Part 56

A boy patient was fencing with his questions. Budd put the poker in the fire, and when it was red-hot took it to the bedside, and with a severe look and voice declared that he would at once apply it if the lad did not answer fully to his questions. The threat produced the immediate result of eliciting the replies he required, so as to enable him to diagnose the case.

Dr. Budd had an aptitude to diagnose his patient at a glance. At one time a young schoolmaster of Willinghull, aged twenty-two, named Horswell, visited him. He had formerly been in Plymouth, and knew the fame of Dr. Budd. As he had broken down in health, he returned to Plymouth. Two doctors had assured him that he would soon recover, but he thought he would obtain an opinion from Dr. Budd. This physician examined him, and told him in his usual blunt manner that he was food for worms. His right lung was gone, and his left was affected. “I shan’t give you medicine. Eat and drink well, and keep out of the cold, and you will hold on for ten months--no longer.”

Horswell got better and returned to his duties at the Wesleyan School at Willinghull. He wrote frequently to his friends, and told them how much better he was, and jeered at Budd’s prediction.

About eight months after his return he announced to his friends in Plymouth that he was about to be married, and again alluded to Budd’s prediction, and promised to write announcing his wedding. That letter never came; but instead of it one with a black edge, informing his friends that Horswell had broken a blood-vessel and had died suddenly; and a _post-mortem_ examination proved that the right lung had long been gone, and a portion of the left.

A drunken man fell into Sutton Pool. It was late in the evening, and very dark at the time, but a tradesman in the locality happening to hear the splash, raised the alarm. With great presence of mind, he laid hold of a number of newspapers, set them on fire, and threw them into the water. By this light the drowning man was seen and recovered, and taken into a public-house. Every means was adopted to restore animation. Several medical men were soon in attendance, and they pronounced the man out of danger. Dr. Budd put in his appearance somewhat late, and, shaking his head, pronounced the man’s condition to be hopeless. The man slept well that night, and next day ate his breakfast and dinner as usual. The doctors all called to see him in the morning, and all, with the exception of Dr. Budd, pronounced him out of danger; but Budd stepped forward and asked the man if he was prepared to die, “for,” said he, “you will be dead before six o’clock this evening.” No one present, not even the man himself, believed the statement, as all was going on so favourably. But Budd was right, and before sundown the man was dead. Dr. Budd considered it impossible that he should recover from the blood-poisoning caused by taking into his stomach the poisonous deposits in Sutton Pool.

A miserly old fellow who was well off in worldly goods visited Dr. Budd at his “Cottage” in Westwell Street, and, thinking to save the guinea fee, dressed himself in rags. The Doctor recognized him, but listened patiently to the old man’s tale, and then asked him where he lived, to which the man replied by naming a very poor part of the village near his own residence and using a feigned name.

The Doctor said: “Do you know who lives in that big house in the place with the door that has a pediment over it?” To which the old man replied “Yes,” and mentioned his own name.

“Then,” said Dr. Budd, “call on that gentleman on your way home and tell him that the devil will have him in a fortnight.”

A few days beyond the fortnight the old gentleman actually died.

A Dartmoor small farmer came to him one day, suffering from congestion of the lungs. “You go home, and to bed at once,” said Dr. Budd; “and here’s a draught for you to take internally, and here are some leeches to apply externally.”

“Please, your honour, to write it down,” said John.

“Can you read?”

“Yes, I reckon, but my Mary can’t.”

So Dr. Budd wrote the instructions.

A week or fortnight later the patient called again. He was recovered.

“Well,” said the Doctor, “you took my prescriptions?”

“Aye, I reckon I did--and drashy things they were.”

“You put the leeches on?”

“I reckon I put ‘em in, sir. I read what you’d wrote and we understood you to say that they was to be fried, so my Mary, her put the pan on th’ vire, and a pat o’ butter and a shred o’ onion, and fried ’em, live as they were. But they was cruel nasty, like bits of leather. But Lord! for mussy’s sake, Doctor, don’t ax me to ate any more o’ them things. I’d rayther take a whole box o’ pills all to wance.”

A gentleman called on him one day just before Budd sat down to dinner, and brought with him his brother suffering from lock-jaw.

