We left the harbor officer to his duties and followed the young slave, who led us off the beach into the castle at a brisk walk, treading upon a different route utilized by the soldiers of the garrison that avoided the crowded thoroughfare where the merchants would come and go, along with their newly processed slaves. We ascended a staircase to reach the ramparts of the castle, from where I had a good view of the goings-on in the castle courtyard directly below us. I stopped for a moment and looked down to see, up close, the bustling scene of the slave market.
It sounded just the same as before – merchants yelling quantities and prices, soldiers barking orders at slaves, but now that I was closer, I could hear the sobbing of the women and the wailing of the small children as the guards beat them in front of their mothers for what seemed to be no other reason than their sadistic satisfaction. The guards’ laughter brought back phantoms of my own pain at the hands of the Tatars. There was something inhuman about a person that reveled in the suffering of one who was not an enemy. The men, many of whom might have been fathers to the beaten children, were cowed to silence. The welts on their backs were evidence of what happened to those who spoke out.
As they milled about below, I could hear their chains drag in the sand and rattle as they moved. I swallowed. Visions stirred in my head of myself as small child, barely able to lift a pickaxe, forced to hew through brown and gray rock to find “special” brown and gray rock that the Tatars would use to make their steel. All the while, the chains on my wrists rattled in a maddening rhythm with the dull, scraping clink of my pickaxe.
The crack of a whip brought me out of my trance, the same way a whip used to wake me up when I fainted in the mines.
My breathing became heavy with indignation as I clenched my teeth to silence myself before I said something that would jeopardize our plan. I was very tempted to reach for my pistol and blast one of the red-coated scoundrels in the market below, but my rational mind took over and stopped me.
The enslaved were herded out of a door that led back to the docks. There was an inscription painted on the archway above. I squinted to read it.
“Abandon All Hope, All Ye Who Exit Here.”
“Ah, yes, I remember that line,” said Andrei, cheerfully. “But it is ‘enter,’ monsieur, not ‘exit.’ Dante’s Inferno, I believe, yes – I had to recite that for the Czarevitch Alexander, but of course he is a mere infant and his ability to understand…”
“Do be quiet, Andrei.”
The black humor of the sign was not lost on me. The souls that passed below that archway would likely spend the rest of their lives in torment and servitude, without hope of ransom like there had been for me.
Amongst the multitude of merchants and slaves below, I saw Captain Glass and Rebecca, who seemed to be picking slaves at random, and in a visible hurry to leave the market. Rebecca, in particular, seemed especially anxious. Her movements were jittery and she yelled just as loud as the other merchants did as she passed slaves to Captain Glass, grabbing them by the shoulders or hands and simply shoving them at her husband.
Curiously, though, no one seemed to pay her any mind. In fact, she was not the only African wife in the market. Other black women dressed in fine European clothing stood beside their English husbands and hid their faces with embroidered fans or held up handkerchiefs to their noses, perhaps to mask the smell of all the blood and sweat. Their fellow Africans, who averted their eyes from their slavers or the guards, showed no such reservations or fear when these black wives walked near them. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned towards the traitors with visible scorn as they approached. Beatings or whippings immediately followed when they were caught looking, but I understood how deep their hatred for such traitors went.
My people had our own share of traitors as well. We Cossacks helped the czarina drive the Tatars and Turks from Russian soil until the last clinging fingernail of Mohammedan resistance was cast off and the foreigners were driven into the Black Sea. For this, the czarina rewarded us with an ultimatum: submit to her and join her army, or choose freedom and exile. Those of our brothers who kissed her cross became her pet Cossacks to be sicced on her enemies, and the others like me who remained true to our principles of freedom and loyalty to ourselves and no one else were evicted from our ancestral homes and forced to wander the steppes like beasts. I should have been livid at her for that simple fact alone, but yet here I stood on some distant African shore, on a task for her to gain a reward that would somehow make me powerful enough to avenge my fallen brothers. Life was funny like that.
“Maasta, yu fallo, yu fallo.”
