DEFYING THE TEMPEST'S VIOLENCE
"I've been wondering," said Eric to Homer, a few days after his rescue
trip on the _Redondo_, "what we're going to do with all these natives.
We can't take them back to the Katmai country. They just about live on
fish and everything that swims was killed during the eruption. How are
they going to exist? It'll be years before the fish come back."
"I can tell you all about that," his friend replied. "You know the
commanding officer of the Bering Sea fleet came up, while you were
away?"
"Yes, you told me."
"I heard all about the plans which the department had approved, on his
suggestion. A new village is going to be built at the place which the
Coast Guard picks out along the shore as being the best site for a town.
It's going to be a regularly laid out place, with sanitary arrangements
and everything else complete."
"Give them all a new start, eh?"
"That's it, exactly. One of the other ships of the fleet is cruising now
along the coast to pick out the best spot. We're to send a carpenter
ashore there and leave him for the winter to look after the erection of
igloos. He'll be in charge of enough supplies to last the settlement
till spring."
"Whereabouts is this town going to be?" asked the boy.
"It's not definitely decided yet," was the reply, "but probably it'll be
on Stepnovak Bay. It'll be quite a place, too, because it'll start out
with a population of over 500 natives, maybe a thousand."
"That's a metropolis for Alaska," agreed Eric.
"And, what's more," continued the young engineer, "they're going to give
the new town the name of 'Perry,' in honor of our skipper, as the
department said, for 'recognition of his heroic services at the time of
the eruption.'"
As soon as arrangements for the wintering of the homeless natives had
been completed, the _Bear_ returned to Unalaska and thence made one more
trip to Nome on business connected with the Federal Courts at that
place. Then, as winter was closing in, the Coast Guard cutter stood out
to sea up toward the Bering Straits, to await the outcoming of the
several vessels in the whaling fleet, and make sure of the safety of
every American sailor in the Arctic. The last of the whalers cleared the
straits on October 29, and on the following day the _Bear_ started on
her southerly course, leaving the Arctic to its annual eight months of
unvisited silence.
Eric had wondered a good deal what assignment or appointment he would
get for the winter. Great was his delight to find that both he and his
chum had been assigned to the _Miami_, and were to report for duty on
December tenth. The extra couple of days allowed him on the journey
across the continent gave the boy a chance to visit his relatives in San
Francisco, and he also managed it so that he took a short run up to
Detroit to see his family and to have a chat with his old friend, the
puzzle-maker.
He found the _Miami_ to be a beauty. Unlike the Bear, which depended as
much on sails as on steam, the _Miami_ was well-engined. Almost the
first thing that struck Eric when he came to go over her arrangements
was her unusually large coal and water capacity.
"No wonder she can stay out for months at a time on ice patrol, or
chasing up a derelict," said Eric; "she's got coal enough for a trip
around the world!"
"Wouldn't mind if she was going to," said Homer, with a grin.
Eric shook his head.
"Not for mine," he answered; "I've a notion there's enough going on
right around here. Anyhow, the Gulf of Mexico will feel good after a
norther like this," and he shivered in his uniform, for the wind was
nipping.
"How would it feel to be somewhere around Point Barrow now?" his friend
suggested.
"It might be all right if a fellow were used to it, and dressed for it.
At that, I don't believe I'd want to put in a whole winter up in that
country. It isn't so much the actual cold I'd hate as it would be having
to stay indoors half the time because it was too cold to go outside." He
sniffed the salt air. "Guess my folks have been sea-dogs too many
hundred years for me to cotton to anything that means indoors."
"Me, too," said his chum. "From what I know about the _Miami_, what's
more, I don't believe we're going to spend too much time ashore. When
are we sailing, have you heard?"
"Day after to-morrow, I believe," Eric replied. "We're going right down
to our southern station."
"The Gulf?"
"Yes, and Florida waters as far north as Fernandina," was the answer.
"The sooner the quicker, so far as I'm concerned," said the other, as
they strolled below.
