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MANNERHEIM, MARSHAL OF FINLAND
 HENRIK MEINANDER

Mannerheim,
Marshal of Finland
A Life in Geopolitics

HURST & COMPANY, LONDON

First published in the United Kingdom in 2023 by
C. Hurst & Co. (Publishers) Ltd.,
New Wing, Somerset House, Strand, London, WC2R 1LA
© Henrik Meinander, 2023
All rights reserved.
Distributed in the United States, Canada and Latin America by
Oxford University Press, 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016,
United States of America.
The right of Henrik Meinander to be identified as the author
of this publication is asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A Cataloguing-in-Publication data record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781787389373
This book is printed using paper from registered sustainable
and managed sources.
www.hurstpublishers.com
 CONTENTS

List of Maps vii

List of Illustrations ix
Foreword xiii
1. Childhood and Adolescence 1
2. The Empire’s Man 29
3. The Officer’s Journey 57
4. The Chain Reaction 83
5. The Gentleman 111
6. Storm Warning 137
7. The Winter War 163
8. Brothers-in-Arms 191
9. Responsibility and Legacy 219
10. Posterity 247
Bibliography 269
Index 287

v
 LIST OF MAPS

Fig. 1.6: The expanding railway network of the Russian

Empire between 1890 and 1919. 26
Fig. 3.1: The route of Mannerheim’s 14,000-kilometre
journey across Asia. 57
Fig. 4.1: The Baltic section of the Eastern Front between
March 1917 and March 1918. 84
Fig. 7.4: The transformation of the political map of Northern
Europe in 1940. 183
Fig. 8.5: The development of the Eastern Front between
September 1943 and December 1944. 212
Fig. 9.3: Soviet-dominated post-war Europe. 234

vii
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 1.1: L ouhisaari Manor, Mannerheim’s birthplace and childhood

home. Drawing by Gunnar Berndtson. 2
Fig. 1.2: B
 rothers Count Carl and Baron Gustaf Mannerheim, 1884.
Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 5
Fig. 1.3: H
 omework test in Hamina Cadet Corps. Illustra­tion by
Hugo Backmansson. From Backmansson, Hugo: Teckningar
ur kadett-lifvet. Helsingfors, 1892. 11
Fig. 1.4: T
 he 20-year-old civilian Mannerheim, between military
schools in 1887. 18
Fig. 1.5: M
 annerheim (right) and a young colleague at the Nicholas
Cavalry School, 1888. Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 19
Fig. 1.6: see List of Maps.
Fig. 2.1: C
 hevalier Guards’ officer Mannerheim in full dress uniform,
1892. Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 29
Fig. 2.2: A
 nastasia Mannerheim, née Arapova, in the mid-1890s.
Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 34
Fig. 2.3: N
 icholas II’s coronation in May 1896, with Mannerheim on
the right. Finnish Heritage Agency HK10000:2368 (Creative
Commons CC BY 4.0). 38
Fig. 2.4: T
 he Russian troops’ chaotic retreat after the Battle of
Liaoyang, 1904. German illustration from the period. From
Gädke, Oberst: Japans Krieg und Sieg. Politisch-militärische
Beschreibung des russisch-japanischen Krieges 1904–1905. Berlin,
c. 1910. 49
Fig. 3.1: see List of Maps.
Fig. 3.2: S outhern Xinjiang, August 1906: Mannerheim (right) visit-
ing a local celebrity, the 96-year-old Alasjka Tsaritsan.
Photo by Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim himself. 62

ix
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 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 3.3: M
 ajor-General Mannerheim in 1912, Comman­der of the
Imperial Life Guards’ Uhlan Regiment in Warsaw and
General in the Imperial Retinue. Mannerheim Museum
photo archives. 67
Fig. 3.4: M
 annerheim in conversation with Marquess Aleksander
Wielopolski in Poland in the early 1910s. Otava photo
archives. 71
Fig. 3.5: M
 annerheim cross-country riding in Poland, 1914.
Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 74
Fig. 3.6: M
 annerheim inspects a bicycle battalion at the Transylvanian
Front, turn of 1916–17. Mannerheim Museum photo
archives. 78
Fig. 4.1: see List of Maps.
Fig. 4.2: T
 he satirical newspaper Kerberos’s summary of Mannerheim’s
and the Germans’ role in the Finnish Civil War. National
Library of Finland. 92
Fig. 4.3: M
 annerheim shaking hands with von der Goltz, German
commander in Finland, at a victory parade on Senate Square,
Helsinki, 16 May 1918. Finnish Heritage Agency HK198
60105:1.31d (Creative Commons CC BY 4.0). 98
Fig. 4.4: T
 he Regent gives a speech to elementary grammar school-
teachers in Helsinki, spring 1919. Otava photo archives. 103
Fig. 5.1: M
 annerheim (second from right) on the steps of his summer
villa in Hanko with Dutch guests, 1925. Mannerheim
Museum photo archives. 118
Fig. 5.2: M
annerheim (second from left) as singer Aulikki
Rautavaara’s dining partner at the Grand Restau­r­ant Börs,
1936. Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 123
Fig. 5.3: T
 he inauguration of the new Lastenlinna Children’s Hospital
in Helsinki, October 1921, featuring Head Nurse Sophie
Mannerheim on Mannerheim’s right. Wikimedia Commons/
public domain. 128
Fig. 5.4: F ield Marshal Mannerheim on a ride in Helsinki’s Central
Park, 1936. Wikimedia Commons/public domain. 132
Fig. 5.5: A
 page from Mannerheim’s hand-written telephone direc-
tory, listing his godchildren, late 1920s. Mannerheim
Museum/photo by Toni Piipponen. 135

x
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 6.1: M
 annerheim with his aide-de-camp in front of his private
residence, mid-1930s. Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 137
Fig. 6.2: M
 annerheim as a guest of the British General Staff, including
General Sir Walter Kirke, Sept­em­ber 1936. Otava photo
archives. 143
Fig. 6.3: Finnish Envoy to Stockholm (and future President of
Finland) J. K. Paasikivi at Helsinki Central Station,
November 1938. From Polvinen, Tuomo: J. K. Paasikivi.
Valtiomiehen elämäntyö 2. 1918–1939. Helsinki, 1992. 150
Fig. 6.4: T
 he “Insurance” Man: Soviet bear knocking on the door of
the Baltic states, a satirical cartoon in The New York Times,
autumn 1939. From Churchill, Winston: Min bunds­förvant.
Berlin, c. 1941. 157
Fig. 7.1: M
 olotov cocktail. Photo from the Finnish Front during the
Winter War, early 1940. SA-kuva | Finnish Wartime
Photograph Archive. 163
Fig. 7.2: M
 annerheim at his desk at Headquarters in Mikkeli, January
1940. SA-kuva | Finnish Wartime Photograph Archive. 169
Fig. 7.3: T
 he first Commemoration Day of Fallen Soldiers at the war
memorial in Joensuu, 19 May 1940. SA-kuva | Finnish
Wartime Photograph Archive. 179
Fig. 7.4: see List of Maps.
Fig. 7.5: A
 menu and guest list handwritten by Mannerheim for a
lunch for the British Minister-Plenipotentiary to Helsinki,
Sir Gordon Vereker, on 15 December 1940. Mannerheim
Museum photo archives. 187
Fig. 8.1: F innish postage stamp depicting Field Marshal Mannerheim,
1941. Mannerheim Museum/Maria Englund. 191
Fig. 8.2: F innish infantry crossing the 1940 border (defined by the
Moscow Peace Treaty), July 1941. SA-kuva | Finnish
Wartime Photograph Archive. 197
Fig. 8.3: M
 annerheim gazes eastwards over the Karelian Isthmus
from Mainila hill, September 1941. SA-kuva | Finnish
Wartime Photograph Archive. 201
Fig. 8.4: H
 itler and Mannerheim on the Marshal’s birthday, 4 June
1942. Finnish Heritage Agency HK197­10326:13 (Creative
Commons CC BY 4.0). 205

xi
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 8.5: see List of Maps.

