SAINT PETERSBURG, 1788

Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky paced the grand antechamber of the czarina’s salon from end to end, the sound of his jackboots echoing through the hallway much to the annoyance of all Her Majesty’s courtiers waiting in the hall with him. He ignored them all. His mind was burdened by heavy thoughts pertaining to his adventure in the Mediterranean. Whether this journey was to be perceived as a success or failure depended completely on how he told his tale. For the sake of Her Imperial Majesty’s convenience, he had written an account of the entire thing in a book that he would present to her for her to read at her own leisure.

Indeed, when Rodion had finally returned home, he had done so aboard the Peregrine. He had taken her crew with him up the Dnieper to Kherson and had kissed the sacred soil of the motherland upon disembarking. An audience with the czarina was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he encouraged his men to drink and fornicate until they were halfway to the devil at the expense of whatever loot they had plundered from Garlington, and then billeted them with the local Cossacks, whom they immediately found commonality with in their love of debauchery. In fact, the Cossacks had gotten along so well with his crew that he had recruited some of them to serve aboard the Peregrine, attracted by the thrill of adventure that drove all Cossacks. Andrei Vasilyevich, meanwhile, requested Rodion to embark on a recruitment excursion to the village of Dunaivtsi, which Rodion had saved from marauding Cossacks during the very beginning of his journey. Rodion now put such trust in the man that he was allowed to depart without an escort.

In fact, alongside essential personnel like Doctor Le Duff and Master Ferguson, whom Rodion had retained as part of the Peregrine’s crew, Andrei Vasilyevich was now promoted to officer status and functioned as his second in command. The former servant had proven to be very dutiful, and his prudence and aversion to drink helped balance Rodion’s raucousness and predisposition to danger and drink. Indeed, many times on the return journey, Andrei had to save him from drowning himself in the bottle as he thought of Eirene. He later came to realize that dwelling on the tragedies of the past was not what she would have wanted for him, and within a week of his arrival, he had embarked on a trip to Saint Petersburg. On the journey, made by horse instead of by carriage, even though he could have easily afforded that, he penned the account of his escapades that he was now presenting before the czarina – or at least, he was waiting to present.

Rodion had been pacing the hallway for what seemed to him like hours now. The last person that entered the room was a dandy foreigner in a blue uniform, the origin of which Rodion was uncertain. The man had been in there since the sun outside was at its height, and now it was slowly beginning to set over the horizon. Granted, there were only eight hours of sunlight in Saint Petersburg at this time of year, but nonetheless the amount of time the czarina spent with this man was wearing thin on the Cossack’s nerves.

The only thing that prevented him from barging into Her Imperial Majesty’s salon were the two guards posted at the door. He could easily dispatch them both, since he still kept his four-barreled pistol on his belt, but he did not want to turn into an enemy of Russia in the same week that he had returned to it. Instead, Rodion decided that he would pester the two men for information instead.

He stopped mid-pace and whirled around towards the door. With his heavy footsteps and furrowed brow, he looked like he was about to charge straight through the door like an enraged bull. One of the guards raised his hand.

“Halt! The czarina has not permitted you entry!”

“Soldier, who is in there with her?” said Rodion in a low voice, ignoring the guard’s command. The Cossack drew close enough that the guard could feel Rodion’s breath on his skin.

“The czarina has not permitted…”

“I know there is more inside of that thick skull than the brain of a mockingbird, and I know you can understand me.”

The guard stared straight through Rodion, not making eye contact, and repeated once again, in a softer voice,

“The czarina has not…”

“You must be, what, barely eighteen? In your first year of service with the regiment? How fine it must be to stand here within the hallowed halls of the czarina’s palace to stare at the intricacies of her wallpaper all day long.” Rodion paused and glanced behind him at the furthest point down the hallway, as if to see what the guard saw all day. “What a dreadful existence.” Turning back to the guard, he continued, “Would you not rather indulge in a bit of idle conversation rather than limiting yourself to being a living fucking statue?”

“The czarina has not…”

“I see. Very well, statue,” said Rodion, as he slowly moved his hands towards his pistol, preparing to force his way through the guards and into the salon.

Before he could strike, a voice called for him down the hallway.

“Your Nobility! Captain Kazansky!”