The slave boy’s words stirred me from my melancholy spell. Repeating his words, he urged us to follow him through a long, roofed balcony towards the governor’s office. A tall oak door with ornate carvings and a finely polished brass handle stood at the end of the dusty stone-walled corridor flanked by two redcoats. It stood out amongst the other rooms, none of which had nearly as much grandeur about them. I could hear soft and somber notes from a dainty, pleasant instrument drifting from behind the walls. Later, I would come to know this as the sound of a “harpsichord.”
The soldiers guarding the entrance shifted their muskets from their shoulders to their chests, a subtle signal for us to stand where we were. The slave boy, meanwhile, passed between them and made three delicate knocks on the door. The music stopped.
“Yes, what is it?” came a voice from behind the door.
“Ya lordship, is dem Rooshia-men for to see ya.”
“Ah, excellent, excellent, send them in.”
With that, the guards at the door stepped aside and the slave opened the door to reveal an office that was a stark contrast to everything else at the castle. The floor was covered with a single large carpet decorated with flowers, ferocious beasts and nautical elements. The walls of the office displayed all manner of maps and books arranged neatly on shelves carved directly into the thick oak walls. A large barred window let in the bright, coastal sun, obscuring the room’s sole occupant, sitting behind his harpsichord, in shadow.
“I am Lord Chester Garlington, First Baron Garlington, and the current sitting Governor of the Committee of Merchants of the Gold Coast. I bid you gentlemen a fond welcome to Cape Coast Castle.”
The man spoke with a clear, refined English accent that was quite unlike Rebecca’s drawl, or Captain Glass’s jolly brogue.
As we stepped in, my eyes settled and I could see the man clearly. He was an older man of middling stature, but taller than Andrei, dressed not in the silks and satins of a typical European noble, but in the crimson military uniform of a British officer. His eyes, deep and gray, were droopy and devoid of emotion. He wore a very splendid white wig that matched his white facial hair, which partially concealed his small smile.
“I thought you said beards were a faux pas with wigs, Andrei Vasilyevich.”
“I did,” Andrei whispered in reply.
“Veuillez me pardonner, messieurs,” he said as he stood up from his harpsichord. “Seriez-vous plus à l'aise si nous parlions en français?”
More French. I sighed. He had most likely assumed that we could not speak English at all, and he had asked us if we would be more comfortable continuing the conversation in French.
“No, thanks, lord. I must practik my Engish.”
“Very well,” he said, his smile unabating. “Please, sit and have a drink.”
The seats were cushioned with what felt like soft goose-feather pillows. I had honestly never felt so comfortable on a chair before. The slave boy then produced goblets of a dark, red liquid that I could tell was not wine. The governor took a cup for himself and gave us both a polite nod. Andrei returned the nod and took a drink, urging me to do the same with a subtle shift of his eyes. Begrudgingly, I complied. Garlington raised his own cup as soon as my own left the slave boy’s serving tray.
Stolen story; please report.
“A toast, my friends, to your inspired, enlightened ruler! How do you say this in your language?”
“Uh… za zdarovia tsaritsy, Your Lordship,” said Andrei as he pursed his lips, eyes cast at the floor.
“Ah, sa starovya sarrisy!” Garlington chuckled.
I raised my cup but said nothing.
“I must tell you what a great pleasure it is to know that your gracious and noble sovereign has finally seen the good sense to invest in this peculiar institution of Africanized labor.”
I blinked once, startled, but then realized why he had come to that conclusion. The man, as a slaver, was most likely aware of the czarina’s stance on the issue of using men as resources. When she had first arisen to the imperial throne, it had caused quite the eruption in the villages when she proclaimed that she wished to abolish both serfdom and slavery. News must have spread throughout all of Europe of the czarina’s liberal thinking, but that was old news. When the czarina’s nobles pressured her to retain the institution of serfdom, she abandoned her liberal German ideas and concluded that serfdom was best for Russia.
“I am afraid that I must pry, sir,” said Garlington, “about why Her Majesty only now decided to come to her senses. How did she come to see that this particular form of labor was part of the natural order of things?”
