Medical Life in the Navy

Chapter Twelve.
Pros and Cons

Of the “gentlemen of England who live at home at ease,” very few can know how entirely dependent for happiness one is on his neighbours. Man is out-and-out, or out-and-in, a gregarious animal, else ‘Robinson Crusoe’ had never been written. Now, I am sure that it is only correct to state that the majority of combatant³ officers are, in simple language, jolly nice fellows, and as a class gentlemen, having, in fact, that fine sense of honour, that good-heartedness, which loves to do as it would be done by, which hurteth not the feelings of the humble, which turneth aside from the worm in its path, and delighteth not in plucking the wings from the helpless fly. To believe, however, that there are no exceptions to this rule would be to have faith in the speedy advent of the millennium, that happy period of lamb-and-lion-ism which we would all rather see than hear tell of; for human nature is by no means altered by bathing every morning in salt water, it is the same afloat as on shore. And there are many officers in the navy, who – “dressed in a little brief authority,” and wearing an additional stripe – love to lord it over their fellow worms. Nor is this fault altogether absent from the medical profession itself!

It is in small gunboats, commanded perhaps by a lieutenant, and carrying only an assistant-surgeon, where a young medical officer feels all the hardships and despotism of the service; for if the lieutenant in command happens to be at all frog-hearted, he has then a splendid opportunity of puffing himself up.

In a large ship with from twenty to thirty officers in the mess, if you do not happen to meet with a kindred spirit at one end of the table, you can shift your chair to the other. But in a gunboat on foreign service, with merely a clerk, a blatant middy, and a second-master who would fain be your senior, as your messmates, then, I say, God help you! unless you have the rare gift of doing anything for a quiet life. It is all nonsense to say, “Write a letter on service about any grievance;” you can’t write about ten out of a thousand of the petty annoyances which go to make your life miserable; and if you do, you will be but little better, if, indeed, your last state be not worse than your first.

I have in my mind’s eye even now a lieutenant who commanded a gunboat in which I served as medical officer in charge. This little man was what is called a sea-lawyer – my naval readers well know what I mean; he knew all the Admiralty Instructions, was an amateur engineer, only needed the title of M.D. to make him a doctor, could quibble and quirk, and in fact could prove by the Queen’s Regulations that your soul, to say nothing of your body, wasn’t your own; that you were a slave, and he lord – god of all he surveyed. Peace be with him! he has gone to his account; he will not require an advocate, he can speak for himself. Not many such hath the service, I am happy to say. He was continually changing his poor hard-worked sub-lieutenants, and driving his engineers to drink, previously to trying them by court-martial. At first he and I got on very well; apparently he “loved me like a vera brither;” but we did not continue long “on the same platform,” and, from the day we had the first difference of opinion, he was my foe, and a bitter one too. I assure you, reader, it gave me a poor idea of the service, for it was my first year. He was always on the outlook for faults, and his kindest words to me were “chaffing” me on my accent, or about my country. To be able to meet him on his own ground I studied the Instructions day and night, and tried to stick by them.

Malingering was common on board; one or two whom I caught I turned to duty: the men, knowing how matters stood between the commander and me, refused to work, and so I was had up and bullied on the quarter-deck for “neglect of duty” in not putting these fellows on the sick-list. After this I had to put every one that asked on the sick-list.

“Doctor,” he would say to me on reporting the number sick, “this is wondrous strange —thirteen on the list, out of only ninety men. Why, sir, I’ve been in line-of-battle ships, —line-of-battle ships, sir, – where they had not ten sick —ten sick, sir.” This of course implied an insult to me, but I was like a sheep before the shearers, dumb.

On Sunday mornings I went with him the round of inspection; the sick who were able to be out of hammock were drawn up for review: had he been half as particular with the men under his own charge or with the ship in general as he was with the few sick, there would have been but little disease to treat. Instead of questioning me concerning their treatment, he interrogated the sick themselves, quarrelling with the medicine given, and pooh-pooh-ing my diagnosis. Those in hammocks, who most needed gentleness and comfort, he bullied, blamed for being ill, and rendered generally uneasy. Remonstrance on my part was either taken no notice of, or instantly checked. If men were reported by me for being dirty, giving impudence, or disobeying orders, he became their advocate – an able one too – and I had to retire, sorry I had spoken. But I would not tell the tenth part of what I had to suffer, because such men as he are the exception, and because he is dead. A little black baboon of a boy who attended on this lieutenant-commanding had one day incurred his displeasure: “Bo’swain’s mate,” cried he, “take my boy forward, hoist him on an ordinary seaman’s back, and give him a rope’s-ending; and,” turning to me, “Doctor, you’ll go and attend my boy’s flogging.”

