Mr. Wicker's Window Part 21

The black bulk of the _Vulture_ was easy to find in the clearness of the night. She was riding at anchor close insh.o.r.e farther down the coast, and final boatfuls of men were returning from the merchantman carrying the last of the spoils. Sweeping by toward the beach Chris saw that most of the bandit crew were already drunk, shouting and carousing around fires where they roasted wild creatures they had earlier killed. He noticed that a few Tahitians stood apart at the joining of the palm forests and the sand, watching the coa.r.s.e faces of the drunken men. The Tahitians, fitting so well into the beauty of their island, gold of skin and crowned with flowers, carrying themselves with dignity, were as far removed as could be imagined from the idea of pagan men. They contrasted sharply at that moment with those from "civilization," who in filthy rags of clothes and wild disorder of gestures and voices staggered about aimlessly gorging food and drinking. The watching pagans glanced from the brawling pirates back a short distance down the beach where already a few bodies had been washed ash.o.r.e from the fight. Their distaste and bewilderment were plain.

Chris soared high above the din and the smoke of the fires, and then seeing Osterbridge Hawsey being rowed back to the _Vulture_, followed after.

Osterbridge Hawsey had two baskets at his feet. One was filled with carefully chosen fruits, and the other with the exotic flowers of the island. Hastily changing himself into a green parakeet, Chris alighted on the rail of the _Vulture_ just as Osterbridge Hawsey reached the top of the ladder. Determined to make a good impression and perhaps catch Osterbridge's fancy, Chris, in his bright parakeet plumage, bobbed his head and sidled up and down the s.h.i.+p's rail, eyeing Osterbridge Hawsey with his head on one side as he had seen parakeets do.

The maneuver succeeded, for Osterbridge, with a little cry of pleasure, declared himself enchanted.

"I must have that little bird!" he exclaimed, and carefully taking off his fas.h.i.+onable hat--even more out of place in the tropics than it had been on the Georgetown docks--he slapped it quickly over the parakeet which allowed itself to be captured.

This, Osterbridge Hawsey's own prize, made him crow with delight.

Clambering as gracefully as possible over the battle-scarred side of the _Vulture_, he took the parakeet gently out from under his tricorne.

"A parakeet--as I _live_!" he shrilled, sounding very like a parakeet himself. "My soul--what a prize!" he rattled on, entirely to himself as it turned out, for the sailors were not at all interested in a pet.

Exhausted from the battle or drunk from captured wine, and all despising the fastidious ways of Osterbridge Hawsey, they paid not the slightest attention. They obeyed occasional orders from him, for they knew they would be whipped by Claggett Chew if they did not, and so hauled up the baskets of fruits and flowers, dumped them unceremoniously in the Captain's cabin, and left as quickly as they could to rejoin their s.h.i.+pmates on sh.o.r.e.

Holding the parakeet firmly, Osterbridge Hawsey tied a long silk cord to its right leg, fastening the other end to the arm of his chair so that he could closely observe his new pet.

Chris did not disappoint him. As the parakeet, he played the clown for all he was worth. He strutted up and down, and bobbed his head whenever Osterbridge Hawsey spoke, so that it appeared that the brightly feathered bird was in constant agreement with his captor. Or he would c.o.c.k his head to one side as if weighing one of Osterbridge's remarks, in a truly comical manner.

Looking about meanwhile with his black beady eyes, Chris saw that Claggett Chew was lying in a bunk against one wall, nursing his left leg which had been given a sword thrust in the fight. He was obviously in pain and perhaps feverish, and Osterbridge Hawsey's childish talk irritated and bored him so that he turned his face to the wall. Light from the swinging lamp that Chris remembered from many weeks before threw black hollows into Claggett Chew's eye sockets and deeply lined face. Now and again he could be heard grinding his teeth at the pain of his wound, but Osterbridge Hawsey, throwing his fine coat and plumed hat to one side, lightheartedly amused himself by trying to tempt his new pet with some fruit.

"Claggett!" he cried, as if Claggett Chew could possibly be interested in a parakeet at that point, "do look at what I captured! This is my very own spoils of war!" he crowed.

