DANGERS OF THE DEEP
Neither ships of the stanchest steel, nor seamen however skilful, nor
pilots never so knowing, can wholly avoid the dangers of a seafaring
life. Experience in reading the signs of the ocean and of the skies,
surveyors’ charts of coasts and harbors, added to the appliances of
powerful modern machinery, have lessened the perils, it is true, since
the old times; yet even now ships sail proudly out of sunny havens,
their topsails watched by loving eyes till they disappear at sunset,
and are never seen again. On a calm day in 1782 the great hundred-gun
line-of-battle-ship _Royal George_ sank at her anchors in the harbor
of Spithead, carrying down almost a thousand souls; thirty years ago
the _Captain_, then one of the finest of England’s steam turret-ships,
capsized at sea, and not a man survived. Each of these vessels was
perhaps the best of its kind in the world. No better navigators exist
than naval officers, yet they ran the historic old steam-frigate
_Kearsarge_ on Roncador Reef, in the Caribbean Sea, in broad daylight,
and left her there a total wreck. Not a year passes that does not
record some dire calamity on the ocean, and many lesser accidents.
The wild oceanic storms are responsible for fewer of these than
anything else—I mean the mere power of wind and waves in the open
sea. When a captain has sea-room, and knows in advance, as he almost
always may, of the coming of a storm, so that he can make everything
snug, the loss of his vessel, or even serious damage to her, is not
common. Yet the mere violence of the gale has overturned, beaten down,
and extinguished the greater part of the Newfoundland fishing-fleet
again and again, and doubtless many of the ships that are recorded as
“missing” have been sunk simply by overwhelming waves.
Certain rare and extraordinary mishaps nevertheless may meet a vessel
in the open ocean. One of these is a stroke of lightning, powerful
enough to set a ship on fire in spite of her lightning-rods, and such a
fire is likely never to be quenched. Another extraordinary occurrence
would be an overwhelming waterspout, such as not infrequently is seen
in the tropics, especially along the Chinese coast, where it often
plays havoc with fishing junks. A third unusual, yet possible, peril
is the meeting with those waves of sudden and extraordinary size and
volume which sometimes engulf vessels in storms that otherwise might
be safely weathered, or are surmounted only by a miracle, as it were.
These are said to be produced in some cyclones, as one of the effects
of that whirling form of storm, and are often called tidal waves, but
the tide has nothing to do with their formation or progress.
[Illustration: THE U. S. S. “ONEIDA” AFTER COLLISION WITH A STEAMSHIP.]
To say that a ship in mid-ocean might be destroyed by an earthquake
seems paradoxical and absurd, yet it is true. Whenever a subterranean
convulsion occurs beneath or at the edge of the sea, the water will be
agitated in proportion to its force. Strike a tub of water a gentle
tap and see how its liquid contents shiver and ripple. Watch a railway
train running at the edge of a body of water, and observe how the water
trembles under the percussion of the wheels upon the ground.
Earthquake shocks give rise sometimes to great disturbances, either by
a direct jar to the water, or by setting in motion waves whose rolling
does damage, especially in confined harbors. Sometimes a port will be
suddenly invaded by a wave, the cause of which was an earthquake, which
rolls in upreared like a wall, and carries death and destruction in its
course. The principal port of the island of St. Thomas, in the West
Indies, was once devastated by this means. The incoming wave is said
to have been over forty feet high, and broke inland, destroying much
property and causing many deaths. “So tremendous was this breaker that
it landed a large vessel on a hillside half a mile from the harbor.”
Such catastrophes are not uncommon in volcanic districts, where the
ocean retorts with terrible vengeance when it is struck by the land.
That appalling explosion in 1883 of Krakatoa, in the Strait of Sunda,
was followed on neighboring coasts by a series of vast billows that
rolled inland, deluging a wide extent of shore, sweeping away over 150
villages, and crushing or drowning more than 30,000 persons. Within a
few years the coasts of northern Japan have been inundated repeatedly
by earthquake waves with similar dire calamities, and they are likely
to occur again. Now and then earthquakes are felt even in the open sea,
far from land. Thus, Captain Lecky, a scientific writer upon the sea,
tells us that in one instance where he was present, the inkstand upon
the captain’s table was jerked upward against the ceiling, where it
left an unmistakable record of the occurrence; and yet this vessel was
steaming along in smooth water, many hundreds of fathoms deep. “The
concussions,” he says, “were so smart that passengers were shaken off
their seats, and, of course, thought that the vessel had run ashore.”
All this disturbance was, nevertheless, only the result of a shock at
the bottom; and when the non-elastic nature of water is considered, the
severity of the jar is not surprising.
It would seem as though in the vast breadth of the “world of waters,”
and with nothing to obstruct the view, two ships might easily give
one another a wide berth; yet a collision is one of the ever-present
dangers of voyaging, even far from land. It is to avoid this peril that
all the maritime nations have agreed upon certain signals, and “rules
of the road” which are the same in all parts of the world, and without
which it would now be almost impossible to carry on commerce or travel
on the water.
The rules of the road say that when two vessels are approaching one
another, head on, each shall turn off to the right far enough to avoid
the other; that when two vessels are crossing one another’s courses,
the one which has the other on her starboard (right hand) must turn to
starboard (the right), and go behind the other vessel, while the latter
continues along her course; and that a steam vessel must always get out
of the way of a sailing vessel, one at anchor or disabled, or a vessel
with another in tow.
It is presumed that every ship will keep a sharp lookout, and that in
the daytime two approaching ships will see each other in time to keep
safely apart; but in the darkness of night none could be safe unless
all carried lights by which the position and character of each could be
determined.
In ancient times this matter of lights at sea was a much more
troublesome one than now. We know that the Roman navy managed it
somehow, and had methods of signaling by lanterns and torches. In
medieval and early times, say up to a couple of centuries ago, a ship’s
lights were a much more conspicuous and bothersome part of her than
now, when, indeed, electricity has simplified as well as perfected
signaling as much as it has benefited general illumination on ship’s
board. In such ships as those of the Armada, and long afterward, three
huge lanterns made of ornamental iron-work, sometimes large enough
to enable a man to move about inside them, surmounted the elevated
after-quarter; and these were filled with dozens of great candles.
How important candles were in the stores of one of these old ships is
shown by the fact that we still call a merchant who outfits vessels a
_ship-chandler_. Regular rules were formulated for judging of a ship’s
position and movements, and how you ought to steer by the way these
beacons grouped themselves. The introduction of whale oil gradually
superseded candles and as the sperm-lamp did not require a glass house,
smaller lanterns took the place of the big ones, until finally, by
aid of lenses, reflectors, and kerosene, and still more lately by the
use of electricity, ship’s lights have become the small, handy, and
powerful ones they are to-day.
The present rules as to lights are these—using the language of a United
States navy officer, Lieut. John M. Ellicott, who has written many
instructive and entertaining essays on sea-affairs:
When you face toward a ship’s bow the side at your right hand is
called the starboard side, and the side at your left hand is called
the port side. On her starboard side a ship carries at night a green
light, and it is so shut in by the two sides of a box that it cannot
be seen from the port side or from behind. On her port side she
carries a red light, and it is so shut in that it cannot be seen
from the starboard side or from behind. If the ship is a steamship
she carries a big white light at her foremast-head, but if she is a
sailing vessel she does not. This white masthead light can be seen
from all around except from behind....
