by Bob Curran
The light had a distance of 20 miles and flashed every 30 seconds and could be seen as far away as Gallen Head in Lewis. The region was prone to heavy fogs, which might obscure the light, but given the amount of shipping in the area, this was considered to be a risk worth taking. The station was to be manned by four keepers working on a rotation—three stationed on the lighthouse and one relief keeper. Every 20 days, the supply tender Hesperus would travel from Lewis out to the Flannans to bring fresh provisions, empty supply containers, and carry the relief keeper who would alternate with one of the others on the island. The island staff would consist of a Principal Keeper with two assistants. Because there was no radio contact, the Northern Lights Board paid a local man, Mr. Roderick MacKenzie to observe the lighthouse daily from Gallen Head and report any problems.
The staffing of the Flannan Isle Lighthouse was given to Robert Muirhead, superintendant of lighthouses for the Northern Lights Board. As Principal Keeper, 43-year-old James Ducat, an affable and experienced married man from Arbroath. With him were two assistants, William Ross and Thomas Marshall. Marshall was 28 and had five years’ experience as a keeper at the time, was unmarried, and lived at home with his father and at least one sister. He may have been the main breadwinner in his family; following the events at the end of December 1900, his father John tried unsuccessfully to seek compensation from the NLB. Ducat was not terribly happy with the posting. The Flannans were very remote with no radio contact and he pointed out he had a young family of four children, one of whom (Anna) was only seven years old at the time, and the stress on them would be immense. The Board, however, wanted a reliable and experienced First Keeper, and Ducat had 21 years unblemished service; eventually Muirhead persuaded him to go. Ducat would spend 14 months out on the Flannans during the construction of the lighthouse, familiarizing himself with the islands and the conditions there. Before the lighthouse was opened, Muirhead traveled out there to reassure him, but once more Ducat expressed reservations. The seas around the Flannans were sometimes rough and the islands were cut off for long periods. Once again he raised the absence of a radio. What if there was to be an emergency—who would know? Muirhead strove to reassure him, pointing out that the last major accident concerning a lighthouse had occurred around 1850 when a supply boat on its way to the Little Ross Light off Kirkcudbright had been swamped by a giant rogue wave and an entire relief crew had been lost. Nothing like that would happen on the Flannans. Ducat grudgingly accepted the posting and would continue as Principal Keeper of the Flannan Lighthouse for around a year, his last tour of duty beginning on December 7th, 1900.
During the long, lonely days of 1900 the men worked steadily in the lighthouse. Toward the end of the year, Second Assistant William Ross (who hadn’t been in good health for some time) went on extended sick leave and Thomas Marshall suddenly found himself promoted to Acting Second Assistant. His place was filled by a rotation of Occasional Keepers from Lewis. In December 1900, the Occasional Keeper was 40-year-old Donald McArthur from Breasclete. A former soldier and tailor by trade, McArthur was highly respected on Lewis. He had married an Englishwoman who had become the island nurse, and both were very popular. One of their two children—their son Calum (Challum an Nurs)—was a prominent pupil at the local school. A staunch member of the Free Presbyterian Church, McArthur was also involved in building a new Meeting House in Breasclete, acting as project manager. In fact, he’d been overseeing the work the day before he set sail for the Flannans.
It must have been a terribly claustrophobic existence for the three keepers, Ducat, Marshall, and McArthur, confined in a narrow lighthouse on a tiny island in the middle of a raging ocean with only the gulls and the occasional seal for company. The islands were bleak and scoured by fierce winds that roared across their barren landscape, sometimes strong enough to carry a man from his feet, and so the three men stayed close to the lighthouse. Things became worse after the 12th of December when a heavy fog rolled in and the Flannans were cut off from the rest of the world. No ships could reach them and they were on their own. The lighthouse would not be visible from Gallen Head for more than a fortnight and the keepers’ sense of isolation grew steadily worse.
