The Bell Rock Mystery - Chapter 8
Created | Updated Apr 16, 2007
It had been one of the longest hours of McDonald’s life. Two o’clock was fast approaching and the lighthouse had given no signal. He continued to check his watch constantly up to the very stroke of two o’clock.
“God Man?”
McDonald paced up and down the small room. As every second passed, he would check the view through the telescope. On seeing no change he would mutter to himself through weather cracked lips and continue to pace up and down. By the time a quarter past the hour came around, McDonald knew action was required. Strand had departed for the rock this morning, taking the horse and trap with him into the town. It was common practise for the returning keeper to use the two-wheeler to return to the signal tower. He would have to go on foot into the town and take a launch out from the harbour, after raising the alarm.
In the living room the door of the signal tower burst open, rebounding back off the stone wall. The master stood framed in the doorway, his face as white as a ghost. The commotion in the room came to an abrupt halt as all the occupants turned to see the masters pale face. His wife was the first to break the silence. “James, whatever is the matter?” Her concern was clearly visible. Never before had she used her husband’s Christian name in public, always he would be addressed as ‘Master’. Only once before had she seen her husband’s face so pale and that had been on her first visit to the hospital, after the removal of his leg.
Mrs. Josephine Percy, the Captain’s wife, looked at him with concern showing on her face. McDonald couldn’t give much away; after all she was waiting for her husband to come home for the penultimate time. He couldn’t tell her much, he didn’t know anything.
“There’s a problem on the Rock.”
The jubilant atmosphere faded instantly. Everyone in the room was well aware of the dangers of working at sea. After many years the men of the rock and their families had become complacent to the dangers, everything was routine. This made McDonald’s mono statement harder to come to terms with, complacence breeds mistakes.
The Master, silently and with a great presence, walked through the living room. As he arrived at the front door no one uttered a word. Silence reigned as he packed his shoulder bag with his equipment; an oil lamp, compass and water bottle were all carefully placed in the bag. The door closed behind him.
It was several moments before anyone dared speak. “What do you think is wrong?” asked the Captain’s wife.
“I don’t know, it must be a problem with the light, maybe its nothing.”
The Master’s spouse tried to sound reassuring to her old friend.
“I do hope everything’s alright.” Josephine replied, but in her heart she knew something was very, very wrong.
“Which room’s next?” panted an out of breath Kitchener, climbing the steps.
“The Lamp Control Room.” came the voice from the room above.
“So if anyone is here, there’s a good chance that is where they’ll be.” said Kitchener as his head appeared through the hole in the floor.
“Or the Lamp Room.” Strand’s head slowly emerged through the hole in the floor. Cautiously he looked around the room like an animal looking for its prey. As far as he could observe no one was in attendance. Looking down the ladder at Kitchener he gave the signal, “All clear.” Neither man would admit it to one another, but both gave a sigh of relief.
The room was slightly bigger than the apartments visited so far. This part of the building was not restrained by the dimensions of the tower. It sat on top of the main structure and acted as a cradle for the lamp although bigger because of its location, the room was so full of equipment that three keepers would struggle to all stand shoulder to shoulder in the room.
Three major pieces of equipment resided in the Control Room.
A large column stood in the middle of the room. This was the main piece of equipment dominating most of the space. On top of the column rested the lamp and rotating lenses. On its side several switches and dials indicated the rotation speed of the lens. The second piece of equipment was the Fog Horn Regulator and the third, the fire control system.
The fact that no one was in the room could only point to one logical explanation, if the lighthouse was still occupied, the residents could only be in one place.
Strand slowly circumnavigated the room checking the various dials and read outs on his way around. Kitchener watched the keeper at his work while pondering their next move, ”Well?” Kitchener whispered. As Strand drew in a breath to speak, Kitchener raised the index finger of his right hand and placed it on his lips, before pointing upwards towards the lamp room. Strand was under no illusion that the inspector required silence. No warning must be given to those aloft in the lamp room. If there was a nefarious presence in the uppermost room, the Scotland Yarder wanted surprise on his side. Who knows what was waiting for them?
