“And green,” he said, unable to avoid or suppress these thoughts. “Far too green for this time of year. What sort of weed springs up in March and swallows an Irish town?”

Buckley stammered, “It’s not natural.”

The two men looked at each other. The First Mate’s verdict was so obvious and so heartfelt that Davies fought an urge to laugh. He managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll send a landing party to scout the shoreline. Until then I think we ought not to speculate… since we’re not very good at it.”

Buckley returned his smile weakly. “There’ll be other ships arriving…”

“And then we’ll know we’re not mad?”

“Well, yes, sir. That’s one way of putting it.”

“Until then let’s be circumspect. Have the wireless operator be careful what he says. The world will know soon enough.”

They gazed a few moments into the cold gray of the morning. A steward brought steaming mugs of coffee.

“Sir,” Buckley ventured, “we aren’t carrying enough coal to take us back to New York.”

“Then some other port—”

“If there is another European port.”

Davies raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t considered that. He wondered if some ideas were simply too enormous to be contained by the human skull.

He squared his shoulders. “We’re a White Star ship, Mr. Buckley. Even if they have to send colliers from America, we won’t be abandoned.”

“Yes, sir.” Buckley, a young man who had once made the mistake of studying divinity, gave the captain a plaintive look. “Sir… is this a miracle?”

“More like a tragedy, I should say. At least for the Irish.”

Rafe Buckley believed in miracles. He was the son of a Methodist minister and had been raised on Moses and the burning bush, Lazarus bidden back from the grave, the multiplication of loaves and fishes. Still, he had never expected to see a miracle. Miracles, like ghost stories, made him uneasy. He preferred his miracles confined between the boards of the King James Bible, a copy of which he kept (and left shamefully unconsulted) in his cabin.