Andrei Vasilyevich jogged down the hall at a brisk pace, waving a scrap of paper in his hand. His sudden appearance had likely saved the lives of both of Catherine’s guards.

“Welcome back from Dunaivtsi, Andrei Vasilyevich,” said Rodion, genuinely happy for the safe return of his second. “How did the recruiting trip fare?”

“Most excellently, Your Nobility. Nearly every man that could shoulder a musket signed on. In fact, I had to turn many of them down since our ship could not possibly sustain such a large number of sailors and marines. The whole village was extremely grateful for what you did for them – either that or the humdrum monotony of village life was driving all their young men mad with boredom. Here, I have a roll with all the names of the enlisted.”

Rodion examined the list and saw that there were in excess of a hundred names on it. The Peregrine would now be able to operate at its full capacity, with a man at every gun and a full complement of loyal, motivated marines.

“This is excellent news, Andrei Vasilyevich. I see at least some of my past deeds have come back to bless me.” Rodion spied another piece of paper sticking out of Andrei’s waistcoat. “What’s that then?”

“Oh this? It is nothing, Your Nobility I assure you,” he said, tucking it back in.

“I want no secrets, give it here.”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

With a sigh, Andrei unfolded the sheet of paper to reveal a sketch of a uniform.

[https://i.imgur.com/PvGa89F.png]

“This is a rather odd design,” said Rodion as he looked over the sketch, noting the peculiarity of the figure’s mask. “Who approved this?”

“Oh, no one, Your Nobility. It is an invention of my own. You see, the men are always wiping their brows from doing hard work, and…”

“They have headscarves for that.”

“Well, in truth I thought the masks would make them look more dashing… Your Nobility.”

Rodion chuckled and gave Andrei a friendly clap on the back. “Well done, Andrei Vasilyevich. What a creative second you have become! Unfortunately, I believe that the ship’s books can spare no coin for such fancies.”

At that moment, a loud knock resounded from behind the door to the salon. One of the guards opened the double doors and leaned in, cupping his ear to hear the instructions of the czarina’s majordomo. After a few whispers, he nodded and, with his partner, promptly snapped back to attention to open the doors, revealing the czarina’s reception room in all its magnificent glory.

An array of glistening golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling that lit up the room with an aura that resembled sunlight at the break of dawn. Rich red curtains accented the pure white walls with ornate engravings trimmed with teal and gold leaf. The décor led the eye towards the end of the hallway, where, in front of a painting of herself on horseback, Catherine, Czarina of all the Russias, sat on her throne, attired in a voluminous gold and white gown, radiating imperial splendor. A respectable distance away from the czarina stood the officer in blue, who stood with his chest puffed out and his hat – the naval bicorne of a senior officer – tucked under his arm.

“Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky,” said the majordomo. “The czarina will see you now,”

With a sigh of relief, Rodion inserted Andrei’s sketch into his report and marched through the door. Before he could get very far, the majordomo barred his way with a walking stick and cleared his throat loudly, as if to inform Rodion of some unknown misstep.

Rodion sneered at the bewigged little man, who mouthed at him to “bow.”

He groaned, but doffed his hat and complied with the most pretentious and overelaborate bow he could muster, all the while bearing a toothy grin so visibly fake that it could nearly be interpreted as an insult.

Shaking his head very slightly at Rodion’s irreverence, the majordomo conceded to let Rodion pass, and formally announced his arrival.

“Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky of the Black Sea Cossacks.”

It was custom to bow once more before just before reaching the foot of the czarina’s throne. Rodion ignored this and approached Catherine with a quick, deliberate gait that betrayed his impatience. Taking the report he had written of his travels in Europe, he gave it a hardy thwack with his palm which echoed throughout the spacious chamber, causing the czarina to jump ever so slightly with surprise. Since there was no table that was in his immediate vicinity, he dropped the book at the base of the czarina’s throne, and it landed with a thud.

“Your Highness, I present to you the report that you had requested all those years ago. By the Cross, that was an arduous journey.”

For a short moment, the czarina, her majordomo, and all guards in the room were silent, stunned by the Cossack’s disrespect and lack of ceremony. Finally, the man in blue spoke up in English,

“How dare you, sir!”

“Oh bozhe,” Rodion chuckled before switching to the foreign tongue. “I thought I would have been rid of you English bastards by now. How dare I what, sir?”