Taking a moment to look around he could see there was nothing at hand that would double as a weapon, working on the assumption that someone was in the lamp room he somehow needed to equal the odds or even gain an advantage.
“Are we ready?” asked Strand. The tension could clearly be heard in his voice.
Was he? Kitchen’s head swirled like the wind around the tower, was he prepared to meet his fears? Who was up there, why did they need to lock the door? If no one was to be found, would he be relieved or would the lighthouse have an even greater sense of foreboding to it. “Give me a minute.” He needed to catch his breath and compose himself. Once in the lamp room he needed to be at the peak of his powers, both mentally and physically.
“I thought you policemen were all fit?” Strand couldn’t resist poking a little fun at the out of breath inspector.
“Come on then.” He knew it was now or never. He couldn’t let this large burly man know his fear; a brave heart was needed here, he told himself.
With a deep breath Kitchener took the lead and started to climb the ladder. Slowly, taking one step at a time, each rung ascended lasted the duration of an intake and exhale of a breath. Strand watched from below, the Inspector was now at the top of the ladder. Strand readied himself.
This was it, with one last breath of air in his lungs his head appeared in the lamp room. Quickly he looked around, left, right and finally behind.
“Good God?” Stand was eager to climb the ladder and see for himself what had caused the pronouncement from Kitchener.
“There’s no one here.” Kitchener finished off the statement for Strand.
He stepped off the ladder and looked at the centre of the room. The clear and red glass lenses sat at rest on the base unit, “So where are they?” he mused to himself. Strand’s giant figure had joined him and they stood looking around the room. Strand’s expression echoed Kitcheners; what was going on here?
The relief keeper not knowing what to do or say turned to look out over the sea. Taking a deep breath he watched the waves crash into one another, he always felt at home at sea. Kitchener stared at the middle column looking quite ill. Like a capped schoolmaster, Strand made a complete revolution of the room looking out at the sea. A smile came to his lips as he passed by the Inspector, who was looking more and more ill. Finally his sturdy frame came to rest. “I don’t understand this?” The question was sincere; he hadn’t the least idea what had become of the three keepers. The lamp cradle sat to his right, it had several panels attached to its outer surface. Half a dozen leavers protruded from each. Strand eyed the panels with a face that showed a sense of mischief, even in these tense times, his mood would have appeared to have changed from concern to that of a playful child.
Running his dried cracked hand over the levers and picking one, he pulled it down. The lens started to rotate in a clockwise direction. Reversing the switch the rotation glided to a halt.
“That seems to be working fine.” Strand lost himself in thought for a minute. An uneasy silence had descended on the room. Greater than a pregnant pause for thought, a sinister atmosphere filled the air.
Strand could almost feel the residual presence of evil, for he was a believer in such things. Seafaring societies and families all have a strong faith, they needed one. Frequently news reached dry land of yet another disaster at sea. The wives of mariners needed some hope to hold on to. Ever since the days of the Greek myths, sailors had looked to the Gods of the sea to protect them; nowadays it was only one incumbent deity.
Strand believed all his life that his mother had offered prayers for the safe return of his father and brothers from the unforgiving seas and oceans. No one had ever explained to him who the sailors needed protection from, but it must be an evil spirit.
Strand relieved the tension, “Have you ever seen a lamp burning at close quarters?”
“It would blind you wouldn’t it?” replied Kitchener.
Strand smiled, that would be a logical assumption he supposed. If a flame needed to be seen from the horizon, then it would have to be bright. Kitchener had no knowledge of the use of lenses to focus and enhance a single light. Strand opened one of the panes of glass and the lenses seated behind, both swung open on a hinge situated on the right hand side, allowing access to the lamp. From his large trouser pocket Strand took a box of safety matches. Striking one of them, he placed the flaming end on the wick of the lamp. The wick engaged and a small flame burned with a yellow glow. Strand placed the glass tube over it and turned the calibrator on the side of the control panel, “There.” His voice was as warm as the flame. This was the first time he had lit the Bell Rock Light, it was a moment he would cherish for the rest of his life. The flame refracted through the lens as Strand closed the glass door.