Fig. 8.6: T
 he University of Helsinki’s Main Building in flames after
being struck by a bomb on the night of 26–27 February
1944. SA-kuva | Finnish War­time Photograph Archive. 215
Fig. 9.1: T
 he freshly appointed President Mannerheim inspects the
guard of honour in front of Parliament House, 4 August
1944. SA-kuva | Finnish War­time Photograph Archive. 220
Fig. 9.2: G
 ertrud Arco-Valley (née Wallenberg) and Mannerheim in
Central Europe, 1949. Wikimedia Commons/public domain. 231
Fig. 9.3: see List of Maps.
Fig. 9.4: M
 annerheim’s funeral procession passing by the Swedish
Theatre in the centre of Helsinki, 2 February 1951.
Mannerheim Museum photo archives. 239
Fig. 10.1: M
 annerheim on the eve of the Continuation War. Satirical
cartoon by Heikki Paakkanen, 1991. From Paakkanen,
Heikki: Suomi sodassa 1939–1945. Helsinki, 1991. Published
with Heikki Paakkanen’s permission. 255
Fig. 10.2: P
 resident Kekkonen lays a wreath at the newly unveiled
equestrian statue of Mannerheim, 4 June 1960. From von
Fersen, Vera: Mannerheim-stiftelsens historia 1945–1951–
2001. Mannerheim-säätiön historia. Helsinki, 2007. 257
Fig. 10.3: M
 onumental: Pekka Vuori’s apt summation of the mythol-
ogy around Mannerheim, 1994. From Paakkanen, Heikki:
Suomi sodassa 1939–1945. Helsinki, 1991. Published with
Heikki Paakkanen’s permission. 264

xii
 FOREWORD

Every book has its own history. This particular one has its origin at
a lunch in the mid-2010s at the Helsinki Bourse Club with the
grand seigneur of the Finnish book trade, Professor Heikki
A. Reenpää (1922–2020). Before we had even begun the main
course, he had proposed that I should write a new concise biogra-
phy of Gustaf Mannerheim, Marshal of Finland, and one of the few
Finns renowned internationally. The idea had certainly crossed my
mind before, since I had spent almost three decades researching,
writing and lecturing about the Marshal. Until that point, how-
ever, I had always put it off, as I had not felt ready for such a
demanding undertaking.
In all probability, I would have gone on putting it off for the rest
of my life, if the suggestion had not come from Heikki A. Reenpää
himself. It was he who had helped bring out the Finnish edition of
the Marshal’s memoirs in the early 1950s, published by Otava.
Reenpää had afterwards nurtured a great number of other
Mannerheim books to fruition at Otava, which meant that his pro-
posal was too tempting to resist. To put it simply, I wanted to join
the publisher’s long line of Mannerheim authors, the first of whom
had been no less than the Marshal himself.
Writing a biography of Mannerheim (1867–1951) was therefore
both a rewarding and a demanding task. It was not only that his
impressive life’s work as an Imperial Russian officer, a Finnish military
commander and head of the state covered a crucial era in the forma-
tion of modern Europe. It was also the way Mannerheim conducted
this journey—so dramatically and sometimes even unpredictably that,
to keep the grip concise, I tried to follow Lytton Strachey’s advice, in
the foreword to his classic study Eminent Victorians: the first duty of the
biographer is to preserve “a brevity which excludes everything that is
redundant and nothing that is significant”.
xiii
 FOREWORD

Another challenge, of course, was to keep a balance between

critical distance and empathic understanding, not least because
Mannerheim still can inspire either unconditional admiration or
deep irritation among many of my countrymen. It is inevitable that
my perspectives and conclusions bear the imprint of my own back-
ground and career. Particularly relevant here is the fact that I was
curator of the Mannerheim Museum in Helsinki in the 1990s, which
taught me much about both the panegyric and demonising tenden-
cies in the politicisation of Mannerheim’s story, whether in histori-
cal research or popular commemoration.
Mannerheim was born into one of Finland’s leading noble fami-
lies, which lost all its fortunes due to his father’s fatal shortcomings.
After these and some other early difficulties, he forged a splendid
career in the Russian Army, coming into close contact with the
Imperial family and serving for three decades. That fascinating chap-
ter in his life ended abruptly when the Russian Revolution of late
1917 brought him back to Finland, which declared its independence
after 108 years as a Russian Grand Duchy. When the revolution
spread to Finland in 1918, Mannerheim was appointed Commander-
in-Chief of the counter-revolutionary Finnish White Army, which
ultimately triumphed over the Finnish Red Guards.
After a short period as interim regent of the newborn Finnish
state, Mannerheim retreated into a comfortable life as a national
hero, living off a fund raised by the people for his income—until the
Second World War saw him return to the heart of power, picking
up where he had left off two decades earlier. Now in his seventies,
he once again took to the world stage, now as Commander-in-Chief
of the Finnish Army; and, for the second time, steered his country
through the Armageddon of European war with its independence
intact. The price Finland paid for its survival was harsh: the death of
almost 100,000 soldiers, and a military alliance with Hitler’s Third
Reich between 1941 and 1944, for which Mannerheim held respon-
sibility as commander-in-chief. Not surprisingly, the Marshal has
been both adulated and vilified for the decisions taken during these
troublesome years.
Mannerheim’s life and legacy are thus closely intertwined with
the dramatic twists and turns of Finland’s history as an independent
state. For a long time, the concept of geopolitics as a meaningful
xiv
 FOREWORD

way to understand events was severely tarnished by the experiences

of the two world wars. But, gradually, the concept has become
relevant again. As we have seen in Ukraine, geography, along with
the control of strategically important territories and trade routes,
simply continues to be a decisive factor in international politics.
Mannerheim seems almost an embodiment of this truth. Finland’s
border with Russia constitutes the longest and, in some senses, the
sharpest frontier between civilisations in Europe; as such, the coun-
try has often been a pawn on the international chess board. Even to
this day, geopolitics still has a considerable impact on Mannerheim’s
reputation in Finland: how the Second World War is commemo-
rated and how the Marshal is viewed often go hand in hand.
The first editions of this book were published in Finnish and
Swedish in June 2017 for the 150th anniversary of Mannerheim’s
birth. Foreign interest in the Marshal has only grown since then,
with the biography brought out in Estonian and Russian in 2018 and
2020, respectively. With this English translation, it has now been
published in five languages, which I am naturally proud of and
thankful for.
I warmly thank Dr Richard Robinson for his precise and nuanced
English translation of the manuscript. I am indebted to my editor
Lara Weisweiller-Wu for her thorough and engaged editing of the
manuscript, which made it more accessible for Western readers. I
must also express my gratitude to Dr Hannu Linkola, who draw the
six maps that so vividly uncover the different geopolitical contexts
of Mannerheim’s career. This translation has been funded by the
Mannerheim Foundation, for which I am also grateful.
Henrik Meinander
Helsinki, January 2023

