Endangered Species (37 page)

He raised his glasses. Ahead of the ship as it cleaved a sea of innocent and sparkling blue, the purple hills of China and the Crown Colony of Hong Kong were hardening in their outline, gathering mass and form as they changed to dun and
dark green. On the port bow, stared at by Alex Stevenson over the prism of the azimuth mirror on the bearing compass, the white tower of Wang Lan Lighthouse reflected the sun. All about them the bag-wing sails of fishing junks dotted the calm sea and half a dozen ships, container vessels, two tankers and two ro-ro ships, converged or departed from the focal point of Hong Kong's landlocked harbour. It was a scene of tranquil normality; perhaps, Mackinnon thought, the only thing about this day likely to conform to his imagination.

Stevenson straightened from the compass and smiled at Mackinnon as he went into the chart-room to plot the ship's position. How did the young Second Mate feel? Mackinnon's was not the only career due to terminate in the coming hours. He supposed Stevenson's grin was one of those tiny miracles which passed unnoticed in daily life.

‘Starboard easy; steer o-one-five,' he said automatically, altering the
Matthew Flinders
's course to avoid a junk just then hauling her nets two miles ahead of them.

‘Starboard, o-one-five.' The helmsman's abbreviated reply came in Pritchard's inimitable accent. Pritchard, Stevenson, Sparks, Thorpe, all good men,
true
characters, the bearers of men of indifferent qualities, men of Rawlings's and Macgregor's stamp. Mackinnon felt nothing towards Macgregor. Like Rawlings, he was simply part of the warp and weft of the sea life.

Mackinnon remembered some lines which had once won a poetry competition run by the old Seafarer's Education Service. In Mackinnon's opinion they were not poetry, for they neither rhymed nor scanned, but they had stuck in his mind:

In passing, I have seen deep sea-scapes
,

Been ashore, adrift and drunk

with this world's soiled glories
.

Ships and men and places all within

my compassed horizon . . .

In passing, some few sweet kisses
,

Given, taken; at hazard and wind

Swept dreams away; alone
.

Gale and calm and chilling dawn

and watches stood
 . . .

How true; of all of them, good, bad and indifferent.

He raised his glasses again and stared at the junk as they swept past. The high, square stern, the peaked, bamboo-battened sail had not changed in a thousand years; its elderly helmsman leaned on the tiller indifferent to their passing. Mackinnon acknowledged a
brüderbond
with so ancient a mariner. Perhaps, he mused, that man's great-grandfather had stared incredulously as the steam dragons of the
fan kwei
moved against wind and current and forced the passage of the Bocca Tigris in the first Opium War!

‘Well, old fellow,' Mackinnon muttered, ‘you've the last laugh. No more red barbarians.'

And then the extent of his self-deception hit him with an almost physical impact. Below, on the foredeck, walking forward to the foremast, Able Seaman Braddock carried a fluttering red bundle. Mackinnon watched him hitch the Inglefield clips to those on the flag halliard and then, with a smooth, hand-over-hand motion, began to haul the red ensign up until it flew, brilliant in the sunshine, against the cerulean blue of the sky.

‘God damn!' Mackinnon swore. The flag of the British Merchant Navy, once the senior squadron flag of the
Royal
Navy was not going to fly as a bloody courtesy ensign on his last morning in command, by God!

The insignificant consequence of their
not
being a British ship (as he had earlier stupidly deluded himself), and therefore having to fly the merchant ensign of the port they were approaching, stung Mackinnon to the quick. Suddenly the day turned upside down, a position from which it was never to recover.

‘Braddock!' Mackinnon roared. Just short of the yardarm the red duster halted its ascent and flew as if at half-mast, in mourning, reminding Mackinnon of something else, of an old flag etiquette that in this world of commercial pre-eminence he had almost forgotten. Braddock spun round, looking up at the bridge. ‘Take that down,' bellowed the Captain. ‘Go and hoist it aft, at half-mast!'

‘Sir . . .'

The tone of reasonable protest came from Rawlings, standing in the wheelhouse doorway in his smartly ironed white shirt and shorts.
He
must have sent Braddock forward with the courtesy ensign.

‘Well, what is it?'

‘I've already ordered the ensign to be half-masted, sir.'

Mackinnon looked aft. The red and blue squares and stars of the Republic of Panama flew its own depth below the truck of the staff.

