The duties of the assistant-surgeon--the modern Roderick Random--on
board a line-of-battle ship are seldom very onerous in time of peace,
and often not worth mentioning. Suppose, for example, the reader is
that officer. At five bells--half-past six--in the morning, if you
happen to be a light sleeper, you will be sensible of some one gliding
silently into your cabin, rifling your pockets, and extracting your
watch, your money, and other your trinkets; but do not jump out of bed,
pray, with the intention of collaring him; it is no thief--only your
servant. Formerly this official used to be a marine, with whom on
joining your ship you bargained in the following manner.
The marine walked up to you and touched his front hair, saying at the
same time,--
"_I_ don't mind looking arter you, sir," or "I'll do for you, sir." On
which you would reply,--
"All right! what's your name?" and he would answer "Cheeks," or whatever
his name might be. (Cheeks, that is the real Cheeks, being a sort of
visionary soldier--a phantom marine--and very useful at times, answering
in fact to the Nobody of higher quarters, who is to blame for so many
things,--"Nobody is to blame," and "Cheeks is to blame," being
synonymous sentences.)
Now-a-days Government kindly allows each commissioned officer one half
of a servant, or one whole one between two officers, which, at times, is
found to be rather an awkward arrangement; as, for instance, you and,
say, the lieutenant of marines, have each the half of the same servant,
and you wish your half to go on shore with a message, and the lieutenant
requires his half to remain on board: the question then comes to be one
which only the wisdom of Solomon could solve, in the same way that
Alexander the Great loosed the Gordian knot.
Your servant, then, on entering your cabin in the morning, carefully and
quietly deposits the contents of your pockets on your table, and, taking
all your clothes and your boots in his arms, silently flits from view,
and shortly after re-enters, having in the interval neatly folded and
brushed them. You are just turning round to go to sleep again, when--
"Six bells, sir, please," remarks your man, laying his hand on your
elbow, and giving you a gentle shake to insure your resuscitation, and
which will generally have the effect of causing you to spring at once
from your cot, perhaps in your hurry nearly upsetting the cup of
delicious ship's cocoa which he has kindly saved to you from his own
breakfast--a no small sacrifice either, if you bear in mind that his own
allowance is by no means very large, and that his breakfast consists of
cocoa and biscuits alone--these last too often containing more weevils
than flour. As you hurry into your bath, your servant coolly informs
you--
"Plenty of time, sir. Doctor himself hain't turned out yet."
"Then," you inquire, "it isn't six bells?"
"Not a bit on it, sir," he replies; "wants the quarter."
The rogue has lied to get you up.
At seven o'clock exactly you make your way forward to the sick-bay, on
the lower deck at the ship's bows. Now, this making your way forward
isn't by any means such an easy task as one might imagine; for at that
hour the deck is swarming with the men at their toilet, stripped to the
waist, every man at his tub, lathering, splashing, scrubbing and
rubbing, talking, laughing, joking, singing, sweating, and swearing.
Finding your way obstructed, you venture to touch one mildly on the bare
back, as a hint to move aside and let you pass; the man immediately
damns your eyes, then begs pardon, and says he thought it was Bill "at
his lark again." Another who is bending down over his tub you touch
more firmly on the _os innominatum_, and ask him in a free and easy sort
of tone to "slue round there." He "slues round," very quickly too, but
unfortunately in the wrong direction, and ten to one capsizes you in a
tub of dirty soapsuds. Having picked yourself up, you pursue your
journey, and sing out as a general sort of warning--
For the benefit of those happy individuals who never saw, or had to eat,
weevils, I may here state that they are small beetles of the exact size
and shape of the common woodlouse, and that the taste is rather insipid,
with a slight flavour of boiled beans. Never have tasted the woodlouse,
but should think the flavour would be quite similar.
"Gangway there, lads," which causes at least a dozen of these worthies
to pass such ironical remarks to their companions as--
"Out of the doctor's way there, Tom."
"Let the gentleman pass, can't you, Jack?"
"Port your helm, Mat; the doctor wants you to."
"Round with your stern, Bill; the surgeon's _mate_ is a passing."
"Kick that donkey Jones out of the doctor's road,"--while at the same
time it is always the speaker himself who is in the way.
At last, however, you reach the sick-bay in safety, and retire within
the screen. Here, if a strict service man, you will find the surgeon
already seated; and presently the other assistant enters, and the work
is begun. There is a sick-bay man, or dispenser, and a sick-bay cook,
attached to the medical department. The surgeon generally does the
brain-work, and the assistants the finger-work; and, to their shame be
it spoken, there are some surgeons too proud to consult their younger
brethren, whom they treat as assistant-drudges, not assistant-surgeons.
At eight o'clock--before or after,--the work is over, and you are off to
breakfast.
At nine o'clock the drum beats, when every one, not otherwise engaged,
is required to muster on the quarter-deck, every officer as he comes up
lifting his cap, not to the captain, but to the Queen. After inspection
the parson reads prayers; you are then free to write, or read, or
anything else in reason you choose; and, if in harbour, you may go on
shore--boats leaving the ship at regular hours for the convenience of
the officers--always premising that one medical man be left on board, in
case of accident. In most foreign ports where a ship may be lying,
there is no want of both pleasure and excitement on shore. Take for
example the little town of Simon's, about twenty miles from Cape Town,
with a population of not less than four thousand of Englishmen, Dutch,
Malays, Caffres, and Hottentots. The bay is large, and almost
landlocked. The little white town is built along the foot of a lofty
mountain. Beautiful walks can be had in every direction, along the hard
sandy sea-beach, over the mountains and on to extensive table-lands, or
away up into dark rocky dingles and heath-clad glens. Nothing can
surpass the beauty of the scenery, or the gorgeous loveliness of the
wild heaths and geraniums everywhere abounding. There is a good hotel
and billiard-room; and you can shoot where, when, and what you please--
monkeys, pigeons, rock rabbits, wild ducks, or cobra-di-capellas. If
you long for more society, or want to see life, get a day or two days'
leave. Rise at five o'clock; the morning will be lovely and clear, with
the mist rising from its flowery bed on the mountain's brow, and the
sun, large and red, entering on a sky to which nor pen nor pencil could
do justice. The cart is waiting for you at the hotel, with an awning
spread above. Jump in: crack goes the long Caffre whip; away with a
plunge and a jerk go the three pairs of Caffre horses, and along the
sea-shore you dash, with the cool sea-breeze in your face, and the
water, green and clear, rippling up over the horses' feet; then, amid
such scenery, with such exhilarating weather, in such a life-giving
climate, if you don't feel a glow of pleasure that will send the blood
tingling through your veins, from the points of your ten toes to the
extreme end of your eyelashes, there must be something radically and
constitutionally wrong with you, and the sooner you go on board and dose
yourself with calomel and jalap the better.
Arrived at Cape Town, a few introductions will simply throw the whole
city at your command, and all it contains.
I do not intend this as a complete sketch of your trip, or I would have
mentioned some of the many beautiful spots and places of interest you
pass on the road--Rathfeldas for example, a hotel halfway, a house
buried in sweetness; and the country round about, with its dark waving
forests, its fruitful fields and wide-spreading vineyards, where the
grape seems to grow almost without cultivation; its comfortable
farm-houses; and above all its people, kind, generous, and hospitable as
the country is prolific.
So you see, dear reader, a navy surgeon's life hath its pleasures. Ah,
indeed, it hath! and sorry I am to add, its sufferings too; for a few
pages farther on the picture must change: if we get the lights we must
needs take the shadows also.