CAPE COAST, 1787

The royal prison was dark and reeked of piss and sewer water. Pirate captives dressed in bloody rags were being dragged into their cells by His Majesty’s soldiers, fresh from a battle that had ended on the beach in the king’s favor. The pirates would protest until what was left of their strength was absorbed by the cold, hard prison walls. Their cries for freedom would fall on the deaf bricks and echo through the halls as the cries of penned animals. In captivity, days would seem like weeks, and weeks as months, and no longer would the captives cry out their wretched wails and curses, for they would gradually grow to be as quiet as the walls themselves. Outside the prison walls, the scattered sounds of distant musket fire interrupted the rhythmic crashing of waves against the shore as British soldiers shot at fleeing remnants of the pirate band. Just like the screams of the condemned men, these too were fading away.

An old cell door let out a rusty creak to let in two soldiers clutching a wild-haired man with a tattered scarlet coat and what had once been a fine hat. The man said nothing but merely grinned at the soldiers even as they threw him into his cell. The pirate landed face first on the cold cell floor, drawing a cruel chuckle from his guards as he got back on his feet. They stopped when he turned around to face them, and as his grin met theirs, they turned sour.

“The hell are you smiling at?” said one of the soldiers, pointing his musket at the prisoner’s nose.

“In a few hours,” the prisoner replied with a heavy accent. “I will be free.”

The guards laughed even harder than before.

“You’ll be free all right, you’s a pirate! You’ll be free to hang from the gallows while the seagulls peck out your eyes!”

The soldiers’ laughter was interrupted by the sound of footsteps bouncing off the stone floor. The two stood straight at attention as an officer approached the cell. The tall, handsome captain carried himself with an air of refinement that his men seemed to lack. He eyed his two soldiers, then the prisoner, who tipped his hat to him.

“Name,” said the captain in a stiff tone.

“Rodion Ivanovich Kazansky, monsieur capitaine,” replied the pirate.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The captain was visibly surprised.

“Parlez-vous français?”

“Je comprends un tout petit peu le français, comme une vache espagnole,” replied the pirate with a smile.

“May I trouble you to continue our conversation in French?”

“Oui, certainement mon seigneur.”

The captain stepped into the cell and continued to talk to the prisoner in French as the two soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment.

“It has been a long time since I last conversed in my native tongue. I am Captain Auguste Rochat, but you do not have a French name, therefore you are not a French pirate.”

“And you, sir?” Are you a French captain commanding an English garrison?”

Auguste let out a soft chuckle, “No, I am Swiss. But enough pleasantries.” He clenched his jaw and the smile on his face disappeared, “Are you known as an officer, leader, or other person of importance amongst the group of pirates and brigands that have organized an attack on Cape Coast Castle, an asset of His Majesty’s African Company of Merchants?”

“Yes. I am their captain, but I am not a pirate.”

Auguste frowned, “are you aware, then, that transgressions and felonies that your men have committed at sea are punishable by the Piracy Act, and that the prescribed penalty for such acts is to suffer the pains of death?”

Rodion nodded slowly, “Of this I am keenly aware, and I will tell you again, I am not a pirate, and I am innocent of these charges.”

“The typical words of a liar and a blackguard. You will be given an expedited trial, then, God-willing, you will be hanged by the neck until dead, which is the customary cure for the ills of piracy. It was refreshing to speak my language again, and for this I thank you. Good day, Monsieur Kazansky.”

As the captain turned to leave, Rodion’s bound hands reached into his ruffled lace collar and pulled out a necklace with a large golden ring on it. Its face bore a double-headed eagle.

“Do you know what this is, captain? This is the imperial seal of Her Highness the Czarina Catherine of Russia.”

Auguste glanced over his shoulder at the ring.

“You know, it is customary to address the sovereign of a nation as ‘majesty,’ not ‘highness.’ If you had actually met your monarch, whom you claim to serve, you would have known this. Perhaps you are no more than a common thief with a stolen ring.”

“Perhaps, but a smart thief would have sold this long ago. But here I am, far away from my home country, as you are from yours; with an imperial seal around my neck, trying my best to speak your language and not choke on my own phlegm. How many Russian pirates have you heard of, my good sir?”

“Not a one.”

The captain winced, realizing that the prisoner was right. A person like him was indeed a rarity.

“Are you not curious about the events leading up to my imprisonment in your lovely chateau of a jailhouse?”

“Satisfy, then, my curiosity.”