‘That's not the red ensign, mister,' snapped Mackinnon. ‘Ernie York and Charles Taylor arrive in Hong Kong under the red ensign. Even that bastard Macgregor was one of us.'

‘But . . .' Rawlings began, then shrugged his shoulders. It was none of his damned business.

Sparks had contemplated his wrecked radio-room with dismay. Not that the ship was out of communication with the rest of the world, for there was a VHF radio telephone on the bridge. It was intended for inter-ship and port operational use, but Sparks had harboured an inner resentment against surrendering the ship's prime communications function to the deck ornaments up there. He made a gallant effort to restore his office and succeeded to the extent of repairing the medium frequency receiver and tuning it to Hong Kong Radio.

To his alarm not only was the
Matthew Flinders
on the traffic list, but was being repeatedly called by the duty operator. He quickly found it impossible to repair the
transmitter; Macgregor had destroyed it with the sure hand of instinctive vandalism. Swearing comprehensively, cheated of his final operational function as a ship's Radio Officer, Sparks made his way forward along the boat-deck to the bridge.

He found it crowded. Although Mackinnon stood alone on the port wing, Stevenson ran in and out of the chart-room plotting the ship's approach to Hong Kong every ten minutes, Rawlings fussed about in the wheelhouse, and Able Seaman Pritchard stood at the wheel steering. Over the bow a cleft in the coastline revealed the position of the Lye Mun Pass.

Sparks found the volume control of the wheelhouse VHF set turned down. With a savage satisfaction he twisted the knob and the wheelhouse boomed with the weary voice of the operator:

‘
Matthew Flinders, Matthew Flinders, Matthew Flinders
, this is Hong Kong Radio calling the Panamanian ship
Matthew Flinders
, come in. Over.'

Sparks was suddenly surrounded by staring faces. ‘You had the volume turned down,' he said with collective accusation, ‘they've been calling for ages.'

‘Well answer them, then,' snapped Rawlings, irritable at Mackinnon's behaviour and secretly pleased at the operator's correct use of their formal nationality.

Sparks shot the Chief Officer a resentful glance; what did it matter now when the voyage was all but over?

‘Hong Kong Radio, this is the
Matthew Flinders
, come in. Over.'

‘Chop channel twelve,' came the curt reply. Sparks changed frequency.

‘Hong Kong Radio, this is the
Matthew Flinders
. Over.'

‘Ah,
Matthew Flinders
, been trying to contact you for two hours. What are your intentions?'

‘Tell him,' said Mackinnon, looming in the wheelhouse doorway, his face dark with anger. ‘
I
intend entering Hong Kong Harbour.'

Sparks swallowed and a sense of foreboding, of having
touched something he could not quite comprehend swept over him. He felt a hammering of his heart at that emphasised monosyllable of mastery.

‘Hong Kong Radio, this is
Matthew Flinders
, intend entering Hong Kong Harbour . . .'

‘Bound for the quarantine anchorage. Pilot required in half an hour,' prompted Mackinnon.

‘Bound for the quarantine anchorage. Pilot required in half an hour. Over,' Sparks dutifully repeated.

There was a short silence, then the operator's voice came back: ‘We have no knowledge of your ETA,
Matthew Flinders
, minimum notice for pilotage is—

‘Pettifogging bugger,' snapped Mackinnon, ‘give me that bloody thing.' Mackinnon's voice drowned the operator's as he shoved Rawlings aside and took the handset from Sparks.

‘. . . Your entry not permitted at this time. Over,' the Operator's voice concluded.

‘Hong Kong Radio, this is the
Matthew Flinders
. Master speaking. My radio sets have been damaged, my ship is short of fuel after weathering Typhoon David. I intend entering Hong Kong as port of refuge. I have four dead on board. I require a doctor and can manage the pilotage if necessary. Over.'

Mackinnon lowered the handset and Sparks noticed he was biting his lower lip. Behind him Rawlings expelled his breath with an audible incredulity.

‘
Matthew Flinders
this is Hong Kong. Wait one.'

In the wheelhouse the atmosphere was tense as they waited for the reply. Mackinnon broke the silence.

‘Starboard easy.'

The pale blue hull and white upperworks of another container ship appeared through the cleft in the hills and its profile foreshortened as it altered course towards them, coming on to the reciprocal of their own headings.

‘Midships. Steady on o-one-five.'