His insinuation that slavery was natural at all was beyond insulting. A part of me wanted to draw my sword and stab him in the neck, but another part of me told me the obvious: if I were to do that, every soldier on the island would descend upon me, and I would be putting the lives of Captain Glass, Lady Rebecca, and Andrei in danger for no reason. I chose to grit my teeth and concoct a believable lie instead, to both preserve myself, my companions and Captain Glass’s mission.
“Andrei Vasilyevich,” I muttered in Russian, “Make something up. Pretend I didn’t understand.”
Andrei glanced at me with widened eyes before quickly shifting back to Garlington.
“P-p-please forgive, Your Lordship,” he sputtered in English. “Perhaps in…”
“Don’t you dare ask him to go back to French,” I said under my breath.
“Y-you see, Her Majesty, she… very… ah…”
I cursed Andrei in Russian, then continued in English, “Imperial Highness Yekaterina realize value in foreign slave labor because Rooshian serfs… they also want for freedom. Always revolting, always disobey masters, always kill masters. Is dangerous.”
“Your empress is quite wise in this regard,” Garlington said, taking a sip from his cup. “The best slave is one that is subdued. These ones leaving for your ships out in port, for example – the poor fools still believe that they have the power to govern themselves. This sort of delusional thinking must be addressed and corrected. Would you like some advice, mister…? I am dreadfully sorry, I never allowed you to make the proper introductions.”
Before I could speak, Andrei rose and bowed to the lord, introducing us both,
“This is His Lordship, the Well-Born Baron Kazansky of Krym, Your Lordship. I am his faithful body man, Andrei Vasilyevich Kuznetsov.”
“Well-Born?” Garlington said with an amused smirk, “My you Russians have rather unique styles.”
“Well played,” I murmured to Andrei in Russian as I gave a curt nod to Garlington. “Let’s see how long we will be able to keep up this charade.”
“He will be kinder to us if he sees you as his equal, monsieur.”
“Well since we are speaking my language,” said Garlington, “May I refer to you as ‘Lord Krym?’ I don’t wish to presume.”
“Ah… yes.”
“Very well – what does Your Lordship intend to do with the negroes that you have purchased from me?”
Andrei opened his mouth to speak but I jabbed him in the rib.
“Mining work, Your Lordship,” I said. “Mines of Krym are need heavy work force for taking iron from underground.”
Garlington gave me a slow, sympathetic nod.
“Indeed, mining is hard work. You shall need disciplined, submissive workers for this rigorous endeavor. Imagine a mob of the black devils with pickaxes baying for your blood, sir. What a dreadful day that would be.”
In my childhood years I had often thought of doing the same. My ears thirsted for the satisfying crack of my pickaxe into a Mohammedan’s skull. Alas, it had never come to that.
“May I be so bold as to offer you a bit of advice on matters of discipline, Your Lordship?” said Garlington, before taking another sip from his cup.
“Please to proceed,” I said.
“Within all creatures, yes, even these beasts such as these, is the desire for happiness. The robin, for example, yearns for the delicious berries that bloom during the summertime; the hare enjoys the occasional nibble from the farmer’s crop; and the negro – well – the negro in this case is unnatural, since he desires to escape the condition that the Almighty has clearly made him fit for. You see, Your Lordship, if the black man was meant to be free, surely, their kings would not allow them to be sold into slavery as they are now, and they would all rise up against us, would they not? Yet in that courtyard we have tribal leaders selling their fellow negroes to us for muskets!” Garlington wheezed.
“You were to speaking on discipline, Your Lordship.”
“Apologies for my digression, Lord Krym,” he said with a chuckle. “The mentality of these people never fails to amuse me. On discipline then – if you want your work force to be truly subservient, you must take away their hope for happiness, which will in turn mitigate their desire to be free. Now, with these people in particular, I find that the best form of discipline is the sexual sort, yes, with males and females both.”
My mouth fell open as my brow contorted into a frown. I was sure that I misheard him, but if I did not, then this man was an entirely different breed of depraved monster. All I could utter was,
“Chto?”
“Ah, I understand that this is shocking to you. I imagine you may be asking yourself, ‘Why would one defile oneself by engaging in sodomy with these dirty things?’ Well firstly, I shall tell you sir, that even those great Romans of antiquity were known to pleasure themselves with their own slaves, and I do not see a reason why we, an equally civilized people, should refrain from doing so ourselves.