I dared not trust myself to reply. With a face like crimson I rushed below to my cabin, and – how could I help it? – made a baby of myself for once; all my pent-up feelings found vent in a long fit of crying.

True, I might in this case have written a letter to the service about my treatment; but, as it is not till after twelve months the assistant-surgeon is confirmed, the commander’s word would have been taken before mine, and I probably dismissed without a court-martial.

That probationary year I consider more than a grievance, it is a cruel injustice.

Cabins? There is a regulation – of late more strictly enforced by a circular – that every medical officer serving on board his own ship shall have a cabin, and the choice – by rank – of cabin, and he is a fool if he does not enforce it. But it sometimes happens that a sub-lieutenant (who has no cabin) is promoted to lieutenant on a foreign station; he will then rank above the assistant-surgeon, and perhaps, if there is no spare cabin, the poor doctor will have to give up his, and take to a sea-chest and hammock, throwing all his curiosities, however valuable, overboard. It would be the duty of the captain in such a case to build an additional cabin, and if he did not, or would not, a letter to the admiral would make him.

Does the combatant officer treat the medical officer with respect? Certainly, unless one or other of the two be a snob: in the one case the respect is not worth having, in the other it can’t be expected.

In the military branch you shall find many officers belonging to the best English families: these I need hardly say are for the most part gentlemen, and gentle men. However, it is allowed in most messes that and I assure the candidate for a commission, that, if he is himself a gentleman, he will find no want of admirers in the navy. But there are some young doctors who enter the service, knowing their profession to be sure, and how to hold a knife and fork – not a carving-fork though – but knowing little else; yet even these soon settle down, and, if they are not dismissed by court-martial for knocking some one down at cards, or on the quarter-deck, turn out good service-officers. Indeed, after all, I question if it be good to know too much of fine-gentility on entering the service, for, although the navy officers one meets have much that is agreeable, honest, and true, there is through it all a vein of what can only be designated as the coarse. The science of conversation, that beautiful science that says and lets say, that can listen as well as speak, is but little studied. Mostly all the talk is “shop,” or rather “ship.” There is a want of tone in the discourse, a lack of refinement. The delicious chit-chat on new books, authors, poetry, music, or the drama, interspersed with anecdote, incident, and adventure, and enlivened with the laughter-raising pun or happy bon-mot, is, alas! but too seldom heard: the rough joke, the tales of women, ships, and former ship-mates, and the old, old, stale “good things,” – these are more fashionable at our navy mess-board. Those who would object to such conversation are in the minority, and prefer to let things hang as they grew. Now, only one thing can ever alter this, and that is a good and perfect library in every ship, to enable officers, who spend most of their time out of society, to keep up with the times if possible. But I fear I am drifting imperceptibly into the subject of navy-reform, which I prefer leaving to older and wiser heads.

 
“The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
A man’s man for a’ that;”
 

Chapter Thirteen.
Odds and Ends

There is one grievance which the medical officers, in common with their combatant brethren, have to complain of – I refer to compulsory shaving; neither is this by any means so insignificant a matter as it may seem. It may appear a ridiculous statement, but it is nevertheless a true one, that this regulation has caused many a young surgeon to prefer the army to the navy. “Mere dandies,” the reader may say, “whom this grievance would affect;” but there is many a good man a dandy, and no one could surely respect a man who was careless of his personal appearance, or who would willingly, and without a sigh, disfigure his face by depriving it of what nature considers both ornate and useful – ornate, as the ladies and the looking-glass can prove; and useful, as the blistered chin and upper lip of the shaven sailor, in hot climates, points out. From the earliest ages the moustache has been worn, – even the Arabs, who shave the head, leave untouched the upper lip. What would the pictures of some of the great masters be without it? Didn’t the Roman youths dedicate the first few downy hairs of the coming moustache to the gods? Does not the moustache give a manly appearance to the smallest and most effeminate? Does it not even beget a certain amount of respect for the wearer? What sort of guys would the razor make of Count Bismark, Dickens, the Sultan of Turkey, or Anthony Trollope? Were the Emperor Napoleon deprived of his well-waxed moustache, it might lose him the throne of France. Were Garibaldi to call on his barber, he might thereafter call in vain for volunteers, and English ladies would send him no more splints nor sticking-plaster. Shave Tennyson, and you may put him in petticoats as soon as you please.

