stones could be prepared for shipment, while a special steam-tender was
necessary to run to and fro. The handling of the workmen had to be carried
out upon the lines which were adopted at Skerryvore—namely, the erection
of a barrack upon a skeleton framework on the rock, where the men might
be left safely for days or weeks at a time. The shore station selected was at
Earraid, on the neighbouring island of Mull, because it was the nearest
strategical point to the work, and because ample supplies of first-class
granite were available in the immediate vicinity, the proprietor, the Duke of
Argyll, as in the previous instance, facilitating the work as far as possible.
The authority to commence operations was given on March 11, 1867,
and this year was devoted to completing preparations, so that in the
following season work might be started in earnest and carried on throughout
the summer at high pressure. The first task was the erection of the barrack
on the rock. The workmen got ashore for the first time on June 25, 1867,
and, although landing at all times was trying and perilous, attempts often
having to be abandoned owing to the swell, the engineer succeeded in
landing twenty-seven times up to September 3, when work had to be
suspended until the following year. Despite the shortness of the season, the
men made appreciable headway. The iron framework of the barrack was
completed to the first tier, while a good beginning was made upon the rock-
face in connection with the foundations for the lighthouse. When the
autumnal gales approached, everything in connection with the barrack was
left secure, the builders being anxious to ascertain how it would weather the
winter gales and the force and weight of the waves which bore down upon
it.
The engineers finally decided upon a tower 107½ feet in height. After
trying various curves for the outline, they came to the decision that a

parabolic frustum would afford the most serviceable design, as well as
providing the maximum of strength. A diameter of 36 feet was chosen for
the base, tapering gradually and gracefully to one of 16 feet at the top, with
the entrance 32 feet above the base, to which point the cone was to be solid.
The arrangements were that work should be resumed in the early spring
of 1868, so as to secure full advantage of the favourable easterly winds.
Accordingly, when the special steam-tender arrived on April 14, she was
loaded up with necessaries and men, ready to proceed to the site directly the
wind should veer round to the desired point of the compass. But with
aggravating persistency it clung to the west and south-west until the end of
June, so that many valuable weeks were unfortunately lost. Time after time,
when there was a lull in the weather, the steamer put out from Earraid, the
engineers determined to make a dash for the rock, and as many times they
were foiled, as the men could not be got through the surf. One day,
however, an hour and a half was snatched on the rock, and, although no
work could be done in that time, yet the interval was sufficient to enable the
engineers to take a look round and to see how their handiwork had
withstood the heavy gales of the previous winter. There was only one
marked evidence of the Atlantic’s wrath. One section of the iron ring
connecting the heads of the legs of the barrack at a height of 30 feet had
been carried away.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE NORTH UNST LIGHT.
The first light was built in twenty-six days during the Crimean War
at the British Government’s urgent request.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

LANDING WATER AT THE NORTH UNST.
Showing tramway connecting with tower, 200 feet above.

On June 29 the wind moderated sufficiently to enable the men to be
landed, but the climatic conditions remained adverse. The wind refused to
swing round to the east; a westerly swell was the luck day after day. The
engineers had to dodge the ocean as best they could, and some idea of the
handicap under which they laboured may be gathered from the fact that
only four landings were made during the sixty-one days of May and June.
July enabled the greatest number of landings to be effected—thirteen; while
during August and September the men only gained the rock on twenty-one
occasions, making a total of thirty-eight landings in the course of 153 days.
During this interrupted season, however, the barrack was completed. It
was a massive structure, and resembled a huge iron barrel secured endwise
upon an intricate arrangement of stilts which were heavily stayed and tied
together by diagonals and cross-members. In the two previous instances
where a similar arrangement had been adopted the temporary dwelling had
been wrought in wood, but on this occasion the engineers decided to adopt
iron, as they concluded that a wooden structure would not fare well against
the heavy seas. This was a fortunate decision, because, as subsequent
experience proved, a wooden barrack would have received very short shrift
from the Atlantic breakers; in fact, probably it would have gone down with
the first sou’-wester. The iron barrack, as the workmen narrated, was
pounded and battered by the waves most unmercifully; but although it
suffered at times, quivering and shaking under the terrific impacts, it
weathered all the onslaughts.
One interesting incident serves to illustrate the perils to which the
workmen were exposed. A date had been set down when all the men were to
be brought off the rock for the season, as the approach of the equinox
rendered further toil extremely doubtful, and there was no intention of
unduly imperilling them. The engineer’s resident representative, Mr.
Alexander Brebner, went out to the rock on August 20, the day fixed for the
suspension of operations, to inspect the progress that had been made and to
have a last look round. At the time of his arrival the weather was beautifully
calm, and held out every promise of remaining settled for several days. As
the season had been so adverse, he decided, on his own responsibility, to
delay the cessation of toil, so, with the thirteen men, he remained on the
rock, determined to make up leeway somewhat while the weather held out.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE FLANNEN ISLANDS LIGHT STATION.
One of Scotland’s lonely beacons. It marks a group of islets 15 miles off the Hebrides. In
1900 the three keepers mysteriously disappeared, and their fate remains unsolved to this day.

But the resident paid the penalty for his disobedience. The little party
retired that night with the stars shining brilliantly overhead from a cloudless
sky, and with the sea like a mirror. In the middle of the night one and all
were roused suddenly from their slumbers. The wind was roaring, and the
breakers were hammering upon the rock, while the foam and surf rushed
violently between the legs of the barracks. When the men looked out they
were confronted with a terrifying spectacle. The night was black as pitch,
but the sea white as a snow-covered plain, from the crests of the rollers and
the surf playing on and around the rocks. A furious gale had sprung up with
the characteristic suddenness of the Atlantic, and was already raging. The
next morning no one dared to venture outside the iron home, while the gale,
instead of abating, appeared to be increasing in fury. For five days the men
were held fast, and at times their fears got the better of them. This was
particularly the case when, now and again, a more than ugly wave got up,

rolled over the rock, and crashed with full force against the barrack. The
building shook and trembled fearfully, but its legs were driven too deeply
into the rock for it to be overturned, while the cross-bracing was too
intricate for the legs to be snapped off. Again and again the men were
plunged into darkness, as a wall of water rushed right over the drum,
notwithstanding that the roof was 77 feet above high-water.
Their fears rose almost to frenzy when a breaker, leaping the rock,
drove full tilt against the floor of the barrack. In this upward rush of 55 feet
the building suffered. The men’s entrance to the home was by means of a
heavy hatch, or trapdoor, which was bolted securely upon the inside. This
particular comber burst in the hatch as if it were no thicker than the wood of
a matchbox, flooding the whole compartment.
Meantime the engineer-in-chief at Edinburgh had heard of the incident.
He had given strict instructions that the men should be brought off on
August 20, and when the intelligence was communicated to him that his
order had been disobeyed, and that his men were in serious straits, he
became distracted. He knew only too well how the waves bombard Dhu-
Heartach. Mr. David Stevenson related to me how his father paced the
offices during the day, and his own home at night, unable to drown his
thoughts in work or sleep. His worry was intensified as the true character of
the gale came to his ears. He had planned everything with such care that
neither life nor limb of a single workman need be jeopardized, and here he
was confronted with the possibility of losing fourteen men at one stroke!
The iron barrack, although staunchly constructed, was just as likely as not
to succumb to the full brunt of a very vicious sou’-wester, so there was
every excuse for his anxiety. He gave orders that the steam-tender was to
stand by with steam raised, so as to make a dash for the rock upon the first
opportunity. No one had a moment’s peace until at last the news came
through that the steam-tender had been out to the rock, and with much
difficulty had got hold of the fourteen men and brought them ashore,
somewhat scared and bearing evidences of their experience, but unharmed.
Mr. Stevenson told me that he could not quite say which was worse—the
distracted wanderings of his father, or the expression of his pent-up feelings
when he met the unfortunate resident a few days later, who was taken
severely to task for his flagrant breach of orders, whereby the lives of the
workmen had been imperilled so unnecessarily.

The year 1869 was kinder to the engineers, and great headway was
made. The men were able to make their first landing on the rock as early as
March 25, and it was accessible up to October 29, when all forces withdrew
from the scene for the winter. During this period sixty landings were
effected, while heavy supplies of masonry and other materials were shipped
to the site. The masons took up their permanent residence in the barrack on
April 26, and did not leave it until September 3, while they were able to
squeeze in 113 days of toil, with a welcome rest from their labours on
Sundays. The excavations for the foundations were completed speedily, and
on June 24 the erection of the tower was commenced. The stones were
brought ready for setting in position, and were laid so rapidly that by the
end of the month two courses were completed and the third had been well
advanced. Then came a temporary setback. A blusterous summer gale
sprang up, and the sea, after assaulting the rock for two days, succeeded in
leaving its mark. The crane and other tackle at the landing-stage were
washed away, while fourteen stones laid in the third course were uprooted,
of which eleven were seen no more. The water in this case had to leap
upwards for 35½ feet, while the stones which it carried away weighed 2
tons apiece, and were firmly joggled, so that the wrench which displaced
them must have been terrific indeed.
If a summer gale could wreak such damage, what was the dreaded
equinox likely to achieve? The engineers were so much impressed that they
thereupon made assurance doubly sure by effecting a modification of the
original plans. When the work was commenced, it was intended to take the
solid part of the tower up to a height of 52 feet 10 inches above high-water.
The effects of this summer gale induced them to continue the solid section a
further 11½ feet, so that the entrance level is 64 feet 4 inches above high-
water mark. The result is that the solid base of the Dhu-Heartach tower
weighs no less than 1,840 tons—more than one-half the total weight of the
structure—and is executed throughout in massive blocks of grey granite.
The tower contains six floors above the entrance hall, these, on
ascending the spiral staircase, being as follows: oil-store, kitchen,
provision-store, bedroom, dry-room, and light-room. The masonry part of
the work was completed by the end of the season of 1871, and the first-
order dioptric, fixed, white light was exhibited on November 1, 1872. The
focal plane, being 145 feet above the water-level, has a range of eighteen

nautical miles. The total cost of the work was £76,084, or $380,420, of
which sum the shore station was responsible for £10,300, or $51,500.
The ocean made an attempt to defeat the workmanship and skill of the
engineers in the very winter following the opening of the lighthouse. On the
lee side of the tower there is a copper lightning-conductor, 1 inch thick by
1½ inches wide, which is let into a channel cut in the stonework, so that it
comes flush with the face of the building. This conductor is fixed at
intervals of 5 feet in a substantial manner. The winter storms of 1872 tore
some 10 feet out of this channel near the base of the structure, and
wrenched the screws from their sockets; while at the kitchen window level,
which is 92 feet above high-water, the rod was similarly disturbed for some
distance. It will be seen that the waves which assail Dhu-Heartach are by no
means to be despised.

CHAPTER IX

THE FASTNET, THE OUTPOST OF EUROPE

Four and a half miles out to sea, separated from Cape Clear, the most
south-westerly point of Ireland, by a treacherous channel, rises the jagged,
formidable shape of the Fastnet. To mariners the rock, with its brilliant shaft
of light by night, has developed into more than a mere beacon. It is the first
and last light of the Old World on the eastward and westward passages
across the Atlantic. All passing vessels are “spoken” from this point to
London, New York, and elsewhere.
It was in the early fifties of the past century that the engineer conceived
the idea of planting a light upon this lonely crag. Maritime interests had
agitated for a beacon for many years previously, since, although a warning
gleam was thrown from the station on Cape Clear, this ray often was
invisible, or partially obscured, owing to the wreaths of cloud and mist
which draped the summit of the headland. The builder was Mr. George
Halpin, engineer to the Port of Dublin Corporation, which was responsible
at that time for the illumination of the shores of Ireland.
His task was not to be despised. The Fastnet itself is merely a pinnacle,
rising precipitously to a height of about 100 feet above low-water, but it is
the centre of many dangers. It is flanked on all sides by needle-points and
ridges; the currents run strongly, and the tides are wicked, rendering
approach uncertain even in the smoothest weather.
The indefatigable engineer attacked his task boldly. He chose the
highest point of the rock as the site for his tower, which was a cast-iron
cylindrical building, 91 feet in height. The lantern was equipped with a
revolving apparatus which threw a flash of 38,000 candle-power for fifteen
seconds once every two minutes from an elevation of 148 feet, rotation

being obtained through a belt and a weight-driven clock. Its erection was a
tedious undertaking; although a start was made in 1848, it was not until
January 1, 1854, that the light first cast its welcome rays over the wastes of
the Atlantic, by which time £20,000, or $100,000, had been spent upon the
undertaking.

From the “Scientific American.”

BUILDING THE FASTNET ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.
Looking down from the top of the rock upon the men setting one of the solid masonry
courses.

For ten years Halpin’s work successfully defied the elements, although
at times the keepers grew somewhat apprehensive concerning its stability.
Time after time, during heavy gales, it seemed as if it must succumb to the
storm. The waves curled up the cliff and struck the tower with staggering
force, causing it to tremble like a leaf. On one occasion a cup of coffee
standing upon the table was thrown to the floor. While the shaft defied the
most severe poundings, the cliff itself gave way, and large masses of rock

on which the tower stood were carried away. One huge chunk, weighing
some 3 tons, was detached, and, as it slipped down, was picked up by the
next incoming wave, to be hurled with terrific force against the tower, but
without inflicting any marked damage. On another occasion a cask
containing 60 gallons of fresh water, which the keepers had made fast to the
railing of the gallery surrounding the lantern, 133 feet above the water, was
wrenched free by a wave which dashed over the rock, and was swept away
as if it were an empty tin. The keepers’ anxiety under these circumstances
may be understood.
At last, in April, 1865, the consulting engineer to the Corporation
visited the lighthouse in company with Mr. George Stevenson, the famous
Scottish lighthouse builder, to examine the rock thoroughly. The latter
suggested certain recommendations to insure the stability of the tower; but
when the sanction of the Brethren of Trinity House was sought, they
deferred a decision until their own engineer had visited the works, although
they appreciated Mr. Stevenson’s advice.
Some of the recommendations advanced by Mr. Stevenson were
followed subsequently, and this reluctant recognition of his knowledge
brought its reward. The authorities—now the Commissioners of Irish Lights
—had a fright in 1881. The storms of that winter were among the heaviest
that have ever assailed the British Islands. The Calf Rock light, which was a
similar tower to the Fastnet, and which had been strengthened upon
identical lines, came to grief. The tower was broken off at the point where
the reinforcement ceased. This disaster naturally aroused many misgivings
concerning the luck of the Fastnet. Had it shared a similar fate during the
same gale? To their intense relief, the Commissioners found that it had
issued from the conflict with no more injuries than a few broken panes of
glass.
The tower withstood the attacks of wind and wave successfully until
1891, when the Commissioners came to the conclusion that it was time the
Fastnet light was improved, to meet the requirements of the busier
mercantile traffic passing the point. Accordingly, Mr. William Douglass, the
engineer to the Commissioners, recommended a new tower, fitted with the
latest form of illumination, so as to bring it into line with the other leading
lights of the world. He advocated a tower of masonry with the focal plane at
an elevation of 159 feet; the shaft, 147 feet high, springing from a position

6 inches below high-water, with a diameter at the base of 42 feet. The cost
of the light was estimated at £70,000 or $350,000.
One cannot help admiring the daring of the engineer, since he declined
to be assisted by the rock summit in his purpose. Instead he preferred the
ledge of a chasm on the hardest part of the rock below high-tide, and
directly exposed to the full force of the sea. He maintained that such a
tower, planted on this shelf, would receive the force of the heaviest seas
before they rose to their full height; also by building the base of the tower in
the form of steps, as in the case of a breakwater, an excellent buffer would
be offered to the rollers.

BUILDING THE FASTNET
TOWER.
Showing derrick for setting the stones into
position.

The “Scientific American.”

ERECTING THE FASTNET
LANTERN.
This illustration gives a striking idea of its height.

The new design came at an opportune moment. Another inspection of
the existing tower by Mr. C. W. Scott, the present engineer-in-chief to the
Commissioners, revealed a parlous state of affairs. Halpin’s building was on
the verge of collapse. Many of the plates in the upper stories had worked
loose under the poundings inflicted by the seas, and in many instances the
bolts holding the fabric together were sheared. Repairs had to be made
hastily to enable the old tower to hold out until the new lighthouse was
erected.
Before the work was commenced, the designer, as a result of further
investigation, decided to increase the diameter of his tower to 52 feet at the
base. The lowest courses did not comprise complete rings of masonry, but
were anchored at the points where the circle was broken into the face of the
cliff, so as to form an integral part thereof, as it were. The depth of this
partial ringwork is 26 feet, at which level the first complete ring of masonry

was laid. Thenceforward the tower is solid throughout its thickness for a
further height of 30 feet, except for a central circular space forming the
water-tank, which holds 3,250 gallons of water. From this point the
masonry structure rises gracefully to a height of 881/8 feet to the lantern
gallery. The lighthouse is divided into eight floors, affording living-rooms
for the keepers, storerooms for oil, fog-signals, provisions, coal, etc.
The lighthouse, the landing-stage, and other appurtenances, are
executed in Cornish granite throughout. The blocks were fashioned from
picked stone of fine, close, hard grain, and ranged up to 4 and 5 tons in
weight. The method of construction followed the approved lines of to-day,
in which each stone is dovetailed into its neighbour, above, below, and on
either side. As the stones were cut and fitted in the Cornish quarries, they
were set up and fitted course by course. Then, when they had met the
approbation of the engineer deputed for this duty, they were numbered and
given other identification marks, so that upon reaching the base at Rock
Island, upon the Irish mainland, within easy reach of the Fastnet, they could
be despatched in rotation to the site, to be set in position.
It was in August, 1896, that the first little squad of labourers landed on
the Fastnet, under the superintendence of James Kavanagh, a first-class all-
round mason—one of those men who occupy a unique position when
emergency calls. He was just the type of foreman that the task demanded,
careful, daring, a hard worker, zealous, dauntless. Once he had landed on
the rock to prepare the foundations, he seldom left it; and, what is more,
every stone constituting the tower was well and truly laid by his own hand.
It was indeed unfortunate that Kavanagh, after his momentous round of toil
was over, should be stricken down with apoplexy, to which he succumbed,
after virtually years of imprisonment upon an ill-famed rock, facing
discomforts and privations of all descriptions, and seizing every opportunity
to drive the task forward. It was as if Nature, baffled in her efforts to
circumvent the work of human ingenuity, had taken revenge upon the man
who had laboured mightily to complete her subjection.
Kavanagh took with him upon the rock a small boiler and steam-winch,
which he set up without delay, to land both workmen and necessaries. He
lost no time in cutting away at the toe of the cliff, to admit the first partial
ring of stones. It was a ding-dong battle between the masons and the sea for
the first few rounds. The men toiled heroically with their chisels between

the coming of the rollers, with one eye on the water and the other on a
handy life-line, which they grabbed when the Atlantic endeavoured to steal
a march upon them. On some days splendid progress was made; on others
the masons never drove the chisels once into the rock-face.
Landing was an exciting experience in itself. The tender, naturally,
could not draw right in, owing to the swell and other dangers. She stood off
a little way, and there anchored. When men were coming to or going from
the rock, the rope was run out from the derrick. To this was attached a kind
of double stirrup, not unlike a child’s swing. The men took up their position,
two at a time, on these stirrups, standing face to face. At the command,
“Lower away!” or “Heave ho!” the derrick winch commenced to grunt and
rattle, and the men were whisked into mid-air, clutching tightly to their frail,
cramped hold, and steadied in their aerial journey by another rope
extending to the rowing-boat below. It was an exciting trip while it lasted,
and at first glimpse appeared to be dangerous, so much so that on one or
two occasions the courage of raw hands broke down at the last moment, and
they hesitated to trust themselves to such a flimsy-looking vehicle.
Bringing the stones ashore was even more difficult. It was imperative
that the edges and corners of the blocks should be protected from blows
which might chip and scar them, thereby impairing their true fit, and
possibly allowing the sea to get a purchase in its efforts to destroy.
Accordingly, the blocks were packed in skeleton crates, with substantial
wooden battens completely protecting the vital parts. It was impossible to
swing them singly direct through the air from steamer to rock, and it was
inadvisable to transfer them first to a rowing-boat; so an ingenious
alternative method was perfected. The tender was brought as near the rock
as possible, and the derrick boom was swung out, so that a hook carried at
the end of the rope could be attached to the stone, which rested on rollers
upon the tender’s deck leading to an open doorway in the taffrail. When the
rope was secured, the word was given to haul in the derrick rope slowly and
gently. This brought the stone gradually to the vessel’s side, when it was
permitted to fall into the water where it could suffer no injury. The derrick
rope meanwhile was wound in, and the stone, still submerged, at last
brought to rest against the side of the tower.
A vertical series of wooden battens had been attached to the outside of
the building, so as to form a slide up which the blocks could be hauled to

the required level. Of course, as the tower increased in height, the latter part
of the operation had to be varied, owing to the concave curve of the
structure. Then the stone had to complete its final stage through the air,
being steadied in its ascent by a rope held below to prevent it swinging and
coming to grief against the completed part of the shaft. In this manner 2,074
stones, representing a dead-weight of 4,633 tons, were landed and set in
position.
Work was painfully slow and tedious at times, owing to adverse
weather. Although the men on the rock were condemned inevitably to
periods of idleness, they were made as comfortable as conditions would
permit, so as to remove any longing on their part to return to the mainland
for a change. This was a necessary precaution. Although the men might
leave the rock in perfectly calm weather, the Atlantic is so fickle that an
interval of two or three hours was quite sufficient to permit the wind to
freshen, and the swell to grow restive, to such a degree as to render a return
to the rock impossible for several days. Owing to the cramped nature of the
quarters on the rock, elaborate care had to be exercised to protect the men
from the ravages of disease. The toilers had to board themselves, and the
authorities demanded that each man should maintain a fortnight’s reserve
supply of provisions upon the rock to tide him over a spell of bad weather.
This rule was enforced very rigidly, any infringement of it being attended
with instant dismissal. For emergency purposes the Commissioners
maintained a small stock of salt beef, pork, tinned meats, tea, sugar, milk,
biscuits, and so forth, on the rock, from which the men could replenish their
larders. The foreman acted as a kind of medical officer of health, as well as
fulfilling his other duties. He was supplied with a ship’s medicine-chest,
plenty of bandages, liniment, and antiseptics, in case of accident. At five
o’clock every morning the men were compelled to tumble out of their
bunks, to indulge in a thorough wash, to turn their bedding into the air when
the weather was agreeable, and to wash out their quarters. The strictest
supervision was maintained over matters pertaining to sanitation, and,
thanks to these elaborate precautions, cases of sickness were very few.
Extreme care was observed in the building operations, so that no
workman might be exposed to any unnecessary risks, although the task at
times bristled with unavoidable perils. As a matter of fact, the whole
enterprise was attended by only three accidents on the rock. One man was

cutting a tram-rail, when a piece of steel flew into one eye, completely
blinding it. Another suffered a similar calamity from a chip of stone while
quarrying. The third man met misfortune while at work at the windlass of
the derrick. As a breaker rolled in, his companion dropped his handle, with
the result that the other workman was knocked down and had one leg
broken. There was a true Hibernian flavour about this last-named accident,
in keeping with the setting in which it occurred. The man was incapacitated
for some months, and then brought an action for compensation, claiming
that he had been rendered unfit for any further manual labour. The
sympathetic court solaced him with an award of £350, or $1,750. The
amazement and disgust of the engineer may be imagined when, three
months after the action, he suddenly espied the supposedly totally
incapacitated workman assisting in the transference of coal from a barge to
the tender!

By courtesy of the “Scientific American.”

THE FASTNET, THE OUTPOST OF
EUROPE.
On the top of the rock is the first light, opened in 1854. At the side
is the present noble tower, completed in 1906. The flashing
beam of 750,000 candle-power has a range of 20 miles.

As the tower grew above the existing building, which it was to exceed
in height, it obscured the light thrown from the latter in a certain direction.
At this juncture, accordingly, a temporary scaffolding was erected upon the

summit of the new shaft, on which were rigged two ordinary lightship
lights, and these were kept going until the new lantern was completed. The
last stone was set on June 3, 1903, after some four years’ labour.
During the winter everything was brought virtually to a standstill,
owing to the succession of gales, but the men on the rock never missed an
opportunity to advance the undertaking. Kavanagh, the foreman, absolutely
refused to go ashore so long as any work could be completed. Often he
remained on the Fastnet the whole year round, and never was away for
more than two months in the year, when work was impossible. Other
workmen, when they had lived down the first feelings of loneliness, became
imbued with the same spirit, and appeared loth to forsake the scene of their
labours even for a day or two. When the men settled down to their toil, it
was very seldom that a wish was expressed to be taken ashore more than
once in three months.
The lantern was undertaken directly the stonework was completed. The
landing of this apparatus was an exciting task, for, the season being
advanced, it was decided to run unusual risks, lest the rock should become
unapproachable. It was accomplished successfully, and the various parts
were stored on the rock in what was considered a safe place. The weather
looked fine and gave no signs of breaking; yet two hours after all had been
inspected and secured for the night a terrific gale sprang up, and the rock
was enveloped in water, which dashed right over it. The waves caught some
of the lantern apparatus and smashed it; other parts were carried away and
never seen again. This was an unexpected catastrophe. The remaining
damaged parts of the apparatus were sent back to Birmingham to be
overhauled and the missing portions replaced.
As there was no possibility of being able to complete the lantern that
winter, and the authorities did not like to entrust the marking of the rock
solely to the temporary lightship lights—the lantern of the Halpin tower had
been taken down meanwhile—it was thereupon decided to erect the
dismantled old lamp in the new tower for the time being.

