Few nations have such a varied coastline to guard as the United States. On the Atlantic seaboard the northern shore is a shaggy bold rampart of lofty cliff, hard and pitiless. Farther south the rock gradually gives way to sandy dunes, which the hungry sea is continually gnawing away here and piling up somewhere else. Then, as the tropics are entered, the sand in turn gives way to coral reefs, every whit as formidable as rock and as treacherous as sand, where the hurricane reigns supreme and makes its presence felt only too frequently. Across the continent a similar variation, though not perhaps so intense, is observable on the Pacific side. The coast range runs parallel with the shore, and consequently cliff and precipice are common, owing to the lateral spurs of the range coming to an abrupt termination where land and water meet.

The result is that no one type of beacon is possible of adoption as a standard for the whole coastline. The class of structure has to be modified to meet local conditions, but the battle between destruction and preservation is none the less bitter and continuous. When ships began to trade with the Atlantic seaboard of the United States, the erection of warning lights became imperative. This duty was fulfilled in the early days by local enterprise, and the first lighthouse on the continent was built on Little Brewster Island, at the entrance to Boston Harbour. It was completed about 1716, was a conical masonry tower, and its cost, which is interesting as being set out to the uttermost farthing—£2,285 17s. 8½d.—betrays the scrupulous commercial integrity of the first financiers of the United States. The light was maintained by the levy of a due of one penny per ton on all incoming and outgoing vessels, except those engaged in coastal traffic, and was collected by the same authority which subsequently got into trouble in the endeavour to collect the tax on tea. This pioneer light is still in service, although in 1783 it was rebuilt. The light, of the second order, is 102 feet above mean high-water, and gives a white flash every thirty seconds, which is visible from a distance of sixteen miles; the fog-signal is a first-class siren, giving a blast of five seconds, followed by silence for ten seconds, with a succeeding blast of five seconds and silence for forty seconds.

The excellent example thus set by the good people of Boston was followed by other States and individual authorities along the coast. This system of local and arbitrary control was by no means satisfactory, so in 1789 the Federal Government took over the control of the lighthouse service, and entrusted its safe-keeping to the Secretary of the Treasury. There were only eight lights to watch when the cession was effected, but the growth of the country soon increased the duties of the department. Accordingly, a decree was passed in 1817 whereby the control was transferred from the Secretary of the Treasury to the fifth auditor of the same department, Mr. Stephen Pleasanton, who became known as the General Superintendent of Lights. He assumed the new office in 1820, taking over fifty-five lights, so that during the thirty years the aids to navigation had been under the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Treasury forty-seven new stations had been established.

The new official held the post for thirty-two years, and prosecuted his work so diligently and systematically that by 1852 the service had grown to 325 lighthouses, lightships, buoys, and other guides. The lighthouses were maintained under contract, the contractor for each light undertaking for a fixed annual sum to keep his charge in a perfect state of repair, to supply all illuminant, wicks, chimneys, and stores, that were required, as well as making one visit to the lighthouse in the course of the year. Subsequently it became necessary to award the contracts for terms of five years.

As time progressed, and the duties of the Superintendent became more onerous, certain individuals took exception to the idea of such an important service being entrusted to the charge of one man, vested with wide discretionary powers. Accordingly, complaints were formulated liberally, and the superintendent became the butt of venomous attack. The outcome of this agitation was the formation of a committee, two members of which were sent upon a mission of inspection to Great Britain and France, the lighthouse services of which were stated to be far superior to that of the United States, and more efficiently controlled. The result of this investigation was the inauguration of an official department known as the Lighthouse Board, constituted of capable engineers. In 1852 this authority took over the administration of the light service, which has remained under its control ever since. In order to secure the utmost efficiency, the coasts were divided into districts, each of which is presided over by an accomplished officer of the United States Corps of Engineers, who is held directly responsible to the Board at Washington for the lights in his area. So admirably was the new authority constituted that it has never failed to give the utmost satisfaction, and the result is that to-day the Lighthouse Board of the United States is comparable with contemporary authorities in the Old World.

In the early days the majority of the lights were placed on the mainland, and as a rule comprised wooden towers, projecting from the roof of the keepers’ dwelling, similar in character to some of the older lights to be found on the coasts of Newfoundland and New Brunswick in Canada. These buildings were cheap to construct, as they were carried out upon the timber-frame principle; but they possessed many disadvantages. The greatest objection arose from the attachment of the tower to the roof frames of the house. Being exposed to the full fury of the tempest, the tower in time would become loosened, and the roof itself distorted, so that the inmates had to suffer the inconvenience of water penetrating into their rooms. Even the few masonry towers which were erected were of the most primitive description, and soon fell victims to the ravages of the weather.