As to the moustache movement in the navy, it is a subject of talk – admitting of no discussion – in every mess in the service, and thousands are the advocates in favour of its adoption. Indeed, the arguments in favour of it are so numerous, that it is a difficult matter to choose the best, while the reasons against it are few, foolish, and despotic. At the time when the Lords of the Admiralty gave orders that the navy should keep its upper lip, and three fingers’ breadth of its royal chin, smooth and copper-kettlish, it was neither fashionable nor respectable to wear the moustache in good society. Those were the days of cabbage-leaf cheeks, powdered wigs, and long queues; but those times are past and gone from every corner of England’s possessions save the navy. Barberism has been hunted from polite circles, but has taken refuge under the trident of old Neptune; and, in these days of comparative peace, more blood in the Royal Navy is drawn by the razor than by the cutlass.

In our little gunboat on the coast of Africa, we, both officers and men, used, under the rose, to cultivate moustache and whiskers, until we fell in with the ship of the commodore of the station. Then, when the commander gave the order, “All hands to shave,” never was such a hurlyburly seen, such racing hither and thither (for not a moment was to be lost), such sharpening of scissors and furbishing up of rusty razors. On one occasion I remember sending our steward, who was lathering his face with a blacking-brush, and trying to scrape with a carving-knife, to borrow the commander’s razor; in the mean time the commander had despatched his soapy-faced servant to beg the loan of mine. Both stewards met with a clash, nearly running each other through the body with their shaving gear. I lent the commander a Syme’s bistoury, with which he managed to pluck most of the hairs out by the root, as if he meant to transplant them again, while I myself shaved with an amputating knife. The men forward stuck by the scissors; and when the commander, with bloody chin and watery eyes, asked why they did not shave, – “Why, sir,” replied the bo’swain’s mate, “the cockroaches have been and gone and eaten all our razors, they has, sir.”

Then, had you seen us reappear on deck after the terrible operation, with our white shaven lips and shivering chins, and a foolish grin on every face, you would, but for our uniform, have taken us for tailors on strike, so unlike were we to the brave-looking, manly dare-devils that trod the deck only an hour before.

And if army officers and men have been graciously permitted to wear the moustache since the Crimean war, why are not we? But perhaps the navy took no part in that gallant struggle. But if we must continue to do penance by shaving, why should it not be the crown of the head, or any other place, rather than the upper lip, which every one can see?

One item of duty there is, which occasionally devolves on the medical officer, and for the most part goes greatly against the feelings of the young surgeon; I refer to his compulsory attendance at floggings. It is only fair to state that the majority of captains and commanders use the cat as seldom as possible, and that, too, only sparingly. In some ships, however, flogging is nearly as frequent as prayers of a morning. Again, it is more common on foreign stations than at home, and boys of the first or second class, marines, and ordinary seamen, are for the most part the victims.

I do not believe I shall ever forget the first exhibition of this sort I attended on board my own ship; not that the spectacle was in any way more revolting than scores I have since witnessed, but because the sight was new to me.

I remember it wanted fully twenty minutes of seven in the morning, when my servant aroused me.

“Why so early to-day?” I inquired as I turned out.

“A flaying match, you know, sir,” said Jones.

My heart gave an anxious “thud” against my ribs, as if I myself were to form the “ram for the sacrifice.” I hurried through with my bath, and, dressing myself as if for a holiday, in cocked hat, sword, and undress coat, I went on deck. We were at anchor in Simon’s Bay. All the minutiae of the scene I remember as though it were but yesterday, morning was cool and clear, the hills clad in lilac and green, seabirds floating high in air, and the waters of the bay reflecting the line of the sky and the lofty mountain-sides, forming a picture almost dreamlike in its quietness and serenity. The men were standing about in groups, dressed in their whitest of pantaloons, bluest of smocks, and neatest of black silk neckerchiefs. By-and-bye the culprit was led aft by a file of marines, and I went below with him to make the preliminary examination, in order to report whether or not he might be fit for the punishment.

