THE SIGNPOSTS OF THE SANDBANKS
Although by dint of great effort and the expenditure of considerable
ingenuity the lighthouse engineer has succeeded in erecting a permanent
masonry tower upon a foundation no more substantial than quicksand,
yet the general method of indicating these menaces is by the aid of
a lightship. In this way the estuaries leading to the great ports
of the world, which are littered with ridges, humps, and mounds, of
mud and sand brought down by the river or thrown up by the sea, are
guarded very completely. There is the Nore lightship at the entrance
to the Thames, the Bar and North-West lightships off the mouth of the
Mersey, Fire Island near the portal to New York, and so on. Similarly,
the whereabouts of huge stretches of sand lying off a coast, which
either defy detection altogether or only partially expose themselves
at low-water, and which constitute certain death-traps, are shown. The
most striking illustrations of this application are supplied by the
Goodwin Sands, the submerged sandy plateau lying off the east coast of
England, and by the serried rows of ridges running seven and a half
miles out to sea from Cape Hatteras, the ill-famed headland of North
Carolina.
The utilization of the lightship, however, is not restricted by any
means to marking shoals and sandbanks. Here and there are clusters of
rocks obstructing the ocean highway, which from their extremely exposed
character would offer the engineer a searching and expensive problem to
solve, and which, accordingly, are protected by a floating light. But,
taken on the whole, the lightship is used very sparingly. If it is at
all possible to provide a permanent structure, even at an apparently
prohibitive cost, upon a danger spot, this practice is followed in
preference to the mooring of a light-vessel thereto. A masonry tower is
stationary in its resistance to the assaults of the wildest tempest,
but the lightship swings like a cork at the free end of a chain. At
times it drags its anchors, and thereby unconsciously shifts its
position, so that it may throw its light from some distance beyond the
actual area of danger. Again, a lightship, although not costly in the
first instance, is somewhat expensive to maintain. It cannot withstand
the poundings of the waves and the force of the wind for long without
developing some signs of weakness. It may ride over its reef or shoal
for several years, but depreciation is sure to set in, so that at last
it becomes too decrepit to be trusted. Moreover, the number of men
required to man a lightship exceeds the force necessary to maintain a
lighthouse.
Lightships follow much the same general shape and construction the
whole world over. There is very little opportunity to depart from
well-tried lines; the experience of a century and more has indicated
conclusively the form of hull, as regards both material and shape, best
adapted to the peculiar work which has to be fulfilled. The modern
lightship is essentially a British idea, the first floating beacon
of this description having been built and placed in the mouth of the
Thames as far back as 1713. From this small beginning, which virtually
was an experiment, has grown the large fleet of light-vessels scattered
all over the globe.
The craft is sturdily built, and, although of clumsy appearance,
is capable of withstanding the onslaughts of the fiercest gales.
Internally it is made as snug as possible, but the opportunities in
this direction are not very extensive, as the beacon is built primarily
to protect ships and lives against accident, and comfort is necessarily
made subordinate to reliability, durability, and serviceability.
A mere hulk would be the most apt description as applied to the average
lightship. It is intended to cling to one spot through thick and thin,
and not to move about. In the majority of instances the vessel is
without any propelling or sailing accessories. If it should happen to
break its leashes, it then becomes the sport of the waves, as helpless
as a derelict, until its signals of distress are espied and it is
picked up by a passing vessel. Although every precaution is adopted
to preserve the lightship from this mishap, when the waves become
exceptionally heavy and violent the strongest chains are apt to snap
under the sawing and tugging of the vessel. In one or two instances
lively times have been experienced by the handful of men on board,
especially off the wicked stretches of the American seaboard which is
exposed to the attack of hurricane and cyclone.
[Illustration:
_Photo, Paul, Penzance._
THE “SEVEN-STONES” LIGHTSHIP.
This vessel, probably occupying the most exposed position around
England, marks a terrible danger spot off the Cornish coast.]