Claggett Chew made an impolite noise and said nothing. "Well,"

Osterbridge Hawsey gave a shrug as answer to the noise, "you know how I _detest_ fighting. It is vulgar, messy, and noisy. I can imagine no possible good word to say for it. And I see no reason why you could not have made them give up their cargo without a skirmish. Ugh!" he said, at the remembrance.

"Now, a good gentlemanly fight with a rapier is _quite_ another thing," he went on. He smirked and made a face at the parakeet who did its best to smirk back. "_That_ is a graceful and fine art. Refined, and not at all degrading to one's character."

No sound from Claggett Chew. Osterbridge Hawsey rattled on and Chris, pecking at the fruit proffered him, thought that sometimes Osterbridge Hawsey might quite possibly talk just as gaily to himself as he did to the unresponsive Claggett Chew.

"Claggett--your men!" his voice rose. "_Really._ They are making an _exhibition_ of themselves on the beach. Just as well there is no one to see but some aborigines. _Quite_ revolting. _How_ can you bear to a.s.sociate with such _types_, when you are so much above them yourself--but there, I must not pique you, must I, poor Claggett? I expect your wound smarts a trifle?"

Claggett Chew turned his face toward Osterbridge Hawsey, his eyes blazing with rage and his mouth working with the fretful annoyance of an ill man, but he only muttered and turned away again.

"Do you know," his more delicate friend pursued, stretching out a long finger for the parakeet to perch on, which to his evident pleasure it instantly did, "Do you know, Claggett, this dear little creature seems fearless and almost human? _Quite_ touching."

He paused, admiring the vivid colors of the feathers which perhaps awoke a kindred feeling in Osterbridge Hawsey, loving a fine display as he did.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"I shall give you a name, my little feathered captive," he said, and pondered. "I wonder what would be suitable? Something French, undoubtedly." He waved a hand and the lace at his wrist fell forward in a not overly clean frill. "Louis, after the dear king? No--that would be too great an honor for so small a bird, gaudy though you are.

I think, 'Monsieur,' after the king's brother. That's it. Little Monsieur." He broke off, dreamily. "To think that I once knew such a royal, such a distinguished man!" He sighed reminiscently.

For the first time words came from Claggett Chew. He bit them off as if the saying of them cost him very great effort.

"More _ex_tinguished than _dis_tinguished, I would say."

Osterbridge Hawsey permitted a sad condescending smile to cross his face and he shook his finger at Claggett Chew. "Ah, Claggett--you never knew him, you see. I am _sure_ you would have liked him--such charm! So _distingue_. Oh dear me yes. A most _unusual_ royal personage," Osterbridge Hawsey said, smiling happily at his parakeet.

"Most of them are so _much_ alike--"

He singled out several fresh fruits, peeling some for Claggett Chew.

Silence fell over the cabin except for Osterbridge Hawsey's delicately smacking lips as he finished the fruit and licked his fingers one by one, the increasingly heavy breathing of Claggett Chew, who fell asleep, and the distant sound of shouts and clamor from the sh.o.r.e.

Osterbridge Hawsey made a pouting face at the sleeping figure of Chew; evidently Osterbridge was bored. He went to the door and clapped his hands, but no one responded. Except for the two men and the parakeet, the _Vulture_ was deserted.

Osterbridge Hawsey came back into the cabin holding a bottle of wine which he uncorked and poured into a gla.s.s. Chris, foreseeing what would follow, hopped up to the back of his new master's chair where he hoped he would be forgotten, and tucked his head under his wing in case Osterbridge should look at him.

Waiting for the right moment was the hardest thing Chris had to do, but he knew, as Osterbridge Hawsey drank gla.s.s after gla.s.s and his book fell from his fingers, that the right moment would not be long in coming.

CHAPTER 26

The tropic coolness of the night intensified as the hours advanced. An added freshness swept out from the sh.o.r.e carrying its scent of flowers and earth. The feasting pirates had evidently fallen asleep over their food and empty wine mugs, for they did not return.

With a growing sense of uneasiness, Chris cautiously brought his head out from under his jade-green wing. He had had for the past hour the eerie feeling of being stared at, and he pecked at his scarlet and yellow breast feathers while sending a glance about the cabin.