xv
 1

CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENCE

Unrest and Upheaval

“At a ¼ past 7 in the evening Hélène had a healthy baby boy.” So

reported Louise von Julin to a close relative on 4 June 1867, after
she had assisted in the birth of her stepdaughter’s third child. The
grandmother had washed the newborn, and described him as “kind
and jolly”, which were not exactly qualities for which the boy
would always come to be known later in life, serving as a reminder
that we all start out as blank slates. The birth took place in
Louhisaari Manor in Southwest Finland, a stately stone mansion
from the seventeenth century which had been a home for the noble
family since its purchase by Carl Erik Mannerheim in the 1790s.
While the baby’s delivery went smoothly, the mood was sombre,
for the newborn’s aunt had only recently died in childbirth. Hence
the christening, held three weeks later on Midsummer’s Eve, was
solely for the immediate family, with the grandmother as the only
godmother in attendance.
In a letter to her sister in Sweden, Hélène Mannerheim com-
plained that “not a single person was glad about” the boy’s arrival.
He would, however, go on to become more famed and fêted than
anyone else in twentieth-century Finland. He was baptised Carl
Gustaf Emil, but was usually called Gustaf. The first two names had
been borne by many of his forefathers; the last came from his oldest
uncle, ironmaster Emil Lindsay von Julin, who would later try to
guide his nephew down the right path with the help of moral insights
from British literature. While Mannerheim could have arrived into
the world at a more propitious moment in history, there is no doubt

1
 MANNERHEIM, MARSHAL OF FINLAND

Fig. 1.1: Louhisaari Manor, Gustaf Mannerheim’s birthplace and child-

hood home.

that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. On numerous

occasions in his early career, he would get himself out of a tight spot
with the aid of his uncles’ money and his noble relatives’ contacts,
above all those in the centre of the Russian Empire, St Petersburg.
But let’s not jump forward in Mannerheim’s life without first
examining how the world and Finland looked in the mid-1860s.
Tired truism it may be, but these years really were a time of
upheaval in many respects. The Crimean War of the 1850s had
resulted in Great Britain surpassing Russia as Europe’s leading
Great Power. Over the next two decades, and thanks to its tech-
nological and military advantages, the British Empire expanded
faster than any other before or since, in the process spreading its
innovations and the British social ideal to other parts of Europe. As
the world’s leading industrial and colonial power, it stood to rea-
son that Britain was the foremost advocate of a liberalised global
trade and a free civil society, one that not only gave its citizens

2
 CHILDHOOD AND ADOLESCENCE

freedom of speech and association, but also the right for a growing
number of them to vote.
In the same year that Mannerheim was born, a parliamentary
reform was implemented in Britain that significantly broadened the
franchise. The reform did not seem to impress Karl Marx in the
slightest, for 1867 was also the year when the socialist, who had
moved from Germany to England in 1849, published the first—and
certainly the most influential—part of his work Das Kapital. Due to
the boom in newspaper publishing, the 1860s witnessed a formi-
dable eruption of ideas and ideologies about what the future of
society could and should look like. The majority of those seeking
reform had freedom as their common cause, but they became
increasingly fractured as to whether the freedom should be indi-
vidual, national or economic in nature.
Across Europe and North America, more and more resources
were being invested in railways, industry and steamboats. In
February 1867, the first ships sailed through the French-built Suez
Canal. The canal company was soon purchased by the British, and
the European colonial powers tightened their grip over East Africa
and Asia via this new waterway. Also noteworthy is the 1867
International Exhibition, held in Paris and opened in April, which
even featured a Finnish exposition in the Russian pavilion. On the
very date of Mannerheim’s birth, Helsingfors Dagblad featured a long
report from the exhibition, which paid special attention to the pub-
lic demonstrations of “improvements in the social, moral and physi-
cal standing of the working class in France”.
The modest Finnish products and artworks told a very different
story. In the mid-1860s, Finland was one of Europe’s poorest coun-
tries, and the plight of its inhabitants was heightened by the succes-
sion of extremely cold summers that struck the northernmost parts
of Europe between 1865 and 1868. These led to crop failures,
famines, epidemics and, ultimately, to high death tolls, not least in
the isolated and capital-poor Finland, where more than 100,000
people died. So, while the display cases at the world fair were abun-
dant with culinary delicacies, food shortages in the Finnish country-
side were degenerating into a humanitarian catastrophe. The spring
of 1867 came extremely late, and by August the arable land was
again being assailed by hard frosts at night. Although the Senate had,
3
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Other documents randomly have
different content
space, which, as it escaped, produced a long, distinctive wail,
recalling the cry of the wolf. It was this natural phenomenon which
gave the rock its name. The harder the wind blew, and the higher
the waves rose, the louder was the reverberating bellow, and, as it
could be heard distinctly above the music of the storm, the navigator
was able to steer clear of the formidable obstruction. On the other
hand, during periods of heavy fog, when the waves were usually
quiet, there was scarcely any perceptible sound.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE LONGSHIPS LIGHT.

In the background is the forbidding iron-bound Cornish coast, where wrecks unfortunately
are frequent.

The Wolf Rock would be growling to this day had it not been for
the inhuman action of the Cornish plunderers. They detested the
weird noise as cordially as the mariner blessed it. It robbed them of
so many rich hauls that at last they decided to silence the rock for
ever. They filled the cavity with large boulders, which were carried
out in boats from the mainland and dumped overboard. Then the
Cornishmen met with a spell of enhanced prosperity from the
increased number of wrecks which occurred.
 When the exigencies of commerce demanded that the reef
should be guarded, a most fantastic device was prepared. An
attempt was made to restore artificially the natural siren. A fabric
wrought in copper in the form of a huge wolf with distended jaws
was contrived, the designers averring that the air would rush in and
produce a distinctive whistle. This grotesque danger-signal never
reached its destination. It would have been absolutely useless even
had it been placed over the rock, as the first lively sea would have
carried it away, while the noise produced, if any, would have been
inaudible more than a few feet away.
The Trinity Brethren at last took the matter up, but their
investigations caused them to doubt the possibility of building a
lighthouse on such a forbidding spot. They did the next best thing.
They drove a thick oak joist into the rock, and attached a coloured
sphere to its upper extremity. This constituted a valuable landmark
by day, but was useless at night. But its life was brief. The first storm
which swept the reef after the erection of the beacon tore it up by
the roots. It was replaced by a heavy mast of wrought-iron, which
suffered a similar fate, as did also a third iron pole 9 inches in
diameter. At last a low conical stump was built upon the ridge, with
the staff and sphere projecting from its centre. This defied wind and
wave successfully for many years. Its permanency impressed the
builders of the Bishop Rock light, who came to the conclusion that,
as the small conical tower held hard and fast, a masonry tower could
be given just as firm a hold.
When the engineer approached the reef to make his surveys, he
found the water boiling and bubbling madly, and it was some time
before he could get a foothold. He completed his examination, and
then found, to his dismay, that the boat could not approach to take
him off. He could not stay where he was, as the tide, which was
rising, would engulf the reef within a short time, so he resorted to a
bold expedient. He had taken the precaution to bring a life-line with
him, so that he was in touch with the boat. He looped this round his
waist securely, and then, telling the men to pull as hard as they
could, he plunged into the water. In this manner he was dragged
through the furious surf and pulled into the boat, thoroughly
drenched, but otherwise none the worse for his adventure.

Photo, Paul, Penzance.

THE GODREVY LIGHT, SCILLY ISLANDS.

It marks a forbidding clump of rocks, landing on which is always exciting.