Accordingly, when the lighthouse administration was placed upon an efficient footing, the first task was the complete overhaul, and reconstruction where necessary, of many of the existing lights. Of the eight beacons which were taken over by the Federal Government in 1789, six have been rebuilt. The only two exceptions are the Sandy Hook light—a stone tower 88 feet high—and Cape Henlopen, at the entrance to Delaware Bay, both of which were built in 1764. Naturally, their illuminating apparatus has been remodelled from time to time, in accordance with the advances in this field of lighthouse engineering, but that is the only change which has been effected.

One lighthouse on the Atlantic coast of the United States possesses a pathetic and romantic interest. It indicates the treacherous shores around Cape Henry, and mounts sentinel on the headland at the southerly side of the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, Virginia. The stranger on the passing ship, as he scans the dreary bench of sand rising from the water’s edge at this point, has his attention arrested by two gaunt towers. The foremost is almost lapped by the water; the other is some distance to the rear, and upon a higher level. “Two lights, and for what?” is a natural exclamation. But only one tower—that nearer the waves—throws its glare by night. Its companion behind has passed its cycle of utility long since, but it has not been demolished because of its unique history. It was built in 1789 with bricks and stones brought from England. In shape it is a tapering octagonal cone, and when first erected the waves almost washed its base. But the sea, which eats away the rock and soft soil at some parts, casts this dÉbris ashore here, so that Cape Henry is slowly but surely thrusting its dismal tongue of sand farther and farther into the Atlantic. The old tower fulfilled faithful service until the seventies, when, being considered too far from the water, it was superseded by the shaft rising from the sand-dunes below. After a century’s service the old light was extinguished, to permit the fixed white light of the first order in the new tower to take its place.

The new building, completed in 1881, is likewise octagonal in section, gradually tapering from the base to the lantern gallery. It is built upon what is described as the “double-shell principle,” there being two iron cylinders, one within the other. It is 152 feet in height, and the powerful white beam has a range of twenty miles, while a red beam is cast from one side to mark a dangerous shoal. As a powerful flashing white light of a similar character is shed from a tower on Cape Charles opposite, the mariner has a well-illumined entrance into Chesapeake Bay.

Ice was one of the great difficulties against which the American lighthouse builders had to contend, and they laboured valiantly to mitigate this evil. It caused more damage to their works than wind and wave of the most terrifying violence. The upper reaches of the great rivers are encased with thick ice throughout the winter. When the spring comes round, this brittle armour is broken up, and, caught by the current, is swept toward the ocean, the floes jostling and crashing among one another. When the slightest obstruction is offered to their free movement, the pieces mount one another, forming large hummocks, and the pressure thus imposed is terrific. The “ice-shove,” when it assumes large proportions, is quite capable of wreaking widespread damage.

When the screw-pile lighthouses came into vogue, this danger was advanced as one of the greatest objections to the adoption of this idea. It was pointed out that the ice would pack around the slender legs, and either snap them, or would bring about such severe distortion as to imperil the safety of the superstructure. When Major Hartman Bache undertook the erection of the Brandywine Shoal light in Delaware Bay, he determined to frustrate the effects of this peril. The light, being eight miles from the ocean, was right in the path of the ice-shoves of the Potomac, so the nine iron legs upon which the beacon is supported—eight in a circle and one central—are protected by what is known as an “ice-breaker.” This is a pier of thirty iron piles, which likewise are screwed into the sea-bed. Each pile is 23 feet long by 5 inches in diameter, and they are connected at their heads, and at a point just above low-water, by what are known as “spider-web braces.” The result is that, when a shock is inflicted upon one pile, it is communicated throughout the entire breaker. This system has proved entirely successful, and has protected the lighthouse within completely. The main building, although subjected to heavy attacks by the piled ice, has never been damaged thereby, although subsequently it became necessary to strengthen the ice-breaker, because the onslaughts of several winters had left their mark.

Off the coast of Florida, and in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, this type of lighthouse is very strongly in evidence, as it was found to be the most suitable for the coral sea-bed. The most notable structure of this class is the Fowey Rocks light, which rises, a flame-crowned skeleton, from the extreme northern point of the Florida reefs. It is in an exposed position, where inclement weather is often experienced. At this point there is not more than 3 feet of water, and the spot is as bad as a mariner could wish to avoid, for no ship could hope to escape destruction once it became entangled in these submerged toils.

The building of this light presented many perplexing difficulties, the greatest of which was offered by the weather. The structure is an octagonal pyramid, with the keepers’ quarters on a lower deck, communication with the lantern being afforded by a winding staircase encircling a vertical cylinder. The light is 110¼ feet above high-water, of the fixed type, with red sectors guarding dangerous shoals in the vicinity, while the white beams can be picked up some eleven miles away.

