The Lighthouse

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS

Time rolled on, and the lighthouse at length began to grow.

It did not rise slowly, as does an ordinary building.  The courses of masonry having been formed and fitted on shore during the winter, had only to be removed from the work-yard at Arbroath to the rock, where they were laid, mortared, wedged, and trenailed, as fast as they could be landed.

Thus, foot by foot it grew, and soon began to tower above its foundation.

From the foundation upwards for thirty feet it was built solid.  From this point rose the spiral staircase leading to the rooms above.  We cannot afford space to trace its erection step by step, neither is it desirable that we should do so.  But it is proper to mention, that there were, as might be supposed, leading points in the process—­eras, as it were, in the building operations.

The first of these, of course, was the laying of the foundation stone, which was done ceremoniously, with all the honours.  The next point was the occasion when the tower showed itself for the first time above water at full tide.  This was a great event.  It was proof positive that the sea had been conquered; for many a time before that event happened had the sea done its best to level the whole erection with the rock.

Three cheers announced and celebrated the fact, and a “glass” all round stamped it on the memories of the men.

Another noteworthy point was the connexion—­the marriage, if the simile may be allowed—­of the tower and the beacon.  This occurred when the former rose to a few feet above high-water mark, and was effected by means of a rope-bridge, which was dignified by the sailors with the name of “Jacob’s ladder”.

Heretofore the beacon and lighthouse had stood in close relation to each other.  They were thenceforward united by a stronger tie; and it is worthy of record that their attachment lasted until the destruction of the beacon after the work was done.  Jacob’s ladder was fastened a little below the doorway of the beacon.  Its other end rested on, and rose with, the wall of the tower.  At first it sloped downward from beacon to tower; gradually it became horizontal; then it sloped upward.  When this happened it was removed, and replaced by a regular wooden bridge, which extended from the doorway of the one structure to that of the other.

Along this way the men could pass to and fro at all tides, and during any time of the day or night.

This was a matter of great importance, as the men were no longer so dependent on tides as they had been, and could often work as long as their strength held out.

Although the work was regular, and, as some might imagine, rather monotonous, there were not wanting accidents and incidents to enliven the routine of daily duty.  The landing of the boats in rough weather with stones, &c., was a never-failing source of anxiety, alarm, and occasionally amusement.  Strangers sometimes visited the rock, too, but these visits were few and far between.

Accidents were much less frequent, however, than might have been expected in a work of the kind.  It was quite an event, something to talk about for days afterwards, when poor John Bonnyman, one of the masons, lost a finger.  The balance crane was the cause of this accident.  We may remark, in passing, that this balance crane was a very peculiar and clever contrivance, which deserves a little notice.

It may not have occurred to readers who are unacquainted with mechanics that the raising of ponderous stones to a great height is not an easy matter.  As long as the lighthouse was low, cranes were easily raised on the rock, but when it became too high for the cranes to reach their heads up to the top of the tower, what was to be done?  Block-tackles could not be fastened to the skies!  Scaffolding in such a situation would not have survived a moderate gale.

In these circumstances Mr. Stevenson constructed a balance crane, which was fixed in the centre of the tower, and so arranged that it could be raised along with the rising works.  This crane resembled a cross in form.  At one arm was hung a movable weight, which could be run out to its extremity, or fixed at any part of it.  The other arm was the one by means of which the stones were hoisted.  When a stone had to be raised; its weight was ascertained, and the movable weight was so fixed as exactly to counterbalance it.  By this simple contrivance all the cumbrous and troublesome machinery of long guys and bracing-chains extending from the crane to the rock below were avoided.

Well, Bonnyman was attending to the working of the crane, and directing the lowering of a stone into its place, when he inadvertently laid his left hand on a part of the machinery where it was brought into contact with the chain, which passed over his forefinger, and cut it so nearly off that it was left hanging by a mere shred of skin.  The poor man was at once sent off in a fast rowing boat to Arbroath, where the finger was removed and properly dressed.[1]

[Footnote 1:  It is right to state that this man afterwards obtained a lightkeeper’s situation from the Board of Commissioners of Northern Lights, who seem to hare taken a kindly interest in all their servants, especially those of them who had suffered in the service.]

A much more serious accident occurred at another time, however, which resulted in the death of one of the seamen belonging to the Smeaton.

It happened thus.  The Smeaton had been sent from Arbroath with a cargo of stones one morning, and reached the rock about half-past six o’clock A.M.  The mate and one of the men, James Scott, a youth of eighteen years of age, got into the sloop’s boat to make fast the hawser to the floating buoy of her moorings.

The tides at the time were very strong, and the mooring-chain when sweeping the ground had caught hold of a rock or piece of wreck, by which the chain was so shortened, that when the tide flowed the buoy got almost under water, and little more than the ring appeared at the surface.  When the mate and Scott were in the act of making the hawser fast to the ring, the chain got suddenly disentangled at the bottom, and the large buoy, measuring about seven feet in length by three in diameter in the middle, vaulted upwards with such force that it upset the boat, which instantly filled with water.  The mate with great difficulty succeeded in getting hold of the gunwale, but Scott seemed to have been stunned by the buoy, for he lay motionless for a few minutes on the water, apparently unable to make any exertion to save himself, for he did not attempt to lay hold of the oars or thwarts which floated near him.