The work was begun in 1862, when the masons were

despatched to the rock to prepare the face for the reception of the
bottom masonry blocks. The tedious and exceptionally dangerous
character of the work was emphasized very forcibly upon those
engaged in the task. It was seldom that the water was sufficiently
placid to enable a landing to be made. Then, as the working spell
was very brief, being restricted to low-tide, the men could pause
only for a few minutes at a time, and even during these were
menaced by the breakers. During the first working season only
eighty-three hours of labour were possible—a fact which conveys a
graphic idea of the exposed character of the site, its difficulty of
access, and the short time available for work between the tides.
While excavations were under way, the preparation of a landing-
stage was taken in hand. As only small blocks of stone could be
used, naturally it occupied a considerable time. It was, however,
essential, in order to permit the erection of a derrick by which the
heavy blocks for the tower could be lifted from the construction boat
to the rock. On the rock-face itself the masons toiled strenuously,
chipping, scraping, and paring away all the faulty pieces of gneiss,
so that a firm, solid foundation was secured, into which the bottom
course of stones was dovetailed and anchored.
Owing to the frequency with which the rock was swept by the
seas, special precautions had to be adopted to insure the safety of
the workmen. Iron dogs were driven into the rock at frequent points,
to which ropes were fastened and allowed to trail across the rock,
each mason being urged to keep one of these life-lines always within
arm’s length. As an additional precaution he was compelled to wear
a lifebelt, which, although it hampered free movement somewhat,
yet gave the wearer, if he lost his foothold or were thrown into the
water, a chance of keeping afloat until the lifeboat standing by was
able to reach him. A Cornish fisherman, who was familiar with the
seas on this part of the coast, and who could judge a breaking wave
from a distance, acted as a lookout. When he saw a comber about
to creep over the rock, he gave a signal, when the workmen
clutched their life-lines, and, with feet firmly planted and the ropes
drawn taut, or throwing themselves prostrate, with heads pointed to
the advancing wave, allowed the breaker to roll over them and
expend its violence harmlessly. Time after time the masons were
buried beneath huge tumbling hills of water. Work under such
conditions was decidedly irksome, and progress was very appreciably
retarded, but the safety of the workmen was, of course, the pre-
eminent consideration. Curiously enough, these men who face the
perils, privations, and exciting incessant dangers, incidental to
lighthouse building, are extremely superstitious. If an undertaking
such as the Wolf were attended by a disaster and loss of life in its
initial stages, the completion of the task might be seriously
jeopardized. The rock would be regarded as a “hoo-doo,” and would
be shunned like a fever-stricken city. Therefore the engineer will go
to any lengths to secure, so far as is humanly possible, the
preservation of the lives and limbs of those in his employ. This is the
chief reason why the erection of these wonderful towers has been
attended by so few accidents or fatalities, while the men fitted for
the task are so few that the engineer cannot afford to disturb their
peace of mind.
The Wolf tower follows the generally accepted lines, and is solid
at the base. It is wrought throughout of granite, the stones being
joggled together. One ingenious measure was adopted in connection
with the lower courses in order to prevent the action of the waves
from breaking up the cement in the exposed joints and setting up
disintegration. The upper surface of each stone is given a wide
rabbet, and the stone above fits into the recess so that the
horizontal joint between the two is covered by the outer fillet,
thereby protecting it completely. This practice was followed
throughout all the lower courses to a height of 39 feet, and the
security thus obtained is reflected by the strength of the tower to-
day after half a century’s wear.
Work proceeded so slowly in the early stages, owing to the
abnormal conditions, that by the end of 1864 only thirty-seven
stones in the second course of masonry were laid. In the meantime,
however, the landing-stage had been practically completed, and the
erection of the crane enabled the blocks for the tower to be
transferred to the rock with greater ease and rapidity. The tower,
135 feet in height, was completed on July 19, 1869, while the light
was brought into service early in the following year. Eight years were
expended upon the enterprise, and during this period 296 landings
were effected upon the rock and 1,814 hours of labour were
consummated. This is equal to about 101 working days of ten hours
each, or, on the average, less than one hour every day of the years
occupied in the undertaking. The lantern throws a powerful white
light, which in clear weather may be seen from twenty to twenty-five
miles away. The cost of the enterprise was £62,726, or $313,630—
nearly twice that of the first Bishop Rock light.

By courtesy of Messrs. D. and C. Stevenson.

THE CHICKEN ROCK LIGHTHOUSE, OFF THE ISLE OF MAN.

It marks a dangerous reef. The revolving light of 143,000 candle-power is visible for
sixteen miles. Although the lantern is 143 feet above the water, the waves frequently
engulf it.

Another gaunt structure rears itself from a reef a few miles to

the north-west of the Wolf, and a short distance off the Land’s End.
This is the Longships light. The name itself suggests a light-vessel,
and a stranger is surprised to learn that it is an imposing building,
worthy of comparison with the two other structures already
described which guard the Scillies. Although it is within a short
distance of the mainland, its exposed situation rendered its
construction as exasperatingly difficult as that of both the Bishop
and Wolf lights. A few miles farther north another powerful light
indicates the “Kingdom of Heaven,” as the black hump of Lundy
Island, rising out of the Bristol Channel, is colloquially called, from
the name of its clerical owner.
On the opposite side and due north of this bight, the
Pembrokeshire coast breaks off abruptly at St. David’s Head, only to
reappear out at sea in some twenty little rugged islets known as The
Smalls. They occur some twenty-one miles off the mainland, and for
years they played havoc with the shipping plying between North of
England ports and the Bristol Channel. These rocks—for they are
little else—were the private property of a Liverpool gentleman, who
became so distracted by the frequency of disaster that, in 1773, he
decided to crown them with a beacon. He selected a musical
instrument manufacturer named Whiteside as his engineer, and this
amateur mechanic, after an inspection, decided to place the warning
light on a tiny crag which projected about 5 feet above high-water. It
is somewhat strange that the adequate safeguarding of two
devastating parts of the south-western coast of England should have
been placed in the hands of men who were not professional
engineers. Rudyerd, the silk-mercer, was responsible for the second
Eddystone, and here was an instrument-maker taking over one of
the most difficult enterprises it was possible to find. Yet both these
amateur engineers inscribed their names ineffaceably upon two of
the most evil spots around the coasts of the British Islands. Rudyerd
gave us the true conical design, which has never been superseded
for strength and stability; while Whiteside evolved a skeleton tower
which braved the most tempestuous seas for some eighty years. In
the first instance the latter carried out his work in iron, thinking that
metal would prove irresistible, but within a short time he replaced it
with heavy legs of oak. The frail-looking structure was submitted to
storms of almost seismic violence, but it withstood them all for over
half a century, when a peculiarly vicious wave, as it rolled between
the supports, suddenly flew upwards, driving the floor of the
keepers’ quarters into the roof. It was an exceptional accident, which
no engineer could have foreseen. When the Trinity House Brethren
took over the light, their chief engineer, Mr. James Walker, looked
upon the erection as such a fine piece of work that the damage was
repaired, and the Whiteside light gleamed for a further twenty years
before it gave place to the present graceful stone building.
By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.
 HOW THE SKERRYVORE IS BUILT.
In the centre, a vertical section. At sides, transverse sections at different masonry
courses, showing method of laying the stones.

