Do I have something exciting to share with you today. So, a few weeks back in one of my How to Write rambles I gave a tip for developing a writer’s concept of their characters. This involved an exercise wherein the writer creates short scenes that would highlight or star that character. Well, starting today and leading up to the launch of my brand new novel The Clockwork Caterpillar, I will be sharing these character shorts with you! This should give a teasing introduction to the cast of characters that make up the brigade train crew of one Felicity Metticia – dreaded pirate of the Artemisian plains. This story takes place half a world away from the twisted, smokey streets of Thyre and follows a brand new cast of characters in the wild frontier of the New World. So it is with great honour that I introduce you first to Felicity’s right hand man, Walton Samuel Schroeder II. As the disgraced son of a wealthy rail magnate, Schroeder has led a much different life than his colleagues. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and only moved to the edges of good society due more to stubbornness and conceitedness rather than necessity. It’s a charge many are quick to leverage against the fallen fop. But like everyone in Felicity’s employ, there’s more beneath the well tailored vest of the rascal than meets the eye.
Enjoy!
Walton Samuel Schroeder II
“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”
A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was his response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the opponent. They searched for some unforgiving tell.
Neither could be more dissimilar. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin cracked and split from the toiling years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie—a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared anytime the man’s ire rose.
Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had as fearsome a reputation at the table as he did on the plains. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did had to pass sound judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging wallet at his side.
Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.
But every caravan needed its blind mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.
And Walton Samuel Schroeder II certainly looked the fool.
He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.
On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. It was adorned in the elegant curving patterns of the western peoples, depicting stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.
Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides rather than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.
Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness, it always washed away to the same tides.
And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.
“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage is not getting shorter. You will be putting down that hand either way but if you are parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”
He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.
Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.
He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.
“I do not intend to wait until this wine turns better.”
Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.
He played his hand.
With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines. It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt to himself a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer. Regrettably, it too included the darkly painted one-eyed idiot. The unfortunate thing about frontier justice is that it held little love for cheats.
And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.
Schroeder set down his cup.
“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.” Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood, offering his foe an apologetic shrug. “Perhaps next time.”
The young man began to collect his ill-gotten gains.
But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.
“I want to see the rest.”
“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”
Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.
“Show me.”
His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from diseased gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.
Schroeder gagged.
“Very well.”
The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head.
Schroeder turned to Meyer, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the first of his three remaining cards. He slowly turned a seven of swords.
“And the next.”
Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning a grinning red Hector.
“One more.”
At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors’ eye and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.
“The coup de grace!”
Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his enemy who rubbed at stinging skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.
“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”
He tossed a handful of denarii at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck. Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol gave chase after him.
“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”
The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap clutched with a corpse’s grip, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”
She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stained wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.
A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hand in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.
Schroeder took to his heels once more.
Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the bannister, gauging his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.
The cries behind him was all the motivation he needed. Raised voices echoed out the corridor and Schroeder put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests shouted and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on his knees. He had just purchased these trousers.
He cast a quick look skyward.
Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.
The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.
But now things had gone too far.
Several patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. Meyer was hardly the first man to consider a show of force an acceptable tactic at the table. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasurable night of cards.
Meyer ducked behind the bannister, screaming bloody indignations. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as a horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.
Bullets sang, splintering debris in worrying close proximity. Schroeder paused before one still upright table, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim crystal stem of the forgotten glass. He brought the wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.
He awaited a pause in the stray fire near him but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.
The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.
A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcements and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought.
“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”
Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was too much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the railworks, running down the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.
The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.
It was seconds before some embittered patriot cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well-to-do redsuit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the ship about him.
And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jingle before going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. Unfortunately, the rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.
A bullet fired past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium reigned over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his shoe caused the boat to slam against the deck.
Eventually the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.
As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with a great deep purple bustle that shimmered in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.
“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.
The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.
“You may, good sir.”
She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.
“Take this end. I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.
“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.
“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”
“Why delay?” Schroeder asked, stepping to the rail. She placed her hand on his chest.
“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”
She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.
“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”
And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like sweet nectar in a decanter about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.
Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.
“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”
But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.
“That was custom fitted!”
A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced at the mayhem that had overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath, and plunged into the waves.
S.J.
Pacal
Laure Bastien