In her helplessness, the light-vessel depends upon the friendly aid
of any craft. The rescuer may be the alert tender, which, having
received intimation that the floating beacon has got adrift, raises
steam in all haste, hurries out, scours the seas for the wanderer,
recovers and rechains her to the danger spot below. Or it may be that
a passing· steamer sights the breakaway, retrieves and restores her to
the allotted position, making her temporarily secure, and reporting her
condition when passing or entering a port.
The lightship may be identified easily. There is nothing inspiring
about her lines. Her ugly hull, built for strength and not beauty,
is painted red, black, or white, according to the colour practice
of the country to which she belongs, while on her sides in huge
letters, stretching almost from water-line to taffrail, is the name
of her station, “Nore,” “Seven Stones,” “Norderney,” “Ruytingen,”
“Fire Island,” or whatever it may be. Nor is this the sole means
of identification. From afar the mariner learns her character and
business by a huge skeleton sphere, a triangular cage, or some other
device, carried at the top of the mast or masts. At night a lantern,
entirely surrounding the mast, and large enough to enable a person
to stand upright within to trim the lamps, throws its warning glare
from an elevation about halfway between the deck and the mast-top with
the intensity of 12,000 or more candles. Oil is the illuminant most
generally employed for the purpose, although in one or two instances
electric light is used.
The specific purpose of the lightship, as already mentioned, is to
warn passing vessels. But the French Government, when they made an
elaborate investigation of their lightship service with a view to its
modernization and elaboration, discovered that at times the floating
signpost fulfils another and unofficial duty. The entrance to St. Malo
Harbour is flanked by an uneven group of rocks lying about midway
between the French coast and the island of Jersey. Though a terrible
spot for mariners, it is one of incalculable value to the sturdy
French and Jersey fishermen, as in the waters around these barriers
rich hauls may be made with the net; indeed, the fishing industry here
affords employment for several score of persons. The French Government
contemplated the withdrawal of the lightship marking the Minquiers, as
these rocks are called, and the substitution in its stead of a number
of powerful automatic buoys which would indicate the exact position
of the most conspicuous dangers, whereas the lightship only indicated
their general whereabouts, compelling mariners to calculate their
distances from the peril, which, by the way, was no easy matter owing
to the short range of the beacon.
[Illustration: THE “SAN FRANCISCO” LIGHTSHIP.
This vessel, riding in 18 fathoms, marks the entrance to the Golden
Gate and San Francisco Bay.]
Before making a decision, the Commission interviewed the French
fishermen to ascertain their views upon the subject. To their intense
surprise, a suggestion which they thought would be received with
unmixed approval was condemned unequivocally. There was not a single
fisherman who could be found to support the buoy system. The unanimity
of the objection aroused suspicions, and further investigation was
made to probe the cause of this unveiled hostility. The answer was
found without effort. The fishermen pushed off in their boats every
night to the grounds, but they did not spend the whole of their time
throwing and hauling their nets. When their luck was in, or they were
satisfied with the catch, one and all pulled for the lightship. There
was not another café within a dozen miles, and fishing is thirsty work.
So the lightship was converted into a nocturnal hostelry. The keepers
charged the glasses, and the captains courageous sipped and quaffed to
a whistling accompaniment, finally indulging in terpsichorean acts on
the lightship’s decks, to give vent to their exuberant spirits. They
did not care whether the light overhead were throwing its yellow beams
over the waters or not. They made merry, and kept up the orgy until the
approaching dawn or the watch showed that it was high time to pull for
the shore with their catches. It was a fortunate circumstance for these
happy-go-lucky spirits that the beacon was not regarded by mariners
as of much utility at night, owing to the feebleness of its light.
If seafarers failed to pick up the Minquiers’s shimmering star, they
attributed the obscurity to the haze. That was all.
This revelation, needless to say, clinched the Commission’s decision.
