As soon as the night was dark enough, Chris loudly complained of not
feeling well--of being hot and dizzy, and in no time Captain Blizzard
had, as loudly, told him he was to go to bed on a cot in the Captain's
cabin. Captain Blizzard closed the door behind him, and in Amos's and
Ned Cilley's hearing, told Mr. Finney that he was much afraid that
Chris had a touch of the sun and was coming down with a tropical
fever.
Chris remained alone in the cabin from that time. Soon, in the cool of
the night, the sailors of the _Mirabelle_ set out in dinghies to a
cascade of fresh water that emptied itself into the cove at its
farther end, taking with them casks and barrels to replenish the
ship's water supply. Their deep voices swept back over the water to
where Chris stood by the open port of the Captain's cabin. He was
forcing himself toward the moment when he must board the _Vulture_.
His resolve was held back by his mounting anxiety as to how best to
carry out what would be necessary, and a strong natural reluctance to
leave the _Mirabelle_.
Leave it he must. He stood pondering on what shape to assume, and when
he heard the cry of a belated night bird, and saw it coast by on
silent wings to vanish in the night, he decided to take that shape. It
took all his courage and determination, but this was the first step
toward what he had trained for so long to do, and he knew he must do
it, and at once. The boy looked a last time around the cabin, then
spoke the magic formula in his mind, and, with a sudden enjoyment in
the sense of flight, he soared away from the ship out over the cove.
[Illustration]
The bird swept twice around the _Mirabelle_, rising higher as it went.
Below, the few lights of the ship had been carefully hooded away from
the sea, and the bird, spiraling lightly on air currents, drifted out
from land.
[Illustration]
The black bulk of the _Vulture_ was easy to find in the clearness of
the night. She was riding at anchor close inshore 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 coarse 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 ashore 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 ship'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 fashionable 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 shipmates on shore.
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 cock 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
associate 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.
[Illustration]
"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 _distingué_. 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 shore.
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 glass. 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 glass after glass and his
book fell from his fingers, that the right moment would not be long in
coming.