The Lighthouse Stevensons - Bella Bathurst [4]
David had two sons, David A. and Charles. Both are mainly now known for their refinements to the existing systems and their shrewd maintenance of the NLB. Most of the gaudier feats of engineering had been completed by Robert, Alan, David and Thomas. There seemed little for the grandchildren to do but tinker with what already existed. But the Stevensons’ achievements in engineering, science and optics have lasted far beyond their lifespan. Anyone who has ever travelled the coast of Scotland has probably had cause to thank them. Their lights, built into the rocks of the most inhospitable land in Britain, have gone on shining for almost two centuries. Listen to the Shipping News today, and you are listening to part of the legacy of the Lighthouse Stevensons.
ONE
Yarmouth
Captain George Manby had reached the age of forty without having contributed significantly to life. His childhood in Yarmouth had been undistinguished, his military career nondescript, and by early middle age he had sunk deeply into debt. Apart from an incident in 1800 when he appeared wild-eyed at the Secretary at War’s door offering to assassinate Napoleon – an offer which the Secretary politely declined – Manby seemed an unlikely candidate for immortality. His naval colleagues also noted cynically that the only battle scar he had yet earned was a gunshot wound, allegedly sustained while running away from a duel.
The death of Nelson during the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805 changed all that. Manby had been at school with Nelson, and although the two had not been friends, Manby still regarded the admiral with affection. When Nelson died, Manby was spurred into action. Inspired by his hero’s example and impressed by the public grief over his loss, Manby concluded that his best chance of fame lay in saving lives; in particular, saving lives at sea. It was a startling choice. Manby’s only marine experience until then had been an unsuccessful spell as a naval lay captain on a frigate heading for Dublin. The ship had foundered off the Irish coast, and, once embedded upon the lee shore, began sinking fast. Manby wrote later that ‘the striking of the ship was the most awful and momentous period I had hitherto experienced. The immediate hallooing of all hands on deck; to the pumps, plumb the well, cut away the masts, throw the guns overboard. And amid all this activity, the dismal moans of some, the screams of the women.’ The crew hurled everything moveable over the sides and the rising tide finally pulled the ship back to the sea’s uneasy safety. Once back in Portsmouth, Manby reflected on his experience and concluded that the sea and he were not well suited to each other. Instead, he applied for a post as barrack master, a position which allowed him to keep his military honours while staying safely on dry land.
Manby did admittedly have good reason to be cautious. Two centuries ago, almost a third of all British seamen died pursuing their trade, being either killed by the punishment of life on board ship or sacrificed to storms and drownings. Nearly everything the modern mariner relies upon – competent maps, accurate instruments and adequate communication – was either unreliable or non-existent. The major sea lanes around Britain were crowded and collisions were frequent. What is now fixed and understood was then debatable, and navigation was more a matter of art than science. Sailors depended on experience or luck to avoid danger, and when they did run into trouble there was no kindly lifeboat service to deliver them. Until the mid-nineteenth century, it was made harder to assist victims than it was to collect the proceeds from wrecks. Previous legislation had defended the salvagers, not the mariners, and neither government nor shipowners devoted much attention