Two days later the _Miami_ was steaming down Chesapeake Bay. The weather
was ugly and there was a little cross-current that kept the cutter
dancing. Eric had his sea legs, after his summer on the _Bear_, but he
was surprised to find how different was the motion of a steamer and a
sailing ship. The other junior lieutenant, whom he had already come to
like rather well, laughed as Eric stumbled at a particularly vicious
roll.
"This isn't anything," he said. "Wait until we strike the edge of the
Gulf Stream. Then she's apt to kick up her heels a bit. And you ought to
see the _Yamacraw_! She's got any of these modern dances pushed off the
map!"
"I don't mind it," Eric answered, "only it's a different kind of roll.
I'm just off the _Bear_. She rolls enough, but it's a longer sort of
roll, not short jerks like this."
"Of course," said the other, nodding; "bound to be. A ship under sail
is more or less heeled over and she's kept steady by the pressure of the
wind on the sail. The long roll you're talking about isn't the sea, but
the gustiness of the wind. That's what makes the long roll."
"At that," said Eric, "it seems to me that the _Miami's_ pretty lively
now for all the sea there is."
"There's more sea than you'd reckon," was the reply. "Chesapeake Bay can
kick up some pretty didoes when in the mood. You'd never believe how
suddenly a storm can strike, nor how much trouble it can make. You see
that skeleton lighthouse over there?"
"Yes," said the boy. "Smith's Point, isn't it? I remember learning all
these lights by heart," and he rattled off a string of names, being the
lights down Chesapeake Bay.
"I see you haven't forgotten the Academy yet," said the other. "Yes,
that's Smith's Point Tower. And while it's not a particularly imposing
looking sort of building, it's a very important light. It was when they
came to build that light, they found out what Chesapeake Bay can be
like. Aside from some of the really big lighthouses like Minot's Ledge,
Smith's Point gave as much trouble to build as any lighthouse on the
United States coast."
"Why?"
"Bad weather and natural difficulties," said the other. "My father was
the designer, and because Mother was dead, Father and I used to be
together all the time. I was a small shaver of twelve years of age at
the time so I was right in the thick of it."
"Tell the yarn," pleaded Eric.
The lieutenant smiled at the boy's eagerness, but filled his pipe and
began.
"Right opposite Smith's Point," he said, "on the Virginia shore, the
tides and currents at the mouth of the Potomac River and at the entrance
of Chesapeake Bay have built out a shoal which, if you remember your
chart, you will recall juts out in the bay over nine miles from the
land. The same tides had scoured Smith's Island on the other hand--port
side going out of the bay, but there are some nasty rocks in the
channel. It's a tricky spot, that Smith's Point Shoal, and many a good
vessel has gone to pieces on it.
"It was the wreck of the barque _Mary Louise_ that drew public attention
to Smith's Point. She struck the shoal and went down with all hands.
Less than two hours after she sank, a steamer came along and hit the
wreckage. The steamer was so badly injured that it was only by a good
deal of luck and clever handling that her captain succeeded in beaching
her and saving all the passengers. The Lighthouse Board had made several
recommendations for the erection of a lighthouse at that point, and when
public attention had been focussed to this danger by the disaster, it
was easy enough to get the appropriation through Congress. So the money
was set aside and Father was given the contract of designing and
erecting the lighthouse.
"By the end of the next month a huge unwieldly foundation caisson was on
the ways at a shipyard in Baltimore. I was just a kid at the time, but
the queer shape of this interested me right from the start. It was like
a bottomless box, thirty-two feet square on the inside and twelve feet
high. It was so thick that a tall man could lie down crosswise on one of
the walls and stretch out his arms to the full, and then there would be
several inches beyond the tips of his fingers and the ends of his feet."
"My word," said Eric, "it must have had some timber in it!"
"It had a lot of weight to support," said the other. "After a while, it
was launched--I was there--and dropped into the bay near Sparrow's
Point. On it were built the first two courses of the iron cylinder which
was to be the lower part of the lighthouse. Although that wooden caisson
weighed over a hundred tons, so heavy and solid was the cylinder that it
sank the wooden structure out of sight."