A boat was at once sent to the rescue, and the mate was picked up, but Scott sank before it reached the spot.

This poor lad was a great favourite in the service, and for a time his melancholy end cast a gloom over the little community at the Bell Rock.  The circumstances of the case were also peculiarly distressing in reference to the boy’s mother, for her husband had been for three years past confined in a French prison, and her son had been the chief support of the family.  In order in some measure to make up to the poor woman for the loss of the monthly aliment regularly allowed her by her lost son, it was suggested that a younger brother of the deceased might be taken into the service.  This appeared to be a rather delicate proposition, but it was left to the landing-master to arrange according to circumstances.  Such was the resignation, and at the same time the spirit of the poor woman, that she readily accepted the proposal, and in a few days the younger Scott was actually afloat in the place of his brother.  On this distressing case being represented to the Board, the Commissioners granted an annuity of £5 to the lad’s mother.

The painter who represents only the sunny side of nature portrays a one-sided, and therefore a false view of things, for, as everyone knows, nature is not all sunshine.  So, if an author makes his pen-and-ink pictures represent only the amusing and picturesque view of things, he does injustice to his subject.

We have no pleasure, good reader, in saddening you by accounts of “fatal accidents”, but we have sought to convey to you a correct impression of things, and scenes, and incidents at the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, as they actually were, and looked, and occurred.  Although there was much, very much, of risk, exposure, danger, and trial connected with the erection of that building, there was, in the good providence of God, very little of severe accident or death.  Yet that little must be told,—­at least touched upon,—­else will our picture remain incomplete as well as untrue.

Now, do not imagine, with a shudder, that these remarks are the prelude to something that will harrow up your feelings.  Not so.  They are merely the apology, if apology be needed, for the introduction of another “accident”.

Well, then.  One morning the artificers landed on the rock at a quarter-past six, and as all hands were required for a piece of special work that day, they breakfasted on the beacon, instead of returning to the tender, and spent the day on the rock.

The special work referred to was the raising of the crane from the eighth to the ninth course—­an operation which required all the strength that could be mustered for working the guy-tackles.  This, be it remarked, was before the balance crane, already described, had been set up; and as the top of the crane stood at the time about thirty-five feet above the rock, it became much more unmanageable than heretofore.

At the proper hour all hands were called, and detailed to their several posts on the tower, and about the rock.  In order to give additional purchase or power in tightening the tackle, one of the blocks of stone was suspended at the end of the movable beam of the crane, which, by adding greatly to the weight, tended to slacken the guys or supporting-ropes in the direction to which the beam with the stone was pointed, and thereby enabled the men more easily to brace them one after another.

While the beam was thus loaded, and in the act of swinging round from one guy to another, a great strain was suddenly brought upon the opposite tackle, with the end of which the men had very improperly neglected to take a turn round some stationary object, which would have given them the complete command of the tackle.

Owing to this simple omission, the crane, with the large stone at the end of the beam, got a preponderancy to one side, and, the tackle alluded to having rent, it fell upon the building with a terrible crash.

The men fled right and left to get out of its way; but one of them, Michael Wishart, a mason, stumbled over an uncut trenail and rolled on his back, and the ponderous crane fell upon him.  Fortunately it fell so that his body lay between the great shaft and the movable beam, and thus he escaped with his life, but his feet were entangled with the wheel-work, and severely injured.

Wishart was a robust and spirited young fellow, and bore his sufferings with wonderful firmness while he was being removed.  He was laid upon one of the narrow frame-beds of the beacon, and despatched in a boat to the tender.  On seeing the boat approach with the poor man stretched on a bed covered with blankets, and his face overspread with that deadly pallor which is the usual consequence of excessive bleeding, the seamen’s looks betrayed the presence of those well-known but indescribable sensations which one experiences when brought suddenly into contact with something horrible.  Relief was at once experienced, however, when Wishart’s voice was heard feebly accosting those who first stepped into the boat.

He was immediately sent on shore, where the best surgical advice was obtained, and he began to recover steadily, though slowly.  Meanwhile, having been one of the principal masons, Robert Selkirk was appointed to his vacant post.

And now let us wind up this chapter of accidents with an account of the manner in which a party of strangers, to use a slang but expressive phrase, came to grief during a visit to the Bell Rock.

One morning, a trim little vessel was seen by the workmen making for the rock at low tide.  From its build and size, Ruby at once judged it to be a pleasure yacht.  Perchance some delicate shades in the seamanship, displayed in managing the little vessel, had influenced the sailor in forming his opinion.  Be this as it may, the vessel brought up under the lee of the rock and cast anchor.

It turned out to be a party of gentlemen from Leith, who had run down the firth to see the works.  The weather was fine, and the sea calm, but these yachters had yet to learn that fine weather and a calm sea do not necessarily imply easy or safe landing at the Bell Rock!  They did not know that the swell which had succeeded a recent gale was heavier than it appeared to be at a distance; and, worst of all, they did not know, or they did not care to remember, that “there is a time for all things”, and that the time for landing at the Bell Rock is limited.