“Secondly, when an otherwise haughty and powerful buck is sodomized against his will, it makes him feel weak and powerless. He feels that he is no longer a ‘true man’ and comes to terms that he will be unable to protect his mate, which, in many cases, I reinforce by stuffing their women with my stiffy in full view of the males, right after I have ridden their own black arses red.” He chuckled, “I do apologize for my scandalous remarks, but it has been so long since I have had company other than my officers and the negroes. Oh, Her Majesty’s soldiers are dutiful and all, but they are so dreadfully boring. The slaves,” he scoffed. “They are hardly company at all. However, they do make this divine concoction we are drinking. Have you had the chance to try it?”
I could hardly process what I had just heard. This man not only regarded the slaves as property, but the way he described his methods made him seem like a viler creature than the devil himself. Again, I had to restrain myself from simply pulling out my sword and stabbing the man in the neck. I looked down at my hand to find it resting on the hilt of my shashka. I quickly reached for the drink instead and took a long swig.
The tanginess of the viscous, red not-wine shocked me enough to cleanse my mind of the dark images Garlington had described to me, at least for the moment.
“What we drinking?”
My remark made Andrei curious enough to sip from his own cup. His expression asked Garlington the same question.
“The natives call it ‘sobolo.’ The drink is an acquired taste, but I prefer it to the local juices or God forbid, the water. Do you like it?”
I had to admit, it was quite refreshing, but at the time I did not know the words to describe it. And even if I did, I would not have wanted to engage in any more conversation with this monster.
“Thank you,” was all I said.
“Merci pour votre hospitalité, mon seigneur,” said Andrei with a smile and a slight nod.
“Oh, c'était mon devoir, monsieur,” he said with a chuckle. “But now that you have concluded business with my merchants, perhaps you have time for pleasure?”
I did not like the way the man’s lips curled into a smile. His expression reminded me too much of a wolf baring its teeth before it lunged at its prey. I was almost afraid to ask what he meant by ‘pleasure.’
“What manner of pleasure, monsieur?”
I clenched my teeth at Andrei’s remark.
“Why, the very pleasures we just discussed! I shall select for you two a couple of fine negresses, fit to your tastes, then I shall pick a sturdy buck to break for myself. These lot will have been promised off to other buyers, but there is no harm in instilling a little discipline in them before they are sent off. We shall have a grand old time! What say you?”
“O Bozhe,” Oh God, I muttered. “Andrei make an excuse,” I said in Russian through my teeth.
“I am afraid my master and I are quite tired from the long journey, and…”
Garlington’s smile dropped.
“Nonsense,” he hissed. “Nothing can relax the body more than the feeling of skin on skin and the sweet, ecstatic release at the end of a good pounding. I must insist.”
We were stunned to silence. Garlington looked us both over and raised his brows, as if he had come to a realization.
“Oh, I am dreadfully sorry, you two must be mollies. I myself was convicted of ‘the detestable and unnatural vice of buggery,’ but papa’s money and influence were enough to have me acquitted. Instead, to put me out of sight and mind, he had me ‘rewarded’ with the governorship of this detestable piece of land in Africa. Do they not punish sodomy where you come from, my friends?”
“N-n-no no no,” Andrei sputtered. “There is misunderstanding, Your Lordship! We are not eh… blue-men!”
Garlington’s speech slowed down, and his eyes narrowed at us.
“Does my display of hospitality offend you so?”
It would be very dangerous to risk confrontation with the man, especially now since we were so close to leaving.
“Please excuse, Your Lordship,” I said with a smile. “In Russia, we not accustomed to such generosity. Little ah… surprise,” I chuckled. “You understand, yes?”
A faint smile crossed Garlington’s lips.
“Of course, Lord Krym. I shall send for the girls then.”
I let out a deep breath and silently asked God for forgiveness for what I was about to do. Andrei looked at me with wide eyes and began to shiver. I looked back at him and our eyes communicated the same thought, that we had chosen to dine with the devil.