we have been closely confined to the house. Our connection with the
amphibia being so extremely remote completely disqualifies us from
enjoying our usual “constitutional,” the grating, even at low water,
being occasionally swept by the heavy seas. Our winter boarders, the
eider ducks, have been reinforced, on the morning of the 14th--somewhat
later than usual--by the arrival of a flock of long-tailed ducks.
These, with the eiders, will keep us company till April again calls
their attention to domestic affairs. Our relief, which was due on the
night of the 11th, was effected just in time; had it been delayed
another day a “missed relief” would probably have been recorded. The
morning after brought a severe north-easterly gale, which precluded all
possibility of making a landing during the three succeeding days. That
is usually the time allotted by the steamer in the attempt. Should she
fail to make a landing on the third day, we are abandoned for another
fortnight, minus the time engaged in the attempt. As our stock of
fresh provisions is generally consumed by the time the relief is due,
a missed relief means a fortnight’s _regime_ of “hard tack” and “beef
embalmed,” of which during the winter months we have a three months’
reserve stock on hand in case of such emergencies. Fortunately, this is
not of common occurrence; during the past six years but three reliefs
have been missed, and only one in the preceding ten. This speaks much
for the ability and skill of those concerned in the handling of the
boats, for during the winter months the landings were until recently
effected in darkness, and an exciting scene it was to see the two boats
buffeting their way through the foaming channels, with jutting rocks
so close on either side that an oar’s length deviation would entail
serious disaster. A powerful searchlight has of recent years been added
to the equipment of the relieving steamer, and is of much advantage in
the guidance of the boats, though it has the peculiarity of grossly
exaggerating the tempestuous appearance of the sea. The sea, which on
the evening of the relief was comparatively calm, was the next day
rolling down on us like a solid wall, and viewed from the balcony in
all its magnificent grandeur what a puny, frail, unstable structure
our habitation seemed in comparison. Each succeeding wave seemed
imbued with the sole motive of accomplishing our destruction, and as
they struck and sliced away on either side in two mighty crescents
of hissing foam, blinded our kitchen windows seventy feet above the
rock. Clashing together again to leeward with a roar, as if incensed
at our stubborn resistance, they drive their way furiously along the
remaining portion of the reef in foam-capped ridges, and where the
cross seas meet them the spray is flung high in the air from their
points of intersection. The appearance of the reef at this stage, as
seen from our elevation, is of a number of rectangular enclosures, each
about the size of an ordinary bowling-green, with well-defined walls,
the whole under a heavy coating of snow, with each corner marked by
a snow-laden tree. At high water--the sea having flowed about twelve
or fifteen feet on the building by that time--the waves, generally
unbroken, slip past harmlessly; an hour before or after high water is
when we experience the heaviest shocks, for then the depth of water is
such that the waves are arrested by the rock when close to the tower,
and their whole volume flung violently against the building. The effect
of such weather on the tower must be felt to be understood. The nearest
description I can give of the seas striking is as if a log of wood were
hurled by each sea, striking end on, and a short, sharp, tremulous
motion--sufficient to rattle the crockery in the kitchen cupboard--is
imparted to the tower by each impact. This tremor is more particularly
felt when the gale subsides and the heavy swell sets in, for when the
gale is at its height, the seas are so broken and tossed about that
their assaults are but feeble in comparison with those of the long
curly-headed combers of the after-swell. The bell-shaped formation
of the base of the tower is admirably adapted for withstanding the
assaults of the sea, and is built solid to a height of thirty feet,
above which the seas never strike, though I have seen the spray
carried right over our balcony, a hundred feet from the rock. That the
building remains to all appearance as intact as when completed, almost
a century ago, speaks volumes for the skill and ingenuity displayed in
its erection. In weather such as I have described we are as completely
cut off from outside assistance as though we were at the North Pole;
indeed, it is doubtful if there is another situation--save similar
ones, of course--where men could live so comfortable and unconcerned
and yet remain for the time being so completely “ungetatable.”
