A DIVER READY TO DESCEND
A DIVER READY TO DESCEND
Meanwhile the diver's assistants weretrying to discover what had happened to him. It seemed to them that the signal to haul up had been instantly followed by one to lower, and then by one to stop. The men at the life-line, confused at these apparently contradictory commands, ordered the derrick to haul on the blocks. Nothing yielded to the strain, and the men at the pumps labored until they were exhausted, and had to give way to others, but still no signs of release. A new danger now threatened the imprisoned man. In catching hold of some iron bolts he had cut a small hole in the valve of one of his rubber gloves, and water, filling the glove, was slowly oozing past the clamps at the wrist, and creeping up the arm. It seemed to the helpless diver, held fast in the tide-swept mass, that he would soon be strangled or crushed to death. Confused by the great air pressure in his helmet, he had about concluded that his end had come, when—unlooked for relief—the wreckage gave a lurch, and he found that he could climb up to one of the deck timbers. He grasped his ax, and washewing desperately for freedom, when suddenly the whole mass broke away, and began to rise rapidly, carrying the diver, now head downward, with it. His queer ascent did not consume more than ten seconds, but it was long enough for him to live over in memory all the events of a lifetime of two-score years. At first his comrades failed to discover him in the mass of tangled material, and their surprise can be imagined when he shot up through the wreckage, feet first. Captain Smith described this as his closest call to death's door, "and" he added, "I have peeped through the keyhole pretty often."
Captain Smith's adventure reminded a brother diver, in whose presence it was told, of a narrow escape of his own. It occurred while he was putting some copper on the bottom of a steamer in dock. "I took some plate down with me," he said, "and worked for a while on one side of the hull, after which I started in to put some plates on the other side. The vessel was about three feet off the bottom, and I crawled underneath, dragging theplates behind me. After I had been at work for an hour or so I noticed that my air was getting short, but when I tried to get under the keel again to be hauled up, I found the steamer on the bottom and squeezing my air-hose between its keel and the ground. The tide was ebbing and the hull had gradually sunk until it was almost aground. I had forgotten all about the tide, and when I pulled the hose it refused to move an inch. If the bottom had been soft it would not have mattered so much, but it was rock, and the hose was gripped like a vise. There was nothing to do but wait; if she fell any lower the air would be entirely shut off and I would have to die. Not till my last hour shall I forget the torture of those few minutes while I waited to see whether it rose or fell. My head felt as though it was bursting, and my nose and ears were bleeding. I took heart, however, when the air began to freshen, for I knew then that the tide had turned, and that the hull was rising. There was plenty of time for me to recover my nerve before it washigh enough off the bottom for me to crawl under, but I did not get it back. Instead, I stood there shaking like one stricken with palsy until I could squeeze under the bottom and give the signal to be hauled up. I reached the surface in a half-fainting condition, and was sick for weeks afterward. When I did recover it was with hearing permanently impaired."
Diving in the Great Lakes is attended with even greater perils than those I have just been describing. In Lake Huron, opposite the entrance of Thunder Bay, a large buoy marks the spot where, nearly twenty-five fathoms deep, lies the wreck of a once famous lake vessel, which sank while sixty of its passengers were still in their berths, not one of whom evermore made sign. The steamer took down with it when it sank not only that precious human freight, but $300,000 in gold coin and five hundred tons of copper. The sunken steamer was the Pewabic. Bound down the lakes from Copper Island, then the richest known deposit of pure copper in theworld, it collided with the steamer Meteor, bound up the lakes, and sank almost instantly.
Diving apparatus was at that time somewhat crude upon the lakes, and the great depth of water in which the Pewabic went down made it out of the question to attempt to raise it or to recover any of its valuable cargo. Twenty-five years after the wreck the sunken vessel was located by means of grappling irons, and a Toledo diver ventured to go down and inspect it. He was hauled up dead. In spite of his fate, two other divers, tempted by the price offered, went down at different times. Neither survived the venture, and until 1892 nothing further was done toward recovering the wealth lying in the wrecked Pewabic. Then a noted diver, Oliver Peliky by name, who had with apparatus of his own devising done safer work in deeper water than any other diver on the lakes had ever been able to withstand, announced his willingness to go down to the wreck. He was taken to the spot, the wreck was located by grapples and Peliky went down. He wasbelow twenty minutes and then signalled to be drawn up. When he reached the surface he said he had experienced no great inconvenience, had gone into the wreck, and was enthusiastic in his belief that he could do the work that was necessary to recover the cargo. He went down again, and for a quarter of an hour answered every signal. Then he failed to respond. The men on the tender pulled on the life-line. It had plainly caught on some obstruction. The crew, believing that Peliky was dead, backed the steamer. The jerk loosened the life-line. They hauled the diver to the surface. His armor was opened, as if burst by some great force. The diver, of course, was dead. Since then, though handsome inducements have been held out to various divers, no further attempt has been made to recover the treasure that has lain for more than a generation in the Pewabic's hold.
One of the divers with whom I have talked told me that somehow diving took the life out of a man, and that he had never known a diver who did much smiling. "I have animpression myself," he added, "that I shall go down one of these days without coming up again." In truth, before my wanderings among them were ended, I came to the conclusion that divers, as a class, are taciturn, grave, sober-faced men, but I also found that the calling they follow has its humorous as well as its serious side, although too often the humor has a dash of the grewsome to it, as was the case with a diver who went down to work on the steamship Viscaya, sunk in a collision off Barnegat Light. It was a difficult job, so two divers were sent down—one of them to remain on deck in sixty feet of water, to act as second tender to the other diver who went below. The latter had been at work but a few minutes when three jerks came over the life-line. He was so unnerved when hauled up to the deck that he forgot that he was still in sixty feet of water, and signalled to have his helmet removed. When both divers had been hauled to the surface, he said that while he was working through a gangway, he had seen two huge objectscoming toward him; and nothing could dissuade him from the belief that he had encountered two submarine ghosts—until the other diver went down and discovered that there was a mirror at the end of the gangway, and that the diver had seen the reflection of his own legs, vastly enlarged, coming toward him.
