THE WOLF, THE LAND’S END, AND THE LONGSHIPS
Soon after a lighthouse had been built at the Lizard, the dangers of the
Wolf Rock, that lies between that point and the Land’s End attracted
the attention of the Trinity House. The rock takes its name from the
wolf-like howling of the waves that once washed through it—noises that
were silenced, years before the lighthouse was proposed there, by the
superstitious fishermen, who, caring not for such uncanny music, filled
up the cavity with stones. At first the idea of a lighthouse on the Wolf
seemed impossible; the Eddystone lighthouse had been difficult enough
to erect, and here were far greater difficulties to be encountered—less
space on which to build, and less capability of landing materials. It was
therefore proposed to fix on the rock the copper figure of a wolf, which
was to be so constructed that the air passing through it would produce
the howling sounds which in times past had, to a certain extent, acted
as a safeguard to mariners by warning them of the presence of danger.
The figure was duly constructed, but the force of the waves that, even
in smooth weather, broke over the rock, rendered all efforts to fix it
ineffectual, and the idea had to be abandoned.
Then a bell-buoy—similar to that which the venerable abbot had placed on
the Inchcape Rock—was suggested for the Wolf. But the fishermen did not
like this; it would, they said, frighten the fish, and they threatened,
were it put there, to cut it away. The fact is, the fishermen at the
Land’s End were, like their neighbours at the Lizard, not over anxious
for any indication of danger—anything that would _prevent_ shipwreck.
So the idea of marking the Wolf was, for a while, abandoned; but the
progress in the science of lighthouse construction made during the early
years of this century, and Robert Stevenson’s successful erection on the
Bell Rock, suggested that perhaps, after all, a lighthouse might be built
on the Wolf. Stevenson was asked to consider the matter, and after doing
so he undertook to put one there at a cost of £150,000. Why his offer
was not accepted we do not know; possibly the figure was too high. At
all events, instead of a lighthouse, a beacon—first of oak and then of
wrought iron—was the only indication of this treacherous rock till the
year 1860, when the Trinity House, unwilling that the dangers of the Wolf
should only be indicated by day, set about erecting the lighthouse that
now stands there, and which rises to the height of 110 feet.
[Illustration: WOLF ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.]
It took nine years to finish, and certainly the task of building it
did not prove _less_ difficult than was anticipated. Every variety of
engineering trouble presented itself, but only to be overcome by those
entrusted with the work. The ordinary reader could not grasp all these,
even were they set out before him; but he can at least realize that,
as but two feet of the Wolf Rock are dry, even at dead low water, the
lighthouse builders can, at the commencement of their operations, have
had but a remarkably short time each day available for work.
Earlier by far than any idea of placing a lighthouse on the isolated
Wolf, was that for building one at the Land’s End. This place was talked
of as a western harbour for England in 1702, and an estimate for making
one there, at the cost of £30,000, included the expenses of erecting a
lighthouse. But nothing came of this harbour scheme, and three years
later, high and low lighthouses were proposed at Porthdenack Point and on
one of the headlands—probably that on the north—of Whitsand Bay. These
also were never actually commenced. Perhaps it was felt that, whilst the
Carn Bras—a mile to the west of the Land’s End—and the group of rocks
around it remained unmarked, to build lighthouses at the Land’s End would
not have been of much service. And who, in those opening years of the
eighteenth century, would have suggested a lighthouse on the Carn Bras?
True, Winstanley had placed such a building on the Eddystone; but the
storm had soon blown it bodily into the sea, and the stability of the
second lighthouse there was still untried.
So the dangers of the western extremity of Old England were left to do
their worst for home-coming ships for nearly a hundred years more; then
the Carn Bras was marked by the now famous ‘Longships’ lighthouse.
This rock stands over seventy feet above the sea at low water, and the
lighthouse upon it is, to the top of the lantern, fifty-two feet. The
light, a flashing or revolving light, is produced by nineteen oil lamps,
fitted with Argand burners, and there is in connection with the building
a fog-bell and fog-explosive.
The situation of the Cam Bras is lonely in the extreme, but, so far
as care and forethought can make it so, residence there is really
comfortable. Besides the lantern, the lighthouse consists of three
stories—the lowest for coals, water, provisions, and stores; on the
second is the living-room and kitchen, and the third is the keepers’
sleeping apartment. Three men are always in residence on the rock, whilst
a fourth—regularly employed by the Trinity House—resides in one of the
neatly kept cottages at Sennan Cove, set apart as homes for the keepers.
This fourth man is in readiness to go at once to the rock in the event
of his services being needed, to replace a keeper seized with illness or
injured. No keeper is supposed to stay on the Carn Bras more than four
weeks in succession, though it often happens, especially in winter-time,
that the ‘guard’ cannot be regularly ‘relieved.’