To-day four unattended gas-buoys mount vigil over these rocks, and the
rollicking days on the floating _café chantant_ are known no more.
The average crew for a lightship numbers some seven men under a captain
and mate, who take it in turns to have charge of the vessel, the second
official being responsible during the former’s spell of leave on shore.
The crew is not a man too many, owing to the several and varied duties
to be performed, especially when the storm-fiend is roused or fog pays
a visit. The arrival of the latter demands the foghorn’s mournful
dirge to penetrate the dense white curtain. Some of the vessels
possess a hooter, the unmusical wail of which in its discordance is
almost sufficient to put false teeth on edge, because a blast runs
through the whole chromatic gamut with variations which would startle
a disciple of Tschaikowsky or Wagner. But discordance in this instance
is of incalculable value. The ear of the captain of a passing vessel
is unconsciously arrested; he can distinguish the sound readily, and
by noting its character can identify the particular light-vessel from
which it proceeds, although he cannot get a glimpse of her form.
The southern coasts of England, owing to the density of the maritime
traffic, especially on both sides of the bottle-neck formed by the
Straits of Dover, are well patrolled by this form of warning which
supplements the lighthouses. Those guarding the dreaded Goodwin Sands
perhaps are the most important. The crew of a vessel in these waters
is busy throughout the day and night even in calm, clear weather, and
the feeling of isolation is not so pronounced, since the continuous
sight of traffic dispels despondency. The Nore light is another station
which encounters very few minutes of rest throughout the complete
revolution of the clock hands; especially is this the case when fog
settles down, rendering the Thames inapproachable, so that incoming
craft have to line up in long queues, ready to dash forward directly
the pall lifts sufficiently for them to see 100 yards ahead.
There have been some exciting incidents among the lights strung
around the south-eastern toe of England. The vessel outside Dover
harbour appears to be particularly unlucky, or to exercise such a
peculiar magnetism upon passing vessels that they must needs embrace
her. This is the peril that a lightship crew dreads more than any
other. Certainly it seems a sorry trick of Fortune that occasionally
the workers in the cause of humanity should be compelled to fight
desperately for their lives from a blow inflicted by the very interests
they strive might and main to protect. The Dover light was sent to the
bottom twice within a very short time, and in each instance the men
were rescued only in the nick of time. On another occasion a relief
lightship was being towed to a station on the east coast, the acting
vessel being much in need of overhaul and repair. The tug laboured
through the North Sea with her charge, and just before daybreak sighted
the twinkling light which was her goal. She eased up, meaning to
stand by with her charge until the beacon’s round of vigilance should
be over, and the light extinguished before the gathering dawn. Her
crew saw the light grow dimmer, until it was no longer of sufficient
power to penetrate the whitening haze. With the sun just creeping
over the horizon the tug weighed anchor, and, heralding her approach
vociferously on the siren, steamed slowly towards the danger spot. To
the surprise of the captain, there came no answering blare. When he
thought he was alongside the light-vessel he stopped, and the haze
lifted. But there was no sign of the light-vessel; she had vanished
completely. The captain of the tug and the master of the relief-boat
wondered what had happened, but without more ado the relief-ship was
moored in position, and the tug returned home empty-handed. There the
crew heard one of those grim stories sometimes related in the service.
The light-keepers had sighted the tug with the relief-vessel, and were
anticipating keenly their return to civilization, when there was a
crash! A cliff of steel reared above them like a knife-edge; a vessel
had blundered into them, cutting their home in two. The next moment
they were shot pell-mell into the water as their craft sank beneath
their feet.
On a calm day, when the lightship is riding quietly at anchor, and
the members of the crew, maybe, are beguiling the tedium by fishing,
a passer-by on a liner is apt to consider the life one of quietness
and enjoyment, albeit monotonous. But contrast this placidity with the
hours of storm. Then the ungainly vessel writhes and twists, saws and
rasps at the chains which hold her prisoner. At one moment, with bow
uplifted, she is on the crest of a spray-enveloped roller; the next
instant she drives her dipping nose into the hissing white and green
valley, meanwhile lurching and staggering wildly as she ships a sea,
first on this side and then on that.