The veteran from whom I had this story told me also of the amusing mistake made by a diver, who, much against his will, had been sent down to recover a body from a wreck. Some divers have an ineradicable dread of the dead, and never handle them when they can possible avoid it. He was one of this kind, and the water being very thick, he went groping gingerly about in the cabin. After a lengthy search he found a body, and fastening a line around it, gave the signal to haul it up. When he followed and took off his helmet a large hog lay on the deck. He had tied the line around it, thinking it was the body he was looking for. After that he was always called the "pork" diver. His former comrades have likewise many amusing storiesto relate of a diver of other days, Tom Brintley by name, who, though a competent man and a good fellow, was a little too fond of stimulants. On one occasion he went down while in his cups, and the men above not knowing his condition, became seriously alarmed when several hours passed by without their receiving any signals from him or any response to those they made to him. Another diver, sent down to look for him, found him lying on his back at the bottom of the ocean, sixty feet below the surface, fast asleep!
The bed of the ocean would seem to most people an exceedingly strange place in which to take a nap, but divers live in a world of their own—a world of which their fellows know little or nothing, yet abounding at every turn with curious, beautiful, and indeed, almost incredible sights. Sometimes, especially in tropical waters, the bottom of the sea is a lovely spectacle, and divers grow enthusiastic when they describe its forests of kelp and seaweed gently waving in the tide, whichlook like fairyland, in dim light, and the bright-colored fish making them all the more beautiful. Along the coast of the Island of Margueretta, and in many parts of the Caribbean Sea, there are submarine scenes of surpassing beauty. Often the bed of the ocean is as smooth and firm as a house floor, and the water as transparent as crystal, while the white sandy bottom acts as a reflector to the bright sunshine above the surface. In some places there are widespreading pastures of stumpy, scrubby marine vegetation, a growth not unlike seaweed, and of a bluish gray tinge. There are also clumps of fan-shaped fungi, of a spongy consistency, which when dried in the sun are exceedingly beautiful. But the most wonderful growths in these gardens of Neptune are the long kelp tubas, resembling our fresh-water pond-lilies, only of much larger size. Their stems are tough and hollow, and put forth pretty blossoms on the surface, although their roots are in the bed of the ocean, many fathoms below.
In the West Indies and the Spanish Mainthe water is so clear and transparent that the bottom is visible at a depth of from sixty to a hundred feet below the surface, and the scope of the diver's vision is seldom less than an eighth of a mile. In Northern seas, however, especially in the harbors of towns and cities, the water is so discolored and murky that nothing can be seen at about twenty feet from the surface, a disadvantage which calls for the exercise of the gift of which all divers are most boastful—their delicacy of touch. Indeed, most frequently the diver must do his work under water by means of touch only, and when one considers the varied tasks he is called upon to perform, pipe laying, building, drilling holes in rocks and charging them with dynamite in darkness, looking for treasure, recovering dead bodies and sunken cargoes, or inspecting all parts of a wrecked vessel, buried in water a hundred feet deep, it is not to be wondered at that he should be proud of any special skill in this direction with which nature and practice have favored him. With some, this delicacy of touchbecomes in time almost a sixth sense. Diver C. P. Everett, of New York, is one of these. Four or five years ago, he laid a submarine timber foundation of twenty-eight feet long 12 x 12 yellow pine, handling it alone. First, the pieces were weighted to sink; and then Everett went down and weighted them for handling, for without weights they would, of course, have immediately risen to the surface.
Only a strong man can become or, at least, long remain a successful diver. No one is fit for the calling who suffers from headache, neuralgia, deafness, palpitation of the heart, intemperance, or a languid circulation. The pressure of the atmosphere increases the lower one descends, until a point is reached where life could not be maintained. The greatest depth, perhaps, ever reached, was 201 feet, with an atmosphere pressure of 87 pounds to the square inch. A diver named Green worked in 145 feet in Lake Ontario, but he was paralyzed, and never did a day's work afterward. Most divers do not care to work much deeper than 120 feet, and even for30 or 40 feet, a moderate depth, considerable nerve and practice are requisite. The lower the depth, the more acute the pains felt in the ears and about the eyes, and symptoms of paralysis become more pronounced. An asthmatic man, on the other hand, may be cured by diving, the constant supply of fresh air, and the pressure which drives the blood so rapidly opening up the lungs. Divers as a rule cannot stand close rooms, being so accustomed to a copious supply of fresh air that they must have plenty of it, even when they are above water. In diving, the supply of air is increased according to the depth. At thirty feet below the surface fifteen pounds of air to the square inch is used, at sixty feet thirty pounds, and so on. Still, much depends on the man, and some divers work in eighty feet of water with only forty-five pounds.
In the laying of masonry under the water and other work of the kind, the diving dress is usually replaced by the diving bell. This is a large vessel full of air, but open at thebottom, fresh air being pumped into it by air pumps. It is furnished with seats, and a chain passes through the center, by which weights can be raised or lowered. The diving bell has this advantage over the dress, that several men can work in company; on the other hand, should an accident happen, more lives are involved. Some years ago the chain of a diving bell in use at a pier in Dover, England, got fouled in some way and its occupants found themselves in a most alarming predicament. However, a diver named William Wharlow, donning his suit, descended, crowbar in hand, and after several hours of hard work, succeeded in freeing the chain, when the diving bell was hauled up in safety.
It was stated a little while ago that some divers have an ineradicable dread of the dead; many will not have anything to do with them, when they come upon them by accident they will be unnerved and useless for the rest of the day, and those who make a virtue of necessity, when on a wreck generally insistupon getting the bodies out first. The temperature of the water always tells the diver where to look for bodies in a wreck; if it is cold they will be on the floor or lying in the berths; if warm they rise to the ceiling or against the bottom of the berth above.
The diver who raised the tugboat Bronx from the East River found the fireman sitting in a chair in the fire-room, staring into a wave-quenched furnace, with the weird, lifelike expression often seen in the wide-open eyes of the drowned, and which those who have encountered it declare never fails to strain the nerves of the strongest man. Other divers relate even more grewsome experiences. When the diver, employed to locate and examine the steamship City of Chester, entered the steerage, the first object that met his gaze was the figure of a man standing upright, entangled in a pile of ropes. The face was terribly distorted and the tongue, protruding, hung from the mouth, while the body was swollen to twice its natural size. Going a little further aft he found anothervictim of the wreck, who had fallen on his knees and grasped a third man around the waist. The spectacle so affected him that he signaled to be hauled to the surface, where he reported what he had seen, and refused to again go below until accompanied by another diver.
