At long distance, looking over the blue waters of the Gulf of St.
Lawrence in clear weather, you might think that you saw a lonely
sea-gull, snow-white, perching motionless on a cobble of gray rock.
Then, as your boat drifted in, following the languid tide and the soft
southern breeze, you would perceive that the cobble of rock was a rugged
hill with a few bushes and stunted trees growing in the crevices,
and that the gleaming speck near the summit must be some kind of a
building--if you were on the coast of Italy or Spain you would say a
villa or a farm-house. Then, as you floated still farther north and
drew nearer to the coast, the desolate hill would detach itself from
the mainland and become a little mountain-isle, with a flock of smaller
islets clustering around it as a brood of wild ducks keep close to their
mother, and with deep water, nearly two miles wide, flowing between it
and the shore; while the shining speck on the seaward side stood out
clearly as a low, whitewashed dwelling with a sturdy round tower at one
end, crowned with a big eight-sided lantern--a solitary lighthouse.
That is the Isle of the Wise Virgin. Behind it the long blue Laurentian
Mountains, clothed with unbroken forest, rise in sombre ranges toward
the Height of Land. In front of it the waters of the gulf heave and
sparkle far away to where the dim peaks of St. Anne des Monts are traced
along the southern horizon. Sheltered a little, but not completely, by
the island breakwater of granite, lies the rocky beach of Dead Men's
Point, where an English navy was wrecked in a night of storm a hundred
years ago.
There are a score of wooden houses, a tiny, weather-beaten chapel, a
Hudson Bay Company's store, a row of platforms for drying fish, and a
varied assortment of boats and nets, strung along the beach now. Dead
Men's Point has developed into a centre of industry, with a life, a
tradition, a social character of its own. And in one of those houses, as
you sit at the door in the lingering June twilight, looking out across
the deep channel to where the lantern of the tower is just beginning
to glow with orange radiance above the shadow of the island--in that
far-away place, in that mystical hour, you should hear the story of the
light and its keeper.
I
When the lighthouse was built, many years ago, the island had another
name. It was called the Isle of Birds. Thousands of sea-fowl nested
there. The handful of people who lived on the shore robbed the nests
and slaughtered the birds, with considerable profit. It was perceived in
advance that the building of the lighthouse would interfere with
this, and with other things. Hence it was not altogether a popular
improvement. Marcel Thibault, the oldest inhabitant, was the leader of
the opposition.
“That lighthouse!” said he, “what good will it be for us? We know the
way in and out when it makes clear weather, by day or by night. But when
the sky gets swampy, when it makes fog, then we stay with ourselves at
home, or we run into La Trinite, or Pentecote. We know the way. What?
The stranger boats? B'EN! the stranger boats need not to come here,
if they know not the way. The more fish, the more seals, the more
everything will there be left for us. Just because of the stranger
boats, to build something that makes all the birds wild and spoils the
hunting--that is a fool's work. The good God made no stupid light on the
Isle of Birds. He saw no necessity of it.”
“Besides,” continued Thibault, puffing slowly at his pipe,
“besides--those stranger boats, sometimes they are lost, they come
ashore. It is sad! But who gets the things that are saved, all sorts
of things, good to put into our houses, good to eat, good to sell,
sometimes a boat that can be patched up almost like new--who gets these
things, eh? Doubtless those for whom the good God intended them. But who
shall get them when this sacre lighthouse is built, eh? Tell me that,
you Baptiste Fortin.”
Fortin represented the party of progress in the little parliament of the
beach. He had come down from Quebec some years ago bringing with him a
wife and two little daughters, and a good many new notions about life.
He had good luck at the cod-fishing, and built a house with windows at
the side as well as in front. When his third girl, Nataline, was born,
he went so far as to paint the house red, and put on a kitchen, and
enclose a bit of ground for a yard. This marked him as a radical, an
innovator. It was expected that he would defend the building of the
lighthouse. And he did.
“Monsieur Thibault,” he said, “you talk well, but you talk too late. It
is of a past age, your talk. A new time comes to the Cote Nord. We
begin to civilize ourselves. To hold back against the light would be
our shame. Tell me this, Marcel Thibault, what men are they that love
darkness?”