_DECEMBER 1901._
As a consequence of the stormy weather which has been prevailing here
of late, we have been visited by numerous “Travellers.” This may seem
strange considering the inclemency of the season, but stranger still
when it is known that our reception of them is fiercely hostile,
and our duty only considered accomplished when we have completely
annihilated them. Huge boulders of hard red sandstone, sometimes
weighing over three tons; these are our “Travellers,” and their
appearance on the Rock is at once resented and their speedy removal
effected by blasting and hammering whenever the tide and weather
permits. This is absolutely necessary, for if allowed to remain
lying in the boat tracks they constitute a serious danger at relief
times, besides the possibility of their carrying away portions of our
cast-iron grating, which occasionally does happen in spite of all
precautions. Where they come from is a mystery; ever since the tower
was built they have been in evidence. Although composed of the same
material, the Rock itself does not suffer any apparent diminution, nor
can their original abode be located even at the lowest tides. Many of
them carry a crop of seaweed and tangles, and have their angularities
rubbed down and water-worn; none of them, however, bear any trace of
recent detachment, but probably from their similarity of structure they
at some remote period formed a part of the reef. They generally effect
their entrance from the south side of the reef during the prevalence of
a heavy ground swell. This side of the reef forms a steep declivity,
sloping to 35 fathoms at a distance of ¾ mile, while at a similar
distance on the north side the depth, though not exceeding 11 fathoms,
presents a more precipitous barrier to these wanderers of the deep. A
dull, rumbling noise, distinctly audible in the light room, announces
their presence at the base of the tower, and at low water a dotted
line of chips and abrasions marks their passage across the Rock to
where they are again hurled to the depths. Others, again, may bring up
in some sheltered corner, where, if not considered dangerous, they may
remain a fixture for years.
An instance occurred recently where one was wheeled against our grating
after occupying a safe position for many years. Those that take up
positions in the boat tracks are of course assailed at the earliest
opportunity, an operation which generally entails a bit of submarine
mining on our part. The reef consists of hard, red sandstone, arranged
in irregular layers, with a dip of 15 degrees towards the south-east
and extends in a north-easterly and south-westerly direction, having
an area of about 500 yards by 100 yards considered dangerous to
shipping. The north-east end, on which the Lighthouse is built, is
slightly higher, and has an area of about 140 yards by 70 yards, the
highest portions of which do not exceed 10 feet above the lowest tides.
The geological formation of the Bell Rock is similar to that of the
Redhead, in Forfarshire, and can be traced northward through Rossshire,
while in the opposite direction the shores of Berwick present the same
features, and continues as far as Cumberland. Soundings prove the
existence of a ridge or shallower part of the sea bottom extending
a considerable way in these directions, and as the adjacent coasts
present ample evidence of the sea having at some remote period in the
world’s history occupied a much higher level, the theory that the Bell
Rock did not always occupy the isolated position it now does, but
stretched continuously from the Red Head to Berwick, damming the waters
of the Forth and Tay, appears highly tenable. Possibly our present day
“Travellers” are, through some great seismic disturbance, wandering
evidences supporting this theory.
An item of interest to Arbroath Freemasons is the laying of the
foundation stone of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, on the 10th July 1808,
with Masonic honours, by the builder, Robert Stevenson, who, in
his own words, applied the square, the level, and the mallet, and
pronounced the following benediction:--“May the Great Architect of
the Universe complete and bless this building,” on which three hearty
cheers were given and success to the future operations was drunk with
the greatest enthusiasm. Another interesting feature of that period
was the existence of the “Pressgang,” which, owing to our war with the
Northern Powers, was considered necessary. Centres were established at
Dundee, Aberdeen, and Arbroath, and were the means of rendering the
Lighthouse operations popular with seamen, as they stood protected
from impressment while in that employment. Prior to this there was a
tendency among seamen to shun the works on account of the hazardous
nature of the undertaking. As the impress officers were exceedingly
active in their duty, it was found necessary to furnish each seaman
engaged in the operations at the Rock with a “ticket,” descriptive of
his person, to which was attached a silver medal, emblematical of the
Lighthouse Service. On one side of the medal was a figure of the Bell
Rock Lighthouse, and on the other the word “Medal,” referring to the
Admiralty protection, and a description of the person by the engineer.
One of these medals is at present in possession of an Arbroath
gentleman, and is said to be the only one in existence. The following
is a copy of one of the “tickets,” taken from “Stevenson’s Bell Rock
Lighthouse”:--
BELL ROCK WORKYARD,
Arbroath, 31st March 1808.