Captain Abram Onderdonk, already referred to, once brought up a dozen bodies from the wreck of the steamer Albatross, sunk in the Caribbean Sea. Some of these were in their staterooms, and the last corpse was that of a young woman. He found her in the bed lying on her side, her eyes wide open and staring straight ahead. One of her arms was thrust through the bed slats, with the hand clutching the berth frame. As he loosened her grasp the body turned, then floated to an almost erect position, and leaned over toward him with a repelling look. The expression of the face and eyes, as well as the attitude, almost unmanned him, but in a moment he regained his nerve, clasped her about the waist and brought her to the surface. Thesame diver was employed to bring the dead from the wrecked Sound steamer Stonington. Groping about one of the staterooms, for he had to feel his way in the darkness, his hand came in contact with a corpse, which he took and carried to the surface. It proved to be a woman, and clasped to her bosom so firmly that no effort could separate them, was a beautiful babe. Perfect peace and rest were on their faces, and they had evidently died in sleep. Mother and child were buried as they were found—together.
Heroes, also, are the men who build and tend our lighthouses, and there are few finer stories than that which tells of the erection of Tillamook Rock lighthouse, probably the most exposed structure in the world. Tillamook is a basaltic rock, rising abruptly from the deep waters of the Pacific a mile off the Oregon coast, and eighteen miles south of the mouth of the Columbia River. Projecting to seaward, it receives the full force of the stormiest waves of the Pacific, which often break with appalling violence on its summit, ninety feet above the level of the sea, boats being able to reach it only when the sea is calm.
Four workmen in October, 1879, were landed on the rock with their tools, fuel,provisions, a stove, and canvas for a tent. They were in a few days joined by five others, who brought with them a small derrick. The foreman of the party lost his life in attempting to land, and the lot of the survivors was one of great discomfort and constant danger. To prevent being blown or washed away, they tied the canvas to ring-bolts driven into holes drilled in the rocks, and then quarried out a nook in which they built a shanty, which they also bolted to the rocks. Next a flight of steps was quarried up the steep side of the cliff, and the work of cutting down and leveling the summit began.
The weather often compelled a suspension of work for days at a time, and in January came a tornado which lasted for nearly a week. During this storm the shanty of the workmen was repeatedly flooded with water and their supplies were swept into the sea. They were able at the end of a fortnight to make those on the mainland acquainted with their condition, and fresh supplies were passed to them over a line cast from the rocksto the deck of a schooner, which had come as near as safety would permit.
When May, 1880, came, the dome of the rock had been cut down to a height of eighty-eight feet from the surface of the sea, and a spot leveled for the lighthouse. A small engine and more derricks were now landed, and with them came three masons, who in June laid the corner-stone of the lighthouse. The stones were made ready for laying on the mainland, and a fresh supply conveyed to the rock whenever the weather would permit. First, a square, one-story house for the keepers was built, and above this was raised a tower forty-eight feet high, raising the light 136 feet above the sea level. Sixteen months after work was begun the lamp was lighted for the first time, and has since prevented scores of wrecks. Over the beacon raised amid such difficulties, three keepers stand sentinel, and their lot is an exciting as well as a lonely one. A few winters ago a terrific storm broke upon the rock, and the water poured in torrents through the holes cut inthe dome of the lighthouse to give ventilation to the lamps. Stout wire screen shutters protected the lantern and broke the force of the water hurled against the glass. But for this it would have been battered in, and the heavy plates might have killed the man attending the lamps.
Tillamook is known in the service and to mariners as a light of the first class, since lighthouses are roughly divided into three classes: First, those on outlying headlands and deep-sea rocks, the distinguishing features of a country's coastline, and the first to give the mariner warning of his nearness to land. The second grade of lights show him his way through the secondary shoals and rocks, and the third grade, or harbor lights, take him safely into port. There are fifty-two first-class lights on the coasts of the United States. New Jersey and Massachusetts have each a double light; and Florida, by reason of the treacherous reefs which girt its coast, has as many first-class lights as any other two States put together.
A majority of the lights of the first-class are housed in tall stone or brick towers, and a number of them stand upon very high ground. The light on Cape Mendocino glows from an eminence of 423 feet above the level of the sea, and is visible for twenty-eight miles. There are ten other lights whose elevation averages from 204 to 360 feet above sea level, and which are visible from twenty-one to twenty-six miles. The light at St. Augustine, Fla., is a fine example of its class. The strong and massive tower of brick rises 150 feet from the ground, and the light is reached by winding stairs. The apparatus for the light is twelve feet high and six feet through, and the lenses alone cost thousands of dollars. A powerful lamp in the centre of the apparatus sends its rays in all directions, the lenses being arranged at such angles as to gather the light and to send it out in parallel rays in the course desired. The cost of the St. Augustine lighthouse was $100,000.
Each lighthouse must have peculiarities of its own, so that both by night and by day themariner can distinguish it from its neighbors, and thus guard against the mistakes that might otherwise prove fatal. The first result desired is accomplished by the use of fixed, revolving, blended, flash and intermittent lights, and as the timing of the second and the two latter classes is capable of great variety, it will be seen that the elasticity of the system is ample to meet all possible needs. To secure the second result desired the lighthouses are painted in different colors, and the application of the colors is varied in each instance. Some retain their natural colors, while others are painted black and white, or red and white; here broad horizontal bands alternating, and there slender spiral ones setting off the background of a sharply contrasting color. Again, the shape of the houses is varied, some being circular and others cone-shaped, some tall and others short, some square and others octagonal, while in many cases the shape and color of the keeper's dwelling nearby also help to make distinction easy. Thus the character of the light guidesthe sailor by night, and by day the form and color of the lighthouse give him welcome knowledge of his whereabouts.