“I’m not going to be interfered with at my dinner for you or the King,” said Budd; then to his servant, “Here, George, lay two plates for these gentlemen, the one who can’t speak place opposite me at the bottom of the table, and for the other gentleman in the middle on my left.”

Whether they would or no, the two visitors were obliged to comply; they knew the imperious nature of the Doctor, and that unless he were humoured, he would kick them out of the house and refuse to attend to the patient.

A roast leg of mutton was placed before Dr. Budd; he proceeded to carve a great slice, then took it and threw the slab of meat in the face of the gentleman on his left, who staggered back and hastily seized his napkin to wipe his face and sweep the juice from his shirt-front and waistcoat. But before he had cleansed himself, slap came another slice of mutton in his face, and then a third. At this the man with the lock-jaw burst into a roar of laughter.

“There,” said Budd, “I have cured you: you will have to pay for a new waistcoat for your brother, it’s messed with grease.”

Budd was sent for to visit a poor man who was bad with quinsy, could not swallow, could not even speak. Said the Doctor to the patient’s wife, “I be coming to dine with you, I and my assistant John.”

“Lor’ a mussy, sir, I ain’t got nothing fit for gentlevolks to dine on here,” said the amazed woman.

“Here’s a guinea,” said Budd. “Go and get us a bottle of wine and make us apple dumplings, and plenty of these latter. Will be here at one o’clock.”

At the appointed hour, Budd and his assistant arrived. The table was spread with a clean cloth, and humble but neat ware was placed on it--all in the room where the patient was lying gasping for breath. Budd and John seated themselves one at each end of the table; and the dumplings were produced, round, hard, hot, and steaming. Budd took one up in his hands, turned it about, and, all at once, threw it at the head of his assistant, and caught him full crash between the eyes. John sprang up. “Two can play at that game!” shouted he, and catching up another dumpling threw it at the Doctor, who dodged, and the apple burst its crust and remained clinging to the wall. This was the beginning of a war of pelting with dumplings; and it so tickled the patient that he burst out laughing and burst the quinsy.

He was visiting a labouring man who was weak, and Budd saw that what he needed more than physic was good nourishing diet. Now that day he was having mock-turtle soup at his table, so he sent a bowl of it to his patient. The man looked into the bowl, saw the pieces of calf’s head floating in it, shook his head, thrust it away, and said, “I can’t take that, there’s too much of a surgeon’s trade in it to suit my stomach, sure ’nuff.”

Budd was visiting a farmer in the country. Every time he left, a prentice boy on the farm came with an anxious face to inquire how his master was.

The Doctor was touched with the intense interest the lad took in the condition of his master. One day as he left and the boy asked after the farmer, Budd shook his head and said, “I fear it’s going bad with him.”

Thereupon the boy burst out into a loud bohoo of tears and sobs.

“There, there,” said the Doctor, “don’t take on so, my lad. It can’t be helped.”

“Oh, you’d take on if you was in my place,” sobbed the youth, “for missus makes us eat all the stock, pigs and what not, as dies on the farm.”

He was visited in his consulting room by a patient who had lock-jaw.

“Come upstairs,” said he; “I can do nothing with you here.” He threw open the door and preceded the man up the flight of stairs. When he had got some way up he suddenly lurched against his patient, upset him, and sent him rolling heels over head to the bottom of the staircase.

The man yelled out from the bottom, “Confound you, Doctor, you’ve broken my arm!”

“Oh! is that all? I can set that. I have already loosened your jaw.”

He visited the late Mrs. Radford, an aged lady.

“What you want,” said he, “I’ll tell you. Get a boat and a pair of sculls and row round Plymouth Sound; do that or be d---- d.”

“Doctor,” replied she, “I can’t do one--and I won’t be the other, not even to please you.”

When he resided in George Street, Devonport, the young officers often came to him to try, as the saying is now, “to pull his leg”; but they rarely got the better of him. Once a couple called with grave faces to inform him that a comrade had swallowed a blue-bottle fly, and that it was buzzing about in his interior and made him feel very ill. Doctor John went to an outhouse and returned with a fat spider, and gave it to the young officers. “There,” said he; “tell your friend to swallow that, and it will soon settle the blue-bottle.”