The plight of the lighthouse-keeper in a gale is unenviable, but it is
far and away preferable to that of the lightship crew under similar
circumstances. The tower may bow slightly like a tree before the storm,
and the waves may cause it to shiver at times, but that is the only
movement. On the lightship the crew appear to be tossed, rolled, and
spun, in all directions simultaneously. The deck becomes untenable, but
the men in the performance of their duties have to grope and crawl from
point to point, holding on grimly with both hands when an angry sea
douches them. The spherical ball overhead gyrates in an amazing manner,
as if it were a pendulum bob boxing the compass. The crew have a stiff
struggle, to keep everything below safe and sound, while the waves,
as they come aboard, thump on the deck as if determined to smash it
to splinters, and to drive the whole fabric to the bottom. To be so
unlucky as to be run down by a passing craft under such conditions is
certain death, as there is no hope of rescue in such maddened seas.
The crew of an English ship emerged badly battered from one heavy gale.
Two or three rollers got aboard, and drove their blows well home,
pulverizing the lifeboat on deck, and tearing up stretches of the
bulwarks by the roots. The crew were flung about like shuttlecocks. One
of the hands was making his way cautiously along the deck, trying to
maintain equilibrium upon an alarming incline, when a breaker struck
him from behind. He grabbed the ratlins to secure himself, but his
hand was wrenched away, and he was flung against the mast, where the
wave left him. He was half stunned by the concussion, but a comrade,
realizing his plight, dashed forward while the vessel rolled over
in the other direction, grabbed the prostrate form by the collar of
its coat, and dragged it into the companion-way. The man’s face was
disfigured, and when bathed it was found to have been cut, or rather
burst, open from the eye to the chin by the force of the blow.
Bad weather tends to make the crew despondent at times, inasmuch as its
persistency holds them prisoners, so that they cannot get ashore when
the relief day comes round. During some seasons of the year a delay of
ten or twelve days is not uncommon, owing to the weather, but the men
on the relief tender are so used to hard knocks and rough seas that
they do not wait for an absolute calm to achieve their purpose. Heavy
risks are incurred often in order to lighten the lives of those who
guard the deep by bringing them ashore as near to the scheduled date as
possible.
Another ship that has to mount guard over a dangerous corner of the
coast of England is that which indicates the cluster of rocks lying
between Land’s End and the Scilly Isles, about sixteen miles off the
mainland. For the most part the reef is submerged, but as the water
goes down seven ugly scattered pinnacles thrust themselves into the
air. They are terrible fangs with which to rip out the bottom of a
steamer, and they have accomplished their fell work only too often. The
number of the projections has given its name to the graveyard, which is
known far and wide as the Seven Stones, though the mariner refers to
them simply as The Stones.
It would be difficult to say offhand which has claimed the greater
number of victims from the mercantile marine--the sucking, glue-like
sands of the Goodwins, or the splitting granite teeth of the Seven
Stones; they run a close race for ill-fame. The latter lie right in the
path of vessels rounding the western toe of England, and the sea-bed
on all sides of them is littered with the shivered timbers of wooden
sailing-ships, the splintered iron and steel of steamers, and the bones
of scores of unfortunate passengers and crews. Although a light of
12,000 candle-power strives to warn the seafarer, now and again there
is a miscalculation, and the intimation is conveyed to the mainland:
“Ship and all hands lost.”
It was in 1841, owing to the frequency and severity of the disasters
at this spot, that Trinity House decided to guard it with a lightship.