The first lighthouses in this country were beacons, made by piling up stones, from the summit of which "firebales of pitch and ocum" were burned in iron baskets at night. It is a far cry from that time to this, and the construction of the lighthouse of the present day is, as has already been shown, a task demanding mechanical skill and engineering ability of the first order. A lighthouse on the mainland has few difficulties involved in its construction, but where the foundation is an isolated rock, a submerged reef, or a sandy shoal, the best resources of the engineer and mechanic are called into full play.
The lighthouse most difficult to build is that on the submerged rock or partly submerged rock. Race Rock Light, in Long Island Sound, belongs to this class. Portions of Race Rock are three and others thirteen feet under water. Diving-bells were used to level the foundations for the lighthouse, and the masonryand concrete under water were laid in the same way. The United States has two other lighthouses built on submerged rocks, Minot's Ledge in Boston harbor, and Spectacle Reef, on Lake Huron. The first lighthouse on Minot's Ledge was built above stout iron rods driven into the rocks. In April, 1851, there was a severe gale which lasted five days. On the third night of the storm the house was blown down and light and keeper went out together. Four years later a second structure was begun, this time with a foundation of masonry and concrete. Minot's is barely awash with the lowest tide, and so rare were the opportunities for work that three years were required to prepare the rock for the first course of stone, which was laid in 1857. In 1860 the structure was completed and has ever since stood proof against wind and storm.
Spectacle Reef lighthouse, near Mackinac, was built with the aid of a coffer-dam. A large wooden cylinder was constructed by banding long staves tightly together and towed out to the rock, where it was set up onthe surface and the stones driven down into the uneven places. Then the crevices were filled with cement and the water pumped out. After this the rock was leveled and the limestone courses rapidly raised one above another. Spectacle Reef light stands eleven miles from land, and its base is seven feet under water.
Where there is a shifting shoal, whose unstable character no degree of mechanical or engineering skill can overcome, resort is had to the lightship. The United States has twenty-five of these vessels. Seven of them are employed off Massachusetts Bay to mark the Vineyard and Nantucket shoals, and a line of equal number lies along Long Island Sound stretching from Brenton's Reef to Sandy Hook. Four more are stationed off the New Jersey and Delaware coasts, one off Cape Charles, three off North Carolina, South Carolina and Georgia, and two off Louisiana and Texas. The life of a lightship crew, as will be told in another place, is a laborious and often a dangerous one.
The United States is divided into sixteen lighthouse districts, each one with its inspector and engineer. The former, drawn from the navy, inspects the lights under his jurisdiction at least every three months; the latter, a member of the Corps of Engineers, superintends the building, removal or renovation of the towers. Both are responsible to the Lighthouse Board, a body appointed by the President and composed of veteran naval officers of high rank, who are no longer fitted for active duty at sea.
The station of the third lighthouse district is on Staten Island, between St. George and Tompkinsville. Here over a hundred men are constantly employed and half a million dollars annually expended. From this station one hundred and eighty-nine lighthouses and beacon lights and seven lightships are maintained and supplied, while thirty-six day or unlighted beacons, thirteen steam fog signals, six electric light buoys, and five hundred and seven other buoys are looked after andkept in repair by the inspector and his assistants.
Fog often obscures the rays of the most powerful light, and it is then that the fog signal and the whistling buoy come into play. The most effective fog signal is the American siren, a steam machine worked under seventy pounds pressure, and from which a series of noises come forth that can be heard from two to four miles. Certain intervals in the sounds designate the nearest light and afford a welcome and often much-needed guide to the mariner enveloped in a cloak of fog. This system of fog signals extends along the entire seaboard, extra precautions being taken on the Northern Atlantic coast.
Mineral oil is the principal illuminant used in our lighthouses. It is selected with the greatest care, and is subjected to three several tests before being accepted. Gas has been tried as a lighthouse illuminant, but with inferior success, and there are at the present time only three lighthouses in which it is used. Experiments with electricity have also beenonly fairly successful, its light blinding instead of giving aid to the pilot. The lighthouse station on Staten Island is a busy place, and much work is done there, but the wheels of industry are so well oiled and run so smoothly, that a deep peace seems always to brood over the establishment. Day after day and year after year the work, moving in well-marked channels, goes on with quiet and certainty. Everywhere the neatness and order prevail that mark all departments of the lighthouse service.
Indeed, in no branch of the government service is stricter discipline and closer attention to duty insisted upon than is demanded from the brave and devoted men who tend our lighthouses. The pay of these keepers ranges from $1,000 to $100, the average, by an Act of Congress passed some years ago, being $600. The Lighthouse Board, which controls the service, selects as keepers the best men obtainable, preference being always given to men who have served for lengthy periods in the army and navy.
Members of this class know what discipline means, and hard experience has taught them that orders are to be obeyed to the letter. Many an old veteran, whose scars tell of valiant service in the Civil War or on the Western frontier, and many an old shipmaster or mate, whose weather-beaten face bespeaks long years spent on the quarter-deck, as lighthouse keepers now do duty on solitary and barren beacon rocks, where for months at a time, aside from their own voices and those of their families, the roar and moan of the ocean, as it beats against the breakers below, are the only sounds that are heard.
The life of the keeper—though many who follow it seem wholly contented with it, and doubtless would not leave it for any other calling—is thus a lonely and arduous one. Two breaches of the rules which govern the keeper's conduct bring as a penalty immediate dismissal from the service. The absence of a light for a single moment may bring disaster to life and property on the seas, and neither excuse nor previous good conduct cansave from instant dismissal the keeper who allows his light to go out. He may plead that his wife or child was dying, but he is told that he must subordinate his light to nothing. And he must not only keep his light burning, but stay by it so long as the lighthouse stands. Some years ago an ice pack lifted from its foundations, overturned and carried away the Sharp's Island lighthouse in Chesapeake Bay. The two keepers had a staunch boat and could have made their way to shore. Instead, they bravely chose to remain at their post of duty, and for sixteen hours, without food or fire, drifted with the wreck at the mercy of the ice cakes. When the wreck finally grounded the keepers carried ashore all the movable portions of the light, the oil, and everything else they could take with them.