It was a grim episode at this light which brought about the

practice of appointing three men at least to a sea light-station. When
first completed, The Smalls was provided with only two keepers, and
on one occasion one of the two died. His companion refrained from
committing the body to the sea, lest he might be suspected of foul-
play, so he constructed a rough shell, in which he placed the body of
his dead chum, and stood the grisly burden on end beside his flag of
distress on the gallery outside the lantern. As the spell of duty in
those days was four months, it was some time before the relief
came out. Then they discovered a shattered human wreck tending
the lights, who had never neglected his duty under the onerous and
weird conditions, but who nevertheless had become broken down
and aged under the terrible ordeal. After this experience three men
instead of two were placed on duty at all such exposed and
inaccessible lights. It may be recalled that Alphonse Daudet tells a
similar creepy story which was related to him by a light-keeper on
the rugged Corsican coast, and which he narrates in the “Phares des
Sanguinaires.” A similar experience is also associated with Rudyerd’s
Eddystone light.
Off the North Welsh coast there are the famous lights of the
South Stack and the Skerries, the latter rising out of the water on a
dangerous cluster of rocks off Carmel Head. The Isle of Man also
possesses a magnificent specimen of lighthouse engineering in the
Chicken Rock light, the work of the brothers Stevenson, which,
although in the Irish Sea, comes within the jurisdiction of the
Commissioners of Northern Lights. This tower stands on a reef which
is submerged by 6 feet of water even at high neap-tides. When a
gale is raging and the spring-tides are at their highest, the waves
frequently engulf the lantern, although it is perched 143 feet above
the water. The light is of 143,000 candle-power, of the revolving
type, and visible for sixteen miles in clear weather.
 Entering the English Channel from the Scillies, the voyager
observes the powerful Lizard light gleaming like two brilliant white
stars from a prominent elevated point on the cliff. Formerly three
lights were shown, but two were found to meet the necessities of
the situation adequately. The steamship lane lies across the chord of
the arc formed by the coastline between the Lizard and Start Point,
leaving the Eddystone to the north. The next important light is the
Needles, at the entrance to the Solent. A few miles farther on the
brilliant spoke-light flashes of St. Catherine’s, described in another
chapter, compel attention. No other light after this is seen until
Beachy Head is approached. Another dreary stretch brings the vessel
abeam the nose of Kentish coast known as Dungeness, a particularly
notorious danger spot. Here there is a continual struggle between
the engineers and the sea. While the waves gnaw into the coastline
at other neighbouring places, here they surrender their capture, so
that the headland is persistently creeping farther and farther out to
sea. It is lighted, and has been guarded for years, but the tower is
left at a constantly increasing distance from the water’s edge. The
light has been moved once or twice, so as to fulfil its purpose to the
best advantage, but the engineer will be kept on the alert until the
currents change their courses and refrain from piling up further drift
at this point. This light, coming as it does at the entrance to the
bottle-neck of the English Channel, is of prime importance to
navigation, because vessels, after they have rounded the South
Foreland, make a bee-line for this headland.
Since the eastern coast of England is flanked by sandbanks and
shoals, the lighthouse is not in powerful evidence, the aids to
navigation consisting chiefly of light-vessels, which are distributed
liberally so as to patrol completely a treacherous stretch of shoals.
Northwards the sandy, low-lying wastes give way to towering cliffs,
amongst which Flamborough Head and its light are conspicuous. At
the far northern limit of the operations of Trinity House comes the
Longstones, mounting guard over the terrible Farne Islands and their
rocky outposts. Who has not heard of the heroism of Grace Darling,
the light-keeper’s daughter, and the thrilling rescue, in the teeth of a
hurricane, of the exhausted survivors of the Forfarshire?
Complaints have been made often regarding the paucity of
powerful lights around the coast of England, but the criticism
scarcely is deserved. All the prominent and most dangerous spots
are lighted adequately, and, as may be recognized, the provision of
these lights has proved an exacting and costly enterprise. What
England may lack in numbers in this particular field of engineering is
compensated for by the daring nature of the works completed,
which are regarded throughout the world as marvellous
achievements.
 CHAPTER VII

