The skipper was on the bridge near the quarter-deck next morning, when the surgeon tripped up the ladder, saluted, and handed him the sick-list book.
"What!" shouted Flint. "Fifteen on the sick-list, sir, out of a small crew like this?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's the meaning of it, sir? What's the meaning of it? I've been in a line-of-battle ship with no more on the list than this."
"The cases, Captain Flint, are chiefly coast ulcer. I do my duty, sir, and it will go hard with anyone who denies it. And it is also my duty, sir, to inform you, that if you continue to get into red-faced rages, like that from which you are now suffering, you will before long have a fit of apoplexy."
"When I want your valuable advice, Dr. Grant, I will send for you."
"Thank you, Captain Flint. Delighted, I'm sure!"
The captain took a turn up and down the bridge.
Then returning to the charge:
"Is there any hygienic measure you could suggest for the removal of this ulcer plague?" he roared.
"Oh, yes, the place where the sick lie is as hot and stuffy as the stoke-hole. I'd like screen-berths on deck."
"Well, well, have my quarter-deck by all means!"
The commander was talking sarcastically now, of course.
But the surgeon's chance had come.
"Thank you, sir," he cried, laughing in spite of himself. Then he wheeled, and was down below before Flint had time to utter another word.
Now, the little man dearly loved his quarter-deck. He was king there; a sea-king and monarch of all he surveyed. Well, he was in the habit of taking a sleep-siesta every afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over. And this was the surgeon's time. He got the carpenter and his mate to remove their shoes, and put up the screen-berths and hang the hammocks as silently as moles work. Then the worst cases were got up and put to bed.
It was really very nice for them, because they could look at the blue sparkling sea, get fresh air, and watch everything that went on around them. When the skipper came on deck, he was fain to catch hold of a stay to prevent himself from falling. So at least the quarter-master said. But he himself had given the order, and as the surgeon had obeyed it, nothing could now be done.
Two days after was the Sabbath, and before divisions the commander and first lieutenant, accompanied by Surgeon Grant, walked round the ship and down below to inspect. As usual, those of the sick who could stand were drawn up in single file. Now, the skipper ought to have asked the surgeon, not the men, about their complaints, only Flint was still intent on bringing the doctor low.
"What's the matter with you, my man? And what is the surgeon giving you?"
"It is my business to answer that question, sir," said the surgeon angrily.
"I'm not talking to you, doctor."
Grant said nothing. He simply lifted his cap, wheeled about and walked on deck.
His flag wasn't down yet.
The war went on.
Next morning a boy was, by the captain's orders, introduced to the gunner's daughter for some trifling offence. This means that without being undressed, a boy is tied breast-downwards to a gun, and in this position receives a rope's-ending.
The doctor was walking the quarter-deck laughing and chatting with a messmate, when the commander advanced.
"Surgeon Grant," he said, "attend to that boy's flogging."
Now, if a real flogging[1] or "flaying match" had to be played, and a man—guilty of some great crime—was stripped to the waist and tied to the rigging to receive four dozen with the cat, not only the doctor, in cocked hat and lashed to his sword, but all the officers and crew as well would have to be piped up to witness this fearful punishment. But it was no part of the surgeon's duty to attend a boy's birching. That indeed would have been infra dig. So, on this occasion the surgeon simply gave Flint a haughty stare, then continued his conversation.
[1] Flogging is now done away with in our Navy.
"Why, this is insubordination, sir! I've a good mind to put you under arrest."
Then, as the bo's'n's mate expressed it, "the doctor's dander riz". But he kept his temper.
"Captain Flint," he said, "you can put me under arrest if you please, but I shall not lower the dignity of a profession which is as honourable as yours by attending a boy's rope's-ending."
The commander stamped and paused.
"I'll—I'll—" he began.
"Now, now, now," cried the surgeon, "you'll have a fit! I warn you, sir. You're short-necked, sir, and excitable, and if—"
He got no further.