He was as good a specimen of the British marine as one could wish to look upon, hardy, bold, and wiry. His crime had been smuggling spirits on board.

“Needn’t examine me, Doctor,” said he; “I ain’t afeard of their four dozen; they can’t hurt me, sir, – leastways my back you know – my breast though; hum-m!” and he shook his head, rather sadly I thought, as he bent down his eyes.

“What,” said I, “have you anything the matter with your chest?”

“Nay, Doctor, nay; its my feelins they’ll hurt. I’ve a little girl at home that loves me, and – bless you, sir, I won’t look her in the face again no-how.”

I felt his pulse. No lack of strength there, no nervousness; the artery had the firm beat of health, the tendons felt like rods of iron beneath the finger, and his biceps stood out hard and round as the mainstay of an old seventy-four.

I pitied the brave fellow, and – very wrong of me it was, but I could not help it – filled out and offered him a large glass of rum.

“Ah! sir,” he said, with a wistful eye on the ruby liquid, “don’t tempt me, sir. I can bear the bit o’ flaying athout that: I wouldn’t have my messmates smell Dutch courage on my breath, sir; thankee all the same, Doctor.” And he walked on deck and surrendered himself.

All hands had already assembled, the men and boys on one side, and the officers, in cocked hats and swords, on the other. A grating had been lashed against the bulwark, and another placed on deck beside it. The culprit’s shoulders and back were bared, and a strong belt fastened around the lower part of the loins for protection; he was then firmly tied by the hands to the upper, and by the feet to the lower grating; a little basin of cold water was placed at his feet; and all was now prepared. The sentence was read, and orders given to proceed with the punishment. The cat is a terrible instrument of torture; I would not use it on a bull unless in self-defence: the shaft is about a foot and a half long, and covered with green or red baize according to taste; the thongs are nine, about twenty-eight inches in length, of the thickness of a goose-quill, and with two knots tied on each. Men describe the first blow as like a shower of molten lead.

Combing out the thongs with his five fingers before each blow, firmly and determinedly was the first dozen delivered by the bo’swain’s mate, and as unflinchingly received.

Then, “One dozen, sir, please,” he reported, saluting the commander.

“Continue the punishment,” was the calm reply.

A new man and a new cat. Another dozen reported; again, the same reply. Three dozen. The flesh, like burning steel, had changed from red to purple, and blue, and white; and between the third and fourth dozen, the suffering wretch, pale enough now, and in all probability sick, begged a comrade to give him a mouthful of water. There was a tear in the eye of the hardy sailor who obeyed him, whispering as he did so —

“Keep up, Bill; it’ll soon be over now.”

“Five, six,” the corporal slowly counted – “seven, eight.” It is the last dozen, and how acute must be the torture! “Nine, ten.” The blood comes now fast enough, and – yes, gentle reader, I will spare your feelings. The man was cast loose at last and put on the sick-list; he had borne his punishment without a groan and without moving a muscle. A large pet monkey sat crunching nuts in the rigging, and grinning all the time; I have no doubt he enjoyed the spectacle immensely, for he was only an ape.

Tommie G – was a pretty, fair-skinned, blue-eyed boy, some sixteen summers old. He was one of a class only too common in the service; having become enamoured of the sea, he had run away from his home and joined the service; and, poor little man! he found out, when too late, that the stern realities of a sailor’s life did not at all accord with the golden notions he had formed of it. Being fond of stowing himself away in corners with a book, instead of keeping his watch, Tommie very often got into disgrace, spent much of his time at the mast-head, and had many unpleasant palmar rencounters with the corporal’s cane. One day, his watch being over, he had retired to a corner with his little “ditty-box.”

Nobody ever knew one-half of the beloved nicknacks and valued nothings he kept in that wee box: it was in fact his private cabin, his sanctum sanctorum, to which he could retreat when anything vexed him; a sort of portable home, in which he could forget the toils of his weary watch, the giddy mast-head, or even the corporal’s cane. He had extracted, and was dreamily gazing on, the portrait of a very young lady, when the corporal came up and rudely seized it, and made a very rough and inelegant remark concerning the fair virgin.

