THE EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE
It is doubtful whether the name of any lighthouse is so familiar
throughout the English-speaking world as the “Eddystone.” Certainly
no other “pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day,” can offer so
romantic a story of dogged engineering perseverance, of heartrending
disappointments, disaster, blasted hopes, and brilliant success.
Standing out in the English Channel, about sixty miles east of the
Lizard, is a straggling ridge of rocks which stretches for hundreds of
yards across the marine thoroughfare, and also obstructs the western
approach to Plymouth Harbour. But at a point some nine and a half miles
south of Rame Head, on the mainland, the reef rises somewhat abruptly
to the surface, so that at low-water two or three ugly granite knots
are bared, which tell only too poignantly the complete destruction
they could wreak upon a vessel which had the temerity or the ill luck
to scrape over them at high-tide. Even in the calmest weather the
sea curls and eddies viciously around these stones; hence the name
“Eddystones” is derived.
From the days when trading vessels first used the English Channel the
reef has been a spot of evil fame. How many ships escaped the perils
and dangers of the seven seas only to come to grief on this ridge
within sight of home, or how many lives have been lost upon it, will
never be known. Only the more staggering holocausts, such as the wreck
of the _Winchelsea_, stand out prominently in the annals of history,
but these serve to emphasize the terrible character of the menace
offered. The port of Plymouth, as may be supposed, suffered with
especial severity.
As British overseas traffic expanded, the idea of indicating the
spot for the benefit of vessels was discussed. The first practical
suggestion was put forward about the year 1664, but thirty-two years
elapsed before any attempt was made to reduce theory to practice.
Then an eccentric English country gentleman, Henry Winstanley, who
dabbled in mechanical engineering upon unorthodox lines, came forward
and offered to build a lighthouse upon the terrible rock. Those who
knew this ambitious amateur were dubious of his success, and wondered
what manifestation his eccentricity would assume on this occasion. Nor
was their scepticism entirely misplaced. Winstanley raised the most
fantastic lighthouse which has ever been known, and which would have
been more at home in a Chinese cemetery than in the English Channel.
It was wrought in wood and most lavishly embellished with carvings and
gilding.
Four years were occupied in its construction, and the tower was
anchored to the rock by means of long, heavy irons. The light, merely
a flicker, flashed out from this tower in 1699 and for the first time
the proximity of the Eddystones was indicated all round the horizon
by night. Winstanley’s critics were rather free in expressing their
opinion that the tower would come down with the first sou’-wester, but
the eccentric builder was so intensely proud of his achievement as to
venture the statement that it would resist the fiercest gale that ever
blew, and, when such did occur, he hoped that he might be in the tower
at the time.
Fate gratified his wish, for while he was on the rock in the year 1703
one of the most terrible tempests that ever have assailed the coasts
of Britain gripped the structure, tore it up by the roots, and hurled
it into the Channel, where it was battered to pieces, its designer
and five keepers going down with the wreck. When the inhabitants of
Plymouth, having vainly scanned the horizon for a sign of the tower on
the following morning, put off to the rock to investigate, they found
only the bent and twisted iron rods by which the tower had been held in
position projecting mournfully into the air from the rock-face.
Shortly after the demolition of the tower, the reef, as if enraged at
having been denied a number of victims owing to the existence of the
warning light, trapped the _Winchelsea_ as she was swinging up Channel,
and smashed her to atoms, with enormous loss of life.
Although the first attempt to conquer the Eddystone had terminated so
disastrously, it was not long before another effort was made to mark
the reef. The builder this time was a Cornish labourer’s son, John
Rudyerd, who had established himself in business on Ludgate Hill as a
silk-mercer. In his youth he had studied civil engineering, but his
friends had small opinion of his abilities in this craft. However,
he attacked the problem boldly, and, although his tower was a plain,
business-looking structure, it would have been impossible to conceive
a design capable of meeting the peculiar requirements of the situation
more efficiently. It was a cone, wrought in timber, built upon a stone
and wood foundation anchored to the rock, and of great weight and
strength. The top of the cone was cut off to permit the lantern to be
set in position. The result was that externally the tower resembled
the trunk of an oak-tree, and appeared to be just about as strong. It
offered the minimum of resistance to the waves, which, tumbling upon
the ledge, rose and curled around the tapering form without starting a
timber.
Rudyerd, indeed, may be considered to be the father of the science of
modern lighthouse designing, because the lines that he evolved have
never been superseded for exposed positions even in these days of
advanced engineering science, greater constructional facilities, and
improved materials. Rudyerd’s ingenuity and skill received a triumphant
vindication when the American engineers set out to build the Minot’s
Ledge and Spectacle Reef lighthouses, inasmuch as these men followed
slavishly in the lines he laid down, and their achievements are
numbered among the great lighthouses of the world to-day.
