Front matter (continued 3)

Turning over some loose stones in the shallow pools numbers of young paidle-fish are seen adhering to the under sides by means of their breast suckers, and when taken in the hand readily adhere to the fingers. I lately saw an illustration in which the paidle “hen” was depicted as leading a brood of about two dozen juveniles after the manner of the domestic fowl. This is stretching the simile with a vengeance, and not in accordance with facts. The “hen,” on depositing the ova, takes no further interest in it, and the “cock” alone guards the nest till the young are hatched out, when he also disappears, neither of them being seen till the following season. Considering that each nest probably contains millions of embryos, one can imagine the maternal anxiety in “airing” such a brood.

Cooped indoors so long, one is glad to take advantage of the quiet weather and the absence of the tide to enjoy a spin along the gratings, even though at night and in darkness. At first the darkness seems to preclude all possibility of holding a straight course along the narrow path, but as the eyes get accustomed to it the twenty steps and a round turn can be accomplished with wonderful precision. Should the round turn be omitted, however, you will probably be reminded of it by coming a cropper on the Bell Rock, which, though historical, is not at all sympathetic. A similar omission at the other end meets with more sympathy, if such sentiment can be said to enter Neptune’s embrace. The flash from the lantern overhead sheds no light below, though some fugitive rays escaping between the flashes illuminate the outlying perches or boat-guides. Any attention to these wandering rays occasions a halting tendency in one’s steps and a disposition to lurch laterally, demanding our undivided attention. The night is clear and dark and the various lights along the coast, which on moonlight nights are partially eclipsed, now show to the best advantage. Fifteen miles to the sou’-west the powerful electric light of the Isle of May flings its quadruple flash with startling brilliancy, a faint bar of light travelling athwart the base of our tower with each flash similar to what would be produced by a lighted carriage passing at a few yards distance. This light is said to be of three million candle-power and is of the arc type, using carbons one and a-half inch in diameter. To a stranger entering the light-room while the light is in action a somewhat disagreeable sound is heard. This is occasioned by the tremendous current bridging the arc between the carbons, and for all the world resembles the sound made by a circular saw passing through exceedingly knotty timber. The Bass Rock emerges from the right shoulder of the “May,” and prevents us seeing the light lately erected on its south side. A little to the right of the “May,” the eye encounters the fixed white light of the North Carr Lightship, three miles off Fife Ness, and distant from us nine miles. This light consists of six small argand lamps, set in silvered reflectors and enclosed in a lantern encircling the mast half-way up. Colza oil was the illuminant used until recently in the North Carr Lightship, as it was formerly in all the Northern lighthouses, where it had ousted the more expensive sperm, but which in turn has been superseded by paraffin. The lamps are hung on gimbals to obviate as much as possible the pitching and rolling of the vessel. With due allowance for the exaggeration that a penny piece placed on the deck shows “heads” or “tails” at the vessel’s own sweet will, one can understand that the motion in bad weather must be considerable. Table guards, though retaining the dishes on the table, do not in the slightest restrain the liberty of their contents, which find lodgment as they list. On such occasions the men resort to the expedient of squatting on the deck of their quarters with their backs against the bulkhead and their outstretched feet firmly opposed to those of their opposite neighbour, and only thus, plate in hand, are they enabled to discuss their soup with any degree of certainty.