Battling through heavy seas around midnight on December 15th, 1900, the steamship Archtor, bound from Philadelphia to Leith radioed that “no beacon flashed from the Flannan Lighthouse, northwest of Cape Wrath.” Her captain thought this was unusual—although there was a fog, he was passing close enough to the islands to make out the flash every 30 seconds. This was a new light and it should be functioning properly. Docking in Oban, Captain Holman made a further report to the Northern Lights Board, recommending that they investigate the failure of the light. The Board, however, didn’t act immediately.
A period of bad weather kept most ships in harbor until after Christmas Day, so on December 26th, the tender Hesperus, under the command of Captain James Harvie, set sail from Breasclete bound for Eilean Mor. There had been no contact with the fogbound lighthouse since Holman’s report, and a brooding sense of apprehension fell upon the tender as it rounded Gallen Head.
Soon, the frowning cliffs of Eilean Mor, with the lighthouse perched on their top, were in view, and looking through his binoculars, Captain Harvie’s face creased in a puzzled frown. Normally the keepers raised a flag to acknowledge the arrival of the tender, but this time the flagpole was empty, and the empty supply boxes had not been left for collection at the little jetty below the lighthouse. Jim Harvie’s concern began to turn to alarm. He knew that James Ducat was a meticulous man and would neglect such an important duty if he could help it. Were the keepers ill? He ordered a blast on the ship’s foghorn, hoping to rouse them, but there was no response. The Hesperus carried a number of signal rockets and Harvie ordered one of them to be fired to alert the lighthouse to the vessel’s presence. It exploded high in the winter air; Harvie waited, but there was no response from the lighthouse—no answering signal from the station rocket house or any shout. There was now no option but to launch a longboat and investigate. The relief keeper Joseph Moore climbed into the bow and together with the Second Mate McCormick they headed for the island. A couple of times, Moore, who knew all three men well, shouted that they were coming, but there was still no reply. They rowed grimly onward, unsure of what they might find.
The first thing both men noted as they climbed onto the jetty was the overwhelming silence. Even the wheeling seabirds overhead seemed to make no sound and Eilean Mor was bathed in a primal quiet as if no creature had ever existed there. While he secured the mooring ropes, Moore climbed apprehensively up to the lighthouse above. Reaching the gate that surrounded the keepers’ enclosure, he found it firmly shut. But there was something else that may have been partly Moore’s own invention—along the side of the path which led up to the gate lay clumps of a curious type of seaweed, the like of which the relief keeper had never seen before. It was an odd color and seemed to shimmer with some sort of natural illumination. The outer door of the lighthouse was locked, but Moore had a key.
To say that the Flannan Light was cramped would be something of an understatement. The door opened directly into a passage leading to a small kitchen where the men made their meals. Moore found that while the outer door had been firmly secured, the inner kitchen door lay wide open. Apart from one or two things, the kitchen was in perfect order—although not lit the fire had been laid, and the crockery had been washed and neatly put away. However, on the table was a partially eaten meal, and a chair had been thrown over and lay with its back on the floor as if whoever had been eating had been suddenly interrupted and risen from the food in great haste. In the kitchen, the relief keeper noted the fading traces of an unusual smell—something he couldn’t identify—which had nonetheless dissipated by the time McCormack joined him from securing the longboat. Moore now checked the storehouse, living area, and sleeping quarters. All the beds had been neatly made, just as if the lighthouse was still occupied. He called each man by name, but there was no answer
. The main clock on the kitchen wall had stopped—it needed to be wound regularly and had been allowed to run down. No one had tended to it in a while. Climbing into the lamp turret, Moore found that everything was in order. The lamps had been filled with oil and their wicks trimmed, ready for lighting. Later he said that he fully expected Ducat or one of the others to suddenly emerge and get on with their business, and that it was the sheer ordinariness of things that unnerved him the most. Leaving the lighthouse, he and McCormack began a brief search of the island searching among nearby crags and going up to the old ruins of the tiny monastery, but they found nothing. Near the walls of the church, however, Moore thought he heard a voice calling, but he only heard it for a moment. It sounded like the voice of James Ducat, whom he knew, but he couldn’t be sure. It might have been no more than a seabird. Both he and the Second Mate found nothing though once again both men experienced the feeling that someone or something was watching them.
