Shipwreck off Donegal

THE quay was always deserted when I looked out of the window at morning. The headland, across the bay, might be stretching darkly between driven clouds, or, richly, with green and blue acres if the cold sun were vigorous. But that tiny quay, hidden by a turn of the rocky Donegal coast, was always grey and bare, as though it had been boycotted even by the white cottages that sheltered behind the last hills. No tramp steamer, with its ragged smoke, had ever grumbled round the corner from the sea, and long since the bright shoals of herring had forgotten that bay.

But one morning the unexpected happened. I looked out of the window and there on the little quay, under the broken lee of the wall, a knot of men was around a fire. Even at that distance I knew by their awkwardness that those men were strangers. For in an unfamiliar neigh- bourhood our senses become primitive, and shoulder and limb guard themselves with a needless caution. I knew, too, without thinking, that these strangers had come suddenly from the sea, for who but castaways would build their fire on that uncharted quay and sit around it ?

Without saying a word in the house I stole out, ass(' crossing the muffled sands of the sea-road dodged among the hillocks to spy upon the wonder. There was no ship's boat in the small harbour, for I knew all the old boats that wobbled there when the tide came back, as though they ached from lying on one side half the day. In the bay, not even a sail was to be seen. In a puzzle I went round the old boat-shed that was always locked and came on a young seaman in a dark jersey who had drifted from the fire. He was hanging over a large log, hacking at it idly with a jack knife. He met my excited enquiries with a dull look. But I got an odd word from bins as he curled back the chips with his knife. His steamer had been wrecked at dawn off Torinis ; the islanders had given tlse crew food and rowed them to the mainland. I found a few broken staves behind the shed, and followed at his heel to the fire, confident that his fellows would prove less taciturn.

But the rough, dark crew, at the fire met my greeting with a nod or two, like men in a public house, who turn back to the counter when they have been interrupted. I began to feed the fire daringly, leaning a cunning car here and there, for the seamen spoke an .odd word now and again among themselves. But I could not catch what they were saying. At last a low-sized man, with a brown skill and large powerful hands, who seemed to he their leader; turned to me and asked in an expressionless tone :

"What part of the country is this ?

" Donegal," I answered:

"How far's it to the nearest town ? " he asked with more show of interest.

"Almost fifteen ntiles," I replied, eager to talk. But he said no more. . . . . , •

"Maybe, you're 'thinking of going there," I suggested, cutely.

• "

The Capn's gone there . to report," be said "urtly, and lapsed intn- silence. 1 was abashed .then . and, SIOY

how foolish my curiosity had been. Shipwreck is only picturesque in town imaginings and in books. But, in reality, men are stunned and humiliated by sudden loss of their power, and, shelterless, they are aware, instinctively, of the ancient enmity of sky and rock. I crept away.

The cottages at the back of the hills were very quiet and watchful. There must be great gossip within.

"Wreck, begod," said a boatman, thumbing his pipe at the turf-fire, and stopping to look at me with pitying contempt, "that's no wreck at all."

So he explained that the owner of the wrecked vessel was accustomed to send his rusty steamers on the rocks for the sake of the insurance money. I wondered how he knew so much about a shipowner who lived in Sligo or Limerick, but he thumped his knee with certainty. I remembered, then, the resentful looks of the seamen, their vague replies to me, and curt Glasgow tones.

The little crew was still huddled around its lire as I skirted carefully beyond the quay that evening, and made lay way to a great hill that overlooked the ocean. Across the silver level of the Atlantic I saw the tors of the island, clear and desolate in the sunset. But there was no sign of wreckage along the southward reef, and I felt triumphantly that I had found the seamen out in a lie. But a little foam was breaking brightly by itself, beyond the rocks, and in the dazzle, black, thin and tremulous as telegraph wires, I made out the masts of the sunken steamer.

It was darkfall when I came to the quarry top, above the road, and far below I saw the red glow of the tire and the black melancholy figures of the men, but the little quay itself was merry with shadows. In the night, the folk were watching the quay as I watched, shy and suspicious of the intruders, and wondering, no doubt, why the Captain was still missing.

Suddenly the road, hidden below, rang with hooves and the brisk jingle of an outside car, and abruptly an immense voice rose in the dark, roaring and rejoicing in a strange song beyond the latitude of tune. No married man in that quiet land, however drunken, had ever given the rein, and bawled so fearlessly and shamelessly to the stars. I wondered who the devil it could be. The galloping erased abruptly, as though the car had toppled into the sea. I stumbled towards the road in alarm, but that voice still rose untroubled in the dark. Then I realized that the ear had turned down the soft sandy road to the quay. But the mystery of the wreck would be unsolved for me. The Captain had conic back at last for his men.

AUSTIN CLARKE.