"How big was the cylinder?" queried the boy.
"It was thirty feet in diameter and each of the courses was six feet
high. That's twelve feet for the two courses. Inside the big cylinder
was a second smaller one, like an air-shaft, five feet in diameter. A
pump was rigged on the edge of the cylinder for the journey down the
bay, in case any water should splash over the sides from the wake of the
tug.
"When the springtime came and there was a reasonable prospect of fair
weather, quite a fleet set out for Baltimore with Father and me in the
leading tug. I felt as proud of myself as if I'd been an admiral! I
wasn't quite sure," he added, laughing, "whether Father was the boss of
the job or whether I was, myself.
"We had a large ocean-going tug towing the caisson, but we went ahead
at very slow speed. Besides the big tug there were two tugs towing seven
barges with the iron work, with building materials, stone, cement, and
all that sort of thing. It made quite a gallant show.
"I want to tell you right now, we missed our guess when we supposed that
Chesapeake Bay was being coddled by any of the softening influences of
the gentle springtime! It was only lying low! It took us three days to
get to the site of the lighthouse, which was marked by a buoy. We
reached there on a quiet and peaceful evening, the sort that landlubber
poets write about. A little after sundown it began to breeze up, and by
four bells of the first watch, there was a stiffish wind, which at
midnight began to climb into half a gale.
"Then the sea began to rise. It only takes a capful of wind to make
things nasty on the bay, and that iron cylinder began to toss like a
cork. We'd left four men aboard the cylinder and by half an hour after
midnight they were pumping for their lives. There was a big searchlight
on the tug and Father came tumbling up from below and ordered the
searchlight turned on to the cylinder.
"I tell you, that was a sight. There was nothing to be seen in the
smother but the great black iron rim rolling savagely, the white water
spouting about it, and, as it heaved above the waves, the searchlight
showed its black sides with the water streaming down. There, clustered
at the pumps, were the four men, working like a bunch of madmen and
shouting for help as the cylinder rose above the water, strangling and
clinging to the pump-handles like grim death as she went under. It was
for their lives that they were working, for if ever half a dozen tons of
water should slop over the side of the black monster, it would sink
straight to the bottom, and so great would be the suction that there was
not the slightest chance that any of them would ever come up alive.
"That was one time I saw Father in action. He yelled for the lifeboat
and got volunteers. Out of the blank confusion he brought order, and in
less than two minutes the lifeboat was over the side with twelve men
aboard, Father one of them. The little boat rose on the waves like a
feather and the third wave dashed it against the rim of the cylinder. As
the frail craft crushed like an eggshell, every man leaped for the edge,
hanging on to the sharp iron edge like grim death.
"Down came the cylinder again and as she careened, every man clambered
on. The added weight made her top-heavy and she began to ship water
badly. Four of the fresh men were put at the pumps to relieve the others
who were exhausted by their efforts.
[Illustration: "THE IRON RIM ROLLING SAVAGELY."
The cylinder of the Smith's Point Lighthouse caught in a storm while
being towed down Chesapeake Bay.
Courtesy of McClure's Magazine.]
"Father had climbed on the cylinder, with a rope slung over his
shoulders. He called to the men to haul in. At the end of it was a large
piece of canvas, an old sail. With nothing to which they could hold on,
with the waves dashing high and that great iron drum reeling drunkenly
on the sea, those men lay flat on their stomachs and spread that sail
over the top of the cylinder. More than once it seemed as though wind
and sea would get under that sail and with one vast heave, pitch every
man into the sea, but they held on. One of the men, an old time
shellback, bent that sail on to the cylinder so snugly and cleverly that
almost two-thirds of the surface was protected. With teeth as well as
hands the men held on, and lashed the canvas into place.
