Wednesday, June the 8th, 2005

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The Taxonomy of Ducks, Swans and Geese Is in a State of Flux

Captain Baxter made one last, desperate attempt to adjust the hooters, knobs and boosters on the console.

“For god's sake, man, the taxonomy of ducks, swans and geese is in a state of flux!” he screamed. But it was too late…

Ten days earlier, it had all seemed so simple. Baxter had been summoned to the Admiralty on a hot Tuesday morning. The place was swarming with admirals, but by asking a series of increasingly astute questions, he tracked down the admiral he had come to see. Righteous Rank Admiral O'Houlihan was a forlorn and tawdry man, and Baxter found him lurking in a corner of his office where light never penetrated. He hissed at the captain to join him there.

“I'm glad you could come, Baxter. For months now I've been getting intelligence reports about a certain matter that, I don't mind telling you, has frozen the blood in my veins. That is why I skulk in corners.” He shuddered. “I skulk, and as you can see, I shudder. You would, too, Baxter, if you knew what I know about a certain matter. And know you shall, soon enough. I'm sending you on a mission.”

Baxter's nose began to bleed, but he staunched it with a large rectangular pad of cotton wool.

“It's lucky for you that I am not a vampire,” said the Admiral, mysteriously. His suit was cheap, his ears great prominent flaps the colour of death, his shoes had been gnawed at by weasels, and he lacked backbone. That was why he needed Baxter. Baxter's backbone was the talk of the Admiralty, not just canteen gossip but the subject of secret memoranda, bulging dossiers, and meetings attended by every single admiral in the building, all crammed into O'Houlihan's sunless refuge, jostling for space. Baxter knew nothing of this. He knew a lot about ships, rigging, cables, hawsers, decks both poop and orlop, dinghies, oars, the thews into which oars are slotted, and many other topics of maritime significance. His diet consisted chiefly of seaweed and ship's biscuits. Until today.

Admiral O'Houlihan reached into the darkness which engulfed this corner of the room, and Baxter heard cranking noises.

“Before you attend to a certain matter, Baxter, we must have lunch,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to disguise his forlornness. His stick-thin arms set to work winching up a crate of food from a pantry far, far below. Baxter offered to help, but the Admiral was a proud man in spite of his tawdriness. At long last he was able to haul the crate into the room.

“We shall eat here, in the shadows,” he announced, and began unloading the food. The pair of them tucked into a feast of baps, buns, eggs, fat, jam, pie, beans, cake, chops, curd, flan, kale, pork, rice, rolls, rusks, sago, soup, suet, tarts, bacon, bread, broth, cloves, cream, dough, flour, fudge, gravy, gruel, honey, icing, jelly, liver, mince, prunes, pulses, salad, scones, syrup, toast, wafers, yeast, batter, bonbons, butter, cheese, comfits, eclairs, faggots, garlic, greens, junket, kidneys, mousse, noodles, nougat, oxtails, pastry, peppers, potatoes, ragout, raisins, simnel, sorbet, sponge, toffee, walnuts and peppermint, at the end of which Baxter was given full details of his mission. It would be no easy task, but he kissed the Admiral's forehead as a sign that he accepted it.

O'Houlihan wedged himself even further into the corner as Baxter took his leave, striding across the filthy office and placing his blood-soaked rectangular pad of cotton wool into a basket before closing the door gently behind him. Little did either of them know that in ten days time the taxonomy of ducks, swans and geese would be in a state of flux, and Baxter would face a peril greater than death itself!