The unfortunate Miss Manning is then lifted to her feet by two very courteous sailors and led grandly to stand before King Neptune.
"YOU MAY NOW KISS MY RING AND JOIN THE WATERY REALM!" he thunders.
The obedient Sarah bends down to kiss the ring, which is on the King's hairy big toe.
"WELCOME, TRUSTY SHELLBACK! YOU MAY NOW ENTER THE HALLOWED KINGDOM OF THE SEA!"
With that, the two formerly courteous Shellbacks pick up the very surprised girl and fling her over the side. The sound of her scream is cut off by the sound of a splash. There are cries of alarm down the line.
"NEXT!" shouts the King.
Are they crazy? These girls cannot swim! Some must surely drown!
Surely not. Sarah is soon spotted being put back over the rail, dripping but undrowned.
The blows to my back have continued unabated, but they are quite bearable. Or they were. Then my downcast eyes fall upon a particularly well-shined pair of officer's boots, and suddenly I receive a hard slap across my rear and cry out in spite of myself.
"Yeeow!"
I look up, shocked, and see that it is First Mate Ruger who has delivered the blow. Of course... He grins down at me and then winds up and gives me another sharp one.
Ouch! Please, not again!
Only the fact that the line moves relentlessly forward and takes me out of his range saves me from further pain. One more across the small of my back, then another on my legs, and then it's someone else's turn to crawl in front of that dirty bastard.
I feel with some relief the cool seaweed being applied to my head, and then I am led to the foot of King Neptune.
"HA! THE HALLS OF MY UNDERSEA GROTTO SHALL SURELY RING WITH MUSIC NOW. WELCOME ABOARD, MY LITTLE MERMAID!"
I kiss the ring, and then I see the blue water rushing up at me to cleanse me of seaweed ... and fury.
Chapter 35
"Good soup, Cookie," I chirp, perched on the edge of a bench in the galley, bowl of tasty burgoo in my hand, Jezebel on my lap as usual. "How much pork we got left?"
"Not much, Jacky," he says, leaning over his pot of never-ending stew. "Things gettin' mighty thin. Maybe we can take on some meat when we get to Cape Town. Lots o' piggies there, I hear."
"Ummm," I murmur, swallowing the thick goodness. "Perhaps I should start up my miller business again." I stick my finger in my bowl and let Jezebel lick it off with her raspy tongue.
"Maybe. 'Specially when we gets on the other side of the world. No telling what we'll find there 'cept for the heathen Chinese and whatever the hell they got to eat."
Back on the Bloodhound, that vile slaver, Cookie and I had set up a bit of a mutually advantageous enterprise. I would procure the millers—from my very accurate archers, led by Katy Deere herself, best miller-murderer ever born—and Cookie would roast 'em up for our delectation, keeping half of them for himself and his mates. The millers were actually recently deceased shipboard rats, nailed by Katy's arrows, but because the little rotters had been stealing our finest flour and grains, they were not at all disgusting. In fact, they were quite delicious. I remember them with a certain fondness.
Note to self: See to the construction of several bows and many arrows.
Mick and Keefe are there in the galley, too, and we talk over old times on the Bloodhound as well as our current situation. Mick has taken up with Isabella Manson, one of my Crew and a decent sort—neat in appearance and reasonably well-spoken, considering. They have taken one of the tiny cabins on the second level and are content. Surely the best berth Mick Richards has ever gained. He must thank his stars every single time that Isabella cuddles up to him in the dark of the night.
Keefe, strangely, has not yet taken a woman to his bed, in spite of the Captain's invitation for all to partake of the ocean of femaleness that exists on the Lorelei Lee.
"Our Keefe is shy, is all," pronounces Mick with a smirk. Isabella sits next to him with her head leaning against his leg, shelling peas for tonight's burgoo. Mick could have taken up with worse, I'm thinking.
"We'll see about that, Keefie," say I, ruffling his hair. "Jacky is on the case. She'll find someone who's right for you."
Hard to believe, but the rough, tough, and very weathered face of the seaman looks away and blushes.
***
Yesterday, I discovered that I need not have worried about anyone's drowning as a consequence of being pitched over the side and into the sea after kissing King Neptune's ring to become a Shellback. They'd provided for everyone's safety beforehand by rigging a square sail under the lee of the ship and out of sight of the fearful Pollywogs. They'd stretched it out so that it lay under the water to a depth of about five feet, thereby providing a safe pool of water in its belly. It is a thing often done in ships that sail in warm climes, to give the sailors a refreshing, safe dip. It certainly felt good to me.
After I hit the water and came up to clear the hair from my eyes, I saw Ann Marsh come flying down, then Molly Reibey, and then Esther Abrahams. And then, the overthrown leader of the fore-doomed Pollywogs, Army Major Johnston himself, was tossed over. He had taken all this hazing in great good humor, bootless and stripped to the waist. A fine figure of a man, I noticed ... And I also observed that he and Esther were not far apart during the whole ordeal. Hmmm...
By and large, we all had a hooting good time in the water, watching our astounded mates come flying down to join us in our watery hilarity.
Mairead was not subjected to the rougher parts of the ceremony because of her condition and all. I found out later that the Captain had ordered that all those who were with child to be spared the ordeal. I believe Mairead was a bit miffed at this—"I'm as fit as any of ye! Why single me out?"
