until it be ended
.
Would it be ended when the
Matthew Flinders
was passed to the scrapyard? Or was he just morbid because it was the end of him personally?
No, it was Stevenson who had touched him tonight; Stevenson who had prompted the confidences; Stevenson who was a natural seaman and for whom there was no future. He liked and respected the Second Mate and would have wished to hand on the torch to the younger man, but he knew the thing was impossible, a sentimental chimera. Stevenson would wait in vain for something to turn up . . .
Sadly Mackinnon heaved himself to his feet and stood for a moment looking down at his desk. Something tugged at his memory which, he realised regretfully, was not what it had once been. His eyes fell upon the gilt title of the book about the Uffizi and he thrust aside any thought of Shelagh. Then he remembered, riffled among the litter of papers on the desk and picked up the telex the agentâs runner had left with him at the very moment of departure.
âItâs not urgent, Captain,â the runner had said, handing over the envelope, âyou can open it when you have sailed.â
Mackinnon tore it open now.
To the Master, MV MATTHEW FLINDERS
From DENTCO, LONDON
Anticipate ship may be resold for further trading. Shanghai interests indicate this now likely. Do not prejudice vesselâs condition
.
Dentco
.
Mackinnon grunted and let the flimsy telex fall upon the papers on his desk.
âDo not prejudice vesselâs condition,â he murmured disgustedly. âWhat do they think Iâm going to do? Sell the brass clocks?â
As Captain Mackinnon shuffled irritably to bed, Alex Stevenson lit a cigarette and settled to his watch. He was glad to be at sea again, clear of the taint of the land with its disquieting distractions. His envy of Taylor lost its immediacy and if he was still unable to think of Cathy without a deep yearning, at least here, beneath the majesty of the tropic sky, it was poetry that seeped into his mind, blunting the keen edge of lust.
He ground out the cigarette, took one last fix on the coast of Malaysia and marked up the departure position on the chart. Recording it in the log, he worked up a dead-reckoning position for 0400, after which he resumed pacing up and down. The ship cut through the smooth level of the calm sea with an occasional flash of bioluminescence. The dull rumble of her engines rose to a muted grumble; a faint cloud of exhaust gases and the occasional spark spewed from her tall funnel as she laid her wake straight astern to where the loom of the Horsburgh Light dipped below the rim of the world. Low on the eastern horizon a bank of cloud was building, the roiling heads of the rising cumulus catching the moonlight. Above them the impassive stars rolled their sidereal paths round the earth and it was as though the
Matthew Flinders
and her officer of the watch were at thevery hub of the universe.
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 shipâs 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 Ã 50s that he favoured showed the moonlit forecastle clearly. He could see no solitary figure in the
.
Would it be ended when the
Matthew Flinders
was passed to the scrapyard? Or was he just morbid because it was the end of him personally?
No, it was Stevenson who had touched him tonight; Stevenson who had prompted the confidences; Stevenson who was a natural seaman and for whom there was no future. He liked and respected the Second Mate and would have wished to hand on the torch to the younger man, but he knew the thing was impossible, a sentimental chimera. Stevenson would wait in vain for something to turn up . . .
Sadly Mackinnon heaved himself to his feet and stood for a moment looking down at his desk. Something tugged at his memory which, he realised regretfully, was not what it had once been. His eyes fell upon the gilt title of the book about the Uffizi and he thrust aside any thought of Shelagh. Then he remembered, riffled among the litter of papers on the desk and picked up the telex the agentâs runner had left with him at the very moment of departure.
âItâs not urgent, Captain,â the runner had said, handing over the envelope, âyou can open it when you have sailed.â
Mackinnon tore it open now.
To the Master, MV MATTHEW FLINDERS
From DENTCO, LONDON
Anticipate ship may be resold for further trading. Shanghai interests indicate this now likely. Do not prejudice vesselâs condition
.
Dentco
.
Mackinnon grunted and let the flimsy telex fall upon the papers on his desk.
âDo not prejudice vesselâs condition,â he murmured disgustedly. âWhat do they think Iâm going to do? Sell the brass clocks?â
As Captain Mackinnon shuffled irritably to bed, Alex Stevenson lit a cigarette and settled to his watch. He was glad to be at sea again, clear of the taint of the land with its disquieting distractions. His envy of Taylor lost its immediacy and if he was still unable to think of Cathy without a deep yearning, at least here, beneath the majesty of the tropic sky, it was poetry that seeped into his mind, blunting the keen edge of lust.
He ground out the cigarette, took one last fix on the coast of Malaysia and marked up the departure position on the chart. Recording it in the log, he worked up a dead-reckoning position for 0400, after which he resumed pacing up and down. The ship cut through the smooth level of the calm sea with an occasional flash of bioluminescence. The dull rumble of her engines rose to a muted grumble; a faint cloud of exhaust gases and the occasional spark spewed from her tall funnel as she laid her wake straight astern to where the loom of the Horsburgh Light dipped below the rim of the world. Low on the eastern horizon a bank of cloud was building, the roiling heads of the rising cumulus catching the moonlight. Above them the impassive stars rolled their sidereal paths round the earth and it was as though the
Matthew Flinders
and her officer of the watch were at thevery hub of the universe.
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 shipâs 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 Ã 50s that he favoured showed the moonlit forecastle clearly. He could see no solitary figure in the
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