My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

I_Eson

May 25, 2025

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter 9 - "Bahamian Justice"

The office of Deputy Minister of Justice Graham Whitelock smelled of rosewood and cigars. On the wall hung a certificate: “Effective Management of Correctional Institutions” (Miami, 2008).

Graham Whitelock—known to a select few as Pinder—was studying his glass of cognac, evaluating its color against the sunset. On the desk lay a folder bearing the seal of France: a dossier on the detained pirates.

“Jean-Claude, I understand your position,” he said, setting the glass aside. “But let’s look at the situation... more broadly. Your marines conducted an operation in border waters without notifying our government. That could’ve easily turned into a diplomatic note. Or headlines.”

The words hung in the air. Jean-Claude Delacourt, French consul, didn’t blink.

“We acted under the Joint Anti-Piracy Agreement. Your Foreign Ministry signed it in 2009.”

“Signed it—yes. But we also had witnesses. There were women and children present. That wasn’t anti-piracy. That was... an incident.”

“Is piracy a legal business in your country?” Delacourt asked dryly.

Graham smiled faintly.

“No, but we do have a presumption of innocence. And you had minors in a fire zone. You think Paris will be pleased when that surfaces?”

He leaned back in his chair. Then, almost without changing tone:

“But I’m not suggesting a scandal. On the contrary. Our court will handle the case quickly. Formally. And efficiently.”

He picked up a tablet and tapped a few buttons. Photos appeared on the screen: overcrowded cells, peeling walls, a drainage trench running across the floor.

“Fox Hill,” he said calmly. “Cells built for six hold twenty. They sleep in shifts. Water’s turned on twice a day—for an hour. Three weeks ago, there was a dysentery outbreak.”

He swiped again: a bitten leg, a rat in a trap—close-up.

“We call them gray sharks. They’re fond of human flesh. Especially the kind that once thought they ruled the sea.”

The consul winced but kept listening.

“You want them punished, Jean-Claude?” Graham put the tablet away. “Trust me—Fox Hill isn’t a prison. It’s a paragraph from Dante’s Inferno. In two weeks, they’ll forget how to hold a weapon. In a month, they’ll forget violence ever existed.”

Silence.

Whitelock opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope—gray-blue, sealed with an official crest. Thick. Neat. Unassuming.

He placed it between them, tilting it slightly toward the consul. Among the official papers, a familiar silhouette peeked through— the sleek lines of a 42-foot Beneteau, hull number JC-171. Consul Delacourt recognized his yacht, L’Étoile, even before Graham gently covered the envelope with his palm.

“Inside—witness lists. Testimonies from fishermen, yacht owners, agents. Some of them... quite influential. They’re all waiting for hearings. And they want those men behind bars. Here. Not in France.”

The consul glanced at the envelope. Didn’t touch it.

“Have these materials... been forwarded to the prosecutor’s office?”

“Only as part of preliminary procedure,” Graham said with a polite smile. “Nothing beyond that. All official. Just like our approach.”

He took a sip of cognac. The consul exhaled, then nodded slowly:

“Very well. I’ll inform Paris that the detainees remain under your jurisdiction. And that the French side is temporarily waiving extradition—in the interest of justice.”

“Exactly,” Whitelock said softly. “In the interest.”

When the consul stood up, Graham remained seated. He simply rested his hand on the envelope—neither taking it nor pushing it away.

“Glad we understand each other.”
...
The security truck with barred windows braked hard, throwing the pirates into each other. Doc was slammed against the bars with his shoulder, but didn’t make a sound.

“Well, gentlemen,” he muttered, peering through the narrow slot in the door, “welcome to the finest prison in the Caribbean.”

Beyond the door, lit by floodlights, loomed the gray bulk of Fox Hill. A guard in a worn uniform clicked the bolt of his rifle.

“Out! Move it!”

The pirates were shoved into the yard.

The air of this place had, over the years, absorbed the pain and despair of more than a thousand souls.

It was passed from one to the next by all who crossed these gates—exhaled in heavy clots of accumulated rage.

Doc walked first, calmly scanning the surroundings. His gaze slid over the brick walls streaked with mold, the rusted bars, and the eyes flickering in the shadows behind them.

“Block D, third floor,” the guard snapped, jabbing Harpoon in the back with his baton.

The cell was small, the plaster on the walls crumbling from damp.