Further to the right, in line with the town of Crail—landlocked from us—a dull red glare in the sky marks the position of Edinburgh, distant forty miles as the crow flies. Following the loom of the Fife coast, the twinkling lights of St Andrews next meet the eye, while further up the Firth the two fixed lights of Tayport greet their doubles of Buddonness on the opposite side. Midway between the lights of Tayport and Buddon a single flash every half minute marks the position of the Abertay Lightship. Unlike the other lights here mentioned, the three last named are under the control of the Dundee Corporation. Journeying northwards till almost at right angles to our starting point, the next visible are the lights of Arbroath, twelve miles distant. Viewed through the telescope how dreary and desolate they appear, without the usual accompanying signs of life, a feeble cluster in the vicinity of the harbour dwindling away to the Victoria Park in a solitary line. Further north the occulting light of Montrose Ness catches the eye with its thirty seconds of light followed by thirty seconds’ darkness. Northwards still, twenty-five miles from us, the light of Tod Head, near Bervie, limits our view in that direction. Only in exceptionally clear weather is it visible from here, and then only from the elevation of our balcony. The characteristics of this light are six white flashes in quick succession during fifteen seconds, followed by fifteen seconds’ darkness. Returning to our starting point, the Isle of May, and journeying till thirty miles due south from here, our view is again limited by St Abb’s Head, showing a white flash every ten seconds. About midway between the latter light and the “May” the light of Barns Ness, near Dunbar, is, like St Abb’s and Tod Head, only occasionally seen, its characteristic being a triple white flash every thirty seconds. The presence of these lights makes our coasts as safely navigable by night as by day, and the demand is still for more—a fact which drew from a facetious old “salt” the remark that “sailors nowadays want a hand-rail along the coast.”

December 1903

DECEMBER 1903.

A month of dull, dark, unsettled weather, with scarcely any sunshine to speak of, and admitting of but little heliographic communication with the “shore,” a condition of things, by the way, preventing the “shore station” proclaiming to anxious eyes the interesting advent of another addition to the census. Quite a depressing effect is experienced at such prolonged absence of the land, and the reappearance of the Grampians, though swathed in winter vestments, would be a welcome sight. Our fish supply ceased early in the month, and its renewal need not be expected before the month of May. Gulls are numerous at present, and evidently on short rations considering their vigilant attention to the kitchen slops. Our only feathered visitor for the month was a belated bullfinch, who reached us only to die. The eiders and longtails continue in evidence, and have now the company of four cormorants.

Star-fish are always plentiful here, though of course more numerous in summer. All are of the five-rayed variety, including the “brittle” star-fish, which, unlike its fellows, discards its rays on the slightest irritation, and possesses a body no larger than a shirt button, in ludicrous contrast with the squirming rays two inches in length. In startling contrast with the latter was a specimen found in a shallow pool early in the month, and which was quite new to us here. Six inches in diameter, the stranger appeared all body, with very short rays, of which there were twelve. Unlike the usual five-pointed star shape, it might be better described as a deeply serrated disc, the upper surface being richly coloured with concentric rings of crimson. Another object of note at present is seen scattered about the rocks, resembling small coils of ribbon, apparently the egg-cases of some fish. These are white in colour, and somewhat resemble the outline of the human ear. The enveloping membrane, of rubber-like consistency, is quite transparent, and is seen to contain a frothy fluid. The inner edge of each coil is furnished with an adhesive margin, by means of which it is firmly fixed to the rock surface.

It is interesting to note the different modes adopted by fish to ensure the propagation of their species. Some, apparently careless of results, consign the spawn to the mercy of the waves, while others conceal it from predatory neighbours in the soft, sandy bottom. The skate family, adopting a different procedure with their egg cases—those purse-like receptacles often seen cast up on our beaches—moor them securely to the vegetation on the sea bottom by the long elastic tendrils—prolongations of the four corners of the case. Parental interest is, perhaps, better evinced in the case of the “paidle-fish” standing guard over his nest with unwearied vigilance, exhibiting all the care of a brooding hen for his future offspring. Again, in the case of the dog-fish—the plague of fishermen—how different. Here the young are brought forth, after the fashion of mammals, fully developed. A common sight in fishing boats where these pests are brought on board, is to see the finger-long juveniles swimming briskly about in the bilge-water with the yolk-sac still attached. In some parts it is customary to split and dry these fish for winter consumption, though the flavour of roasted “dogs” would scarcely recommend itself to anyone unaccustomed to its use, nor its relationship to fish even be suspected. The liver at one time supplied the natives of the Hebrides with lamp oil, and was also considered a panacea for all bovine ailments, the method of administering the dose being to keep the head of the cow elevated while the mouth was forced open, and the entire liver, as removed from the fish, slipped gently down the throat; no “sugar-coated pills” about that!