"Every second they expected to feel the cylinder founder beneath their
feet, for though the pumps were going steadily and furiously, more water
was being shipped than could be taken out. Once the sail was lashed
fast, however, the cylinder shed most of the wash and the pumps, now
working at top speed with eight men at the handles, began to gain. Water
still scuttled down the iron sides, and as the sea was rising, she put
her whole side under for the fraction of a second, twice. I was watching
it all from the steamer, our searchlight playing full on the ungainly
craft.
"Presently, so perilous did the situation grow and so rough the sea,
that the captain of the steamer signaled to one of the smaller tugs to
take up her anchor and stand by to pick up survivors should the cylinder
founder. He broke away his anchor himself and the big ocean-going tug
steamed to windward of the cylinder, letting down a heavy coat of oil on
the sea. It worked like a charm. The smoothening effect of the oil was
just sufficient to enable the men to work on the cylinder with a slight,
a very slight, margin of safety.
"Six men scuttled down the rope ladders on the inside of the cylinder.
It chanced that there were four buckets on the iron drum and with this
they organized a bucket brigade. The water was still three feet deep and
swishing about like a whirlpool. Every man knew that one large wave
would send them to Davy Jones' locker.
"Down in the bowels of that iron cylinder they toiled. Not a gleam of
light was anywhere, the white shaft of the searchlight overhead only
making the shadows denser. No man could see his fellow; only by feeling
were the buckets passed from hand to hand. But, between the bucket
brigade and the pumps, little by little the water lessened, the load of
the cylinder lightened and she rode higher in the water. Little choice
was theirs, either to bail unceasingly or to drown like rats in a hole.
"Daybreak found them still at work, spent with exhaustion, hollow-eyed
and suffering from the night of terrible strain. The wind had dropped a
little with the dawn, but the sea still ran high. Seeing that the men
were too thoroughly wearied out to be of any use, even though the
weather should improve rapidly, Father gave the order for the fleet to
run to the nearest shelter. We sought the lee of Smith's Island, off the
Maryland Shore, and stayed there for a week.
"At last, with every one rested and eager for another tussle, the fleet
crept out again. All the weather indications were favorable, and, so far
as the experts could foretell, there wasn't a storm in sight for a week
or more."
"Weather experts aren't much on guessing," commented Eric.
"Not in Chesapeake Bay, anyhow," the other rejoined.
"Not anywhere!"
"I wouldn't go so far as that," the other answered. "There'd be a lot
more wrecks than there are if it weren't for the storm signals of the
Weather Bureau. They can always warn ships of the coming of a big storm,
one of these West Indian hurricanes, for instance. Squalls, of course,
they can't foresee. Usually, that doesn't matter, because no seaworthy
vessel is going to be worried by a squall. But that iron cylinder wasn't
seaworthy. At least, you should have heard what the men called it who
had been on board the night it nearly went down!"
"I can imagine," said Eric.
"Then you've a healthy imagination," his friend replied grimly. "As I
was saying," he continued, "the fleet started out under sunny skies and
a smooth sea. They reached the place where the buoy was moored and
Father took very careful observations to make sure that the buoy had not
shifted during the storm. Everything was all right, and the instant the
cylinder was immediately over the precise spot, the valves were opened
and the water began to pour in.
"The tugs at once brought up the two barges containing heavy blocks of
stone, and the instant that the cylinder touched the bottom, the gangs
of men started to heave the stones overboard."
"What in the wide world was that for?"
"To prevent the water from scouring away the sand. You see it's all sand
there, that's why the caisson was made. As soon as the current would
strike an obstruction like the cylinder, it would make a gyratory sweep
around its base. With the strong tides of Chesapeake Bay, even an hour
would be enough to scoop out the sand and plunge the whole structure
edgewise into the sea. So overboard the stones went, all round the
cylinder, making a rough protecting wall against the undermining force
of the water. The swirl, instead of striking the smooth iron side of the
cylinder, would be broken against the pile of rocks. Moreover, with the
sand thus protected it could not be washed away so easily by the force
of the current.