At the same time the keepers of another light, fearing danger, left their post and went ashore. They pleaded that the ice had rendered the light useless for the time being, but this excuse had no weight with their superiors. They had proven recreant to their trustand were dismissed from the service, the places they had filled being given to the two keepers who had refused to leave their post of duty, even when to remain seemed certain death. Drunkenness, when detected, also leads to removal from the service. That and allowing one's light to go out are the two unpardonable sins in the eyes of the lighthouse inspector.
Aside from his duties at night, the keeper finds plenty of work to do. Promptly at a given hour in the morning the lights must be extinguished; and during the day all put in order for the coming night. In the lantern room the lenses must be kept free from speck or tarnish, and the reflectors, the brass railings and the gun metal carefully burnished and polished to the last degree of brightness. The oil tanks must also be filled and the wick trimmed. Carelessness or negligence in any of these particulars is dangerous, for the visits of the inspectors are always unannounced, and may occur at any moment.
Most important of all, the lamp must belighted on time, for a delay of even a few minutes will not escape notice. Each keeper is required to record the time the lights appear in the stations within his range, and tardiness in this particular is noted by watchful eyes, and at once reported. At inaccessible stations, as a rule, from three to four keepers are employed. In stormy months, when communication with the mainland is impossible, one or more of the keepers may die or be disabled, and experience has taught that, to insure safety, three men at least must be posted at every dangerous station.
No keeper is allowed to engage in any business which may interfere with his presence at the lighthouse. However, there are some keepers who work at tailoring, shoemaking, and similar trades; and there are others who are preachers, school-teachers and justices of the peace. The keeper whose lighthouse is located on land is encouraged to keep a garden, and a barn is provided for his horses and cattle. Until a few years ago many keepers greatly increased their incomes by takingboarders in the summer—life in a lighthouse has a strong attraction for those fond of the romantic—but the Lighthouse Board finally prohibited the renting of quarters to outsiders in buildings owned and constructed by the Government, and this pleasant and convenient source of revenue was cut off.
Whenever keepers are located at stations where the cost of carriage exceeds the cost of fuel and rations, they are furnished at the expense of the Government. This applies to the keeper of the lighthouse on a big rock near Cape Ann. No sea-going vessel can come within a quarter of a mile of his home, and it is impossible for a loaded boat to reach his abiding-place in safety. The coal he uses is shipped in bags from Boston to as near the lighthouse as the vessel can approach. The bags are then loaded into small boats and taken to the edge of the shoal water, inside of which it is dangerous to enter. From the boats the bags are carried ashore on the backs of the crew, who wade through the shoals, clamber up the rocks with theirburdens and empty the coal in the lighthouse bin. Coal is worth thirty dollars a ton at Cape Ann lighthouse. The keeper's other bulky supplies are delivered in the same manner as his coal.
A LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER
A LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER
At all the lighthouses built on rocks and ledges the keepers have to be supplied with fresh water from the mainland, that collected from rains in cisterns and tanks being generally insufficient for their needs. Each lighthouse keeper is supplied by the Government with a well-selected library of fifty volumes. There are five hundred and fifty of these libraries, and they are continually kept moving from station to station, the inspector, when he makes his quarterly visit, bringing a fresh library, and taking the old one with him, to his next stopping-place.
Captain Oliver Brooks, now living in honored and well-earned retirement, besides being for thirty years keeper of the great light on Faulkner's Island, five miles off the Connecticut coast in Long Island Sound, was also one of the most remarkable men everconnected with the lighthouse service. He had been a sea captain before he became a lighthouse keeper and was a man of signal mechanical skill and marked inventive genius. His knowledge of electricity, and of light and sound was thorough and exact, and the results of many of his experiments, adopted by the Lighthouse Board, have contributed greatly to the improvement of the service. All the apparatus with which he conducted his experiments was constructed by him in a little workshop he had fitted up in the lighthouse tower.
But his fondness for the theoretical never caused him to neglect in the slightest detail the practical side of his work, and he was, indeed, a model keeper. Faulkner's Island lies directly in the path of all vessels passing either in or out of the Sound, and its light is one of the most important ones on our coasts, but there has not been a night in more than a hundred years that it has not flashed out its warning to sailors. The island was a barren and desolate spot when Captain Brookssettled there, but he and his family turned it into a paradise. All of his large family of boys and girls were born there, and there grew up to sturdy manhood and splendid womanhood. One daughter was an authority on ornithology; another, a gifted water-color artist, and every one of the children was a skilled musician, their family concerts, in which not less than five different instruments were brought into play, being treats to hear. All of the children had noble records as life-savers, and many were the men, women and children they saved from death in the treacherous waters surrounding their island home. It was not until his youngest child had left the island that the captain gave up his place as keeper to spend his last days on shore.
Even better known than Captain Brooks is the keeper of Lime Rock light in Newport harbor. Should you chance to be in Newport on some pleasant summer afternoon, walk out on the long wharf that runs from the mainland into the west side of the harbor, andwhen you have reached its end, wave your handkerchief toward the lighthouse opposite. Soon a woman will appear in the door of the tall gray tower, and running down to the boat moored to the stone wall, step into it, take the oars, and with graceful yet powerful strokes, pull rapidly toward the wharf. As she approaches her erect back and evident strength give the impression of youth, but as she turns the boat about to receive you for a visit to the lighthouse you discover to your surprise that she is a woman of middle age.
Your hostess is Ida Lewis, keeper of Lime Rock light and famous as the American Grace Darling, a modest and kindly hearted heroine, whose skill and daring have saved nearly as many lives as there are years in her own. In fact, it was due in part to her record as a life-saver, that she was given the place she now fills. Besides attending to her duties as keeper, there are other cares that keep her busy; she is a careful housewife, keeps abreast of current literature; and is a devoted churchwoman, spending her Sundays onshore whenever possible. To her credit, no light in her district is as regularly or perfectly attended to, nor does any other gain from the inspector so high a report as Lime Rock light.