Spring tides occurring at the “full” and “change” of the moon, and our gratings consequently being then uncovered for a much longer period each tide, the “reliefs” are so arranged as to fall on or about these dates. Consequently, during the winter months, when the reliefs are made after dark, there is always the chance of every alternate relief being favoured with full moonlight. On the night of the 18th our final relief for the year was effected in comparatively quiet weather. At relief times, providing the weather is quiet, the landing gratings begin to uncover when the ebb has run four hours. Whenever a footing is possible the keepers descend with the signal-lamps, and by their colour—red, green, or white—indicate to the relieving steamer the landing they consider it safest to attempt. Two boats are immediately dispatched from the steamer in charge of the first and second officers, and, guided by the steamer’s searchlight, cautiously approach the landing signalled. Given quiet weather, the narrow passages leading to the different landings are easily negotiated, though to a stranger, even in quiet weather, the attempt would be extremely hazardous. Should there be any surf on the Rock, the boats take up a position as near the entrance as is prudent with safety, and there wait the opportunity of a lull. This generally occurring at the termination of three bigger waves than usual, the officer gives the word, and the first boat shoots forward into the boiling track. Talk about “shooting the rapids,” why, it isn’t a circumstance to it. Swinging through “Johnny Gray” track on a dirty night in mid-winter is quite “rapid” enough to satisfy the most morbid desire for excitement. At times disaster lies beneath the very oars, but the necessary impetus has already been given to the boat, and she clears it with a rush, to be met the next moment with a drenching sea on the port bow, which threatens to slew her upon the opposite ledge, despite the strenuous resistance of the starboard oars, the tips of which grate on the shelving ledge as they urge her through the narrow channel into safety, the entire effort affording a splendid demonstration of the necessity for doing the right thing at the right moment. The seamen understand exactly what is expected of them, and respond with alacrity to the officers’ orders. Despite the danger attending such work, that no serious accident has ever been recorded reflects much credit on all concerned, from the captain, who, as a boy, began his career on board the vessel which he now commands, downwards. Particularly is the second officer—a veteran of forty years’ experience in this work—to be congratulated on the possession of a “clean sheet” after such protracted service in what is frequently an extremely hazardous calling.

January 1904

JANUARY 1904.

The weather continues dull and dark, but comparatively quiet—a matter of much importance to us at relief times. We have no aversion to a rousing gale between reliefs; then one can afford to appreciate the grandeur of the warring elements; but as the appointed time draws near, and no sign of abatement is evident, all hands become a trifle uneasy, especially the man whose turn it is for shore duty. It is rather tantalising to see the relief steamer cruising doubtfully round the Rock, then finally take her departure, unable to effect a landing, all on account of “that nasty swell,” which possibly a week ago we were eulogising as “sublime!” It is a matter of remark here how quickly the boisterous nor’-east seas are subdued by the westerly wind. At times the morning presents a scene anything but peaceful, the whole reef enveloped by shouting, tumbling seas, which bang our domicile till the crockery rattles, and blind by their spray our kitchen windows, seventy feet from the Rock—yet, let the wind but freshen from the westward and the conflict immediately becomes visible. The seas, now driving in the teeth of the wind, have their curling crests whipped cleanly off and carried leeward like clouds of steam. Perceptibly their force diminishes as they “lift and ’scend” in the struggle for supremacy, till by evening tide a comparatively easy relief may be effected. Home news and the doings of the outer world are then at our disposal, as well as a welcome consignment of fresh provisions. Considering his almost seven weeks’ confinement on the Rock, the shore-going keeper may be pardoned a feeling of relief and elation as he steps on board the relieving steamer—a feeling, by the way, not at all to be confounded with that of the return journey. As an instance how dissimilar the same object may appear from different view-points, our lonely habitation never seems to assume such a pleasing aspect as when seen vanishing astern. Verily, it is we who appreciate the truth of the Irishman’s illogical remark that “the best thing about going away from home is getting back again.”