Kitchener was expecting a burning light as though the sun had fallen out of the sky, but all he saw was this small flame, “Is that it?”
“The lens magnifies the light” explained Strand. “Not to anyone standing on top of the light, but if you are miles away…” He was about to embark on a long and technical explanation of the finer points of the optics of the lenses and how this single point of light can be seen from the horizon when he realised that Kitchener didn’t look at all well. “Are you not feeling well?”
Kitchener wasn’t, he would have asked why two out of the four circular pieces of glass were red, but his mind wasn’t on the job. All his attention had switched to his stomach, ominous rumblings were emerging from that part of his anatomy while his head spun and the colour drained from his cheeks. “Not really.” The reply was one of a man not in the best of health. Kitchener’s pale face looked straight down at the floor, his right arm outstretched supporting himself against the Lamp.
“Why dunna ya go outside and get some fresh air in ya lungs.”
“Will that help?”
“It may do, keep ya eyes on the horizon” Strand advised. Many novices of the lighthouse life suffered from seasickness, even though they had been excellent sailors. Strand didn’t know the details of why, nobody had ever told him. He did have a vague memory of his grandfather explaining it to him years ago, but that was in a roundabout kind of way. All he could remember was it was something to do with movement and your ears. On a ship the brain balances one against the other. On a lighthouse you are on solid ground yet the sea still moves. A similar effect is given when you stand on a beach at the water edge and look out to sea. The brain can become confused and think that the body is falling when you’re standing perfectly still and upright. Once the eyes have lost sight of a fixed point of reference, normally the feet, you are at the fate of your sense of balance. This effect can cause some people to fall over and some to feel sick, Kitchener was experiencing both sensations.
The distance from the centre column to the exterior wall of the room was no more then five feet; Kitchener crossed it on his hands and knees. Having made it to the door his shaking hand fumbled around in search of the handle.
Strand watched, a smile on his face. After a few moments of entertainment watching the Policemen struggle, the lighthouse keeper crossed the room to the floundering detective and opened the glass door for him. Strand all of a sudden felt an empathy with the Englishman, he was so proud. It was obvious that he needed a helping hand, but he never would have asked. Strand admired that; he would have been exactly the same.
Pathetically, Kitchener crawled outside.
The walkway ran the entire circumference of the lamp room. Around its outer edge an iron handrail was the only barrier to prevent someone falling off the edge. It was with this rail Kitchener pulled himself up to a semi erect position onto his knees. “Why did I ever come here?”
With his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon he slowly began to pull himself to his feet. His left hand slipped off the top rail and as he dropped back to the floor his gaze rested below on the crashing waves at the base of the lighthouse. Kitchener was sick through sheer terror. The vomit, he watched fall all the way down taking several seconds before hitting the water and dispersing in the waves. Breathing heavily he began once again to pull himself to his feet. The knuckles on both hands were white as he held on to the handrail for dear life and breathed in the salty sea air.
Inside, Strand viewed this with amusement. Leaning against one of the glass walls which lined the room, he smiled and held his hand on a large switch marked ‘Air Comp. Test’. Waiting for the optimum moment when Kitchener had finally made it to his feet and felt a little more at ease with his surroundings, Strand dropped the lever.
A deafening low-pitched moan of the foghorn filled the air. Kitchener jumped a good twelve inches before landing on his knees, white hands still firmly fixed on the handrail. Cold beads of sweat ran down his face and his whole body trembled like a frightened kitten.
Strand gave a little laugh, he couldn’t help himself. “That seems to be working fine.” He said in a nonchalant manner.
“Good God man, you could have killed me.” Never could Kitchener remember having such a feeling of helplessness, as he did now. The large, burly Policeman had been reduced to a nervous wreck.