It is for the red and green lights, commonly known as the side
lights, that the officer of the deck most intently watches (when the
lookout warns him that lights are in sight), for by them he can tell
which way the vessel is going. If her red light shows, he knows that
her port side is toward him and she is crossing to his left; if it is
her green light, her starboard side is toward him and she is crossing
to his right; but if both the red and green are showing, she is
heading straight in his direction.... If a vessel has another vessel
in tow, she carries two masthead lights instead of one; and when a
vessel is at anchor she has no side lights or masthead light, but a
single white light made fast to a stay where it can be seen from all
around her.
In rivers and crowded harbors it is often impossible to follow the
rules of the road; and sometimes even at sea the officer of the deck
of one vessel discovers that the other is not heeding the rules. Then
the steam-whistle is used to tell the other vessel what the first
is doing. Thus, one whistle means “I am going to the right”; two
whistles mean “I am going to the left”; and three whistles mean “I am
backing”; while a series of short toots means “Look out for yourself;
get out of the way!”
There is one class of vessels which is most annoying to those who
direct the course of large steamers. These are small fishing-vessels.
On the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, on the coast of Spain, and on
the coasts of China and Japan big fleets of these little vessels
are found at all times. They show no lights at night, preferring to
save the expense of oil, and take their chances of being sent to the
bottom; but when they see a big ship rushing down upon them, they
light a torch and flare it about. Often they pay for their folly with
their lives. The torch is seen too late, or not seen at all, and the
great iron bow of the steamship crushes into the frail little craft,
perhaps cutting her clean in two; and the unhappy fishermen sink into
the foaming wake of the churning propellers, leaving not a soul to
tell their wives what became of them.
[Illustration: ELECTRIC-LIGHT SIGNALS AT SEA: ARDOIS SYSTEM.]
Signaling with lights is principally of use to men-of-war, where, also,
lanterns hung in the rigging in a particular order have a definite
significance. For long-distance signaling the best system is that
invented by Lieutenant Very, U. S. N. These night-signals “consist of a
white, a red, and a green star, each fired into the air from a pistol,
so that by firing one, two, or three of them in quick succession and in
different orders, with a pause between the groups, different letters or
signal numbers can be made until a sentence is complete.” They can be
easily read from vessels twelve miles away. For nearer work the system
of the Spanish navy officer, Ardois, which consists in flashing and
extinguishing, by means of a switchboard on deck, a series of red and
white electric lamps in the rigging, serves very well; and close at
hand a signal-man waves an incandescent electric bulb by night as he
would a flag by day.
[Illustration: THE “VERY” ROCKET-SIGNAL AT SEA.]
It is, however, when the land is approached that the sailor’s perils
become menacing. Here Old Neptune is still a match for us when he
asserts himself. Nevertheless, we must go upon the restless waters,
and must risk a contest with their power along the coasts, where the
ocean’s _line of battle_ may be said to be. Therefore, every effort
has always been made by men on land to be of aid to their brethren at
sea by erecting beacons to guide them by night as well as by day, by
marking the channels, so that hidden shoals, rocks, and obstructions
may be avoided, and by contrivances to save life and property when the
fury of the gale renders seamanship futile, and the noble ship is cast
away in the surf thundering on some wild shore, to break up in a few
hours.
What could be more humiliating to our pride, as well as terrifying to
our hearts, than such a scene as that at Samoa, in 1889, when a whole
fleet of ships, including powerful men-of-war, was wrecked while at
anchor in the beautiful harbor of Apia. Of small use, then, were all
their charts and lighthouses, buoys and breakwaters!
The disturbed state of affairs in Samoa caused the assemblage there,
during March, 1889, of three small German men-of-war, _Adler_,
_Olga_, and _Eber_, the British corvette _Calliope_, and the American
steamships _Trenton_, _Vandalia_ and _Nipsic_. The _Trenton_,
Captain Farquhar, was one of our largest war-ships at that time,
and the flagship of Rear-Admiral Kimberley; the _Vandalia_, Captain
Schoonmaker, was somewhat smaller, and the _Nipsic_, Commander Mullan,
was still less in size. On March 15 a hurricane demolished the whole of
this fleet, except one, and ten merchant vessels besides, and caused
the loss of nearly one hundred and fifty lives. It is an extraordinary
story, which has been fully related by Mr. John P. Dunning, from whose
article in “St. Nicholas” for February, 1890, the accompanying facts
and illustrations are drawn.
[Illustration: THE “CALLIOPE” ESCAPING FROM APIA HARBOR.]
The harbor in which the disaster occurred is a small semicircular
bay, around the inner side of which lies the town of Apia. A coral
reef, visible at low water, extends in front of the harbor from the
eastern to the western extremity, a distance of nearly two miles.
A break in this reef, probably a quarter of a mile wide, forms a
gateway to the harbor. The space within the bay where ships can lie
at anchor is very small, as a shoal extends some distance out from
the eastern shore, and on the other side another coral reef runs well
out into the bay. The war-vessels were anchored in the deep water in
front of the American consulate. The _Eber_ and _Nipsic_ were nearest
the shore. There were ten or twelve sailing-vessels, principally
small schooners lying in the shallow water west of the men-of-war.
The storm was preceded by several weeks of bad weather, and on
Friday, March 15, the wind increased and there was every indication
of a hard blow. The war-ships made preparation for it by lowering
topmasts and making all the spars secure, and steam was also raised
to guard against the possibility of the anchors not holding.
The wind rose to a hurricane and was accompanied by heavy,
wind-driven rain, and when toward morning it became evident that
some smaller ships were already ashore, and that the war-ships were
dragging their anchors in spite of every effort, the whole town was
awake, and much of it down by the beach seeking what shelter it could
from the sleet-like blast. This night of horror gradually lightened
into dawn, when it was seen that all the war-ships had been swept
from their former moorings and were bearing down toward the inner
reef. The decks swarmed with men clinging to anything affording a
hold. The hulls of the ships were tossing about like corks, and the
decks were being deluged with water as every wave swept in from the
open ocean. Several sailing-vessels had gone ashore in the western
part of the bay. Those most plainly visible now were the _Eber_,
_Adler_, and _Nipsic_, very close together and only a few yards from
the reef.
The little gunboat _Eber_ was making a desperate struggle, but her
doom was certain. Suddenly she shot forward, the current bore her off
to the right, and her bow struck the port quarter of the _Nipsic_,
carrying away several feet of the _Nipsic’s_ rail and one boat. The
_Eber_ then fell back and fouled with the _Olga_, and after that she
swung around broadside to the wind, was lifted high on the crest of a
great wave and hurled with awful force upon the reef. In an instant
there was not a vestige of her to be seen. Every timber must have
been shattered, and half the poor creatures aboard of her crushed to
death before they felt the waters closing above their heads. Hundreds
of people were on the beach by this time, and the work of destruction
had occurred within full view of them all. They stood for a moment
appalled by the awful scene, and a cry of horror arose from the lips
of every man who had seen nearly a hundred of his fellow-creatures
perish in an instant. Then with one accord they all rushed to the
water’s edge nearest the point where the _Eber_ had foundered. The
natives ran into the surf far beyond the point where a white man
could have lived, and stood waiting to save any who might rise from
the water. There were six officers and seventy men on the _Eber_ when
she struck the reef, and of these five officers and sixty-six men
were lost. This was about six o’clock in the morning.