Seeing that the place was covered with workmen, the strangers lowered their little boat and rowed towards them.

“They’re mad,” said Logan, who, with a group of the men, watched the motions of their would-be visitors.

“No,” observed Joe Dumsby; “they are brave, but hignorant.”

“Faix, they won’t be ignorant long!” cried Ned O’Connor, as the little boat approached the rock, propelled by two active young rowers in Guernsey shirts, white trousers, and straw hats.  “You’re stout, lads, both of ye, an’ purty good hands at the oar, for gintlemen; but av ye wos as strong as Samson it would puzzle ye to stem these breakers, so ye better go back.”

The yachters did not hear the advice, and they would not have taken it if they had heard it.  They rowed straight up towards the landing-place, and, so far, showed themselves expert selectors of the right channel; but they soon came within the influence of the seas, which burst on the rock and sent up jets of spray to leeward.

These jets had seemed very pretty and harmless when viewed from the deck of the yacht, but they were found on a nearer approach to be quite able, and, we might almost add, not unwilling, to toss up the boat like a ball, and throw it and its occupants head over heels into the air.

But the rowers, like most men of their class, were not easily cowed.  They watched their opportunity—­allowed the waves to meet and rush on, and then pulled into the midst of the foam, in the hope of crossing to the shelter of the rock before the approach of the next wave.

Heedless of a warning cry from Ned O’Connor, whose anxiety began to make him very uneasy, the amateur sailors strained every nerve to pull through, while their companion who sat at the helm in the stern of the boat seemed to urge them on to redoubled exertions.  Of course their efforts were in vain.  The next billow caught the boat on its foaming crest, and raised it high in the air.  For one moment the wave rose between the boat and the men on the rock, and hid her from view, causing Ned to exclaim, with a genuine groan, “’Arrah! they’s gone!”

But they were not; the boat’s head had been carefully kept to the sea, and, although she had been swept back a considerable way, and nearly half-filled with water, she was still afloat.

The chief engineer now hailed the gentlemen, and advised them to return and remain on board their vessel until the state of the tide would permit him to send a proper boat for them.

In the meantime, however, a large boat from the floating light, pretty deeply laden with lime, cement, and sand, approached, when the strangers, with a view to avoid giving trouble, took their passage in her to the rock.  The accession of three passengers to a boat, already in a lumbered state, put her completely out of trim, and, as it unluckily happened, the man who steered her on this occasion was not in the habit of attending the rock, and was not sufficiently aware of the run of the sea at the entrance of the eastern creek.

Instead, therefore, of keeping close to the small rock called Johnny Gray, he gave it, as Ruby expressed it, “a wide berth”.  A heavy sea struck the boat, drove her to leeward, and, the oars getting entangled among the rocks and seaweed, she became unmanageable.  The next sea threw her on a ledge, and, instantly leaving her, she canted seaward upon her gunwale, throwing her crew and part of her cargo into the water.

All this was the work of a few seconds.  The men had scarce time to realize their danger ere they found themselves down under the water; and when they rose gasping to the surface, it was to behold the next wave towering over them, ready to fall on their heads.  When it fell it scattered crew, cargo, and boat in all directions.

Some clung to the gunwale of the boat, others to the seaweed, and some to the thwarts and oars which floated about, and which quickly carried them out of the creek to a considerable distance from the spot where the accident happened.

The instant the boat was overturned, Ruby darted towards one of the rock boats which lay near to the spot where the party of workmen who manned it had landed that morning.  Wilson, the landing-master, was at his side in a moment.

“Shove off, lad, and jump in!” cried Wilson.

There was no need to shout for the crew of the boat.  The men were already springing into her as she floated off.  In a few minutes all the men in the water were rescued, with the exception of one of the strangers, named Strachan.

This gentleman had been swept out to a small insulated rock, where he clung to the seaweed with great resolution, although each returning sea laid him completely under water, and hid him for a second or two from the spectators on the rock.  In this situation he remained for ten or twelve minutes; and those who know anything of the force of large waves will understand how severely his strength and courage must have been tried during that time.

When the boat reached the rock the most difficult part was still to perform, as it required the greatest nicety of management to guide her in a rolling sea, so as to prevent her from being carried forcibly against the man whom they sought to save.

“Take the steering-oar, Ruby; you are the best hand at this,” said Wilson.

Ruby seized the oar, and, notwithstanding the breach of the seas and the narrowness of the passage, steered the boat close to the rock at the proper moment.

“Starboard, noo, stiddy!” shouted John Watt, who leant suddenly over the bow of the boat and seized poor Strachan by the hair.  In another moment he was pulled inboard with the aid of Selkirk’s stout arms, and the boat was backed out of danger.

“Now, a cheer, boys!” cried Ruby.

The men did not require urging to this.  It burst from them with tremendous energy, and was echoed back by their comrades on the rock, in the midst of whose wild hurrah, Ned O’Connor’s voice was distinctly heard to swell from a cheer into a yell of triumph!

The little rock on which this incident occurred was called Strachan’s Ledge, and it is known by that name at the present day.