For his size, which was considerable, James McDonald was a formidable athlete. When living a life at sea a certain amount of fitness is always required. Nowadays steam is the preferred method of powering ships, but in his day sail was the source of propulsion known. This was one of the factors of McDonald’s strength, the brace had to be turned, the rigging climbed and the sails pulled.
As he ran along the cliff top dressed in full oilskins his mind was set, determined to reach Edinburgh harbour. The steam launch normally used for the routine journeys to and from the rock was out of action, the main steam valve had blown during a test run yesterday. The relief keeper Douglas Strand therefore had set off early that morning from the signal tower to walk down into the town were the relief boat was housed in a boat shed. This fact was something McDonald had written several letters about to the Northern Lighthouse Board. In the event of an emergency, such as this, it would be necessary to walk the long path into the town. One launch was not enough. He didn’t like steam-powered craft at the best of times, sail was what he was brought up with and sail had served him well all his life.
It was like the plans to convert lighthouses from oil lamps to this new Edison electric lighting. Electricity - no one knew how it worked, he did not trust it, as far as he could see it was magic, devilry; stay with oil, you know were you are with oil.
Of all the days for something to go wrong it had to be this day that the boat was out of action. McDonald sweated in his hot oilskins, his face a dark shade of red as he puffed away like an old steam locomotive. Only sheer determination on his part kept him going; that and the fact that the keepers could be trouble, he was their only lifeline. All of a sudden he was brought to a halt by a deep groan emanating from the sea. He stopped running and almost rooted to the spot he turned to look in the direction of the lighthouse.
“No, not good.” He shook his head as he recognised the sound of the Bell Rock foghorn.
Inspector Boyd sat behind his desk. The scent of whisky filled the air in the warm room. The three empty glasses still sat on the surface of his desk, untouched since his two visitors had departed far across the cold sea bound for the Bell Rock. The Inspector’s fingertips pressed against each other as he sat deep in thought, considering the problems the day had thrown up. With a sudden jolt he jumped up and walked to the door. Opening it slightly he hollered out, “Constable, I need to send a telegram.”
Stepping backwards, so the rear of his legs were positioned in front of the fire he waited for the young lad to take his message.
More soon...
“God Man?”
McDonald paced up and down the small room. As every second passed, he would check the view through the telescope. On seeing no change he would mutter to himself through weather cracked lips and continue to pace up and down. By the time a quarter past the hour came around, McDonald knew action was required. Strand had departed for the rock this morning, taking the horse and trap with him into the town. It was common practise for the returning keeper to use the two-wheeler to return to the signal tower. He would have to go on foot into the town and take a launch out from the harbour, after raising the alarm.
In the living room the door of the signal tower burst open, rebounding back off the stone wall. The master stood framed in the doorway, his face as white as a ghost. The commotion in the room came to an abrupt halt as all the occupants turned to see the masters pale face. His wife was the first to break the silence. “James, whatever is the matter?” Her concern was clearly visible. Never before had she used her husband’s Christian name in public, always he would be addressed as ‘Master’. Only once before had she seen her husband’s face so pale and that had been on her first visit to the hospital, after the removal of his leg.
Mrs. Josephine Percy, the Captain’s wife, looked at him with concern showing on her face. McDonald couldn’t give much away; after all she was waiting for her husband to come home for the penultimate time. He couldn’t tell her much, he didn’t know anything.
“There’s a problem on the Rock.”
The jubilant atmosphere faded instantly. Everyone in the room was well aware of the dangers of working at sea. After many years the men of the rock and their families had become complacent to the dangers, everything was routine. This made McDonald’s mono statement harder to come to terms with, complacence breeds mistakes.
The Master, silently and with a great presence, walked through the living room. As he arrived at the front door no one uttered a word. Silence reigned as he packed his shoulder bag with his equipment; an oil lamp, compass and water bottle were all carefully placed in the bag. The door closed behind him.
It was several moments before anyone dared speak. “What do you think is wrong?” asked the Captain’s wife.
“I don’t know, it must be a problem with the light, maybe its nothing.”