[Illustration: “THE SAMOANS STOOD BATTLING AGAINST THE SURF, RISKING
THEIR LIVES TO SAVE THE AMERICAN SAILORS.”]
During the excitement attending that calamity the other vessels
had been for the time forgotten, but it was soon noticed that the
positions of several of them had become more alarming. The _Adler_
had been swept across the bay, close to the reef, and in half an hour
she was lifted on top of the reef and turned completely over on her
side. Nearly every man was thrown into the water, but as almost the
entire hull was exposed, all but twenty succeeded in regaining her
deck, and the remainder were rescued toward the close of the day when
almost exhausted.
Just after the _Adler_ struck, the attention of every one was
directed toward the _Nipsic_. She was standing off the reef with her
head to the wind, but the three anchors which she had out at the time
were not holding; and orders were given to attach a hawser to a heavy
eight-inch rifle on the forecastle and throw the gun overboard. As
the men were in the act of doing this, the _Olga_ bore down on the
_Nipsic_ and struck her amidships with awful force. Her bowsprit
passed over the side of the _Nipsic_, and, after carrying away one
boat and splintering the rail, came in contact with the smokestack,
which was struck fairly in the center and fell to the deck with a
crash like thunder. For a moment it was difficult to realize what had
happened, and great confusion followed. The iron smokestack rolled
from side to side with every movement of the vessel, until finally
heavy blocks were placed under it. By that time the _Nipsic_ had
swung around and was approaching the reef, and it seemed certain that
she would go down in the same way as had the _Eber_. Captain Mullan
saw that any further attempt to save the vessel would be useless,
so he gave the orders to beach her. She had a straight course of
about two hundred yards to the sandy beach in front of the American
consulate, where she stuck and stood firm.
Two attempts to lower boats were failures and every man crowded to
the forecastle. A line was thrown, double hawsers were soon made fast
from the vessel to the shore, and the natives and others gathered
around the lines, where the voices of officers shouting to the men on
deck were mingled with the loud cries and singing of the Samoans. One
by one, and in a very orderly manner, the men of the _Nipsic_ came
down the hawsers toward the shore, but many would never have reached
it, had it not been for the assistance of the Samoans, who, at the
peril of their lives, stood in the boiling torrent, grasping those
whose hold was broken from the rope.
Meanwhile, the four large men-of-war, _Trenton_, _Calliope_,
_Vandalia_, and _Olga_, were still afloat and in a comparatively
safe position; but about ten o’clock the _Trenton_ was seen to be
in a helpless condition; her rudder and propeller were both gone,
and there was nothing but her anchors to hold her up against the
unabated force of the storm. The _Vandalia_ and _Calliope_ were also
in danger, drifting back toward the reef near the point where lay the
wreck of the _Adler_; and they came closer together every minute,
until finally the English ship struck the _Vandalia_ and tore a great
hole in her bow. Then Captain Kane of the _Calliope_ determined to
try to steam out of the harbor as his only hope, and he at once cut
loose from all his anchors. The _Calliope’s_ head swung around to the
wind and her engines were worked to their utmost power. Great waves
broke over her bow and she gained headway at first only inch by inch,
but her speed gradually increased until it became evident that she
could leave the harbor. This manœuver of the British ship is regarded
as one of the most daring in naval annals—the one desperate chance
offered her commander to save his vessel and the three hundred lives
aboard.
The _Trenton’s_ fires had gone out by that time, and she lay helpless
almost in the path of the _Calliope_. The decks were swarming with
men, but, facing death as they were, they recognized the heroic
struggle of the British ship, and a great shout went up from aboard
the _Trenton_. “Three cheers for the _Calliope_!” was the sound that
reached the ears of the British tars as they passed out of the harbor
in the teeth of the storm; and the heart of every Englishman went out
to the brave American sailors who gave that parting tribute to the
Queen’s ship.
When the excitement on the _Vandalia_ which followed the collision
with the _Calliope_ had subsided, it was determined to beach the
vessel, and straining every means at hand to avoid the dreaded reef,
she moved slowly across the harbor until her bow stuck in the sand,
about two hundred yards off shore and probably eighty yards from the
stem of the _Nipsic_. Her engines were stopped and the men in the
engine-room and fire-room below were ordered on deck. The ship swung
around broadside to the shore, and it was thought at first that her
position was comparatively safe, as it was believed that the storm
would abate in a few hours, and the two hundred and forty men on
board could be rescued then; but the wind seemed to increase in fury,
and as the hull of the steamer sank lower the force of the waves grew
more violent, yet no one on shore was able to render the least aid.
These terrible scenes had detracted attention from the other two
men-of-war still afloat; but about four o’clock in the afternoon
the positions of the _Trenton_ and _Olga_ became most alarming. The
flagship had been in a helpless condition for hours, being without
rudder or propeller, while volumes of water poured in through her
hawser-pipes. Men never fought against adverse circumstances with
more desperation than the officers and men of the _Trenton_ displayed
during those hours, yet the vessel was slowly forced over toward
the eastern reef. Destruction seemed imminent, as the great vessel
was pitching heavily, and her stern was but a few feet from the
reef. This point was a quarter of a mile from shore, and if the
_Trenton_ had struck the reef there, it is probable that not a life
would have been saved. A skilful manœuver, suggested by Lieutenant
Brown, saved the ship from destruction. Every man was ordered into
the port rigging, and the compact mass of bodies was used as a sail.
The wind struck against the men in the rigging and forced the vessel
out into the bay again. She soon commenced to drift back against the
_Olga_, which was still standing off the reef and holding up against
the storm more successfully than any other vessel in the harbor
had done, and in spite of every effort on the part of both ships a
collision took place which severely damaged both. Fortunately, the
vessels drifted apart, whereupon the _Olga_ steamed ahead toward the
mud-flats in the eastern part of the bay, and was soon hard and fast
on the bottom. Not a life was lost, and several weeks later the ship
was hauled off and saved.
The _Trenton_ was now about two hundred feet from the sunken
_Vandalia_, and seemed sure to strike her and throw into the water
the men still clinging to the rigging. It was now after five o’clock,
and the daylight was beginning to fade away. In a half hour more, the
_Trenton_ had drifted to within a few yards of the _Vandalia’s_ bow,
and feelings hard to describe came to the hundreds who watched the
vessels from the shore.
Presently the last faint rays of daylight faded away, and night came
down upon the awful scene. The storm was still raging with as much
fury as at any time during the day. The poor creatures who had been
clinging for hours to the rigging of the _Vandalia_ were bruised
and bleeding; but they held on with the desperation of men who were
hanging between life and death. The ropes had cut the flesh on
their arms and legs, and their eyes were blinded by the salt spray
which swept over them. Weak and exhausted as they were, they would
be unable to stand the terrible strain much longer. The final hour
seemed to be upon them. The great, black hull of the _Trenton_ was
almost ready to crash into the stranded _Vandalia_ and grind her
to atoms. Suddenly a shout was borne across the waters. The sound
of four hundred and fifty voices was heard above the roar of the
tempest. “Three cheers for the _Vandalia_!” was the cry that warmed
the hearts of the dying men in the rigging.