There are several other women light-keepers, but none of them has ever had to face an experience as trying as that which a few years ago befell the wife of Angus Campbell, keeper of the light on Great Bird Rock, a lonely islet in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the farthest beacon to the harbors of Nova Scotia. When the late fall comes and the tardy fishermen hasten away to the mainland, the gulf turns to ice and hems the rock in with a clutch that only the returning summer can loosen. There, in the autumn of 1896, Angus Campbell took his newly wedded wife to share his loneliness. During the winter James Duncan and George Bryson, two of Campbell's friends, journeyed to Great Bird Rock to remain until spring. They were professional seal hunters, and a great many sealsplay around on the ice and rocks at the foot of the big cliff.
The men landed on the rock early in February. At that time there was no open water within five or six miles of the lighthouse in any direction. The men were landed on the ice and made their way up to where Campbell was waiting for them. On February 27, Campbell and his visitors left the rock to go in pursuit of the seals they had noticed on the ice the day before. His wife saw them start across the ice and then returned to her household duties. They had not been gone more than four hours, when the wind, which had been growing colder and blowing steadily from the eastward, shifted to the southwest. The southwest wind is the agency that dashes the ice fields against the cliff and breaks them up. She thought that the men, being so much lower, might not have noticed the wind, and she hoisted the danger signal. They must have seen it, for she soon caught sight of them hurrying over the ice toward the rock.
They were within gunshot of thelighthouse, when the ice cracked with a sound like thunder, and a long, blue line appeared, running east and west, parallel with the lighthouse rock and with North Bird Rock, about five miles to the westward. The big crack was followed by a general splitting up of the ice floe. She saw the men standing just the other side of the open water. She saw her husband wave his hands at her and she waved back. Then the darkness came, like a great blanket dropped from the wintry skies, and men and ice were blotted from her vision. But even in her sore distress she did not forget the duty incumbent on the lighthouse keeper. She clambered up into the lantern and lighted the great oil lamp, saw that it was filled, and attended to the other duties she had seen her husband perform.
Morning, when it came, gave no glimpse of her husband and his companions, nor did the third or the fourth day bring them back to her. After that the days grew into weeks, and the worse than widowed woman found herself confined to lonely and rackingimprisonment on the ice-locked rock. But not for a single night did she fail to fill and light the lamp that had been her hapless husband's charge. When the Government steamer touched at Great Bird Bock, on May 5, 1897, the captain looked long and earnestly at the lighthouse perched far above him, and wondered why there was not the customary greeting. He saw no sign of life. There was the derrick rope swinging in the wind, but no moving figures at the top of the cliff, as there were wont to be.
Closely scanning the rock, he saw at last a white, gaunt face at the window. In a little while a thin, tottering figure crept to the brow of the ledge, but it was some minutes before the tender's captain could recognize in that wasted being the comely woman whom he had known as Angus Campbell's wife.
"Where is your husband?" he shouted.
"Angus is dead," came the answer, in a faint, palsied voice, "and so are Jim Duncan and George Bryson."
An instant later the captain had swunghimself into the derrick ropes and was making his way up the rocks. When he reached the woman she burst into tears and fell at his feet. Calmed at last, she told her story.
"How did you stand it?" asked the captain when she had finished.
"God knows," was the reply. "I knew I had to keep that light burning, and that I think kept me alive. That was all I had to do, except watch the sea through my husband's glass. I got up night after night, and I do not think I ever slept two hours at a time. There were plenty of provisions, but I could not eat more than one meal a day, and sometimes I did not eat that. I had some hope on the morning after the boys were carried out on the ice floe, that they might be in sight and might be saved some way. But that morning there was nothing to be seen but water and ice. Then hope was gone. I knew there was nothing to do but wait for the spring. And I have done it. Every day I have swept the horizon with the aid of the glasses. It was merely a formality, after awhile, but I kept on doing it. I do not know why. At last life got to be like being buried alive. I had no interest in living. I had no appetite, no thought of sleep. In all the time I do not suppose I have slept two hours in succession, nor at any time eaten more than one scanty meal a day. I was going crazy, and should have killed myself or died of starvation in another week."
A few days later Mrs. Campbell was removed from the rock to her former home in Prince Edward Island.
Many of the most picturesque lighthouses in the United States establishment are on the rocks and islands off the coast of Maine. Notable for its beauty is the one on Matinicus Rock. The first lighthouse thereon, erected in 1827, was a cobblestone dwelling with a wooden tower at each end. Twenty years later this was replaced by a granite dwelling with semicircular towers, which has since developed into an establishment requiring the services of a keeper and three assistants. Matinicus Rock rises fifty feet above the sea,and presents what seems a precipitous front to the ocean, but there is no more rugged, dangerous coast along the seaboard of Maine than here, and when a gale rages the waves pound the rock as if bent upon washing it away, the thunder of the green-gray wall that beats against it, sounding, at such times, like the cannonade of a hundred heavy guns. Life on Matinicus for years past has been a never ending struggle between man and the elements, and this lends peculiar interest to the history of the light and its watchers, bound up with which is a love story at once tender, wholesome, and true. Captain Burgess, keeper of the rock from 1853 to 1861, had a daughter Abby, a maiden as comely as she was brave, whom he often left in charge of the lights while he crossed to Matinicus Island. On one occasion rough weather for three weeks barred his return to the rock, and during all that time, Abby, then a girl of seventeen, not only tended the lights, but cared for her invalid mother and her younger brothers and sisters.
In 1861 Captain Grant succeeded Captain Burgess on Matinicus, taking his son with him as assistant. The old keeper left Abby on the rock to instruct the newcomers in their duties, and she performed the task so well that young Grant fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. Soon after their marriage she was appointed an assistant keeper. A few years later the husband was made keeper and the wife assistant keeper of White Head, another light on the Maine coast. There they remained until the spring of 1890, when they removed to Middleborough, Mass., intending to pass the balance of their days beyond sight and hearing of the rocks and the waves. But the hunger which the sea breeds in its adopted children was still strong within them, and the fall of 1892 found them again on the coast of Maine, this time at Portland, where the husband again entered the lighthouse establishment, working in the engineers' department of the first lighthouse district. With them until his death lived Captain Grant, who in the closing months of 1890,being then aged eighty-five, retired from the position of keeper of Matinicus light, which he had held for nearly thirty years.