There was no glass in the window—only wind, salt, and the cries of distant gulls, as if the sea itself were laughing at the inmates.

A space meant for six now held fifteen.

Doc, Harpoon, Moose, Crab, and Goose took up the places along the wall; the rest clumped together like sardines in a barrel.

“Are we here for long?” Goose asked, rubbing his wrists.

Doc didn’t answer right away.

He walked slowly around the cell, scraped the plaster with a fingernail, ran his palm over a crack in the stone.

Then, suddenly, he gave a crooked smile.

“Any idea why they moved us into this one?”

The pirates glanced at each other.

“Heard the French whispering—locals are planning to quietly finish us off,” Moose muttered uncertainly.

“Oh yes,” Doc crouched down, running his fingers across the filthy floor. “Special microclimate. They say even rats die in here…”

Doc quickly began drawing something in the dust. At first, no one could tell what it was. But as the lines came together, they froze. A crooked cat’s face took shape—one ear curled like an arrow, pointing dead at the door.

Crab slipped toward the door without a word. He listened—then nodded once.

Someone was standing outside.

Doc nodded, stood up, and a moment later was sprawled on the bunk.

“This isn’t just a prison. It’s a pirate crypt. The foundation under us? What’s left of Vane’s powder magazine. Back in 1718, he set it off to hold off the British. Blew everything to hell. The stones melted.”

He drew the air in through his nose.

“Smell that? Still stinks of sulfur. And not by chance. Fox Hill isn’t just a prison—it’s living history from the Golden Age of Piracy. Hornigold—the sly fox—was the first to settle here. Then came Vane—stubborn as an anchor. Calico Jack—a jester with a cursed coin. And Teach—Blackbeard himself, the Devil wreathed in fire and smoke.”

“And more—Black Bart, Captain Kidd, Morgan, Bonny, Read... a hall of legends soaked in rum and blood. They didn’t just drink and brawl—they built a republic. A Pirate Republic. Early 18th century. Yeah, boys. That was quite the crew.”

He leaned back, his voice dropping a little.

“After the war with Spain, the kings wrapped up their little games and told the sea dogs to go home. But where to? Hands still remembered how to grip a boarding hook. So they came here. Nassau. A blessed place. Deep harbor, shielded from storms, and the Brits weren’t running things yet. Right here—Fox Hill—back then just a hill with a view. This is where they made their own rules. Split the loot, argued, fought—but mostly… they drank. Drank to luck, to the fallen, and to the Devil who always smiled on them.”

He paused.

“A short-lived fellowship. A republic, gone like a flash of powder. But while it burned, they were free. Free of kings, of laws, of all that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ nonsense. They were the law.”

“That’s why it still smells of sulfur. The spirit of those days, of freedom and lawlessness—it hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s in every stone of this place, in every gust of wind off the sea. This place remembers them. And you—rookies—listen. Listen and remember. Because it’s your story too, if you’ve ever dreamed of the sea. Or of freedom.”

Harpoon’s voice rasped from the shadows.

“All right, pirates—whose treasure was it, then? The one the boy found.”

Doc lifted a finger.

“Could be Black Bart—Bartholomew Roberts. Five tons of gold from a Portuguese galleon.”

A second finger.

“Or maybe Black Sam Bellamy. His Whydah sank, but not all the cargo was on board. He played the long game.”

A third.

“Could’ve been Teach. Blackbeard. His sloop Adventure disappeared. Along with what he took from Vane.”

Doc sat back and exhaled.

“Or Vane himself. He was the last who might’ve sealed a tomb of gold. He knew—treasure lasts longer than the men who bury it.”

Crab frowned.

“And the kid? They searched three hundred years, and he just stumbles on it? No map, no lead? Just luck?”

Doc nodded.

“He didn’t find the treasure. The sea chose him. And once we’re out—we’ll find him. We’ll take him. And we’ll raise him—make a real sea rogue out of him.”

Goose blinked.

“Raise him?”

Doc grinned.

“Yeah. He’ll scrub decks, read ciphers, learn to steer a ship. Become who he’s meant to be. A new captain. The spirit of Nassau isn’t dead. He’s just sleeping”

He ran his finger along a seam between the floor tiles and added softly:

“And we’re his nightmares. And we’re coming back.”

Someone, it seemed, fainted behind the iron door.

en 1

Correct

Corrections

shadowfax26

My Grandfather is a Giant Schnauzer

Chapter 9 - "Bahamian Justice" The office of Deputy Minister of Justice Graham Whitelock smelled of rosewood and cigars.

