Mind the Light

“Fanny, you’d best get that laundry in right away. The pressure’s falling, we’ve got a strong wind, right about 30 knots, and my shoulder aches like the dickens.” There was an urgency in Maizie Wilmott’s disembodied voice emerging from the speaking tube.

Sixteen year-old Fanny groaned and set aside her book. She glared at the thing, that tube Papa had installed to carry voices between every level of their lighthouse tower home, from beacon to foundation.

“Fanny! Are you hearing me? We need a pot of stew going before the blow gets here.”

“Yes, ma’am, I hear you.” How she longed to have Papa back – hale, hearty, laughing and alive. Fanny untangled her legs from her skirt and peered out the thick-glassed window beside her bed.

High, wispy clouds veiled the sun as they raced across a sky, more a grayish-white than blue. Mama’s shoulder never lied, and the dark-purple smudge on the horizon assured Fanny the weather was turning. It was going to be a long day - possibly the night, as well - for the Wilmott family in the Dolphin Point Lighthouse, especially since her Papa Jack had been swept off their island in an ill-fated attempt to rescue the crew of a capsized fishing boat. None of them had survived.

Without a grown man’s muscle and mechanical know-how to maintain every single thing on the island, a lighthouse keeper family was more challenging, a constant day and night responsibility. But strong, proudly independent and determined, Maizie Wilmott had proven to the Lighthouse Board she was capable and worthy in this year of our Lord, 1879. Papa had trained all of them well, including Fanny and her brothers. Fanny knew Mama would never fail to heed Papa’s last words that fateful day: “Mind the light, Maizie.”

The metal spiral stairway in the center of the lighthouse tower clattered and clanged as Fanny dash down from the second-floor level where she and her brothers had their bedrooms, down past the kitchen and living room on the first floor, to the dim, windowless ground floor.

A strengthening wind blew against the heavy door, forcing Fanny to lean hard into it. Lines of laundry whipped and twisted, threatening to fly off on their own. The island’s resident sea birds were mere specks in the sky, flocking off to the mainland. A darkening tower of cloud rose in the distance, like a mythical castle thrusting up from the depths of the sea. Lightning flickered within the roiling mass sailing toward their island, the mainland and strait in between.

“Lord, watch over any ships and sailors who may be in harm’s way,” Fanny prayed. A shiver of worry raced up her spine as she stuffed the laundry into the wicker basket. No longer did the fierce majesty of a storm thrill her.

Basket on her hip, Fanny swept strands of wind-blown hair from her face. Catching sight of her brothers running along the cliff edge, their large shaggy dog Buster leaping and barking alongside them.

“Andrew! Jackie!” she shouted. “Storms a-comin’! Go inside!”

The boys waved, veering back to the massive stone base of their tower home. Strong for his age from rowing across the strait for school, fourteen-year old Andrew still struggled against the strengthening wind to open the door. The boys dashed inside, leaving the door open for Fanny to follow. Buster’s frantic bark urged her to hurry. It took both Andrew and ten-year old Jackie to manhandle the door closed, bolting it shut against the weather.

They were was blessed to have water piped in from the island’s large, fresh water spring. Papa Jack had extended the plumbing up to the first floor and installed a pump to the kitchen sink. The toilet, bathing and laundry tubs remained on the ground floor with the kerosene fuel tank, but no one minded. They were, after all, inside.

The mid-morning light was fast disappearing behind darkening clouds, dimming the light that usually filtered down the stairway from the upper floor. Jackie lit kerosene light fixtures on either side of the door, then carried the taper from one fixture to the next up the stairs. Fanny brushed past him with her laundry basket; Andrew and Buster right behind.

“What can I do to help, Mama?” Fanny called up through the tube, setting the laundry on the scrubbed pine dining table.

“Send Andrew up here to spell me while we get that stew cooking.” Mama replied. “The weather’s still a ways off, so we’ve a bit of time yet.”

Andrew, telescope in hand, headed up the stairway, squeezing past Mama coming down. “Jackie, you come help pump so we can get stew water going,” Fanny called.

“Good girl.” Mama patted Fanny’s cheek as she hustled past. “I have a bad feeling about this storm, daughter. We may need the biggest pot of stew we’ve had in a while.” They set to work, filling the soup pot, browning chunks of beef, chopping vegetables.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad, Mama,” Jackie said. “Maybe all the ships found a safe place.”

Mama gave her youngest a hug. “You pray for that, Jackie. The light’s burning at its brightest, and we'll keep a sharp watch. If the Lord protects everyone who may be out there and we don’t need to share this stew, we’ll be blessed to eat hearty all week.”

She crooked a finger under Jackie’s chin, tipped his face up towards hers and smiled. The loss of her Jack had been hard on all of them, but especially for this boy.

“Now, scurry yourself up top and see how Andrew’s doing. Fanny will be along shortly.”

The family settled into a calm but alert routine over the next few hours. The savory aromas of fresh baked bread and simmering beef stew blended with the smell of the coffee that would keep Mama and Fanny alert while the storm lasted. Having changed to trousers to better maneuver up, down and back again, they took turns in the beacon and watch rooms overhead, maintaining the lamp, while the boys shared watch duty with the telescope, scanning the seas for any ships needing assistance.