“TORRIEUX!” growled Thibault, “that is a little strong. You say my deeds
are evil?”
“No, no,” answered Fortin; “I say not that, my friend, but I say this
lighthouse means good: good for us, and good for all who come to this
coast. It will bring more trade to us. It will bring a boat with the
mail, with newspapers, perhaps once, perhaps twice a month, all through
the summer. It will bring us into the great world. To lose that for the
sake of a few birds--CA SERA B'EN DE VALEUR! Besides, it is impossible.
The lighthouse is coming, certain.”
Fortin was right, of course. But Thibault's position was not altogether
unnatural, nor unfamiliar. All over the world, for the past hundred
years, people have been kicking against the sharpness of the pricks that
drove them forward out of the old life, the wild life, the free life,
grown dear to them because it was so easy. There has been a terrible
interference with bird-nesting and other things. All over the world the
great Something that bridges rivers, and tunnels mountains, and fells
forests, and populates deserts, and opens up the hidden corners of the
earth, has been pushing steadily on; and the people who like things
to remain as they are have had to give up a great deal. There was no
exception made in favour of Dead Men's Point. The Isle of Birds lay in
the line of progress. The lighthouse arrived.
It was a very good house for that day. The keeper's dwelling had three
rooms and was solidly built. The tower was thirty feet high. The lantern
held a revolving light, with a four-wick Fresnel lamp, burning sperm
oil. There was one of Stevenson's new cages of dioptric prisms around
the flame, and once every minute it was turned by clockwork, flashing a
broad belt of radiance fifteen miles across the sea. All night long that
big bright eye was opening and shutting. “BAGUETTE!” said Thibault, “it
winks like a one-eyed Windigo.”
The Department of Marine and Fisheries sent down an expert from Quebec
to keep the light in order and run it for the first summer. He
took Fortin as his assistant. By the end of August he reported to
headquarters that the light was all right, and that Fortin was qualified
to be appointed keeper. Before October was out the certificate of
appointment came back, and the expert packed his bag to go up the river.
“Now look here, Fortin,” said he, “this is no fishing trip. Do you think
you are up to this job?”
“I suppose,” said Fortin.
“Well now, do you remember all this business about the machinery that
turns the lenses? That 's the main thing. The bearings must be kept well
oiled, and the weight must never get out of order. The clock-face will
tell you when it is running right. If anything gets hitched up here's
the crank to keep it going until you can straighten the machine again.
It's easy enough to turn it. But you must never let it stop between dark
and daylight. The regular turn once a minute--that's the mark of this
light. If it shines steady it might as well be out. Yes, better! Any
vessel coming along here in a dirty night and seeing a fixed light would
take it for the Cap Loup-Marin and run ashore. This particular light has
got to revolve once a minute every night from April first to December
tenth, certain. Can you do it?”
“Certain,” said Fortin.
“That's the way I like to hear a man talk! Now, you've got oil enough to
last you through till the tenth of December, when you close the light,
and to run on for a month in the spring after you open again. The ice
may be late in going out and perhaps the supply-boat can't get down
before the middle of April, or thereabouts. But she'll bring plenty of
oil when she comes, so you'll be all right.”
“All right,” said Fortin.
“Well, I've said it all, I guess. You understand what you've got to do?
Good-by and good luck. You're the keeper of the light now.”
“Good luck,” said Fortin, “I am going to keep it.” The same day he shut
up the red house on the beach and moved to the white house on the island
with Marie-Anne, his wife, and the three girls, Alma, aged seventeen,
Azilda, aged fifteen, and Nataline, aged thirteen. He was the captain,
and Marie-Anne was the mate, and the three girls were the crew. They
were all as full of happy pride as if they had come into possession of a
great fortune.
It was the thirty-first day of October. A snow-shower had silvered the
island. The afternoon was clear and beautiful. As the sun sloped toward
the rose-coloured hills of the mainland the whole family stood out in
front of the lighthouse looking up at the tower.
“Regard him well, my children,” said Baptiste; “God has given him to us
to keep, and to keep us. Thibault says he is a Windigo. B'EN! We shall
see that he is a friendly Windigo. Every minute all the night he
shall wink, just for kindness and good luck to all the world, till the
daylight.”