By courtesy of Messrs. Chance Bros. & Co., Ltd.

THE LANTERN OF THE
FASTNET ROCK
LIGHTHOUSE.
It consists of two tiers each of four panels of 920
millimetres focal distance.

The next summer the new apparatus was got on to the rock and erected
safely. The light is of the dioptric type, derived from a series of

incandescent burners, giving a total power of 1,200 candles. This part of the
installation is the invention of the chief engineer to the Commissioners, Mr.
C. W. Scott, and it has proved to be one of the most perfect and economical
devices of this type yet submitted to practical operations. The oil is
vaporized by being passed through a spraying device under pressure,
similar to the forced carburation in automobile practice, and the gas is fed
to the Bunsen burners. The lenses, together with their revolving apparatus,
weigh 13,440 pounds, and rotate upon a bed of mercury under the fall of a
weight of 290 pounds, which descends 40 feet per hour, this being sufficient
to secure three complete revolutions per minute. In case the incandescent
gas installation should break down from any cause, a four-wick oil-burner is
held in reserve, and can be brought into action instantly. The power of the
rays thrown from the 1,200 candle-power burners is intensified by the
lenses to some 750,000 candle-power, of extremely white brilliancy,
recalling the beam thrown by an electric searchlight. The flash, of three-
twenty-fifths of a second’s duration, recurs every five seconds, and on a
clear night the light is readily distinguishable from a distance of twenty
miles, while its reflection in the sky may be observed from a considerably
greater distance.
The erection of this lighthouse was not without one humorous incident.
While the lantern apparatus was being set in position, a plumber was sent to
the rock. He spent one day and night there, a period that proved to be more
than enough for him. The murmuring of the waves lost all their musical
glamour for him when he was imprisoned on a wild, isolated, wind-and-
wave-swept eyrie. He did not get a wink of sleep, and was scared nearly out
of his wits. When morning broke, and the men were turned out of their
bunks, the plumber expressed his fixed determination to return to the shore
at once. His companions laughed at his fears, ridiculed his anxieties, coaxed
and upbraided him in turn. It was of no avail. He would not do another
stroke of work. Realizing the hopelessness of such a workman, the engineer
in charge signalled the mainland for assistance. The steamer could not put
out, but the lifeboat, not understanding the import of such an unusual call,
made the dangerous pull to the rock, to ascertain what was the matter. When
they found that it was to take off a scared workman, their feelings may be
imagined. The demoralized plumber was bundled into the lifeboat and
rowed back to shore. The blood did not return to his face, nor did he collect
his scattered wits, until he planted his two feet firmly on the mainland,

when he very vehemently and picturesquely expressed his determination
never to accept a job in such a forsaken place again.
The old tower was reduced to the level of its solid base, and converted
into an oil-store. The finishing touches were applied to the new tower, and
on June 27, 1906, the scintillating and penetrating ray of the present Fastnet
was shown for the first time. It is a magnificent light, and, being the latest
expression of British lighthouse engineering upon a large scale, compels
more than passing interest. The light is fully in keeping with the importance
of the spot it marks, and the £84,000, or $420,000, which it cost has been
laid out to excellent purpose. The light and fog-signal station is tended by
six keepers, four being on the rock simultaneously, and two ashore. The
latter constitute the relief, which is made twice a month if the weather
permits, the service being one month on the rock, followed by a fortnight on
shore. One keeper has day duty, maintaining a lookout for fog and to signal
passing ships; two are on duty at night, the one having charge of the light
and its operation, while his comrade devotes his attention to signalling ships
and watching the weather. When a mist creeps over the light, the fourth
keeper is called up to manipulate the explosive fog-signal. The lighthouse,
being an important landfall, is a signalling-station for Lloyd’s, and is also
fitted with wireless telegraphy, wherewith the movements of outgoing and
incoming vessels are reported to the mainland for notification to all parts of
the world.

CHAPTER X

LIGHTHOUSES BUILT ON SAND

While the greater number of the most famous sea-lights have been
erected upon the solid foundation offered by rock, in one or two instances
notable works have been consummated upon sand. The two most
remarkable achievements in this particular field of enterprise are the
Rothersand lighthouse, off the coast of Germany, in the North Sea, and the
Fourteen Foot Bank, in Delaware Bay, U.S.A.
The Rothersand light became necessary owing to the expansion of the
German mercantile marine and the development of the ports of the Weser
and Elbe. The estuary of the Weser River is hemmed in by shoals and
sandbanks, similar to those found at the entrance to Liverpool, London, and
New York, rendering navigation extremely hazardous under the most
favourable circumstances. Bremerhaven, on the Weser, had been selected as
the home port for the North German Lloyd Atlantic liners, but it was
threatened with abandonment unless the entrance to the waterway should
undergo improvement. It was of no avail to dredge a deep channel through
the treacherous ridges of sand, if the general proximity of the shoal were
left unmarked. Consequently, in order to secure the interests of
Bremerhaven, it was decided by the three border States—Prussia,
Oldenburg, and Bremen—to provide a powerful light at this danger-point.
The financial problem was solved by the agreement to levy a special tax
upon all vessels entering the Weser, to defray the cost of providing the
safeguard.
The undertaking was somewhat formidable. The shoal, being of soft
sand, was liable to erosion and movement, owing to fluctuating and
changing currents. Then, again, the proposed site, some thirty miles from
Bremerhaven and about halfway between that port and the island of

Heligoland, was exposed to the assaults of the North Sea, where even slight
breezes ruffle the water considerably. From the soundings and observations
that were made, it was evident that the foundations would have to be carried
down to a great depth, and that ordinary systems of construction were quite
impracticable. At this juncture the Society Harkort of Duisburg, which had
accumulated great experience in subaqueous work, was approached and
asked if it would undertake the enterprise at its own risk. This was
tantamount to a “no cure, no pay” proposal. If they succeeded, they would
be rewarded for their labours; if they failed, they would have to face a
heavy loss.
This firm, after careful deliberation, allowed that the work could be
accomplished, but in one way only. This was to construct a huge caisson—
practically a gigantic barrel of steel—on shore, to launch and tow it to the
site, and there to lower it until it rested on the bottom. Then, by a removal
of the sand from beneath this caisson, it could be sunk to a great depth, and,
the interior being filled with concrete, a huge artificial core of rock would
be created, capable of supporting a tower. This system is employed
extensively in connection with bridge-building operations, and the firm
entertained no doubts concerning its feasibility at Rothersand. The society
accordingly prepared its designs, and advanced an estimate for the cost of
the work.
At this juncture an unexpected competitor appeared on the scene. One
of the engineers engaged in the preparation of the Harkort designs severed
his connection with that firm, and, securing the collaboration of two
engineering colleagues, established a rival concern, which tendered for the
contract. They would follow the same lines, but would complete it for
£22,750, or $113,750, instead of £24,025, or $120,125, asked by the
Duisburg firm. The lower price was accepted, the more readily since it
included the foundations, whereas the Society Harkort set these down as an
extra. Naturally, the society was somewhat chagrined at this turn of events,
after all the trouble and care it had taken to discover the most satisfactory
solution of the problem, but subsequently it had good reason not to regret
its loss.
The new engineers set to work and during the winter of 1880–81
constructed a huge caisson, which was launched and on May 22 of the latter
year started down the Weser in charge of tugs. Then came a whole string of

accidents. One night the unwieldy fabric got adrift and drove its nose into a
sandbank, where it settled down with the tide. The towing cables were
attached once more, and after a great struggle the structure was extricated
on the next high-tide, and resumed its journey. Reaching the site without
further incident, it was lowered by admitting the water within the barrel.
But this task being accomplished somewhat crudely, the water rushed in
with such force that the caisson commenced to spin round like a top, as well
as bobbing up and down like an angler’s float. It threatened to topple over
and founder every moment, but, luckily keeping upright, finally touched
bottom. Lowering was completed. Night having approached, workmen
made themselves comfortable on the caisson, while the constructional
steamer stood off and cast its anchor.
The men on the caisson, however, experienced one of the most
sensational nights in their lives. As the tide rose, they found their novel
home to be behaving somewhat curiously. It moved, and then heeled over.
This was an alarming state of affairs, especially as the list gradually became
worse and worse. They shouted frantically for help, but, a heavy fog having
descended upon the shoal, their cries were absorbed by the white pall. At
last the caisson careened over to such a degree that the men could not keep
their feet, while the depressed edge was in danger of being submerged. The
men crawled to the opposite or elevated side, and held on for their lives,
expecting every moment that the structure would give a heave and roll over.
It was a terribly anxious time for them, and at last, when the constructional
steamer came alongside in the morning, they scuttled down the ropes from
their perilous perch to the deck below, thankful for having escaped, as they
thought, a certain watery grave.
The engineers spared no effort to save their work. They were harassed
at every tide because the water rose above the depressed edge and flooded
the interior. With all speed the wall at this point was increased in height, so
as to prevent inundation. Then, stormy weather having cut away the sand
under the elevated side, the structure gradually righted itself. When it had
regained its vertical position, it was found that no serious damage had been
done, but rather that the engineers had profited, inasmuch as the caisson had
buried itself some 16 feet into the sand.
Winter was approaching, and so the engineers crowded on every man
and effort possible, in order to get the structure sunk to the requisite level

before work would have to be abandoned for the season. They departed
from the engineer’s axiom, “Make haste slowly,” and paid the penalty.
When the bad weather broke, compelling the return of all the workmen to
shore, the fabric was left insecure. The lower part had been given its filling
of concrete, but above a certain level the fabric depended only upon the iron
shell of the cylinder. It was stiffened as much as possible with cross-timbers
and bracing, but the elements soon made short work of this puny defence.
The North Sea, in common with the other large stretches of water
throughout the world, was swept by terrible storms that winter, and one
morning, when the sea was scanned from shore through glasses, strange to
say the caisson was nowhere to be seen. All sorts of rumours were
circulated to account for its disappearance, among others being a
sensational theory that the caisson, having reached swampy ground while
being sunk, had simply dropped suddenly into the submarine quagmire, and
had been swallowed up completely. But the divers, when they could get out
to the site and could venture into the ocean depths, returned to the surface
with a very different story. The waves had snapped off the top of the caisson
at the upper level of the concrete within, and had carried it away. Thus
ended summarily the first attempt to build a lighthouse upon the red sand at
the entrance to the River Weser.

Photo by permission of the North German Lloyd S.S. Co.

THE ROTHERSAND LIGHTHOUSE.
This magnificent light marks a dangerous shoal in the estuary of the Weser. The masonry tower is
built upon a massive concrete caisson driven deeply into the sand.

The project, however, was not abandoned. The Society Harkort was
approached once more, and requested to undertake the work upon its own
terms. The invitation was accepted, but the firm, realizing the abnormal
risks incidental to the enterprise, revised their price, so as to provide for
contingencies. It demanded a sum of £42,650, or $213,250, in return for
which it undertook to supply a fully-equipped lighthouse less the
illuminating apparatus. The terms were accepted, but the responsible
authorities, having suffered a heavy loss from the first failure, decided to
protect themselves against a similar disaster, so exacted a bond for £12,000,
or $60,000, to be returned when the work should be completed and
accepted by the Government. The Society Harkort, on its part, reserved the
right to withdraw from the undertaking in the event of the caisson sharing
the fate which overtook the first structure.

The contracts were signed in September, 1882, and the task was
commenced. The first disaster was a blessing in disguise, for the new
engineers were able to turn the mistakes of their predecessors to advantage.
They designed a caisson of oval shape, with pointed ends, measuring 46
feet in length by 36 feet wide. It was an elaborate, staunch structure,
towering to a height of 60¾ feet when launched. At a height of 8 feet from
the bottom edge was a massive flooring built of iron. The space below
constituted the area in which the men were to work upon the sea-bed,
excavating the sand under compressed air, while the lower rim was a cutting
edge, so as to facilitate the sinking of the mass as the sand was removed.
The upper part of the caisson was divided into four floors, each of which
was set aside for a specific purpose. The lowest was the concrete-mixing
chamber; that above carried the machinery and boilers; the third floor
formed the living-quarters for the men who worked and slept on the
structure; while the top floor formed a deck, and carried two powerful
cranes whereby the material was lifted from the boats which drew
alongside. Of course, when the caisson had been lowered into the water and
was eating its way deeper and deeper into the sand, these platforms had to
be moved higher and higher from time to time, as the base of the tun
became filled with concrete, the outer walls of the fabric being increased to
keep the top well above high-water mark.
When the caisson was completed on shore and sent into the water, it
was an impressive-looking monster. The shell itself weighed 245½ tons,
and with the various accessories aboard the weight was brought up to some
335 tons. It then had to be loaded down to the required depth for towing, for
which purpose ballast in the form of pig-iron, concrete, and bricks, to the
extent of another 245 tons, was stowed aboard, while delicate precautions
were taken to maintain stability. The combined efforts of 120 men, working
day and night for 127 days, were required to erect this caisson, and on April
1, 1883, it was ready for its transportation to the site.
The towing operation was extremely difficult, and the voyage out was
full of exciting incident. It was possible to advance only on the ebb-tide,
and the towing cables, 5 inches in diameter, were specially manufactured
for the operation. Two of the most powerful tugs owned by the North
German Lloyd Steamship Company were requisitioned, three other
steamers engaged in the conveyance of requirements between tower and

shore accompanying the procession. Although the engineers were ready, the
weather, with aggravating persistence, refused to clear sufficiently to
produce the smooth sea and calm demanded for the safe journey of the
ungainly craft. Day after day slipped by, with eighty men on the alert, and
with fires banked and steam raised on the vessels, ready to weigh anchor at
the first favourable moment. Fifty-five days passed before the weather
bureau recommended that the conditions were suitable. Under the foregoing
circumstances the expense of this delay may be realized.

THE FOURTEEN-FOOT BANK LIGHTHOUSE, BUILT ON SAND.
The erection of this structure constitutes a brilliant achievement in United States lighthouse
engineering.

Directly the intimation was conveyed that the tow could be attempted,
there was a scene of indescribable activity and bustle in the Bremerhaven
dock, where the caisson was moored. Full steam was raised on the tugs, and
at half-past three in the morning of May 26 the mighty steel barrel moved
out of the dock. The towing ropes were hitched on, and very slowly the
“Colossus,” as the caisson was named, moved down the harbour,

accompanied by the whole fleet of nine vessels engaged in construction
work, so that the procession was imposing. It dropped down the river
without incident, when, the tide turning, anchor was cast, and all was made
fast until another advance could be made at four o’clock in the afternoon.
But the rising tide was stronger than had been anticipated, and trouble was
soon encountered. The caisson, pressed by the current, dragged and strained
at the two tugs by which she was being towed, causing them to slip their
anchors. It was an anxious moment. The two vessels could not hold the
“Colossus”; in fact, they were being towed backwards by it. Hurriedly
another tug was called up, and helped in the effort; but although the three
steamers put on full steam ahead, they failed to keep the mass in check.
Another tug was signalled, and then, under the combined effort of 350
horse-power, driving for all it was worth against the current, the four
vessels mastered the swing of the scurrying water, and had the “Colossus”
under control.
A little later the procession continued on its way to the North Sea, but
when the boats came up with the Hoheweg lighthouse further disquieting
news was received. The keepers signalled that the barometer was falling,
and that a thunderstorm was hurrying across the North Sea from England.
Anchors were thrown out hurriedly, and everything made snug and tight for
the approaching storm. It burst with fearful severity. The waves got up, the
wind blew with fiendish velocity in terrifying gusts, and the rain tumbled
down in sheets. The engineers were on tenterhooks the whole hour and a
half the storm raged, as they foresaw lively times if the unmanageable hulk
broke loose. But the “Colossus” rode the gale as quietly as if moored to a
wharf in dock. The storm, however, upset all calculations for the day. There
was no possibility of getting the caisson out and sunk before nightfall, so
the engineers prepared to pass the night at anchor, and to start off again with
the dawn. The weather, ruffled by the thunderstorm, refused to settle down
until a further day and night had been wasted. Then, at 7.30 in the morning,
on a favourable tide, anchors were weighed, and, steaming hard through a
broken sea, the tugs conveyed the caisson on its journey. At last the
procession reached the buoy marking the site. The caisson was brought to
rest, the water was admitted gently through the valves, and slowly, steadily,
and vertically, the shell sank lower and lower, until a scarcely perceptible
shock conveyed the intimation that it had touched bottom.

The most anxious part of the task was consummated with complete
success: the caisson had been got to the site and sunk. Then the task of
burying it deeply and irremovably in the sand was hurried forward.
Workmen descended into the space beneath the bottom floor and the sea-
bed. Under compressed air they excavated the sand within the area to
permit the cutting edge to sink lower and lower. The sand, as removed, was
lifted to the top of the “Colossus” and discharged overboard. Meanwhile the
concrete-mixing machine got busy, and the stone heart of the tun was
fashioned rapidly. Under this increasing weight the sinking operation was
assisted very appreciably. By the middle of October the work had been
advanced to such a stage that the total weight of the structure had been
increased to over 3,350 tons, and the top deck of the caisson, which had
grown in height by the attaching of successive rings of plates, was about 99
feet above the cutting edge, which had buried itself to a depth of 51 feet
below low-water. Then work had to be abandoned, as the autumnal gales
sprang up. The whole of the staff, with the exception of two men, who
mounted guard over the work, were taken back to Bremerhaven. The gales
increased in fury, culminating in a tempest similar to that which had
destroyed the first caisson. Remembering the fate of that enterprise under
such fearful pounding from wind and wave, the Harkort engineers naturally
were somewhat anxious concerning the welfare of their handiwork under
identical conditions. But the new creation was overwhelmingly strong
where its predecessor was weak, although the seas, baffled in their efforts to
upset the caisson, did not fail to leave their mark by knocking the
superstructure and scaffolding about somewhat, as well as carrying away a
few weighty pieces of the top hamper.
Work was resumed in February, 1884, and continued more or less
regularly until November. Interruptions were of frequent occurrence, so that
only about one-quarter of the time available could be turned to useful
account. The structure which had been towed out of Bremerhaven a year
previously had disappeared from sight, the rim of the barrel built on dry
land being about 4 feet below water; but, of course, as the work proceeded
and the caisson sank, its walls were extended upwards, as already
explained. When the structure had been sunk to its designed depth, the steel
shell was 107½ feet in height, from the cutting edge to the top projecting
above the water, and nearly 40 feet of its height was buried in the
Rothersand. To sink it to this level required the removal of 3,000 cubic

yards of sand from beneath the bottom floor of the structure; while 49,100
tons of material were brought out from Bremerhaven and built into the steel
shell to render it a solid elliptical mass, with the exception of a short central
hollow space which has a narrow conduit connection with the outer sea, and
which, fitted with a float, acts as a tide-gauge which may be read in the
lighthouse. From this massive concrete pedestal rises the tower proper,
which at the base is circular, with a diameter of 33¾ feet. This base rises in
the form of a graceful concave curve to a height of 26 feet, and is solid
except for two water-tanks. At the entrance level the tower is 23 feet in
diameter. Above this are disposed four floors, comprising the cellar,
storeroom, kitchen, and living-quarters for the men, crowned by the lantern,
the gallery of which is 80½ feet above low-water.
The external appearance of this interesting lighthouse is somewhat
different from the general conception of such a building. Instead of being
merely a circular top and lantern, there are three semicircular turret-like
projections on the dwelling-room and lantern levels, which serve for
directing and warning lights as well as for a lookout station.
The fickle character of the North Sea where it rolls over the Rothersand
is reflected by an experience which befell the Harkort engineer and the
superintendent of erection for the authorities, who wished to complete his
duty of inspection. The finishing touches were being applied, a squad of
twelve workmen being in the tower to continue the work during the winter.
The early December day was fair and the sea smooth, as well as giving
every indication of remaining quiescent for some hours. The superintendent
had arranged to spend his Christmas holidays with some friends, and
desired to complete his duty in good time, so that his sojourn might be free
from care. The two started off in the steamer, and landed without effort. But
while they were engaged in their work of inspection the wind and sea
freshened, so that a boat could not be sent from the steamer to take them
off. It was an amusing situation which was keenly enjoyed at Bremerhaven;
but all would be right on the morrow, said everyone. But the next day the
weather was worse, and continued so for day after day. When a fortnight
had passed without it being possible to succour the weather-bound
engineers, amusement gave way to anxiety, more especially as a signal was
flying from the tower which conveyed the unwelcome intelligence that one
of the workmen had fallen ill. The feelings of the superintendent may be

imagined. He had visions of spending his Yuletide in a draughty, half-
finished lighthouse tower, where comfort was conspicuous by its absence,
and where seasonal fare such as he had been anticipating keenly was
unknown. But on December 21 the constructional engineers, having grown
impatient with the weather, sent out one of their boats, with instructions to
bring everyone ashore at all hazards. The waves were running high and the
wind was gusty, but the steamer anchored as near the lighthouse as she
dared, and by means of her boats, which were in momentary danger of
being swamped, brought off the two engineers as well as all the workmen
except two. The latter remained behind as a guard, and, being given a good
stock of seasonal provisions and other necessities, were left in their
splendid isolation. The superintendent, after all, was able to enjoy his
Christmas holidays.
The succeeding spring brought a resumption of toil, and by September
the tower was completed except for the illuminating apparatus. One feature
was observed during construction and had to receive attention. The free
swing of the currents and tides, being obstructed by the tower, had
commenced heavy erosion, big hollows being scooped out of the soft sea-
bed around the caisson. As it was quite possible that in the course of time
this scouring might imperil the safety of the building, protective works had
to be undertaken. These were of an elaborate character, and comprised the
sinking of mattresses, fashioned from brushwood, around the foundations,
upon which were dumped boatloads of broken stone. This mattress had to
be nearly 50 feet in width, and in some places about 15 feet in thickness.
For this protective work alone some 176,550 cubic feet of brushwood, and
600 tons of block-stone to hold it down, were used. These measures,
however, effectually overcame the danger of erosion.
On November 1, 1885, the light was shown for the first time, and the
greatest peril at the entrance to the Weser was indicated far and wide by
night and day. It was a magnificent achievement, carried through in the face
of enormous difficulties, sensational incidents innumerable, and upon a
foundation of disaster. The lighthouse is as firm as if it were anchored upon
a solid granite rock, instead of having its roots thrust deep into treacherous
shifting sand, and constitutes an imperishable monument to German
engineering ability; while, all things considered, the cost was low, being
only £43,400, or $217,000, in all. The light is electric, the power being

supplied from a station on shore, and fed to the lighthouse through a
submarine cable; the keepers are also in submarine telegraphic
communication with the mainland.
When the United States set out to build a similar structure in the
spacious Delaware Bay, they were confronted with a prospect just as
forbidding, and a task in every way as difficult, as that offered in
connection with the Rothersand. There is a dangerous shoal about twenty
miles off the land, where the Atlantic beats with furious rage, and where
vessels were apt to stick hard and fast. It was described as “Fourteen Foot
Bank” by mariners, from the depth of the water flowing over the shoal, and
this colloquialism has provided the name for the present guardian light. The
open situation did not augur favourably for the completion of a lighthouse
at this spot, but the American engineers were resolved to make the attempt.
Accordingly, plans were prepared for a construction upon the caisson
principle, which was the only method promising success.
The preliminary step was the fabrication of a caisson. The first part was
more like a raft with sides. It was about 40 feet square, 5 feet thick, and
with walls 7 feet deep. It was built of timber, the staves being 12 inches
square, and upside down—that is, with the floor uppermost—on a building-
slip, as if it were a ship, and was launched into the water upon similar lines.
The sides and top were lined, so as to secure water-tightness. In the centre
there was a circular space 5 feet in diameter to form the air-shaft.
As the structure was built upside down, the rim was brought to the
lowermost position, and this formed the cutting edge, which was to be sunk
into the sand. On this floating platform a circular iron cylinder was erected.
This tube was 35 feet in diameter, and was built up in plates, 6 feet in width
by 1½ inches thick. When three rings of iron were set up the cylinder was
18 feet in height. In order to sink it to a depth of 15½ feet into the water for
towing purposes, it was charged with a layer of concrete, 9 inches in
thickness, to serve as ballast, and in this condition the caisson weighed 400
tons.
This huge barrel was built at Lewes, Delaware, and when it was
launched two powerful steam-tugs set out to drag it to the shoal, twenty
miles away. As the tide rises and falls a matter of 6 feet in these waters, and
the currents are somewhat wicked, the engineers displayed no undue haste.