On the wall hung a certificate: “Effective Management of Correctional Institutions” (Miami, 2008).

Graham Whitelock—known to a select few as Pinder—was studying his glass of cognac, evaluating its color against the sunset.

On the desk lay a folder bearing the seal of France: a dossier on the detained pirates.

“But let’s look at the situation... more broadly.

Your marines conducted an operation in border waters without notifying our government.

That could’ve easily turned into a diplomatic note.

Or headlines.” The words hung in the air.

Jean-Claude Delacourt, French consul, didn’t blink.

“We acted under the Joint Anti-Piracy Agreement.

Your Foreign Ministry signed it in 2009.” “Signed it—yes.

But we also had witnesses.

There were women and children present.

That wasn’t anti-piracy.

That was... an incident.” “Is piracy a legal business in your country?” Delacourt asked dryly.

Graham smiled faintly.

“No, but we do have a presumption of innocence.

And you had minors in a fire zone.

You think Paris will be pleased when that surfaces?” He leaned back in his chair.

Then, almost without changing tone: “But I’m not suggesting a scandal.

On the contrary.

Our court will handle the case quickly.

Formally.

And efficiently.” He picked up a tablet and tapped a few buttons.

Photos appeared on the screen: overcrowded cells, peeling walls, a drainage trench running across the floor.

“Fox Hill,” he said calmly.

“Cells built for six hold twenty.

They sleep in shifts.

Water’s turned on twice a day—for an hour.

Three weeks ago, there was a dysentery outbreak.” He swiped again: a bitten leg, a rat in a trap—close-up.

“We call them gray sharks.

They’re fond of human flesh.

Especially the kind that once thought they ruled the sea.” The consul winced but kept listening.

“You want them punished, Jean-Claude?” Graham put the tablet away.

“Trust me—Fox Hill isn’t a prison.

It’s a paragraph from Dante’s Inferno.

In two weeks, they’ll forget how to hold a weapon.

In a month, they’ll forget violence ever existed.” Silence.

Whitelock opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope—gray-blue, sealed with an official crest.

Thick.

Neat.

Unassuming.

He placed it between them, tilting it slightly toward the consul.

Among the official papers, a familiar silhouette peeked through— the sleek lines of a 42-foot Beneteau, hull number JC-171.

Consul Delacourt recognized his yacht, L’Étoile, even before Graham gently covered the envelope with his palm.

“Inside—witness lists.

Testimonies from fishermen, yacht owners, agents.

Some of them... quite influential.

They’re all waiting for hearings.

And they want those men behind bars.

Here.

Not in France.” The consul glanced at the envelope.

Didn’t touch it.

“Have these materials... been forwarded to the prosecutor’s office?” “Only as part of preliminary procedure,” Graham said with a polite smile.

“Nothing beyond that.

All official.

Just like our approach.” He took a sip of cognac.

The consul exhaled, then nodded slowly: “Very well.

I’ll inform Paris that the detainees remain under your jurisdiction.

And that the French side is temporarily waiving extradition—in the interest of justice.” “Exactly,” Whitelock said softly.

“In the interest.” When the consul stood up, Graham remained seated.

He simply rested his hand on the envelope—neither taking it nor pushing it away.

“Glad we understand each other.” ...

Doc was slammed against the bars with his shoulder, but didn’t make a sound.

“Well, gentlemen,” he muttered, peering through the narrow slot in the door, “welcome to the finest prison in the Caribbean.” Beyond the door, lit by floodlights, loomed the gray bulk of Fox Hill.

A guard in a worn uniform clicked the bolt of his rifle.

“Out!

Move it!” The pirates were shoved into the yard.

The air of this place had, over the years, absorbed the pain and despair of more than a thousand souls.

It was passed from one to the next by all who crossed these gates—exhaled in heavy clots of accumulated rage.

Doc walked first, calmly scanning the surroundings.

His gaze slid over the brick walls streaked with mold, the rusted bars, and the eyes flickering in the shadows behind them.

“Block D, third floor,” the guard snapped, jabbing Harpoon in the back with his baton.

The cell was small, the plaster on the walls crumbling from damp.

There was no glass in the window—only wind, salt, and the cries of distant gulls, as if the sea itself were laughing at the inmates.

