Part 4 (1/2)
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE MODERN RODERICK RANDOM. HALF A SERVANT. A PRETTY PICTURE.
The duties of the a.s.sistant-surgeon--the modern Roderick Random--on board a line-of-battle s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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 n.o.body of higher quarters, who is to blame for so many things,--”n.o.body 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p'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, splas.h.i.+ng, 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 pa.s.s; the man immediately d.a.m.ns 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 pa.s.s such ironical remarks to their companions as--
”Out of the doctor's way there, Tom.”
”Let the gentleman pa.s.s, can't you, Jack?”
”Port your helm, Mat; the doctor wants you to.”
”Round with your stern, Bill; the surgeon's _mate_ is a pa.s.sing.”
”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 a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistants 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 a.s.sistant-drudges, not a.s.sistant-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 sh.o.r.e--boats leaving the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p may be lying, there is no want of both pleasure and excitement on sh.o.r.e. 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 surpa.s.s 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-sh.o.r.e 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 const.i.tutionally 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.