They were examining all the new hands who had just joined, to see whether any of them were suffering from organic disease, or some other physical infirmity that might incapacitate them for service afloat, none but the able-bodied being accepted.
The curtained door of the sick bay being open and the cabin itself close to the main hatchway, which I had necessarily to pass in going below to the gunroom, I could not help overhearing something of what was proceeding in the medical sanctum, the more especially from the fact of Dr Nettleby, the presiding genius, having a short temper and a snappy manner of expressing himself peculiarly his own.
He was a good-hearted man at the bottom, however, and as tender as a woman in cases of real suffering; though woe to the malingerer or shammer of illness who incautiously ventured within reach of his caustic tongue!
A couple of the cadets who had come on board with me that morning were standing by the doorway of the sick bay, in company with one of the older midshipmen and some others; and, seeing these all grinning, as if enjoying themselves mightily at what was going on within, I joined the group—the lot of us sheltering ourselves from observation behind a tall canvas screen that was rigged across the deck amidships, shutting out the draught from the port-holes fore and aft, besides serving also as an ante-room to the doctor’s cabin and surgery. From this inner apartment would emerge ever and anon some culprit marine or shamefaced seaman, trying to walk steady, who, having perhaps been a trifle too jolly overnight and pleading indisposition as an excuse for his inability to attend to his duties, had been brought before the doctor for treatment—only, alas! to receive a dose of pungent satire, in lieu of the soothing medicine they craved to banish the effects of their drunken spree. Meanwhile, the new hands who were awaiting their medical examination were drawn up on the other side of the gangway, “marking time” until these regular, or rather irregular, patients were disposed of in turn, no doubt enjoying the fun like ourselves.
“Listen,” whispered Larkyns, the senior midshipman, nudging the fellow next him and winking to me as I came up. “That’s Macan, our corporal of marines, who’s getting it now. By Jove, the doctor is giving it him hot!”
He certainly was, judging from what reached my ears, at least.
“Stuff and nonsense, corporal!” I heard Dr Nettleby rasp out snappishly, his voice sounding from within the cabin just like a terrier dog barking, for I could hear him plainly enough. “You can’t gammon me, my man, though you might take in the first lieutenant! It’s ‘rumatism,’ not rheumatism you’re suffering from, you scoundrel! You’ve been drinking, that’s what’s the matter with you; and if I report you to the cap’en, as I ought, you’ll not only lose your stripes before sunset, but get four dozen as well, and serve you right, too!”
“Faith, yer honour, I haven’t tasted a dhrop of anythin’ barrin’ tay since yesterday noon at Eight Bells. May I die this minnit if I have, sor,” boldly asserted the accused in a rich Irish brogue that was as distinct as the doctor’s voice. “It’s the rheumaticks, sure! I’ve got ’em in the legs bad this toime and can’t hould mesilf up at all, nor walk more than a choild!”
“Macgilpin, just diagnose this case for me,” cried the doctor to his assistant. “What does he smell of?”
“Whuskey,” replied the assistant-surgeon, a rawboned expert from Edinburgh, who had only recently donned Her Majesty’s uniform and brought his north-country accent with him when he came southwards. “There’s nae doot aboot that. He smells o’ whuskey, and bad whuskey, tae!”