A round of the different fishing pools was made this month at low water, resulting in the capture of a most unhealthy-looking specimen of a poddley in the “Hospital” (Neill’s Pool). Long, lank, and lean, a post-mortem revealed the liver attenuated to a mere thread. It is most remarkable why these sickly fish should favour this pool alone. About twenty feet in diameter and twelve feet deep, with the bottom thickly strewn with rounded boulders, there is always a shallow wash into it at the lowest state of the tide. Possibly its greater depth offers a safer refuge for these convalescents than the other pools. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that in this pool alone these specimens are found; not only poddlies, but lythe and cod as well. With the flying fish of the tropics we are more or less familiar, and of tree-climbing fish and overland travellers we have the testimony of travellers that such perverse specimens do exist. The ceratodus of Queensland, for instance, which, with its peculiar respiratory arrangement and ambulatory fins is enabled to transport itself over swampy ground in migrating from pool to pool, a feat suggestive of the Yankee’s shallow-draught steamer, to which an ordinary meadow was easily navigable, providing there had been a heavy dewfall. The cause of these reflections was the discovery of a small fish, some four inches in length, on the cleaning path encircling our lantern, over a hundred feet from its usual habitat. Of the “cobbler” variety, the expanded pectoral fins might, with a little imagination, be imbued with the powers of flight, but more than likely our visitor owed its exalted position to some predatory gull, which, unable to bolt its victim or escape from covetous neighbours, had dropped it where found.

A solitary lapwing was our only feathered visitor for the mouth. Apropos of these days of “retaliation,” there is an old Scottish Act of Parliament of the time of Edward the First relating to this bird, in which all its eggs are ordered to be broken when found, “in order that Peesweeps may not go south, and become a delicious repast to our unnatural enemies the English!”

A quiet night on the 31st seemed to augur favourably for our relief, which was due the following evening; by that time, however, the prospect was completely changed by a strong sou’-east wind, and consequently heavy sea, which rendered landing extremely doubtful. The following morning the Pharos made her appearance, and attempted a landing at daybreak. The two boats despatched from the steamer for this purpose, on approaching the Rock, found the passage unsafe to attempt, and returned to the steamer. Weighing anchor, the Pharos proceeded to the relief of the North Carr Lightship, where, owing to the tempestuous state of the weather, she broke the hawser by which she moors to the lightship three times during the operation. Landing the relief men from the lightship and Bass Rock—which had been relieved the previous day—at North Berwick, and sheltering overnight at the Isle of May, she returned to us on Wednesday morning and succeeded in effecting the relief.

February 1904

FEBRUARY 1904.

