Endangered Species (11 page)

Alexander Stevenson was as near absolute and profound happiness as anyone has a right to be.

Far ahead a point of light caught his eye, vanished, then reappeared, to grow in intensity. Soon it resolved itself into the navigation lights of an approaching ship. The red and green of the sidelights indicated the two ships were on reciprocal collision courses. Stevenson studied the Singapore-bound stranger through his binoculars, then walked into the wheelhouse and gave the
Matthew Flinders
a five-degree alteration of course.

Out on the port bridge-wing again, he raised his glasses. The other ship's lights were clearly opening their bearing on the port bow and an occlusion of her green starboard light indicated she too had responded. It was odd that the lookout had not yet indicated the presence of the oncoming vessel. Stevenson shifted his glasses to the forecastle head and adjusted the focussing. The powerful 10 × 50s that he favoured showed the moonlit forecastle clearly. He could see no solitary figure in the eyes of the ship and at once his mood of contentment vanished.

‘Shit!'

Striding into the wheelhouse he picked up the internal phone.

‘Yeah?'

‘That you, Brad?' he asked.

‘Yeah, Sec, d'you want some more tea?'

‘No thanks. Macgregor's on lookout, isn't he?' Stevenson asked, cautiously, double-checking his facts.

‘Yeah . . .' replied Braddock, an edge of doubt creeping into his voice.

‘I can't see him on the fo'c's'le, Brad, and he failed to ring for a ship.'

‘Okay, Sec, I'll take a look.'

Stevenson put the phone down and stared at the forecastle again in case Macgregor had nipped off for a leak, but the
place remained deserted and now the passing ship was no more than four miles away, a fast container ship, Stevenson could see clearly, the flat surface of her cargo of boxes reflecting the moon in a smooth plane.

While he waited for Braddock to report back he wondered what story the able seaman would concoct. He fervently wished the
Matthew Flinders
had carried apprentices. This was just the mission for a lively apprentice. Braddock, though no lover of Macgregor, would probably cover for him, clinging to the mistaken solidarity of the peer group. Stevenson could see Braddock's figure going forward and he was suddenly angry. He hit the forecastle telephone bell, expecting Macgregor to jerk into sight like a puppet, but nothing happened and already Braddock was ascending the forecastle ladder. A few moments later he rang the bridge.

‘I'1l take over the lookout, Sec. Macgregor's in the shithouse; says he's not feeling well.'

‘Is he pissed, Brad?'

‘He's not feeling well, sir,' said Braddock with flat and false formality.

‘Okay.'

Braddock would not be so indulgent towards his watch-mate after standing both his own and Macgregor's stint as lookout, Stevenson thought with petulant satisfaction.

The passing ship was drawing abaft the beam and Stevenson pulled the
Matthew Flinders
back on her course, fuming at the turn events had taken. Somewhere below him, as immune from apprehension as if he was on the moon, Macgregor was sleeping off his binge. Shackled by duty to the bridge, Stevenson contemplated calling Captain Mackinnon, but old Gorilla had not turned in until very late and he had no wish to burden him unnecessarily. Besides, Stevenson had enough against Macgregor for leaving his post to drag him up before Mackinnon in the morning. Worst of all, and the most unforgivable element of the incident, was that Macgregor's irresponsibility had ruined Stevenson's equanimity.

‘Come in!'

Captain Mackinnon looked up sharply at Stevenson as the Second Mate, dressed in clean whites, complete with cap tucked formally under his arm, pulled the door curtain to behind him.

‘May I have a word, sir?'

Mackinnon could smell trouble and the cap confirmed it; he nodded and listened while Stevenson explained what had happened during the middle watch.

‘I see,' he said when Stevenson had finished. ‘And you're quite sure?'

‘I'm positive the man was not at his post when he should have been, sir. That's the bottom line.'

Mackinnon grunted and picked up the telephone on his desk. ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings: pop in a moment, will you please? Alex Stevenson wants me to log that Glaswegian beauty of yours.'

A few moments later the Chief Officer came in. Mackinnon outlined what had transpired.

‘Right, I'll get him up, sir.' Rawlings turned away.

‘Hang on a minute, don't be too hasty. We've got to be sure of our facts these days. What was Macgregor doing yesterday before we left Singapore?'

Rawlings scratched his head. ‘Well, I think he was out lowering the derricks like the rest of them just prior to sailing . . .' Rawlings was clearly not too sure of the precise deployment of his hands.

‘Was he on derrick gang last night?'

‘Er, I'm not sure, sir. I'll go and ask the Bosun.'

Mackinnon's skin went a shade darker than usual. ‘You'll do no such thing, mister. Perhaps you could contrive not to have so much to distract you from the ship's business in future, Mr Rawlings.'

It was Rawlings's turn to flush.

‘Macgregor was off duty last evening, sir, up until sailing,' offered Stevenson, embarrassed for Rawlings but equally pleased Mackinnon had had a go at the Mate.

‘How d'you know?' snapped Mackinnon.

‘Third Mate and I passed the mess-room several times when the gangs were closing up. I saw him in there myself.'

‘Drinking?'

‘Well, yes, sir, but I'm not specifically alleging . . .'

‘No of course not, Mr Stevenson, but a few beers, and so on,' Mackinnon said, staring at Rawlings, ‘tend to make a man sleepy.'

‘Sir,' Stevenson said, averting his eyes from the Mate's face.