"Confound you, sir, I'll pay you out for this!"
Then he rushed below.
But there was nothing done about it. Flint simply nursed his wrath to keep it warm.
One day, some time after this, the ship grounded on a sand-bank. Luckily it was at low tide, so when the tide began to rise, all hands, even the officers, had orders from the commander to arm themselves each with a 56-lb. shot, and rush fore and aft, and aft and fore, in a body to help to swing the ship off.
But Grant stood quietly by the binnacle.
"Did you hear the order, sir?" roared the commander. "Get your shot and join the crew."
"Na, na, na," answered Grant, in his native Doric. "Man, I've gotten a laddie's back to see till, and a poultice to mak. Jist tak' a shot yoursel', man."
On this occasion the captain had to smile.
But the war culminated about a month after this, and on that occasion, it must be confessed, the doctor did lose his temper, and had the captain been able to get witnesses he could have tried the surgeon by court-martial, for Grant's conduct amounted almost to mutiny, albeit the provocation he received was very great.
You cannot insult a Scot more than by attempting to throw mud at his country.
Well, while anchored near a village the officers generally went on shore in mufti, and Grant was in the habit of wearing a Scotch Glengarry bonnet (called a cap by the English).
Now it occurred to the commander that he might give the surgeon a knock-down over this. So he called the assistant paymaster, and ordered him to write what is called "a memo.", which is really a tyrannical edict, which all the officers, however, must sign.
Flint dictated the memo., and when presented to him for inspection, it read as follows:—
MEMO.
It is my directions that the officers of this ship shall go on shore dressed as gentlemen.
This would have been insult enough to poor Grant, but the skipper added to it greatly, for between the words as and gentlemen he wrote the word English, making the memo, read as English gentlemen.
The doctor was writing in his cabin, between which and the commander's saloon there was only a single bulkhead. He was the last officer to be asked to sign the memo.
When he read it, then indeed his "dander riz".
His fury was fearful to behold, and the commander could hear all that was said.
Grant sprang to his feet.
"This from Flint!" he roared; "and he dares ask me to sign it! Is not a Scotch gentleman as good as an English gentleman any day? See here, Maxwell, I tear it in pieces, and fling them on the deck. Take it back to him thus if you choose, but he shall not insult my native land!"
At this moment the commander was heard shouting:
"Quartermaster!"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Send Dr. Grant to my cabin at once."
Grant required no two biddings. He rushed up the ward-room companion and thundered down the captain's stair, while officers, quartermaster, and all rushed forward, determined not to be witnesses to anything that might happen.
Perhaps never on board a man-o'-war before did such a scene take place in a commander's cabin.
Grant had picked up a handful of the torn-up memo., and quickly now drawing back Flint's curtain he stood like an angry bull in the doorway.
The skipper started to his feet. He had been sitting in his easy-chair.
"Sir—" he began.
But he got no further.
"You sent this memo. to me? There! I fling it at your feet. I ought to fling it into your white and frightened face. How dare you insult my country, sir? You little tippling whipper-snapper!"
"This is rank mutiny!" cried the skipper. "I'll call the first lieutenant and quartermaster."
"You may call till you are hoarse, and they will not come to witness against me. Even your boy has fled, and now I'll speak my mind."
Here the commander attempted to run the blockade and force his way out.
"Stand back, sir," cried Grant, "or worse will happen!"
"Now, sir, listen to me. I have stood your tyranny long enough and as calmly as I could, and now it is my turn, and I tell you plainly that whenever and wherever I find you on shore in plain clothes, I'll give you such a thrashing that you won't forget it the longest day you live. Good-morning."
This ended the scene.
Some captains would have shot Grant where he stood. But Flint was terror-stricken and silent.
He was on deck again half an hour afterwards, looking as if nothing had happened.
Next evening the steward came in to say, with Captain Flint's compliments, that he wished Dr. Grant to come and share a bottle of wine with him.