A lighthouse would be preferable, but there is such small foothold
for the engineer, and the position is so fearfully exposed, that
the erection of a masonry tower would prove a costly and tedious
enterprise. So the only feasible alternative was adopted, and the
vessel is kept abreast of modern developments in this phase of coast
lighting. Lying as it does in a somewhat narrow channel, yet open to
the full roll of the terrible westerly gales, it meets the Atlantic
thundering through this constricted passage with awe-inspiring
violence. It has often suffered greatly from the fury of the sea. Once
a wave tumbled aboard, crashed a man against the pump, knocked him half
senseless; picked up the lifeboat and threw it against the deck-house,
and in so doing caught another member of the crew, mauling his thigh
badly in passing. Two out of the seven men forming the crew were thus
put _hors de combat_ by a single wave. The taut little vessel rides in
40 fathoms of water, about one and a half miles eastward of the danger
spot, as even a lightship must not be moored too closely to a ridge, or
she herself would incur the risk of being pounded to fragments.
The French lighthouse service has a magnificent lightship in the
_Ruytingen_, which rides in 60 feet of water over a treacherous
sandbank outside Dunkirk. It is a steel vessel about 100 feet in
length, and displaces in loaded condition about 387 tons. It is held in
position by massive umbrella-like anchors, weighing some 2 tons, which,
burying themselves in the ground, refuse to drag even under the most
fearful tugs and jerks imposed by a gale, while the chains which hold
the ship in leash are able to give her a run of approximately 1,000
feet.
The German coast is as dangerous to approach, owing to the shoals and
banks, as the eastern shores of England, and one or two magnificent
lightships have been built and stationed over the most notorious
danger areas, among which may be mentioned the _Norderney_ and _Eider_
vessels. The latter is about 133 feet in length by 24 feet wide, and is
fitted with three masts. It throws a fixed white light, which may be
seen on all sides from eight to eleven miles away. This boat is fitted
with every modern device to increase its warning powers and service,
including wireless telegraphy and the submarine bell.
These two latter inventions have improved the serviceability of the
lightship to a vast degree, inasmuch as the ocean liners and many
freighters are equipped with both these useful handmaids to navigation.
The tolling of the bell under water may be heard for several miles, and
conveys intimation of the approach to danger in foggy weather, when the
siren or other fog-signal is somewhat precarious.
The _Norderney_ lightship is probably one of the finest craft in
operation upon the seven seas. Before it was designed the German
engineers carried out a thorough inspection of all the most modern
lightships in service in Europe, and from the results of their
investigations contrived this magnificent aid to navigation. The vessel
is about 150 feet in length, and is built of steel. The light is shown
from a lantern fitted with a third-order pendular lens carried at the
top of a hollow steel mast. The illuminant used is Pintsch’s oil-gas,
with incandescent mantle, the fuel being stored in reservoirs stowed in
the hold of the ship; fresh supplies are brought out by the tender at
periodical intervals. Weight-driven clockwork mechanism is employed to
revolve the lantern. The light is one of the most powerful in European
waters, 50,000 candle-power being emitted with an incandescent gas
mantle having a diameter of 30 millimetres (1¼ inches).
[Illustration:
_By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission._
THE “NORDERNEY” LIGHTSHIP.
One of the finest in the world.]
The vessel is also equipped with 200 horse-power oil-engines, driving
an air-compressor for the operation of the fog-siren, the air being
stored in reservoirs in the hold and maintained at the working
pressure, so that the signal may be brought into service at a moment’s
notice. The vessel is also furnished with a Pintsch submarine bell,
driven by compressed air. When not required, this bell is housed
amidships on the spar-deck, and when the occasion arises for its
service it is lowered into the water through an open tube built in
the ship for this purpose. This important light-vessel carries a full
complement of thirteen men, including the captain, mate, and engineer.
The arrangement is, one-third of the crew on shore-leave at a time; but
this does not apply to the winter months, when the full number has to
remain on board, owing to the duties being more arduous and continuous
during that season of the year.
