The Clockhaven Chronicles (1st Ed): Captive Sky, Truant Heart

Chapter 3

                                                              3

Captain Levasseur relished the moment as he strutted into his spacious cabin. The polished oak paneling, decorated with his collection of mirrors, gleamed to his satisfaction. Fine thick woven oriental rugs covered the floor, muffling his heavy steps. A full four post bed with down mattress and pillows, secluded by velvet red curtains for his leisure. The ornate matched cedar wardrobes that held the finest clothing – his clothing. They were his reward. Each a testament to his leadership, his daring exploits, his natural superiority, and his right to command. The centerpiece was his great mahogany desk. Some of his latest plunder was now arrayed on its dark glistening surface, ready for his discerning eye and exquisite taste.

   He took up the sword first, drawing it from the scabbard with a flourish. The cutlass was a superb weapon –heavy– but with excellent balance. It had a supple gold tinged blade, sharkskin grip, and a burnished steel half-basket hilt. All were beautifully crafted, yet sadly lacking in decoration. The cutlass was returned to its scabbard and placed it on the desk, Levasseur thinking it flawed by its plainness.

   The pistols were more to his liking, a pair of exquisitely crafted, commemorative Webleys. They were well worn from use but in excellent condition. The handles were carved walnut, the brass frames and dark blue barrels lavishly engraved with stemmed roses and thistles.  

   Hefting one of the Webleys, Levasseur sighted the pistol on his image in a strategically placed full-length mirror. He smiled in approval. The black leather holster rig would need adjusting to fit his trim, manly frame and some adornment was needed. He thought gold perhaps, to match the buttons of his scarlet frock coat and those along the seam line of his indigo hussar trousers. Accoutrements must match the man, especially a captain.

…tick-tock…

   “That grows tiresome,” he commented dryly to the prisoner shackled to the chair.  

   Pivoting, Levasseur pointed the Webley at the prisoner’s face. The man’s expression remained calm, bored. His eyes –one of flesh, the other mechanical– had an indefinable similarity that annoyed Levasseur. He squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click on the empty chamber. There was no reaction, only the rhythmic, clockwork ticking that emanated from the prisoner’s chest.

   Laughing, Levasseur lowered the pistol. “Well then Mister,… What are you calling yourself now?” Brushing aside a gold tinted pocket watch, he searched through a small stack of documents on the desk. The prisoner’s eyes briefly narrowed.

   “Ah yes… Mister Wexhome,” he added, gathering himself to full height. “I am sure you know me by reputation. I am the Captain Jean Levasseur,” he proclaimed with pride.

Never heard of you.

   “A gentleman adventurer…”

Pirate, thief, murderer.

   “…and you are now aboard my flagship, the Osprey.” Levasseur paused, waiting.

Flagship, to a fleet of one.

   Still no outward response from the prisoner.

   Levasseur placed the pistol on the desk and slumped down into his chair. “Your kind has a certain notoriety, Mister Wexhome. While I can respect that, it being similar to my own, it has earned you many enemies. These enemies would surely pay quite well if I were to put you in their hands.” 

First the threat, then the false offer.

   He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his hands. Feral brown eyes bored into that hollow stare. “You should consider yourself indebted to me. My men were for killing you, seeing how you dispatched eleven of their shipmates.” Levasseur’s face narrowed, searching some reaction. Finding none, he feigned modest interest with the items on his desk. “I intervened on your behalf.” A wolfish grin spread across his lips. “I have a simple proposal. I know you are a man of wealth. I am willing to release you for an ample compensation. Call it a toll for passage.” 

   Time stretched; there was no reply, just that infernal ticking. Levasseur leapt to his feet, slamming his fists upon the polished desktop, teeth bared. 

Bravado.

   His anger flared into a dark consuming fury.

   “Answer me!”

Now violence. 

   Rounding the desk, he kicked the man in the chest. Man and chair toppled backward to the floor. Enraged, Levasseur brought his boot parallel to the prisoner’s shoulder, dropping his knee. There was no struggle, despite the captain’s shin driving down on the man’s throat, pinning him. 

   “I will not be ignored!” 

   He forced his weight down on the prisoner’s throat, keenly anticipating a reaction. The eyes remained vacant, withdrawn. Levasseur lowered further still, a dagger slipping into his hand. The blade weaved a slow teasing dance as it descended. Enough. He placed the tip onto the center of the mechanical eye. With a sense of euphoric satisfaction, he forced the blade deep into the delicate workings of the mechanism. A single savage twist ripped the eye from the socket with a sickening pop. Levasseur smiled serenely; a climactic shiver ran through him. “That will do for now.” He said, stroking the man’s cheek. The feral eyes softened, sated. “I have other guests to entertain. A small drama of mother and daughter.” 

   “Get in here!” he shouted.

    Two heavily built pirates entered the cabin. “Take him to the hold; chain him by the hatchway. No food or water. Now, get him out of my sight.”

   As the crewmen hauled the prisoner away, Levasseur regarded the ruined eye impaled on the dagger. 

   “Out of sight.”

   He giggled.

                                                              ***

A cavernous iron box, dimly lit, filled with stale air, it reeked of despair. The collective misery of the Margueritte shuffled into the depths of the hold. Settling in small clumps, they conversed in hushed whispers, reflecting upon their ill fortune, their losses, their future, and waited. 

   Sky and Avery selected a spot for themselves along the starboard bulkhead. They were quickly surrounded by other members of the Margueritte’s crew, creating their own little island in the sea of captives.

   Two large men entered the hold supporting a third, bound in shackles, between them. They dropped him to the deck, fastening his chains to a cargo tie ring. A few well placed kicks and some curses completed the process. In the moments following their departure, a soft rhythmic ticking reverberated through the hold.

   Sky recognized him as the man from cabin ‘C’. She turned away, he no longer mattered. 

   A stoker from the Margueritte’s black gang drew Avery’s attention, a puzzled expression on his face. “That sound… What did they do to him?”

   The old man sighed. “That happened long ago. He is a relic from a bygone time, a Tin Man.”