The Master’s spouse tried to sound reassuring to her old friend.
“I do hope everything’s alright.” Josephine replied, but in her heart she knew something was very, very wrong.
“Which room’s next?” panted an out of breath Kitchener, climbing the steps.
“The Lamp Control Room.” came the voice from the room above.
“So if anyone is here, there’s a good chance that is where they’ll be.” said Kitchener as his head appeared through the hole in the floor.
“Or the Lamp Room.” Strand’s head slowly emerged through the hole in the floor. Cautiously he looked around the room like an animal looking for its prey. As far as he could observe no one was in attendance. Looking down the ladder at Kitchener he gave the signal, “All clear.” Neither man would admit it to one another, but both gave a sigh of relief.
The room was slightly bigger than the apartments visited so far. This part of the building was not restrained by the dimensions of the tower. It sat on top of the main structure and acted as a cradle for the lamp although bigger because of its location, the room was so full of equipment that three keepers would struggle to all stand shoulder to shoulder in the room.
Three major pieces of equipment resided in the Control Room.
A large column stood in the middle of the room. This was the main piece of equipment dominating most of the space. On top of the column rested the lamp and rotating lenses. On its side several switches and dials indicated the rotation speed of the lens. The second piece of equipment was the Fog Horn Regulator and the third, the fire control system.
The fact that no one was in the room could only point to one logical explanation, if the lighthouse was still occupied, the residents could only be in one place.
Strand slowly circumnavigated the room checking the various dials and read outs on his way around. Kitchener watched the keeper at his work while pondering their next move, ”Well?” Kitchener whispered. As Strand drew in a breath to speak, Kitchener raised the index finger of his right hand and placed it on his lips, before pointing upwards towards the lamp room. Strand was under no illusion that the inspector required silence. No warning must be given to those aloft in the lamp room. If there was a nefarious presence in the uppermost room, the Scotland Yarder wanted surprise on his side. Who knows what was waiting for them?
Taking a moment to look around he could see there was nothing at hand that would double as a weapon, working on the assumption that someone was in the lamp room he somehow needed to equal the odds or even gain an advantage.
“Are we ready?” asked Strand. The tension could clearly be heard in his voice.
Was he? Kitchen’s head swirled like the wind around the tower, was he prepared to meet his fears? Who was up there, why did they need to lock the door? If no one was to be found, would he be relieved or would the lighthouse have an even greater sense of foreboding to it. “Give me a minute.” He needed to catch his breath and compose himself. Once in the lamp room he needed to be at the peak of his powers, both mentally and physically.
“I thought you policemen were all fit?” Strand couldn’t resist poking a little fun at the out of breath inspector.
“Come on then.” He knew it was now or never. He couldn’t let this large burly man know his fear; a brave heart was needed here, he told himself.
With a deep breath Kitchener took the lead and started to climb the ladder. Slowly, taking one step at a time, each rung ascended lasted the duration of an intake and exhale of a breath. Strand watched from below, the Inspector was now at the top of the ladder. Strand readied himself.
This was it, with one last breath of air in his lungs his head appeared in the lamp room. Quickly he looked around, left, right and finally behind.
“Good God?” Stand was eager to climb the ladder and see for himself what had caused the pronouncement from Kitchener.
“There’s no one here.” Kitchener finished off the statement for Strand.
He stepped off the ladder and looked at the centre of the room. The clear and red glass lenses sat at rest on the base unit, “So where are they?” he mused to himself. Strand’s giant figure had joined him and they stood looking around the room. Strand’s expression echoed Kitcheners; what was going on here?
The relief keeper not knowing what to do or say turned to look out over the sea. Taking a deep breath he watched the waves crash into one another, he always felt at home at sea. Kitchener stared at the middle column looking quite ill. Like a capped schoolmaster, Strand made a complete revolution of the room looking out at the sea. A smile came to his lips as he passed by the Inspector, who was looking more and more ill. Finally his sturdy frame came to rest. “I don’t understand this?” The question was sincere; he hadn’t the least idea what had become of the three keepers. The lamp cradle sat to his right, it had several panels attached to its outer surface. Half a dozen leavers protruded from each. Strand eyed the panels with a face that showed a sense of mischief, even in these tense times, his mood would have appeared to have changed from concern to that of a playful child.
