“Oh, no, Admiral, not so bad as that. He is a medical admiral, not a fighting admiral. Rear Doctor—I mean Rear Admiral—Grayson was a naval surgeon, and he has been regularly promoted to the post of rear admiral. His job was looking after the President’s health, and all agree that he tendered good service.”
“Oh, a medical admiral, eh?” grumbled the old sea dog in a disappointed tone. “So that’s what he is. I can see him now, standing on the bridge of the good ship Calomel, stethoscope in hand, studying the symptoms of the approaching foe, writing the battle orders on prescription blanks and getting ready to fire a volley of quinine pills, three times a day before meals, at the hated enemy. I can see him taking the temperatures of the crew before going into action, and then, with a lancet in one hand and a scalpel in the other, preparing to repel boarders. I can see him charging the enemy (five dollars a visit, half price for office calls, consultations fifteen, operations, what you’ve got), I can hear the ringing words of command to candidates for vaccination: ‘Present arms.’ I can see him, with his trusty clinical thermometer and his rapid firing hypodermic, bravely—”
“You’ve got the wrong idea, entirely, Admiral Jones,” I hastened to interrupt. “It’s different from your day. None of our admirals do any hand-to-hand encounters. There are no more clashes at close quarters. Sometimes ships fight each other four or five miles apart.”
The grizzled veteran looked as if he scarcely understood what I was saying.
“No coming together with grappling irons, and fighting it out fair and square with pistols and cutlasses on the quarterdeck? A modern naval battle is just a long-distance artillery duel between Sunday School classes composed of total abstainers, as likely as not commanded by a specialist on whooping cough and measles? I guess it’s a good thing I shuffled off when I did. In my time a sea fight was more a matter of men than of machinery. I wouldn’t know how to go about it today. Everything is changed. I’m sure I’d forget to order a double round of hot lemonade for all the crew, instead of a stiff glass of grog, before going into an engagement. I must tell Farragut about it. I suppose they wouldn’t let him say anything stronger than ‘Darn the torpedoes,’ or ‘Oh, fudge,’ if he were down on the job today. And Commodore Perry: ‘We have met the enemy and made ’em all sign the pledge.’ That’s the sort of message he’d be expected to send nowadays. I suppose with all these new-fangled inventions you’ve been telling me about, wireless, and range-finders, and searchlights, and turbines, and seaplanes and torpedoes and all the rest of ’em, a fellow has to stay sober to work ’em. In my day we always considered that a man fought better when he was about three sheets in the wind. I don’t say our ways were perfect, but I’m sure I wouldn’t feel at home on one of your big floating machine shops. I’d forget myself sometimes and want to get close enough to the enemy to see him without a telescope—or a stethoscope.
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me now, my lad. I have a date with Lord Nelson for three o’clock, to join in the historic and comforting ceremony known as splicing the main brace. I’ll break the news to him about what you’ve just been telling me. He’ll need a bracer after he hears it.”
And as the old hero hobbled away I could hear him muttering to himself: “No whiskey, no brandy, no shandy-gaff, no Jamaikey rum; water, water everywhere, but not a drop o’ drink.”