THE BELL ROCK AND SKERRYVORE LIGHTS

At first sight it seems somewhat remarkable—some might feel

disposed to challenge the assertion—that so small a country as
Scotland should stand pre-eminent among the nations of the world
as being that possessed of the greatest number of imposing sea-
rock lights. But such is the case. Moreover, North Britain offers some
of the finest and most impressive specimens of the lighthouse
builder’s resource and skill to be found in any part of the globe.
When the responsibility for lighting the Scottish coasts was
handed over to the Commissioners for Northern Lighthouses, one of
their first tasks was the adequate illumination of the wave-swept
Inchcape or Bell Rock, which lies some twelve miles off the Scottish
mainland in the busy portal of the Firth of Tay. At that time this
sinister menace to navigation was not marked in any way whatever,
and apparently had remained in this unprotected condition ever
since the notorious pirate, Ralph the Rover, cut away the buoy-bell
which had been placed upon it by the Abbot of Aberbrothock, as
narrated in Southey’s famous ballad.
The rock, or rather reef—inasmuch as it measures 2,000 feet
from end to end, and lies athwart the fairway—is submerged
completely to a depth of 16 feet at high spring-tides, while at lowest
water only some 4 feet of its crest are laid bare here and there. This
is not all. The ledge is the summit of a dangerous, slowly-rising
submarine hillock, where, for a distance of about 100 yards on either
side, the lead sounds only 3 fathoms. Wrecks were so numerous and
terrible at this spot that the protection of the seafaring community
became imperative, and the newly-appointed guardians of the
Scottish coast lost no time in justifying the trust reposed in them,
but erected a first-class light. The Eddystone had been conquered,
and, although the conditions were dissimilar and the enterprise
bolder, no tangible reason against its imitation was advanced.
The engineer John Rennie was entrusted with the work, while
Robert Stevenson was appointed as his assistant. The rock was
surveyed, and a tower similar in its broad lines to that evolved by
Smeaton for the Eddystone was elaborated, and the authority for its
construction given in the year 1806.
Work upon the rock in the earliest stages was confined to the
calmest days of the summer season, when the tides were lowest,
the water was smoothest, and the wind in its calmest mood. Under
such conditions the men were able to stay on the site for about five
hours. The engineer hoped against hope that the elements would be
kind to him, and that he would be able to complete the preliminary
work upon the rock in one season.
The constructional plans were prepared carefully, so that
advantage might be taken of every promising opportunity. One
distinct drawback was the necessity to establish a depot some
distance from the erecting site. Those were the days before steam
navigation, and the capricious sailing craft offered the only means of
maintaining communication between rock and shore, and for the
conveyance of men and material to and fro. The year 1807 was
devoted to the construction of vessels for the work, and to the
establishment of workshops with machinery and other facilities at
Arbroath, the nearest suitable point on the mainland to the rock. A
temporary beacon was placed on the reef, while adjacent to the site
selected for the tower a smith’s forge was made fast, so as to
withstand the dragging motion of the waves when the rock was
submerged. The men were housed on the Smeaton, which during
the spells of work on the rock rode at anchor a short distance away
in deep water. The arrangements stipulated that three boats, which
were employed to bring the men from the vessel to the rock, should
always be moored at the landing-place, so that, in the event of the
weather changing for the worse, the masons, forced to cease work
suddenly, might regain the Smeaton safely in one trip, the three
boats being able to convey thirty men, which constituted the
average complement on the rock.
While the preparations were proceeding ashore, a little body of
workers toiled, whenever possible, at clearing the face of the rock
and carrying out the requisite excavation work. While this was in
progress a disaster was averted very narrowly, which would have
jeopardized the completion of the tower, owing to the superstitious
natures of the men engaged. On September 2, 1807, the Smeaton,
as usual, had brought out some thirty masons, had landed them
safely on the rock, and was riding at anchor.
Suddenly the wind freshened, and the engineer on the rock grew
apprehensive of the Smeaton dragging her cables. A party at once
put off from the rock in one of the three boats and regained the
ship, but were scarcely aboard when the cables parted, and the
vessel, caught by the wind and tide, made off. Before the men
regained control of her she had drifted some three miles to leeward.
Meantime on the rock the situation was growing serious. Only Mr.
Stevenson, who was supervising operations on the spot, and the
landing-master were aware of its gravity. The masons were so busy
hewing, boring and chiselling, that they had not noticed the
Smeaton’s drift. But the engineer, observing the flowing of the tide,
realized that the rock must be submerged before the ship could be
brought up again. He racked his brains to find some means of
getting his gang of men off safely in the nick of time, but it was a
searching problem to solve with only two boats, which, at the
utmost, could carry twenty-four persons. To make matters worse,
one of those mists which are so peculiar to the Scottish coast began
to settle down, blotting everything from sight.
The water rose higher. The men toiling on the lowest levels
receded higher and higher before the advancing tide, though still too
deeply occupied in their labours to bestow a thought upon the
Smeaton. At last the smith’s forge was quenched, and this was the
general signal to the men to prepare to leave the rock. Tools were
collected, and the party strode towards the landing-stage to enter
the boats. Conceive their consternation when they saw that one boat
was missing! When they glanced over the water the Smeaton was
not riding in her usual place—in fact, was nowhere to be seen! One
and all gathered around the engineer to learn the reason for this
remarkable breach in the arrangements for their safety, and yet all
were too dumbfounded to question or protest. As for the luckless
engineer, he was at his wits’ end and could not offer a word of
explanation to the inquiring looks that besieged him. One and all, as
the water lapped their feet, realized the hopelessness of the
position. Suddenly, when they were beginning to despair, one of the
men described the phantom form of a vessel making for the rock. “A
boat!” he shouted in exultation. Sure enough the shadow matured
into the familiar form of the Tay pilot-boat, the master of which,
observing the workmen on the rock, the rising tide, and the absence
of the Smeaton, had realized that something must have gone wrong,
and approached the rock to make inquiries. He came up at the
critical moment. The men were drenched, and, their feelings having
been strung to a high pitch with anxiety, they nearly collapsed at the
arrival of this unexpected assistance. The pilot-boat, after taking off
the men, awaited the return of the Smeaton, which took them on
board about midnight.
This narrow escape so terrified the men that on the following
day the engineer found only eight of his staff of thirty-two, who
were willing to venture upon the rock again. When this gang
returned in the evening, their safety appeared to restore courage to
their companions, so that next day all expressed their readiness to
resume their tasks.
The fitful character of the work did not leave its mark so
distinctly as might be supposed. Whenever there was a chance, the
men worked with an amazing will and zeal; and although the first
stone of the tower was not laid until July 10, 1808, three courses of
masonry were completed when the undertaking was suspended at
the end of November for the winter. The succeeding season’s toil
saw the addition of about 27 feet more of the tower, which was
finally completed by the close of 1810. The building was 120 feet in
height, and the light was shown for the first time on February 1,
1811.
In view of the difficulties which had to be surmounted, this
“ruddy gem of changeful light,” as it is described by Sir Walter Scott,
was not particularly costly. By the time it was brought into
commission, £61,330, or $306,650, had been expended. In 1902,
after nearly a century’s service, the tower was provided with a new
light-room, so as to bring it into conformity with modern practice.
While the Bell Rock tower stands as a monument to the
engineering ability of Robert Stevenson, the Skerryvore, on the
western coast, is a striking tribute to the genius of his son, Alan. For
forty years or more previous to 1844 one ship at least had been
caught and shattered every year on this tumbled mass of gneiss.
From the navigator’s point of view, the danger of this spot lay chiefly
in the fact that it was so widely scattered. The ridge runs like a
broken backbone for a distance of some eight miles in a west-south-
westerly direction, and it is flanked on each side by isolated rocks
which jut from a badly-broken sea-bed. The whole mass lies some
distance out to sea, being ten miles south-west of Tyree and twenty-
four miles west of Iona. In rough weather the whole of the rocks are
covered, and the waves, beating heavily on the mass, convert the
scene into one of indescribable tumult.
The Commissioners of Northern Lights acknowledged the urgent
need of a light upon this ridge, but it was realized that its erection
would represent the most daring feat of lighthouse engineering that
had been attempted up to this time. There was only one point where
a tower could be placed, and this was so exposed that the safe
handling of the men and materials constituted a grave responsibility.
The rock has to withstand the full impetus of the Atlantic waves,
gathered in their 3,000 miles’ roll, and investigations revealed the
fact that they bear down upon the Skerryvore with a force equal to
some 3 tons per square foot. It was apparent that any masonry
tower must be of prodigious strength to resist such a battering,
while at the same time a lofty stack was imperative, because the
light not only would have to mount guard over the rock upon which
it stood, but also over a vast stretch of dangerous water on either
side.
After he had completed the Bell Rock light, Robert Stevenson
attacked the problem of the Skerryvore. In order to realize the
magnitude of the undertaking, some of the Commissioners
accompanied the engineer, but the experience of pulling out into the
open Atlantic on a day when it was slightly ruffled somewhat shook
their determination to investigate the reef from close quarters. Sir
Walter Scott was a member of the party, and he has described the
journey very graphically. Before they had gone far the
Commissioners on board expressed their willingness to leave the
matter entirely in the hands of their engineer. With grim Scottish
humour, however, Robert Stevenson insisted that the rock should be
gained, so that the Commissioners might be able to grasp the
problem at first hand.
But after all nothing was done. The difficulties surrounding the
work were only too apparent to the officials. They agreed that the
expense must be prodigious and that the risks to the workmen
would be grave.
In 1834 a second expedition was despatched to the reef under
Alan Stevenson, who had accompanied his father on the previous
occasion, and who now occupied the engineering chair. He surveyed
the reef thoroughly, traversing the dangerous channels around the
isolated humps, of which no less than 130 were counted, at great
risk to himself and his companions. However, he achieved his object.
He discovered the best site for the tower and returned home to
prepare his plans.
His proposals, for those days, certainly were startling. He
decided to follow generally the principles of design, which had been
laid down by his father in regard to the Bell Rock. But he planned
something bigger and more daring. He maintained that a tower 130
feet high, with a base diameter of 42 feet, tapering in a curve to 16
feet at the top, was absolutely necessary. It was the loftiest and
weightiest work of its character that had ever been contemplated up
to this time, while the peculiar situation of the reef demanded
pioneering work in all directions.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE SKERRYVORE, SCOTLAND’S MOST