“That is my sister,” cried Tommie, with tears in his eyes.

“Your sister!” sneered the corporal; “she is a – ” and he added a word that cannot be named. There was the spirit of young England, however, in Tommie’s breast; and the word had scarcely crossed the corporal’s lips, when those lips, and his nose too, were dyed in the blood the boy’s fist had drawn. For that blow poor Tommie was condemned to receive four dozen lashes. And the execution of the sentence was carried out with all the pomp and show usual on such occasions. Arrayed in cooked-hats, epaulets, and swords, we all assembled to witness that helpless child in his agony. One would have thought that even the rough bo’swain’s mate would have hesitated to disfigure skin so white and tender, or that the frightened and imploring glance Tommie cast upward on the first descending lash would have unnerved his arm. Did it? No, reader; pity there doubtless was among us, but mercy – none. Oh! we were a brave band. And the poor boy writhed in his agony; his screams and cries were heartrending; and, God forgive us! we knew not till then he was an orphan, till we heard him beseech his mother in heaven to look down on her son, to pity and support him. Ah! well, perhaps she did, for scarcely had the third dozen commenced when Tommie’s cries were hushed, his head drooped on his shoulder like a little dead bird’s, and for a while his sufferings were at an end. I gladly took the opportunity to report further proceedings as dangerous, and he was carried away to his hammock.

I will not shock the nerves and feelings of the reader by any further relation of the horrors of flogging, merely adding, that I consider corporal punishment, as applied to men, cowardly, cruel, and debasing to human nature; and as applied to boys, brutal, and sometimes even fiendish. There is only one question I wish to ask of every true-hearted English lady who may read these lines – Be you sister, wife, or mother, could you in your heart have respected the commander who, with folded arms and grim smile, replied to poor Tommie’s frantic appeals for mercy, “Continue the punishment”?

The pay of medical officers is by no means high enough to entice young doctors, who can do anything like well on shore, to enter the service. Ten shillings a day, with an increase of half-a-crown after five years’ service on full pay, is not a great temptation certainly. To be sure the expenses of living are small, two shillings a day being all that is paid for messing; this of course not including the wine-bill, the size of which will depend on the “drouthiness” of the officer who contracts it. Government provides all mess-traps, except silver forks and spoons. Then there is uniform to keep up, and shore-going clothes to be paid for, and occasionally a shilling or two for boat-hire. However, with a moderate wine-bill, the assistant-surgeon may save about four shillings or more a day.

Promotion to the rank of surgeon, unless to some fortunate individuals, comes but slowly; it may, however, be reckoned on after from eight to ten years. A few gentlemen out of each “batch” who “pass” into the service, and who have distinguished themselves at the examination, are promoted sooner.

It seems to be the policy of the present Director-General to deal as fairly as possible with every assistant-surgeon, after a certain routine. On first joining he is sent for a short spell – too short, indeed – to a hospital. He is then appointed to a sea-going ship for a commission – say three years – on a foreign station. On coming home he is granted a few months’ leave on full pay, and is afterwards appointed to a harbour-ship for about six months. By the end of this time he is supposed to have fairly recruited from the fatigues of his commission abroad; he is accordingly sent out again to some other foreign station for three or four years. On again returning to his native land, he might be justified in hoping for a pet appointment, say to a hospital, the marines, a harbour-ship, or, failing these, to the Channel fleet. On being promoted he is sent off abroad again, and so on; and thus he spends his useful life, and serves his Queen and country, and earns his pay, and generally spends that likewise.

Pensions are granted to the widows of assistant-surgeons – from forty to seventy pounds a year, according to circumstances; and if he leaves no widow, a dependent mother, or even sister, may obtain the pension. But I fear I must give, to assistant-surgeons about to many, Punch’s advice, and say most emphatically, “Don’t;” unless, indeed, the dear creature has money, and is able to purchase a practice for her darling doctor.

With a little increase of pay ungrudgingly given, shorter commissions abroad, and less of the “bite and buffet” about favours granted, the navy would be a very good service for the medical officer.

However, as it is, to a man who has neither wife nor riches, it is, I dare say, as good a way of spending life as any other; and I do think that there are but few old surgeons who, on looking back to the life they have led in the navy, would not say of that service, – “With all thy faults I love thee still.”

The End