Our second officer, it should be explained, was not only a sailor but a surgeon as well. He had run away to sea as a boy, and, after working his way up before the mast until he had acquired sufficient seamanship to obtain a mate’s certificate, he had, at his mother’s entreaty, she having a holy horror of salt water, abandoned his native element and studied for the medical profession at Trinity College, Dublin. Here, after four years’ practice in walking the hospitals, he graduated with full honours, much to his mother’s delight. The old lady, however, dying some little time after, he, feeling no longer bound by any tie at home, and having indeed sacrificed his own wishes for her sake, incontinently gave up his newly-fledged dignity of “Doctor” Garry O’Neil, returning to his old love and embracing once more a sea-faring life, which he has stuck to ever since. He had sailed with us in the Star of the North now for over a twelvemonth, in the first instance as third officer and for the last two voyages as second mate, the fact of his being a qualified surgeon standing him in good stead and making him even a more important personage on board than his position warranted, cargo steamers not being in the habit of carrying a medical man like passenger ships, and sailorly qualities and surgical skill interchangeable characteristics!
Hitherto we had been fortunate enough to have no necessity for availing ourselves of his professional services, but now they came in handy enough in good sooth.
“Mr O’Neil?” sang out the men on the lower deck, passing on his name in obedience to the skipper’s orders from hand to hand, till the hail reached the after hatchway, down which Spokeshave roared with all the power of his lungs, being anxious on his own account to be heard and so released from his watch so that he could go below. “Mr O’Neil?” he again yelled out.
Spokeshave must have shouted down the Irishman’s throat, for the next instant he poked his head up the hatchway.
“Here I am, bedad!” he exclaimed, shoving past Master “Conky,” to whom he had a strong dislike, though “Garry,” as we all called him, was friendly with every one with whom he was brought in contact, and was, himself, a great favourite with all the hands on board. Now, as he made his way towards the bridge, where some of the men were still singing out his name, he cried out, “Who wants me, sure? Now, don’t ye be all spaking at once; one at a time, me darlints, as we all came into the wurrld!”
“Why, where did you get to, man?” said the skipper, somewhat crossly. “We’ve been hunting all over the ship for you!”
“Sure, I wint down into the stowage to say if the yolklines and chains for the wheel were all clear, and to disconnect the shtame stayrin’ gear,” replied our friend Garry. “But you’ll find it all right now, with the helm amidships, and you can steer her wheriver you like; only you’ll want four hands at least to hauld the spokes steady if she breaks off, as I fear she will, in this say!”
“That’s all right,” cried the skipper, appeased at once, for he evidently thought that Garry had gone back to his cabin and left us in the lurch. “But I’ve bad news, and sorry to say, O’Neil, we want your services as a doctor now. There’s been a bad accident in the stoke-hold and some of the poor fellows are sadly hurt.”
“Indade, now!” ejaculated the other, all attention. “What’s the matter? Any one scalded by the shtame, sure?”
“No, not that,” said Mr Fosset, taking up the tale. “Mr Stokes has had his arm broken and another poor fellow been almost crushed to death. He’s now insensible, or was when I came on deck so you’d better take some stimulant as well as splints with you.”