The integral parts of this building were prepared by three different contractors, were fitted together, and the building set up temporarily, on the mainland, so as to facilitate erection at the site. The work was started in 1876, the first move being the provision of a platform about 80 feet square and 12 feet above low-water, from which to conduct operations. The lower piles were driven about 10 feet into the live coral reef. Extreme care was observed during this operation, the pile after every stroke of the driver being tested with a plumb-line, to make sure that it was being sent home absolutely vertically. If it diverged, however slightly, from the perpendicular, the error was corrected immediately. When the piles had been driven to the requisite depth, the tops were levelled to the height of the most deeply driven pile; then the horizontal members were placed in position, followed by the diagonal bracing.

This task occupied some two months, and then a spell of bad weather broke over the coast, interspersed with brief intervals of smooth seas and calms. As the land depot was four miles away, this involved frequent journeys to and fro for the workmen, who had to be brought off the work upon the slightest sign of rough weather. To eliminate the interruptions arising from this procedure, tents were despatched to the site and pitched on the wooden platform, so that the men might reside there. At times their situation was alarming; the heavy seas rushed and tumbled among the piles beneath the crazy perch, and the men were always on tenterhooks lest a hurricane, such as is experienced often in this region, should bear down upon them and carry the whole colony away. When work was in progress, they did not realize their lonely, perilous position so much, since their minds were otherwise occupied; but it was the enforced periods of idleness, often lasting several days on end, which made them grow despondent, as they were virtually imprisoned, and there was very little space in which to obtain exercise. The material was brought out in lighters towed by a steam-launch, on which steam was kept up day and night, because the material had to be sent out at any moment when the conditions were favourable. Again, this “standing by” was imperative, in case a sudden call for assistance should be given by the little isolated community when faced with disaster during a storm. When the men got the keepers’ quarters completed, their minds became easier, as they were now in possession of a more stable camp. The superstructure advanced at a rapid rate, and the light was shown for the first time on June 15, 1878.

Toil of a different character was associated with the building of the Race Rock lighthouse, eight miles from New London, Connecticut. This peril is a submerged ledge off Fisher’s Island Sound, and is of formidable magnitude, since the ledge is at the mouth of the race, where the waters, according to the tide, sweep along with great velocity and force, while in heavy weather the waves get up high and thunder with awful power. The main ledge bristles with ugly sharp spurs, some of which rise above the main cluster, known as Race Rock, which is about 3 feet below mean low-water. The situation of this lurking danger called for the erection of an efficient beacon, though not demanding a light of the calibre of Minot’s Ledge, because even in rough weather the water does not mount in the form of thick curtains of spray. A smaller and different type of light, therefore, was considered to be adequate for the purpose.

Even then, however, erection was not an easy matter by any means. The velocity of the water and the submerged character of the reef demanded the aid of divers to prepare the ledge-face and to complete the foundations. The rock was levelled as much as possible by the aid of small broken stone and riprap. On this a heavy circular stepped plinth of solid mass-concrete was laid. This foundation is 9 feet in thickness, and is disposed in four concentric layers, the lowermost of which is 60 feet in diameter by 3 feet in thickness. The concrete was laid in huge hoops of iron, of the desired height and diameter for the respective layers, to prevent the mass from spreading. When this task was completed, there was a level platform, as solid as the rock itself, and projecting 8 inches above mean low-water. On this a conical stone pier was built to a height of 30 feet, by 57 feet in diameter at the base. The top was crowned with a projecting coping 55 feet in diameter. The outer face of this pier is composed of massive blocks of stone backed with concrete; while in its heart are the spaces for cisterns and cellars. From one side of this pier stretches a short jetty, to form a landing-place.

The lighthouse comprises a granite dwelling of two floors for the accommodation of the keepers, from the centre of the front of which rises a granite tower, square at the base, but round at the top, to carry the lantern, the light of which, of the fourth order, is 67 feet above mean high-water. The warning is an alternate flash of red and white, with a ten seconds’ dark interval. For the protection of the base of the pier, the ledge on all sides is covered with a thick layer of boulders. The work was commenced in 1872, but, owing to its difficult character, occupied six years. The Race Rock lost its terrors for all time when the beam flashed out on the night of New Year’s Day, 1879.