Cormorants have been more in evidence here this month than usual. At present a flock of thirteen is to be seen diving in the deep water surrounding the reef. Scorning the crustaceans, molluscs, and other ground game of the eiders and longtails, these birds subsist entirely upon fish, in pursuit of which they are extremely dexterous. The long sharp-pointed bill is excellently adapted for securing their prey, the extremity of the upper mandible curving over the lower in a sharp hook, the efficiency of which I once saw forcibly demonstrated. One of these birds, while flying high overhead, was winged by a gunshot, and on striking the ground disgorged a recently swallowed poddley, some ten inches long. A boy of the party, having the temerity to thrust his foot towards the bird, had the upper leather of his boot pierced and the foot slightly wounded by the sharp hook-like process of the upper mandible. During an exceedingly rigorous winter in Orkney—in ’94, if I remember aright—hundreds of these birds perished from hunger. In a roofless hut, a few yards from high-water mark, I counted fourteen dying and dead. Rats were busy devouring the dead, while the living stumbled weakly over the half-eaten bodies of their comrades. In the most unlikely places they were to be met with, coming right up to our doors as if begging for shelter. One of them surprised me by waddling into the workshop, passing over my boots as if unconscious of my presence, and settling underneath the bench to die. Any food we could offer them was always rejected. One evening my attention was drawn to our poultry, which, instead of being on their roost, stood huddled about the entrance. Thinking the entrance had been accidentally blocked from within, I entered by the doorway to investigate. Judge my astonishment at finding “Mister Phalacrocorax Carbo”—such is the cormorant’s scientific title—standing Horatius-like holding the diminutive passage against all comers. Wisps of feathers, with shreds of skin adhering to them, lay strewn in front of him, while his effective “hook” gleamed gory from the carnage. Needless to state, his ejectment was summarily effected. When in pursuit of prey their method of diving is conspicuously different from other birds of the diving fraternity, and they may be identified at a long distance by this peculiarity alone. Bracing themselves together, they spring forward as if surmounting some imaginary obstacle on the surface, the entire body assuming the form of an arc, reminding one of a fractious pony in the act of “bucking.” The ducks, on the other hand, with wings half open, merely topple over and under, turning on their own axis, so to speak. Having secured a fish, it is brought to the surface, where, after some preliminary adjustments to facilitate transit, it disappears head first, the long neck denoting its course by “swelling wisibly.” This is the bird which the Chinese train to fish for them. A ring is placed on the bird’s neck, which prevents it appropriating its earnings for its own use. Whenever a swollen neck appears the owner is hauled on board the “sampan,” and the “swelling” reduced by a rough and ready form of massage. Occasionally the constricting ring is removed, and the bird permitted to enjoy its catch as a stimulant to further exertions. History records the use of this bird for similar purposes in our own country in the olden times, a leather strap being used instead of the ring. Last year, fishermen in the south of England petitioned for power to destroy these birds at all seasons on the plea of the destruction caused by them amongst fish in the estuaries. The cormorant measures three feet in length, and belongs to the pelican family, of which we have but two other British representatives—the shag, a smaller edition of the cormorant by eight inches, and the gannet or solan goose.

On several occasions during the month a seal was observed sporting amongst the breakers. The other evening he was seen within a few yards of the tower, busy devouring a huge cod. Mastication was entirely dispensed with; tilting his snout in the air, each ragged mouthful disappeared at a single gulp. The fish was allowed to sink after every mouthful; and two or three minutes would be spent under water before bringing it to the surface for another attack. In a remarkably short time the head and backbone alone were left.

Our feathered visitors for the month were represented by a couple of skylarks, three song thrushes, a pair of carrion crows, and a solitary starling. Eiders and longtails still continue in attendance, and gannets are now plentiful. The latter arrived at their breeding haunt on the Bass Rock from their southern sojourn on the 9th of last month.

The month has been wet, cold, and stormy, exceptionally heavy seas prevailing in the earlier half. The closing day of the month was beautifully clear and sunny, but cold and frosty, our heliograph intimating on that date a similar state of weather on shore.

March 1904

MARCH 1904.

Of the mighty steeds of illustrious riders, from the Bucephalus of Alexander down to the famous chargers of our present-day Generals, much has been written and even sung. Favourites of fortune, their lives were mostly cast in pleasant places; and after a brilliant career, more or less useful, permitted to end their days in secluded luxury—a privilege, by the way, not always extended to their riders. The subject of these remarks is in no way connected with the glorious achievement of arms, nor is it recorded that he ever scented the battle even from afar; yet, though compelled to wear, so to speak, the hodden grey of equine society, his claim to distinction may none the less be justified.

In July 1810, a somewhat queer procession might have been seen wending its way through Edinburgh towards the Port of Leith. Upon a cart, drawn by a powerful horse, decorated with bows and streamers of various colours, and driven by James Craw, the famous Bell Rock carter, similarly bedecked, lay the last principal stone of the Bell Rock Lighthouse. From the centre of the stone rose a flagstaff, carrying the national flag, while seamen and stonecutters—a strange combination—gaily bedecked with variegated ribbons—the latter donning brand new aprons for the occasion—marched in joyful procession. When abreast of the Trinity House of Leith, they were joined by the Officer of that Corporation, resplendent in full uniform, and bearing his staff of office; and on arriving at the harbour, where the Smeaton—engaged in transporting material to the Bell Rock—lay, the entire shipping hoisted their colours in salute, thus indicating the amount of public interest evinced in the progress of the Lighthouse.