Running his dried cracked hand over the levers and picking one, he pulled it down. The lens started to rotate in a clockwise direction. Reversing the switch the rotation glided to a halt.
“That seems to be working fine.” Strand lost himself in thought for a minute. An uneasy silence had descended on the room. Greater than a pregnant pause for thought, a sinister atmosphere filled the air.
Strand could almost feel the residual presence of evil, for he was a believer in such things. Seafaring societies and families all have a strong faith, they needed one. Frequently news reached dry land of yet another disaster at sea. The wives of mariners needed some hope to hold on to. Ever since the days of the Greek myths, sailors had looked to the Gods of the sea to protect them; nowadays it was only one incumbent deity.
Strand believed all his life that his mother had offered prayers for the safe return of his father and brothers from the unforgiving seas and oceans. No one had ever explained to him who the sailors needed protection from, but it must be an evil spirit.
Strand relieved the tension, “Have you ever seen a lamp burning at close quarters?”
“It would blind you wouldn’t it?” replied Kitchener.
Strand smiled, that would be a logical assumption he supposed. If a flame needed to be seen from the horizon, then it would have to be bright. Kitchener had no knowledge of the use of lenses to focus and enhance a single light. Strand opened one of the panes of glass and the lenses seated behind, both swung open on a hinge situated on the right hand side, allowing access to the lamp. From his large trouser pocket Strand took a box of safety matches. Striking one of them, he placed the flaming end on the wick of the lamp. The wick engaged and a small flame burned with a yellow glow. Strand placed the glass tube over it and turned the calibrator on the side of the control panel, “There.” His voice was as warm as the flame. This was the first time he had lit the Bell Rock Light, it was a moment he would cherish for the rest of his life. The flame refracted through the lens as Strand closed the glass door.
Kitchener was expecting a burning light as though the sun had fallen out of the sky, but all he saw was this small flame, “Is that it?”
“The lens magnifies the light” explained Strand. “Not to anyone standing on top of the light, but if you are miles away…” He was about to embark on a long and technical explanation of the finer points of the optics of the lenses and how this single point of light can be seen from the horizon when he realised that Kitchener didn’t look at all well. “Are you not feeling well?”
Kitchener wasn’t, he would have asked why two out of the four circular pieces of glass were red, but his mind wasn’t on the job. All his attention had switched to his stomach, ominous rumblings were emerging from that part of his anatomy while his head spun and the colour drained from his cheeks. “Not really.” The reply was one of a man not in the best of health. Kitchener’s pale face looked straight down at the floor, his right arm outstretched supporting himself against the Lamp.
“Why dunna ya go outside and get some fresh air in ya lungs.”
“Will that help?”
“It may do, keep ya eyes on the horizon” Strand advised. Many novices of the lighthouse life suffered from seasickness, even though they had been excellent sailors. Strand didn’t know the details of why, nobody had ever told him. He did have a vague memory of his grandfather explaining it to him years ago, but that was in a roundabout kind of way. All he could remember was it was something to do with movement and your ears. On a ship the brain balances one against the other. On a lighthouse you are on solid ground yet the sea still moves. A similar effect is given when you stand on a beach at the water edge and look out to sea. The brain can become confused and think that the body is falling when you’re standing perfectly still and upright. Once the eyes have lost sight of a fixed point of reference, normally the feet, you are at the fate of your sense of balance. This effect can cause some people to fall over and some to feel sick, Kitchener was experiencing both sensations.
The distance from the centre column to the exterior wall of the room was no more then five feet; Kitchener crossed it on his hands and knees. Having made it to the door his shaking hand fumbled around in search of the handle.