FAMOUS LIGHTHOUSE.
The erection of this tower upon a straggling low-lying reef
24 miles off Iona, and exposed to the full fury of the
Atlantic, ranks as one of the world’s engineering wonders.
 The confidence of the Commissioners in the ability of their
engineer was so complete that he received the official sanction to
begin, and in 1838 the undertaking was commenced. The engineer
immediately formulated his plans of campaign for a stiff struggle
with Nature. One of the greatest difficulties was the necessity to
transport men, supplies and material over a long distance, as the
Scottish coast in this vicinity is wild and sparsely populated. He
established his base on the neighbouring island of Tyree, where
barracks for the workmen, and yards for the preparation of the
material, were erected, while another colony was established on the
Isle of Mull for the quarrying of the granite. A tiny pier or jetty had
to be built at this point to facilitate the shipment of the stone, and at
Tyree a small harbour had to be completed to receive the vessel
which was built specially for transportation purposes between the
base and the rock.
Another preliminary was the provision of accommodation for the
masons upon the reef. The Atlantic swell, which rendered landing on
the ridge precarious and hazardous, did not permit the men to be
housed upon a floating home, as had been the practice in the early
days of the Bell Rock tower. In order to permit the work to go
forward as uninterruptedly as the sea would permit, a peculiar
barrack was erected. It was a house on stilts, the legs being sunk
firmly into the rock, with the living-quarters perched some 40 feet
up in the air. The skeleton type of structure was selected because it
did not impede the natural movement of the waves. It was an
ingenious idea, and fulfilled the purpose of its designer admirably,
while the men became accustomed to their strange home after a
time. For two years it withstood the seas without incident, and the
engineer and men came to regard the eyrie as safe as a house on
shore. But one night the little colony received a shock. The angry
Atlantic got one or two of its trip-hammer blows well home, and
smashed the structure to fragments. Fortunately, at the time it was
untenanted.
The workmen, who were on shore waiting to go out to the rock
to resume their toil, were downcast at this unexpected disaster, but
the engineer was not at all ruffled. He promptly sent to Glasgow for
further material, and lost no time in rebuilding the quaint barrack
upon new and stronger lines. This erection defied the waves
successfully until its demolition after the Skerryvore was finished.
Residence in this tower was eerie. The men climbed the ladder
and entered a small room, which served the purposes of kitchen,
dining-room, and parlour. It was barely 12 feet across—quarters
somewhat cramped for thirty men. When a storm was raging, the
waves, as they combed over the rock, shook the legs violently and
scurried under the floor in seething foam. Now and again a roller,
rising higher than its fellows, broke upon the rock and sent a mass
of water against the flooring to hammer at the door. Above the
living-room were the sleeping-quarters, high and dry, save when a
shower of spray fell upon the roof and walls like heavy hail, and
occasionally percolated the joints of the woodwork. The men,
however, were not perturbed. Sleeping, even under such conditions,
was far preferable to doubtful rest in a bunk upon an attendant
vessel, rolling and pitching with the motion of the sea. They had had
a surfeit of such experience during the first season’s work, while the
barrack was under erection.
BARRA HEAD LIGHTHOUSE, SCOTLAND.
The tower is 60 feet in height, but owing to its position on
the cliffs, the white occulting light is 683 feet above high
water, and is visible 33 miles.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE HOMES OF THE KEEPERS OF THE

SKERRYVORE AND DHU-HEARTACH
LIGHTS.
On the Island of Tiree, Argyllshire, 10 miles away.
 Yet the men could not grumble. The engineer responsible for the
work shared their privations and discomforts, for Alan Stevenson
clung to the rock night and day while work was in progress, and he
has given a very vivid impression of life in this quaint home on legs.
He relates how he “spent many a weary day and night—at those
times when the sea prevented anyone going down to the rock—
anxiously looking for supplies from the shore, and earnestly looking
for a change of weather favourable for prosecuting the works. For
miles around nothing could be seen but white foaming breakers, and
nothing heard but howling winds and lashing waves. At such
seasons much of our time was spent in bed, for there alone we had
effectual shelter from the winds and spray, which searched every
cranny in the walls of the barrack. Our slumbers, too, were at times
fearfully interrupted by the sudden pouring of the sea over the roof,
the rocking of the house on its pillars, and the spurting of water
through the seams of the doors and windows—symptoms which, to
one suddenly aroused from sound sleep, recalled the appalling fate
of the former barrack, which had been engulfed in the foam not 20
yards from our dwelling, and for a moment seemed to summon us to
a similar fate.”
The work upon the rock was tedious and exasperating in the
extreme. The gneiss was of maddening hardness and obstinacy
—“four times as tough as Aberdeen granite” was the general
opinion. The Atlantic, pounding the rock continuously through the
centuries, had faced it smoother than could any mason with his
tools, yet had not left it sufficiently sound to receive the foundations.
In the external layer, which the masons laboured strenuously to
remove with their puny tools, there were cracks and crevices here
and there. The stubborn rock played havoc with the finest chisels
and drills, and clearing had to be effected for the most part by the
aid of gunpowder. This powerful agent, however, could only be used
sparingly and with extreme skill, so that the rock-face might not be
shivered or shattered too severely. Moreover, the men ran extreme
risks, for the rock splintered like glass, and the flying chips were
capable of doing as much damage, when thus impelled, as a bullet.
 While the foundations were being prepared, and until the
barrack was constructed, the men ran other terrible risks every
morning and night in landing upon and leaving the polished surface
of the reef. Five months during the summer was the working season,
but even then many days and weeks were often lost owing to the
swell being too great to permit the rowing-boat to come alongside.
The engineer relates that the work was “a good lesson in the school
of patience,” because the delays were frequent and galling, while
every storm which got up and expended its rage upon the reef left
its mark indelibly among the engineer’s stock-in-trade. Cranes and
other material were swept away as if they were corks; lashings, no
matter how strong, were snapped like pack-threads. Time after time
the tender lying alongside had to weigh anchor hurriedly, and make
a spirited run to its haven at Tyree.
When the barrack was erected, the situation was eased
somewhat, but then the hours became long. Operations being
confined to the summer months, the average working day was from
four in the morning until nine in the evening—seventeen hours—with
intervals for meals; but the men were not averse to the prolonged
daily toil, inasmuch as cessation brought no welcome relaxations,
but rather encouraged broodings over their isolated position,
whereas occupation served to keep the mind engaged. Twice the
men had severe frights during the night. On each occasion a violent
storm sprang up after they had gone to bed, and one or two ugly
breakers, getting their blows home, shook the eyrie with the force of
an earthquake. Every man leaped out of his bunk, and one or two of
the more timid, in their fright, hurried down the ladder and spent
the remaining spell of darkness shivering and quaking on the
completed trunk of the lighthouse, deeming it to be safer than the
crazy-looking structure which served as their home.
Two years were occupied upon the foundations, the first stone
being laid by the Duke of Argyll on July 7, 1840. This eminent
personage evinced a deep interest in the work and the difficulties
which had to be overcome, and as proprietor of the island of Tyree
extended to the Commissioners free permission to quarry any
granite they required from any part of his estate.
For a height of some 21 feet from the foundation level the tower
is a solid trunk of masonry. Then come the entrance and water-
tanks, followed by nine floors, comprising successively coal-store,
workshop, storeroom, kitchen, two bedrooms, library, oil-store, and
light-room, the whole occupying a height of 130 feet, crowned by
the lantern. As a specimen of lighthouse engineering, the Skerryvore
has become famous throughout the world. The stones forming the
solid courses at the bottom are attached to one another so firmly
and ingeniously as to secure the maximum of strength and solidity,
the result being that nothing short of an earthquake could overthrow
the stalk of masonry.
The erection of the superstructure was by no means free from
danger and excitement. The working space both on the tower itself
and around the base was severely cramped. The men at the latter
point had to keep a vigilant eye upon those working above, since,
despite the most elaborate precautions, falls of tools and other
heavy bodies were by no means infrequent. Notwithstanding its
perilous character, the undertaking was free from accident and
fatality, and, although the men were compelled by force of
circumstances to depend mostly upon salt foodstuffs, the little
colony suffered very slightly from the ravages of dysentery.
Probably the worst experience was when the men on the rock
were weather-bound for seven weeks during one season. The
weather broke suddenly. Heavy seas and adverse winds raged so
furiously that the steamboat dared not put out of its haven, but
remained there with steam up, patiently waiting for a lull in the
storm, during which they might succour the unfortunate men on the
reef. The latter passed a dreary, pitiable time. Their provisions sank
to a very low level, they ran short of fuel, their sodden clothing was
worn to rags, and, what was far worse from their point of view, their
tobacco became exhausted. The average working man will tolerate
extreme discomfort and privation so long as the friendship of his
pipe remains, but the denial of this companion comes as the last
straw.
The lantern is of special design, and is one of the most powerful
around the Scottish coasts. It is of the revolving class, reaching its
brightest state once every minute, and may be seen from the deck
of a vessel eighteen miles away. Six years were occupied in the
completion of the work, and, as may be imagined, the final touches
were welcomed with thankfulness by all those who had been
concerned in the enterprise. The tower contains 4,308 tons of
granite, and the total cost was £86,977, or $434,885, rendering it
one of the costliest in the world. This sum, however, included the
purchase of the steam-vessel which now attends the lighthouse, and
the construction of the little harbour at Hynish.
The lighthouse-keepers live on the island of Tyree, where are
provided substantial, spacious, single-floor, masonry dwellings with
gardens attached. This is practically a small colony in itself, inasmuch
as the accommodation includes, not only that for the keepers of the
Skerryvore, but for the guardians of the Dhu-Heartach light as well.
 CHAPTER VIII