‘Right, Mr Rawlings, now let's interview Macgregor; bring him up with the Bosun. Mr Stevenson, perhaps you'd pass word for the Purser to join us.'

Macgregor was deprived of a day's pay on the charge of failing to keep a proper lookout. He took the punishment without demur, casting his eyes down with suitable acquiescence and murmuring an apology to the Master which reiterated the substance of his defence that he had been ‘caught short' and had felt unwell. He denied drinking and Mackinnon did not adduce Stevenson's evidence. Macgregor assured the Captain it would never happen again. Indeed, he said it had never happened before. No one in the Captain's cabin was deceived. It was a well-worn pantomime and after the verbatim entry in the Official Log was read out, Macgregor was asked if there was anything further he wished to add. His humble ‘no, sorr' was contrite enough to melt the hardest heart. But the malice in the glance he cast Stevenson as he left the cabin told the Second Mate there was to be a curtain call as old as the pantomime itself.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours after Stevenson had discovered Macgregor missing from his post as lookout, when the two of them were alone on the bridge, the seaman uttered
his threat. By then the
Matthew Flinders
was north of the Anambas Islands with the Natuna Archipelago some eighty miles on her starboard beam; Braddock was pacing the forecastle and Macgregor's pretext for attending the bridge was a routine visit prior to going forward to relieve his watch-mate.

Tonight the moon was veiled, and the northerly breeze had an edge to it that did not belong to the tropics. Macgregor sidled up to the Second Mate to report, with punctilious correctness, his rounds of the ship had been completed.

‘Thank you,' Stevenson responded, never once taking his eyes off the horizon ahead.

‘Aye, mister, ah'm no surprised you canna look me in the face. You're a right bastard, that's for sure, a right fucking bastard of a bluidy shit-face . . .'

‘All right!' snapped Stevenson, swinging on Macgregor, his clenched fists held tightly by his sides before they gave way to the impulse to pummel this stupid troublemaker. ‘You've had your say. Now leave the bridge, Macgregor.'

‘
Mister
Macgregor, to you!' the seaman said vehemently, his jaw jutting forward and his right index finger arrowing upwards to within an inch below Stevenson's nose.

For a second the two men confronted one another, then a voice as chilling as the wind cut between them, imperious and compelling: ‘Get off the bridge, Macgregor!'

At the top of the ladder, his torso naked, a sarong flapping about his legs, stood Taylor.

‘Och, ah see. There's two of you bluidy bastards, is there?' Macgregor drew back from Stevenson, and Taylor stood aside. ‘Ah'll see you when . . .'

But neither of the two officers heard Macgregor's threat as he descended the ladder. Stevenson stood beside Taylor as they watched Macgregor go aft. At the after end of the boat-deck he turned and they saw his hand jerk obscenely.

Stevenson let out his breath. ‘Thanks; you arrived just like the cavalry.'

‘You looked as though you were going to kill him.'

‘That little sod was about to tell me he would get even with me Hong Kong-side.'

‘They always say that.'

‘Yes.' Stevenson recovered himself and turned from the contemplation of the now-empty boat-deck. ‘Anyway, what's the matter with you? Can't you sleep? You were yawning when I relieved you at midnight.'

‘I'm all right. Got a bloody headache, that's all.' Taylor shivered.

‘You'll have pneumonia if you hang around like that,' Stevenson said. ‘There are some paracetamol tablets in my toilet cabinet; help yourself.'

‘Thanks . . . thanks, I will.' Taylor turned back to the ladder.

‘Thank
you
, Chas.'

‘Good night then.'

‘Good night.'

In the radio-room at the after end of the boat-deck Sparks finished scribbling on a jotter, took off his headphones and began to copy out the message on a proper form in a fair hand. When he had finished he rang the telephone to the bridge.

‘Hullo, Alex. I'm getting a preliminary typhoon warning . . . What? Yes, from Hong Kong, though I don't think . . . No it's a good way off, er' – he consulted the chit in his hand – ‘a hundred and thirty-three degrees twenty minutes east and six degrees fifteen minutes north. That's the other side of the Philippines, isn't it? Yes, thought so . . . No, that's the lot for tonight. See you
mañana, buenas noches
.'

Stevenson pulled out a general chart of the Northwest Pacific Ocean, turning over in his mind the doggerel he had been made to learn as a young brass-bound apprentice:
July, standby; August, almost; September, remember; October, soon over
.

Just our bloody luck, he thought to himself.

Captain Mackinnon saw the message when he went on the bridge before descending to the saloon for his breakfast. It elicited no comment from him. The typhoon was only beginning to develop. Time, in the tangible form of further reports, would indicate whether it posed any threat to the
Matthew Flinders
. They were three days away from Hong Kong, and though they might not be the last three days the ship had left to her, they were most certainly the last three days during which Mackinnon bore the sole responsibility for her safety.

He filed the brief facts away in the recesses of his mind and went below to enjoy his breakfast. Three more days, three more breakfasts at sea . . .

He remembered the ship's stay of execution. Perhaps he would remain for a few days, run her up to Shanghai . . .

But he might be expected to spend time handing over to her new master . . . a Maoist zealot half his age. He did not think he could bear that . . .

Perhaps after breakfast he would open that book about the Uffizi.

At smoke-oh time in the seamen's mess Pritchard listened once again to Macgregor's diatribe against the Second Mate. As he rolled his second cigarette and threw his feet off the corner of the table he looked at Macgregor, his patience exhausted.