They waited for the first favourable opportunity, and seized it. But it took
the two tugs some six hours to reach the site; an average speed of about
three and a half miles per hour cannot be construed into fast travelling.
When the mighty caisson had been warped and nudged dead into
position over the desired spot, water was admitted. With a gurgling and
hissing the hulk sank slowly into the sea. At last a slight jolt, which
quivered through the mass, signified that the structure was resting on the
bottom. The engineers gave a sigh of relief, but the next instant changed it
to a cry of dismay. The caisson began to heel over to one side. Was it going
to capsize? That was the absorbing fear. It canted more and more, until at
last it had a list of 12 degrees. It had not sunk vertically! There was less
than 16 inches of water between the sea-level and the rim when the caisson
first jarred against the sand, and if it careened over too far the water
certainly would rush in, roll the whole tub over, and tumble it hither and
thither over the sea-bed. The engineers watched that caisson as closely as a
cat watches a mouse-hole. Presently it eased up, and then, as the tide rose
some six hours later, it began to right itself. The engineers were relieved
once more. The danger was over. But their self-satisfaction was soon upset
as the tide began to ebb, because again the cylinder gradually fell over on
its side. The cause of this strange behaviour flashed upon them. The surface
of the sandbank was not level! The mass in sinking had touched bottom on
the highest point of the shoal, and was trying to find its own level.
Without any further delay, the engineers decided upon an ingenious
means of correcting this erratic and dangerous action. The tugs were
despatched hurriedly to Lewes to bring out cargoes of broken stone, which
had been delivered for the preparation of the concrete. While the steamers
pursued their errand, the engineers fashioned large pockets on the elevated
section of the structure, into which the stone upon its arrival was placed.
Gradually but surely the caisson not only was corrected, but the weighted
end was induced to settle into the sand, until the opposite free edge in its
turn was resting upon the shoal.
In this manner all danger of further canting now was removed. As the
rim had been brought perilously near the water-level, and there was a
possibility of flooding from a rough sea, the walls of the caisson were
extended vertically with all haste; meanwhile two additional rings of iron
were placed in position, and the top was brought about 20 feet above the

water. While this work was in progress the structure gradually bit farther
and farther into the sand, until at last it secured a firm hold.
At the earliest possible moment the air-compressors were set to work,
and air was driven into the space between the cutting edge and the roof, in
which the men were to work. This space was 40 feet square and 7 feet deep.
The greater pressure of the air drove the water out from this space, and the
men were able to enter through the air-lock and to work upon a dry surface,
isolated from the surrounding sea by the fence formed by the cutting edge.
The men toiled in eight-hour shifts continuously, removing the sand
within the space and sending it upwards to be discharged overboard. As the
area was excavated, the cutting edge sank deeper and deeper, so that the
structure became more and more firmly embedded. There was apprehension
that the obstruction offered by the caisson to the movement of the currents
might set up undermining around the cylinder, as in the case of the
Rothersand; but the engineers arrested any tendency in this direction by
dumping large pieces of stone overboard around the tub. Some 6,000 tons
of stone were used for this purpose, so that the caisson has an impregnable
protection.
As the structure sank lower and lower, owing to the excavation,
concrete was dumped around the air-tube above the floor of the space in
which the men were labouring, while successive rings of iron were added to
the top of the cylinder. The men worked with great gusto in their novel
situation, and, the task being prosecuted uninterruptedly throughout the day
and night, the cylinder sank from 12 to 24 inches during the twenty-four
hours. This labour was maintained until the cutting edge of the caisson was
33 feet below the surface of the shoal, when the engineers called halt. They
considered that the task had been continued to a sufficient depth to secure
the requisite rigidity for their lighthouse. The men left the working
chamber, which was then tightly underrammed with sand, so as to form a
solid foundation, while the air-shaft was filled up with rammed sand and
sealed with a thick plug of concrete. The wall of the iron cylinder had been
intermittently increased in height by the addition of successive rings of
plates, until the rim was 70 feet above the cutting edge and projected about
30 feet above the water at low-tide. From the bottom to a height of 40 feet it
is virtually a solid mass of concrete, protected by a skin of iron 1½ inches
thick. Further concrete was added, bringing the solid section to within 10

feet of the rim, so that the concrete heart is about 53 feet in height and 35
feet in diameter. It is a solid circular rock sunk into the sand, and as firm
and free from vibration as a granite core.
Upon this foundation a house for the light-keepers, crowned by a tower,
was erected, the focal plane being 59 feet above mean high-water. It is fitted
with a light of the fourth order, visible for thirteen miles.
One of the most important features in connection with the Fourteen
Foot Bank light was its small cost, which was below the estimate,
especially when it is compared with the German work. The United States
Government appropriated a sum of £35,000, or $175,000, for the
undertaking, but the total expenditure was less than £25,000, or $125,000,
so that a sum of £10,000, or $50,000, was handed back to the Treasury—a
most unusual event in connection with Government contracts. The
lighthouse was finished and brought into service in 1886.
The success of this novel enterprise prompted the authorities to essay a
more daring project—the erection of a lighthouse upon the caisson principle
on the Outer Diamond Shoal, off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. But the
storms encountered off this inhospitable coast have proved too
overpowering for the engineer. Numerous attempts have been made, but
disaster has been their invariable fate. The Diamond Shoal refuses to be
indicated by anything except a lightship.

CHAPTER XI

SOME LIGHT PATROLS OF THE FRENCH
COAST

In the matter of safeguarding its shores the French nation has displayed
considerable enterprise, and its engineers have added some magnificent
contributions to this field of engineering. The maintenance and welfare of
these aids to navigation is placed in the hands of the Service des Phares,
which is controlled by the Department of Bridges and Roads. The French
scheme is the disposition of the lights along the shore in such a way that
their ranges overlap on either side, so that, as one passes along the coast,
before one ray is dropped the next is picked up. Electricity is employed
extensively as the illuminant, so that the lights are of great power and
twinkle like brilliant white stars on a clear night.
While the majority of these guides are erected on the mainland, others
rise from islands lying off the coast, which, by their position in deep water,
render navigation hazardous. The finest expressions of French lighthouse
engineering are to be found along the rugged islet-dotted coast of the huge
indentation in which lie the Channel Islands—the cruel coast of Brittany. It
was off the western extremity of Brittany, which thrusts itself well out into
the Atlantic Ocean, forming the point generally known as Ushant, that the
Drummond Castle lost her way, to pull up with a fatal crash against one of
the jagged reefs stretching to seaward. While this wreck was but one of
many in these troubled waters, it sent a thrill round the world, owing to the
terrible loss of life with which it was accompanied.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the French Government has
endeavoured to remove the evil notoriety which this coast has reaped, and
to render it as safe as the other stretches lying to the north and south. The

conditions, however, are against the engineer, as the nose of the mainland
projects well into the ocean, and receives the full brunt of its attacks when
gales rage, so that a foothold is precarious.
When the question of lighting this inhospitable stretch of coast arose,
the French authorities debated whether it would not be easier, cheaper, and
more satisfactory, to place the lighthouses on the mainland at a sufficient
altitude, and to fit them with adequately powerful lights to indicate the
outlying reefs. The general opinion was in favour of such a practice. So
when Léonce Reynaud proposed to mark the Heaux de Bréhat with a
magnificent tower, there was considerable opposition. The critics
maintained that it was a flagrant temptation of Fate to attempt the conquest
of such an evil wave-swept rock, the head of which was barely visible
above high-water, and was of such small dimensions that work would be
possible for only a few hours daily and then by no more than a mere
handful of men.
The engineer was confident that he could surmount all difficulties in
construction, and that he would be able to erect a tower which would defy
wind and wave, so he gained the day and received the requisite sanction to
proceed with his undertaking. He had surveyed the rock and its
surroundings thoroughly; had discovered the velocity of the currents, and
their varying directions under all conditions of weather. They tore along at
about nine and a half miles an hour, and this speed was augmented
considerably in rough weather. He selected the site for the lighthouse about
nine miles from the Isle of Bréhat, where landing would have to be made at
low-water, owing to the water rushing first from the island to the rock, and
then in the opposite direction, according to the movements of the tides.
The Isle of Bréhat was made the base for operations. It is freely
indented, and one of the coves was found to form an excellent little harbour.
A rough stone jetty was run out for a length of 170 feet, and while one fleet
of boats was retained to convey material from the island to the rock, another
was kept to bring supplies to the island for preparation, and the support of
the men, whose quarters were established at this depot. Sixty men were
employed on the work. They dressed the granite stones and prepared the
woodwork as it arrived in the raw condition, ample workshops being
provided for these purposes.

Photo by permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE HEAUX DE BRÉHAT LIGHT.
A striking tower built by Léonce Reynaud off the exposed
Brittany coast. It is 159 feet high and took six years to
complete.

The face of the rock was cleaned off during the brief intervals when it
was bared by the sea, and rough stones and masonry were laid in concrete
and continued solidly to a point 13 feet above high-water. Around this
confined platform quarters were built for the handful of men who stayed on
the rock during the periods of calm weather, as too much time was lost in
travelling to and from the island, while there were risks of landing being

interrupted by the swell. A temporary light was also placed in position while
constructional work was proceeding, to warn navigation. The facilities also
included a small forge for the fashioning upon the spot of the iron dogs and
bolts whereby the stones were clamped together, and this proved highly
convenient, except for one thing: when the water was somewhat rough and
playful, the waves, striking the rock, flew into the air, soused the forge, and
extinguished the fire.
The preparations of the foundations proved exceedingly tedious. The
rock is a very hard black porphyry, but the surface was so scarred with
fissures and deep cracks that the whole of the upper surface had to be
cleaned off, so as to remove all rotten and splintered rock in order to secure
a firm, solid foundation. Then a circle 38 feet in diameter was marked off,
and masons cut away all the rock around this line to a depth of about 20
inches and of sufficient width to take the stones—a trench, as it were. This
work had to be executed during the short period of low-water, and a special
schedule was prepared to insure the men concentrating the whole of their
energies upon the task when opportunity offered. As the ebbing tide began
to bare the space, the workmen were called, and they followed the receding
water, never leaving the spot for meals, but toiling continuously until the
returning tide drove them off. As a rule the men were sufficiently fleet to
get clear untouched, although they delayed their retreat until the very last
moment; but at other times the sea was a trifle quicker, and the men
received an unexpected douche from a scurrying wave.
When this trench had been cleared out and the face levelled, the outer
ring of stones was laid and secured firmly in position. The inner space of
the rock was left in its roughly trimmed condition, and was then buried
beneath cement and rock to the level of the outer ring of stones, forming a
platform ready to receive the mass of the tower. The outer ring was the
main consideration, and the work had to be finished in such a manner that a
tight joint was made with the rock, to resist the penetration of the water.
When the men were compelled to lay down their tools for the coming tide,
they hastily applied a thick covering of quick-drying cement to the work
completed, thereby protecting it against the disintegrating and percolating
action of the sea.
Ere the work had started thoroughly, the engineer was faced with a
trouble which he had not anticipated. The men were left to attend to their

own desires in the way of provisions. This haphazard arrangement had the
inevitable sequel. Some of the men were stricken down with scurvy, and the
disease promised to secure a firm hold, when the engineer stepped in with a
firm hand. He established a canteen, the contractor of which was compelled
to maintain a supply of varied provisions for six months at least, lest the
little colony should become isolated by rough weather. A regular varied bill
of fare was imposed upon the workmen, who were compelled to purchase
their requirements from the canteen. By this firm and timely action the
disease was stamped out. The engineer also enforced other stringent
regulations in the interests of health. The men were compelled to bathe once
a week, and had to turn their sleeping-blankets into the open air every day;
while the quarters had to be washed out and the walls given a dressing of
limewash at frequent intervals.

FITTING THE LANTERN OF LA JUMENT
LIGHT.

When the visitor approaches the tower for the first time, he cannot fail
to be impressed by its unusual design. It appears as if a former tower of
great diameter had been decapitated, and another more slender building
placed upon its butt. This is due to the ingenious idea adopted by Reynaud.
The lower part of the tower rises like the trunk of a tree from the base,
which is a solid plinth, to a height of 39 feet above highest spring-tides. At
the top this lower tower is 28 feet in diameter, as compared with 38 feet at

the base. Here the butt is levelled off, and from its surface rises the
lighthouse proper, in the form of a slightly tapering cone, leaving a narrow
gallery around the superimposed structure to serve as a “set-off” and
landing or entrance platform.
In carrying out his work, Reynaud followed a principle quite divergent
from the prevailing practice in lighthouse construction. He did not attach
every stone irremovably to its neighbours, but merely made fast the
masonry at varying points, where the mass of water might be expected to
expend the greater part of its violence. The method he adopted is very
simple. Keystones are introduced at selected points in each course, and
these are driven up and held tight by granite plugs and wedges. The
principle was assailed at the time as being deficient in strength, but no
apprehensions ever have arisen concerning the safety of the tower, so that
the engineer’s daring ingenuity has been completely justified.
Considering the isolation of the rock and its wind-swept position, it was
built in a very short time. The whole of the year 1834 was devoted to the
survey of the rock, close observations of the prevailing meteorological
conditions, and the preparation of the design. The succeeding year was
confined to the establishment of the workmen’s quarters, the cutting of the
annular trench in the rock, and the setting of the masonry course. The
erection of the superstructure occupied nearly four years, the work being
completed and the light exhibited in 1859, according to the inscription. The
tower is 159 feet in height, and the light has a range of eighteen miles.
Since the Heaux de Bréhat was conquered so successfully, French
lighthouse engineering skill has been manifested actively around the ill-
famed Brittany coast, which now is robbed of the greater part of its dangers.
Reynaud’s work, however, did not bring complete safety to the waters from
which it lifts its imposing form. Four miles off the self-same island is the
plateau of Horaine. This is a chain of rocks, the greatest peril of which is
that at high-tide nothing whatever of them is seen, and their existence is
betrayed only by the agitated and broken waves rushing over them with
fearful force. As the tide falls the water becomes more tormented, and is
torn into flying foam, until, when it has almost ebbed, these jagged fangs
may be seen projecting above the surf. Bearing in mind these terrible
characteristics, it is not surprising that time after time vessels which had

been driven out of their course by tempestuous weather, or had got lost in a
dense fog, blundered into this death-trap and were lost.
The French Government was sorely puzzled as to how to overcome this
danger. The engineers fought the elements valiantly for forty years in an
effort to crown Horaine with a beacon, but time after time they were
defeated. Landing on the reef is highly dangerous. The rocks are surrounded
by surging, eddying currents, running at anything from six miles upwards
per hour, while the slightest ruffle of wind is quite sufficient to stir up the
water so as to fling it swirling over the rocks even at lowest tide. Once or
twice, when a period of abnormal calm prevailed, the engineers struggled
on to the rock and hurriedly built a substantial masonry beacon, but its life
was always brief. The first two or three gales which pounded and roared
over the chain invariably scattered the handiwork of man in all directions.
Then another expedient was attempted. A party landed upon the ridge,
drove a hole into the solid rock, and there set a vertical iron girder 4 inches
in thickness, trusting that it would hold fast and indicate the reef sufficiently
during the day. But its life was short. A gale came along and snapped the
post in twain, leaving a twisted, bent stump, some 36 inches long,
remaining on the rock.

PREPARING THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE JUMENT LIGHT.
This illustration conveys an idea of the difficulties encountered in connection with this work.

In 1890 another bold effort to subjugate the ridge was made. An
hexagonal structure was designed, and it was determined to plant this on the
rock by hook or by crook, and so firmly as to resist the most powerful
hammerings to which it could be subjected by the waves. Six holes were
bored into the rock surface to form the corners of the hexagon. But before
commencing the work proper it was decided to insert an iron post, 6½
inches thick, into one of the holes, and to leave it to see what would happen.
Time after time it was inspected, and was found to be safe and sound. Two
years had slipped by, practically, since the post was planted, and it was still
intact. The engineers thought they had triumphed, and were preparing their
plans, when the news came that a heavy storm, which had swept the coast,
had broken the pillar off flush with the rock.
This necessitated another change in the designs and the plan of
campaign. After further discussion it was decided to proceed right away

with a masonry tower, although the engineers were prepared for a mighty
tussle. The surveys showed that, as the rock upon which the building was to
be erected was covered by 10 feet of water during the highest spring-tides,
work upon the foundations would be confined to the lowest neap-tides,
when about 4 feet of the rock were exposed. But the tide sinks to the very
low level desired infrequently—about four days in every month. Even then
work would be possible for only about an hour per day—four hours per
month! The prospect certainly was far from being attractive, especially as
even to accomplish this meed of toil the calmest weather and smoothest sea
were imperative, and it was scarcely to be expected that everything would
be in favour of the engineers at one and the same time.
Another adverse feature was only too apparent. If unpropitious weather
prevailed just after an hour or two’s work had been completed, the chances
were a thousand to one that it would be swept away. But this was a
contingency which had to be faced. The engineer could only do the utmost
humanly possible to secure his work, and then must trust to luck.
With infinite difficulty a small corps of daring workmen and appliances
of the simplest description, together with materials, were got out to the rock
upon the first favourable day when there was a very low tide. An outer wall
of bricks was built piecemeal, and the space within was filled with concrete.
This stood, and so the engineer secured a level plinth upon which to place
his tower. He selected an octagonal building, the angles of which touch the
circumference of a circle 20 feet in diameter described on the rock. It was to
be 50 feet in height, bringing the warning light about 40 feet above high-
water. The beacon was to be a concrete monolithic structure at least for the
greater part of its height, as the light was to be of the unattended class.
Accordingly, the mould was formed by setting a cast-iron post, 18 inches in
height, at each corner of the octagon, this support being anchored into the
solid rock beneath. These posts contained grooves to admit sliding wooden
uprights, which were to be firmly wedged, these joists being inclined to
take the angle, or batter, proposed for the tower. Heavy transverse pieces of
timber were laid between these posts, forming a capacious octagonal box,
into which the concrete was poured. As the filling process behind the
wooden wall advanced, angle pieces of steel were superimposed and bolted
up.

THE JUMENT LIGHT RECENTLY ERECTED OFF USHANT.
This beacon was built with a legacy left by M. Potron, a distinguished French traveller, in the
interests of humanity.

The security of the structure occupied the sole attention of the engineer.
When work had to cease, and the boat put off with the workmen after a
spell of toil, the engineer would watch the rising tide and the waves
sweeping over his structure, until at last it disappeared from sight. As the
tide fell he followed the receding waters just as eagerly, and gave a sigh of
relief when he saw that the tower was still withstanding the blind forces of
Nature. In the early stages an effort to protect the work, when the men had
to retreat before the rising tide, was made by covering it with a heavy piece
of sailcloth, lashed down and weighted in position with huge masses of pig-
iron. This served its purpose for a time, but finally the sea got the upper
hand, tore the canvas from its lashings, and carried it away, together with
the whole of its weights. Then a wooden protective device was employed,
and this likewise held out until a particularly unfriendly September gale
smashed it to matchwood, as well as damaging the concrete slightly here
and there.

The men took their tools and materials with them on every visit, and, as
the tower rose, the working spells between the tides became longer and
longer, until, when a point above high-water was reached, work was
continued throughout the day whenever the rock was approachable. A small
wooden platform was erected on one side, on which the concrete was
mixed, while on the other there was a little shelf with a small cistern, which
was filled with water from the boats below, through the agency of a pump.
A jury derrick was rigged up to lift the material and men to the working
level. As the tower rose in height, the wooden mould had to be
dismembered and re-erected upon the new level, this operation being
repeated no less than forty times until the desired height was gained. Work
was exasperatingly slow and intermittent, while it had to be suspended
entirely for about six or seven months, as no one dared to venture near the
rock in winter. Taken on the whole, it was one of the most anxious and
difficult pieces of the work of this character which the French Government
has ever undertaken, while the working area was so confined that less than
a dozen men could toil simultaneously without getting in one another’s way.
Recently the Brittany coast has been further protected by another
magnificent beacon, the Jument lighthouse, off Ushant. This awful spot has
long been marked by a very powerful electric light at Creach, which may be
seen over twenty miles away, and, together with its fellow on the opposite
end of the island, may be said to guide the crowded shipping around this
promontory very effectively. But foggy weather reduces the mariner to
helplessness, as the sea for two miles round the island is studded with reefs,
ridges and rocky humps of a very formidable character, so that vessels have
to keep well beyond this zone. When the light is obscured, safe travelling is
possible only by going very slowly and making liberal use of the lead,
while the captain must keep a sharp eye upon the rapid currents which set
inshore if he would not be thrown upon the rocks he is seeking sedulously
to avoid.
The French Government, with its characteristic thoroughness,
determined to secure the complete indication of the Ushant and all its
dangers by a carefully-conceived and comprehensive chain of lights
distributed over the dangerous area. The urgency of such a scheme is
obvious when it is remembered that it is computed that 24,000 vessels of all
classes pass Ushant in the course of the year. At the same time the sea’s

harvest of vessels and lives off this rocky shore every year is appallingly
heavy. The only handicap to the immediate completion of the Government’s
humane project is the extreme difficulty of the work and its prodigious cost.
Fortunately, through the extreme generosity of a French traveller—M.
Potron—it was rendered possible to commence the scheme. Upon his death,
and according to the terms of his will, dated January 9, 1904, this
gentleman left 400,000 francs—£16,000, or $80,000—for the erection of a
lighthouse of the latest type and with the most powerful lighting apparatus
off the coast washed by the open Atlantic, and even suggested that a site off
Ushant would be found the most beneficial to humanity. After consultation
between his executor, residuary legatee, and the Government, a rock known
as La Jument, off the south of the Ile d’Ouessant (Ushant) was selected for
the site of his monument. The lighthouse engineers advocated a tower 118
feet in height, with a light of the latest type and a modern fog-signalling
apparatus. This proposal was accepted, and was sanctioned on November
18, 1904, by the parties concerned.
Headquarters were established in the Bay of Lampaul, on Ushant
Island, which immediately faces the site, and by the end of 1904 the
preparations were well advanced. A steamboat, a launch and a lifeboat were
secured, the first-named for the purpose of maintaining communication
with the mainland and to bring in supplies, together with suitable craft for
transporting material and provisions to the rock. The situation of the ledge
and its exposure to the worst weather rendered approach very difficult. The
danger spot itself is completely covered at high-tide, and only projects 4
feet at low-water. So far as the foundations were concerned, work was only
possible for a few hours at a time. During the closing months of 1904
seventeen landings were made and fifty-two hours in all spent upon the
rock, while in the succeeding year the men landed fifty-nine times, to put in
an aggregate of 206½ hours.
The current rushes round the reef with a velocity of some ten miles per
hour, varying its direction according to the movements of the tides.
Investigation proved the existence of a small space of water on one side
where the boats could approach and moor safely in an eddy. The men were
brought out in the steamer, which also towed the launch and the lifeboat.
The latter was kept in readiness alongside the rock while the men were at
work, in case of emergency. A sharp eye had to be kept upon the weather

while the handful of men laboured hastily preparing the face of the rock,
and at the first signs of a threatening sky or increased movement in the
swell the steamer blew its siren, the men scrambled aboard, and were
hurried back to the island.
The year 1906 was one of bad weather, rendering frequent approach
impossible. During this season the men landed only thirty-nine times and
toiled for 152 hours, while the sum of their achievement was the least
throughout the whole seven years which the tower occupied in its erection.
The building is solid for about 30 feet above the rock, and in 1908 the
construction of the tower proper was commenced. The base is circular, with
a diameter of 33¾ feet; but the tower itself is of octagonal form, with a
diameter at the base of 28 feet, tapering slightly to the top.
One notable feature in connection with the work was the utilization of
electricity for the operation of the derrick, which was driven by a petrol
motor coupled thereto. This was supplemented in times of pressure with
another derrick, driven by current generated on the steamer, from which a
cable trailed to the rock. Altogether 4,180 tons of masonry were transported
to the rock and set in position. During the seven years the work was in
progress, from the first landing to the final withdrawal of the workmen, 449
landings were made and 2,937 hours of work put in. The largest annual
aggregate of labour was in 1911, when 70 landings were made and 400
hours turned to useful purpose. The tower, which is of imposing
appearance, has six floors for the convenience of the keeper, stores, etc. The
apartment immediately beneath the lantern contains the fog-signalling
apparatus, which comprises a siren driven by air which is compressed for
the purpose by means of a fourteen horse-power petrol motor. The signal is
as follows: Three blasts of one and a half seconds’ duration with intervening
intervals of one and a half seconds, followed by a silent period of fifty-two
and a half seconds, one cycle thus being emitted every minute. The light,
which is thrown from an elevation of 110¼ feet above high-water, throws
groups of three red flashes at intervals of fifteen seconds, and has a
maximum range of twenty miles in very clear weather.
In accordance with the terms of the donor’s will, the light is named
after the rock upon which it stands, and therefore is known as the Jument of
Ushant lighthouse. The benefactor’s second wish is also respected in the
inscription wrought in the solid granite, which translated runs: “This

lighthouse was built with the legacy of Charles Eugène Potron, traveller,
and member of the Geographical Society of Paris.” The sum set aside by
this benefactor of humanity, however, did not defray the entire cost of the
lighthouse. As a matter of fact, the total outlay on the undertaking was more
than twice the sum left for the purpose, totalling 850,000 francs—£34,000,
or $170,000. The Government decided that the munificence of its citizen
offered the opportunity to carry out the first instalment of the scheme it had
in view upon the most complete lines—hence the heavy disbursement.
Nevertheless the origin of the Jument lighthouse is almost unprecedented in
the annals of lighthouse engineering, and it probably ranks as the first
important light which has been built in accordance with the terms, and with
funds, left by a will.

