Priscilla's Spies. George A. Birmingham
said Priscilla, “I haven’t time to stay here and see him drown, though of course it would be interesting. I’m going to bathe and I have to get back again in time to meet the train.”
Peter Walsh laid the Blue Wanderer alongside the slip. He laced the new lug to its yard, made fast the tack and hoisted it, gazing critically at it as it rose. Then he stepped out of the boat. Priscilla flung her bathing-dress and towel on board and took her seat in the stern.
“You’ll find the tiller under the floor board, Miss. With the little air of wind there is from the south you’ll slip down to Delginish easy enough if it’s there you’re thinking of going.”
“Shove her head round now, Peter, and give her a push off. I’ll get way on her when I’m out a bit from the slip.”
The sail flapped, bellied, flapped again, finally swung over to starboard. Priscilla settled herself in the stern with the sheet in her hand.
“The tide’s under you, Miss,” said Peter Walsh, “You’ll slip out easy enough.”
The Blue Wanderer, urged by the faint southerly breeze, slid along. The water was scarcely rippled by the wind but the tide ran strongly. One buoy after another was passed. A large black boat lay alongside the quay, loaded heavily with gravel. The owner leaned over his gunwale and greeted Priscilla. She replied with friendly familiarity.
“How are you, Kinsella? How’s Jimmy and the baby? I expect the baby’s grown a lot.”
“You’re looking fine yourself, Miss,” said Joseph Antony Kinsella. “The baby and the rest of them is doing grand, thanks be to God.”
The Blue Wanderer slipped past. She reached one and then another of the perches which mark the channel into the harbour. The breeze freshened slightly. Little wavelets formed under the Blue Wandere’s bow and curled outwards from her sides, spreading slowly and then fading away in her wake. Priscilla drew a biscuit from her pocket and munched it contentedly.
Right ahead of her lay the little island of Delginish with a sharply shelving gravel shore. On the northern side of it stood two warning red perches. There were rocks inside them, rocks which were covered at full tide and half tide, but pushed up their brown sea-weedy backs when the tide was low. Priscilla put down her tiller, hauled on her sheet and slipped in through a narrow passage. She rounded the eastern corner of the island and ran her boat ashore in a little bay. She lowered the sail, slipped off her shoes and stockings and pushed the boat out. A few yards from the shore, she dropped her anchor and waited till the boat swung shorewards again to the length of her anchor rope. Then, with her bathing-dress in her hand she waded to the land. The tide was falling. Priscilla had been caught more than once by an ebbing tide with a boat left high and dry. It was not an easy matter to push the Blue Wanderer down a stretch of stony beach. Precautions had to be taken to keep her afloat.
A few minutes later, a brilliant scarlet figure, she was wading out again, knee deep, waist deep. Then with a joyful plunge she swam forward through the sun-warmed water. She came abreast of the corner of her bay, the eastern point of Delginish, turned on her back and splashed deliciously, sending columns of glistening foam high into the air. Standing upright with outspread hands and head thrown back, she trod water, gazing straight up into the sky. She lay motionless on her back, totally immersed save for eyes, nostrils and mouth. A noise of oars roused her. She rolled over, swam a stroke or two, and saw Flanagan’s old boat come swiftly down the channel. The stranger, who had courted disaster by fouling the steamer’s warp, tugged unskilfully at his oars. He headed for the island. Priscilla shouted to him.
“Keep out,” she said. “You’re going straight for the rocks.”
The young man in the boat turned round and stared at her.
“Pull your right oar,” said Priscilla.
The young man pulled both oars hard, missed the water with his right and fell backwards to the bottom of the boat. His two feet stuck up ridiculously. Priscilla laughed. The boat, swept forward by the tide, grounded softly on the sea wrack which covered the rocks.
“There you are, now,” said Priscilla. “Why didn’t you do what I told you?”
The young man struggled to his feet, seized an oar and began to push violently.
“That’s no use,” said Priscilla, swimming close under the rocks. “You’ll have to hop out or you’ll be stuck there till the tide rises, and that won’t be till swell on in the afternoon.”
The young man eyed the water doubtfully. Then he spoke for the first time.
“Is it very deep?” he said.
“Where you are,” said Priscilla, “it’s quite shallow, but if you step over the edge of the rock there’s six foot of water and more.”
The young man sat down and began to unlace his boots.
“If you wait to do that,” said Priscilla, “you’ll be high and dry altogether. Never mind your boots. Hop out and shove.”
He stepped cautiously over the side of his boat, seized his gunwale and shoved. The boat slipped off the rock, stern first. The young man staggered, loosed his hold on her and then stood gaping helplessly, ankle deep in water perched on a very slippery rock, while the boat slipped away from him, stemming the tide as long as the impulse of his push lasted.
“What shall I do now?” he asked.
“Stand where you are,” said Priscilla. “She’ll drift down to you again. I’ll give her a shove so that she’ll come right up to you.”
She swam after the boat and laid a hand on her gunwale. Then, kicking and splashing, guided her back to the young man on the rock. He climbed on board.
“Where do you suppose you’re going?” asked Priscilla.
“To an island,” said the young man.
“If one island is the same to you as another,” said Priscilla, “and you haven’t any particular one in your mind, I’d advise you to stop at this one.”
“But I have.”
“Which one?”
The young man looked at her suspiciously and then took his oars.
“I hope your island is quite near,” said Priscilla, “For if it isn’t you’re not likely to get there. Were you ever in a boat before?”
The young man pulled a few strokes and got his boat into the channel beyond the red perches.
“I think,” said Priscilla, “that you might say ‘thank you,’ Only for me you’d have been left stranded on that rock till the tide rose again and floated you off somewhere between four and five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” said the young man, “thank you very much indeed.”
“But where are you going?”
The question seemed to frighten him. He began to row with desperate energy. In a few minutes he was far down the channel. Priscilla watched him. Then she swam to her bay, pushed the Blue Wanderer a little further from the shore and landed.
The island of Delginish is a pleasant spot on a warm day. Above its gravel beach rises a slope of coarse short grass, woven through with wild thyme and yellow crowtoe. Sea-pinks cluster on the fringe of grass and delicate groups of fairy-flax are bright-blue in stony places. Red centaury and yellow bed-straw and white bladder campion flourish. Tiny wild roses, clinging to the ground, fleck the green with spots of vivid white. The sun reaches every yard of the shadeless surface of the island. Here and there grey rocks peep up, climbed over, mellowed by olive green stonecrops. Priscilla, glowing from her bath, lay full stretch among the flowers, drawing deep breaths of scented air and gazing at the sky. But nothing was further from her mind than soulful sentimentalising over the beauties of nature. She was puzzling about the young man who had left her, endeavoring