Pritchard repeated the order and the waiting officers
watched, apparently mesmerised by the simple evolution. With every passing moment the
Matthew Flinders
drew closer to the port. Details stood out on the shoreline. The sparse scrub on the hillsides, the houses and the gleam of sunlight in metallic reflection from a moving car.

Like marionnettes they jerked to the sudden squawk of the VHF radio.

‘
Matthew Flinders
, please confirm you received orders for Shanghai. Over.'

‘Hong Kong, this is
Flinders
. Confirm affirmative.'

‘Roger. Please also confirm you have refugees on board.'

‘Confirm affirmative,' Mackinnon repeated, adding, ‘one hundred and forty-five souls.'

‘Wait one.'

Again the deadly silence of shoreside consultation and the expectant hiatus on the bridge. At a mile every four minutes the
Matthew Flinders
ate up the distance to the gap in the hills beyond which lay the harbour of Hong Kong. Already, ten knots faster than themelves, the huge, blue container liner bore down upon them. The officers continued to watch her, thinking the same thing: that she was their supersessor. The hull colour and the logoed funnel were familiar to them. As she swept past, the flag of Liberia was a mere handkerchief above the one-hundred-feet-wide transom. On her bridge they could see two tiny figures staring at them through binoculars as once steamship men had looked at the last, rusty windjammers.

‘
Matthew Flinders
, this is Hong Kong Radio, do you receive? Over.'

‘Loud and clear, Hong Kong. Go ahead. Over.'

‘Entry forbidden, Captain. Do you understand?'

Mackinnon opened his mouth, then shut it, his teeth bearing down on his lower lip. Slowly he looked at each of his officers.

‘I don't think I do understand, gentlemen,' he said grimly.

‘But sir . . .' protested Rawlings.

‘What have we got to lose?' he asked, aware of the irony in Rawlings's case. ‘And how can you object in the name of common humanity? I'd like to know who exactly made that decision. One of your relatives, I expect, Rawlings.' And Mackinnon turned forward, ordering Pritchard to swing to port, to begin the final approach to the Lye Mun Passage and the entrance to Hong Kong.

The disembodied voice of the VHF persisted to query them.

‘
Matthew Flinders
this is Hong Kong Radio. Do you read me? Please confirm you received my last. Over.'

‘Be a good fellow, Sparks,' Mackinnon said, ‘and turn the volume down.'

The Captain was smiling as he walked nonchalantly back on to the port bridge-wing. Behind him in the wheelhouse Sparks and Rawlings exchanged glances.

Mackinnon was aware that he had thrown down the gauntlet. Leaning again on the rail he was aware, too, that below him, crowding the main-deck rail, the Vietnamese were mingling with the idlers among the crew, seamen waiting to go to stations, stewards and off-duty greasers, chattering together and excitedly pointing to where the first pale tower blocks appeared beyond the shoulder of the headland. Mackinnon shook his head in wonder; it was unusual for the ship's company to fraternise even on the approach to so popular a port as Hong Kong; it seemed the Vietnamese had acted as a social catalyst. It was just as well they did not know what was awaiting them on Stonecutter's Island.

‘Sir . . .'

The note of alarm in Stevenson's voice alerted Mackinnon. The Second Mate, his glasses in one hand, pointed ahead with the other.

‘I was expecting some such visitation,' muttered Mackinnon.

The Bird-class patrol vessel, pale grey with a feather of
white at her forefoot, came clear of the land and headed out towards them. Immediately the twinkle of a signalling projector flashed imperiously from her bridge.

‘Shall I answer, sir?' asked Stevenson.

‘No,' replied Mackinnon languidly, ‘ring down and ask the Bosun to put the pilot ladder over on the port side.' Mackinnon glanced up, amused at the outrage and confusion on Rawlings' face.

‘Put the engines on stand-by, mister.' he ordered.

The patrol craft swept across the bow and circled under the stern of the
Matthew Flinders
. On her tiny bridge they could see the white-capped naval officers studying them. A white ensign fluttered above the stern and they could read her name in small red letters on her quarter:
Starling
. Mackinnon was reducing speed progressively as he slowed his ship for the Lye Mun. As he did so, with a dull roar, HMS
Starling
gunned her engines and began to overtake them. Members of
Starling
's crew in the berets and blue cotton of Number Eight rig were taking the canvas cover off the 40mm Bofors gun on her foredeck. As they clustered round the exposed gun they pointed at the gaggle of refugees and crew that stared back at the
Starling
's unnecessarily aggressive appearance.