The shout died away upon the storm, and there arose from the
quivering masts of the sunken ship a response so feeble it was
scarcely heard upon the shore. Every heart was melted to pity. “God
help them!” was passed from one man to another. The cheer had hardly
ceased when the sound of music came across the water. The _Trenton’s_
band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The thousand men on sea
and shore had never before heard strains of music at such a time as
that. An indescribable feeling came over the Americans on the beach
who listened to the notes of the national song mingled with the
howling of the storm.
But the collision of the _Trenton_ and _Vandalia_, instead of
crushing the latter vessel to pieces, proved to be the salvation of
the men in the rigging. When the _Trenton’s_ stern finally struck
the side of the _Vandalia_, there was no shock, and she swung around
broadside to the sunken ship. This enabled the men on the _Vandalia_
to escape to the deck of the _Trenton_, and in a short time they were
all taken off.
The storm had abated at midnight, and when day dawned there was no
further cause for alarm. The men were removed from the _Trenton_ and
provided with quarters on shore.
During the next few days the evidences of the great disaster could be
seen on every side. In the harbor were the wrecks of four men-of-war:
the _Trenton_, _Vandalia_, _Adler_, and _Eber_; and two others, the
_Nipsic_ and _Olga_, were hard and fast on the beach and were hauled
off with great difficulty. The wrecks of ten sailing-vessels also lay
upon the reefs. On shore, houses and trees were blown down, and the
beach was strewn with wreckage from one end of the town to the other.
Ever since men began to go to sea lights have been placed on shore to
guide them to a landing-place; but in early times these were nothing
more than fires on headlands, kindled, perhaps, by the wives and
children of the captain and his crew of neighbors, when these mariners
were expected home. These friendly services became a little more
systematic when merchants began to risk their property on the water;
and on the shores of the Mediterranean, which we have found to be the
cradle of civilized navigation and trade, harbor-beacons were erected
in very early times as guides to a safe anchorage.
The giant statue known as the Colossus, at Rhodes, is supposed to
have been used as a beacon and lighthouse, a fire burning in the
palm of its uplifted colossal hand at night. Although the account of
the Colossus is only a matter of guesswork, it is historically true
that in those ages of ignorant heedlessness of the need of beacons,
a lighthouse was built so grand in proportions, so enduring in
character, that it became known as one of the Seven Wonders of the
World, and outlived all the others, save the Pyramids, by centuries,
and in some ways has never been excelled by any similar structure
in modern times, unless it be by our mammoth marble monument to
Washington. This was the lighthouse built on the little island of
Pharos by Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, two hundred and eighty
years before Christ, to guide vessels into the harbor of Alexandria.
From all descriptions, it must have closely resembled our Washington
monument; for it was built of white stone, was square at the base,
and tapered toward the apex. Open windows were near its top, through
which the fire within could be seen for thirty miles by vessels at
sea.
The destruction of these beacons in the general smash and ruin that
seem to have overtaken the world when the Roman empire went to pieces
is only indicative of the way the darkness of barbarism returned and
enveloped the minds as well as the works of men, until light broke
through the clouds again with the rise of organized sea-powers in
Western Europe. Then beacons were gradually rebuilt, but in almost all
cases by private hands—the feudal lords of coast estates, the master
or authorities of sea-ports, the monks in monasteries near dangerous
landings, and now and then the king at his principal port, setting up
marks for steering by day and lighting fires on dark nights. Most of
the latter were hardly more than tar-barrels, which would burn brightly
in a gale, and the better class were towers of stonework, on top of
which a mass of coal was ignited in an iron cage, and kept stirred into
brightness by a watcher.
It was an easy matter to imitate such beacons, and wreckers would
often set up false lights. Many a fearful tradition has come down of
the doings of wreckers, not only in England and Spain, but in America
and in the East. One of their tricks, when they saw a ship approaching
in the evening, was to hang a lantern upon a horse’s neck, and let
him graze, well-hobbled, along the beach. This would appear like the
rocking of a lantern on a vessel at rest—what is called a riding or
anchor light; and, deceived by this promise of a safe anchorage, the
stranger would not discover that he had been cheated until his keel
struck a reef or sandbar, and the pirates had begun their villainous
attack. It is said to have been a device of this kind which caused
the wreck in 1812, on the Carolina coast,—whose islands and lagoons
are reputed to have been infested by such ruffians, there known as
“bankers,”—of a vessel carrying the beautiful Theodosia Burr, daughter
of Aaron Burr, and wife of Governor Alston of South Carolina. Her death
at the hands of these men is illustrated on page 172.
During the reign of Henry VIII of England, an association of mariners
called, in short, the Guild of the Trinity was chartered and given
various powers and privileges in connection with the newly instituted
royal navy and dockyards. It encouraged coast-lights, and in 1573 Queen
Elizabeth formally placed authority to erect and govern lighthouses and
coast beacons in the hands of this corporation, and there it remains
to this day; for its headquarters, Trinity House, on Tower Hill, in
London, are a recognized office of the British government, answering to
our Lighthouse Board.
It was not long before it encouraged the founding of a permanent light
on Eddystone Shoals, a group of reefs near Plymouth, exceedingly
dangerous because they lie precisely in the track of ships bound
up or down the English Channel, yet almost invisible. Upon the
mere standing-room afforded by the crest of this rock, Sir William
Winstanley managed to erect, two hundred years ago, a tower of wood
and iron trestle-work, bolted to its foundation and carrying a glass
room or lantern containing a coal-grate, eighty feet above low-water
mark. This was completed in 1698. One winter’s experience convinced
him that it needed strengthening, and in 1699 a case of masonry was
built about the tower, and made solid to the height of twenty feet,
while the whole structure was increased to the height of one hundred
and twenty feet. Then, it is related, Winstanley boasted that the sea
had not strength enough to tear it down, and all England rejoiced in
so noble a beacon; but we now know that the construction was faulty,
in its large diameter, polygonal outline, excess of ornament, and
lack of weight. While Sir William was within it making repairs, four
years later, the memorable hurricane of November 20, 1703, swept the
coast, and left scarcely a trace of the tower. Its value had been
proved, however, and it was replaced, in 1706, by a straight-sided
tower of oaken timbers, weighted in their lower courses by stone. This
was designed by an engineer named Rudyerd, and lasted until burned
down in 1755; and engineers say it was better for its place than was
the round, solid-based stone tower of Smeaton that followed it, and
became so celebrated. This was finished in three years, and in 1760 was
lighted, not by a fire, as of old, but by candles—the first use of such
an illuminant. This truly illustrious lighthouse remained until a few
years ago, when it became so racked by the assaults of the sea as to
be unsafe. It was then replaced by the one that stands there to-day,
rivaling its magnificent neighbor on the Biscay shore opposite, the
lighthouse of Carduan, which was built to support a bonfire of oak, but
has remained to be lighted successively by oil-lamps, by gas-burners,
and finally by electricity.
[Illustration:
ENGRAVED BY R. C. COLLINS.
THE WRECK OF THE FIRST MINOT’S LEDGE LIGHTHOUSE.]