And yet one other did not go through the line.
And how did you manage to avoid that Pollywog mess, Higgins? I realize that trial would have certainly been too much for your dignity to bear, but I also know you've never been even close to the equator...
"You do not know everything about me, Miss." He sniffed. "If you must know, a short, private ceremony was held."
Higgins, you are a slippery one.
The hatch ports are open to let out the heat of the galley stove, and we can hear the sounds of the normal routine outside—the ringing of the bells of the watch, commands to the sailors trimming the sails, and—
"On deck, there! Sail ho! Due east!"
I am on my feet in an instant, spilling poor Jezebel to the floor in my haste. This cannot be good! Pausing only to plunge into our quarters to grab my long glass and yell out, "Powder Monkeys! On deck now. Take your stations!" I rush out on deck.
A quick glance confirms that there is indeed a ship out to our port side, its sails just showing over the horizon. Throwing the telescope's lanyard around my neck, I leap into the rigging, and in a moment I am standing next to the lookout in the crow's-nest with my long glass to my eye.
It is not just one sail! There are three and they are corsairs!
"Battle stations!" I shriek, as I fly back down to the quarterdeck. "Clear for action!"
As my feet hit the deck, I hear, "If you don't mind, Convict Faber, I will give the orders around here."
It is Captain Laughton, his own glass to his eye. Mr. Ruger stands beside him.
"They are Arab pirates!" I cry. "I know, I have encountered their kind before! See that one there, he's flying the Black Colors, under his masthead! And there! The others do the same! They mean to frighten us into submission! They mean to take us!"
"They could be fishermen," replies the Captain, doubtfully. "Or they could be honest merchants."
"Fishermen do not come this far out, and if they are merchants, why are they coming straight for us? Oh, please, Sir, turn away and let us fly from them!"
"Oh, very well. Mr. Ruger, bring her right. Steer due west. We shall see if they alter course to follow us."
"Right your rudder, steady on course two nine zero," barks the First Mate. "Top men aloft to make sail!" He turns to me. "You. Get your ass off the quarterdeck."
Casting him a resentful look, I go down to the main deck to get my girls ready, while men scurry up the ratlines to trim the sails to the new course. When the Lorelei Lee falls off and comes to the new course, it is plain that the Arab ships do the same. There is no mistaking their intention now.
Corsairs—lanteen rigged ... Not usually well-armed, but fast and full of fierce, cutlass-swinging fighters—they rely on their swiftness to get close to their prey so that their swordsmen can swarm aboard and overwhelm any resistance. What they lack in firepower, they make up in sheer numbers. Cannon and powder are costly, but desperate men who will fight for a share of any prize are not.
My girls, as instructed, are lined up down the centerline—Ann, Molly, Mary, and Esther will service the port and starboard guns, depending upon which side is engaged, and Mairead will handle the forward gun. I will be on the after nine-pounder because I figure that will be the one getting the most use.
"Steady, girls, steady," I say, hoping to soothe any anxiety they might have. "It will be all right."
As I expected, the order comes...
"Man the guns!" shouts the Captain. "Bo'sun, issue cutlasses all around. All women, get below!"
The Shantyman advances to the foot of the mainmast and sets up a booming, warlike rythym on his drum.
"Girls, stand fast," I say. Then I call up to the Captain, "Sir, we will need these Powder Monkeys if the pirates close with us. Things will get hot."
The Captain looks over at my girls, standing at their stations. "Very well. They may stay. All others below."
But there is one who attempts to slightly amend the Captain's order...
"Esther. Get below."
My eye catches a flash of scarlet, and I see that we are joined on deck by Army Major Johnston, and it is he who has spoken. He is wearing his sword and pistols and a grim expression. I'm thinking he's wishin' he had a squad of Redcoats with him right now, and I know he wants his Esther below and out of danger.
His Esther looks to me. I shake my head.
"Belay that, Sir," I say, puffing up. "She may be yours someday, Major Johnston, but she's mine now! Better she face her fate up here than to cower down below! All of you! Stand fast at your stations!"
Esther is allowed to stay. I turn to the business at hand. The after gun must be readied. I plunge into the Captain's cabin, expecting to find men manning the Long Tom ... and I find none ... Just the empty cabin.
I put my mouth to the speaking tube.
"Captain! Where is the after-gun crew?"
There is a pause, then...
"There was not yet a need to assign—"
"Well, there is a need now! Send down two strong men to help me!"
There is the sound of feet pounding, then Suggs and Monk enter the cabin.
"Stack the chairs in that corner!" I order. "Turn the table over and slide it on the bed!"
"But what..."
Christ! What a pair of dimwits!
"Don't question, just do it!" I snarl. "Then open the port! And be quick about it, lads, lest you wish to feel Arab steel across your scabby throats this day!"
They don't like it—taking orders from me—but they do it, and the nine-pound Long Tom lies exposed on its track in the rear position. I check it to see that it is still loaded, just like I had left it. It is. The gun had not been fired on those previous days of gunnery exercise. Why mess up the Captain's cabin for a mere drill? It had not even been assigned a crew. Well, it's got one now...