CHAPTER XII

THE GUARDIAN LIGHTS OF CANADA’S
COAST

The phenomenal commercial expansion of the Dominion of Canada,
which has brought about an amazing development in the maritime traffic
with that country on both its seaboards, naturally has been responsible for
the display of striking activity in the provision of aids to navigation. Both
the Atlantic and Pacific coastlines bristle with dangers of a most terrible
nature; the innumerable islands and precipitous flanks of rock recall the
wild ruggedness of the western coast of Scotland or the forbidding Atlantic
shoreline of France and Spain.
When the ships of Britain first traded with Canadian shores, shipwrecks
and ocean tragedies were numerous; there is no escape for a ship which is
caught on those pitiless coasts. The early settlers, therefore, did not hesitate
to provide ways and means of guiding navigators to safety. Their first lights
were primitive, comprising bonfires fed with wood, of which ample
supplies abounded, pitched on prominent headlands; and these flickering
rays, when not obscured by smoke and fog, served to speed the ship safely
on her way.
The British pioneers, naturally, did not hesitate to improve upon these
uncertain crude methods of warning, in course of time, by the erection of
more substantial lights. These for the most part comprised timber-frame
dwellings, used by the family entrusted with the maintenance of the light,
from the roof of which a wooden tower extended, similar in design to the
buildings favoured for a similar purpose in the United States. Many lights
of this class are still doing faithful service to-day, and although one might
anticipate the destruction of such a beacon from fire, yet, owing to the

unremitting care displayed by the families associated with the upkeep
thereof, this awful fiend has not been responsible for the temporary
extinction of many lights in the country’s history.

Photo by permission of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

THE CAPE RACE LIGHTHOUSE, NEWFOUNDLAND.
One of the finest and most powerful beacons in the world. It is filled with the hyperradiant
apparatus, and the ray is of 1,100,000 candle-power.

One of the oldest, if not the first light to be established, was that on
Sambro Island, to indicate the entrance into Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia.
This signpost of the sea was set up in 1758, and fulfilled its purpose for 148
years, when it was reconstructed and fitted with the most up-to-date
appliances. The white flash now bursts forth, at an elevation of 140 feet
above mean high-water, from the top of a white octagonal stone and
concrete tower, and is visible from a distance of seventeen miles. When it is
blotted out by fog, a powerful signal is given once every ten minutes by a
cotton-powder charge. Mariners, however, are cautioned against attempting
to make Sambro in fog, as the shore is wild and cruel. This explosive signal
is emitted rather to communicate a timely warning to vessels which have
lost their way.

The two most dangerous spots in the approach to Canada, however, lie
off the mainland. One is the irregular triangular island of Newfoundland;
the other is a low-lying stretch of sand known as Sable Island. Both are
amongst the most ill-famed graveyards in the North Atlantic, where
hundreds of ships have gone to their doom. Even to-day, although both are
well protected by lights, wrecks are by no means uncommon. Sable Island
is stalked by the ghosts of scores of seafarers who have been the victims of
some ghastly ocean tragedy upon its banks.
The island of Newfoundland lies in the jaw of the River St. Lawrence,
with two narrow passages leading between the Gulf behind and the broad
Atlantic. Both straits offer dangers to navigation, although in this respect
that of Belle Ile, whereby the northern corner of the island is rounded, is the
worse offender. Yet the most dangerous corner of the island is, not where
the waterways are hemmed in, but that tongue which thrusts itself far out to
sea, to terminate in the bluff headland of Cape Race. This shoreline is as
serrated as a fine saw, being a succession of indentations and steep
promontories, with submerged reefs running far out to sea. To the south lies
that great submerged tableland, invariably curtained in fog, where mighty
icebergs that have come down from the north pound and grate themselves to
pieces, which throughout the shipping world is regarded with dread—the
Grand Banks. This south-eastward corner of the island, by being thrust so
far outwards, brings the rocky headlands into the path of the vessels plying
between Europe, Canada, and New York.
The shortest route between the Old and New World extends across the
northern half of the Banks, with a slight swing southwards to avoid Cape
Race. So far as the great liners are concerned, they are spared this peril,
inasmuch as their prescribed lanes give the cruel coast a wide berth; but all
other shipping has either to swing round the headland to enter the Gulf of
St. Lawrence, or strike farther north and pass through the Strait of Belle Ile.
The latter route, however, is available for only five months in the year; the
greater volume of the traffic skirts the southern shores of the island.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

CANN ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE ON THE EAST COAST OF
NEWFOUNDLAND.
This is a typical example of a wooden frame building. The tower projects from the roof of
the home of the lighthouse-keeper and his family.

Under these circumstances Cape Race is to the western side of the
Atlantic what the Fastnet and Bishop Rocks are to the eastern boundaries of
this ocean. Even if the wild character of the coast were not sufficient
justification for a light, the currents experienced off these shores, which are
of high velocity and violently broken up by the indentations and
protuberances, would demand the provision of a beacon. Over one hundred
vessels of all descriptions have been smashed to pieces in the vicinity of
Cape Race alone. The Allan liner Anglo-Saxon crashed into the cliffs and
went down in 1864 with 290 souls. In this instance the death-roll would
have been far heavier had it not been for the pluck and grit of the
lighthouse-keepers, who, observing the wreck, hurried to the water’s edge,
lowered themselves with ropes from the heights above, and, stumbling,
groping, and feeling their way through the darkness, at imminent risk to
their own limbs and lives, rescued 130 of the luckless passengers and crew

from the wreck, who were huddled on a ledge under the cliffs, hungry,
shivering with cold, and too exhausted to assist themselves. The light-
keepers and men from the telegraph-station had to lift these helpless
survivors one by one to the top of the precipice, a task demanding herculean
effort, patience, and intrepidity, and to lead and help them to the lighthouse,
where they were tended until a steamer, answering the telegraphic call for
help, came round from St. John’s and took the hapless people off.
In 1901 the Assyrian ran ashore in calm weather, and was too firmly
jammed on a reef to extricate herself. A week later another fine vessel and
cargo worth £80,000, or $400,000, was battered to pulp by the waves, the
lighthouse-keepers once more, at great risk to themselves, putting out and
rescuing those on board in the nick of time. Ere the excitement of this
wreck had died down, a French emigrant steamer, the Lusitania, ran full-tilt
on to a reef, and but for the timely aid rendered by the lighthouse-keepers
and the fisherfolk 550 people would have been drowned. More fearful
catastrophes have been enacted within hail of the lights at Cape Race and
Cape Ray, hard by to the west, and more millions sterling of cargo and ship
have been shattered and lost here than upon any other corresponding stretch
of coast in the world. The most noticeable point in connection with these
disasters is the large number of big boats which have ended their careers
abruptly off this spot, although the rocks have claimed a big share of small
fry as well.
The first beacon was placed on the headland in 1856. It was a
cylindrical tower, built up of cast-iron plates, erected near the edge of the
cliff, which is 87 feet high. The tower itself being 38 feet in height, the
focal plane of the beam was at an elevation of 125 feet above the sea. It was
erected jointly by the British and Newfoundland Government authorities,
although the maintenance thereof was entrusted to Great Britain. In return
for the provision of this warning, a tax of one-sixteenth of a penny, or an
eighth of a cent, per ton, was collected in England from vessels passing the
light. The beacon was not particularly powerful, the ray being only of some
6,000 candle-power.
Some years ago the lighthouse was handed over to the Canadian
Government to be included in its service, together with the balance of the
fund which had accrued from the levy of the special tax. This sum
represented £20,579, or $102,895. The Canadian Government abolished the

light-due, and the surplus funds were absorbed into the general revenue of
the country.
The new owners, realizing the importance of the light, subsequently
decided to provide a new beacon of greater power to meet the demands of
shipping, which had increased amazingly. In 1907 this structure was
completed. It is a cylindrical tower, carried out in reinforced concrete, 100
feet in height, surmounted by a lantern of the first order with hyperradial
apparatus. This is the largest type of optical apparatus in use at the present
time, and the ray of light produced by an incandescent oil-burner and
mantle is of 1,100,000 candle-power, shed from an elevation of 195 feet
above the water. The warning flash of a quarter of a second every seven and
a half seconds is visible from a distance of nineteen miles. In addition, the
fog-signalling apparatus was brought up to date. The steam-whistle, which
had sufficed up to the date of reconstruction, was replaced by a diaphone of
the greatest power installed up to that time. This is set up about 250 feet
south of the lighthouse, with which it is connected by a covered passage.
The air required to emit the warning blast, lasting three and a half seconds
once in every half-minute, is compressed by the aid of steam. By day the
lighthouse is readily distinguishable from its red and white vertical stripes,
red lantern, and white dwelling with red roof, in which the keepers have
their quarters. To-day the station ranks as one of the finest in the world,
complying in every respect with the requisitions for one of a first-class
character.
Sable Island is perhaps an even more evil spot in the North Atlantic
than the ill-famed Newfoundland coast. It is a bleak, inhospitable, crescent-
shaped collection of sand-dunes, eighty-five miles due east of Nova Scotia
and lying right in the steamship tracks. A more uninviting stretch of dry
land could not be conceived. Little grows here beyond a special kind of
brush, which appears to flourish in sea-swept billows of sand. But the
obstacle is formidable, being twenty-two miles in length by a mile in width
at its broadest part. This does not constitute the extent of its dangers—far
from it. The island is slowly but surely being swallowed up by the restless,
hissing sea, with the result that, when one stands on the almost
indistinguishable line where sea meets land, an aspect of white ruffs of
foam curl in all directions as far as the eye can see, where the surf is
thundering over the shoals. I have related the toll that this island of the dead

A
has exacted from shipping, and now confine myself to describing the
means that have been provided to warn the mariner off its bars. The
Canadian Government maintains two lighthouses, at the western and
eastern extremities respectively, and those entrusted with their safe-keeping
have as lonely an existence as may be conceived. The welcome face of a
stranger never brightens their lives, except when the relief-boat draws in as
far as it dares in the calmest weather, or when some luckless wretches are
snatched from a vessel which has fallen into the toils of the sand and is
doomed. The sea-birds and seals are their sole companions on this lonely
outpost.

A
“The Steamship Conquest of the World,” chapter xxi., p.
299.

Photo by courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

THE LIGHT AT THE SOUTHERN END OF BELLE ILE.
This Canadian beacon throws its rays from a height of 470 feet. In foggy weather the headland
often is obscured by fog, so an auxiliary light has been provided 346 feet below.

The necessity of indicating this death-trap to the mariner was realized
at the end of the seventeenth century, but it was not until 1802 that a
forward step was taken to ease the plight of those who were thrown upon its
shores. Then the province of Nova Scotia voted a sum of £400 or $2,000,
per annum, for the maintenance of a fully-equipped life-saving station. This
sum was too slender to fulfil the purposes conceived, but in 1827 the
Imperial Government, recognizing the humane character of the enterprise,
voted a similar appropriation, which is paid regularly, or was up to a few
years ago, towards its support. When the Dominion of Canada became an
accomplished fact in 1867, by the confederation of the provinces, the matter
was taken up whole-heartedly, and since that date enormous sums have
been expended upon the island for the protection of shipping and the
mitigation of the sufferings of those cast upon its inhospitable shores. At the
present time three life-saving stations and six relief stations, equipped with
the best modern apparatuses, are maintained, connected by telephone and

equipped with a staff of about twenty men. When the gales are raging and
the island is encircled in a broad band of maddened spray stretching to the
horizon, these men are out patrolling the shore, ready to man the lifeboat
upon the first signals of distress. The life of these lonely workers now is
lightened very appreciably, as the island is fitted with a wireless station,
wherewith the men are able to talk through space with the mainland and
with passing vessels.

Photo by courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

THE NORTH BELLE ILE LIGHTHOUSE.
The warning flash, thrown from a height of 137 feet, can be seen from a distance of 17 miles.

The west end light has passed through many vicissitudes, and the
keepers have experienced innumerable thrills. At this point the ocean is
devouring the island rapidly. In 1873 the tower was raised in what was
considered a safe position. It was placed some distance from the water’s
edge on a favourable knoll, and thought to be immune from the gnawing of
the sea for many years to come. But Nature disposed otherwise. The awful
winter of 1881 played havoc with the island. One mighty gale carried away

a solid chunk 70 feet wide by nearly 1,400 feet long. When the summer
came, and an inspection was made, fears were entertained concerning the
safety of the lighthouse. The keepers had observed violent tremblings, for
the tower vibrated considerably under the smashing blows of the waves.
Nothing could be done that summer, and it was hoped that the succeeding
winter would be milder, to enable plans to be prepared for the construction
of a new tower in a safer position. The keepers, however, were urged to
keep a sharp eye on developments, and to be prepared for any emergency.
The winter of 1882 proved to be worse than that of the previous year, and
the island suffered more than ever. The keepers and their isolated comrades
viewed the advance of the waves with ill-disguised alarm. Would the island
around the light hold out until the spring? That was the uppermost thought.
Every gale brought the waves nearer, and at last it was recognized that one
good gale would finish matters. So the men prepared for the emergency.
The demolition of the tower commenced, a race between the waters and
human labour. The men worked well and had just got the superstructure
away, when there was a creak, a groan, and a crash! The foundations, which
had been undermined, disappeared into the Atlantic. In less than ten years
the hungry ocean had carried a mile of Sable Island away.

By kind permission of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

A MAGNIFICENT CANADIAN
LIGHT ON THE PACIFIC
COAST.
An octagonal tower, 127 feet high, built of ferro-
concrete.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature
Mission.

THE WEST END GUARDIAN
OF SABLE ISLAND, THE
GRAVEYARD OF THE
ATLANTIC.
This tower replaces the structure demolished by
the waves.

In 1888 the present magnificent lighthouse was brought into service. It
is a ferro-concrete tower of octagonal shape rising from a massive plinth of
the same form, and is provided with four equidistantly-spaced wing
buttresses to hold the structure more rigid in rough weather. The building is
set on a knoll rising 20 feet above the water, and about 2,100 yards east of
the extremity of the western dry spit of land, so that the Atlantic will have
to gnaw a considerable distance before it will render the position of this
light untenable. The tower is 97 feet in height, bringing the white ray 118
feet above the level of the sea. The light is of the group revolving type,
thrown once every three minutes. The warning is made up of three flashes,
with an eclipse of thirty seconds between each flash, followed by darkness

for ninety seconds, and may be seen sixteen miles away. While the beacon
mounts guard over the main end of the island on one side, there is a
dangerous submerged bar which runs north-westwards and westwards for
seventeen miles. The light at the east end, which was erected in 1873, is
likewise carried on an octagonal tower 81 feet high, but, being set upon a
more commanding position, the beam is elevated to 123 feet. It is erected
five miles south-westwards of the extreme tip of the island, and gives a
white flash at intervals of three seconds, followed by an eclipse of fifteen
seconds; it may be picked up seventeen miles away. Similarly, this light
mounts guard over a submerged sand-bar, which extends eastwards for at
least fourteen miles.
During the late summer and autumn the majority of the vessels plying
between ports on the St. Lawrence and Europe take the shorter route round
the northern corner of Newfoundland through the Straits of Belle Ile. This is
a highly dangerous passage, inasmuch as the narrow streak of water,
seventy miles in length, with a maximum width of eleven miles, separating
the frowning coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador, is strewn with
menaces, the most formidable of which is Belle Ile, which lies right in the
centre of the entrance from the ocean. The island is really a lofty hump of
rock, twenty-one miles in circumference, with the shores for the most part
dropping precipitously into the water. It is an extremely lonely spot, and,
naturally, is feared by the mariner. His apprehensions, however, have been
considerably relieved, because the channel is brilliantly lighted by several
powerful lights visible from twelve to twenty-eight miles, while another is
being established.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature
Mission.

ST. ESPRIT ISLAND LIGHT,
NOVA SCOTIA.
Its white revolving light is visible for 14 miles.

THE GULL ISLAND LIGHT,
NEWFOUNDLAND.
A very lonely beacon, visible for 27 miles.

The beacons are distributed along the shores of Newfoundland, Belle
Ile, and Labrador, one powerful light being placed on Cape Bauld, the
northernmost point of Newfoundland, and another on Cape Norman,
another promontory to the west. These two lights are visible from twenty
and sixteen miles respectively, while on the opposite side of the strait is
Amour Point light, guarding the south-east side of Forteau Bay on the
Labrador shore, which has a range of eighteen miles. Cape Bauld is the
most important mainland beacon, inasmuch as it indicates the entrance to
the Belle Ile Straits. Belle Ile is well protected at its two extreme tips, the
principal light being at the southern end. The necessity of guiding ships
between the island and Newfoundland was recognized half a century ago,
for this light was erected in 1858. It is perched on the summit of the cliff,
400 feet above the sea, the occulting light of ten seconds’ duration and five
seconds’ eclipse being thrown from an altitude of 470 feet, rendering it
distinguishable twenty-eight miles away. Unfortunately, however, the
extreme elevation of the light often causes it to be enshrouded in

impenetrable banks of clouds, which drape the headland; so in 1880 an
auxiliary light was established, 346 feet below the upper light. This beam is
similar in character to the one above, and, from its elevation of 124 feet
above the water, it may be picked up from seventeen miles out.
Consequently, in foggy weather the lower light may be seen when the upper
beacon is obscured. This is one of the most important points on the coast,
being a marine telegraph, signal, and ice-report station, while it is also fitted
with wireless telegraphy. An interesting feature in connection with this light
is that it was kept going for three generations by one family, the Coltons,
whose name is legendary in Quebec, and some of whom were born and died
on Belle Ile.

THE BATISCAN FRONT RANGE
LIGHTHOUSE, RIVER ST.
LAWRENCE.
By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

ISLE ST. THÉRÈSE UPPER
RANGE BACK LIGHTHOUSE,
RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.
By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

The second light, on the northern extremity of the island, to indicate the
northern entrance into the straits, is of recent date, having been brought into
operation in 1905. It is a tower of iron, encased in a white octagonal
reinforced concrete covering capped with a red polygonal-shaped lantern
throwing a flash of half a second once every eleven seconds from a height
of 137 feet, visible from a distance of seventeen miles.
Fogs and mists are two great perils peculiar to this northern waterway,
so the splendid lighting arrangements are supported by excellent and
powerful fog-signals. The northern light has a diaphone giving a blare
lasting three and a half seconds every minute, while the southern station has
a siren giving a double tone. First there is a low note of two and a half
seconds followed by silence for two and a half seconds; then a high note of
two and a half seconds and a silent interval of 112½ seconds. This signal is
emitted from a point midway between the upper and lower lights, the air for

the blast being compressed by water-power. Another humane provision is
the depot at the southern station, which is kept stocked with food supplies
for the benefit of shipwrecked mariners. In 1898 a freighter carrying a deck-
load of 400 oxen went ashore beneath this light and became a hopeless
wreck. The crew, realizing the impossibility of saving the animals, fired the
ship, so that the animals were suffocated and bruised, thereby sparing the
inhabitants of the island a deadly risk, and solving the difficult problem
which otherwise would have arisen, had the brutes been drowned in the
ordinary way and their decomposing carcasses cast up on the beach. In the
following year the Dominion liner Scotsman crashed on to the rocks near
the same spot, and likewise became a total loss, with a death-roll of nine.
By dint of great effort the survivors scrambled ashore, and had a weary
trudge of nine miles over a broken, rock-strewn wilderness to gain the
lighthouse station and assistance, arriving in a famished and exhausted
condition, to be tended by the light-keepers and their families.
Belle Ile is a lonely station in the fullest sense of the word, although the
keepers are better off now than they were a few years ago. The straits are
busy in the summer, being crowded with shipping, but with the coming of
November all life disappears, and the liners do not return until the following
May or June. The rock is cut off from the mainland by the masses of ice
which pile up in the estuary, together with the crowds of icebergs which
come down from Greenland. For six months the guardians of the light are
isolated from the world at large, although they have a slender link of
communication in the submarine cable. But the storms and stress of winter
often rupture this line, and, as the wireless installation is closed down when
navigation ceases, the keepers and their families settle down to a silent,
weary vigil, knowing nothing of the rest of the world, and all but forgotten
by civilization, because an interruption in the cable cannot be repaired until
the ice disappears.

UPPER TRAVERSE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE
RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.

By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

AN “ICE SHOVE” UPON THE BACK
RANGE LIGHT IN LAKE ST. PETER.
This photo gives a striking idea of the trouble experienced with ice
in Canadian waters.

Even when the Gulf of the St. Lawrence is entered, the navigator is not
free from peril. The waterway is littered with rocks and islands. Among
these are Coffin Island and Anticosti, the latter being the private property of
M. Henri Ménier, the French chocolate magnate. For many years the St.
Lawrence was a byword to navigation, and wrecks were numerous. It was
shunned by navigators and abhorred by underwriters. Even to this day the
latter regard it askance, and the insurance rates are high upon vessels
trading in these waters. Through the efforts of the Department of Marine
and Fisheries, the Dominion Government is removing this stigma from their
great marine avenue, and their engineer-in-chief. Lieutenant-Colonel
William P. Anderson, to whom I am indebted for much information
concerning the guardians of the Canadian coasts, has displayed
commendable enterprise and ingenuity in combating the natural odds pitted
against human endeavour to render the coasts of the country more friendly
to navigation.
In the St. Lawrence the great foe is ice. Its onslaughts are terrific, and
none but the strongest works has a chance to survive the enormous pressure
exerted when the ice is on the run after the break of winter. As is well
known, for some five months in the year the river is frozen so thick and
solid that it will support a train. Naturally, when this armour collapses, and
the floes are hurled seawards by the current, they concentrate their
destructive energies upon any obstacles in their way, piling up in huge
masses weighing thousands of tons. It is no uncommon circumstance for the
floes to pack in a jagged heap 50 feet high, while all the time there is a
continual push against the obstruction.
Under these circumstances extreme ingenuity has to be displayed in the
erection of the fixed lights. The floating lights, such as buoys, escape this
peril, as they are picked up when navigation ceases, to be housed in quarters
on dry land, and replaced when the river is open once more. Yet it is not
only the ice in itself which causes trouble. The level of the river rises when
the ice is running, and this pressure alone is enormous, while the scouring
action about the foundations is terrific. The type of structure adopted varies
with the situation and character of the light. The beacons for the aid of
navigation, in common with the practice upon American waterways, are
divided into groups or ranges, and the captain picks out his channel by
keeping these lights and marks in various lines. Maybe four or five lights

have to be brought into line, and accordingly the height of the unit of each
range varies from its fellow. Thus, the front light will be low, that behind a
little higher, and so on, until the last light in the group, or “back light” of
the range, as it is called, is a lofty structure.
In some places the light is placed in mid-stream, and perhaps mounted
upon a massive, high, steel caisson, resting upon a concrete foundation,
thereby proving immovable to the most powerful of ice-shoves. Or a large
pier carried out in ferro-concrete and pyramidal in shape is used. In the case
of the back light there is a skeleton tower, which structure is employed to
gain the necessary height. This is carried upon a high, huge, solid plinth of
concrete, even if built against the bank. The frazil ice dams the channel,
causing the water to rise, and unless the foregoing precautions were adopted
widespread damage would result. All the lights between the gulf and
Montreal have to be protected in this manner, so that it will be seen that the
adequate lighting of this waterway bristles with engineering difficulties of
no light character, and is expensive.
The Canadian Government also is responsible, to a certain extent, for
the lighting of the Great Lakes, which is described in another chapter,
where similar difficulties prevail. It has also a long stretch of the most
rugged part of the Pacific coast to patrol, aggregating about 600 miles
between Victoria and Vancouver to the Portland Canal, where Canadian
meets Alaskan territory. This is a wicked coast, broken and battered, as well
as flanked by an outer barrier of islands, recalling the Scandinavian
Peninsula in its general topographical characteristics. During the past few
years the necessity of lighting this seaboard adequately has become more
pronounced, owing to the creation of the new port of Prince Rupert, a few
miles below Alaskan territory, where the Grand Trunk Pacific reaches down
to the western sea, and the growing sea-borne traffic with Alaska. The fact
that a large portion of this navigation is maintained through the inside
passages, bristling with sharp turns, narrow defiles, and jagged headlands,
which for the most part are wrapped generally in fog, renders the lighting
problem more intricate. Probably the most important light, and certainly the
loftiest on the Pacific seacoast north of the Equator, is that on the summit of
Triangle Island, British Columbia. It was built in 1910, and although the
lantern itself is only 46 feet in height, the elevation of the headland brings
the white group-flashing light of 1,000,000 candle-power 700 feet above

the sea, giving it a range of thirty-four miles. Four flashes are emitted
during each ten seconds, each flash lasting 0·28 second with intervening
eclipses each of 1·28 seconds, with an eclipse between each group of 5·94
seconds.
Lieutenant-Colonel Anderson has introduced a new type of reinforced
concrete lighthouse with flying buttresses. The latter are not required for
strength, but are utilized to give greater stiffness to the tower, as a column
100 feet or more in height, no matter how strongly it may be built, must
vibrate and swing in high winds. Yet it is desirable to keep the lantern as
steady as possible, and this is achieved much more completely upon the
above principle. The engineer-in-chief of the lighthouse authority of the
Canadian Government considers this method of construction to be the last
word in lighthouse building, and has completed some notable works upon
these lines. Perhaps the most important is the Estevan Point light, on the
west coast of Vancouver, at a place known as Hole-in-the-Wall. The tower,
of octagonal, tapering form, is 127 feet in height, and throws a white group-
flashing light, comprising three flashes each of 9·3 seconds with two
eclipses, each of 1·37 seconds, and a final eclipse of 6·36 seconds between
each group, seventeen miles out to sea. The surroundings of this station are
most romantic. Landing anywhere in its vicinity is extremely difficult and
dangerous, and the engineer had to select a point about two miles distant for
this purpose. From this place a road and tramway have been laid through a
grand primeval forest, such as is to be found only upon Vancouver Island,
wherein roams a drove of magnificent wild cattle.
While the Canadian coast cannot point to any lighthouse work
comparing with the Eddystone, Skerryvore, or Heaux de Bréhat, yet its
most powerful beacons are of a commanding character, representing as they
do the latest and best in connection with coast lighting. There is an
enormous stretch of difficult shore to patrol, along which has to be guided
an immense volume of valuable shipping. In addition to the attended lights,
the Government has been extremely enterprising in the adoption of
unattended beacons (described in another chapter), miles of lonely,
inhospitable shore being guarded in this way. Although the development in
this direction is of comparatively recent date, the protection of maritime
trade is being carried out in accordance with a comprehensive policy, so

that within a few years the coasts of the Dominion will be rendered as safe
to the shipping of the world as human ingenuity can contrive.