"At the same time, another gang of men was sent aboard the cylinder, and
one of the smaller tugs brought up a barge loaded with concrete. The men
tumbled into the compartments of the cylinder. From the barge two pipes
were thrust. Down one of these poured a steady stream of cement, from
the other a torrent of small grit, while an unceasing cataract of salt
water rushed down from the pumps of the steamer.
"In this awful mess of cement, water, and small stones the men wallowed
and struggled, mixing the concrete and packing it down hard into place.
Wet to the skin, covered with cement dust, it was all that they could do
to keep from turning into concrete statues, and the foreman was
continually advising the men to put hands and faces directly under the
stream of water and not to give the cement dust a chance to harden on
their faces. For two hours they slaved, working in a frenzy of haste.
"Then, when everything was proceeding so well and so rapidly, a black
storm-cloud came up out of the sea to the southeast, and the waves began
to roll in. The whistle for recall blew shrilly. Up from the cylinder
poured the shovelers, covered with concrete and looking like gray images
of men. There was a wild flight for the steamer. One of the barges
snapped a hawser and it was only by the herculean efforts of the smaller
tug that she was kept from collision with the cylinder. Had that tug,
loaded down with building material, ever canted against the cylinder,
the whole effort would have been in vain.
"One of the lifeboats, containing sixteen men, was picked up by a wave
and thrown against the iron rim as a child throws a ball. The boat went
into matchwood and every one of the sixteen men was thrown into the
water. But Father had taken the precaution of not engaging any man who
was not a good swimmer, and the other tug had received instructions to
follow each boatload of workmen every trip they took. Accordingly, when
the men were thrown into the sea, the tug was not twenty yards away and
every one was picked up without injury.
"The next morning, to the horror of every man in the fleet, the cylinder
was seen to be inclining four feet from the perpendicular. Although the
waves were running high, a gang was sent on one of the stone barges and
another two hundred tons of stone were thrown off on the side to which
the cylinder was inclining."
"Why?" asked Eric. "I should have thought that it ought to be on the
other side."
"Not at all," his friend rejoined. "The reason that the cylinder had
listed was because there had been some scouring away of the sand in
spite of the stones. If, therefore, the stones were put on the side from
which the sand had already been cut away, the action of the water on the
other side would undermine the sand there and gradually straighten up
the cylinder. At least, that was the idea."
"And did it work?"
"Perfectly. Two days passed before the cylinder was absolutely level,
and in the meantime the tug had taken one of the barges for more stone.
Another hundred tons was dumped down as soon as the cylinder was
straight again, and it was thereby kept from further scouring. The
weather had become good again, and the concrete work was continued. On
April 21st the entire gang began work. Barge hands, cooks, everybody
that could handle a shovel at all, was sent aboard the cylinder."
"Did you go?"
"You bet I did, and I worked as hard as any of the men--for a while. Two
or three hours of it did me up, though. I was only twelve years old,
remember, but most of the men kept on the job for forty-eight hours
straight with only fifteen minutes allowed for meals. By that time the
foundation was secure with thirty feet of solid concrete twenty-two feet
thick."
"That ought to hold it," said Eric.
"That was only the beginning," said his friend. "What would hold it,
resting on the top of the sand?"
"I'd thought of that," admitted the boy, "but I supposed the weight
would be enough to drive it in."
"Never," the other said. "The next step was to drive it down into the
hard sand at the bottom of the bay. Father had made borings and found a
true sea-bottom sand fifteen feet and a half below the level of the
shoal. It was to that depth that the whole caisson had to be sunk.
"You remember that I told you there was an air-shaft in the middle of
the caisson?"
"Yes."
"Well, on the top of this air-shaft an air-lock was built. The water in
the air-shaft was forced out by compressed air and the men entered the
caisson."
"Into the compressed air?"
"Yes. It takes a special kind of worker for the job. In the air-lock,
you know, the men have to stay for a while before they enter the
chamber, so as to get used to the compressed air gradually. Lots of
people can't stand it."