“Fire Island!” What a thrill the sound of this name sends through the
floating town approaching the New World from Europe. Its effect is
magical among the emigrants who scan the horizon eagerly for the first
glimpse of this outpost of the new home, in which all their hopes
are centred. The sullen red hull of this flush-deck, schooner-rigged
steam-vessel, with her two masts, and name painted in huge white
letters on her flanks, rides in 96 feet of water, nine and three-eighth
miles south of Fire Island lighthouse. A few miles beyond is a similar
craft marking the Nantucket Shoals, whence incoming and outgoing
vessels are reported, while the end of the chain is “No. 87,”
marking the Ambrose Channel off the entrance to New York.
But the light-vessel controlled by the United States which occupies
the most responsible and perilous post is the _Diamond Shoal_, off
Cape Hatteras. It throws its warning rays from a spot about four and
five-eighth miles beyond the most seaward point of this terrible ocean
graveyard, and is thirteen and five-eighth miles distant from Cape
Hatteras light on the mainland. A long way from the actual danger spot,
you say, but the little squad of men who have to maintain the light
through storm and calm will tell you that the situation, in 180 feet of
water, is quite as near as is pleasant when there is the ever-present
danger of anchors being dragged, or of the craft breaking adrift under
the force of the cyclonic disturbances which ravage this sinister
coast. Even in calm weather the relief-boat has many anxious moments,
owing to the swell and currents, while storms rise with startling
suddenness. While the exchange of men is being made and stores are
being transferred, a keen lookout is kept by the relief-boat hands so
as to be ready to cut and run for the open sea the moment the clouds
begin to collect ominously. In these latitudes the weather is placid
one minute; the next the elements are writhing in fury.
[Illustration: THE “FIRE ISLAND” LIGHTSHIP, THE ATLANTIC OUTPOST OF THE
UNITED STATES.
This vessel rides in 96 feet of water, 9¾ miles south of the Fire
Island Lighthouse.]
Probably this is the most dangerous station on the whole seaboard,
and if any heavy trouble is caused by the tempest, the _Diamond
Shoal_ inevitably bears grim evidence of the conflict. The skill of
the engineers is taxed sorely to devise ways and means of keeping the
vessel in the position she is designed to occupy, but moorings and
anchors must be of great weight and strength to stand up against a wind
blowing eighty miles an hour, with the waves running “mountains high”
and repeatedly sweeping the vessel from stem to stern. After every
battle a careful look round has to be made to determine how far the
vessel has shifted. Being steam-driven, this craft is not condemned to
absolute helplessness when her moorings snap. The crew get her under
control and keep her head pointed in the desired direction, so as to
mitigate the battering of the wind and waves, and not moving more than
is essential for safety. Subsequently the vessel crawls back to her
position, the bearings are taken, and she is anchored firmly once more.
One hurricane swept Cape Hatteras, and the lightship received its full
energy. The boat strained and groaned at her chains. Suddenly they
snapped. No steam could hold the boat against the assault. She was
picked up, thrown about like an empty box, and carried inshore, luckily
missing the ridges of sand. Had she plumped into one, it would have
gripped her tightly while the waves pounded her to fragments. The crew
were helpless and could only wonder what the end would be, as they saw
the rugged coastline approach nearer and nearer. When they thought all
was over and that their fate was sealed, a big incoming wave snatched
the lightship, hurried her along on its bosom, and dropped her on the
beach, practically uninjured, and safe from further attack.
When the crew surveyed their position, they found themselves faced with
a difficult proposition. The ship was safe and sound, but on the wrong
side of the shoals, and the question was how to lift her over those
greedy ridges. There was only one method. That was to dig a pit around
her on the beach, let in the water so that she could float, and then to
cut a wide deep trench out to sea so as to regain deep water. It was
feasible, and was attempted. While the pond on the beach was being dug,
a powerful dredger came up, and ploughed its way through the shoals
from deep water to the stranded light-vessel. When the craft was once
more afloat, the dredger carved its way back again, the light-vessel
being taken through the narrow, shallow ditch thus provided, which
was closed up by the running sand as the two boats crept slowly
forward, until at last the shoals were negotiated. The ship was taken
to headquarters, the relief-vessel, which is always kept ready for an
emergency, having taken up her position on the station immediately the
hurricane had blown itself out.