"Tell the captain, with my compliments, that I refuse."
That was the answer.
The steward returned in three minutes' time.
"The captain wants to see you, sir."
"Oh, certainly; that is an order."
And off he marched to obey it.
When he entered Flint stood up, smiling.
"I'm afraid, doctor," he said, "I've been too hard. Are you willing to let bygones be bygones?"
Who could have resisted an appeal like this? It was as nearly an apology as any captain could make to a junior officer. And he held out his hand as he spoke.
"Willing," cried Grant with Scotch enthusiasm, "ay, and delighted! You know, sir, I'm only a wild Highlander, so I lost my balance when—but there, never mind. 'Tis past and gone for ever and for aye."
Then there was a hearty handshake and both sat down.
"There is the wine," said the commander, "and there is the whisky."
"I'll have the whisky," said Grant, "though not much. But it is the wine of my country, sir."
The commander smiled, and Grant drew the cruet towards him, quoting as he did so and while he tapped the bottle, the words of Burns:
"When neebors anger at a plea,
And just as wud[2] as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee
To taste the barrel."
[2] Wud=angry.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Some time after this the commander fell ill, and so kind was Grant to him, and so constant in his attentions, that all animosity fled for ever, and Flint really got fond of Grant, whom he delighted when visiting on shore to call "my surgeon".
Well, whatever ill-feeling officers or men may exhibit toward each other if penned up in a small mess, when war comes it is all forgotten, and the British sailors and marines, when sent on shore to fight, stand shoulder to shoulder, and woe be to the foe who faces them.
One day, while lying off Loanda, startling intelligence came to the commander of the Rattler from a steam launch that had been despatched in all haste to hurry her up to the mouth of the Benin river. A party of European traders, many British as well as foreign, had been surrounded and massacred to a man. The steam launch belonged to H.M.S. Centiped, a cruiser far larger than the Rattler. The officer in charge could hardly stop to eat or drink, but food was handed over the side, and in ten minutes' time she was once more under weigh and steering rapidly north.
A glance at a map of Africa will show you that Loanda lies well to the south of the Bight of Benin, and show you, too, where the great river Niger or Quorra empties itself into the Gulf of Guinea.
All was now bustle and stir on board the Rattler. Steam was ordered to be got up at once. There used to be disputes between the engineer and captain, but these were all forgotten now.
Would you believe it, reader, that all hands, from the commander to the dark-skinned Kroomen from Sierra Leone, were as merry and happy as if they were going to a fancy ball instead of to battle and to carnage. Such is your British sailor.
Dinner was ordered half an hour sooner, so that the men should have plenty of time to get their arms and accoutrements into perfect fighting trim before the sun went down at four bells in the first dog-watch.
The captain felt in fine form; for whatever faults he had, he certainly was no coward.
He liked his middies well, too, when he had not those nasty little fits of bad temper on. To-day he walked up and down the quarter-deck holding our hero Creggan by the arm, and not only talking to him but encouraging the boy himself to talk.
Creggan was nothing loath. But from some words he let fall, Commander Flint found he had a romantic early history.
"You must come and dine with me to-night," he said, "and tell me all your story. You and Dr. Grant."
"Oh, thank you, sir.
"And now," added Creggan, "may I take the liberty of asking you just one question?"
"Certainly, Mr. M'Vayne, certainly."
"Well, sir, do you think we shall have a real battle with the savages?"
"Sure to, and perhaps half a dozen. The case seems very grave, you know."
"Well, I'll be glad to see some fighting."
"Bravo! And now you can go and tell the steward I want him."
Off went Creggan, and next minute up popped the steward.
"Sir?" he said.
"Splice the main brace," said the commander.
(This means, reader, an extra glass of rum to all hands.)
By this time the Rattler was ploughing her way through the bright blue sea, and heading for the north.
Exciting adventures were before them.