“John Pratt, seaman, in the service of the Honourable the
Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged 35 years,
5 feet 8 inches high, black complexion, and slightly marked
with the smallpox.”
(Signed) ROBERT STEVENSON,
Engineer for Northern Lighthouses.
_Obverse._
“The Bearer, John Pratt, is serving on board of the ‘Sir
Joseph Banks’ tender and craft, employed at the erection of
the Bell Rock Lighthouse.”
The signature of the Master of the tender.
(Signed) DAVID TAYLOR.
The signature of the bearer (Signed) JOHN PRATT.
Notwithstanding these precautions, so rigorous were the impress
officers that they actually pressed a Bell Rock seaman named George
Dall, while on a visit to some friends near Dundee, in July 1810, and
this despite the fact of his having the protection medal and ticket
in his possession. These proofs the officer chose to ignore, holding
that a seaman only stood protected on board the ship to which the
Admiralty protection had been granted, or in a boat belonging to the
ship. This was absurd, as it was impossible for each man to carry the
ship’s protection with him. However, Dall was kept a prisoner, and only
on the representations of the Lighthouse Commissioners did the Dundee
Magistrates order his release.
_JANUARY 1902._
A ramble round the rocks at low water just now discloses a scene of
bareness quite in keeping with the season of the year. The upper
surface of the higher lying rocks is as bare as a street pavement, and
only an occasional patch of acorn barnacles remains of the encrustation
with which they were invested during the summer. The white whelk,
so much in evidence here, have all gone into winter quarters, and
underneath projecting ledges and in sheltered nooks they may be seen in
myriads, their position being so judiciously chosen as to be completely
protected from the heavy north-east seas. So closely are they wedged
together that were a given space to be cleared it would be found almost
impossible to replace them in the same area. Detaching one from its
anchorage, it seems quite dormant and inert, and appears to have lost
the alacrity with which, in summer, they withdraw themselves into their
shells, and only with apparent difficulty is the operculum or door
of their domicile closed against intruders. To witness the continual
thumping and pounding to which the Rock is subjected during the winter,
one is surprised to find that life in any form should continue to
exist under such conditions. A close search reveals exceedingly minute
forms of life. Here in this stony basin, originally but a shallow
depression in which a stone had lodged, and by the swirling action of
the seas converted to its present shape, with its sediment of broken
shells, is a small crab, so small indeed that a split pea might easily
conceal him. He is not a youngster either, but fully adult, in proof of
which we have frequently found them, in the proper season, with their
spawn attached. Deep in his little pit he seems quite immune from the
furious seas that tumble overhead as the tide makes. Numbers of small
white-banded whelks, which one may easily crush between the fingers,
maintain their position on the base of the tower, despite the constant
swirl of waters, though they may be detached with a flick of the finger.
Vegetation now exists only at low-water mark; above that, broken tangle
roots, or, to be more correct, the claspers are seen still adhering
to the rocks, the tangles themselves having been shorn clean from
their moorings. Away towards the south-west, in the deeper water, a
boat may float among whole groves of storm-torn tangles as they flaunt
their tattered banners in the frosty sunlight, suggestive of leafless
trees in a winter landscape. Over the recently emptied contents of the
cook’s slop-pail a flock of gulls are circling and screaming, actually
hustling each other in their attempts to capture anything edible.
A solitary “black-back” is seen amongst the noisy crowd, and as he
swoops at some tempting morsel, his black, beady eye watches our every
movement with suspicion. What a handsome bird he is as he swings past
within a few feet of us, the back and wings presenting a dead black
appearance in startling contrast with the immaculate whiteness of the
fan-shaped tail and the remainder of the body. Despite his handsome
appearance, he is a veritable vulture, and nothing comes amiss to
him in the way of food, be it fish, flesh or fowl. Frequently I have
seen them make a meal of a wounded duck, and once witnessed in Orkney
a tug-of-war between two of them for the possession of a dead lamb,
resulting, thanks to its decomposed state, in an equal division.
