I remembered vaguely having given permission to flush the garbage disposer while we were cruising about the Rocks, and I suppose I had been an unwitting accomplice to a foul deed.
At a few minutes after eight in the evening, we hit the equator. There was a grinding jolt from somewhere forward (which sounded suspiciously like a torpedo tube full of water being fired, which, of course, I knew it was, having given the required permission to shoot it). A confused report, broken off unfinished, came over the ship’s announcing system, and shortly after, I received a note that King Neptune and his Royal Court had arrived on board and desired my presence in the crew’s mess hall.
Buckling on my sword and putting on my cap for the occasion, since undue informality would, of course, have been unseemly—and possibly would have resulted in even sterner measures being visited upon the unworthy pollywogs, for whom I felt the deepest sympathy indeed—I headed for the appointed place.
Neptune, when I met him, looked suspiciously like Loyd Garlock, who had crossed the line with me in the Trigger eight years before. The Royal Queen, half a head taller than he, with brilliant red lips, long stringy curly hair (which was not surprising since it came from a floor mop), and smoking at all times a long black cigar, might have been Torpedoman Second Class Wilmot A. Jones.
The Queen’s bosom (which some of her friends seemed to think ought to be pronounced “buzzoom”) looked to me like a pair of strategically slung grapefruit, but of course my imagination was probably working overtime and I knew I should resolutely put aside such unworthy thoughts. Someone considerately handed me a piece of paper containing a typed and smudged script, with the assistance of which, and with a little ad-libbing, the following colloquy ensued:
MYSELF: Unless I miss my guess, sir, you and I have had the good fortune of meeting before.
KING NEPTUNE: Many pass through my kingdom, Captain, and I never forget a face, but I’ll be surfaced if I recall yours. Davy Jones, check the records on Captain Beach here to see if he really is one of my own.
DAVY JONES: Your Majesty, the records show that if you’re a Shellback then so is he. [That Davy Jones is a good man, but this was a low blow on the part of Neptune.]
NEPTUNE: Ah, quite so, Davy. And now that you mention it, I recall he crossed the equator as if it were yesterday. My, he’s gained a little weight here and there, hasn’t he!
MYSELF: Speak for yourself, your subnormal Majesty! And now, may I have your Majesty’s permission to introduce you and your royal retinue to those of my crew who have never had the displeasure?
NEPTUNE: Permission granted, Captain. And by the way, sir, would you mind standing just a bit straighter, and use a little more reverence in my grandiloquent presence?
MYSELF: A thousand pardons, your Horrific Magnificence. Men, once again it becomes my great privilege to introduce the ruler of the Mangy Mane, I mean Raging Main, Neptunus rex and the members of his Royal Family, including Her Majesty, the Queen, the Royal Babe, the Royal Scribe, the Royal Concubine, the Royal Prosecutor, the Royal Sea Lawyer, the Royal Barbers, Dentist, Baker, High Sheriffs, and their mighty company.
NEPTUNE: Thank you, Captain. It’s a pleasure to be aboard your ship and see so many familiar faces again. And Captain, before I forget it, would you do what you can about those blasted propellers of yours? Kept the mermaids up all night last night.
MYSELF: I shall direct my engineer to attend to it at once, Your Majesty. I know it is hardly an excuse, but we are going pretty fast, and my engineer is a pollywog.
NEPTUNE: You can be sure that he’s in my book for extraordinary torture. Now, Captain, down to business, if you please. My Royal Prosecutor reports that great crimes and incredible wicked-nesses have been committed by the vast majority of your crew. You know very well that we cannot tolerate such tomfoolery in this domain. Besides, my Prosecutor hasn’t had a case in days and he’s getting a little rusty. As you know, he’s never lost a case.
MYSELF: Your Majesty, I’ve done my best with the trusty Shellbacks in my command, but these pollywogs are the worst of the lot, and once a pollywog, always a pollywog, until initiated into the mysteries of the deep.
NEPTUNE: Precisely why we are here, Captain. Now, as is customary, I call upon the assistance of yourself and your honorable Shellbacks in doing the duty of the great waters.
MYSELF: We are at your command, sir. But before we begin, I feel I must ask mercy for those of my crew who, unworthy characters though they be, have worked hard to make Triton a great ship and, through no fault of their own, come to your domain without credentials and in fear and trembling.
NEPTUNE: A standard request, Captain, and my answer is as always: “Nonsense!” In my domain, they can always be assured of a fair trial before being convicted. And now, sir, I assume command of this ship and direct that the first guilty pollywog show his unworthy carcass before my Court.
The little play here recounted did not go quite so smoothly as it might have, since no one had thought to provide extra copies of the script. King Neptune and I had to hand the solitary script back and forth so that each could read his lines.
Neptunus and his Queen then seated themselves at a long table. The clean-cut, well-combed, blindfolded accused had to kneel before them and present his plea as to the charges. He was legally assisted in his defense by the Royal Sea Lawyer, who unfortunately never won a case. Occasionally, during the trials, the Queen punctuated the learned discourse by drawing a water pistol from her ample bosom and squirting the accused in the face. This always discomfited the unhappy pollywog and caused him to assume a guilty look. The impartial dispensing of justice was thus made easier.
To the right of the Queen sat the hefty Royal Baby, whose real name was Harry Olsen. Babbling playfully between puffs on a large black cigar which he had bummed from his mother, the baby sat on a stool, with his large round belly completely bare except for a heavy coating of black, sticky grease. All pollywogs received a fair trial, were impartially convicted, and all received the maximum sentence. They were first required, in acknowledgment of their fealty, to kiss the Royal Baby’s greasy belly. Then, in penance for his many crimes, each one got a haircut at the hands of the Royal Barbers, before proceeding through the initiation line. For some reason, more than one seemed reluctant to kiss Olsen’s tummy and had to be assisted by a gentle shove from the Sheriff or sometimes from the Royal Defender and once or twice, it must be admitted, from their skipper.
The Royal Barbers looked an awful lot like Lieutenant Tom Thamm and Chief Engineman Alfred Abel, and the artistic jobs they did were beyond compare (since Thamm, the head Barber, was normally in charge of Triton’s auxiliary division, all pollywogs belonging to his own outfit came away with a large “A” cut in their heads). But aside from certain special cuts of this nature, ingenuity and esthetics were the order of the day, and many artfully sculptured pates ensued. Once in a while, to be sure, a bald pollywog came by, but this presented no particular problem. In such cases, the most effective way to improve a pollywog’s appearance was to add hair instead of removing what little there was. The Barbers found this easy to do, with plenty of extra hair lying about and black grease to paste it on with.
In the next compartment, the Royal Dentist squirted unmentionable substances into the shorn pollywog’s ears and awful-tasting concoctions into his mouth, accompanied all the while by an insane giggling as though the person administering the treatment were actually enjoying it instead of being engrossed in a most serious and important duty. The next stop was up a deck to the officer’s wardroom, where a lusty gang of Shellbacks with brand new shillelaghs speeded the pollywogs’ passage. Then, they painfully shambled aft to the Royal Bathroom, a canvas-enclosed space beneath a deck hatch, where a bucket of cold salt water cascaded down on each man in turn and ceremoniously removed the last vestiges of his erstwhile status as a pollywog.