On another occasion, some officers whom he had served invited him to dine at the mess with them, but, “No,” said he; “I never dine from home.”

“Very well,” said they, “dine with you we will; and, if you will allow us, we will order a dinner to be served in your own house.”

“No objection to that,” said Budd, and he protested afterwards that they had given him the best dinner and the best wine he had ever eaten and drunk in his life.

From Devonport he removed to Westwell Street, Plymouth, and this became the Mecca of the poor, whom he attended with as much consideration as the richest patients; and everyone took his or her turn; no favour was shown to one who could pay above another who could not.

Dr. John Budd would attend at the workhouse, to see the sick there. One day the master said to him, “There is Jose here again. He pretends that he is doubled up with lumbago, or something of that sort. The fellow, I believe, is a malingerer; he hates work, and he loves to be in the infirmary and have extra rations.”

“I’ll deal with him,” said Budd; and he was shown into the ward where Jose lay groaning and crying out.

“Where is it, man?” asked the Doctor.

“Oh, sir! cruel pains right across my body. I can’t walk; I can scarce breathe. Oh! oh! oh!” and he began to howl.

“I must examine your back,” said the Doctor. “You must be placed on the table and your spine bared.”

So the moaning rascal was placed, face downwards, on the board, and his hands and feet tied. He did not like that; he said it hurt him “cruel bad.” But it had to be done, and he was stripped to the waist.

“I’ll try Carne’s Balls on him,” said Dr. Budd. The fellow, looking out of the corners of his eyes, saw an apparatus introduced, a couple of iron balls like large bullets, with handles to them; then a spirit lamp was lighted, and the balls were heated in the flame.

“I think I feel easier, sir,” said Jose, who did not relish the preparations.

“But we’re going to make you quite well,” said the medical practitioner; and flinging his leg across Jose’s hams he sat astride on him, and signed to his assistant to hand him the heated balls.

With these he began to pound the patient in the small of the back. They were not red hot, but nearly so, and the purpose of the application was to raise round blisters.

Jose yelled. “Take it patiently,” said Budd; “it will do you good. Heat the balls again.”

Further dabbing with the implement; vociferous yells from the patient. “I am well! I’ve no more pain. Have mercy on me!”

At last he was disengaged and sent back to bed. Next day away went Jose blistered in the back; not another visit from the Doctor would he abide. Nor did he appear again in the Plymouth workhouse. The man was well known elsewhere, and the master had communicated with other heads of workhouses in Devon. A few weeks later Jose turned up at Newton Abbot, and applied for admission into the workhouse; he was suffering badly, very badly, with spasms in the heart. He was taken to the infirmary, at once recognized, and the surgeon sent for.

“Humph!” said the medical man. “This is a case for Carne’s Balls, I see. I’ve heard of him from Dr. Budd.”

“I’ll be shot if you try them on me!” roared Jose. “Let me go--I’m better--I’m well.”

He was dismissed. About a fortnight later he appeared at Exeter workhouse, with his leg contracted, tottering and scarce able to walk. He was put into the infirmary. Said the master, “This is a more serious case than is apparent. We must send for Dr. Budd.” There was then a Dr. Budd of Exeter.

“Budd! Budd!” shouted the man. “I’ll have no Budds about me. Let me go. My leg is well.”

One day, at North Tawton, a man doubled up with pain and reeling in his walk applied at several houses for relief, got some coppers, and came to the respectable house of evidently a well-to-do man, and rang the bell.

The servant at once opened and asked what he wanted. He stated his case and his need of help. “I’ll go and call Dr. Budd,” said the maid.

“Budd here! Budd there! Budd everywhere! I’ll be off!” And, completely cured, away went the sick man as hard as his legs could carry him.

Whether he became a steady working man, or whether he fled the county and the region of Budds to malinger elsewhere, was never known, but the Devon workhouses saw him no more.

Budd was called to see a lady one night after dinner. As soon as he reached the room, feeling his own condition, he staggered to the foot of the bed, clung to a bedpost, and exclaimed, “Drunk, by Gad!” and walked or reeled out of the room. Next morning a letter came from the lady, with a handsome cheque, and a petition that he would not mention the condition in which he had found her.