“While you are in Her Imperial Majesty’s court, you shall address her with the respect that she commands, or you shall answer, sir, to her protectors such as myself!”

“Admiral Jones,” said the czarina in English, in a low but commanding tone. “We are perfectly capable of speaking for ourselves.”

“My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty.”

Turning to Rodion, Catherine narrowed her eyes and said, “Are you aware that with a simple snap of our fingers, we can cause you to be hanged for no other reason than our own whim?”

Rodion raised his eyebrows and grinned slightly, as if he were being told something that was obvious to even the dullest of children, “Why of course, Your Highness. I have always known of your immense power over my people.”

“This is good. But know that we abhor the barbarity of executions, and be at ease, for we have struck capital punishment from the laws of our land. But you approached us not knowing this, and yet you speak as you do without fear,” she said, smiling. “This amuses us. It is a shame that we do not recall having sent anyone of so low a character on any mission of great import, but then again, we receive many adventurers and self-styled rogues in our court, but none so callous as yourself.”

Rodion was half expecting that the czarina would not remember anything about him. How would she? A lowly Cossack she sent off to the ends of the earth with forty rubles in his pocket was, just as she said, hardly of any great import.

“I saved your horse in the Crimea, Your Highness. You granted me a boon. I have done as you have requested and sailed the high seas to learn what I could from the greatest sailors in the world – the English…” as he said this, the man in blue stifled a laugh, but he ignored this and continued, “… and I have come to offer you my services as a sea captain, as you had also ordered, for the greater good of Mother Russia.”

“Ah, yes,” said Catherine, slowly nodding her head. “We do recall the incident with the horse in the Crimea. You could have gone anywhere with the forty rubles we had dispensed out of our own purse, which we are told is no small sum to a peasant such as yourself, but you returned to us. You are brash, sir, but loyal. We approve of this. As for admitting you into the service of our navy, it just so happens that we now have several vacancies to fill,” the czarina turned to Jones, “thanks to the mere arrival at court of the good Admiral Jones here, many of our capable British officers have resigned their commissions and left the country in protest, for they refuse to work alongside a man who humiliated them in battle at sea.”

Rodion frowned in confusion and said to Jones, “You are obviously not a pirate, admiral.”

“Indeed,” he replied, raising an eyebrow, “I am not, but my enemies insist on labeling me as such.”

“And you speak English, so therefore you must be English. “How is it that a British naval officer would turn against one of his own?”

Jones frowned, “I resent that insinuation, sir. I might have been born a Scot but I am now, and will be forevermore, an American. I do not abide by the tyranny that Britain holds over my native land, and I have captured many of Britain’s fine vessels to manifest my disdain for them. Among the seafarers of the King’s Navy, my name alone is cause for terror in their ranks – the name of John Paul Jones, the bane of the King’s Admiralty.”

Rodion scoffed and reverted to his own tongue, “Mozhesh poviryty takomu? Tezh meni ‘gospodin.’ My, what a fine ‘gentleman’ you are sir. This country you’re from – it isn’t even real! There is no such thing as this ‘America,’ and to say so is lunacy!”

Jones’s brow furrowed, and he bared his teeth in an expression that bordered between rage and disbelief. “Sir, I have struck many a man for lesser affronts, and I have dueled many for insults to my honor, but I have yet to raise my sword against a man for his stupidity.”

Rodion let out a short, disrespectful laugh and reached for the hilt of his shashka. “I accept your challenge, Englishman.”

The czarina’s guards promptly responded by leveling their muskets at him.

“There will be no bloodshed in our court,” Catherine said, calmly but firmly, as she rose from her seat. “Besides there is much blood that is yet to be spilled. Our old enemy the Turk claims that Crimea – your home, Gospodin Kazansky, rightfully belongs to the sultan. The British and the French have already voiced their unconditional support for the heathen, and it falls to Russia and her allies to fight to retain the land that is indeed rightfully ours.”

Rodion winced at the thought of his homeland being occupied by yet another invader. All the old ghosts of his childhood in captivity came back to him. If the sultan indeed succeeded in his dream of conquest, his painful past would be shared by thousands of Christian children for generations.

“I am your weapon, my czarina,” he said in a low growl. “Unleash me where you will.”