Transcript of a lighthouse story by Beverley Casebow.
This is the true story of something that took place on a small island 120 years ago, and a mystery that has never been solved.
Captain Holman doesn't understand why he feels so uneasy. It's the 15th of December, 1900, and his ship, the SS Archtor, is making its way from Philadelphia to the port of Leith, a regular journey for Captain Holman and his crew.
As midnight approaches, they are six miles north of the Flannan Isles, a group of seven islands west of Lewis, sometimes called 'The Seven Hunters'. Captain Holman stands on the bridge, scanning the horizon for the lighthouse on Eilean Mor, the largest of the islands, and once an ancient sacred place.
But where there should be light, there is only darkness. And the wild screeching of the birds – fulmars, storm petrels, kittiwakes. Once again, Captain Holman feels that sense of unease and dread. He knows that something is amiss.
At the same time, Roderick MacKenzie is standing on Gallan Head, Isle of Lewis, looking across the ocean for the light on Eilean Mor. He's a gamekeeper on Lewis, but is also paid £8 a year by the Northern Lighthouse Board to keep a watch for any signals from the lighthouse. He hasn't seen the light for eight nights in a row now. At first, he put this down to the rough weather, and the sea-mist, the 'haar', but tonight he has a feeling that maybe something is wrong, terribly wrong, far out there on the distant rocks.
When the SS Archtor arrived into Leith, Captain Holman reported his concerns about the missing light to the ship’s agents but for some reason, maybe it was the time of year, word didn't get to the Northern Lighthouse Board until after Christmas.
By that time, a boat – the Hesperus - was already on its way to Eilean Mor carrying the relief keeper, Joseph Moore.
When they were close to the island, the Hesperus raised a flag to signal their arrival. But there was no response from the lighthouse. The boat sounded its horn several times, and set off a flare. Still no response. All was deathly quiet on the island.
The boat berthed at the East Landing, and Joseph Moore went ashore, alone, to find out what had happened to the light, and to his three friends and fellow keepers – James Ducat, Principal Keeper; Thomas Marshall, Assistant Keeper, and Donald McArthur, an 'Occasional', a Lewisman and tailor by trade, who was trained in lightroom duties, and helped out when needed.
Joseph Moore knew the other men well, and their families lived together on the shore station at Breasclete on Lewis.
He climbs the steps towards the lighthouse, his skin prickling. Looking up, he sees there on the top of the light tower, three huge, storm-black birds, like three drowned sailors on a ghostly ship. And as he watches, they rise up without a sound, fly out to sea, and disappear. Joseph feels a shiver run through him.
The door of the lighthouse is closed tight, but not locked. He pushes it open cautiously. Silence. In the kitchen, the plates, cups, and cutlery have been washed and neatly stacked away. The fire is unlit; the ashes in the grate cold to the touch.
Joseph climbs to the next level, to check the bedrooms. Fearful of what he might find behind the closed doors, he hesitates for a moment before going inside. He can almost feel invisible eyes watching his every move. But when he goes into the rooms, the beds are all empty and made up. And in the light room, everything is in proper order – the lamp cleaned, the fountain full, and the blinds drawn for daytime duty.
But the three keepers appear to have vanished.
Joseph hurried back down to the boat to tell of what he'd seen. He wanted to get off the island, away from the deafening silence, and never to come back.
But that night, Joseph had to go back into the abandoned lighthouse, with three other members of the crew, to keep the light burning, to watch and to wait during the long hours of darkness. And the next morning, they searched the rocky island from end to end.
The only clue of what might have happened was at the Western Landing. The mooring ropes, landing ropes and crane handles were missing, and the iron railings along the footpath bent out of shape. The lifebuoy, stored 110ft above sea level, had disappeared completely.
James Ducat, Thomas Marshall, and Donald McArthur were never found, and to this day, their disappearance is still a mystery.
Some say that they were swept off the rock by a freak wave whilst trying to secure the ropes at the landing stage. But then, why did all three of them go out in wild weather, when the dark was closing in on a winter's afternoon? The regulations said that one keeper should always stay on duty inside the lighthouse.
There are some that talk of murder, of tempers out of control, perhaps fuelled by drink, or isolation, or madness.
And still others wonder about the old legends of the island, of the ruined chapel, of the burying places found there from the time of the Druids. A place of storms, and strange happenings.
And as for Joseph Moore, he carried on as a lighthouse keeper, but he would never go back to Eilean Mor, to the place of the three black birds.
The unsolved mystery of the three men's disappearance caught the public imagination and inspired artists and writers. In 1912, the poet Wilfrid Wilson Gibson wrote a poem reimagining the story in a quite dramatic way, suggesting a struggle or fight, or perhaps a hasty departure. Here's an extract from that poem:
Aye, though we hunted high and low,
And hunted everywhere,
Of the three men’s fate we found no trace
Of any kind in any place,
But a door ajar, and an untouch'd meal,
And an overtoppled chair.
And as we listened in the gloom
Of that forsaken living-room-
O chill clutch on our breath -
We thought how ill-chance came to all
Who kept the Flannan Light.
© Beverley Casebow, 2020