[Illustration: LONGSHIPS LIGHTHOUSE.]
This uncertainty in the communication necessitates keeping at the
lighthouse a considerable store of provisions; more indeed—so, on
one occasion, thought an economically minded and newly appointed
inspector—than was actually necessary. A fortnight’s provision on a
place only a few miles from shore! The thing was ridiculous. He had
come out to the Longships on a fine, bright morning, when the sea was
docile as a tame cat, and had reached the lighthouse without difficulty
or discomfort; had he possessed a little more experience, he would have
known that the sea thereabouts soon loses its temper, that its smiles
quickly change into angry scowls. As it was, he bought his experience
that day, for whilst he looked carefully round the building, and
lectured the keepers for their extravagance in demanding stores for
so long a time, the sunshine of the morning was hidden, and the wind
began to freshen. At first it only whistled through the lighthouse, and
made louder speaking necessary, but soon it ruffled the surface of the
water, so that the waves beat against the rock and the spray from them
was driven up to the windows of the living-room. This did not look like
getting back to Sennan Cove by noon, as Mr. Inspector had intended,
and ere long it was blowing a gale of wind. Then his heart sank. As for
the keepers—well, history does not record their feelings; but as even
officials are human, they must surely have chuckled (inwardly, of course)
at the demonstrative lesson their recent lecturer was receiving as to the
uncertainty of communication with the Longships.
Needless to say, the Sennan boat did not return for him that day, nor
that evening; no, nor not on the next, nor the next, nor the next.
Not till a week had run did the weather allow a boat of any kind to
get near the Cam Bras. Poor man! let us hope he made the best of his
incarceration; any way, it is recorded that he was not afterwards heard
to complain of the keepers’ foresight in ordering in a good stock of
provisions at a time, a store that would leave a little margin in case of
accident.
Those who have read James Cobb’s fascinating story, _The Watchers on the
Longships_, will notice how strangely the present orderly management
of the lighthouse, and of everything connected with it, contrasts with
the happy-go-lucky arrangements for maintaining the light that existed
in the lawless days when first it was established. The philanthropic
schoolmaster who lived hard by the Land’s End, and by whose exertions the
Longships lighthouse was established, was no creature of the author’s
imagination; and, with the recollection of Killegrew’s struggle against
popular prejudice fresh in our minds, we can well believe that Cobb’s
powerful picture of life and sentiment amongst the Cornish wreckers is
not over-painted.
[Illustration: THE WRECKER.]
No man did more to fight against this terrible ‘custom’ than the late
Rector of Morwenstow, a desolate seaside village on the coast of North
Cornwall. When he came there some sixty years ago, he found that not only
the fishermen, but the small farmers whose farms lay near the coast,
looked to the wrecks that happened to supply them, to a great extent,
with food and household necessaries, and they regarded anything which
would lessen shipwreck more or less as an interference with their just
rights and privileges. Worse than this, they did not hesitate to procure
shipwreck. The men and women of Morwenstow were wreckers, and nothing
better. It was right, they argued, to till their ground to get as fat a
harvest as they might, and it was fair to lure ships to destruction, so
as to make the most of the harvest the sea would bear them.
The rector’s servants had a good store of wrecking and smuggling stories
to tell; some of them not reflecting too much credit on his predecessors
in the rectory. Here is one of them:—
At Morwenstow and many other seaside parishes in Cornwall it was the
rule, if a shipwreck happened near by in service time, to bring word of
it to the parson, who generally announced the fact to the congregation,
and they, be it said, did not remain much longer to worship.
There was one parson who did not think this hasty departure quite fair
on him, hampered as he was by his clerical robes. One day a piece of
paper was handed to him as he read the service, on which was written news
of a vessel driving towards the rocks below. The parson finished the
prayers, but instead of going to the pulpit walked towards the font. The
congregation never stirred; they only thought their minister was about
to perform a christening. The sound of the parson’s voice coming from
the west end of the church made them turn round, and there they saw him
in outdoor attire, his clerical garb laid aside, and not at the font but
at the door, his hand upon the handle. ‘My Christian brethren,’ said the
reverend gentleman, ‘there’s a ship wrecked upon the rocks below; _this
time we’ll all start fair_;’ and so saying, off he ran towards the rocks,
his flock, you may believe it, following him pretty closely!
You could not get a Cornishman to look on wrecking as a crime. ‘I don’t
see, sir,’ said a very pious old parish clerk one day, ‘why there’s no
prayers for _foul_ weather; we always prays for _fair_ weather, but the
foul makes us richer.’ How can you wonder at such a sentiment when
Cornwall, or rather the Scilly Islands, had a good saint, St. Warna, who
sent wrecks in time of distress, and to whom the people would pray for a
demonstration of her mercy in exceptionally bad seasons!