An item of interest, at this time, was a visit by Mrs Dickson, a daughter of Smeaton of Eddystone fame—whose principles were largely taken advantage of in the construction of the Bell Rock Lighthouse—to inspect the vessel, named in honour of her distinguished father. “In stepping on board,” writes Mr Stevenson in his ‘Bell Rock Lighthouse,’ “Mrs Dickson seemed quite overcome by so many concurrent circumstances tending in a peculiar manner to revive and enliven the memory of her departed father; and, on leaving the vessel, she would not be restrained from presenting the crew with a piece of money.”

Though the site of the workyard in connection with the building was situated in Arbroath, from its contiguity to the Rock, it was found necessary, owing to the liability of the stones procured from Mylnefield Quarry, near Dundee, to injury from frost—from which cause many valuable stones had already been lost—to procure stones for the cornice of the building and parapet wall of the lightroom which would admit of being wrought with safety during the winter months. The desired qualities of durability and immunity from injury by frost were ultimately found in the famous Liver-rock of the Craigleith Quarry. At Greenside, Edinburgh, a vacant piece of ground was procured; and here the cornice and parapet wall were hewn and built in position for the fitting of the huge cast-iron lantern.

The horse in question had, with his driver, been employed in the workyard at Arbroath, and was computed to have drawn the materials of the lighthouse, extending to upwards of two thousand tons in its finished state, three or four times—in removing the blocks of stone from the ship to the workyard, again to the platform upon which each course was temporarily built, from the workyard to where they were shipped for the Rock, besides occasional movements to and from the hands of the stonecutters. Deciding that “Bassey” and his driver should have the honour of participating in the closing scene of the undertaking, they were accordingly transported by sea to Leith.

In the course of their passage in the Smeaton, the vessel narrowly escaped shipwreck. Under orders to call at the Rock for lumber, they had apparently lost their bearings through fog; for, suddenly startled by the sound of the smith’s hammer and anvil, they had just time to put the ship about and escape running full tilt on the north-west portion of the Rock, which, from this incident, still bears the name of “James Craw’s Horse.”

On the completion of operations at the Rock, the horse “Bassey,” failing somewhat from age, was pensioned off by the Commissioners, and allowed to roam at liberty on the island of Inchkeith till his death in 1813. “The fame of this animal’s labours,” writes Mr Stevenson, “together with his strength and excellent proportions as a draught-horse, having attracted the attention of Dr John Barclay, that eminent anatomist procured the bones and set them up in his museum. This valuable collection, it is understood, is to be bequeathed to the College of Surgeons of Edinburgh; so that the bones of the Bell Rock horse” (to use the doctor’s own language) “will be seen and admired as a useful skeleton and a source of instruction when those of his employers lie mingled with the dust.”