REAR-ADMIRAL SIR EDWARD CHICHESTER, BART.

The Chichesters are an ancient, and in North Devon an all-pervading family, that has overflowed into South Devon.

The original name was Cirencester, but in the fifteenth century Sir John de Cirencester married the heiress of Sir John Raleigh, Knight, of Raleigh near Barnstaple, whereby the estate passed to the Cirencester family, and the name slid imperceptibly into Chichester, just as Cirencester in Gloucestershire is now pronounced Cicester.

From Raleigh the Chichesters radiated on all sides, married heiresses, and settled into snug nests. Of the Hapsburgs it was said “Felix Austria nube,” and the same with a change of name might be said of the Chichesters.

There are Chichesters of Youlston, of Hall, Chichesters of Arlington, of Widworthy; there were Chichesters of Eggesford, who choked up the little church with their monuments; Chichesters of Calverleigh, and Chichesters of Grenofen by Tavistock. What is more, the Chichesters have made their mark in history. Sir Arthur Chichester, Lord Deputy of Ireland, was created Baron Chichester of Belfast in 1612; his brother, Sir Edward, had a son who was made first Earl of Donegal; and the present Marquess of Donegal is a Chichester.

Sir John Chichester, sergeant-major of the army in Ireland and Governor of Carrickfergus, fell into the hands of Sir James MacDonnell, and was beheaded on a stone in Antrim. Sir Thomas Chichester, his brother, was granted one thousand acres in Rathdonnell, in Ireland. So Chichesters crossed the stormy streak and settled down in the Emerald Isle.

It is really remarkable how many Devonshire families did the same in the reigns of Elizabeth and James I, and families of old county repute and of acres sent their younger branches thither, where they rooted themselves and became vigorous; whereas in a good many cases, the parent stock in Devon decayed and disappeared. It does seem that just as certain plants need transplantation, to maintain their vigour and to avoid degeneration, the same should be the law with families.

Sir Edward Chichester, ninth Baronet, the subject of this memoir, was the second son of Sir Arthur Chichester, whose eldest son, Arthur, died without issue in 1898.

Youlston, the family seat, is in the parish of Sherwill, about four miles from Barnstaple. Youlston itself is not beautiful externally. It, however, has fine ceilings in some of the rooms, and Grinling Gibbons’ carving in the library. It stands in a fine park of one hundred and fifty acres, on high ground between the two streams of the Bradiford and the Youlston waters. Youlston at the time of the Domesday inquest was held by Robert de Beaumont, but a lucky, keen-sighted Chichester snapped up the heiress of Beaumont and so settled himself into the property. The old park and the old house were near the little river that bears the name of Yeo, but these sites have been abandoned and house and park shifted further to the west.

Born in 1849, Sir Edward began his preparation for service in the Royal Navy by entering as a cadet when he was thirteen years old. In January, 1865, he joined the _Victoria_ in the Mediterranean, was appointed in 1868 to the _Constance_ on the west coast of America, and in 1869 passed as sub-lieutenant to the _Donegal_ for service in the _Ocean_ off China. He was gazetted commander, captain, and rear-admiral respectively in 1882, 1889, and 1902.

He was too candid a man to attempt to conceal his political faith in any way. A stauncher Conservative it would have been hard to find, and he followed the political life in North Devon with the keenest interest, wherever his work took him or however great its pressure. He took an active part in the political struggles of Barnstaple in the eighties. Severe contests were fought by the late Sir Robert Carden and Lord Lymington, now the Earl of Portsmouth. Excitement led enthusiasts to extremes. The head-quarters of the rival candidates adjoined. After a public meeting the candidates had a rough time on their way from the hall to their several hotels. Edward Chichester and his brother one evening escorted the aged Sir Robert Carden. Stones were thrown and the little party hustled. A Radical crowd blocked the main entrance to the Tory candidate’s head-quarters, and threatened to maltreat him. By great efforts, and after frequent assaults, the two Chichesters got Sir Robert safely indoors. A moment later and they emerged from the entrance without their coats and with their sleeves turned up. “Now,” shouted Edward Chichester, “some of you fellows assailed my brother and myself; come out and face us like men, if you be such!”