CHAPTER XIII

THE MINOT’S LEDGE LIGHT

Lovers of Longfellow will recall the poet’s song to the lighthouse, but
how many of his admirers know to what beacon these stirring lines refer?
When they were penned the author had in his mind’s eye an example of the
engineer’s handiwork which ranks as one of the finest sea-rock lights in
existence, worthy of comparison with the most famous of similar structures
scattered throughout the waters washing the Old World.
This is the far-famed Minot’s Ledge light, warning the seafarer making
to and from Boston Bay of the terrible peril which lurks beneath the waves
on the southern side of the entrance to this busy indentation. “Like the great
giant Christopher it stands,” a powerful monument to engineering genius,
dogged perseverance against overwhelming odds, and a grim, bitter contest
lasting five weary years between the implacable elements and human
endeavour. The Minot Ledge is one of those jagged reefs which thrust
themselves far out into the sea, studded with pinnacles and chisel-like
edges, which never, or very seldom, protrude above the waves. Ship after
ship fouled this danger spot, either to be sunk or to be so badly crippled that
it barely could contrive to crawl to safety.
The prosperity of Boston was threatened by this peril to shipping, and
therefore it is not surprising that a resolution was passed to devise some
ways and means of indicating its presence to those who go down to the sea
in ships. The solution was offered in a skeleton structure fashioned from
iron, which was designed by Captain W. H. Swift, of the United States
Topographical Engineers. He searched the reef through and through to
ascertain the point where the beacon should be placed so as to prove of the
greatest value. This in itself was no simple matter, inasmuch as Minot’s
Ledge is but one of a great area of wicked crags, which collectively are

known as the Cohasset Rocks, and which straggle over the sea-bed in all
directions. After the position had been reconnoitred thoroughly, and
sounding and levels had been taken, the engineer decided that the most
seaward rock of the group, known as the Outer Minot, would be the most
strategical position, and accordingly he planned to erect his beacon thereon.
It was a daring proposal, because the reef at the point selected only
exposes some 25 feet of its mass above the falling tide, and then the highest
point of the rock scarcely thrusts itself 3½ feet into the air. It was realized
that the periods of working between the tides would inevitably be very
brief, while even then, owing to the open position of the ridge, a landing
would only be possible in very smooth weather, and the men would have to
suffer exposure to the fury of the waves as they dashed over the ledge.
Captain Swift decided upon a skeleton iron structure, not only because
it would be quicker to erect and would cost less, but because it would offer
the least resistance to the waves, which would be free to expend their
energy among the stilts. The task was taken in hand at the first favourable
opportunity, and, the system lending itself to rapid construction, marked
progress was made every time the workmen succeeded in getting on the
ledge. The lantern and keepers’ quarters were supported upon nine piles, 60
feet above the rock. The legs were so disposed that eight described the
circumference of a circle, while the ninth constituted the axis.
This tower was completed in 1848, and for the first time the navigator
making these treacherous waters received a powerful warning to keep clear
of Minot’s Ledge. For three years the beacon survived the battering of wind
and wave, but its welcome beam was last seen on the night of April 16,
1851. In the spring of that year a gale of terrific fury beat upon the
Massachusetts coast. The wind freshened on April 13; the next day it rose to
its full force, and did not abate for four days. The good people of Boston
grew apprehensive concerning the plight of the two keepers of the lonely
Minot’s light, but, however willing they might have been to have put out to
the beacon, they were absolutely impotent before the ferocity of the
elements. Time after time the light vanished from sight as it was enveloped
in an angry curling mountain of water. On April 17 the doleful tolling of the
lighthouse bell was heard, but the light was never seen again. The structure
had slipped completely from sight, together with its faithful keepers,
swallowed by the hungry Atlantic. Evidently the wail of the bell was a last

plea for assistance, because no doubt the lighthouse had bowed to the storm
and was tottering when the tolling rang out. But the call brought no help; it
was the funeral knell of the guardians of the beacon. When the sea went
down a boat pushed off to the ledge, and all that was seen were a few bent
piles. Captain Swift had done his work well. The waves could not tear his
beacon up by the roots, so had snapped off the piles like carrots, and had
carried away the lantern.

THE MINOT’S LEDGE LIGHT.
Marking the rock off Boston Harbour, it is one of the greatest
works completed by the lighthouse builders of the United
States. It forms the theme of Longfellow’s well-known poem.

This sensational disaster, after a brief existence of three years, did not
augur well for the permanence of a light upon this precarious ledge. The
Outer Minot appeared to be determined to continue its plunder of ships,

cargoes, and lives, untrammelled. Accordingly, for three years no effort was
made to bring about its subjugation.
In 1855 General Barnard, one of the most illustrious engineers which
the United States has ever produced, brought forward the plans for a
structure which he thought would resist the most formidable attacks of wind
and wave. He took Rudyerd’s famous Eddystone tower as his pattern. This
was perhaps the strongest design that could be carried out against the sea,
having one weak point only—it was built of wood. General Barnard
contemplated a similar structure for Minot’s Ledge, but in masonry.
The Lighthouse Board, which had recently been inaugurated to control
the lighthouses around the coasts of the country, examined the idea
minutely, and submitted the design to the most expert criticism and
discussion, but all were so impressed with its outstanding features that they
decided to support it whole-heartedly. A minute survey of the rock was
prepared, and the plans were straight away perfected for the preparation of
the masonry on shore. So carefully was this work carried out, that, with the
exception of a few blocks of masonry constituting the foundations, which
had to be prepared on the site, and some slight variations in the method of
construction, the original ideas were fulfilled.
Work was commenced in 1855, the building operations being placed in
the hands of B. S. Alexander, at that time Lieutenant of Engineers, and the
successful completion of the work was due in a very great measure to his
ability and ingenuity, because the whole undertaking was placed in his
hands and he had to overcome difficulties at every turn as they arose.
The builder was handicapped in every way. First there was the brief
period in which operations could be carried out upon the site, the working
season extending only from April 1 to September 15 in each year. This is
not to say that the masons were able to toil upon the rock continuously
every day during this interval—far from it. In order to get the foundations
laid there were three essentials—a perfectly smooth sea, a dead calm, and
low spring-tides. Needless to say, it was on very rare occasions indeed that
these three requirements were in harmony. As a matter of fact, they could
occur only about six times during every lunar month—three times during
full moon, and three at the change. Even then, either the wind or the sea
intervened to nullify the benefits arising from the lowest tides. So much so

that, although work commenced at daybreak on Sunday, July 1, 1855, only
130 working hours were possible upon the rock before labours ceased for
the season in the middle of the following September.

TENDER LANDING BUILDING MATERIAL UPON THE
TILLAMOOK ROCK.
A derrick has been provided to facilitate these operations, while a stairway leads from the landing
point to the lighthouse.

On gaining the rock, Lieutenant Alexander decided to make use of the
holes which had been driven into the granitic mass by Captain Swift to
receive the piles of the previous structure. The twisted and broken pieces of
iron were withdrawn and the holes cleaned out. Simultaneously the upper
surface of the rock was pared and trimmed by the aid of chisels, which was
no easy task, because at times the masons were compelled to manipulate
their tools as best they could in two or three feet of water. This preparation
of the rock to receive the base constituted one of the most notable features
of the work. In the greater number of other outstanding achievements upon
sea-rocks the surface of the latter has been above the waves at lowest

spring-tides, whereas in this case a great part of the foundation work was
continuously submerged.
This preparation of the rock-face necessitated the final trimming and
shaping upon the site of many of the masonry blocks forming the root of the
tower. They could not possibly be prepared ashore to bring about the tight
fit which was imperative. Accordingly, all but the bottom faces of the
blocks were prepared in the depot on the mainland, and they were then
shipped to the ledge for final paring and trimming.
The attachment of the bottom courses to the rock-face was carried out
very ingeniously. Bags of sand were brought on to the rock and laid around
the spot upon which a particular block of stone was to be laid. The sacks,
being filled with sand, were pliable, so that, when deposited, they adapted
themselves to the contour of the ledge, and prevented the water making its
way in under the rampart. The water within this small dam was then
removed, sponges being used in the final emptying task, so as to suck out
the salt sea from the cracks and crevices, leaving the surface on which the
block of stone was to be laid quite dry. A film of cement was then trowelled
upon the rock surface, and upon this was laid a sheet of muslin. The
inclusion of the muslin was a wise precaution, because while the work was
in progress a wandering wave was liable to curl over the rock, swamping
the small dried space, when, but for the presence of the muslin, the cement
would have been carried away. At the same time the cement was able to
penetrate the meshes of the muslin when the stone was deposited, so as to
grip the surface of the latter and to hold it tightly in position.
Under such abnormal conditions of working the masons had many
exciting moments. No matter how smooth was the sea, several renegade
waves would plunge over the ledge. The masons had to be prepared for
these unwelcome visitors, and precautions had to be introduced to prevent
them being washed off their slender foothold. A substantial iron staging was
erected over the working area on the rock, to facilitate the handling of the
building material. A number of ropes were attached to this staging, the free
ends of which dangled beside the workmen. These were the life-lines, one
being provided for each man. A lookout was posted, who, when he saw a
wave approaching and bent upon sweeping the rock, gave a shrill signal.
Instantly each workman dropped his tools, clutched his life-line tightly,
threw himself prostrate on the rock, and allowed the wave to pass over him.

The situation certainly was uncomfortable, and the men often toiled in
soddened clothes, but an involuntary bath was preferable to the loss of a life
or to broken limbs.
Work advanced so slowly that during the first two years, which were
devoted to the excavation of the pit and the preparations of the rock-face,
only 287 hours’ work were accomplished. In the third year this task was
completed, and four stones laid in a further 130 hours 21 minutes. By the
end of the working season of 1859 twenty-six courses were finished, so
that, while the volume of work fulfilled in 1,102 hours 21 minutes, and
spread over five years, certainly was not imposing, it was remarkable under
the circumstances.
The stones for the foundations were sent from shore with the indication
-3’ 5”, -2’ 9”, -1’ 3”, and so on, indicating that these stones were prepared
for positions 3 feet 5 inches, 2 feet 9 inches, and so on, below zero. And the
zero mark was 21 inches below water! Above the zero mark the stones were
prefixed by a “plus” sign.
The shaft is purely conical, and solid except for a central well
extending from the foundations up to the level of the entrance. The
successive courses of stones were secured to one another, and each stone
was attached to its neighbour in the ring by the aid of heavy iron dogs, so
that the lower part of the shaft forms a practically solid homogenous mass.
What are known as continuous “dowels” were sunk through each course of
masonry into the holes in the solid rock prepared by Captain Swift for his
skeleton light, this further attachment of the mass to the ledge being
continued until the twelfth course was gained. Thus additional security is
obtained by anchoring the tower firmly to the reef.
The solid portion of the building is 40 feet in height from the level of
the first complete ring of stones, and the tower is 80 feet high to the lantern
gallery. The over-all height to the top of the lantern cupola is 102¾ feet,
while the focal plane is 84½ feet above mean high-water. The first stone
was laid on July 9, 1857, while the masons completed their duties on June
29, 1860, so that five years were occupied upon the work. In erection 3,514
tons of rough and 2,367 tons of hammered stone, in addition to 1,079
numbered stones, were used, and the total cost, including the light-keepers’

houses on the mainland, was £60,000, or $300,000, so that it ranks among
the more costly lights which have been provided for the seafarer’s benefit.
On November 15, 1860, nine and a half years after the destruction of
the first beacon, the light was once more thrown from Minot’s Ledge for the
benefit of passing ships. The light is of the second order, visible fourteen
and three-quarter miles out to sea, and is of the flashing type, signalling
“143” every thirty seconds thus—one flash followed by three seconds’
darkness, four flashes with three seconds’ eclipse, and three flashes with an
interval of fifteen seconds’ darkness.
The tower has been subjected to repeated prodigious assaults, the
north-east gales in particular thundering upon this reef with tremendous
fury, but it has withstood all attacks with complete success.

CHAPTER XIV

THE TILLAMOOK ROCK LIGHT-STATION

While the Northern Pacific Ocean is the loneliest stretch of salt water in
the world, yet it possesses one or two busy corners. Prominent among the
latter is that where it washes the shores of the United States around the
entrance to the mighty Columbia River. The estuary is wide, and, although
navigation is handicapped by a bar, it is well protected. But coming up from
the south there is a stretch of terribly forbidding coastline, with the cliffs at
places towering 1,500 feet or more into the air and dropping sheer into the
water. Rock-slides are of frequent occurrence, and the beach is littered with
heavy falls from above. Here and there protuberances rise from the sea,
formed of rock sufficiently dense and hard to withstand more effectively the
process of erosion, only to constitute fearful menaces to navigation. Often
the mainland is completely obscured, either by streaks of mist or heavy
clouds of smoke produced by forest fires, which in the dry season rage with
great violence. A ship caught within the toils of this stern coast has no
possible chance of escape, while the crew would find it difficult to get
ashore, inasmuch as at places there is not a single landing-place within a
distance of twenty miles.
Owing to the coast being frequently blotted from view, and to the fact
that this stretch of sea is swept by furious storms, the plight of the mariner
making to or from the Columbia River became exceedingly precarious. The
worst tragedy of these waters was enacted on the dark and stormy night of
January 3, 1881, when the sailing-ship Lupata lost her way and went to
pieces on the rocks off Tillamook Head.
Under these circumstances it is not surprising that an outcry arose for
protection along this lonely reach of Oregon’s jagged shoreline. The
authorities responded to the agitation by the promise to erect a lighthouse,

once they should have decided the site, which was the really perplexing
question. In the first instance it was thought that its location upon the
mainland would suffice, but a survey betrayed the futility of such a choice.
The light would be too elevated to be of any service; for the greater part of
its time it would be rendered invisible by land fogs. Then, again, it would
mean cutting a road for a distance of twenty miles through heavy,
undulating country and primeval forest to gain the point, as the verdant sea
of green timber extends to the very brink of the cliffs.
After prolonged consideration, it was decided to erect the light upon the
Tillamook Rock. This is a hard mass of basalt, rising boldly from the water
to a height of 120 feet, which, when viewed from one side, presented the
appearance of a clenched fist. It stands about a mile off the mainland,
twenty miles south of the Columbia River mouth, and drops plumb into the
sea, where the lead gives readings ranging from 96 to 240 feet. The whole
area of the rock is less than one acre, and it is split almost in two; another
isolated knot of basalt, upon which the seas break heavily when a storm is
raging, rears its shaggy head into the air near by at low-tide. The only
possible landing-point is on the east side, where there is a beach sloping
upwards sharply from the water to the crest. When the ocean is roused the
sight certainly is terrifying. The waves fall with shivering force upon the
base of the rock, to rush up its ragged sides and sweep right over its crest in
a dense curtain of angrily frothing water and whipping spray.
Despite its fearsome character, this rock constituted the most
serviceable situation for a light, for the reason that, being a mile from the
shore, it was free from land fogs and clouds. The decision of the authorities
depended upon three factors only—that a landing could be made, the rock
occupied, and the requisite building materials unloaded. The introduction of
such a saving clause was politic, because at first it seemed as if the rock
would defy the gaining of a foothold. The ghastly failure attending the
survey, as described in a previous chapter, brought public opinion into dead
opposition to the project, and many fearsome stories were circulated
sedulously up and down the coast and among the towns fringing the
Columbia River concerning the perils, hardships, and terrible death-roll,
which would attend any attempt to place a beacon on this rock.
After the disaster the authorities pressed forward the enterprise with
greater vigour than ever, so as to get work well under way before public

opinion would be able to make its influence felt upon the unsophisticated
minds of workmen required to carry out the undertaking. A daring,
determined, and energetic leader was secured in Mr. A. Ballantyne, and he
was deputed to rally a force of eight or more highly skilled quarrymen with
whom to proceed to Astoria, where the land headquarters were to be
established. He was informed that upon arrival at this point he would find
everything in readiness for his immediate departure to the rock, with all
essentials to enable him to commence work at once and to provide quarters
for the workmen, who would be compelled to suffer isolation and a certain
amount of discomfort for weeks at a time. It was impossible to take more
than a handful of men at first, owing to the difficulty of landing provisions.
Mr. Ballantyne started off with his small picked force, reached Astoria
on September 24, 1879, and there suffered his first check. The autumn gales
had sprung up, rendering approach to the rock absolutely hopeless. There
was no alternative; he must wait until the weather moderated. As this might
be a question of a few hours, days, or perhaps a week or two, the chief grew
anxious concerning his force. If the men, having nothing to do, wandered
idly about the town, making acquaintance with all and sundry and listening
to gossip, then they could not fail to be impressed with the extraordinary
stories concerning dangers, hardships, perils, and adventures; would
conclude that the Tillamook was a “hoodoo” rock; and would desert him
promptly. To guard against this contingency, the quarrymen were hurried off
and temporarily housed in the old light-keeper’s dwelling at the Cape
Disappointment light, some miles away on the northern portal of the
estuary, where they were safe from pernicious influences.

THE TILLAMOOK ROCK LIGHT STATION FROM THE SOUTH.
Rising from the sea one mile off the Oregon Coast, it was for years a terrible danger spot. The light
of 160,000 candle-power, 132 feet above high water, is visible for 18 miles.

After twenty-six days of enforced idleness the squad was picked up by
a revenue cutter, which steamed to the rock, and made fast to a buoy that
had been laid previously for mooring the vessels deputed to transport
building materials and other requirements. With extreme difficulty four men
were got on the rock, together with a supply of hammers, drills, iron ring-
bolts, a stove, provisions, supplies, and an abundance of canvas, with which
the advance staff were to erect temporary shelters and to make themselves
as comfortable as they could. While the work was in progress the wind
freshened, the swell rose, and the boat had to retire hurriedly before the
remainder of the force could be landed; but five days later they were
transferred to the rock, together with further provisions and supplies, as
well as a derrick.
The little party soon received a taste of what life would be in this lonely
spot. Three days after the second landing, and before they had shaken down
to their strange surroundings, a gale sprang up. Heavy seas pounded the
rock, and the waves, mounting its vertical face, threw themselves over its

crest, drenching the workmen and their sleeping blankets. It was a startling
episode, but it became so frequent that the quarrymen became inured to
their fate, and were not perturbed in any way, except when the Pacific was
roused to exceptional fury.
When the first four men gained the rock it was seen that the landing of
material, especially the heavier incidentals, would constitute the greatest
difficulty. Then an ingenious idea was advanced. Why not rig a heavy rope
between the mast of the vessel and the top of the rock, draw it taut, and
devise a traveller to run to and fro? It was a practical suggestion and was
adopted forthwith. With much difficulty a 4½-inch rope was towed from the
vessel—to the mast of which one end was secured—to the rock, and
grabbed by those in occupation. This end was anchored firmly, and
constituted the track. Then a large single block was rigged to this main line
in such a way that it could move freely to and fro along the cable. This
block was provided with a heavy hook on which the weights could be
slung. Other blocks were fixed on the vessel and on the rock, while an
endless line, passing through these blocks at each end, and attached to the
shank of the hook on the travelling block, enabled the traveller to be pulled
freely and easily in either direction.
Both men and supplies were transferred from ship to shore by this
primitive, albeit ingenious, system. The men were carried in a novel device,
described as a “breeches-buoy,” such as is used with the rocket life-saving
apparatus, but of very crude design improvised on the spot. It was contrived
from an ordinary circular rubber life-preserver, to which a pair of trousers
cut short at the knees were lashed tightly. This was suspended from the
block-hook by means of three short lengths of rope. The trip through the air
certainly was novel, and not free from excitement; indeed, there was just
sufficient spice of adventure about it to appeal to the rough-and-ready,
intrepid spirits who constituted the forces of the lighthouse engineer. Also,
owing to the primitive character of the apparatus, there was just the chance
that something would go wrong when the man was between ship and rock.
The breeches were provided to hold the man in a safe position while in the
air, to guard against a loss of balance and tipping out; while should anything
give way, and the man make an unexpected plunge into the water, the life-
preserver would keep him afloat until a boat could draw alongside to rescue
him.

THE CONQUEST OF THE TILLAMOOK.
The top of the crag was blasted off to provide a level space for the
lighthouse.

THE TERRIBLE TILLAMOOK ROCK.
Showing how the menace rises abruptly from the sea on one side.

There was another factor which had to be taken into consideration, and
which certainly contributed to the novelty of the trip. As the boat responded
to the action of the waves the rope alternately drew tight and sagged. When
she rolled towards the rock the cable was slackened, and the man generally
had a ducking; the next moment, when the vessel rolled in the opposite
direction, he was whisked unceremoniously and suddenly into the air. It was
like being suspended at the end of a piece of elastic. The men for the most
part enjoyed the fun of the journey, and considered it a new and exhilarating
“divarshun.” Among themselves the effort was to travel in either direction
so as to escape a cold douche on the journey. When the water was rough,
speculation took the form of guessing how many dips into the water would
be made before either terminus was gained.
This novel landing method provoked one amusing incident. The
supply-boat came out to the rock one day bringing a new raw hand. The
cableway was rigged up, and the workman prepared for his ride to the rock.
But the man was somewhat corpulent, and could not be thrust through the
preserver. This was an unexpected contretemps, and it seemed as if the
superintendent would have to let his recruit return. But Ballantyne did not
worry over trifles, neither did he relish the idea of losing a hand after
having him brought so far, so he put forward a somewhat daring proposal.
He told the captain of the steamer to lash the workman to the top of the
buoy, and they would pull him ashore all right. The labourer was scared out
of his wits at this suggestion, and resented being handled as if he were a
balk of timber. Why, even the perishable articles were unloaded in casks to
protect them from the wet. He expressed his determination to see them to
perdition before he would make a trip through the air under such conditions.
Ballantyne was somewhat crestfallen at the cold reception of his brilliant
idea, so told the captain to take the workman back to Astoria, and to ransack
the place to discover a buoy which would be big enough to fit him.
Two days later the vessel returned with the larger buoy and also the
corpulent quarryman. His second glimpse of the primitive travelling
frightened him worse than ever, and he point blank refused to budge. In
order to reassure the raw hand, Ballantyne hauled the buoy ashore, and,
jumping into it, made a journey, to illustrate that the system was perfectly
safe, and that one need not even get wet. But Ballantyne’s demonstration
was rather unfortunate. The cable was slack, and the ship rolled heavily.