With the exception of a few days, the weather this month has been extremely favourable; indeed, for the greater part, summer-like—a pleasant change from what we have experienced of late. The peculiar white rubber-like folds of ribbon which have been adhering to the Rock surface for the past two months, and which we erroneously supposed to be the ova of some fish, turn out to be the spawn of the slugs I have already described, and with which the Rock has been freely invested of late—proof of which several have been seen in the act of extrusion. These shell-less molluscs have been much in evidence this season; and representatives of three distinct families are to be met with, namely, the Onchidoridæ, Tritoniidæ, and Eolididæ. Cannibals, they attack their own species without compunction, and devour each other’s spawn. Darwin computed that some “ribbons” contained as many as six hundred thousand eggs. The acorn barnacles which have escaped the voracity of the white whelks have in some places attained a height of two inches. On examination, each shelly casement is seen charged with spawn, which, later on, will be liberated as free swimmers, totally unlike the parent form, to enjoy a brief period of unrestricted freedom before settling down on the Rock surface, or, for that matter, any immersed object that comes handy, and ultimately assuming the adult form. The young swimmer, feeling itself gradually becoming invested with a shelly covering, casts about for a suitable site to pass the remainder of its existence. Selecting the Rock surface, it attaches itself by its head, the antennæ become cemented to the surface, the eyes remain in a rudimentary form, the shelly plates which latterly form the door of its domicile appear, a few more pairs of legs are developed, and by a series of frequent moultings (like other crustaceans) arrives at the perfect state. The bunches of “fingers” which we see this animal protrude and withdraw when under water are in reality its feet, of which there are twelve pairs, the rhythmic expansion and contraction of which induce a current in the water attracting to its mouth the minute objects upon which it feeds, thus giving rise to the saying that this animal stands on its head and literally kicks its food into its mouth. In all other crustacea the sexes are distinct, the barnacles alone having the peculiarity of being bi-sexual, or having both sexes united in the same individual. The general tendency throughout nature—the evolution from a lower to a higher order, from the simple to the complex—appears in the case of the barnacle to be reversed. Gifted in the initial stage of its existence with all the functions of a free-swimming animal, and possessing organs which ultimately become rudimentary, the final phase in which all power of volition is lost, certainly does not appear one of progression.

Hermit crabs are at present abundant, and also demonstrate their wonderful fecundity. Starfishes—principally the five-rayed variety—are now numerous, and garnish each shallow pool. Sea-urchins, though never plentiful here, are occasionally met with, some having been found recently no larger than a pea. On the 20th the advent of the paidle-fish was announced by a small patch of ova underneath a projecting ledge of rock, and, on the same date, by a reconnoitring “cock.” The young of last summer are met with adhering to stones in the shallow pools; and, contrary to our expectations, though only two inches long, were found to contain spawn. The spring migratory movement has sent but few birds our way this year. A few thrushes, blackbirds, larks, starlings, and a couple of pied wagtails composed our list. By the middle of the month, the longtailed ducks had gone north to nest, and but four pairs of eiders now remain.

April 1904

APRIL 1904.

A perusal of Stevenson’s “Bell Rock Lighthouse” reveals many interesting episodes of that period in connection with the undertaking. The following facts are from this source, and may be of sufficient general interest to warrant repeating. The facts mentioned have reference to another providential escape from serious disaster recorded during the earlier stages of the operations. The workmen at this period had their quarters on board the lightship, anchored a mile from the Rock, as the beacon-house, on which they were latterly housed on the Rock, had not yet been erected. As was customary, whenever the tide admitted of a footing on the Rock, all hands were landed, and the boats retained in one of the creeks till the rising tide suspended operations. On this particular occasion, besides the usual two boats from the lightship, they were reinforced by an additional boat from the Smeaton, which had arrived from Arbroath with a fresh consignment of workmen. The wind freshening in the course of the work, the seamen of the Smeaton, fearing for their vessel’s moorings, left the Rock in their own boat with the intention of taking some extra precautions, and returning. Scarcely had they boarded her, however, when, to Mr Stevenson’s consternation, she was seen to break adrift and drive helplessly away before the wind. The danger of the situation at once flashed through his mind. Thirty-two men—three boat-loads—on a rock which would shortly be fathoms under water, with only two boats at their disposal! What was to be done? The workmen, engrossed in their labours, had failed to notice the departure of the boat, and were as yet ignorant of their dangerous position. The Smeaton, now far to leeward, was seen to have made sail, and making every effort to beat up to the Rock, but with the wind still freshening and the flood tide dead against her, it was utterly hopeless to expect any assistance in that direction. Save the deserted lightship no other sail was in sight. Taking the landing-master cautiously aside, to avoid alarming the men, he explained their dangerous situation. After consultation, it was decided that everything of weight should be abandoned, the men to strip their upper clothing, the two boats to be manned to their utmost capacity, and the remainder of the men to support themselves in the water by clinging to the gunwales. By this means they hoped to drift down on the Smeaton, a perilous journey under such circumstances, even in quiet weather, but in the now disturbed state of the sea, a forlorn hope. The workings being now awash with the flowing tide—the usual signal for ceasing work—the workmen were in the act of retiring to the boats to don their shoes and stockings when they noticed the absence of the boat, and realised their danger. On attempting to address them with his proposal, Mr Stevenson found his mouth so parched that he was totally unable to articulate a single word. Stooping to moisten his lips with sea water, he was suddenly startled by the gladsome shout of “A boat! A boat!” and looking around, there, sure enough, a large boat was seen through the haze making straight for the Rock. This opportune arrival proved to be James Spink, the Bell Rock pilot, employed in carrying letters between Arbroath and the Rock. For his services on this occasion it is gratifying to learn that in after years Spink was in receipt of a pension from the Board, and permitted to wear the uniform and badge of the Lighthouse Service.