More gruesome meals are credited to them by those who have witnessed
their proceedings on a wreck strewn shore where loss of life had been
involved. A terror also on the grouse moors, they devour both eggs and
young, and even the sitting grouse herself is not safe from him. One
can scarcely credit such a sweeping indictment against this handsome
bird, but the proofs are all too plain. Consequently we find him
outside the pale of the Wild Birds Protection Act, an Ishmael among
his kind, whom any man may slay when and wherever found. Except when
harrying the eider ducks of their legitimate spoil, he may be seen
riding gracefully, head to wind, in front of our kitchen window, with
his weather eye always lifting in our direction. A hand thrust from the
window is sufficient invitation, he is up at once, and the smallest
morsel tossing among the foaming breakers does not escape his keen
eye. How gracefully he floats back to his former position, lighting on
the surface like a fleck of foam. What a contrast to the eiders, who,
when changing their fishing ground, wing their way with such rapid
wing beats as to give one the impression that they are barely able
to support themselves, and finally strike the water with an awkward
splash, reminding one of the somewhat inelegant term with which boys
designate a bad dive--a “gutser.” Should a flock of eiders be fishing
to leeward of the tower, an amusing sight may be witnessed if advantage
be taken, while they are under water, of pouring a little paraffin
oil from the balcony, so that it will drift in their direction. No
sooner does the head of the first emerge in the greasy track of the
oil than he is conscious of something unusual having taken place.
Flippering hither and thither with outstretched neck, he becomes quite
excited, and each as he bounces to the surface joins in the commotion,
frequently colliding with each other. Finally, with loud cacklings, the
whole flock takes wing, evidently in high dudgeon at the insult offered
to their olfactory organs.
Sea pheasant is the name by which the long tailed duck is known in
some localities, and as we watch a flock of them crossing the reef in
full flight the synonym is at once apparent. In style of flight and
shape, to the long tail feathers, they are similar to the pheasant,
but only half the size, with beautiful plumage of black and white.
Here they are known as “candlewicks,” their call notes needing but
little stretch of the imagination to be rendered “Here’s a candlewick,”
repeated several times in shrill falsetto, which on a quiet day becomes
somewhat annoying as it clamorously floats through our bedroom window.
Some queer visitors we have here at times in the way of birds. Once
we captured a large owl dosing sleepily in one of our windows. During
the week of his captivity he would not deign to partake of any food
we offered him. Coming off watch one night I took one of a flock of
larks which were making suicidal attempts to pierce the plate glass
of the lantern. Placing it in the room where the owl was roosting, it
fluttered to the window, when, like a flash of lightning and equally as
noiseless, from the other side of the room the owl came crash against
the glass, a few feathers later on testifying his appreciation of this
form of dietary.
_FEBRUARY 1902._
Piercing cold weather here of late, with a good deal of frost and
occasional snow showers. No matter how heavy the snowfall may be here
we only see it falling, as it does not lie long round _our_ doors, and
only when our gaze is directed Arbroathwards--which, you may be sure,
is not seldom--are we reminded of its occurrence. The close of last
month saw our barometer taxed to its utmost intelligence, and though
a tenth higher would have seen its limit, nothing of a phenomenal
nature was noted. The solan geese or gannets, which are pretty much in
evidence here during the breeding season, foraging for their families
on the Bass Rock, gradually disappeared, till during the month of
November not one was to be seen. A solitary one was seen in the first
week of December, and since then the number sighted has gradually
increased, till in the middle of the present month, as many as eight
in one string were counted winging their way southward. The Bass Rock,
Ailsa Craig, and the outlying stacks of lonely St Kilda, are said to be
the only breeding places of these birds in Scotland. At the beginning
of the past century they were considered a dainty article of food by
the Edinburgh gentry, and the Bass Rock was rented for the purpose of
supplying the market, the birds selling at the rate of half-a-crown
a-piece. I have seen it stated that the _modus operandi_ of these
birds when engaged in fishing is to flit along the surface till fish
are sighted, when they rise to a high altitude, close their wings, and
drop hawk-like on their prey. This, I venture to think, is scarcely
correct. My experience is that when flitting near the surface if fish
are sighted they are invariably struck at without rising to a higher
elevation. It is a well known fact that objects under water are more
easily distinguished from a height than from near the surface, so that
it may be taken for granted that the higher these birds are flying when
in pursuit of prey the deeper the fish are swimming. Again, when diving
from a high altitude, the wings are kept rigidly outspread, and as the
tail is never seen spread rudder-like, as in the case of the hawk, any
deviation from their line of descent is controlled by the long narrow
wings, and only when nearing the “plunge” are they partially closed.