Eventually, Moore returned to the Hesperus to inform Harvie of the situation. The captain ordered that he return to Eilean Mor and secure the light, but that a group, led by Harvie, would accompany him and make a thorough search of the island. Maybe bodies might be found. Five men landed on Eilean Mor—Moore, Harvie, the Buoymaster Allan MacDonald, and two seamen, Campbell and Lamont—and began a painstaking search of the place. The lighthouse yielded further mysteries. The oilskins that hung in the store belonging to Ducat and Marshall were gone, but those belonging to Donald McArthur still hung there. Had something happened that had caused two of the keepers to don their outdoor clothes and go outside? And had McArthur followed them hastily, simply wearing only his shirt sleeves?
Down at the second jetty, they found evidence of a ferocious storm that had lashed the Flannans. The jetty had been battered as had the surrounding railings, and the mooring equipment was badly warped. A small store that held winding gear was missing, and a toolbox that had been stored there was found open and with its contents scattered halfway up a cliff. Ropes that had also been stored there were found wrapped around a temporary crane 7 feet above normal sea level. Had the keepers perished in a storm? Harvie wasn’t sure. He ordered a general search of the island for some trace of the men whom he now believed to be dead. This didn’t take long—Eilean Mor was only 39 acres and was so barren that any trace of a body couldn’t remain hidden for long. However, they found nothing and eventually went back to the lighthouse. Perhaps, Harvie reasoned, if he examined the keepers’ log, he might get some clue as to what happened to the men. It is here that the mystery deepened.
According to some sources, Harvie (and later Robert Muirhead) scanned the log and found something curious. From December 7th when he had commenced duty, James Ducat had carefully recorded the standard observations of any keeper—the tides, the currents, the fogs, passing ships, the moods of the sea. After December 12th, however, Ducat’s neat copperplate writing suddenly gave way to the broader hand of Thomas Marshall as Acting Second Assistant:
December 12th
Gale N. by NW. Sea lashed to a fur. Never seen such a storm. Waves very high. Tearing at the lighthouse. Everything ship-shape. James Ducat irritable.
Storm still raging, wind steady. Stormbound. Cannot go out. Ship passing and sounding foghorn. Could see the cabin lights, Ducat quiet Donald McArthur crying.
December 13th
Storm continued through the night. Wind shifted W by N. Ducat quiet. McArthur praying.
There was no entry for December 14th, but there was an undated entry that seemed to be from the 15th.
Noon. Grey daylight. Me, Ducat, and McArthur praying.
1pm. Storm ended. Sea calm. God is over all.
Here, it appears, Marshall’s account ended with no real indication as to what had befallen him or his companions. Yet, the entries remain the most contentious part of the story. It seems strange that, unless something serious had befallen the Principal Keeper, the Assistant would have taken over the log in such a fashion. Besides, the entries read more like those in a diary than in a formal log, making personal comments about Marshall’s companions rather than recording sea conditions. Why in such an important record would Marshall state that Ducat was “irritable”? It could be read by the Principal Keeper’s superiors and count against him. And why should a hardened former soldier like Donald McArthur be “crying”? And why should the Assistant Keeper record an overtly religious comment—“God is over all” in a station log, especially when it was known that Marshall was not a particularly religious man? And there is one further point to consider. It was the custom for entries to be chalked up on a board beside the logbook while they were checked for accuracy—for example, wind strengths—before being formally transferred to the page. Some sources say that there were a number of other entries written there that had never been transcribed and that Harvie and later Muirhead had removed. Some others say that the entries in the log were falsified by Harvie to add an element of mystery to the events. The truth of the matter, however, can’t be verified, because the Flannan logbook has since mysteriously disappeared and is no longer available.