Strand watched, a smile on his face. After a few moments of entertainment watching the Policemen struggle, the lighthouse keeper crossed the room to the floundering detective and opened the glass door for him. Strand all of a sudden felt an empathy with the Englishman, he was so proud. It was obvious that he needed a helping hand, but he never would have asked. Strand admired that; he would have been exactly the same.
Pathetically, Kitchener crawled outside.
The walkway ran the entire circumference of the lamp room. Around its outer edge an iron handrail was the only barrier to prevent someone falling off the edge. It was with this rail Kitchener pulled himself up to a semi erect position onto his knees. “Why did I ever come here?”
With his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon he slowly began to pull himself to his feet. His left hand slipped off the top rail and as he dropped back to the floor his gaze rested below on the crashing waves at the base of the lighthouse. Kitchener was sick through sheer terror. The vomit, he watched fall all the way down taking several seconds before hitting the water and dispersing in the waves. Breathing heavily he began once again to pull himself to his feet. The knuckles on both hands were white as he held on to the handrail for dear life and breathed in the salty sea air.
Inside, Strand viewed this with amusement. Leaning against one of the glass walls which lined the room, he smiled and held his hand on a large switch marked ‘Air Comp. Test’. Waiting for the optimum moment when Kitchener had finally made it to his feet and felt a little more at ease with his surroundings, Strand dropped the lever.
A deafening low-pitched moan of the foghorn filled the air. Kitchener jumped a good twelve inches before landing on his knees, white hands still firmly fixed on the handrail. Cold beads of sweat ran down his face and his whole body trembled like a frightened kitten.
Strand gave a little laugh, he couldn’t help himself. “That seems to be working fine.” He said in a nonchalant manner.
“Good God man, you could have killed me.” Never could Kitchener remember having such a feeling of helplessness, as he did now. The large, burly Policeman had been reduced to a nervous wreck.
For his size, which was considerable, James McDonald was a formidable athlete. When living a life at sea a certain amount of fitness is always required. Nowadays steam is the preferred method of powering ships, but in his day sail was the source of propulsion known. This was one of the factors of McDonald’s strength, the brace had to be turned, the rigging climbed and the sails pulled.
As he ran along the cliff top dressed in full oilskins his mind was set, determined to reach Edinburgh harbour. The steam launch normally used for the routine journeys to and from the rock was out of action, the main steam valve had blown during a test run yesterday. The relief keeper Douglas Strand therefore had set off early that morning from the signal tower to walk down into the town were the relief boat was housed in a boat shed. This fact was something McDonald had written several letters about to the Northern Lighthouse Board. In the event of an emergency, such as this, it would be necessary to walk the long path into the town. One launch was not enough. He didn’t like steam-powered craft at the best of times, sail was what he was brought up with and sail had served him well all his life.
It was like the plans to convert lighthouses from oil lamps to this new Edison electric lighting. Electricity - no one knew how it worked, he did not trust it, as far as he could see it was magic, devilry; stay with oil, you know were you are with oil.
Of all the days for something to go wrong it had to be this day that the boat was out of action. McDonald sweated in his hot oilskins, his face a dark shade of red as he puffed away like an old steam locomotive. Only sheer determination on his part kept him going; that and the fact that the keepers could be trouble, he was their only lifeline. All of a sudden he was brought to a halt by a deep groan emanating from the sea. He stopped running and almost rooted to the spot he turned to look in the direction of the lighthouse.
“No, not good.” He shook his head as he recognised the sound of the Bell Rock foghorn.
Inspector Boyd sat behind his desk. The scent of whisky filled the air in the warm room. The three empty glasses still sat on the surface of his desk, untouched since his two visitors had departed far across the cold sea bound for the Bell Rock. The Inspector’s fingertips pressed against each other as he sat deep in thought, considering the problems the day had thrown up. With a sudden jolt he jumped up and walked to the door. Opening it slightly he hollered out, “Constable, I need to send a telegram.”
Stepping backwards, so the rear of his legs were positioned in front of the fire he waited for the young lad to take his message.
More soon...