Result: the superintendent was dragged through the water for nearly the
whole distance, and at times nothing of him could be seen. When he landed
on the boat, half-winded and drenched to the skin, the quarryman was
scared more than ever, and announced his intention to return to Astoria.
Ballantyne cajoled, coaxed, argued, and stormed, in turn, but to no avail.
Then another idea came to his fertile mind. If the man would not travel via
the breeches-buoy, why not send him ashore in a bos’n’s chair? This was
rigged up satisfactorily, and therein the workman consented to go ashore,
though not without the display of considerable trepidation and anxiety to
keep out of the water. They got him on the rock safely, and without so much
as wetting the soles of his feet. The quarryman by his resolute opposition
set up a record. He was the first man to land dry on the Tillamook.
Subsequently this novel and, so far as it went, efficient method of
“quick transit” was superseded when the men on the rock got their big
derrick to work. The long arm of this appliance leaned over the water far
enough to pick up the goods direct from the deck of the vessel moored off
the rock. This system was quicker, and enabled the goods to be got ashore
unsoiled.
The first men to land found the rock in the occupation of sea-lions, who
swarmed its scaly sides in huge numbers, even making their way to the
crest to bask in the sunshine. These tenants at first resented the white man’s
invasion, and were somewhat troublesome; but at last they recognized that
their eviction was certain, so suddenly deserted in a body to another equally
wild spot farther south.
The first task was the preparation of the site for the building. The fist-
like overhanging crest was attacked to prepare a foundation, thereby
reducing the height from 120 to 91 feet. The rock surface was scarred and
riven in a fantastic manner, owing to the scouring action of the waves
eroding the soft portions leaving the hard rock behind in the form of
needles, scales, and ugly crevices. The outer part of the rock, moreover, was
found to be of an unreliable character, being more or less rotten, while the
core, on the other hand, was intensely hard, and promised an excellent
foundation for the beacon. The superfluous mass was removed by blasting,
this being carried out with extreme care and in small sections at a time. The
largest blasts did not remove more than 130 cubic yards, or tons, of débris
at one time. This slow blasting, by handfuls as it were, was necessary so as

not to shatter or impair the solidity of the heart of the rock, which was to
support the buildings.
Drilling and blasting were carried out in the face of great difficulties.
Rain, rough seas, spray, and heavy winds, combined to thwart the little band
of workers toiling strenuously in solemn loneliness upon this bleak crag.
Often days would pass without any tangible impression being made upon
the surface. The drilling holes would be swamped, and unless care was
observed the powder charges ran the risk of being damped and rendered
impotent or uncertain in firing. In the attack upon the crest the workmen
distributed themselves around the crown. On the precipitous side, as there
was not a friendly ledge on which to secure a foothold to work the drills,
bolts were driven into the rock-face, from which staging was suspended by
ropes, and on this swinging, crazy foothold the men drove their tools with
salt fleece whirling round them.
Until the men were able to erect more or less permanent quarters, their
plight at times was pitiable. The canvas was cut up and an A-tent was
rigged up. It was a cramped home, measuring 16 feet long by 6 feet wide,
while the ridge pole was only 4½ feet above the ground. This domicile just
held the ten men in their sleeping-blankets. Naturally, they had to crawl
rather than walk about, and, as the shelter served as a dining-room as well,
the little band had to tolerate many discomforts. When the wind howled
round the rock, causing the canvas to flap violently and threatening to carry
it away at every turn, when the sea swarmed over the rock, and when the
heavy rains to which this coast is subject poured down pitilessly, the men
never knew what it was to have dry clothing or bedding. Cooking was
carried on in the open, and the kitchen arrangements had to be shifted from
time to time, according to the direction of the wind, so that the fire was
brought on the lee side of the shelter.
The workers were exposed to danger on all sides incessantly, but
fortunately in their chief, Ballantyne, they had one of those men who appear
to be made for such contingencies; who was alert, ready for any emergency,
nursed his staff sedulously, and whose buoyant spirits dispelled all feelings
of gloom, loneliness, or homesickness. The little band toiled hard and long
through the rough autumnal weather, and the arrival of stern winter did not
bring any cessation in their labours. They fought the rock grimly and
ignored hardship. Certainly, they were cheered by the arrival of the boats

with supplies, but occasionally a fortnight or more would pass without a
call being made at the rock, and often, when a boat did come up and prepare
to land material, it had to slip its anchor hastily to make a frantic run for
safety before the rising swell and the gathering storm.
Early in January Nature concentrated her forces, as if bent upon a
supreme effort to shake the determination and courage of the little army
striving so valiantly upon the rock. On the night of New Year’s Day the
clouds assumed an ominous appearance, and accordingly the workmen
were not surprised to meet a stormy and rainy reception when they made
their way to their duties the following morning. The weather grew worse on
the third day, the spray enveloping the rock and drenching the men, while
the wind blew so fiercely that they could scarcely keep their feet. During
the next two days it increased in force, while the sea grew angrier. On the
6th the elements were raging in torment, and in the afternoon Ballantyne,
taking stock of the meteorological signs, came to the conclusion that the
party “were in for it.” A hurricane, or possibly a tornado, was looming. The
tools were being swung with infinite difficulty, when suddenly came the
signal “Stop work!” Ballantyne urged them to set to at once to lash
everything securely. At six o’clock in the evening the hurricane burst, and
the workmen witnessed a sight such as they had never seen before. The
whole coast was in the grip of a tornado, of which the Tillamook Rock was
the vortex, whereon the elements concentrated their destructive forces. The
huge rollers assumed an uglier appearance than ever; the broken water
rushed up the steep sides into the air, where it was caught by the whirling
wind and dashed on the tiny camp. It was impossible to escape that savage
attack, as it was driven home from all sides simultaneously. The men took
to their permanent quarters in silence and very gloomy. By midnight the
roof was being peppered with huge masses of rock, which, detached by the
waves, were caught up and thrown clean over the rock. Ballantyne urged
the men to stay in their bunks, to keep up their spirits, and to seek a little
rest.

FAMOUS UNITED STATES LIGHTHOUSES OF TWO
CENTURIES.
The rear tower was built on Cape Henry in 1789, with stones shipped from Great Britain. Owing to
the sand thrown up by the sea, another light had to be provided nearer the water, and was
completed in 1879. The old light is retained as an historic building.

But sleep was impossible. The quarrymen were scared out of their wits,
and there was every cause for their dismay. It seemed as if the very rock
itself must succumb to the savage onslaught. The din was deafening; the
rock shivered and trembled as the breakers hurled themselves upon it.
It had just turned two. Suddenly one and all sat up in terror. There was
a fearful crash—a rending and splitting, which was heard plainly above the
weird howling of the hurricane. The men tumbled out of their bunks panic-
stricken, and were about to stampede from their shelter to seek refuge upon
a higher ledge. But Ballantyne’s pluck asserted itself. He, too, had been
scared by the awful noise, but he collected his scattered wits more quickly
than did his comrades. He grasped the situation, and with iron nerve
commanded all the men to stick tightly where they were. An ugly rush
seemed imminent, but he stood with his back to the door, and in plain

English dared the men to leave their cover. Any man who attempted to fight
his way to the upper refuge would be swept overboard by the wind and sea.
The quarrymen were not cowards, and Ballantyne’s action steadied
them. Then the foreman announced his intention to go out to see what had
happened. He grabbed a storm-lantern and opened the door. Instantly he
was hurled back by the wind and sea, which appeared to be submerging the
rock. For two hours he stood waiting an opportunity to slip out against the
hurricane. At last he succeeded, and in the intense darkness endeavoured to
grope his way over the rock. He had been gone only a few minutes when he
staggered back, battered, shaken, and almost exhausted. He could not make
headway against the gale. So the men sat down and silently waited the
approach of dawn. Then they found that the rushing waves had fallen upon
the building in which all their supplies were stored, had smashed it to
atoms, and had destroyed and carried away nearly all the provisions, the
fresh-water tank, and other articles, although the requisites for work were
left untouched. It was the break-up of this storehouse which had woke them
from their slumbers and had provoked the panic.
For ten days the gale raged, being more furious on some days than
others. When it decreased in fury the men were able to settle to their work
for an hour or two, but progress was painfully slow; on other days not a tool
could be picked up. On the 18th the revenue cutter came out from Astoria to
ascertain how the men had weathered the tornado, and the signal for coal
and provisions was answered immediately by the lowering of a surf-boat.
The sailors had a stiff pull to reach the rock, found that the men still had a
scanty supply of hard bread, coffee, and bacon—this was all—and, taking
off the letters, promised to send supplies immediately. The construction ship
also came up; the captain sent ashore all the provisions he could spare, and
undertook to return at once with a full supply. But another ten days passed
before the sea went down enough to permit these to be landed, together
with five more men.

THE RACE ROCK LIGHT.
It marks a dangerous reef in Long Island Sound, where, owing to the swift currents, construction of
the foundations proved very difficult.

Nature appeared to capitulate after this terrible assault, and work
proceeded rapidly. The crest of the rock was removed and levelled off, to
form an excellent platform for the reception of the beacon and other
buildings. An inclined tramway was excavated out of the rock-face,
communicating with the landing-stage, to facilitate the haulage of the light-
keepers’ necessities, and then the arrangements for the completion of the
building were hurried forward.
When the public saw that the work was being accomplished without
loss to life or limb, and that the plucky little party of toilers weathered the
gales, an intense interest was manifested in the undertaking. The foreman
was provided with an international code of signals, and passing vessels, as
an act of courtesy and in recognition of the work that was being done to
further their safety, always stood towards the rock to render assistance in
case it was required. The workmen appreciated this feeling, and on two
occasions, during dense fog, intimated to captains who had lost their way,

and were groping blindly round the rock, that they were venturing into
dangerous waters. The warning was primitive but effective. It comprised the
explosion of giant-powder cartridges over the sea in the direction whence
the ships’ sirens sounded. In both instances the navigators heard the signals
in the nick of time, and were able to steer clear.
The lighthouse itself comprises a group of buildings for the keepers,
from which rises a square tower 48 feet in height, bringing the light 132 feet
above mean high-water. The dwelling is built of stone, measures 48 feet by
45 feet, and is one story in height. In addition there is an extension for
housing the powerful siren and its machinery. The building contains
adequate living-quarters, together with storage rooms and a kitchen. As this
light is particularly lonely, four keepers are stationed on the rock, and their
rooms each have a clear length of 12 feet by 10 feet wide. Also, as the rock
is so difficult to approach, and relief may suffer extreme delay from adverse
weather, sufficient provisions are stored to insure full rations for six
months.
The light is of the first order, of 160,000 candle-power, and is visible at
a distance of eighteen miles in clear weather. It is a brilliant white flashing
beam, occurring once every five seconds, the flash being of two seconds,
followed by an eclipse of three seconds. The fog-siren is likewise of the
first order, driven by steam-engines. This plant is in duplicate, and the
signal is given every forty-five seconds, the blast being of five seconds,
followed by silence for forty seconds.
The conquest of the Tillamook Rock has been one of the most difficult
tasks that the United States Lighthouse Board ever has accomplished. The
little band of quarrymen who braved danger, hardship, and privation,
effected occupation of the rock on October 21, 1879, and the light was
exhibited for the first time on January 21, 1881, the total time occupied in
the task being 575 days. It has robbed the dreaded Oregon coast of one of
its worst perils, and the money which was devoted to the provision of this
stalwart guardian—£24,698, or $123,493—was indeed expended to good
purpose.

CHAPTER XV

THE COAST LIGHTS OF THE UNITED
STATES

Few nations have such a varied coastline to guard as the United States.
On the Atlantic seaboard the northern shore is a shaggy bold rampart of
lofty cliff, hard and pitiless. Farther south the rock gradually gives way to
sandy dunes, which the hungry sea is continually gnawing away here and
piling up somewhere else. Then, as the tropics are entered, the sand in turn
gives way to coral reefs, every whit as formidable as rock and as
treacherous as sand, where the hurricane reigns supreme and makes its
presence felt only too frequently. Across the continent a similar variation,
though not perhaps so intense, is observable on the Pacific side. The coast
range runs parallel with the shore, and consequently cliff and precipice are
common, owing to the lateral spurs of the range coming to an abrupt
termination where land and water meet.
The result is that no one type of beacon is possible of adoption as a
standard for the whole coastline. The class of structure has to be modified to
meet local conditions, but the battle between destruction and preservation is
none the less bitter and continuous. When ships began to trade with the
Atlantic seaboard of the United States, the erection of warning lights
became imperative. This duty was fulfilled in the early days by local
enterprise, and the first lighthouse on the continent was built on Little
Brewster Island, at the entrance to Boston Harbour. It was completed about
1716, was a conical masonry tower, and its cost, which is interesting as
being set out to the uttermost farthing—£2,285 17s. 8½d.—betrays the
scrupulous commercial integrity of the first financiers of the United States.
The light was maintained by the levy of a due of one penny per ton on all

incoming and outgoing vessels, except those engaged in coastal traffic, and
was collected by the same authority which subsequently got into trouble in
the endeavour to collect the tax on tea. This pioneer light is still in service,
although in 1783 it was rebuilt. The light, of the second order, is 102 feet
above mean high-water, and gives a white flash every thirty seconds, which
is visible from a distance of sixteen miles; the fog-signal is a first-class
siren, giving a blast of five seconds, followed by silence for ten seconds,
with a succeeding blast of five seconds and silence for forty seconds.
The excellent example thus set by the good people of Boston was
followed by other States and individual authorities along the coast. This
system of local and arbitrary control was by no means satisfactory, so in
1789 the Federal Government took over the control of the lighthouse
service, and entrusted its safe-keeping to the Secretary of the Treasury.
There were only eight lights to watch when the cession was effected, but the
growth of the country soon increased the duties of the department.
Accordingly, a decree was passed in 1817 whereby the control was
transferred from the Secretary of the Treasury to the fifth auditor of the
same department, Mr. Stephen Pleasanton, who became known as the
General Superintendent of Lights. He assumed the new office in 1820,
taking over fifty-five lights, so that during the thirty years the aids to
navigation had been under the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Treasury
forty-seven new stations had been established.
The new official held the post for thirty-two years, and prosecuted his
work so diligently and systematically that by 1852 the service had grown to
325 lighthouses, lightships, buoys, and other guides. The lighthouses were
maintained under contract, the contractor for each light undertaking for a
fixed annual sum to keep his charge in a perfect state of repair, to supply all
illuminant, wicks, chimneys, and stores, that were required, as well as
making one visit to the lighthouse in the course of the year. Subsequently it
became necessary to award the contracts for terms of five years.

THE CARQUINEZ STRAIT LIGHT.
An imposing station on the north side of the entrance to the Strait.

As time progressed, and the duties of the Superintendent became more
onerous, certain individuals took exception to the idea of such an important
service being entrusted to the charge of one man, vested with wide
discretionary powers. Accordingly, complaints were formulated liberally,
and the superintendent became the butt of venomous attack. The outcome of
this agitation was the formation of a committee, two members of which
were sent upon a mission of inspection to Great Britain and France, the
lighthouse services of which were stated to be far superior to that of the
United States, and more efficiently controlled. The result of this
investigation was the inauguration of an official department known as the
Lighthouse Board, constituted of capable engineers. In 1852 this authority
took over the administration of the light service, which has remained under
its control ever since. In order to secure the utmost efficiency, the coasts
were divided into districts, each of which is presided over by an
accomplished officer of the United States Corps of Engineers, who is held
directly responsible to the Board at Washington for the lights in his area. So
admirably was the new authority constituted that it has never failed to give

the utmost satisfaction, and the result is that to-day the Lighthouse Board of
the United States is comparable with contemporary authorities in the Old
World.
In the early days the majority of the lights were placed on the mainland,
and as a rule comprised wooden towers, projecting from the roof of the
keepers’ dwelling, similar in character to some of the older lights to be
found on the coasts of Newfoundland and New Brunswick in Canada.
These buildings were cheap to construct, as they were carried out upon the
timber-frame principle; but they possessed many disadvantages. The
greatest objection arose from the attachment of the tower to the roof frames
of the house. Being exposed to the full fury of the tempest, the tower in
time would become loosened, and the roof itself distorted, so that the
inmates had to suffer the inconvenience of water penetrating into their
rooms. Even the few masonry towers which were erected were of the most
primitive description, and soon fell victims to the ravages of the weather.
Accordingly, when the lighthouse administration was placed upon an
efficient footing, the first task was the complete overhaul, and
reconstruction where necessary, of many of the existing lights. Of the eight
beacons which were taken over by the Federal Government in 1789, six
have been rebuilt. The only two exceptions are the Sandy Hook light—a
stone tower 88 feet high—and Cape Henlopen, at the entrance to Delaware
Bay, both of which were built in 1764. Naturally, their illuminating
apparatus has been remodelled from time to time, in accordance with the
advances in this field of lighthouse engineering, but that is the only change
which has been effected.

A CHURCH AS A LIGHTHOUSE.
A fixed white light, thrown from the tower of St. Philip’s Church,
and visible for 18 miles, forms the rear light of the main channel
range in Charleston Harbour, South Carolina.

One lighthouse on the Atlantic coast of the United States possesses a
pathetic and romantic interest. It indicates the treacherous shores around
Cape Henry, and mounts sentinel on the headland at the southerly side of
the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, Virginia. The stranger on the passing ship,

as he scans the dreary bench of sand rising from the water’s edge at this
point, has his attention arrested by two gaunt towers. The foremost is almost
lapped by the water; the other is some distance to the rear, and upon a
higher level. “Two lights, and for what?” is a natural exclamation. But only
one tower—that nearer the waves—throws its glare by night. Its companion
behind has passed its cycle of utility long since, but it has not been
demolished because of its unique history. It was built in 1789 with bricks
and stones brought from England. In shape it is a tapering octagonal cone,
and when first erected the waves almost washed its base. But the sea, which
eats away the rock and soft soil at some parts, casts this débris ashore here,
so that Cape Henry is slowly but surely thrusting its dismal tongue of sand
farther and farther into the Atlantic. The old tower fulfilled faithful service
until the seventies, when, being considered too far from the water, it was
superseded by the shaft rising from the sand-dunes below. After a century’s
service the old light was extinguished, to permit the fixed white light of the
first order in the new tower to take its place.
The new building, completed in 1881, is likewise octagonal in section,
gradually tapering from the base to the lantern gallery. It is built upon what
is described as the “double-shell principle,” there being two iron cylinders,
one within the other. It is 152 feet in height, and the powerful white beam
has a range of twenty miles, while a red beam is cast from one side to mark
a dangerous shoal. As a powerful flashing white light of a similar character
is shed from a tower on Cape Charles opposite, the mariner has a well-
illumined entrance into Chesapeake Bay.
Ice was one of the great difficulties against which the American
lighthouse builders had to contend, and they laboured valiantly to mitigate
this evil. It caused more damage to their works than wind and wave of the
most terrifying violence. The upper reaches of the great rivers are encased
with thick ice throughout the winter. When the spring comes round, this
brittle armour is broken up, and, caught by the current, is swept toward the
ocean, the floes jostling and crashing among one another. When the
slightest obstruction is offered to their free movement, the pieces mount one
another, forming large hummocks, and the pressure thus imposed is terrific.
The “ice-shove,” when it assumes large proportions, is quite capable of
wreaking widespread damage.

When the screw-pile lighthouses came into vogue, this danger was
advanced as one of the greatest objections to the adoption of this idea. It
was pointed out that the ice would pack around the slender legs, and either
snap them, or would bring about such severe distortion as to imperil the
safety of the superstructure. When Major Hartman Bache undertook the
erection of the Brandywine Shoal light in Delaware Bay, he determined to
frustrate the effects of this peril. The light, being eight miles from the
ocean, was right in the path of the ice-shoves of the Potomac, so the nine
iron legs upon which the beacon is supported—eight in a circle and one
central—are protected by what is known as an “ice-breaker.” This is a pier
of thirty iron piles, which likewise are screwed into the sea-bed. Each pile is
23 feet long by 5 inches in diameter, and they are connected at their heads,
and at a point just above low-water, by what are known as “spider-web
braces.” The result is that, when a shock is inflicted upon one pile, it is
communicated throughout the entire breaker. This system has proved
entirely successful, and has protected the lighthouse within completely. The
main building, although subjected to heavy attacks by the piled ice, has
never been damaged thereby, although subsequently it became necessary to
strengthen the ice-breaker, because the onslaughts of several winters had
left their mark.
Off the coast of Florida, and in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, this
type of lighthouse is very strongly in evidence, as it was found to be the
most suitable for the coral sea-bed. The most notable structure of this class
is the Fowey Rocks light, which rises, a flame-crowned skeleton, from the
extreme northern point of the Florida reefs. It is in an exposed position,
where inclement weather is often experienced. At this point there is not
more than 3 feet of water, and the spot is as bad as a mariner could wish to
avoid, for no ship could hope to escape destruction once it became
entangled in these submerged toils.
The building of this light presented many perplexing difficulties, the
greatest of which was offered by the weather. The structure is an octagonal
pyramid, with the keepers’ quarters on a lower deck, communication with
the lantern being afforded by a winding staircase encircling a vertical
cylinder. The light is 110¼ feet above high-water, of the fixed type, with red
sectors guarding dangerous shoals in the vicinity, while the white beams
can be picked up some eleven miles away.

The integral parts of this building were prepared by three different
contractors, were fitted together, and the building set up temporarily, on the
mainland, so as to facilitate erection at the site. The work was started in
1876, the first move being the provision of a platform about 80 feet square
and 12 feet above low-water, from which to conduct operations. The lower
piles were driven about 10 feet into the live coral reef. Extreme care was
observed during this operation, the pile after every stroke of the driver
being tested with a plumb-line, to make sure that it was being sent home
absolutely vertically. If it diverged, however slightly, from the
perpendicular, the error was corrected immediately. When the piles had
been driven to the requisite depth, the tops were levelled to the height of the
most deeply driven pile; then the horizontal members were placed in
position, followed by the diagonal bracing.

THE BONITA POINT LIGHTHOUSE OFF THE
CALIFORNIAN COAST.
While the tower is only 21 feet in height, its position on a lofty cliff gives the light
of 27,000 candle-power a range of 17 miles.

This task occupied some two months, and then a spell of bad weather
broke over the coast, interspersed with brief intervals of smooth seas and
calms. As the land depot was four miles away, this involved frequent
journeys to and fro for the workmen, who had to be brought off the work
upon the slightest sign of rough weather. To eliminate the interruptions
arising from this procedure, tents were despatched to the site and pitched on
the wooden platform, so that the men might reside there. At times their
situation was alarming; the heavy seas rushed and tumbled among the piles
beneath the crazy perch, and the men were always on tenterhooks lest a
hurricane, such as is experienced often in this region, should bear down
upon them and carry the whole colony away. When work was in progress,
they did not realize their lonely, perilous position so much, since their
minds were otherwise occupied; but it was the enforced periods of idleness,
often lasting several days on end, which made them grow despondent, as
they were virtually imprisoned, and there was very little space in which to
obtain exercise. The material was brought out in lighters towed by a steam-
launch, on which steam was kept up day and night, because the material had
to be sent out at any moment when the conditions were favourable. Again,
this “standing by” was imperative, in case a sudden call for assistance
should be given by the little isolated community when faced with disaster
during a storm. When the men got the keepers’ quarters completed, their
minds became easier, as they were now in possession of a more stable
camp. The superstructure advanced at a rapid rate, and the light was shown
for the first time on June 15, 1878.
Toil of a different character was associated with the building of the
Race Rock lighthouse, eight miles from New London, Connecticut. This
peril is a submerged ledge off Fisher’s Island Sound, and is of formidable
magnitude, since the ledge is at the mouth of the race, where the waters,
according to the tide, sweep along with great velocity and force, while in
heavy weather the waves get up high and thunder with awful power. The
main ledge bristles with ugly sharp spurs, some of which rise above the
main cluster, known as Race Rock, which is about 3 feet below mean low-
water. The situation of this lurking danger called for the erection of an
efficient beacon, though not demanding a light of the calibre of Minot’s
Ledge, because even in rough weather the water does not mount in the form
of thick curtains of spray. A smaller and different type of light, therefore,
was considered to be adequate for the purpose.

POINT PINOS LIGHT STATION,
CALIFORNIA.
This mariners’ friend has been tended by a woman for the past 30
years.

Even then, however, erection was not an easy matter by any means.
The velocity of the water and the submerged character of the reef demanded
the aid of divers to prepare the ledge-face and to complete the foundations.
The rock was levelled as much as possible by the aid of small broken stone
and riprap. On this a heavy circular stepped plinth of solid mass-concrete
was laid. This foundation is 9 feet in thickness, and is disposed in four
concentric layers, the lowermost of which is 60 feet in diameter by 3 feet in
thickness. The concrete was laid in huge hoops of iron, of the desired height

and diameter for the respective layers, to prevent the mass from spreading.
When this task was completed, there was a level platform, as solid as the
rock itself, and projecting 8 inches above mean low-water. On this a conical
stone pier was built to a height of 30 feet, by 57 feet in diameter at the base.
The top was crowned with a projecting coping 55 feet in diameter. The
outer face of this pier is composed of massive blocks of stone backed with
concrete; while in its heart are the spaces for cisterns and cellars. From one
side of this pier stretches a short jetty, to form a landing-place.

THE FARALLON ROCK AND LIGHT.
The light of 110,000 candle-power is placed on the highest peak of
the rock, 358 feet above the sea.

THE FARALLON LIGHTHOUSE OFF SAN
FRANCISCO.
Owing to the height of the rock, a tower 29 feet high was adequate
to carry the lantern and its equipment.