Not less lonely, but far more perilous than the life of the keepers of a light like that on Matinicus is the lot of the crew of the South Shoal lightship, whose position twenty-six miles off Sankaty Head, Nantucket Island, makes it the most exposed light-station in the world. Anchored so far out at sea, it is only during the months of summer and autumn that the lighthouse tender ventures to visit it, and its crew from December to May of each year are wholly cut off from communication with the land. It is this, however, that makes the South Shoal lightship a veritable protecting angel of the deep, for it stands guard not only over the treacherous New South Shoal, near which it is anchored, but over twenty-six miles of rips and reefs between it and the Nantucket shore—a wide-reaching ocean graveyard, where bleach the bones of more than a half thousand wrecked and forgotten vessels.
The lightship is a stanchly built two-hulled schooner of 275 tons burden, 103 feet long over all, equipped with fore-and-aft lantern masts 71 feet high, and with two masts for sails, each 42 feet high. The lanterns are octagons of glass in copper frames, so arranged that they can be lowered into houses built around the masts. In the forward part of the ship is a huge fog bell, swung ten feet above the deck, which, when foggy weather prevails, as it frequently does for weeks at a time, is kept tolling day and night. A two-inch chain fastened to a "mushroom" anchor weighing upward of three tons holds the vessel in eighteen fathoms of water, but this, so fiercely do the waves beat against it in winter, has not prevented her from going adrift many times. She was two weeks at sea on one of these occasions, and on another she came to anchor in New York Harbor. Life on the South Shoal lightship is at all times a hard and trying one, and, as a matter of fact, the crew are instructed not to expose themselves to danger outside their special line of duty.This, however, does not deter them from frequently risking their lives in rescuing others, and when, several years ago, the City of Newcastle went ashore on one of the shoals near the lightship, all hands, twenty-seven in number, were saved by the South Shoal crew and kept aboard of her over two weeks, until the story of the wreck was signalled to a passing vessel.
Nor are the South Shoal crew alone among lighthouse keepers in displays of heroism outside the duties required of them. Isaac H. Grant holds a silver medal given him by the Government for rescuing two men from drowning while he was keeper at White Head; and Keeper Marcus Hanna, of the Cape Elizabeth station, Maine, received a gold medal for the daring rescue of two sailors from a wreck during a severe storm, while Frederick Hatch, keeper of the Breakwater station at Cleveland was awarded the gold bar. The last mentioned badge of honor is granted only to one who has twice distinguished himself by a special act of bravery. It was given Hatchin the winter of 1898. A wreck occurred at night, just outside the breakwater. The eight people aboard made their way to the breakwater pier, but the heavy seas swept several of them back, and one lost his life. Pulling to the pier in a small boat, Keeper Hatch took off the captain's wife; but she was hardly in the boat before it was swamped and capsized. The woman was utterly exhausted and almost a dead weight; but though nearly overcome himself, Hatch, at the risk of his life, maintained his hold upon her until he could reach a line thrown from the light-station, with which he and his helpless burden were drawn to the lighthouse steps. Before that, and while a member of the life-saving crew at Cleveland, Hatch had helped to rescue twenty-nine persons from two vessels on two successive days during a terrific gale.
With each recurring autumn at nearly 300 points on our 8,000 miles of seacoast, careful preparations begin for the winter campaign of the life-saving service. Conducted in the face of constant peril and hardship, this annual battle with disaster, storm and death is a peaceful, yet always glorious one. During the year 1905 alone it resulted in the saving of more than 4,000 lives and the rescue of nearly $8,000,000 worth of property, imperilled by wreck and storm, all of which would otherwise have been lost. The United States Life-saving Service is now the most complete and effective organization of its kind in the world, furnishing a model and pattern for those of other countries. The story of itsrapid development during the last thirty-five years is also the inspiring record of the life work of one of our most sagacious and devoted public servants, Sumner I. Kimball, a modest, blue-eyed, kindly-faced man of middle age, whose untiring labors in this field long since gave him a foremost place among the great benefactors of his time.
When in 1871, Mr. Kimball was made Chief of the Revenue Marine Bureau of the Treasury Department, the life-saving service had slender existence, save on paper. He found the station-houses sadly neglected and dilapidated, the apparatus rusty or broken, and many of the salaried keepers disabled by age or incompetent and neglectful of their duties. The outlook would have discouraged a man less resolute and determined than the new chief, but he had conceived the splendid idea of guarding the entire coast of the nation with a chain of fortresses garrisoned by disciplined conquerors of the sea, and he set about the accomplishment of his self-imposed task with patience, sagacity and skill.
He reorganized the service and prepared a code of regulations for its control, in which the duties of every member were carefully defined. Politics, the bane of the service in former years, was rigidly eliminated. Lazy, careless and incompetent employees were promptly dismissed, and their places filled with capable and faithful surfmen. The station-houses were repaired and increased, and equipped with the best life-saving devices human skill and ingenuity had thus far brought forth. Last and most important of all, a thorough and effective system of inspection and patrol was inaugurated, and so successful did it prove that during the first year's operation of the new system every person imperilled by shipwreck was saved. The service has been wisely extended from year to year, until now it has 270 stations, three-fourths of which are along the Atlantic coast, while others are on the lakes; a board of life-saving appliances; telephone lines for prompt operations and a splendid corps of assistant superintendents, experts, inspectors,station-keepers and mariners. The yearly cost of the service at the present time is slightly less than $1,800,000, a sum ridiculously small when the saving of life and property is taken into consideration.
Life at a life-saving station is never an idle one. The routine followed at the Avalon, New Jersey station, as I have observed it, in essential details, is the same as that practiced at all of the stations of the service. Four days of every week are devoted to drill. On Tuesdays the keeper orders out the surfboat and drills the crew in riding breakers and landing through heavy surf. On Wednesday he gives the men practical instruction in the working of the international signal code. On Thursday the Lyle gun is ordered out, and one of the crew, taking up a position some distance down the shore near a post stuck in the sand, personates a seaman on a stranded vessel. The other members of the crew plant the gun and fire a line which the watcher pulls in and rigs to the post. Then the men at the other end of the line dispatch thebreeches-buoy and gallantly effect the rescue of their comrade. On Friday the recovery drill is carefully gone through. One of the crew assumes the role of a half-drowned sailor, and his comrades resuscitate him by rolling him on the sand and producing artificial breathing, according to the rules laid down for the purpose. Saturday is general cleaning day. The discipline of the crew is never relaxed and none of its members can go out of sight of the station save by special permission or when off duty.