Paidle-fish are now fairly numerous, their nests, with attendant cocks, being met with on every hand. While observing one of these nests the other day, at low water, I had an interesting experience of the necessity for the surveillance exercised by the cock. Stretched along the rock, my face close to the surface of the pool, I had an excellent view of the nest and its guardian, two feet below. Speculating as to the reason for so close attendance on the ova—his nose being thrust into an orifice in the mass, his mouth opening and shutting energetically, evidently forcing a stream of water through the opening—I carelessly dropped a few whelks on his back. This mild form of bombardment did not in the slightest disconcert him; for, though they struck and rolled off on either side, he appeared to take no notice of them. Suddenly, a white whelk (not one of those I had dropped) made its appearance on the outer margin of the ova, and settled down with the apparent intention of dining. This impertinence, however, was not to be tolerated; for, with a swirling rush that plainly betokened anger, the red-coated sentry seized the offender in his teeth—and here follows the surprising part of it. Instead of dropping the whelk to the bottom there and then, as I expected, he mounted rapidly through the intervening two feet of water, and when near the surface, to my astonishment, spat the whelk almost into my face! That his intention was retaliatory I do not presume to say, but the action certainly appeared an intelligent attempt to “return fire.” Since then, I have repeatedly seen them remove predatory starfishes and whelks in a somewhat similar manner.

The wheat-like ova of the white whelks is also largely in evidence this month, though somewhat later than last year. Exposed at every fall of the tide, it appears to require no attention, each capsule, pendant or upright, firmly adhering to the Rock surface by means of its flattened foot-stalk. The whelks themselves appear in every conceivable corner where food is to be found.

A shallow pit cut into the Rock, measuring two feet by one, and one foot deep—originally the socket of the central support of the beacon-house in which the workmen were lodged during the construction of the lighthouse—serves as a receptacle for anything of interest we may pick up during our rambles round the rocks. Fitted with a grated iron cover, it was at one time used for the purpose of soaking salt junk; but, as every marine organism appeared to consider this a special provision for their needs, it was ultimately abandoned. At present a repulsive-looking “poach” or “cobbler,” some ten inches long, shares this prison with a couple of large star-fishes, an unusually large hermit crab, and a derelict mass of “paidle” spawn. The spawn daily decreases in inverse ratio to the “poach’s” liveliness. Apart from this, however, the spawn shows signs of deterioration, a proof that the attention of the cock is necessary for its well-being.

On the 17th, the remaining four pairs of eiders took their departure, and only a few gulls now remain.

Owing to my transference to another station, it now becomes necessary for me to conclude these random jottings. To the patient reader who has cared to follow me through these notes I bid farewell. Written without any pretensions to literary skill or scientific accuracy, they have nevertheless, in my case, served to enliven many a weary hour in an isolated calling, and have—may I hope?—proved not altogether void of interest to the reader.

THE END.

Edinburgh: George Waterston & Sons, Printers.

Transcriber’s Note:

Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged. Obsolete and alternative spellings were left unchanged. Misspelled words were corrected.

Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the chapter. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added.