A somewhat similar history belongs to some of the lighthouses on this
side of the Atlantic. The first one regularly set up in the United
States was that on the north side of the entrance to Boston harbor,
erected in 1716; but many others go back to Colonial days—that on
Sandy Hook, for instance. Perhaps the most interesting history is
attached to the light on Minot’s Ledge, in Boston harbor. This is a
dangerous reef, concealed at high water and so exposed that the problem
of lighting it was much the same as that presented at Eddystone, Bell
Rock, Dhu Heartach, and other well known islets on the British coast.
The first lighthouse on Minot’s Ledge was built in 1848, and was an
octagonal tower resting on the tops of eight wrought-iron piles sixty
feet high, eight inches in diameter, and sunk five feet into the rock.
These piles were braced together in many ways, and, as they offered
less surface to the waves than a solid structure, the lighthouse was
considered by all authorities upon the subject to be exceptionally
strong. Its great test came in April, 1851. On the fourteenth of that
month, two keepers being in the lighthouse, an easterly gale set in,
steadily increasing in force.... On Wednesday, the sixteenth, the
gale had become a hurricane; and when at times the tower could be
seen through the mists and sea-drift, it seemed to bend to the shock
of the waves. At four o’clock that afternoon an ominous proof of the
fury of the waves on Minot’s Ledge reached the shore—a platform which
had been built between the piles only seven feet below the floor of
the keeper’s room. The raging seas, then, were leaping fifty feet in
the air. Would they reach ten feet higher?—for if so, the house and
the keepers were doomed. Nevertheless, when darkness set in the light
shone out as brilliantly as ever, but the gale seemed, if possible,
then to increase. What agony those two men must have suffered! How
that dreadful abode must have swayed in the irresistible hurricane,
and trembled at each crashing sea! The poor unfortunates must have
known that if those seas, leaping always higher and higher, ever
reached their house, it would be flung down into the ocean, and they
would be buried with it beneath the waves.
[Illustration: A SCREW-PILE OCEAN LIGHTHOUSE.]
To those hopeless, terrified watchers the entombing sea came at last.
At one o’clock in the morning the lighthouse bell was heard by those
on shore to give a mournful clang, and the light was extinguished. It
was the funeral knell of two patient heroes.
Next day there remained on the rock only eight jagged iron stumps.
Thus, everywhere, and in all latitudes, the beacons and wooden towers
and huge pyramids of long ago have given place to slender spires of
solid masonry, holding powerful signals perhaps hundreds of feet above
the waves, and visible as far as the curve of the earth’s surface
will permit. Yet in place of the sturdy bonfire of oak, or the huge
iron cage full of coals, there is only a single lamp, whose rays are
gathered by deep reflectors into a compact bundle of unwasted rays, and
doubled and redoubled by rows of magnifying lenses until they can dart
to the furthest horizon in a strong beam of steady light. No longer
does the mariner trust to his wife to kindle the tar-barrel to guide
him home. He knows that nowhere is his government more watchful of
its subjects than in its lighthouse service, and that he may trust to
having that bright signal to welcome him in the darkness, as well as he
can trust his own eyes to see it. The United States alone expends over
$2,500,000 annually in looking after her lighthouses, lightships, and
buoys.
[Illustration: THE LIGHTHOUSE AT ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA.]
Indeed, these beacons have become so thickly planted that it has been
found necessary to distinguish between them in order to avoid mistaking
one for another. At first this was done by doubling, as in the case of
New York’s “Highland Lights,” or the twin lights of Thatcher’s Island
off Cape Ann, or even trebling them as at Nauset, on Cape Cod, but
now the display is made to vary. Thus some of them are simply fixed
white lights; some are white and revolve—the whole lantern on the
summit of the tower being turned on wheels by machinery, and the flame
disappears for a longer or shorter time; while others are white “flash”
lights, glancing only for an instant, and then lost for a few seconds,
or giving a long wink and then a short one with a space of darkness
between. Some lighthouses show a steady red light; others, alternate
red and white. By these colors and varying periods of appearance and
disappearance (noted on charts, and published by the government in a
general seaman’s guide called the “Coast Pilot”), navigators know which
light they are looking at when several are in sight. For daylight
recognition the towers may be painted half black and half white, or in
stripes or bands or spirals, like the big barber’s pole in front of St.
Augustine, Florida.
It is impossible here to describe in detail the beautiful machinery
by which the rays from the large but simple argand kerosene lamp are
condensed into a single beam and projected through the Fresnel system
of condensers and lenses, and by which the revolution and “flashing”
are effected. Petroleum has superseded all other oils for general use,
but electricity is now being extensively employed in the illumination
of coast lights, especially in France, where they are introducing new
principles, such as producing lightning-like flashes with a certain
recognized regularity, and waving stupendous search-light beams in
the sky, so that the approach to the coast may be seen when the land
and lighthouse themselves are still below the horizon. If you have an
opportunity to go into the lantern of a lighthouse, by all means take
advantage of it; and if you can be there when a storm is raging, or
when, on some misty night, the lantern is besieged by migrating birds,
you will never forget the scene.
On some especially dangerous—because hidden—shoals, reefs, or bars,
like those off Nantucket or the extreme point of Sandy Hook, it may be
out of the question or bad policy to erect a lighthouse. Here its place
is taken by anchoring a stout vessel, built to withstand the severest
weather, and arranged to carry lanterns at its mastheads.
These are called “lightships,” and they are manned by a crew of keepers
who have a very monotonous and uncomfortable time of it; yet in some
cases men have spent twenty years or more in the service.
The most desolate and dangerous lightship station is that of No. 1,
Nantucket. “Upon this tossing island, out of sight of land, exposed
to the fury of every tempest, and without a message from home during
all the stormy months of winter, and sometimes even longer, ten
men, braving the perils of wind and wave, and the worse terrors of
isolation, trim the lamps whose light warns thousands of vessels from
certain destruction, and hold themselves ready to save life when the
warning is vain.”
Seven years ago Mr. Gustav Kobbé, and the artist, William Taber, spent
several days on the lightship and gave a graphic account of the life
there, which I wish I were able to quote in full.
The anchorage is twenty-four miles out at sea beyond Sankaty head,
at the extremity of the shoals and rips which make all that space of
water beyond the visible coast of Nantucket fatal to ships, hundreds of
which are known to have been beaten to pieces on its treacherous bars.
She is moored to a 6500-pound mushroom anchor by a chain two inches in
thickness, yet she has been torn adrift twenty-three times, and has
wandered widely before returning or being overtaken.
“No. 1, Nantucket New South Shoals,” to quote Mr. Kobbé,
is a schooner of two hundred and seventy-five tons, one hundred and
three feet long, with twenty-four feet breadth of beam, and stanchly
built of white and live oak. She has two hulls, the space between
them being filled through holes at short intervals in the inner side
of the bulwarks with salt.... She has fore-and-aft lantern-masts
seventy-one feet high, including topmasts, and directly behind each
of the lantern masts a mast for sails forty-two feet high. Forty-four
feet up the lantern-masts are day-marks, reddish brown hoop-iron
gratings, which enable other vessels to sight the lightship more
readily. The lanterns are octagons of glass in copper frames five
feet in diameter, four feet nine inches high, with the masts as
centers. Each pane of glass is two feet long and two feet three
inches high. There are eight lamps, burning a fixed white light, with
parabolic reflectors in each lantern, which weighs, all told, about
a ton. Some nine hundred gallons of oil are taken aboard for service
during the year. The lanterns are lowered into houses built around
the masts. The house around the main lantern-mast stands directly
on the deck, while the foremast lantern-house is a heavily-timbered
frame three feet high. This is to prevent its being washed away by
the waves the vessel ships when she plunges into the wintry seas.
