Medical Life in the Navy

“Nay, Doctor, nay; its my feelins they’ll hurt. I’ve a little girl at home that loves me, and – bless you, sir, I won’t look her in the face again no-how.”

I felt his pulse. No lack of strength there, no nervousness; the artery had the firm beat of health, the tendons felt like rods of iron beneath the finger, and his biceps stood out hard and round as the mainstay of an old seventy-four.

I pitied the brave fellow, and – very wrong of me it was, but I could not help it – filled out and offered him a large glass of rum.

“Ah! sir,” he said, with a wistful eye on the ruby liquid, “don’t tempt me, sir. I can bear the bit o’ flaying athout that: I wouldn’t have my messmates smell Dutch courage on my breath, sir; thankee all the same, Doctor.” And he walked on deck and surrendered himself.

All hands had already assembled, the men and boys on one side, and the officers, in cocked hats and swords, on the other. A grating had been lashed against the bulwark, and another placed on deck beside it. The culprit’s shoulders and back were bared, and a strong belt fastened around the lower part of the loins for protection; he was then firmly tied by the hands to the upper, and by the feet to the lower grating; a little basin of cold water was placed at his feet; and all was now prepared. The sentence was read, and orders given to proceed with the punishment. The cat is a terrible instrument of torture; I would not use it on a bull unless in self-defence: the shaft is about a foot and a half long, and covered with green or red baize according to taste; the thongs are nine, about twenty-eight inches in length, of the thickness of a goose-quill, and with two knots tied on each. Men describe the first blow as like a shower of molten lead.

Combing out the thongs with his five fingers before each blow, firmly and determinedly was the first dozen delivered by the bo’swain’s mate, and as unflinchingly received.

Then, “One dozen, sir, please,” he reported, saluting the commander.

“Continue the punishment,” was the calm reply.

A new man and a new cat. Another dozen reported; again, the same reply. Three dozen. The flesh, like burning steel, had changed from red to purple, and blue, and white; and between the third and fourth dozen, the suffering wretch, pale enough now, and in all probability sick, begged a comrade to give him a mouthful of water. There was a tear in the eye of the hardy sailor who obeyed him, whispering as he did so —

“Keep up, Bill; it’ll soon be over now.”

“Five, six,” the corporal slowly counted – “seven, eight.” It is the last dozen, and how acute must be the torture! “Nine, ten.” The blood comes now fast enough, and – yes, gentle reader, I will spare your feelings. The man was cast loose at last and put on the sick-list; he had borne his punishment without a groan and without moving a muscle. A large pet monkey sat crunching nuts in the rigging, and grinning all the time; I have no doubt he enjoyed the spectacle immensely, for he was only an ape.

Tommie G – was a pretty, fair-skinned, blue-eyed boy, some sixteen summers old. He was one of a class only too common in the service; having become enamoured of the sea, he had run away from his home and joined the service; and, poor little man! he found out, when too late, that the stern realities of a sailor’s life did not at all accord with the golden notions he had formed of it. Being fond of stowing himself away in corners with a book, instead of keeping his watch, Tommie very often got into disgrace, spent much of his time at the mast-head, and had many unpleasant palmar rencounters with the corporal’s cane. One day, his watch being over, he had retired to a corner with his little “ditty-box.”

Nobody ever knew one-half of the beloved nicknacks and valued nothings he kept in that wee box: it was in fact his private cabin, his sanctum sanctorum, to which he could retreat when anything vexed him; a sort of portable home, in which he could forget the toils of his weary watch, the giddy mast-head, or even the corporal’s cane. He had extracted, and was dreamily gazing on, the portrait of a very young lady, when the corporal came up and rudely seized it, and made a very rough and inelegant remark concerning the fair virgin.

“That is my sister,” cried Tommie, with tears in his eyes.