The lighthouse comprises a granite dwelling of two floors for the
accommodation of the keepers, from the centre of the front of which rises a
granite tower, square at the base, but round at the top, to carry the lantern,
the light of which, of the fourth order, is 67 feet above mean high-water.
The warning is an alternate flash of red and white, with a ten seconds’ dark
interval. For the protection of the base of the pier, the ledge on all sides is
covered with a thick layer of boulders. The work was commenced in 1872,
but, owing to its difficult character, occupied six years. The Race Rock lost
its terrors for all time when the beam flashed out on the night of New Year’s
Day, 1879.
On the Pacific seaboard, while the American lighthouse engineers have
not been so active in regard to engineering work of an impressive nature,
owing to the more slender proportions of the maritime traffic, they have
accomplished some notable triumphs. The Tillamook Rock light, described
in the previous chapter, is the most important, and is to the Pacific seaboard
of the country what the Minot’s Ledge light is to the Atlantic coast. The
majority of the lights on the Pacific are stationed on the mainland, or

contiguous thereto. These beacons are of more modern construction than
those on the Atlantic shore, and in some instances are very powerful. Pride
of place in this respect is shared between Point Arena and Cape Mendocino.
The former, perched on the cliff-shore of California, has a flashing group of
two flashes of 3/8 second in five seconds, with eclipses of 11/8 and 41/8 seconds
respectively, thrown by its light of 1,000,000 candle-power over the water
for a radius of eighteen miles from a height of 155 feet. Cape Mendocino
light, on the same coastline, has the further distinction of being the most
elevated light on the United States Pacific coast, the 340,000 candle-power
beam being thrown for ten seconds once every thirty seconds from an
elevation of 422 feet. Although the tower itself is only 20 feet in height, the
cliff sheers up for 402 feet. Consequently the flash may be detected from
twenty-eight miles out to sea in clear weather.
On the other hand, the Point Cabrillo light, a few miles south, whose
flashing ray is of 650,000 candle-power, is picked up from a distance of
only fourteen miles, because the light is but 84 feet above mean high-water.
The Farallon beacon, comprising a tower 29 feet high planted on the highest
point of Farallon Island, off San Francisco, comes a good second in point of
elevation, as the 110,000 candle-power flash, occurring for ten seconds
once in every minute, is projected from an altitude of 358 feet, and can be
discerned twenty-six miles away. For many years the Point Reyes light held
the distinction of being the loftiest beacon, since its flash of 160,000
candle-power once every five seconds is shed from an elevation of 294 feet,
but is now relegated to third place in this respect. Taken on the whole, the
lights scattered along the rugged, lonely Pacific seaboard are far more
powerful than their contemporaries guarding busier shipping on the eastern
coast of the country; but whereas the latter are placed somewhat close
together, the former are spaced far apart.

THE PUNTA GORDA LIGHT STATION, CALIFORNIA.
One of the latest built by the United States. Commodious and handsome buildings are provided for
the wardens of this light.

There are some points which, while being so extremely perilous to the
mariner as to demand the provision of a lighthouse, yet cannot be guarded
at present. The peculiarity of their situations and their physical
characteristics completely defy the ingenuity, skill, and resource, of the
engineer. Cape Hatteras, perhaps, is the most forcible illustration of this
defeat of science by Nature. The sea-bed for miles off this point is littered
with the most treacherous sandbanks, beside which the Goodwins of Britain
appear insignificant. Every seafarer knows the Diamond Shoals, and gives
them a wider berth than any other danger spot in the seven seas. For some
seven and a half miles out to sea from the prominent headland, the Atlantic,
according to its mood, bubbles, boils, or rolls calmly, over shoals and
serried rows of submerged banks. The currents are wild and frantic; the
storms which rage off this point are difficult to equal in any other part of the
world; and the number of ships which have gone to pieces or have been
abandoned to their fate in these inhospitable stretches of sea is incalculable.

Time after time the engineers have sought to subjugate this danger, but
without avail. The sea-bed is so soft and absorbing that a firm foundation
for a tower defies discovery. One brilliant attempt was made to sink a
caisson, similar to that employed for the famous Rothersand light in the
River Weser. The mammoth structure was built, and with extreme difficulty
was towed out to the selected site. But the seas roared against this attempt
to deprive them of their prey. They bore down upon the caisson and
smashed it to fragments, causing the engineers to retire from the scene
thoroughly discomfited. When a huge mass, weighing several hundred tons,
could be broken up by the maddened seas so easily, of what avail were the
knowledge and effort of man? The Diamond Shoals still resist conquest.
The only means of warning ships of their presence is a lightship moored
well out beyond the pale of their sucking embrace.
At the present time the United States Lighthouse Board mounts guard
over 17,695 miles of coastline. This aggregate embraces, not only the two
seaboards of the North American continent, but sections of the Great Lakes,
the Philippines, Alaska, Hawaiian Islands, and the American Samoan
Islands, the total detailed coast or channel line being no less than 48,881
miles. In order to guide the mariner on his way through waters over which
the Stars and Stripes wave, no less than 12,150 lights of all descriptions are
required, demanding the services of an army of 5,582 men and women;
while the cost of maintenance exceeds £1,200,000, or $6,000,000, per
annum. Seeing that the country levies no tolls for services rendered in this
connection, the shipping community, and humanity in general, owe a deep
debt of gratitude to a powerful nation.
The United States share with Great Britain, Austria, Belgium, Spain,
France, Italy, the Netherlands, and Sweden, the expense of maintaining a
lighthouse which is situate on the property of none of them. This is a kind
of no man’s, and yet it is every man’s, light. The beacon is not located in an
out-of-the-way part of the world, such as the Arctic Sea, as might be
supposed, but mounts guard over one of the busiest marine thoroughfares of
the globe—the western entrance to the Mediterranean. This unique light is
that of Cape Spartel, on the Moroccan coast. While it was built at the
expense of Morocco, the responsibility for its maintenance was assumed by
the foregoing Powers, in accordance with the convention of March 12,
1867, which has remained in force since. There is no other light upon the

seven seas which has so many Powers concerned in its welfare and
maintenance.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAMP-POSTS OF THE GREAT LAKES
OF NORTH AMERICA

On the North American continent the efficient lighting of the coasts
washed by two salt oceans is only one, although the most important,
concern of the United States and Canadian Governments. In addition each
has a long stretch of rugged, tortuous shore hemming in those capacious
depressions draining a vast tract of country, and known generally as the
Great Lakes. These unsalted seas are rightly named, seeing that they
constitute the largest sheets of fresh water on the inhabited globe.
The responsibility of safeguarding the navigator as he makes his way
across these wastes is shared equally by the two countries which they
divide, with one exception. This is Lake Michigan, which lies entirely
within the United States. The narrow necks of water which link these lakes
into one long chain likewise are lighted by the two nations. For some years
the Lower Detroit River, connecting Lakes Erie and St. Clair, was
maintained for the most part by the United States, but the practice was not
satisfactory; so, as the result of a conference between the two Governments,
Canada assumed charge of the aids in certain specified portions of the
navigable channel lying entirely in Canadian waters. The result of this new
arrangement has been the better patrolling of the waterway.
The water-borne commerce on these lakes, although possible for only
half the year, is tremendous, while navigation is extremely difficult and
B
beset with innumerable dangers. The different means whereby a ship is
handled and maintained on its course upon the salt-water ocean are not
completely applicable in this case. The greater number of the boats are

freighters and engaged in the transport of ore, which, from its metallic
character, is apt to disturb the compass, rendering it somewhat unreliable.
Nor is the lead of much avail in thick weather, as the lake-bed varies
suddenly from comparative shallowness to great depths. Navigation on
these lakes has been likened to coastal traffic, only with land on both sides
of the mariner, and the intervals when the ship is out of sight of the
shoreline are comparatively brief. Accordingly, the captain picks his way
rather by the aid of landmarks, and the vessels are fitted with a bowsprit, to
give the master a point whereby to judge his direction. But landmarks,
however conspicuous and trustworthy they may be by day and in clear
weather, are useless at night and in fog, to which latter visitation, by the
way, these waters are extremely susceptible.

B
For a full description of the marine traffic on the Great
Lakes, see “The Steamship Conquest of the World,” chapter ix.,
p. 119.

Steamship traffic cannot be carried on with financial success by
daylight and in fair weather only, so it became necessary to distribute
beacons around the indented shores. This procedure was rendered
additionally necessary owing to the formidable character of many of the
dangers besetting navigation, in the form of shoals, projecting ridges, and
submerged reefs, quite as terrifying to the master of a fresh-water ship as
similar dangers on an ocean-swept coast.
At the same time, however, one would not expect to find examples of
lighthouse engineering comparable with the great sea-rock lights rearing
above the ocean, such as the Minot’s Ledge, Dhu-Heartach, or Bishop’s
Rock. On the other hand, the uninitiated might conclude that buoys and
small lights, such as indicate the entrance to harbours, would fulfil
requirements. So they would but for two or three adverse factors. These
lakes are ravaged at times by storms of great violence, which burst with
startling suddenness. Fogs also are of frequent occurrence, especially in the
spring and autumn, often descending and lifting instantly like a thick
blanket of cloud. But the most implacable enemy is the ice. The engineer

can design a tower which will withstand the most savage onslaughts of
wind and wave with comparative ease, at, relatively speaking, little
expense; but the ice introduces another factor which scarcely can be
calculated. The whole of these lakes are frozen over during the winter to
such a thickness as to defy all efforts to cut a channel, becoming, in fact, as
solid as terra firma.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

A LIGHTHOUSE ON THE GREAT LAKES
IN THE GRIP OF WINTER.
This tower marks the Racine Reef in 20 feet of water near the
entrance to Racine Harbour on the west coast of Lake Michigan.

In the spring this armour cracks and breaks up like glass shattered with
a hammer. It then becomes the sport of the currents, which in many places
sweep and swirl with enormous force round the headlands and spits

projecting into the lake. This action sets the ice moving in stately majesty,
but crushing everything that rears in its way, or piling and breaking against
the obstruction. Ice-shoves, ice-jams, and ice-runs, are the three forces
against which the engineer has to contend, and at places his efforts are so
puny as to be useless. The ice, if it collects across one of the outlets so as to
form a massive dam reaching to the lake-bed, immediately causes the level
of the lake to rise; and when at last the barrage breaks, then the water is
released in a mad rush.
Lighthouse building on the Great Lakes demands the highest skill,
incalculable ingenuity, and the soundest of design and workmanship.
Consequently, some of the guardian lights distributed around these shores,
such as Spectacle Reef, the Rock of Ages, Colchester, and Red Rock
lighthouses, are striking evidences of the engineer’s handiwork. Of course,
where the land presses in on either hand, transforming the waterway into a
kind of canal, or where the shore is free from submerged obstructions, the
type of lighthouse on either shore follows the wooden frame dwelling with
a low tower, as it is completely adequate for the purpose.
The one erection, however, which commands the greatest attention is
the Spectacle Reef light, which has been called the Eddystone, or Minot’s
Ledge, of the Lakes. In its way it was quite as bold an undertaking as either
of these far-famed works, and in some respects was far more difficult to
carry out, although the builder was spared the capriciousness and extreme
restlessness of tidal waters. Spectacle Reef lighthouse rears its tapering
head from a particularly dangerous reef in an awkward corner of Lake
Huron, where commences the Strait of Mackinac, leading to Lake
Michigan. The spot is dangerous, because it is covered by about 7 feet of
water; awkward, because it occurs about ten and a half miles off the nearest
land, which is Bois Blanc Island. The reef in reality comprises two shoals,
which lie in such relation to one another as to suggest a pair of spectacles—
hence the name. As it is exposed to 170 miles of open sea on one side, when
these waters are roused the rollers hammer on the reef with terrible
violence, while at times the currents skirl by at a velocity of two or three
miles per hour, and the ice in its movement grinds, piles, and grates itself
upon the reef in impotent fury. When this ice is forced forward with the
push exerted by the currents, the pressure is tremendous and the force
wellnigh irresistible.

When the lighthouse was projected, it was realized that it would have
to be of massive proportions and provided with adequate measures to
protect it from the assault and battering of the ice. The task was undertaken
by General O. M. Poe, who was engineer-in-chief to General Sherman on
his historic march to the sea. This engineer decided to take the Minot’s
Ledge monolithic structure as his model, seeing that the latter had
withstood the savage onslaughts of the Atlantic. Fortunately, the
foundations were of an excellent character, the reef being formed of hard
limestone.

By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

BUILDING THE BARRE À BOULARD LIGHT IN THE RIVER
ST. LAWRENCE.
Owing to the severity of the ice piling in this waterway, the structures have to be provided with
massive foundations.

The engineer selected as the site for the tower a point where the ridge is
submerged by 11 feet of water. Seeing that the base was to be laid under
water, obviously it seemed to be an operation for divers; but General Poe
prepared a superior means of getting the subaqueous foundations laid. He
built a cofferdam around the site, and, as the work would have to be
protected from the winter ice, he built another cofferdam, entirely for
protective purposes, outside the former. The nearest point on the mainland
where he could establish a depot was Scammon’s Harbour, some sixteen
miles away, and here everything in connection with the work was prepared
and shipped to the site ready for placing in position.
The protective work comprised a wooden pier, built up of timbers 12
inches square, 24 feet in height. This structure was divided into a series of
vertical compartments on all four sides, leaving a clear internal space 48
feet square. The outer compartments or pockets were filled with stone, to
secure solidity and stability. Landing facilities were provided on this pier,
together with quarters for the men engaged in the construction work.
In the inner space, containing 48 square feet of still water, the
cofferdam, in which the subaqueous work was to be carried out, was
lowered. This structure was cylindrical in form. It was built up of staves,
banded with heavy hoops of iron, so that in reality it resembled a huge
barrel 36 feet across. It was fashioned at the site, being built while
suspended directly over the spot on which it was to be lowered. When the
tub was finished, loosely twisted oakum, 1½ inches thick, was nailed all
round the lower edge, while a flap of heavy canvas was secured to the
outside bottom rim in such a way as to leave 36 inches dangling free. The
exact circular shape of the cofferdam was insured by liberal cross-bracing
from a central vertical post, which constituted the axis of the barrel,
corresponding to the vertical axis of the tower. While this work was in
progress, the face of the rock was cleared of loose boulders, and then the
cofferdam was lowered bodily with extreme care, so that it descended with
unerring accuracy perpendicularly into the water, to come to rest over the
desired spot. As the surface of the reef was very uneven, the cofferdam
stopped when it reached the highest projection under its edge. Then each
stave of the barrel was driven downwards until it came to rest upon the sea-
bed, and, as the oakum rope was forced down likewise, this served to act as

caulking. The outer flap of canvas, when the cofferdam was driven right
home, spread out on all sides, and lay upon the surface of the reef.
Pumps capable of discharging 5,000 gallons per minute then were set to
work, removing the water from within the cofferdam. The oakum rope seal
prevented the water regaining the internal space under the bottom edge of
the tub, while the canvas assisted in securing absolute water-tightness,
because the outer water-pressure forced it into all the nooks and crevices.
By these means the workmen were given an absolutely dry space in
which to carry out their erecting work. The face of the reef was cleaned and
levelled off, and the first layer of stones was laid. These were first fitted
temporarily upon a false platform on shore, so that when they reached the
site they could be set at once without finicking. The bottom layer is 32 feet
in diameter, and the tower is solid to a height of 34 feet above the rock. The
stones are each 2 feet in thickness, and are secured to one another on all
sides with wrought-iron bolts, 24 inches long by 2½ inches in diameter;
while the tower is anchored to the rock by cement and bolts 3 feet long,
driven through the bottom course into the real rock beneath, entering the
latter to a depth of 21 inches. Liquid cement was driven into the holes so as
to fill up all the remaining interstices, and this now has become as hard as
the stone itself.
The exterior of the tower is the frustum of a cone, and at 80 feet above
the base is 18 feet in diameter. The total height of the masonry is 93 feet,
and the focal plane is brought 97¼ feet above the rock, or 86¼ feet above
the water-level. The tower is provided with five rooms, each 14 feet in
diameter, while the entrance is 23 feet above the water. The undertaking
was commenced in May, 1870, and the light was shown first in June, 1874.
As work had been confined to the summer months, and a fortnight every
spring was devoted to preparations, as well as an equal period in the autumn
to making all fast to withstand the rigours of winter, the total working
period was only some twenty months.

By courtesy of Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson.

COLCHESTER REEF LIGHTHOUSE,
LAKE ERIE.
An isolated station maintained by the Canadian Government. It is
a fixed light, visible throughout a circle of 16 miles radius.

The protection against the ice has proved its value completely. The ice
as it moves becomes crushed against the defence, and then has its advance
impeded by the shoal upon which it grinds and packs, to form in itself a

barrier and ice-breaker against other approaching ice-fields. This structure
was soon submitted to a stern test to prove its efficacy. In the spring of
1875, when the keepers returned to the lighthouse—the light, in common
with all other beacons guarding the Great Lakes, is shut down during the
winter, when navigation is closed—they found the tower unapproachable.
The ice-shove had jammed, packed, and been frozen into a solid berg to a
height of 30 feet, of which the tower itself formed the core. The doorway
was buried to a depth of 7 feet, and the keepers had to carve their way with
pickaxes to the entrance.
Owing to the success of the design for the Spectacle Reef lighthouse,
which ranks as a striking engineering achievement, it was adopted for the
Stannard’s Rock tower. This ledge rises from the water 28 feet from shore,
and the plant and tackle which were employed in connection with the first-
named structure were utilized in this undertaking. The tower is 191 feet in
height, and the light can be seen for about twenty miles. During the past
two or three years the United States Government has erected two other
noble lighthouses in Lakes Superior and Michigan. The first warns all and
sundry off a rock having three ugly pinnacles projecting above the water,
and known as the “Rock of Ages.” This danger stands right in the steamship
tracks between Port Arthur and Duluth, off the western end of Isle Royale.
The engineers selected one of the pinnacles as the base for the tower,
decapitating the projection to 12 inches above mean low-water, so as to
secure a sufficiently large and level plinth. On this bed a cylindrical
foundation pier, of massive proportions and strength so as to withstand the
ice action, was planted, to support a lofty tower in reinforced concrete. The
building has seven floors, one being set aside for housing the two twenty-
four horse-power oil-engines which are used to drive the air-compressors
for the fog-siren. The light is 125 feet above water-level, and gives a double
flash at ten-second intervals, which can be picked up twenty-one miles
away. This tower was erected in a very short time, the work, commenced in
May, 1907, being completed, except for the installation of the permanent
lens, thirteen months later. The optical apparatus was fixed and the light
shown first on September 15, 1910.
The second light has been placed on White Shoal, at the north end of
Lake Michigan, and supersedes a lightship which fulfilled all requirements
for many years. The shoal is exceptionally dangerous, and the crowded

character of the shipping demanded the installation of a more powerful light
and fog-signal. The structure is a striking piece of work, comprising a steel
cylindrical tower, or shell, lined on the inside with brick and faced
externally with terra-cotta—an unusual material for lighthouse construction.
The superstructure is built upon a massive concrete pier, about 70 feet
square, rising 20 feet above water-level, this being borne in turn upon a
heavy stone-filled timber crib laid on a block-stone foundation, the whole
being protected thoroughly with riprap. The lantern is of the second flashing
order, with the focal plane 125 feet above the lake-level, and the 65,000
candle-power ray is visible twenty-five miles away. The tower is fitted with
a duplicate plant of twenty-four horse-power oil-engines and air-
compressors, operating an eight-inch whistle; and there is also an
electrically-operated submarine bell, the power for which is generated by an
independent oil-engine, the bell being operated from the engine-room. This
station is equipped also with a compressed air water-supply system and a
motor-boat.

THE LATEST DEVELOPMENT IN
LIGHTHOUSE ENGINEERING.
Building the hexagonal tower on Caribou Island, Lake Superior,
upon the lines evolved by Lieut.-Col. W. P. Anderson, the
chief engineer to the Canadian Lighthouse Department.

Owing to the peculiar prevailing conditions, the provision of adequate
beacons upon the Great Lakes is highly expensive. Up to the year 1883
more money had been devoted to the lighting of the shoreline of Lake
Michigan than to the illumination of any ocean or gulf in any other State in

the country. The total expenditure up to the above year exceeded £470,000,
or $2,350,000. The Spectacle Reef light was considered cheap at £75,000,
or $375,000; and the Stannard Rock lighthouse, owing to the plant and
other facilities being available from the foregoing work, cost £60,000, or
$300,000. By the time the “Rock of Ages” tower threw its light, £27,649, or
$138,245, had been sunk; and the White Shoals lighthouse absorbed
£50,000, or $250,000.
The Canadian Government, too, has completed some notable works
upon the Great Lakes during recent years. In Lake Erie, in the fairway of
passing traffic, is a ledge known as Colchester Reef, on the south-east edge
of which a lighthouse, one of the most isolated in Canadian waters, has
been placed. The circular stone pier is built in 14 feet of water, and the
lighthouse, comprising a two-story dwelling and tower, supports the beacon
60 feet above the lake. The light is a fixed white, of the third dioptric order,
visible throughout a circle of fourteen miles radius.
At the entrance to Parry Sound, on a convenient site offered by the
solid granite mass of Red Rock, a new lighthouse was constructed in 1911.
This was the third beacon placed at this point, the two previous lights dating
from 1870 and 1881 respectively. It is a particularly bad spot, since the
waters of Georgian Bay have a free run, so that the rock experiences the full
hammering of the sea. The beacon comprises a reinforced concrete
building, nearly elliptical in section, supported upon a heavy stone
foundation, which is encased in steel, and which is 12 feet high. The tower
has a height of 57 feet, bringing the occulting flash of twelve seconds, with
an eclipse of four seconds, 60 feet above the water. This station is also
equipped with a powerful diaphone. The keepers of this light experience
exciting times, as in a furious gale, such as the lakes only can produce, the
waves frequently crash over the building.
Another fine light in the stretch of these waters under Canadian
jurisdiction is found about halfway across Lake Superior, where Caribou
Island thrusts its scrub-clothed hump above the water, almost directly in the
path of the vessels running between Sault Ste. Marie and Sarnia. This
magnificent structure, placed on a small islet lying off the main island, is
built in ferro-concrete, in accordance with Lieutenant-Colonel Anderson’s
latest ideas, and was opened for service in 1912. It is of hexagonal shape,
with six flying buttresses, and the focal plane is brought 99 feet above the

water-level, so that the white flash of half a second may be seen all round
from a distance of fifteen miles.
The steamship lanes across the Great Lakes are now well lighted.
Canada alone maintains over 460 lights of all descriptions throughout its
waters between the eastern extremity of Lake Ontario and the head of Lake
Superior at Port Arthur. The United States authorities watch over 694
attended and unattended aids to navigation in the same seas, of which total
152 are scattered around the coastline of Lake Michigan. The mariner in
these fresh-water oceans, consequently, has a round thousand lights to guide
him on his way, and the number is being steadily increased to keep pace
with the growth of the traffic, so that these seas may become regarded as
the safest and best protected in the world.

