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- 12462
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- CHAPTER LXXVII.
THE HOSPITAL IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
After running with a fine steady breeze up to the Line, it fell calm,
and there we lay, three days enchanted on the sea. We were a most
puissant man-of-war, no doubt, with our five hundred men, Commodore and
Captain, backed by our long batteries of thirty-two and twenty-four
pounders; yet, for all that, there we lay rocking, helpless as an
infant in the cradle. Had it only been a gale instead of a calm, gladly
would we have charged upon it with our gallant bowsprit, as with a
stout lance in rest; but, as with man-kind, this serene, passive
foe—unresisting and irresistible—lived it out, unconquered to the last.
All these three days the heat was excessive; the sun drew the tar from
the seams of the ship; the awnings were spread fore and aft; the decks
were kept constantly sprinkled with water. It was during this period
that a sad event occurred, though not an unusual one on shipboard. But
in order to prepare for its narration, some account of a part of the
ship called the “_sick-bay_” must needs be presented.
The “_sick-bay_” is that part of a man-of-war where the invalid seamen
are placed; in many respects it answers to a public hospital ashore. As
with most frigates, the sick-bay of the Neversink was on the
berth-deck—the third deck from above. It was in the extreme forward
part of that deck, embracing the triangular area in the bows of the
ship. It was, therefore, a subterranean vault, into which scarce a ray
of heaven’s glad light ever penetrated, even at noon.
In a sea-going frigate that has all her armament and stores on board,
the floor of the berth-deck is partly below the surface of the water.
But in a smooth harbour, some circulation of air is maintained by
opening large auger-holes in the upper portion of the sides, called
“air-ports,” not much above the water level. Before going to sea,
however, these air-ports must be closed, caulked, and the seams
hermetically sealed with pitch. These places for ventilation being
shut, the sick-bay is entirely barred against the free, natural
admission of fresh air. In the Neversink a few lungsful were forced
down by artificial means. But as the ordinary _wind-sail_ was the only
method adopted, the quantity of fresh air sent down was regulated by
the force of the wind. In a calm there was none to be had, while in a
severe gale the wind-sail had to be hauled up, on account of the
violent draught flowing full upon the cots of the sick. An open-work
partition divided our sick-bay from the rest of the deck, where the
hammocks of the watch were slung; it, therefore, was exposed to all the
uproar that ensued upon the watches being relieved.
An official, called the surgeon’s steward, assisted by subordinates,
presided over the place. He was the same individual alluded to as
officiating at the amputation of the top-man. He was always to be found
at his post, by night and by day.
This surgeon’s steward deserves a description. He was a small, pale,
hollow-eyed young man, with that peculiar Lazarus-like expression so
often noticed in hospital attendants. Seldom or never did you see him
on deck, and when he _did_ emerge into the light of the sun, it was
with an abashed look, and an uneasy, winking eye. The sun was not made
for _him_. His nervous organization was confounded by the sight of the
robust old sea-dogs on the forecastle and the general tumult of the
spar-deck, and he mostly buried himself below in an atmosphere which
long habit had made congenial.
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