When the lamps have been lighted and the roofs of the lantern-houses
opened,—they work on hinges, and are raised by tackle,—the lanterns
are hoisted by means of winches to a point about twenty-five feet
from the deck. Were they to be hoisted higher they would make the
ship top-heavy.
[Illustration: LIGHTSHIP NO. 1, NANTUCKET NEW SOUTH SHOALS.]
A conspicuous object forward is the large fog-bell swung ten feet
above the deck. The prevalence of fog makes life on the South Shoal
Lightship especially dreary. During one season fifty-five days out of
seventy were thick, and for twelve consecutive days and nights the
bell was kept tolling at two-minute intervals.
The actual work to be done is small, the daily cleaning of the lamps
requiring only two or three hours, and other chores being very light,
and the men nearly die of loneliness and “nothing to do.” It is
pathetic to read how intense and friendly an interest they take in a
single red buoy anchored near them; and they admit that fog is dreaded
more because it hides this neighbor than for any other reason.
Mr. Kobbé tells us that the emotional stress under which this crew
labors can hardly be realized by any one who has not been through a
similar experience.
The sailor on an ordinary ship has at least the inspiration of
knowing that he is bound for somewhere; that in due time his vessel
will be laid on her homeward course; that storm and fog are but
incidents of the voyage: he is on a ship that leaps forward full of
life and energy with every lash of the tempest. But no matter how
the lightship may plunge and roll, no matter how strong the favoring
gales may be, she is still anchored two miles southeast of the New
South Shoal.
[Illustration: CLEANING THE LAMPS ON A LIGHTSHIP.]
Besides enduring the hardships incidental to their duties aboard the
lightship, the South Shoal crew have done noble work in saving life.
While the care of the lightship is considered of such importance to
shipping that the crew are instructed not to expose themselves to
dangers outside their special line of duty, and they would therefore
have the fullest excuse for not risking their lives in rescuing
others, they have never hesitated to do so. When, a few winters ago,
the _City of Newcastle_ went ashore on one of the shoals near the
lightship, and strained herself so badly that although she floated
off, she soon filled and went down stern foremost, all hands,
twenty-seven in number, were saved by the South Shoal crew and kept
aboard of her over two weeks, until the story of the wreck was
signaled to some passing vessel and the lighthouse tender took them
off. This is the largest number saved at one time by the South Shoal,
but the lightship crew have faced great danger on several other
occasions.
This is, perhaps, the extreme picture of lightship life, but apart
from the prolonged isolation and continuous roughness of the water,
the experiences of the men off Sandy Hook and elsewhere are not
greatly removed from it, and no philanthropy is more worthy of support
than that which seeks to mitigate the loneliness of these exiles by
providing them with reading matter. The Lighthouse Board provides a
small circulating library for these ships, and contributions of books
and files of illustrated periodicals will be gratefully received and
put to good use by the Superintendent of the Lighthouse Service in
Washington.
[Illustration: THE FOG-BELL.]
But there are times—and they occur very frequently in northern
waters—when fogs which no light can penetrate envelop sea and coast,
and that is the most dangerous of all times to an approaching ship.
The only means by which a warning can be given, in such an emergency,
is by sound. In many places bells are rung, but often the place to be
avoided is so situated that the roar of the surf would drown a bell’s
note, and then fog-horns are blown. These fog-horns are of a size so
immense, and voices so stentorian, that it requires a steam engine to
blow them, and they utter a booming, hollow blast, a dismal note as we
hear it when we are safe on the land, but sweet to the anxious captain
whose vessel is laboring through the gloom under close-reefed topsails,
and uncertain of her exact position. One kind of these horns is very
complicated in its structure, and screeches in a rough, broken blare,
a note far-reaching beyond any smooth, whistling sound that could be
made. This shriek is so hideous, so ear-splitting, when heard near at
hand, that no name bad enough to express it could be found; so its
inventors went to the other extreme, and called it a siren, after those
most enchanting of sweet singers who tried to entice Ulysses out of his
course. This name is opposite in a double sense, indeed, for the sirens
of old lured sailors to wreck, while our siren hoarsely bids them keep
off. Finally, buoys, which at first were simply tight casks, but now
are usually made of boiler-iron, are anchored on small reefs, to which
are hung bells, rung constantly by the tossing of their support; and on
other reefs buoys are fixed having a hollow cap so arranged that when a
big wave rushes over, it shuts in a body of air, under great and sudden
pressure, which can only escape through a whistle in the top of the
cap, uttering a long warning wail to tell its position.
It is in such times as this that the pilot comes out strong.
A pilot is a man who has made himself thoroughly acquainted with
certain waters where navigation is dangerous, and who is licensed
by some proper authority, after training and examination, to direct
vessels in safety in entering harbors or passing through other
intricate places. A ship-captain may be an excellent navigator, but
he is not expected to know every rock and sandbar crouching under the
waves, and all the twistings and turnings of the entrance and channel
of a foreign harbor, especially as these channels are subject to
constant change. In this country, indeed, although coasting-vessels may
refuse a pilot, the law will not permit captains coming from or bound
to a foreign port to do so; and if any accident happens when no pilot
is aboard the insurance money will not be paid, and the ship’s officers
may be punished.
[Illustration: A SIREN RIGGED UPON A MERCHANT STEAMSHIP.]
Pilots, then, are important men and are able to charge very high prices
for their services (generally rated according to the draft of the
vessel), and their profession is so organized and guarded that not only
must a man be thoroughly competent, but he must wait for a vacancy in
the regular number before he will be admitted to their ranks.
Their method of work is very exciting. A dozen or so together will
form the crew of a trim, stanch schooner, provisioned for a fortnight
or more, which can outsail anything but a racing yacht, and is built
to ride safely through the highest seas. A few steamers are coming
into use, but the procedure is much the same. You will now and then
see one of these beautiful little vessels sailing up the quiet harbor,
threading its way through the black steamers and sputtering tug-boats
and great ships, as a shy and graceful girl walks among the guests at a
lawn party, and you know from its air as well as the big number on its
white mainsail that it is a pilot boat, even if it does not carry the
regular pilot-flag, which in the United States is simply the “union” or
starry canton of the ensign.
[Illustration: BURNING A “FLARE” ON A PILOT-BOAT.]
But these fine schooners and the brave men they carry are rarely in
port. Their time is spent far in the offing of the harbor, cruising
back and forth in wait for incoming ships, and the New York pilots
often go two and three hundred miles out to sea, and in storms may
be blown much farther away. Other pilot-boats are waiting also, and
the lookout at the reeling mast-head must keep the very keenest watch
upon the horizon. Suddenly he catches sight of a white speck which
his practised eye tells him is a ship’s top-sails, or of a blur upon
the sky that advertises a steamer’s approach. The schooner’s head is
instantly turned toward it, and all the canvas is crowded on that she
will bear, for away off at the right a second pilot-boat, well down, is
also seen to be aiming at the same point and trying hard to win.