The afternoon darkened; the wind moaned, racing round tower. Raging waves crashed against the rocks, spewing flumes of sea water as high as the tower, itself. A sudden deluge of rain competed with sea water, battering the lantern room windows while lightning flashed its brilliance over the heaving sea, swells rising, rising so high from a distance they’d surely engulf the whole of Dolphin Island, lighthouse and all. Instant thunder boomed, vibrating the very stones and mortar that sheltered the family.

When the onset of windblown rain distorted the steadiness of the beacon’s light, Fanny released the lever to set the fog bell’s clockworks in motion, sounding a steady gong every sixty seconds.

“Ship! A ship!" Jackie's shout jolted Fanny to attention.

“Let me take a look." A mantle of calm settled on Fanny's shoulders. Taking the telescope, she focused into the gloom to see what the next flash of lightning, the next beam from the beacon, would reveal. “Andrew, ready the signal.”

In a fortunate pause of rain, a ship the size of a child’s toy, white sails bright silhouettes against the angry deep purple sky, appeared to perch on the horizon, on the very rim of a gigantic swell that rose higher and ever higher. In a blink, the ship slipped off the edge at the very moment the wave curled high above the masts, chasing the toy as it skimmed lower and lower, across the wave that surely engulfed it as it disappeared in the trough.

Andrew was already blinking the "Alert" signal to Shore Rescue across the strait. Fanny held her breath until she saw the ship again, riding the next wave.

"She’s a three-masted square rigger. Sails intact. Still in control. No visible distress signal." Andrew clicked the lantern shutters, sending the message, proud of his skill, having worked with Papa from an early age to learn the international code. He stayed alert until he saw the "Received" signal from Rescue, then sagged with relief. All they could do now was watch, wait, pray and be ready.

"Let's swap now, Fanny," Maizie called up. "You and Jackie come ready the supplies down below."

"Nooooo," Jackie wailed. "I'm on watch!"

"And you'll be back at it soon enough, little man." Fanny handed the telescope to Andrew.

Fanny and Jackie, with Buster trailing along, carried stacks of heavy wool blankets and a basket of knitted wool socks to benches on the ground floor. Four sets of oilskins - sou'wester hats, long jackets, overalls - were pulled from the cupboard, hung on hooks. Fanny paused, kissed her forefinger and tapped the empty fifth hook, Papa Jack's.

Fanny was confident the serious rescue equipment was well-protected under heavily-oiled tarps in the stone storage shed just outside the door. Checked daily as part of their routine, the cart held heavy coils of rope, grappling hooks, rescue buoys, flares cartridges and flare gun.

“Whoof-Whoof!" Buster gave a sudden, deep-throated bark. Nose toward the door, ears-pricked, tail tucked, the big dog barked harder at the sound of someone clattering down the stairway.

“It’s time to head out, girl.” Maizie’s calm voice belied her quick efficiency donning her foul weather gear. “Jackie, harness Buster then go up top with Andrew.”

"What's happening, Mama?" Fanny asked putting on her own gear.

“She’s close and in trouble. One set of sails furled, the rest flapping. Distress flares fired. Three boats launched. Wind’s pushing them our way.” Maizie shoved her feet into her boots, tied her sou’wester under her chin, ready to go.

Ready, as well, Fanny grabbed Mama’s hand. “Lord, we ask for protection. Amen.” Buster dashed out the unbolted door, Maizie and Fanny right behind.

Fighting fierce wind and rain, they unbolted the storage door where Buster paced. Maizie held up two fingers . . . two each, life rings and rope coils with grappling hooks attached. Fanny fastened both rings to Buster’s harness. Maizie stuffed flare gun and cartridges in her coat pocket, then she and Fanny gathered coils and hooks. Struggling against the wind and rain, they inched down cut-in-stones steps to the strip of shingle beach.

Lightning illuminated a disheartening but hopeful sight . . . tossing in the raging surf, two men clung to a capsized boat; two overloaded boats were nearly swamped, while each wild wave pushed them closer.

The grappling hooks gripped iron rings embedded in a boulder; one rope was tied to Buster’s harness. Fanny held tight to the trembling dog until Maizie waved. Buster leapt into the waters, rising and falling in the waves as he swam. Buster’s efforts were heroic, valiantly swimming two round trips, each with a coil of heavy rope the desperate seamen used to pull their boats to safety and, with them clinging to the life rings attached to his harness, bringing in the last men from their capsized boat. Maizie fired an All Safe flare and Andrew confirmed to Shore Rescue by lantern signal.

As the storm passed on in the night, twelve exhausted sailors stripped off their sea-soaked clothing and, bundled in wool blankets and wearing warm wool socks, feasted on hot beef stew and fresh bread.

“Ma’am,” the captain said. “I’d like to meet your man, thank him for the fine job he did as keeper here this day.”

“There’s no man, Captain,” Maizie Wilmott said with pride and a smile. “I’m lighthouse keeper, along with Fanny, this fine dog, Buster, and my two boys who’re up top. In fact, it’s past their bedtime so I believe I need to be relieving them right about now. Good evening, sir, and I wish you only fair winds ahead.”

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Though relatively rare, women proved to be able lighthouse keepers, several of whom took over after the deaths of their husbands, raising children at the same time. Margaret Norvell is a prime example: https://pathwayheart.com/a-special-gift-for-a-lighthouse-mother/