Mr McDonald is required to visit each estate once a week, for which he receives an annual stipend depending upon the number of blacks in his charge. Should he have to perform additional services, such as amputation, then he is free to make extra charges. Naturally, he serves several proprietors, so that many hundreds of blacks are under his stewardship. And, of course, he will make heavier charges for the servicing of whites, which demands closer attention. Unfortunately, the greater part of a tropical doctor's life is squandered on the bizarre imaginary diseases with which the negro claims to be suffering. Monday morning is a great time for the lazy or ill-disposed negroes to gather together at the sick-house, with heads tied up, groaning as though in terminal agony, eyes barely open, one leg dragging after the other. 'Massa, me bones do hurt me bad — me eyes turning in me head so.' Such sentiments are terminated by a long and mournful howl, as the black strives to effect his lazy deceitful purpose, which is to lie at ease in the sick-house. Most will happily irritate and keep alive old sores, inflict fresh ones, take nostrums of their own making, anything to excuse idleness. The most foolish cure to prescribe is the offer of castor oil, for most blacks so enjoy its texture and taste that they will happily fry fish and plantains in it. Mr McDonald sighed with exasperation as he recalled the woes of his profession, for it appears that far from being a sickly race, the negroes are in general muscular and robust, never fearful of the heat (although a chilly day renders them miserable and much desirous of a glass of massa's rum). Erect and well-formed, their quality is attributed by Mr McDonald directly to their lack of tight clothing, which in infancy and childhood can lead to deformities among white and civilized people.
The prospect of such easy wealth has attracted many quacks and under-qualified physicians to these islands, but as yet there is no thorough means of checking a man's credentials should he step from a ship and claim the title of Doctor. Mr McDonald, however, seems ably fitted for the office, and to be acquainted not only with the frontiers of his profession, but with the personal business of this populous island, both black and white. His medical conclusion was that a book of medical treatment, especially of such diseases as are incidental to tropical climes, should be kept on every West Indian property. His recipe for white survival was as follows: to avoid exposure to the sun, eat sparingly, avoid mixing wines and fruits, take no coconut water, malt liquor or cider, eat a fair proportion of animal food or fish, and take at least two to three glasses of Madeira every day. Fear is the greatest dispatcher, but after the first rainy season the Englishman is seasoned, although some beneficial exercise beyond the sun's rays is to be recommended. According to Mr McDonald the climate of the West Indies is still spoken of with dread by those who have never crossed the Atlantic, and by others who have lost relatives through imprudence. There is in this grave talk much exaggeration and a good deal of ignorance. Mr McDonald's conversations were warmly welcome as I lay prostrate and panting on my bed, unable to find sleep, yet not so enervated that I was unable to pay attention to his finely chosen words. Clearly this was a man of impartial mind who would neither herd with the unprincipled whites, nor rally the blacks for their self-evident inferiority.
Stella is yet another who seems extraordinarily well qualified for the role of dutiful and patient attendant to the infirm. Of her pedigree there appears to be nothing that one might term unusual. Her mother was born a slave in these parts, but of her father she claims to know little, believing him to have been sold off to another estate. Perhaps this is her black way of disguising some greater embarrassment? A fine breeder, her three surviving children have long since been scattered to distant plantations. When she speaks of her lost children, Stella adopts the familiar doting tones of a mother, wishing to see them grown into strong and responsible men, but sadly having little notion of their present whereabouts or their moral or physical well-being. The father of these children remains a mystery, but I suspect strongly that the three siblings do not share the same paternal blood. According to Mr McDonald negro relations would appear to have much in common with those practised by animals of the field, for they seem to find nothing unnatural in breeding with whomsoever they should stumble upon.
An indication of the looseness of negro morals might be derived from an examination of how easily they appropriate titles which in our world have a deep and proper meaning, but in theirs appear to be little more than mere sport. For instance, among negroes it is almost an affront to address those with whom one is familiar by their name without first affixing some prefix of relationship. So it was, even before the onset of my tremulous condition, that Stella asked me if I might address her as Aunt Stella. Well, you might imagine my surprise at this request! I had no hesitation in refusing. After all, my aunts Mabel and Victoria bore no relation, physical or otherwise, to this ebony matriarch, so how could I bind them together with the same word? For a few moments Stella fell into a melancholy, and men, understanding that I was unlikely to change my mind, she reclaimed her humour.
It was Mr McDonald who informed me that during my illness, when comprehension of the world about me was beyond my powers, dear Stella would always be the first to volunteer to sit with me, often right through the night and to the detriment of whatever duties she might have back at her hut. Hers was the voice that first greeted me as I returned to consciousness. She whispered in hushed joy, 'Me misses, me hope you live long, very long; me hope you live to bury all your pickaninnies.' Friendship is a plant of slow growth in every climate, but it would appear that Stella and I are flying in the face of mother nature. These days we often engage in close conversation for anything up to an hour's duration. One of her favourite subjects is the retelling of the joys of her life, lest I should be in any confusion as to her desire to remain a slave upon this estate. 'For yam [eatables], misses, me got rice, me got salt-fish and fresh meat — and misses, now and den, me get ripe plantain and banana. . Misses, Buckra very good, plenty for yam [to eat], plenty for wear; Buckra-man rise early, but me no like de morning; and nigger no like cold.' My veneration for this dusky maiden ever deepens, and by the day I grow increasingly respectful of her honesty with a frail visitor such as myself.