The first pilots of New York harbor were stationed at Sandy Hook, and
visited incoming vessels in whale-boats; and many a stately British
frigate or colonial trader was forced to wait anxiously outside the
bar, rolling and tossing in the sea-way, or tacking hither and yon,
hoping for a glimpse of that tiny speck where flashing oars told of
the coming pilot. It is in this way, as the late Mr. J. O. Davidson,
the artist, who knew all about such things, told us in “St. Nicholas”
(January, 1890), that many vessels are still met, off some of our
smaller harbors, and at the mouth of the Mississippi River. There the
waters of the great river pouring into the Gulf of Mexico through the
Port Eads Jetties make a turbulent swell with foam-crested billows that
roll the stoutest ship’s gunwale under, even in calm weather; yet the
little whale-boats, swift and buoyant, dash out bravely in a race for
the sail on the distant horizon, for there are two pilot-stations at
the Jetties, and it is “first come first engaged.”
Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the ship that looks for the
pilot, cruising about with the code-letters P T flying from her
signal-halyards in token of her need. She may even run past a
pilot-boat in the night and get into danger without being aware of it.
To prevent this, says Mr. Davidson, the pilots burn what is known as a
“flare” or torch, consisting of a bunch of cotton or lamp-wick dipped
in turpentine, on the end of a short handle. It burns with a brilliant
flame, lighting up the sea for a great distance and throwing the sails
and number of the pilot-boat into strong relief against the darkness.
On a dark clear night, the reddish glare which the signal projects on
the clouds looks like distant heat lightning.
Having sighted his vessel, the pilot whose turn it is to go on duty
hurries below and packs the valise which contains such things as he
wishes to take home, for this is his method of going ashore; and when
he has departed, if he is the last one of the pilot-crew, the little
vessel returns herself to port in charge of the sailing-master, cook,
and “boy,” to refit and take on a new set of men.
The storm may be howling in the full force of the winter’s fury, and
the waves running “mountain-high,” but the pilot must get aboard by
some means. It is rough weather indeed when his mates cannot launch
their yawl and row him to where he can climb up the stranger’s side
with the aid of a friendly rope’s end.
[Illustration: A PILOT BOARDING A STEAMER.]
Yet frequently this is out of the question. Then a “whip” is rigged
beyond the end of a lee yard-arm, carrying a rope rove through a
snatch-block, and having a noose at its end. The steamer slows her
engines, or the ship heaves to, and the pilot-schooner, under perfect
control, runs up under the lee of the big ship, as near as she dares
in the gale. Then, just at the right instant, a man on the ship’s
yard hurls the rope, it is caught by the schooner, the pilot slips one
leg through the bowline-noose, and a second afterward the schooner has
swept on and he is being hoisted up to the yard-arm, but generally
not in time to save himself a good ducking in the coaming of some big
roller. Going on shipboard in this fashion is not favorable to an
imposing effect; nevertheless, the pilot is welcomed by both crew and
passengers, who admire his courage and trust his skill, but smile at
the high hat beloved of all pilots.
Now the pilot is master—stands ahead of the captain even—and his
orders are absolute law. He inspects the vessel to form his opinion
of how she will behave, and then goes to the wheel or stands where
best he can give his orders to the steersman and to the men in the
fore-chains heaving the sounding lead. He must never abandon his post,
he must never lose his control of the ship, or make a mistake as to
its position in respect to the lee-shore, or fail to be equal to every
emergency. If it is too dark and foggy and stormy to see, he must feel;
and if he cannot do this he must have the faculty of going right by
intuition. To fail is to lose his reputation if not his life. This is
what is expected of pilots, and this is what they actually do in a
hundred cases, the full details of any one of which would make a long
and thrilling tale of adventurous fighting for life.
It is to help pilots and navigators of all sorts to avoid the perils
that beset them that governments not only spend large sums in surveying
coasts and harbors, publishing charts and descriptions, and maintaining
lighthouses and lightships, but mark out bars and channels with
floating guides, and their borders with shore-beacons and “ranges,” to
form so many finger-posts for the right road. Were it not for these
sign-posts no ship could safely enter any commercial harbor in the
world; and it will be valuable to quote somewhat from an article, with
capital illustrations, written for “St. Nicholas” (March, 1896) by an
officer of the United States Navy, Lieut. John M. Ellicott, since it
describes how the long, winding approaches to one of the greatest ports
of the world are marked out by day and by night—I mean the harbor of
New York.
Suppose, then, that we are on a big transatlantic steamer approaching
the United States from Europe.... Having secured his pilot, it is the
captain’s next aim to make a “land-fall”—that is to say, he wishes to
come in sight of some well-known object on shore, which, being marked
down on his chart, will show him just where he is and how he must
steer to find the entrance to the harbor.
A special lighthouse is usually the object sought, and in approaching
New York harbor it is customary for steamers from Europe to first
find, or sight, Fire Island Lighthouse. This is on a sandy island
near the coast of Long Island. When, therefore, the liner steams
in sight of Fire Island Light she hoists two signals, one of which
tells her name and the other the welfare of those on board. The
operator then telegraphs to the ship’s agents in New York that she
has been sighted, and that all on board are well or otherwise. [Other
despatches go to the newspapers, who have observing stations and
telegraph arrangements here and at Sandy Hook.]
[Illustration: DAY-MARKS IN NEW YORK HARBOR.]
The ship’s course is then laid to reach the most prominent object at
the harbor entrance, in this case Sandy Hook Lightship. She is easily
recognized. The course from this lightship to the harbor entrance
is laid down on the chart “west-northwest, one quarter west,” and,
steering this course, a group of three buoys is reached. One is
a large “nun,” or cone-shaped, buoy, painted black and white in
vertical stripes; another has a triangular framework built on it, and
in the top of this framework is a bell which tolls mournfully as the
buoy is rocked; while the third is surmounted by a big whistle....
These mark the point where ocean ends and harbor begins, and can be
found in fair weather or in fog by their color and shape, or noise.
They are the mid-channel buoys at the entrance to Gedney Channel, the
deep-water entrance to New York harbor. Here it may be noted that
mid-channel buoys in all harbors in the United States are painted
black and white in vertical stripes, and, being in mid-channel,
should be passed close to by all deep-draft vessels. At this point
the pilot takes charge.
Ahead the water seems now to be dotted in the most indiscriminate
manner with buoys and beacons, and on the shores around the harbor,
far and near, there seem to be almost a dozen lighthouses. If,
however, you watch the buoys as the pilot steers the ship between
them, you will soon see that all those passed on the right-hand side
are _red_, and all on the left are _black_. Where more than one
channel runs through the same harbor, the different channels are
marked by buoys of different shapes. Principal channels are marked by
“nun” buoys, secondary channels by “can” buoys, and minor channels by
“spar” buoys.
[Illustration: NUN BUOYS.]
[Illustration: CAN BUOYS.]
[Illustration: SPAR BUOYS.]