Rudyerd built his tower with infinite care, although he was harassed in
his operations by the depredations of French privateers, who haunted
this part of the British coast. On one occasion the whole of the men
were surprised while at their work, and were borne off in triumph as
prisoners of war to France. Louis XIV., however, heard of the capture,
and the privateers, instead of being honoured for the catch, as they
anticipated, were strongly reprimanded and compelled to release their
captures. “Their work is for the benefit of all nations. I am at war
with England, not with humanity,” was the Sovereign’s comment; and
by way of compensation the prisoners were loaded with presents and
reconveyed to the rock, to resume their toil.
For forty years Rudyerd’s structure defied the elements, and probably
would have been standing to this day had it not possessed one weak
point. It was built of wood instead of stone. Consequently, when a fire
broke out in the lantern on December 4, 1755, the flames, fanned by the
breeze, rapidly made their way downwards. The keepers were impotent and
sought what refuge they could find under projecting crags below, as
the lead which had been employed in construction melted into drops and
rained down on all sides, so that the unfortunate men were exposed to
another and more alarming danger. In fact, one man, while watching the
progress of the fire, was drenched with a shower of molten metal, some
of which, he declared, had entered his open mouth and had penetrated
into his stomach. When rescued he was writhing in fearful agony, but
his story was received with incredulity, his comrades believing that
the experience had turned his brain and that this was merely one of his
delusions. When the man died, a post-mortem examination was made, and
the doctors discovered ample corroboration of the man’s story in the
form of a lump of lead weighing some seven ounces!
No time was lost in erecting another tower on the rock, for now
it was more imperative than ever that the reef should be lighted
adequately. The third engineer was John Smeaton, who first landed on
the rock to make the surveys on April 5, 1756. He was able to stay
there for only two and a quarter hours before the rising tide drove
him off, but in that brief period he had completed the work necessary
to the preparation of his design. Wood had succumbed to the attacks
of tempest and of fire in turn. He would use a material which would
defy both--Portland stone. He also introduced a slight change in the
design for such structures, and one which has been universally copied,
producing the graceful form of lighthouse with which everyone is so
familiar. Instead of causing the sides to slope upwards in the straight
lines of a cone, such as Rudyerd adopted, Smeaton preferred a slightly
concave curve, so that the tower was given a waist at about half its
height. He also selected the oak-tree as his guide, but one having an
extensive spread of branches, wherein will be found a shape in the
trunk, so far as the broad lines are concerned, which coincides with
the form of Smeaton’s lighthouse. He chose a foundation where the rock
shelved gradually to its highest point, and dropped vertically into the
water upon the opposite side. The face of the rock was roughly trimmed
to permit the foundation-stones of the tower to be laid. The base of
the building was perfectly solid to the entrance level, and each stone
was dovetailed securely into its neighbour.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE EDDYSTONE, THE MOST FAMOUS LIGHTHOUSE OF ENGLAND.
To the right is the stump of Smeaton’s historic tower.]
From the entrance, which was about 15 feet above high-water, a central
well, some 5 feet in diameter, containing a staircase, led to the
storeroom, nearly 30 feet above high-water. Above this was a second
storeroom, a living-room as the third floor, and the bedroom beneath
the lantern. The light was placed about 72 feet above high-water,
and comprised a candelabra having two rings, one smaller than, and
placed within, the other, but raised about a foot above its level, the
two being held firmly in position by means of chains suspended from
the roof and secured to the floor. The rings were adapted to receive
twenty-four lights, each candle weighing about 2¾ ounces. Even candle
manufacture was in its infancy in those days, and periodically the
keepers had to enter the lantern to snuff the wicks. In order to keep
the watchers of the lights on the alert, Smeaton installed a clock of
the grandfather pattern in the tower, and fitted it with a gong,
which struck every half-hour to apprise the men of these duties. This
clock is now one of the most interesting relics in the museum at
Trinity House.
The first stone of the tower was laid on a Sunday in June, 1757, as
the date on the block indicates; and although work had to be pursued
fitfully and for only a few hours at a time between the tides, in the
early stages, Smeaton seized every opportunity offered by the wind
and sea to push the task forward. For four years the men slaved upon
the rock, and, although the mechanical handling appliances of those
days were primitive, the tower was completed without a single mishap.
The solidity of the structure, and its lines, which, as the engineer
stated, would offer the minimum of resistance to the Atlantic rollers,
but at the same time would insure the utmost stability, aroused
widespread admiration, for it was felt that the engineer had triumphed
over Nature at last. Many people expressed a desire to see how the
tower would weather such a storm as carried away Winstanley’s freakish
building, especially as, in a roaring sou’-wester, the waves hurled
themselves upon the ledge to wreathe and curl upwards to a point far
above the dome, blotting the light from sight. The supreme test came
in 1762, when the lighthouse was subjected to a battering and pounding
far heavier than any that it had previously known. But the tower
emerged from this ordeal unscathed, and Smeaton’s work was accepted as
invulnerable.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
A THRILLING EXPERIENCE.
Landing upon the Eddystone by the crane rope during a rough sea.]
The lighthouse had been standing for 120 years, when ominous reports
were received by the Trinity Brethren concerning the stability of the
tower. The keepers stated that during severe storms the building shook
alarmingly. A minute inspection of the structure was made, and it was
found that, although the work of Smeaton’s masons was above reproach,
time and weather had left their mark. The tower was becoming decrepit.