THE LONELY LIGHTS OF SCOTLAND

Barren ruggedness, ragged reefs, and towering cliffs form an apt

description of the north and west coasts of Scotland, and he is a
prudent navigator who acknowledges the respect which these shores
demand, by giving them a wide berth. The Norwegian coast is
serrated, the island of Newfoundland may be likened to the battered
edge of a saw, but Scotland is unique in its formation. The coastline
is torn and tattered by bays and firths, with scattered outlying
ramparts. The captain of a “tramp” who has sailed the seven seas
once confessed to me that no stretch of coastline ever gave him the
shivers so badly as the stretch of shore between Duncansby Head
and the Mull of Kintyre.
Certainly a ship “going north about” is menaced every mile of
her way between these two points unless she takes a very circuitous
course. If the weather conditions are favourable and daylight
prevails, the North of Britain may be rounded through the narrow
strait washing the mainland and the Orkney Islands, but the
Pentland Firth is not an attractive short-cut. The ships that run
between Scandinavian ports and North America naturally follow this
route, as it is several hundred miles shorter than that via the North
Sea and English Channel; but they keep a sharp eye on the weather
and are extremely cautious. When the Pentland Firth is uninviting,
they may either choose the path between the Orkneys and the
Shetlands, or, to eliminate every element of risk, may stand well out
to sea, and round the most northern stretches of the Shetlands.
These are lonely seas, comparatively speaking, and yet are well
lighted. Although a wicked rock lies in the centre of the eastern
entrance to the Pentland channel, it is indicated by the Pentland
Skerries light. When the mariner in his wisdom pushes still farther
north, he falls within the glare of the rays thrown from the beacon
near Muckle Flugga. This is the northernmost point of the British
Islands, and it is truly forbidding. The rock lies three-quarters of a
mile off the Shetland Islands, and is a huge fang, sheering to a
height of 196 feet above high-water. On the side facing north it rears
up so abruptly that it appears to lean over, while on the opposite
side it is almost as steep.
The majority of lighthouses have been called into existence by
the claims of commerce purely and simply. But it was not so with the
North Unst lighthouse, as the beacon crowning this pinnacle is
called. War was responsible for its creation, though probably sooner
or later the requirements of peace would have brought about a
similar result. While the armies of France and Britain were fighting
the Russians in the Crimea, the British fleet was hovering about
these waters, watching the mouth of the Baltic, so as to frustrate
any attempts on the part of the Russian fleet to dash around the
northern coast of Scotland. In those days these lonely seas were
badly lighted, and the Admiralty realized only too well the many
perils to which the warships were exposed while cruising about the
pitiless coasts of the Orkneys and Shetlands. Accordingly, the
department called upon the Commissioners of Northern Lighthouses
to mark Muckle Flugga. Time was everything, and the engineers
were urged to bring a temporary light into operation with the least
delay.
The engineers hurriedly evolved a tower which would meet the
Government needs. It was thought that the extreme height of the
rock would lend itself to the erection of a building which, while
possible of early completion, would be adequate for subsequent
purposes. The materials for the light, together with a lantern, and a
second building for the storage of the oil and other requisites, were
shipped northward from Glasgow. Simultaneously the engineers,
with another small gang of men who had already reached the rock,
pushed on with the preliminary preparations, so that when the
constructional vessel arrived erection might go ahead
straightforwardly and rapidly.

By permission of the Lighthouse Literature Mission.

THE DHU-HEARTACH LIGHTHOUSE.

To the left is the lower part of the temporary structure in which the builders lived while
erection was in progress.

The engineers tried the rock from all sides to find a safe landing.
This was no light matter, owing to the steepness of the slope even
upon the easiest face of the pinnacle. The attempt represented a
mild form of mountaineering, for the sea had battered away the
projection of the lower-lying levels, and the men found it trying to
effect a foothold, even in stepping from the boat on to the rock.
They had to climb hand over hand up the precipice, with life-lines
round their waists, taking advantage of every narrow ledge. With
infinite labour they gained the summit, and then they found that
there was just sufficient space, and no more, upon which to plant
the lighthouse buildings.
 The top was cleared quickly, and then the advance party set to
work to improve the landing-place on the south side of the rock for
the reception of the building materials. A small site was prepared
with great difficulty, as the tough rock offered a stern resistance to
the chisels, drills, and wedges; while in addition the men had to cut
steps in the flank of the rock to facilitate the ascent to the site.
On September 14, 1854, the constructional vessel Pharos hove
in sight, and, the weather being favourable, the landing of the
material was hurried forward. The men had to become pack-animals
for the time, carrying the loads on their backs. In this manner they
tramped laboriously up and down the cliff-face with material and
stores of all descriptions. The heavier and bulkier parts were hauled
up by rope and tackle, a few feet at a time, and this task was quite
as exacting. In all, 120 tons were conveyed to the top of the crag.
Construction was hastened just as feverishly, and on October 11,
1854, twenty-six days after the Pharos anchored off Muckle Flugga,
the North Unst light shone out for the first time. This is probably one
of the most brilliant exploits that has ever been consummated in
connection with lighthouse engineering, the merit of which is
additionally impressive from the fact that almost everything had to
be accomplished by manual effort.
While the light was admittedly of a temporary character, the
importance of the outpost had been appreciated, and it was
determined to erect a permanent light upon the rock for the
guidance of those who compass the North of Scotland in order to
pass from and to the North Atlantic. It was decided to commence
the permanent masonry building the following year, and a gang of
men volunteered to stay behind on the rock throughout the winter to
complete all the essential preparations for the foundations.
Accommodation was available for this staff in a substantial iron
shelter, in which they made themselves comfortable for the winter.
But it is during this season that the winds from the north,
lashing the sea to fury, create huge rollers which thunder upon the
base of the pinnacle to crawl up its perpendicular face in the form of
broken water and spray. The men standing on the brink often
watched these rollers, but never for a moment thought that one
would be able to leap to a height of nearly 200 feet and sweep over
the rock. The December gales dispelled this illusion very
convincingly. One morning the workmen, while breakfasting in their
warm shelter, received a big surprise. A terrific blow struck the door,
which flew open as if hit by a cannon-ball. It was followed instantly
by a three-foot wall of water. The broken wave rushed round the
apartment, seething and foaming, and then out again. The workmen
were dumbfounded, but had scarcely recovered from the shock
when another roll of water came crashing in and gave the apartment
another thorough flushing out. One of the Scottish workmen
vouchsafed the remark that the man responsible for cleaning the
floors that day would be spared his job, but he was silenced when, a
few seconds later, another angry sheet of water dropped on the roof
of the building and threatened to smash it in.
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