The Modern Roderick Random. Half a Servant. A Pretty Picture.
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?”