Under these circumstances it will be realized that the maintenance
of the _Diamond Shoal_ light is by no means a sinecure. When these
adversities are aggravated by the relief-boat being unable to fulfil
its scheduled duty, when week after week slips by without the men
receiving the welcome spell ashore, while they are suffering privations
and experiencing the nerve-shattering pangs of isolation and monotony,
it is not surprising that despondency shows signs of getting the upper
hand among the crew. Melancholia is the malady which is feared most
on a light-vessel such as this, and the men have to pull themselves
together to resist its insidious grip. Probably at times there is half
an inclination to desert the light, but fortunately there is little
fear of this temptation succeeding. The axiom “Never abandon the light”
is too deeply rooted; besides, the men are safer where they are,
although it appears a crazy refuge in rough weather.
Prolonged imprisonment on the _Diamond Shoal_ precipitated one mutiny.
The crew on duty were awaiting the arrival of the reserve vessel
to take them home; but the weather disposed otherwise. With that
inexplicable persistence, the wind got round to a rough quarter and
kept there tenaciously, never moderating for a few hours, but just
blowing, blowing, blowing, getting up a nasty sea which made the
lightship reel and tumble, while at intervals a comber came aboard to
flush the decks.
In the course of ten days or so the crew began to fret and fume
at the obstinacy of the elements; when a month slipped by without
bringing any welcome relief, the mate and the engineer incurred the
captain’s dire displeasure by fraternizing and playing cards with
the crew, thereby creating a breach of discipline and etiquette. The
offenders, somewhat overwrought by their continued incarceration,
ignored the captain’s reprimand. This arrant disobedience played
upon his nerves, which similarly were strung up. It did not require
a very big spark to start a conflagration of tempers. The mate and
engineer brooded over the captain’s remarks, and at last they waited
upon him, forcibly ventilated their opinions concerning his lack of
civility and of endeavours to make one and all comfortable under the
trying circumstances, and expressed their determination to tolerate
his overbearing manner no longer. This was the last straw from the
captain’s point of view. Drawing his revolver, he growled that he was
master of the lightship, and that they would have to do as he told
them. There was a tussle, but the firearm was wrenched away from the
master’s hands as being a somewhat too dangerous tool for a man in his
overstrung condition. The crew naturally sided with the officers, and
the captain was kept under surveillance until the relief-vessel came up
some weeks later.
The moment the crew stepped on dry land, every man, with the exception
of the mate, deserted the ship, thoroughly satiated with the
uncertainty pertaining to watching the Diamond Shoals. They indulged
in a hearty carousal, and were arrested. And the captain, who also
was not averse to enjoyment on shore, having lodged the charge of
mutiny, followed their example. An inquiry was held, and the sequel is
interesting. The captain, having deserted his ship upon reaching port,
was dismissed from the service; the mate, who had provoked the captain,
not only was acquitted of the grave charge, but was promoted to the
command of the light-vessel, because there was one outstanding feature
in his favour which negatived everything else--he had stuck to his post.
Life on a lightship, although somewhat strenuous, has its interludes.
In fine weather the men have considerable time on their hands, and
while away the hours in various occupations. Fretwork, mat-making,
carpentering, and other hobbies, are followed with keen enjoyment.
Owing to the light attracting flocks of birds during the migratory
seasons, the men often effect valuable captures on the deck, rare
songsters and other specimens falling exhausted into their hands. Cages
are contrived, and the silence of the living-quarters is relieved by
the piping and trilling of the birds when once they have shaken down to
their captivity. Meteorological work, which is practised in some cases,
relieves the round of toil, while contributions to science are made by
investigating the depths of the sea and its bed with small trawls and
other devices, so as to secure data concerning life in the deep, the
vagaries of currents, submarine temperatures, and so forth.