For the past fortnight we have had the company of a solitary seal. His
fishing does not seem to be very successful, either in quantity or
quality, as the only catch we have seen him negotiating was a saithe
the length of a man’s forearm. Playing with it as a cat would a mouse,
he would allow it to swim feebly for some distance, then diving he
would bring it to the surface, till latterly, with a toss of his head
and a thrust with his fore flipper, he quite disembowelled it, an act
of charity which the screaming gulls were not slow to appreciate.
Although so long here he has not been seen to rest on the rocks;
indeed, I only once saw one ashore here, and as we had a somewhat
amusing experience with him it will perhaps bear relating. For several
days it was seen, as the tide fell, to rest in one particular place a
few yards from the base of the tower. Our outer door opens outwards,
and is always closed at night, not that we are afraid of burglars, but
merely to prevent the entrance of the seas, and for our own general
comfort. The opening of this door always alarmed the seal, and sent him
into the water _instanter_. Dropping a line from the balcony at low
water, we made the end of it fast within a few feet of his accustomed
resting place. Next day, as the tide fell and the rocks began to
appear, he was seen to take up his former position, yawning lazily as
he rolled from side to side in the sunshine. Fixing a four ounce charge
of tonite to our electric cable, we quietly lowered it down the line
we had already made fast till within about six feet from where he lay,
apparently in blissful ignorance of what was happening overhead. When
yawning at his widest, we, by means of our magneto-exploder, fired the
charge, and, well--he stopped yawning and went away! and his going was
about the smartest thing I ever witnessed. The force of the explosion,
being unconfined, merely tilted him on his side, but quickly recovering
himself he flopped into the water and shot seaward through the gully
like a flash, a black line under water denoting his course. Rounding
the outer end of the gully, he doubled back on the outside of the reef,
and when opposite his original position, made his appearance on the
surface, a very much startled seal. His aspect was quite comical as he
stood, so to speak, on his tip-toes evidently investigating the cause
of his hurried departure.
Several schools of porpoises have been seen this month, presumably in
pursuit of herring. To anyone who has seen these animals gambolling
in front of a ship’s bows when travelling at her best, the ease with
which they maintain their distance is a matter of surprise--always on
the point of being run down, but ever ahead, snorting playfully as
if in derision at the possibility of their being overtaken by their
lumbering follower. Off the island of Anticosta, in the Gulf of St
Lawrence--where these animals attain a size several times larger
than those of our home waters, and are of a cream colour--I had an
interesting view of their manner of suckling their young. I have seen
it stated that the mother by muscular compression expels the nutritive
fluid, which is absorbed by the young one as it floats to the surface.
The operation appeared to me to be one of actual contact. The young
one--which, by the way, is of a slatey-blue colour--snuggling as
close as possible to the mother as she lay somewhat on her side on
the surface, all the while exhibiting the tenderest solicitude for
her offspring. Truly the one touch of nature which makes the whole
world kin. It is surprising to learn the evolution these animals
have undergone in order to accommodate themselves to their altered
circumstances. Land-dwellers at one stage of the world’s history, but
acquiring a taste for fish, they gradually became aquatic in their
habits, dispensing with such portions of their anatomy as were no
longer necessary, while developing others more appropriate to their new
sphere of existence, till, like their big brother the whale, from being
a four-footed animal they became quite fish like in appearance, even to
the cultivation of a dorsal fin, though still possessing rudimentary
traces of their former construction. Change is apparent on every hand
in the plan of nature; ages were necessary for the evolution of our
present day horse from his five toed ancestors; and after all it does
not seem so very startling when the transformation is enacted before
our very eyes in a few short stages, as in the case of the common
frog, from the gill breathing tadpole to the lung breathing adult.
More startling it is to learn that man himself was at one time a gill
breather, and, as biologists affirm, still exhibits traces of gill
clefts at one stage of his embryonic development.
_MARCH 1902._