On the Pacific seaboard, while the American lighthouse engineers have not been so active in regard to engineering work of an impressive nature, owing to the more slender proportions of the maritime traffic, they have accomplished some notable triumphs. The Tillamook Rock light, described in the previous chapter, is the most important, and is to the Pacific seaboard of the country what the Minot’s Ledge light is to the Atlantic coast. The majority of the lights on the Pacific are stationed on the mainland, or contiguous thereto. These beacons are of more modern construction than those on the Atlantic shore, and in some instances are very powerful. Pride of place in this respect is shared between Point Arena and Cape Mendocino. The former, perched on the cliff-shore of California, has a flashing group of two flashes of ³/₈ second in five seconds, with eclipses of 1¹/₈ and 4¹/₈ seconds respectively, thrown by its light of 1,000,000 candle-power over the water for a radius of eighteen miles from a height of 155 feet. Cape Mendocino light, on the same coastline, has the further distinction of being the most elevated light on the United States Pacific coast, the 340,000 candle-power beam being thrown for ten seconds once every thirty seconds from an elevation of 422 feet. Although the tower itself is only 20 feet in height, the cliff sheers up for 402 feet. Consequently the flash may be detected from twenty-eight miles out to sea in clear weather.

On the other hand, the Point Cabrillo light, a few miles south, whose flashing ray is of 650,000 candle-power, is picked up from a distance of only fourteen miles, because the light is but 84 feet above mean high-water. The Farallon beacon, comprising a tower 29 feet high planted on the highest point of Farallon Island, off San Francisco, comes a good second in point of elevation, as the 110,000 candle-power flash, occurring for ten seconds once in every minute, is projected from an altitude of 358 feet, and can be discerned twenty-six miles away. For many years the Point Reyes light held the distinction of being the loftiest beacon, since its flash of 160,000 candle-power once every five seconds is shed from an elevation of 294 feet, but is now relegated to third place in this respect. Taken on the whole, the lights scattered along the rugged, lonely Pacific seaboard are far more powerful than their contemporaries guarding busier shipping on the eastern coast of the country; but whereas the latter are placed somewhat close together, the former are spaced far apart.

There are some points which, while being so extremely perilous to the mariner as to demand the provision of a lighthouse, yet cannot be guarded at present. The peculiarity of their situations and their physical characteristics completely defy the ingenuity, skill, and resource, of the engineer. Cape Hatteras, perhaps, is the most forcible illustration of this defeat of science by Nature. The sea-bed for miles off this point is littered with the most treacherous sandbanks, beside which the Goodwins of Britain appear insignificant. Every seafarer knows the Diamond Shoals, and gives them a wider berth than any other danger spot in the seven seas. For some seven and a half miles out to sea from the prominent headland, the Atlantic, according to its mood, bubbles, boils, or rolls calmly, over shoals and serried rows of submerged banks. The currents are wild and frantic; the storms which rage off this point are difficult to equal in any other part of the world; and the number of ships which have gone to pieces or have been abandoned to their fate in these inhospitable stretches of sea is incalculable.

Time after time the engineers have sought to subjugate this danger, but without avail. The sea-bed is so soft and absorbing that a firm foundation for a tower defies discovery. One brilliant attempt was made to sink a caisson, similar to that employed for the famous Rothersand light in the River Weser. The mammoth structure was built, and with extreme difficulty was towed out to the selected site. But the seas roared against this attempt to deprive them of their prey. They bore down upon the caisson and smashed it to fragments, causing the engineers to retire from the scene thoroughly discomfited. When a huge mass, weighing several hundred tons, could be broken up by the maddened seas so easily, of what avail were the knowledge and effort of man? The Diamond Shoals still resist conquest. The only means of warning ships of their presence is a lightship moored well out beyond the pale of their sucking embrace.

At the present time the United States Lighthouse Board mounts guard over 17,695 miles of coastline. This aggregate embraces, not only the two seaboards of the North American continent, but sections of the Great Lakes, the Philippines, Alaska, Hawaiian Islands, and the American Samoan Islands, the total detailed coast or channel line being no less than 48,881 miles. In order to guide the mariner on his way through waters over which the Stars and Stripes wave, no less than 12,150 lights of all descriptions are required, demanding the services of an army of 5,582 men and women; while the cost of maintenance exceeds £1,200,000, or $6,000,000, per annum. Seeing that the country levies no tolls for services rendered in this connection, the shipping community, and humanity in general, owe a deep debt of gratitude to a powerful nation.

The United States share with Great Britain, Austria, Belgium, Spain, France, Italy, the Netherlands, and Sweden, the expense of maintaining a lighthouse which is situate on the property of none of them. This is a kind of no man’s, and yet it is every man’s, light. The beacon is not located in an out-of-the-way part of the world, such as the Arctic Sea, as might be supposed, but mounts guard over one of the busiest marine thoroughfares of the globe—the western entrance to the Mediterranean. This unique light is that of Cape Spartel, on the Moroccan coast. While it was built at the expense of Morocco, the responsibility for its maintenance was assumed by the foregoing Powers, in accordance with the convention of March 12, 1867, which has remained in force since. There is no other light upon the seven seas which has so many Powers concerned in its welfare and maintenance.