There were groans and cheers; but no man accepted the challenge. Edward Chichester and his brother did not look inviting, as they stood in the street with teeth and fists clenched, and “their tails were up.” After this they escorted Sir Robert Carden many times, but there were no further molestations.

For a considerable number of years Captain Chichester was on the unemployed list, eating out his heart in his bungalow at Instow. But to every man at least once in life comes a chance, and the unlucky and unsuccessful man is he who, seeing it, does not recognize and grasp the chance.

It so fell out that the gunboat _Banterer_ was caught in a storm, and was supposed to have foundered in the Bristol Channel. No tidings had been heard of her, and the Admiralty and the Duke of Edinburgh, then in command at Devonport, were greatly alarmed. However, she managed to run into Bideford estuary, but was there in a deplorable condition, and threatened to become a total wreck by running on some of the sandbanks that obstruct the channel. Captain Chichester, who was on the beach with telescope to his eye, saw the peril, called together at once a scratch crew, manned a boat, and at great personal risk, for the wind was on shore and huge rollers were coming in, made his way to the _Banterer_, and himself piloted her into anchorage at Appledore, and was able to wire to the Admiralty that she was safe. This got him the command of the troopship _Himalaya_.

During the operations against the Boers in the Transvaal he was naval transport officer, till the ignominious surrender by Mr. Gladstone in 1881. Whenever that was mentioned in Sir Edward’s hearing, his colour would mount in cheek and temple, and he would lower his eyes, feeling the dishonour done to his country as if it were a personal offence.

In 1881-2 he was lieutenant of the _Thalia_ during the war in Egypt. In 1882 he was promoted for his services and received the Egyptian medal and the Khedive’s bronze star, and was again employed in the transport service.

In 1884-5 he was engaged on the same work in Egypt.

In 1887 he was a member of a Committee of Inquiry on British Drift-net Fisheries, and the following year received the thanks of the Board of Trade for the judgment and tact he displayed as senior officer in command of the ships employed in protecting North Sea Fisheries; while in 1891 he served on a Board of Trade Committee on Fishing Boats’ Lights. In 1895 he was sent with the _Immortalité_ to the China station. On inspecting a ship on the China station he was accompanied by a major of the Royal Marines; the latter had forgotten his inspection papers, and asked leave to go back to his ship to fetch them. When he returned he apologized to the captain for the delay and for having forgotten the papers. “You’ve forgotten something else,” said Captain Chichester, looking up and down at the Marine officer, who wore the official spurs; “why, you’ve forgotten the ’oss.” He was there in 1898 when the Spanish-American war broke out.

When, after destroying the Spanish squadron at Cavite, Commodore Dewey blockaded Manila, the _Immortalité_ and three other men-of-war were dispatched thither to protect English interests. Ships of other nations also assembled there, and amongst these the Germans with such an assumption of menace, that Commodore Dewey fired a shot across the bows of the flagship of Admiral Dietrich, commanding the German squadron. It was well known that the Germans were desirous of putting a stop to the war, and that the Kaiser had no desire to see the Stars and Stripes wave over any possession in the Eastern Archipelago. He had but just before used the expression “_the Mailed Fist_” in reference to his squadron in the Far East. The Emperor’s royal brother was in command of one of the German ships. The American fleet was employed in Manila Bay in keeping the Spanish squadron inside. The Germans were approaching menacingly, and showed signs of irritation at the prospect of the Americans taking active and decisive measures with the enemy. It became necessary for the American admiral to restrict the movements of the foreign men-of-war in the circumstances. It seemed probable that Dietrich had received secret instructions to fire on the American fleet in the event of its bombarding Manila, but only on the condition that the English remained neutral. Be that as it may, the disposition of the German squadron drawing in upon that of the American looked suspicious. But before opening fire the German admiral went to the _Immortalité_ in a boat to sound the disposition of the English commander.

On meeting in the cabin, Dietrich inquired, “What attitude are you likely to take up in the event of the Americans bombarding Manila?” “That,” replied Chichester, “is a matter known only to Dewey and me.”