Endangered Species

ENDANGERED SPECIES

Mariner's Library Fiction Classics

S
TERLING
H
AYDEN
Voyage: A Novel of 1896

B
JORN
L
ARSSON
The Celtic Ring

S
AM
L
LEWELLYN
The Shadow in the Sands

R
ICHARD
W
OODMAN
The Darkening Sea
Endangered Species
Wager
The Nathaniel Drinkwater Novels:
The Bomb Vessel
The Corvette
1805
Baltic Mission
In Distant Waters
A Private Revenge
Under False Colours
The Flying Squadron
Beneath the Aurora
The Shadow of the Eagle
Ebb Tide

Richard Woodman

First U.S. edition published 2000
by Sheridan House Inc.
145 Palisade Street
Dobbs Ferry, New York 10522

Copyright © 1992 by Richard Woodman

First published in Great Britain 1992
by Little, Brown and Company

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of Sheridan House.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Woodman, Richard, 1944-

Endangered species / Richard Woodman.—1st U.S. ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-57409-076-3 (alk. paper)

1. Great Britain—History, Naval—20th century—

Fiction. I. Title.

PR6073.0618 E54 2000
823'.914—dc21

00-021000

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 1-57409-076-3

For Ned

‘It seems now that the sea has almost retreated from our lives, and that ships are leading a twilight, marginal existence, like senior officials who resist being pensioned off.'

The Bay of Noon
Shirley Hazzard

‘There is no home left for universal souls except perhaps Antarctica or on the high seas.'

The Life and Times of Michael K
J.M. Coetzee

‘All our virtues are forms of fear.'

The Harbour Master
William McFee

Acknowledgement is given to William Orford for his permission to use the poem on
pages 283
–
284
.

1
The Middle Watch

2
Distant Storm Clouds

3
Singapore

4
Cargo Work

5
The South China Sea

6
Encounter

7
Refugees

8
The Stuff of Heroes

9
Master Under God

10
A Breaking of Lances

11
Oil and Water

12
Typhoon David

13
Juggernaut

14
Vortex

15
A Roosting of Pigeons

16
Mutiny

17
Signs of the Times

18
Bloody But Unbowed

19
The Blessings of the Land

20
Endangered Species

‘One bell, Sec!'

Stevenson rolled over and grunted.

‘One bell!' The persistent Liverpudlian accent wrenched him from sleep and he sat up with the tired discipline of long practice.

‘Okay, Pritch.' Stevenson swung his legs over the edge of the bunk. As the door curtain fluttered behind the exit of Able Seaman Pritchard, Stevenson eased his feet to the deck, feeling for his flip-flops.

At the sink he groped for his toothbrush and dashed water into his face. He jerked the
sarong
off, drew on underpants, shirt and shorts, combed his hair and left the cabin.

The wind of the ship's passage ruffled his shirt as he climbed the bridge ladder. Above him soared the mute majesty of the tropical night sky, a black, velvet arch pierced with a myriad stars. He marked them with a seaman's instinct: Canopus blazing low in the southern sky, coruscating with iridescent shots of blue and red as its burning gases were fracted by the earth's dirt-laden atmosphere; higher up the limbs of Orion dominated the sky, Rigel cold with the blue fire of a super giant, Bellatrix white as ice and Betelgeuse red with blood on the hunter's spear arm.

‘Morning, Chas,' Stevenson said curtly as he crossed the bridge-wing to the dimly lit chart-room.

‘Morning, Alex.' Charles Taylor turned and acknowledged the arrival of his relief, then resumed his review of the horizon ahead of the ship. In the chart-room Stevenson made himself a cup of tea, glanced at the log and read the Master's night orders written in Captain Mackinnon's elegantly archaic hand. He scribbled his initials against them, then picked up his mug of tea and re-emerged to lean on the rail alongside the Third Officer.

‘Sleep well?' Taylor asked as he always asked, as though courtesy demanded it, at the same time drooping languidly over the teak caprail. Such dubious mannerisms tended to set him apart from his shipmates, as though he was unwilling ever to let them forget the social differences that separated them.

Even Captain Mackinnon, Stevenson thought with a mild pucker of irritation, stood slightly in awe of Chas Taylor.

‘Not bad, thanks,' he replied. ‘All quiet?'

Taylor straightened up, stretched and yawned, as if palpably slipping off the responsibilities of officer of the watch and emphasising his four-hour stint was now over. The product of private education, Taylor had come to sea in a misdirected quest for a genteel way of life. He was some fifty years too late and the result was a rather disdainful young man who nevertheless possessed a certain impervious superiority that neither Captain Mackinnon nor Chief Officer Rawlings could deflate. Indeed, such was the man's charisma that he was regarded by them with a caution bordering on respect, despite the fact that Taylor was thirty years younger than the Captain and eighteen younger than the Chief Officer.