Captain Jim Harvie was both puzzled and horrified. He had no idea what had happened to the vanished keepers, but he suspected that all three might be dead. His initial conclusion was that they had been somehow carried away by heavy seas at the lower jetty. Perhaps Donald McArthur had been interrupted in his meal and had rushed to help his colleagues without putting on his oilskins and he too had been swept away. Perhaps the original men working on the jetty might have been hit by a freak wave, but a second following so closely and striking in exactly the same place and taking a third man stretched coincidence a little. All three men were experienced keepers and well used to the ways of the sea, so why should they have been taken so unawares? And why should an experienced keeper and former soldier like Donald McArthur go out into a raging tempest without any form of protective clothing? These were some of the questions that Harvie’s theory did not address.
Leaving Joseph Moore in charge of the Light, accompanied by McDonald and the two seamen, Harvie returned to the Hesperus and sailed back to Breasclete where he sent a telegram to Robert Muirhead, informing him of what had happened.
A dreadful accident has happened at Flannans. The three Keepers, Ducat, Marshall, and the Occasional have disappeared from the island. On our arrival this afternoon no sign of life was to be seen on the island.
On December 29th, three days after the Hesperus had found the lighthouse deserted, Muirhead arrived to conduct a formal NLB investigation. He allegedly found little else, although the rumor still persists that he and Harvie covered certain things up there. Although Harvie had estimated the disappearance of the keepers as being on the 20th of December (six days before the arrival of the tender), Muirhead revised this back to the 15th. He cited the punctiliousness of the log-keeping and the report by Captain Holman of the Archtor that no light had been seen then. Harvie’s report stated that every clock in the lighthouse had stopped at exactly the same time— this assertion was later denied in the official report that said that they had all run down to different times. The men allegedly worked until around mid-day on the 15th, Muirhead concluded, and then something momentous happened. He did, however, agree with Harvie that the keepers had been carried away by the sea. Ducat and Marshall had gone down to the lower jetty to check on storm damage and had been overwhelmed by a wave. Hearing their cries for help, McArthur (who had been eating a meal) had rushed to save them, but had been swept away by a second wave. However, it was pointed out that with the roar of the wind it would be difficult to hear the cries from the jetty up in the lighthouse, so the account was later changed to an situation in which McArthur had actually seen the waves coming in and had run to warn the other two. This ignored the fact that it was impossible to see the second jetty from the back kitchen where presumably McArthur had been eating. The difference between all the accounts became more and more confused. Besides the difference regarding the logbook and the clocks, ques
tions were now asked as to whether there actually had been an overthrown chair and a half-eaten meal or whether there had been something else. It was also suggested that there had also been a message written on the keepers’ blackboard that either Harvie or Muirhead wiped off. Gradually, however, Robert Muirhead’s account was accepted—it tied everything up very neatly and was acceptable to the NLB. That was his job after all, and he carried it out with great efficiency.
At the beginning of 1901, a temporary crew arrived to take over the Flannan Light. The Acting Principal Keeper was John Milne, Principal Keeper at the Tiumpan Head Light, northeast of Stornoway. With him as First Assistant came Donald Jack, and together with Joseph Moore, they manned the remote lighthouse until Muirhead could make his report. Milne, of course, had another brief—to keep an eye out for bodies washed ashore or for anything that would explain the disappearance of the previous keepers. There were a number of rocky crevices (known as geos) on Eilean Mor, and Muirhead thought that perhaps the bodies of the three men would wind up in one of these coastal drains. Milne, however, found nothing. Later he would confess that he didn’t like the posting on the island; there was, he said, a “heavy presence” about the lighthouse. A number of times, as he was working, he turned, fully expecting to see somebody there. Several times he thought that he heard voices when Jack and Moore were not present. At the end of his tour of duty, John Milne was glad to leave Eilean Mor behind.
Muirhead’s account was fully accepted by the NLB and the mystery was written off as a dreadful accident. Both Ducat and McArthur’s wives were paid compensation (the latter returned to England) and the incident was buried in official files. Decades of keepers came and went to the Flannans without further incident, but no trace of the vanished men was ever found. In 1971, the Flannan Light became fully automated and the need for sending keepers to that lonely outpost ceased. However, the disappearance has not been forgotten, and from time to time, it will resurface in local folklore.