The binding cement had decayed, and the air imprisoned and compressed
within the interstices by the waves was disintegrating the structure
slowly but surely. While there was no occasion to apprehend a sudden
collapse, still it was considered advisable to take precautionary
measures in time. Unfortunately, it was not feasible to strengthen
Smeaton’s tower so adequately as to give it a new lease of life, while
lighthouse engineering had made rapid strides in certain details since
it was completed. Another factor to be considered was the desire for a
more elevated light, capable of throwing its rays to a greater distance.
Under these circumstances it was decided to build a new tower on
another convenient ledge, forming part of the main reef, about 120 feet
distant. Sir James Douglass, the Engineer-in-Chief to Trinity House,
completed the designs and personally superintended their execution.
The Smeaton lines were taken as a basis, with one important exception.
Instead of the curve commencing at the foundations, the latter
comprised a perfect cylindrical monolith of masonry 22 feet in height
by 44 feet in diameter. From this base the tower springs to a height
which brings the focal plane 130 feet above the highest spring-tides.
The top of the base is 30 inches above high-water, and the tower’s
diameter at this point being less than that of its plinth, the set-off
forms an excellent landing-stage when the weather permits.
The site selected for the Douglass tower being lower than that chosen
by Smeaton, the initial work was more exacting, as the duration
of the working period was reduced. The rock, being gneiss, was
extremely tough, and the preliminary quarrying operations for the
foundation-stones which had to be sunk into the rock were tedious and
difficult, especially as the working area was limited. Each stone was
dovetailed, not only to its neighbour on either side, but below and
above as well. The foundation-stones were dovetailed into the reef,
and were secured still further by the aid of two bolts, each 1½ inches
in diameter, which were passed through the stone and sunk deeply into
the rock below. The exposed position of the reef enabled work to be
continued only fitfully during the calmest weather, for often when wind
and sea were quiet the rock was inaccessible owing to the swell. Upon
the approach of bad weather everything was made fast under the direct
supervision of the engineer--a man who took no chances.
From the set-off the tower is solid to a height of 25½ feet, except
for two fresh-water tanks sunk in the floor of the entrance-room,
which hold 4,700 gallons. At this point the walls are no less than
8½ feet thick, and the heavy teak door is protected by an outer door
of gun-metal, weighing a ton, both of which are closed during rough
weather.
The tower has eight floors, exclusive of the entrance; there are two
oilrooms, one above the other, holding 4,300 gallons of oil, above
which is a coal and store room, followed by a second storeroom. Outside
the tower at this level is a crane, by which supplies are hoisted, and
which also facilitates the landing and embarkation of the keepers, who
are swung through the air in a stirrup attached to the crane rope.
Then in turn come the living-room, the “low-light” room, bedroom,
service-room, and finally the lantern. For the erection of the tower,
2,171 blocks of granite, which were previously fitted temporarily in
their respective positions on shore, and none of which weighed less
than 2 tons, were used. When the work was commenced, the engineer
estimated that the task would occupy five years, but on May 18, 1882,
the lamp was lighted by the Duke of Edinburgh, the Master of Trinity
House at the time, the enterprise having occupied only four years.
Some idea may thus be obtained of the energy with which the labour was
pressed forward, once the most trying sections were overcome.
Whereas the former lights on this rock had been of the fixed type, a
distinctive double flash was now introduced. The optical apparatus
is of the biform dioptric type, emitting a beam of some 300,000
candle-power intensity, which is visible for seventeen miles. In
addition to this measure of warning, two powerful Argand burners,
with reflectors, were set up in the low-light room for the purpose of
throwing a fixed ray from a point 40 feet below the main flashing beam,
to mark a dangerous reef lying 3½ miles to the north-west, known as
Hand Deeps.
When the new tower was completed and brought into service, the Smeaton
building was demolished. This task was carried out with extreme care,
inasmuch as the citizens of Plymouth had requested that the historic
Eddystone structure might be re-erected on Plymouth Hoe, on the spot
occupied by the existing Trinity House landmark. The authorities agreed
to this proposal, and the ownership of the Smeaton tower was forthwith
transferred to the people of Plymouth. But demolition was carried out
only to the level of Smeaton’s lower storeroom. The staircase, well and
entrance were filled up with masonry, the top was bevelled off, and in
the centre of the stump an iron pole was planted. While the Plymouth
Hoe relic is but one half of the tower, its re-erection was completed
faithfully, and, moreover, carries the original candelabra which the
famous engineer devised.
Not only is the Douglass tower a beautiful example of lighthouse
engineering, but it was relatively cheap. The engineer, when he
prepared the designs, estimated that an outlay of £78,000, or $390,000,
would be incurred. As a matter of fact, the building cost only £59,255,
or $296,275, and a saving of £18,000, or $90,000, in a work of this
magnitude is no mean achievement. All things considered, the Eddystone
is one of the cheapest sea-rock lights which has ever been consummated.