The lightship, however, is both a safeguard and a menace. When she
is riding quietly at the end of her chains she is an incalculable
boon to the passing mariner, but after a gale the navigator and the
light-keepers are suspicious. The boat may, and indeed probably has,
dragged her anchors somewhat. Now, the seafarer on his chart has the
precise position which the lightship should occupy. Consequently, if
she has shifted and he is unaware of the error, his calculations will
lead him astray. After a tempest the master of a lightship endeavours
to ascertain if his craft has moved, and if he can he takes his
bearings at once. If this is impossible, or if he entertains any doubt
in his mind, he flies a signal, which warns the navigator that the
lightship has moved. Unless the vessel is able to regain her station
under her own steam, she communicates with the shore at once, and a
boat is sent out to reset her. Every time the relief is effected the
officer in charge takes the bearings, so that the lightship may be
truly in the position she is intended to assume, and able to effect her
humane work satisfactorily.
The evolution of the most efficient illuminating apparatus for the
lightship has been a most perplexing problem to the lighthouse
engineer. What is applicable for the masonry tower is not necessarily
adapted to its floating contemporary, since the conditions are so
dissimilar. The United States service has adopted electric lighting
on all its steam-driven vessels, the current being easily obtainable
in this instance. On the whole, however, oil is the most popular form
of illuminant, the burners--there are several lamps arranged in a
ring round the mast--being fitted with two circular wicks, one within
the other; while behind the lamp an ordinary parabolic reflector is
placed in order to increase the intensity of the light produced.
These reflectors are disposed in such a manner around the mast that
the concentrated beam of light from one lamp just overlaps the rays
which are projected similarly from the lamp placed on either side, the
result being that a fixed white light of equal luminosity throughout
the circle is projected. But, unlike the illuminant in the lighthouse,
the light is not stationary in its vertical plane; it is swung from
side to side and up and down in rhythm with the movement of the vessel.
Under these circumstances, at one moment the light would project a
short ray owing to the declination of the beam in relation to the line
of the water, thereby bringing it below the horizon, while the next
moment, when the ship lurched in the opposite direction, the ray of
light would be thrown into the air and above the horizon. The problem
is to keep the light at one steady angle, irrespective of the motion
of the vessel, and this end is achieved by hanging each reflector
upon gimbals, so that the rolling practically is counteracted, the
reflectors maintaining a constant vertical position.
Some lights are of the flashing type, and in this instance the
reflectors are disposed in groups. Here the gimbals, carrying the
reflectors, are mounted upon the framework which revolves around the
mast by clockwork mechanism, and are so arranged as to give any type of
distinguishing flash that may be desired. In the most approved types
of modern lightships, however, the dioptric apparatus is incorporated,
means having been discovered to avoid breakage from the rolling motion
of the ship, while the risk of throwing the beam above or below the
horizon according to the rolling of the boat is overcome. In this case
the lamps and reflectors are disposed on a turntable in the lantern,
with the dioptric apparatus mounted very carefully so as to secure
a true balance upon gimbals. The apparatus for revolving the light
is erected in a deck-house, the weight actuating the mechanism being
permitted to rise and fall in a special tube extending from the bottom
of the ship to the deck. The rotary action thus produced is transmitted
from the deck to the lantern above by means of a vertical shaft and
pinion. While ordinary lamps are installed as a rule in the lanterns,
Messrs. Chance Brothers and Co., the Birmingham lighthouse illuminating
engineers, have succeeded in adapting their incandescent oil-vapour
system, which has proved so eminently successful in lighthouses, to
light-vessels, with a very decided increase in the candle-power, and
marked economy in oil consumption and cost of upkeep.