by the local fishermen during their
evening get-togethers, the details of which came to me by chance.

About two or three years ago, I was out sailing on the Sardinian Sea
with seven or eight customs' men. A tough trip for a landlubber! There
hadn't been a single fair day in the whole of March. The wind
relentlessly pursued us and the sea never, ever, let up.

One evening, as we were running before the storm, our boat found refuge
in the opening to the Straits of Bonifacio, in the midst of an
archipelago.... They were not a welcoming sight: huge bare rocks
covered with birds, a few clumps of absinth, some lenticular scrub, and
here and there pieces of rotting wood half buried in the silt. But,
believe me, for a night's stay, these ominous rocks were a much better
prospect than the half-covered deckhouse of our old boat, where the
waves made themselves very much at home. In fact, we were pleased to
see the islands.

The crew had lit a fire for the bouillabaisse, by the time we were all
ashore. The Master hailed me and pointed out a small outcrop of white
masonry almost lost in the fog at the far end of the island:

--Are you coming to the cemetery? he said.

--A cemetery, Master Lionetti! Where are we then?

--The Lavezzi Islands, monsieur. The six hundred souls from the
_Semillante_ are buried here, at the very spot where their frigate
foundered ten years ago.... Poor souls, they don't get many visitors;
the least we can do is to go and say hello to them, while we're here....

--Of course, willingly, skipper.

* * * * *

The _Semillante's_ crew's last resting place was inexpressibly gloomy.
I can still see its small low wall, it's iron gate, rusted and hard to
open, its silent chapel, and hundreds of crosses overgrown by the
grass. Not a single everlasting wreath, not one remembrance, nothing!
Oh, the poor deserted dead; how cold they must be in their unwanted
graves.

We stayed there briefly, kneeling down. The Master was praying loudly,
while gulls, sole guardians of the cemetery, circled over our heads,
their harsh melancholy cries counterpoint to the sea's lamentations.

The prayer finished, we plodded, sadly, back to the spot where the boat
was moored. The sailors had not wasted any time; we were met by a great
roaring fire in the shelter of a rock, with a hot-pot steaming. We all
sat around, feet drying by the flames, and soon everyone had two slices
of rye bread to dunk into a so