The night hours at a life-saving station afford a much more thrilling story than the one I have just been relating. Each crew is divided into three night watches. The first watch goes on duty at sundown and patrols the beach until eight o'clock, at which hour the second watch relieves it and patrols until midnight, when the third watch sallies out and does duty until four o'clock in the morning. Then the first watch again goes on patrol and keeps watch until sunrise. During the day a surfman is constantly on the lookout in thewatch-tower of the station. If the weather be clear, this precaution suffices, but if it is cloudy and storms threaten, the beach patrols are continued through the day. Each watch consists of two men, who, upon leaving the station, separate and follow their beats to the right and left until they meet the patrolmen from the neighboring stations on either side, with whom they exchange checks—this to show the keeper they have covered their respective beats. On the Atlantic seaboard, stations are now within an average distance of five miles of each other, but often the beats of the surfmen are six and seven miles long. It is a part of the surfman's duties to keep a constant watch of the sea and to note the vessels by the lights displayed, and, if they approach too close to the shore or outlying sandbars, give them timely warning. For this purpose he always carries a Coston signal, which, when exploded by percussion, emits a red flame that flashes far out over the water and warns the unwary ship of its peril. Last year more than two hundred vessels, warnedin this way, at once changed course and ran out of danger. If the surfman observes a vessel that is stationary, he must determine whether she is at anchor or in distress, and if the latter proves to be the case, he displays his Coston signal, to assure the shipwrecked that aid is close at hand, and then hastens to the station to give the alarm to the keeper.
The work of the patrolmen involves frequent danger and almost constant hardship. Imagine, if you can, and that is impossible, the lot of a surfman on the Jersey coast during one of the great storms sure to occur once or twice in every winter. A fearful night has followed a stormy and lowering day. Inky darkness shrouds sea and land, and the wind, blowing at the rate of fifty miles an hour, pipes and roars defiance to the patrolmen as they struggle along their lonely beats. The driving snow freezes on their cheeks and chins; wet sand is flung into their faces and cuts with the keenness of a razor, while great masses of icy foam beat fiercely on the head and face and body at every dozensteps. Huge waves break at the foot of the sand dunes along which they painfully labor, and drench them again and again, often felling them to the ground. Every twenty or thirty yards they pause, and, baring their faces to the pelting snow and foam, search the ocean for lights. In this way hours pass before the prescribed beat is traversed, and the surfmen, wet, half-frozen, bruised and exhausted, seek for a brief season the warmth and shelter of the station-house. Sometimes weakness overcomes them and they are unable to reach this refuge.
When the patrolman descries a vessel among the breakers, he displays his Coston signal, to give assurance that aid is at hand, and then hurries to the station and arouses his comrades. From the report of the patrolman the keeper makes quick decision as to the best methods to be employed in effecting a rescue. If the surfboat is to be used, the doors of the boat-room are instantly thrown open and the boat-carriage drawn out and hauled by the crew to a point opposite thewreck. Then the boat is launched and the surfmen depart upon their errand of mercy. The surfboat is usually of cedar, with white oak frame, without keel, and provided with air cases, which render it insubmergible. Comparatively light, it can be hauled long distances, and is the only boat that has been found suitable for launching from flat beaches through the shoaling waters of the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. Handled by expert oarsmen, its action is often marvelous, and, although easily capsized, there are few recorded instances of its having been upset with fatal results while passing through the surf. Often repeated attempts have to be made before a wreck can be reached, and even then the greatest care must be exercised to avoid collision with the plunging hull or injury from floating wreckage and falling spars. When the benumbed and exhausted crew and passengers, who have usually sought refuge in the rigging from the overwhelming seas, have been taken off, the difficult return to shore yet remains. Sometimes the boat is run in behind a roller,and by quick and clever work kept out of the way of the following one, and the shore is gained in safety. At other times the boat is backed in, the oars being used now and then to keep it upon its course, and again, when the sea is unusually high, a drag is employed to check the force of the incoming breakers and prevent the boat from being capsized. In the manner described, boat and crew make repeated trips through the breakers until all have been taken off the stranded vessel, and the work of rescue is at last completed.
When the condition of the sea prevents the use of the surfboat the mortar cart, equipped with a small bronze, smooth-bore gun, named for the inventor, Captain Lyle, of the army, is ordered out. Its destination reached, the gun is placed in position and loaded by members of the crew trained to the work, while others adjust the shot-line box, arrange the hauling lines and hawser, connect the breeches-buoy, prepare the tackles for hauling, and with pick and spade dig a trench forthe sand-anchor. With these preparations completed, comes the firing of the gun. The shot speeds over the wreck and into the sea beyond, while the crew of the imperilled vessel seize and make fast the line attached. The surfmen next attach to the short-line the whip (an endless line), the tail-block and tallyboard, and these are in turn hauled in by the sailors. And then by means of the whip, the surfmen dispatch the hawser and a second tallyboard, which directs how and where the end of the hawser shall be fastened to the wreck. When the tackle connecting the sand anchor and the shore end of the hawser is straight and taut, it is lifted several feet in the air and further tightened by the erection of a wooden crotch, which does duty as a temporary pier, while the wreck answers for another. Finally the breeches-buoy is drawn back and forth on the hawser, and the shipwrecked brought safely to shore. On this occasion there have been no delays, but at other times there are numerous obstacles to be overcome. The ropes may snarl or tangleor be snapped asunder by the rolling of the vessel, and again, the imperilled crew may perform their share of the work in a bungling manner, or unexpected accidents befall, which tax to the utmost the patience, resources and courage of the surfmen. In many cases people held suspended in the breakers or ensnarled in the floating cordage and debris of the vessel, have only been rescued by the most daring exploits of the surfmen, who, at the greatest risk of life and limb, have worked their way through the surf, released the helpless victims of the wreck, and brought them to shore.