A space meant for six now held fifteen.

Doc, Harpoon, Moose, Crab, and Goose took up the places along the wall; the rest clumped together like sardines in a barrel.

“Are we here for long?” Goose asked, rubbing his wrists.

Doc didn’t answer right away.

He walked slowly around the cell, scraped the plaster with a fingernail, ran his palm over a crack in the stone.

Then, suddenly, he gave a crooked smile.

“Any idea why they moved us into this one?” The pirates glanced at each other.

“Heard the French whispering—locals are planning to quietly finish us off,” Moose muttered uncertainly.

“Oh yes,” Doc crouched down, running his fingers across the filthy floor.

“Special microclimate.

They say even rats die in here…” Doc quickly began drawing something in the dust.

At first, no one could tell what it was.

But as the lines came together, they froze.

A crooked cat’s face took shape—one ear curled like an arrow, pointing dead at the door.

Crab slipped toward the door without a word.

He listened—then nodded once.

Someone was standing outside.

Doc nodded, stood up, and a moment later was sprawled on the bunk.

“This isn’t just a prison.

It’s a pirate crypt.

The foundation under us?

What’s left of Vane’s powder magazine.

Back in 1718, he set it off to hold off the British.

Blew everything to hell.

The stones melted.” He drew the air in through his nose.

“Smell that?

Still stinks of sulfur.

And not by chance.

Fox Hill isn’t just a prison—it’s living history from the Golden Age of Piracy.

Hornigold—the sly fox—was the first to settle here.

Then came Vane—stubborn as an anchor.

Calico Jack—a jester with a cursed coin.

And Teach—Blackbeard himself, the Devil wreathed in fire and smoke.” “And more—Black Bart, Captain Kidd, Morgan, Bonny, Read... a hall of legends soaked in rum and blood.

They didn’t just drink and brawl—they built a republic.

A Pirate Republic.

Early 18th century.

Yeah, boys.

That was quite the crew.” He leaned back, his voice dropping a little.

“After the war with Spain, the kings wrapped up their little games and told the sea dogs to go home.

But where to?

Hands still remembered how to grip a boarding hook.

So they came here.

Nassau.

A blessed place.

Deep harbor, shielded from storms, and the Brits weren’t running things yet.

Right here—Fox Hill—back then just a hill with a view.

This is where they made their own rules.

Split the loot, argued, fought—but mostly… they drank.

Drank to luck, to the fallen, and to the Devil who always smiled on them.” He paused.

“A short-lived fellowship.

A republic, gone like a flash of powder.

But while it burned, they were free.

Free of kings, of laws, of all that ‘yes’ and ‘no’ nonsense.

They were the law.” “That’s why it still smells of sulfur.

The spirit of those days, of freedom and lawlessness—it hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s in every stone of this place, in every gust of wind off the sea.

This place remembers them.

And you—rookies—listen.

Listen and remember.

Because it’s your story too, if you’ve ever dreamed of the sea.

Or of freedom.” Harpoon’s voice rasped from the shadows.

“All right, pirates—whose treasure was it, then?

The one the boy found.” Doc lifted a finger.

“Could be Black Bart—Bartholomew Roberts.

Five tons of gold from a Portuguese galleon.” A second finger.

“Or maybe Black Sam Bellamy.

His Whydah sank, but not all the cargo was on board.

He played the long game.” A third.

“Could’ve been Teach.

Blackbeard.

His sloop Adventure disappeared.

Along with what he took from Vane.” Doc sat back and exhaled.

“Or Vane himself.

He was the last who might’ve sealed a tomb of gold.

He knew—treasure lasts longer than the men who bury it.” Crab frowned.

“And the kid?

They searched three hundred years, and he just stumbles on it?

No map, no lead?

Just luck?” Doc nodded.

“He didn’t find the treasure.

The sea chose him.

And once we’re out—we’ll find him.

We’ll take him.

And we’ll raise him—make a real sea rogue out of him.” Goose blinked.

“Raise him?” Doc grinned.

“Yeah.

He’ll scrub decks, read ciphers, learn to steer a ship.

Become who he’s meant to be.

A new captain.

The spirit of Nassau isn’t dead.

He’s just sleeping” He ran his finger along a seam between the floor tiles and added softly: “And we’re his nightmares.

And we’re coming back.” Someone, it seemed, fainted behind the iron door.

They’re fond of human flesh.