“Your sister!” sneered the corporal; “she is a – ” and he added a word that cannot be named. There was the spirit of young England, however, in Tommie’s breast; and the word had scarcely crossed the corporal’s lips, when those lips, and his nose too, were dyed in the blood the boy’s fist had drawn. For that blow poor Tommie was condemned to receive four dozen lashes. And the execution of the sentence was carried out with all the pomp and show usual on such occasions. Arrayed in cooked-hats, epaulets, and swords, we all assembled to witness that helpless child in his agony. One would have thought that even the rough bo’swain’s mate would have hesitated to disfigure skin so white and tender, or that the frightened and imploring glance Tommie cast upward on the first descending lash would have unnerved his arm. Did it? No, reader; pity there doubtless was among us, but mercy – none. Oh! we were a brave band. And the poor boy writhed in his agony; his screams and cries were heartrending; and, God forgive us! we knew not till then he was an orphan, till we heard him beseech his mother in heaven to look down on her son, to pity and support him. Ah! well, perhaps she did, for scarcely had the third dozen commenced when Tommie’s cries were hushed, his head drooped on his shoulder like a little dead bird’s, and for a while his sufferings were at an end. I gladly took the opportunity to report further proceedings as dangerous, and he was carried away to his hammock.

I will not shock the nerves and feelings of the reader by any further relation of the horrors of flogging, merely adding, that I consider corporal punishment, as applied to men, cowardly, cruel, and debasing to human nature; and as applied to boys, brutal, and sometimes even fiendish. There is only one question I wish to ask of every true-hearted English lady who may read these lines – Be you sister, wife, or mother, could you in your heart have respected the commander who, with folded arms and grim smile, replied to poor Tommie’s frantic appeals for mercy, “Continue the punishment”?

The pay of medical officers is by no means high enough to entice young doctors, who can do anything like well on shore, to enter the service. Ten shillings a day, with an increase of half-a-crown after five years’ service on full pay, is not a great temptation certainly. To be sure the expenses of living are small, two shillings a day being all that is paid for messing; this of course not including the wine-bill, the size of which will depend on the “drouthiness” of the officer who contracts it. Government provides all mess-traps, except silver forks and spoons. Then there is uniform to keep up, and shore-going clothes to be paid for, and occasionally a shilling or two for boat-hire. However, with a moderate wine-bill, the assistant-surgeon may save about four shillings or more a day.

Promotion to the rank of surgeon, unless to some fortunate individuals, comes but slowly; it may, however, be reckoned on after from eight to ten years. A few gentlemen out of each “batch” who “pass” into the service, and who have distinguished themselves at the examination, are promoted sooner.

It seems to be the policy of the present Director-General to deal as fairly as possible with every assistant-surgeon, after a certain routine. On first joining he is sent for a short spell – too short, indeed – to a hospital. He is then appointed to a sea-going ship for a commission – say three years – on a foreign station. On coming home he is granted a few months’ leave on full pay, and is afterwards appointed to a harbour-ship for about six months. By the end of this time he is supposed to have fairly recruited from the fatigues of his commission abroad; he is accordingly sent out again to some other foreign station for three or four years. On again returning to his native land, he might be justified in hoping for a pet appointment, say to a hospital, the marines, a harbour-ship, or, failing these, to the Channel fleet. On being promoted he is sent off abroad again, and so on; and thus he spends his useful life, and serves his Queen and country, and earns his pay, and generally spends that likewise.

Pensions are granted to the widows of assistant-surgeons – from forty to seventy pounds a year, according to circumstances; and if he leaves no widow, a dependent mother, or even sister, may obtain the pension. But I fear I must give, to assistant-surgeons about to many, Punch’s advice, and say most emphatically, “Don’t;” unless, indeed, the dear creature has money, and is able to purchase a practice for her darling doctor.

With a little increase of pay ungrudgingly given, shorter commissions abroad, and less of the “bite and buffet” about favours granted, the navy would be a very good service for the medical officer.

However, as it is, to a man who has neither wife nor riches, it is, I dare say, as good a way of spending life as any other; and I do think that there are but few old surgeons who, on looking back to the life they have led in the navy, would not say of that service, – “With all thy faults I love thee still.”

The End

notes

1

The acting assistant-surgeons are those who have not as yet served the probationary year, or been confirmed. They are liable to be dismissed without a court-martial.

2

Officers, as well as men, are allowed one half-gill of rum daily, with this difference, – the former pay for theirs, while the latter do not.

3

Combatant (from combat, a battle), fighting officers, – as if the medical offices didn’t fight likewise. It would be better to take away the “combat,” and leave the “ant” – ant-officers, as they do the work of the ship.