CHAPTER XVII

THE MOST POWERFUL ELECTRIC
LIGHTHOUSES OF THE WORLD

In a previous chapter I have mentioned that, although oil is the most
popular form of illuminant in lighthouse engineering, electricity is
maintained to be preferable, but labours under one heavy disadvantage
which militates against its more general adoption. It is expensive to install
and to maintain. Under these circumstances the system has been restricted
to lights of the most important character, preferably landfalls or beacons
indicating the entrance to a harbour. Thus, we have the Lizard at the
entrance to the English Channel; St. Catherine’s on the Isle of Wight; the
Rothersand at the entrance to the Weser; the Heligoland flaring over the
island of that name; the Isle of May at the entrance to the Firth of Forth;
Cape Héve near Havre; and the Navesink light on the highlands of the New
Jersey coast, to guide the mariner into New York harbour.
The first attempt to apply electricity to lighthouse illumination was
made in the year 1859, by the Trinity Brethren, on the strong
recommendations of Professor Faraday, who was then scientific adviser to
the British lighthouse authorities. The South Foreland light was selected for
the experiments, and the magneto-electric machine invented by Professor
Holmes, who subsequently perfected the siren, was used.
The installation was built with extreme care, as the imperative
necessity of reliability, owing to the peculiar nature of the application, was
recognized very fully. The large wheels made eighty-five revolutions per
minute, and at this speed produced a very steady light. On a clear night,
owing to the elevation of the cliff the light was visible for over twenty-
seven miles, and could be descried readily from the upper galleries of the

lighthouses on the opposite French shore. In order to determine the relative
value of electric lighting in comparison with the other methods of
illumination then in vogue, another light emitted by an oil-lamp, with
reflectors characteristic of the period, was burned simultaneously from a
point below the top light, so that passing mariners were able to compare the
two systems of illumination under identical conditions.
The French lighthouse authorities were not dilatory in adopting the new
idea, and electricity was installed in the Cape Héve lighthouse in 1863. The
light was brilliant for those times, being approximately of 60,000 candle-
power. The French investigators then embarked upon an elaborate series of
experiments, and in 1881 an electric light of about 1,270,000 candle-power
was established at the Planier lighthouse, near Marseilles. The
investigations culminated in the great achievement of M. Bourdelles, who,
while engineer-in-chief of the Service des Phares, designed a new electric
installation for the Cape Héve light, of 25,000,000 candle-power.
Meantime British engineers had not been idle. In 1871 Messrs.
Stevenson, the engineers-in-chief to the Commissioners of Northern
Lighthouses, advocated strongly the establishment of an electric light upon
the Scottish coast; but it was not until 1883 that the Board of Trade
sanctioned the sum necessary to complete such an enterprise, and suggested
that the innovation should be made at the Isle of May lighthouse, as being
the most important on the East Scottish coast.
This is one of the historic light-stations of Scotland. Lying in the Firth
of Forth, five miles off the Fifeshire shore, the islet obstructs a busy marine
thoroughfare. For 276 years a light has gleamed from its summit, the
change from the coal fire to Argand lamps with reflectors having been made
by Thomas Smith, the first engineer to the Commissioners of Northern
Lighthouses, when this body assumed its control in 1816. Twenty years
later it was converted to the dioptric system, with a first-order fixed light
apparatus having a four-wick burner. This arrangement was in service for
half a century, when it was converted to electricity in conjunction with a
dioptric condensing apparatus.
The electric installation was designed throughout by Messrs.
Stevenson, and it possesses many ingenious and novel features to this day,
while it was the pioneer of modern electric lighting systems as applied to

lighthouse engineering. Although marked improvements have been effected
in electrical engineering and science since its completion, it still ranks as
one of, if not the, most powerful electric lighthouses in the world. The
beacon is a prominent edifice on the summit of the island. The building is
somewhat pretentious, rather resembling a battlemented castle than a
warning for the mariner, the optical apparatus being housed in a square
turret rising above the main part of the building. When electric illumination
was adopted, the existing accommodation for three keepers was found
insufficient, while a generating-station was necessary. Instead of extending
the old building to accommodate the additional facilities, a second station
was built at a low-lying point near the sea-level. This contains the engine
and generating house, together with quarters for three more keepers and
their families. This decision was made because at this point, 810 feet away
and 175 feet below the lighthouse, there is a small fresh-water loch whence
water is available for the boilers and condensers, while a marked saving in
the cost of handling fuel as well as of the haulage of the building materials
and machinery was feasible. The current is led from the power-house to the
lighthouse by means of overhead copper conductors.
Some difficulty was experienced in securing electrical apparatus suited
to the searching exigencies of lighthouse engineering, and the designers
made one stipulation, which at first appeared to baffle fulfilment. This was
the placing of the positive carbon below, instead of above, so as to enable
the strongest light to be thrown upwards, to be dealt with by the upper part
of the dioptric apparatus, whereby it could be used more effectively. One
firm struggled with this problem for many months, and then was compelled
to admit defeat, as time for further experimenting was unavailable, since the
lighthouse was almost completed. Accordingly, the designing engineers had
to revise their plans, and had to acquire alternate-current De Meriten
machines, which, although more expensive and less powerful than those
originally intended, yet were, and are still, wonderfully steady in working,
while they had previously proved highly efficient for lighthouse service.
Two generators of this description were secured, and they constituted the
largest that had been made up to this period, each plant weighing about 4½
tons. Each machine has sixty permanent magnets, disposed in five sets of
twelve each, while each magnet is made up of eight steel plates. The
armature makes 600 revolutions per minute, and develops an average
current of 220 ampères.

The installation is so designed that one-, two-, three-, or four-fifths, or
the whole, of the current can be sent from each unit to the distributor for
transmission to the lantern, or the two machines may be coupled and the
full current from both utilized. The current is conveyed to the lantern
through copper rods 1 inch in diameter, and this was the first occasion on
which such conductors were utilized for lighthouse work. There are three
lamps of a modified Serrin-Berjot type, one being in service, and the other
two held in reserve. By means of a by-pass, or shunt, a large percentage of
the current is sent direct to the lower carbon, only a sufficient amount to
regulate the carbons being sent through the lamp. The carbons used are
about 1½ inches in diameter, though two-inch carbons can be employed
when both machines are running, and the rate of consumption is 1¼ inches,
or, including waste, 2 inches, per hour. The power of the arc thus obtained
with the current fed from one generator is between 12,000 and 16,000
candles. In the event of the electric installation breaking down, a three-wick
paraffin oil lamp is kept in reserve, ready for instant service, and it can be
brought into use within three minutes.

By permission of Messrs. Siemens Bros. & Co., Ltd.

THE ELECTRIC SEARCHLIGHTS OF THE
HELIGOLAND LIGHTHOUSE.
On the lower level are three projectors spaced 120 degrees apart.
Above is a fourth searchlight revolving three times as rapidly as
those below.

The dioptric apparatus, designed by Messrs. Stevenson, and
manufactured by Messrs. Chance Brothers and Co. of Birmingham, is of a
novel character, inasmuch as the condensing principle has been carried to a

pronounced degree. The light characteristic is four brilliant flashes in quick
succession every thirty seconds. The lenticular apparatus also includes the
ingenious idea advocated by Mr. Thomas Stevenson, an earlier engineer-in-
chief to the Northern Commissioners and perhaps the greatest authority on
lighthouse optical engineering, whereby the light may be dipped during a
fog. Thus, in clear weather the strongest part of the ray may be directed to
the horizon, while in thick weather it can be brought to bear upon a point,
say, four or five miles away. The flashes are produced by a revolving cage
of straight vertical prisms, which enclose the fixed-light apparatus. This
cage makes one complete revolution every minute, the rotary movement
being secured through a train of wheels and a weight, which has a fall of 60
feet in a tube extending vertically through the centre of the tower, the
mechanism being wound up once an hour by manual effort.
The beam of light obtained by the aid of electricity is of intense
brilliancy and penetration. Its equivalent in candle-power is somewhat
difficult to determine, because the methods of calculation are somewhat
arbitrary and misleading. By their own method of calculation, the engineers
responsible for the installation rate it at 3,000,000 candle-power with one
generator in use, and 6,000,000 candle-power when both are going. This is
from 300 to 600 times as intense as the oil light which was superseded. By
another method of calculation the beam is of 26,000,000 candle-power,
while another principle of rating brings it to upwards of 50,000,000 candle-
power. In clear weather the light has a range of twenty-two miles, being
indistinguishable at a greater distance, owing to the curvature of the earth;
but the flashes of light illuminating the clouds overhead may be picked up
forty or fifty miles away. The total cost of electrifying the Isle of May light
was £15,835, or $79,175; while the annual cost of maintenance is over
£1,000, or $5,000.
The most famous English electric lighthouse is that of St. Catherine’s,
in the Isle of Wight. This point, like the Isle of May, has been a beacon for
centuries. Its creation for this work even antedates its northern
contemporary, because in the fourteenth century a chantry was built by a
benevolent knight on the highest point of St. Catherine’s Downs, who
furthermore provided an endowment for a priest “who should chant Masses
and maintain a burning light at night for the safety of mariners.” But this
protection fell into desuetude.

The station, however, was revived upon the old site in 1785, but it had
to be abandoned, because it was found to be built at too high an elevation. It
was so often enveloped in fog as to be useless, or at least unreliable, to the
seafarer. A new tower, accordingly, was erected at a lower level, and
brought into service in 1840, the warning rays being thrown from a height
of 134 feet above the water. Oil was used with a burner of six rings, the
light being officially known as a “fixed oil light of the first class,” while the
beam was diffused over an arc of 240 degrees. In the middle eighties the
Brethren of Trinity House decided to bring it up to date, and selected
electricity as the illuminant, at the same time changing the light from the
fixed to the revolving class, with a five-second flash once every thirty
seconds.

By permission of Messrs. Siemens Bros. & Co., Ltd.

THE HELIGOLAND LIGHTHOUSE.
One of the most powerful electric beacons in the world. Its
maximum candle-power is 43,000,000.

The installation is not widely dissimilar from that used at the Isle of
May. It comprises two De Meriten dynamos in duplicate, while the lamps
are of the modified Serrin-Berjot type, using carbons, not of circular
section, but with fluted sides. This shape was introduced by Sir James
Douglass, who contended that the former type did not produce the requisite

candle-like steadiness of the flame so essential to lighthouse illumination.
The dioptric apparatus was of the sixteen panel type, so that the rays were
thrown out in sixteen brilliantly white horizontal spokes. To one
approaching the lighthouse at night-time, the effect in the sky was
somewhat curious. It recalled a huge and illuminated cart wheel or
Catherine wheel, lying flat on its side, throwing its rays to all points of the
compass in a steadily moving circle. This practice had been borrowed from
the French, who went so far as to introduce a twenty-four panel system,
and, as in France, the St. Catherine’s light, when first brought into service,
was not a complete success. The French considered that, by distributing the
light through as many panels as possible, the question of bringing the
flashes into action at short intervals would be facilitated, ignoring the fact
that by so doing the intensity of each ray was impoverished. In other words,
with the twenty-four panel light each panel only received and threw out
one-twenty-fourth part of the volume of light emitted by the arc. Similarly,
in the St. Catherine’s light only one-sixteenth part of the light produced was
thrown through each panel. A few years ago the optical system was replaced
by an apparatus having fewer panels. The light thrown from the Isle of
Wight pharos, with its beam exceeding 5,000,000 candle-power, represents
a marked advance upon the oil light which it displaced, and certainly it
ranks as the most brilliant light in the English Channel.
A few years ago another magnificent light was brought into service in
the North Sea by the installation of electricity in the lighthouse of
Heligoland. With characteristic Teuton thoroughness, the Germans
discussed the question of the illuminant for this beacon in all its bearings,
and resolved to introduce the most powerful light possible. This decision
was influenced by the dangerous character of the waters washing the island,
as it is flanked on all sides by highly perilous ridges and sandbanks, which
must become accentuated owing to the heavy sea-erosion that prevails.
The German authorities investigated the various electrical installations
that had been laid down for lighthouse work, with a view to discovering the
most suitable system, the advantages and defects of existing electric lights,
and how the drawbacks might be overcome most successfully. Meantime
the famous Siemens firm discovered a means of grinding glass mirrors into
parabolic form, and this discovery was accepted as the solution to the
problem.

In this type of mirror the back is silvered. The metallic polished surface
is protected completely from mechanical injury and from all possibility of
tarnishing. The inventors claim that mirrors so prepared are able to compete
successfully with lenses and totally reflecting prisms—in fact, it was
maintained that the silvered glass parabolic mirror possessed the advantages
of greater reflecting power and enhanced accuracy, with less divergence of
the beam of light.
Owing to the perfection of the lenses and prisms system of lighthouse
optics, the introduction of arc lights in conjunction with parabolic mirrors
was received with considerable hesitation. In order to dispel these doubts,
the above-mentioned firm forthwith embarked upon an elaborate series of
comparative tests at Nuremberg to ascertain the relative value of the two
systems, and as a result of these experiments they concluded that quite as
good an effect is obtainable with the arc and parabolic mirror as with the
best examples of any other method.
Accordingly, the authorities decided to install the system in the
Heligoland lighthouse. They stipulated that the intensity of the beam of
light should be at least 30,000,000 candle-power, with a maximum current
of 100 ampères. The duration of the flash was to be one-tenth of a second,
followed by eclipses of five seconds’ duration.
The electrical engineering firm entrusted with the contract fulfilled
these conditions by mounting three searchlights spaced 120 degrees apart
upon a rotating platform. That is to say, each light is projected outwards
from a point equal to a third of the circumference of a circle. The mirror
diameter was settled at 75 centimetres (29½ inches) and the focal length at
250 millimetres (10 inches), the current being taken at 34 ampères when the
table made four revolutions per minute.
Subsequently a fourth searchlight was introduced into the apparatus, for
the purpose of practical experiments and observations concerning the
duration of the light-flash. This fourth unit was mounted above the three
searchlights, but in the axis itself. It is so disposed that its flash comes
midway between any of the two below, and it is arranged to rotate three
times as quickly as the main group of lights. Accordingly, the duration of
the flash thrown from the fourth searchlight is only one-third of the flash
thrown by the others—that is, one-thirtieth of a second. This lamp is

provided with all the necessary mechanism for keeping it in steady rotation
at the increased speed, and for drawing current from its feed-cable.
Before the installation was placed in the lighthouse at Heligoland, it
was submitted to searching tests at the Nuremberg works of the builders.
These trials proved that with a current of only 26 ampères the average
intensity was as high as 34,000,000 candle-power, with a maximum of
nearly 40,000,000 candle-power; while with 34 ampères the average
intensity rose to approximately 40,000,000, with a maximum of nearly
43,000,000 candle-power. Accordingly, the terms of the contract were
fulfilled completely.
The searchlights throw their rays from a massive conical tower, the
focal plane of which is 272 feet above sea-level. In average weather the
rays are visible at a distance of twenty-three nautical miles, and under the
most advantageous weather conditions visibility is limited only by the
curvature of the earth, although on a clear night the light is seen from
Büsun, which is about thirty-five miles away. The Heligoland electric light
ranks as a remarkable development in the application of electricity to
lighthouse illumination, but it never has been duplicated. The cost of
maintenance—about £1,400, or $8,000, per annum—is an insuperable
handicap.
On the other hand, the Hornum electric light, which is the most modern
of its type in Germany, is more economical, although by no means so
powerful. The tower is of cast-steel, and carries two electric lights; while
about half a mile distant is a second tower, which throws a third electric
light. In the main tower, on the ground floor, is installed the electric
generating plant (in duplicate), together with all accessories, such as
switchboards, etc. The floor above is devoted to housing 100 accumulators,
which are charged during the day. This task can be completed by one
generating set in about six hours. A single charge is sufficient to keep the
three lights going for ten or eleven hours, and the lights are controlled by a
simple throw-over switch. By this arrangement the cost of the maintenance
of the light is reduced very appreciably, as only one keeper is on duty at a
time, the station being equipped with two men, who have proved adequate
for the purpose.

Above the accumulator-room is the storeroom and a general workshop,
followed by a bedroom and above that the service-room. As only one
keeper is on duty at a time, he is provided with ample devices whereby he
can summon his comrade in times of emergency; the generating machinery
is also controllable from this floor. From the service-room the lower light-
room is entered. This is a secondary or back light in the range, the front
light being in the tower half a mile away. Each of these two light-rooms is
fitted with two 150 candle-power incandescent electric lights, but only one
is burned in each set at a time: the second is a reserve. Should the light in
action fail from any cause, although the keeper is warned of the occurrence,
he does not have to stir a finger to bring the reserve light into service. The
short-circuit produced by the accident to the light automatically revolves
the table upon which the lamps are mounted, swings the reserve light into
focus, and then sets it going.
Above the secondary light in the main tower is the principal beacon,
comprising a brilliant rapidly-flashing light, the characteristic of which is
groups of two flashes alternating with four flashes, the cycle being
completed once in thirty seconds. The optical apparatus has been devised
especially for the “differential arc-light,” as it is called, with a reflecting
lens having a focal distance of 250 millimetres (10 inches), the lens itself
being 1,180 millimetres (approximately 47 inches) in diameter. In front of
the lens is placed a disperser, having a diameter of 1,200 millimetres (48
inches) whereby the ray of light is dispersed through an arc of 10½ degrees.
Before the disperser is the means for producing the characteristic flash. This
comprises a blind, or shutter, which is opened and closed by mechanism
adjusted to requirements; while the rotating mechanism, instead of being
weight-driven, is actuated by an electric motor.
The “differential arc,” which is utilized in this installation, is
considered by German engineers to be the best system that has yet been
devised for the exacting purposes of lighthouse engineering, and the
description has arisen from the disposition of the carbons. While the
positive carbon is held horizontally, the negative carbon is placed at an
angle of 70 degrees thereto, and only the crater of the positive carbon is
considered for the lighting effect, this being placed in the focus of the
apparatus. The positive carbon is 3/5 inch, and the negative carbon 2/5 inch, in
diameter, although both have a common length of 19 inches, which is

sufficient for nine hours’ service. The beam emitted is of some 5,000,000
candle-power. This is one of the cheapest electric stations at present in
operation, the annual running charges averaging less than £300, or $1,500.

CHAPTER XVIII

SOME LIGHTHOUSES IN AUSTRALIAN
WATERS

Although the waters washing the Australian continent are not so thickly
intersected with steamship lanes, and the mercantile traffic is not so dense
there as in the seas of the Northern Hemisphere, yet, owing to the activity in
emigration from Great Britain, as well as to the increasing prosperity of the
various rising industries under the Southern Cross, they are becoming more
crowded with each succeeding year. The efficient lighting of the coasts is an
inevitable corollary of this expansion. Lighthouse engineering, however, is
unavoidably expensive, especially when sea-rocks demand indication.
From time to time severe strictures are passed by European shipping
interests upon the apparent lack of coastal lights in Australasian waters, and
the various Government departments concerned with this responsibility are
often accused of parsimony and neglect. Unfortunately, the greater number
of these critics are apt to consider the situation through European glasses; to
take the countries of the Old World and the United States as a basis for their
arguments, and to ignore local conditions. It has taken a century or more for
Europe and the United States to develop their respective organizations, and
in the majority of instances there are ample funds from which expenses in
this direction may be met, especially when passing shipping is mulcted a
small sum in light-dues for the purpose. When the shipping is heavy, these
levies are certain to represent in the aggregate a large sum every year.
From time to time New Zealand has been roundly assailed for its
apparent negligence in the extension of its lighthouse system. It maintains
thirty-four lighthouses and beacons, which represent a capital outlay of over
£200,000, or $1,000,000. The total maintenance charges average about

£16,500, or $82,000, per annum, while the dues collected from shipping for
the maintenance of these aids to navigation approximate £38,000, or
$190,000, per annum. The balance is not amazing, and certainly is not
sufficient to warrant heavy expenditure towards new lights, as the
installation of such warnings nowadays is highly expensive if they are to
conform with modern requirements. If the demands of the critics were met,
and a comprehensive scheme, such as is advised, were taken in hand, the
shipowner would have to pay to meet the deficiency on the revenue
account, and this individual complains that he is overtaxed already.
Those Australian States which possess what may be described as a
normal coastline—that is, one fairly free from solitary rocks rising from the
sea some distance from land—are fortunate, since the sea-rock light is
notoriously costly. On the other hand, lights placed on the mainland, even
of the most powerful type, may be completed for a small outlay, relatively
speaking.
Such a fortunate condition exists in connection with New South Wales.
Here and there off the mainland are small reefs and ridges, but, taken on the
whole, all these danger spots are adequately covered, so that the State has
not been faced with searching problems of a technical or financial character
in this connection. The State boasts only two “rock” lighthouses, and these
obstructions are large enough to be called “islands.” The one is South
Solitary Island, off the coast north of Sydney; the other is Montague Island,
to the south of the port. On the other hand, the mainland is very well
patrolled, some thirty lights being scattered between Point Danger and Cape
Howe, the respective northern and southern sea-limits of the country.
Although the light-keepers upon the rocks may consider themselves
somewhat isolated, yet their plight is enviable as compared with that of
some of their comrades in other parts of the world. At Montague Island the
three keepers and their families are housed in comfortable cottages in close
proximity to their ward, and they maintain a small farm, including a horse,
goats, well-stocked gardens, and so forth. The keepers on South Solitary
Island used to be able to vary the monotony of their daily or nightly round
by indulgence in exciting sport. This assumed the form of rabbit trapping
and hunting, as the island was overrun with these animals. One form of
game must have become somewhat nauseating in time upon the menu of the
keepers, but this diversion is now a thing of the past. A mysterious disease

appeared among the rabbits, and its ravages were so devastating that within
a short time Montague Island knew them no more.
The lighthouses of New South Wales deserve distinction in one
direction. As specimens of architecture they are magnificent pieces of work,
so that what the towers lack in romance they make up in attractiveness. The
most imposing is the Macquarie tower, or Sydney lighthouse, mounting
guard over the harbour. The first beacon was erected upon this site as far
back as 1816, thereby rendering it the first lighthouse in the State, and it
was fitted with an oil light, while one or two of the English lights were still
open coal fires. In 1883 it was decided to modernize the lighting apparatus,
so that a more powerful beam might be thrown. Electricity was the
illuminant selected, the machinery for the generation of the requisite current
being designed for installation in the original tower. But three-quarters of a
century’s exposure to the elements had rendered this building somewhat too
weak to carry the requisite heavy lenses and machinery, so a new tower was
projected. The old light was kept going while its successor sprang up
alongside; when the latter was completed, the oil light in the famous old
tower was extinguished for ever and the building demolished.
The new lighthouse is a fine structure. At the foot of the tower is a
spacious, well-lighted, and artistic one-floor building housing the electrical
machinery as well as the office. The domiciles for the keepers and the
engineers are placed on either side of the spreading lawn surrounding the
station.

THREE STRIKING GUARDIANS OF THE SHORE OF NEW
SOUTH WALES.
1. Green Cape Lighthouse. 2. The sentinel of Sugar Loaf Point, or Seal Rocks. 3. “Bungaree Norah”
station, one of the loneliest on the coast.

The most southerly light upon the New South Wales coastline is that at
Green Cape, a few miles north of Cape Howe. As at the other stations, three
keepers are maintained, being accommodated, with their families, in roomy
cottages; while a small patch of land is turned to agricultural advantage,
cows, horses, etc., being maintained by the men. The most easterly light on
the Australian continent is at Cape Byron. This light is perched on a
dangerous cliff, which drops almost vertically into the water 371 feet
below; but it is within touch of civilization, a winding road having been cut
down the flank of the promontory on the land side into the neighbouring
town of Byron Bay, so that the tradesmen’s carts are able to make their
rounds up the cliff to satisfy the varied wants of the wardens of the light.
One of the loneliest lights is that on Norah Head—Bungaree Norah it is
called—and this is also the latest light erected by the State, as it dates from
1903. Although somewhat out of the way, it is not to be compared with
some of the isolated British, Canadian, and United States lights, being, in

fact, no more inaccessible or lonely than most localities in the Australian
Bush.
Sugar-Loaf Point is one of the most serious danger spots along the
shoreline, but is now well guarded with a fine lighthouse planted on its
summit, the welcome rays of which are visible for many miles out to sea.
The light-keepers here had a surprising discovery one morning in 1910. The
Satara fouled the point and was wrecked, though fortunately her passengers
were succoured by passing steamers. On this vessel at the time of the
disaster there was a staghound, and although, when the rescues were
effected, search for the animal was made high and low on the wreck, no
signs of it could be seen. It was given up as lost. Some days later the
lighthouse-keepers ventured to the beach below to have a look round, and to
their astonishment a staghound come bounding towards them, yelping with
joy at the sight of a human face. For a dog to be in such a lonely spot was a
strange circumstance, but at last it was surmised to be the animal which was
missed on the Satara. Apparently the animal clung to the crippled craft for
some time, and then, realizing that the ship was abandoned, dived
overboard and swam ashore. It fraternized with the keepers, and for some
time kept them company at the station.
One of the worst wrecks which have happened upon the shores of New
South Wales was that of the steamer Ly-ce-moon. By some inexplicable
means the ship got out of her course on a fine Sunday night, and came to
grief off Green Cape. The lighthouse-keepers at once hurried to the rescue,
the hapless passengers, as they were got ashore, being tended at the station
until they were removed to their homes. The lighthouse-keepers worked
tremendously hard, but they were not entirely successful. Although by
herculean effort they brought a large number of people to safety, there is a
small fenced enclosure in the Bush behind the station where lie the remains
of some fifty persons who lost their lives in the wreck, and whose bodies
were washed ashore.
While New South Wales has a comparatively easy length of coastline to
protect, the neighbouring colony of New Zealand, on the other hand, has a
wild, forbidding, and extensive stretch of shore. Up to the present the
Government has concentrated its energies upon the illumination of the
busiest reaches of water, and has planted prominent outposts at the
respective extreme tips of the twin islands. During the financial year ending

March 31, 1912, sixteen wrecks occurred in these seas, of which six were
total losses. The most ill-famed corner appears to be the large sweeping
indentation at the southern end of North Island, lying between Cape
Egmont and Wellington, particularly in the vicinity of Wanganui, since this
stretch of coast claimed five victims. Cook’s Strait, which is dangerous to
navigators, is well protected, however, the most prominent beacon being
that on Stephens Island, its group-flashes, occurring every thirty seconds,
being particularly powerful, and having a range of thirty-two miles.

THE CAPE BYRON LIGHTHOUSE,
NEW SOUTH WALES.

THE MACQUARIE LIGHTHOUSE,
SOUTH HEAD OF SYDNEY HARBOUR,
NEW SOUTH WALES.
The original tower, erected in 1816, was the first lighthouse
built in the State. In 1882 it made way for the present
magnificent station.

The Marine Department maintains thirty-two coastal lights, of which
twenty-two are on the mainland, and ten situate on islands off the coast.
They are of a varied description, ranging from powerful lights of the first
order to beacons dependent upon dissolved acetylene, stored in cylinders of
sufficient capacity to keep the light gleaming for sixty days continuously.
Some of the places in which the warning lights are placed are exceedingly
lonely and inaccessible, so that the perfection of the unattended light has
solved a complex problem, and has enabled many terrible stretches of
forbidding coast to be well indicated.