He knew without having to look, where the source of his uneasiness lay. Claggett Chew had turned on his right side and fixed him with a pale, piercing, and unblinking eye. So fixed, it was, that for a heart-thudding moment Chris imagined his enemy to be dead. But after a longer pause than usual, the pale heavy lids finally blinked, though the unwavering eyes did not move from where Chris was perched, as nonchalantly as he knew how to, on the back of Osterbridge Hawsey's chair.

The intelligence behind the stare was infinitely keen and resourceful.

Chris, preening himself in a difficult effort to appear what he was not, knew that if Claggett Chew had not already guessed his disguise, he was certainly more than suspicious.

Hastily, and with increasing starts of fear that sent the blood spurting through his veins, Chris cast about in his mind as to how he could distract Claggett Chew. As a parakeet, he was chained by the tough silk cord that bound his bird's foot. He glanced down.

Osterbridge Hawsey's now sleeping head lolled like a child's to one side. Chris eyed the length of the coral silk cord, and then hopped lightly from the back of the chair to Osterbridge Hawsey's shoulder. A blink of his parakeet's eyes, from under their gray lids, showed him that Claggett Chew had him fixed in a penetrating and unwavering stare. In his role as parakeet, he moved sideways up Osterbridge Hawsey's shoulder, making for the shelter that the lolling head would afford to hide him from his enemy's eyes.

As he moved step by step, the parakeet made small low, raucous noises--not loud enough to awaken Osterbridge Hawsey, but enough, he hoped, to make him seem a natural creature to the man who watched him so intently. As he neared Osterbridge Hawsey's neck, seeing the ridge of collar on which he intended to perch, Chris took heart and with a last quick effort, climbed the collar to hide behind Osterbridge Hawsey's head, under the thick cl.u.s.ter of curls tied with what was now a ratty black bow. He was, in this precarious shelter, about to change himself into a fly, when a sc.r.a.ping noise froze him with fear. Looking around Osterbridge's neck he saw that Captain Chew was making desperate efforts to get out of his berth, and had not taken his eyes from the place where he had last seen the parakeet. Chris knew in that moment with what an astute and formidable enemy he was faced.

Paralyzed, he remained in his green and red parakeet feathers watching the motions of the injured pirate.

Claggett Chew might be suspicious but he was also a fevered and badly wounded man. From his insecure hiding place, terrified at every sleeping movement from Osterbridge Hawsey, and even more fearful of what Claggett Chew intended, Chris stared out as purposefully as Claggett Chew had only a few moments before.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The ashen-faced man across the room in the glare of the hanging lamp heaved and pushed at the sides of the bunk, his eyes brilliant with high fever; the sweat of illness and strain glistening over his bare head and colorless face. He ground his teeth at the sudden, almost intolerable flashes of pain that gripped him when he moved his leg.

Still he persevered, grasped at a corner of the bunk and pushed himself upright.

If it was possible for his white face to become paler, some last vestige of color seemed to leave it. Claggett Chew threw up an arm to catch on something to steady himself, swayed and closed his sunken eyes. His arm caught the lamp, which, rocking, threw jet shadows as jagged as its light was harsh. Claggett Chew's prominent broken nose, and the deeply grooved lines running down from it to the thin lips under his mustache, changed the cruelty of his face into a brutal mask. To Chris, he scarcely looked human. He was a picture of all that was heartless and evil. But holding to the edge of his bunk, weakened and ill though he was, the power of his will still ruled his body.

He doesn't know when he's licked, Chris thought, and not knowing--he isn't!

Then, trying to hoist himself upright, Claggett Chew began beckoning and appealing to Osterbridge Hawsey, and Chris shook at the momentary possibility that some noise or word would awaken his sleeping hiding place.

"Osterbridge! Osterbridge!" Claggett Chew cried hoa.r.s.ely. "Wake up!

Hear me!--Fire take your eyes!" he muttered in his rage, "can you not rouse? Osterbridge! Osterbridge!"

But after a slight s.h.i.+ft in position, Osterbridge Hawsey slept on.

Claggett Chew, his face livid with pain, blood weaving down his chin where he had bitten his lip in an attempt to stifle his groans, managed to push himself up and totter to a chair against which he leaned weakly, calling out again: "Plague your bones! Osterbridge! You sot! Help me--you sleazy fas.h.i.+onable!"