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
“The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
A man’s man for a’ 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.