Stevenson found this conviction of class paradoxical. He in no wise considered himself a man of lesser competence than Taylor, but the Third Officer's natural assumption of superiority was so easily borne that it was hard to confound. Taylor came from stock which possessed the confidence that money brings, something Stevenson had never experienced. Every fact Stevenson knew about Taylor was quietly notched
a little higher than in his own case. The photograph in Taylor's cabin showed his wife a cool, blonde young woman, with the high cheekbones and square jaw of lasting beauty, and whenever Stevenson saw the picture he felt a slight resentment; the fact Taylor was married seemed somehow to claim a pre-eminence. Inevitably it made Stevenson consider his own love affair with Cathy. Cathy was enviably lovely, but she was not as beautiful as Caroline Taylor. It was as if the Third Mate had some sort of right to these things.

Taylor's junior status was irrelevant, for Taylor radiated the experience of countless generations in a way that Stevenson found confusing. And, because Stevenson was a straight, almost humourless devotee to his profession, Taylor's sardonically charming attitude abraded Stevenson's own self-esteem at times, while at others it attracted him. This vacillation troubled Stevenson's relationship with his younger colleague, leaving him always the clumsy loser.

‘Only seen two ships,' Taylor remarked laconically, reporting the significant events of his watch. ‘And the Old Man turned in about an hour ago.'

‘Beautiful night,' remarked Stevenson between sips of tea. He looked forward. The old-fashioned crutched derricks reflected faint highlights from the stars and the foremast rose like an advancing cross as the ship hissed through the calm, windless sea. Beside him Taylor yawned again.

‘You're a romantic bastard, Alex.'

‘Thanks.' Stevenson felt the familiar irritation, then Taylor confounded him by one of those disarming remarks of which he was occasionally capable and which Stevenson felt resentfully flattered to receive.

‘I often stand up here and wonder,' Taylor said slowly, almost experimentally, ‘whether it is possible to define infinity on a night like this.' He paused. Beside him Stevenson stirred into full consciousness and looked sharply at the Third Officer, to see if he was being mocked.

‘I keep thinking it should be possible to work it out; after all
we're looking at it, not just contemplating it mathematically, but actually staring at the reality. The trouble is trying to find the words to accompany the thoughts. D'you know, several times this evening I thought I had it, was convinced I was within an ace of the thing, then' – he snapped his fingers – ‘gone!' Taylor laughed at himself; a bitter laugh, Stevenson thought suddenly, forgetting his earlier irritation. ‘And then here I am,' Taylor went on, ‘back on the bridge of the old
Matthew Flinders
ploughing a furrow across the Indian Ocean.'

He looked at Stevenson and abruptly asked ‘D'you think I'm mad, Alex?'

Taylor had never previously asked him anything, and he thought the question ironic. When put on the spot, Stevenson's seriousness became his foremost characteristic. Besides, the night was worthy of a few secrets.

‘No, you're right,' he said, adding with an awkward diffidence, ‘these nights are bloody romantic. I usually become convinced there is a God. Don't have the slightest shred of doubt. I just worry for four hours about His exact composition.'

Stevenson was gratified by Taylor's low chuckle of appreciation. ‘It's all very poetic,' Taylor said. ‘The trouble is it's so bloody beautiful it almost hurts . . .'

The candour of this frank remark disarmed Stevenson for a moment and he lit a cigarette, recoiling from its taste. Then, recalling he was the older of the two, he asked, ‘Have you got something on your mind, Chas?'

Taylor's silence was that of assent. After a brief pause he inquired, ‘You're not married, are you, Alex?'

‘No.'

‘Thinking of it, are you? The photos in your cabin, I mean . . .'

‘I finished with Cathy the day I got orders to join this ship,' Stevenson said with a sudden harsh edge to his voice. ‘I just like to have a bird's picture to ogle,' he added tritely,
ineptly trying not to break the mood of intimacy that existed between them.

‘Bad for the image, eh?' Taylor mocked. ‘Don't want the crew to think you're fruit?'

Stevenson grunted and drew on the cigarette. A pale orange glow suffused his even features. ‘What's the problem then? Your marriage?'

‘Caroline,' Taylor said slowly, as though measuring out the confidence, ‘is a natural blonde with beautiful legs and that indefinable quality of being a prize bitch.'

From forward the single clear note of the ship's forecastle bell indicated the lookout had spotted a ship to starboard. The two officers raised their eyes, both aware that they should have seen it long before the seaman forward.

‘I've got her, two points to starboard.'

‘Right then, she's all yours. Steering o-eight-nine. Should pick up Pulo Weh sometime during my forenoon watch. Good night.'

‘Good night.'

Stevenson lifted his binoculars and studied the distant, twinkling masthead lights of the approaching ship as Taylor shuffled away, the mood broken by the intrusion of duty. Stevenson thought he had gone when his voice called from the ladder: ‘Ever read Conrad?'

‘A bit,' Stevenson replied.

‘He knew what it was like to stand a middle watch. D'you know what he said about humanity?'

‘Haven't a clue,' admitted Stevenson.

‘He said mankind on this earth was an unforeseen accident which did not bear close examination.'

‘Oh.' Stevenson tried to find some relevance in the remark.

‘Something for you to chew over, old son; see you in the morning.'