"Did you try it?"
"Yes. I asked Father and he wouldn't let me. But I slipped into the
air-lock once and tried it, anyhow."
"Well?"
"Not for me!" said his friend. "I got out in less than five minutes. My
head seemed bursting, and I was bleeding from the ears as well as the
nose. But some of them, especially an old chap called Griffin, the
foreman, didn't seem to mind it at all.
"As soon as the caisson was clear of water and the men were ready, they
entered the caisson, crawled down the long ladder and began to dig away
the sand. A large four-inch pipe led up the air-shaft and over the sea.
The sand and small stones were shoveled into a chamber from which a
valve opened into the pipe and the compressed air drove up the sand and
stones like a volcano into the sea. The work proceeded rapidly and
without a hitch until the caisson had been sunk thirteen feet and a
half. Then, when only two feet from the total desired depth, an
unexpected and terrible thing happened.
[Illustration: "THE BOAT WENT INTO MATCHWOOD."
A sudden tempest breaking upon Smith's Point Lighthouse in the early
stages of its construction.
Courtesy of McClure's Magazine.]
"At three o'clock in the afternoon a low hissing was heard in the
caisson, and with a quick flicker the candles first burned low, then
flamed anew, the color of the flame a lambent green. For a few moments
none of the men realized what had happened, and stood there, stupefied
and staggering. An acrid burning sensation gripped the men by the throat
and they were stricken blind. Suffering terrible agony, every man
managed to climb the long ladder, each step of which seemed an eternity,
and entered the air-lock. Ten hale and hearty men had entered the
caisson, ten wrecks emerged, the flesh of the inside of their throats
raw and their eyes swollen and reddened beyond recognition.
"A telegram was sent to the Lighthouse Inspector of the district, and
the doctor attached to the building party sent for medical help. Next
day the inspector came down, with assistants, and accompanied by another
physician and a nurse. They found that the caisson workers had tapped a
vein of sulphuretted hydrogen, probably due to the decay of some deep
beds of vegetable matter, such as sea-weed. One of the assistants to the
inspector, who was a clever young scientist, suggested that after a day
or two it might be possible to enter the caisson again, but that it
would be necessary to proceed with extreme care, as another pocket
might be tapped, with a recurrence of the danger.
"Although before them, in their bunks, lay their ten comrades, when
Father called for volunteers, fourteen men came forward. They knew, they
could not help knowing, that they were not only going into possible
danger, but into absolutely certain torture. Their comrades lay
there--it was not certain that some of them would ever see again, it was
not certain that some of them would recover. Absolute agony of the most
horrible kind awaited them. But the lighthouse had to be built. It is
easy to make a problematic sacrifice of life, it is hard to walk without
shrinking into a chamber of awful pain. From this ordeal these fourteen
men did not shrink.
"They were headed by Griffin, the old caisson foreman, who had a record
of having withstood the greatest pressure possible, a pressure of eight
and a half atmospheres. They went down at nine o'clock in the morning.
The pain must have been fearful, but they stuck to it to the end. One
man went through the air-lock and got food, returning to his comrades.
He had been down four hours, and his condition was so terrible that the
doctor ordered him to stay out of the lock.
"'I'm not that breed,' he said in a horrid whisper over his raw and
swollen throat, 'I'm goin' to see it through.'
"'Better keep away, my man,' the doctor said; 'I won't answer for what
will happen to you if you go back.'
"'I ain't no quitter,' was the answer. 'I'm a Boston wharf-rat, I am,
an' I stays wid de gang!'
"That doesn't sound like a heroic speech, Eric," said the first
lieutenant, "but it looks to me like it's the real stuff."
"It surely is," agreed the boy.
"He went back with a bite of food for all the men below and they worked
on steadily. By the way the stuff came up the pipe they must have worked
like demons. Every ear was keen for sign or sound of trouble, but the
afternoon wore on, the sand came hurtling from the pipe and the caisson
sank lower and lower.