Gedney Channel is a short, dredged lane leading over the outer bar,
or barrier of sand, which lies between harbor and ocean. Its buoys
are lighted at night by electricity, through submarine cables, the
red ones with red lights, the black ones with white lights. Moreover,
a little lighthouse off to the left, known as Sandy Hook Beacon,
has in its lamp a red sector which throws a red beam just covering
Gedney Channel. Thus this channel can be passed through in safety by
night as well as by day. If it is night the pilot knows when he is
through it by the change of color in Sandy Hook Beacon light from
red to white. Then he looks away past that light to his left for
two fixed white lights on the New Jersey shore and hillside, known
as Point Comfort Beacon and Waackaack Beacon, for he knows that by
keeping them in range, that is to say, in line with one another and
himself, and by steering toward them he is in the main ship channel.
By day the main ship channel buoys would guide him, as in Gedney
Channel, but at night these buoys are not lighted.
Only a short distance is now traversed when the ship comes to a point
where two unseen channels meet. This is indicated by a buoy having
a tall spindle, or “perch,” surmounted by a latticed square. From
here, if she continues on her course, she will remain in the main
ship-channel, which, although deeper, is a more circuitous route into
port; so, if she does not draw too much water, she is turned somewhat
to the right, and, leaving the buoy with the perch and square on her
right, because it is red, she is steered between the buoys which mark
Swash Channel. If it were night this channel would be revealed by two
range-lights on the Staten Island shore and hillside, known as Elm
Tree Beacon and New Dorp Beacon, both being steady-burning, white
lights; but we are entering by daylight, and when half-way through
Swash Channel we notice a buoy painted red and black in horizontal
stripes. To this is given a wide berth by the pilot. It is an
“obstruction” buoy marking a shoal spot or a wreck.
[Illustration: OBSTRUCTION BUOY.]
Channel buoys are all numbered in sequence from the sea inward, the
red ones with even, and the black ones with odd numbers, and the
larger ones are anchored with “mushrooms” while the smaller have
“sinkers” of iron or stone. They are made of iron plates in water-tight
compartments, so that if punctured by an over-running ship or some
other accident, they will not be likely to sink. In harbors where ice
forms in winter, large summer buoys are replaced in winter by a smaller
sort less liable to be torn adrift. Buoys do go adrift, however, now
and then, and sometimes take a voyage across the ocean or far down
the coast before they can be found by the tenders of the Lighthouse
Service, which is constantly looking after these and other marks.
Lieutenant Ellicott tells us that all changes in the position of buoys
or lightships, or the placing of new buoys to mark a change of channel,
or an obstruction, are published promptly in pamphlets called “Notices
to Mariners,” which are distributed as quickly as possible through well
organized means of communication. A few years ago one of the largest of
our handsome new cruisers was approaching New York harbor from the West
Indies in a light fog. Sandy Hook Lightship had been found, the usual
course laid for Gedney Channel, and the ship was steaming onward at
full speed, her captain, having been inspector of that very lighthouse
district but a short time before, feeling that he knew his way into
that port better than the most experienced pilot. Presently, however,
he was startled by the alarming cry of _breakers ahead_! A large hotel
also loomed up, and, as the ship was backed full speed astern, all
hands realized that they had barely escaped running high and dry on
Rockaway Beach. When the vessel got into port it was learned that Sandy
Hook Lightship had been moved considerably from its old position, and
that the notice of this change had failed to reach the captain of the
cruiser before he sailed from the West Indies.
[Illustration: A WHISTLING BUOY, OUT OF COMMISSION.]
Shipwrecks still occur, however, in spite of lighthouses and sirens
and buoys and coast-surveys; therefore we add to our precautions
arrangements to help those cast away. Societies to save wrecked persons
have existed, it is said, for many centuries in China, but in Europe
they are hardly a hundred years old. The early humane societies, like
that of Great Britain, placed life-boats and rescuing gear in certain
shore towns, and organized crews, who promised to go out to the aid of
any lost ship, and to take good care of the persons rescued.
In America, however, our coasts are so extensive, and so much of the
dangerous part of them is far away from villages, or even a farmhouse,
that the government has been obliged to do whatever was necessary. Thus
came about the Life Saving Service, which now has its stations close
together along our whole sea-coast, and upon the great lakes, covering
more than ten thousand miles in all.
Each of these stations is a snug house on the beach, tenanted by a
keeper and six men, all of whom are chosen for their skill in swimming,
and in handling a boat in the surf—something every man who “follows the
sea” cannot do successfully. Beaching a boat through surf is an art.
[Illustration: PATROLMEN EXCHANGING THEIR CHECKS.]
During all the season, from October till May, two men from each station
are incessantly patrolling the beach at night, each walking until he
meets the patrolman from the next station. No matter how foul the
weather, these watchmen are out until daylight looking for disasters.
The moment they discover a vessel ashore, or likely to become disabled,
they summon their companions and hasten to launch their boat. These
boats are of two kinds. On the lakes and on the steep Pacific coast
is used the very heavy English life-boat, fitted with masts and sails
if necessary, which a steam tug is required to tow to the scene of
the wreck, unless it is close in shore. But upon our flat, sandy
Atlantic beaches only a lighter kind of surf-boat, made of cedar,
can be handled. This is built with air-cases at each end and under
the thwarts, so that it cannot sink. The station men drag it on its
low wagon to the scene of its use, unless horses are to be had, and
when it is launched they sit at the six oars, each with his cork belt
buckled around him, and his eye fixed on the steersman, who stands in
the stern, ready to obey his slightest motion of command, for rowing
through the angry waves that dash themselves on a storm-beaten beach
is a matter requiring extraordinary skill and strength. Then, when the
vessel is reached, comes another struggle to avoid being struck and
crushed by the plunging ship, or the broken spars and rigging pounding
about the hull. But skill and caution generally enable the crew to
rescue the unfortunate castaways one by one, though frequently several
trips must be made, in each one of which every surfman risks his life,
and in many a sad case loses it; yet there is no lack of men for the
service.
[Illustration: SAVING A SAILOR BY MEANS OF THE BREECHES-BUOY.]
It is a common occurrence, however, that the sea will run so high that
no boat could possibly be launched. Then the only possibility of rescue
for the crew is by means of a line which shall bridge the space between
the ship and the land before the hull falls to pieces. We read in old
tales of wrecks of how some brave seaman would tie a light line around
his waist, and dare the dreadful waves, and the more dreadful undertow,
to save his comrades. If he got safely upon the beach, he drew a hawser
on shore and made it fast. Now we do not ask this; but with a small
cannon made for the purpose, a strong cord attached to a cannon-ball is
fired over the ship, even though it be several hundred yards distant.
Seizing this line as it falls across their vessel, the imperiled
sailors haul to themselves a larger line, called a “whip,” which they
fasten in a tackle-block in such a way that a still heavier cable can
be stretched between the wreck and the land and made fast.
Then by means of a small side-line and pulleys a double canvas bag,
shaped like a pair of knee-breeches, is sent back and forth between
the ship and the shore, bringing a man each time, until all are
saved. Should there be many persons on board, though, and great haste
necessary, instead of the breeches-buoy a small covered metallic boat,
called the life-car, is sent out, into which several persons may get
at once. These varied means are so skilfully employed, that now hardly
one in two hundred is lost of those whose lives are endangered on the
American coasts.
[Illustration: THE SELF-RIGHTING LIFE-BOAT.]