"'How much further?' I asked Father, just as the evening was beginning
to draw in.
"'Not more than an inch or two,' he said triumphantly. 'I tell you
what, I envy those fellows down there. They're real men. I doubt if I'd
have the nerve to do it myself.'
"Suddenly there came a muffled roar below.
"'There it is!' cried the young scientist, and he made a bolt for the
air-lock.
"Father was not more than a second behind him, waiting only to make sure
of the point to which the structure had been sunk. The caisson was
within three quarters of an inch of the required depth!
"Meantime, down in the caisson, the feared disaster had occurred. The
gas had come up with a rush, almost like an explosion. In the green
glare of the candles, burning sulphur and hydrogen flames instead of
oxygen, the men were staggering, here and there, unable to find the way
out.
"Griffin took charge. It was his hand that led every man to the ladder.
Nine men crawled up.
"As the minutes passed, the anxiety at the head of the shaft grew
intense. No more workers came. Fourteen men had gone down; only nine had
returned. There were then five men still unaccounted for. First one rope
was dropped without result, then another. This time some groping
hand--it proved to be Griffin's--encountered the rope, and found a
sufferer. He tied the rope around his comrade and the man was hoisted
up. Four times this was done, but the fourth was a huge, powerful
Irishman, called Howard. When he was pulled up, entirely unconscious, he
stuck fast in the hole and could not be pulled out.
"By an exertion of self-control and endurance, that no one ever has been
able to understand, Griffin climbed that ladder into the top where the
gases were at their foulest. Though all his comrades had been too far
gone for several minutes to move, even to help themselves, he succeeded
in pushing and pulling Howard's unconscious body until it passed through
the hole.
"A hand was stretched down to reach Griffin and bring him to life and
safety, when the overwrought system gave way. He loosed his handhold on
the ladder and fell.
"A groan went up from those above. It was a thirty-foot fall. Had the
rescuer, the hero, been killed? Scarcely could a man fall in such a way
in an air shaft and live.
"There was no need to ask for volunteers. Two men, one of those who had
been in the caisson all day and was one of the first rescued, and
another, who had not gone down at all, leaped for the ladder. The
doctor caught the first by the shoulder and thrust him aside. The other
descended a few feet and then came up again, to fall unconscious at the
edge of the shaft. Another sprang forward, and yet another, clamoring
for leave to go down.
"Just at that moment there was a faint tug at the rope, the first rope,
which had been left hanging down in the pit. Hardly expecting anything,
one of the men started to haul it in.
"'Come here, boys,' he cried; 'Griffin's on!'
"With their hearts in their mouths, the men hauled in, and the limp and
apparently lifeless body of the foreman came to the surface. How he had
ever managed to fasten the rope around him was a mystery. His hands,
with the flesh rubbed from them to the bone, showed that when he had
lost hold on the ladder he had still retained presence of mind enough to
grasp the sides and had slid to the foot. There he had found the end of
the rope hanging and in a last flicker of understanding had tied it
around himself."
"Did he get all right again?" asked Eric eagerly.
"He was blind for six weeks, but finally recovered. Two of the men were
seven months in hospital, and one became permanently insane. Four got
'bends,' that fearful disease that strikes caisson-workers, but happily,
none died from the terrible experience."
"And the three quarters of an inch still lacking?"
"The cylinder settled just that much and no one ever had to go down the
shaft again. The caisson was filled with concrete and the air-shaft
sealed."
"And that was the final effort of the sea?"
"Not quite. A month later a storm came up and drove the steamer against
the cylinder with such force that eight of the plates--though an inch
thick and braced with rigid solidity--were crushed in. Father had taken
precautions against such an accident by having had a number of extra
plates made, and the lighthouse was finished and turned over to the
government three days before the expiration of the time required by the
contract. It was a case of man's struggle with the elements, and man
won."
"But the honors are with the caisson-men," suggested Eric.
"Yes," agreed the other, "the hero of Smith's Point lighthouse is
Griffin, the caisson-man."