White Jacket; Or, The World on a Man-of-War — Background and Themes

T. II. HOMEWARD BOUND. III. A GLANCE AT THE PRINCIPAL DIVISIONS, INTO WHICH A MAN-OF-WAR’S CREW IS DIVIDED. IV. JACK CHASE. V. JACK CHASE ON A SPANISH QUARTER-DECK. VI. THE QUARTER-DECK OFFICERS, WARRANT OFFICERS, AND BERTH-DECK UNDERLINGS OF A MAN-OF-WAR; WHERE THEY LIVE IN THE SHIP; HOW THEY LIVE; THEIR SOCIAL STANDING ON SHIP-BOARD; AND WHAT SORT OF GENTLEMEN THEY ARE. VII. BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND SUPPER. VIII. SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK. IX. OF THE POCKETS THAT WERE IN THE JACKET. X. FROM POCKETS TO PICKPOCKETS. XI. THE PURSUIT OF POETRY UNDER DIFFICULTIES. XII. THE GOOD OR BAD TEMPER OF MEN-OF-WAR’S MEN, IN A GREAT DEGREE, ATTRIBUTABLE TO THEIR PARTICULAR STATIONS AND DUTIES ABOARD SHIP. XIII. A MAN-OF-WAR HERMIT IN A MOB. XIV. A DRAUGHT IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XV. A SALT-JUNK CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH A NOTICE TO QUIT. XVI. GENERAL TRAINING IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XVII. AWAY! SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH CUTTERS, AWAY! XVIII. A MAN-OF-WAR FULL AS A NUT. XIX. THE JACKET ALOFT. XX. HOW THEY SLEEP IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XXI. ONE REASON WHY MEN-OF-WAR’S MEN ARE, GENERALLY, SHORT-LIVED. XXII. WASH-DAY AND HOUSE-CLEANING IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XXIII. THEATRICALS IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XXIV. INTRODUCTORY TO CAPE HORN. XXV. THE DOG-DAYS OFF CAPE HORN. XXVI. THE PITCH OF THE CAPE. XXVII. SOME THOUGHTS GROWING OUT OF MAD JACK’S COUNTERMANDING HIS SUPERIOR’S ORDER. XXVIII. EDGING AWAY. XXIX. THE NIGHT-WATCHES. XXX. A PEEP THROUGH A PORT-HOLE AT THE SUBTERRANEAN PARTS OF A MAN-OF-WAR. XXXI. THE GUNNER UNDER HATCHES. XXXII. A DISH OF DUNDERFUNK. XXXIII. A FLOGGING. XXXIV. SOME OF THE EVIL EFFECTS OF FLOGGING. XXXV. FLOGGING NOT LAWFUL. XXXVI. FLOGGING NOT NECESSARY. XXXVII. SOME SUPERIOR OLD “LONDON DOCK” FROM THE WINE-COOLERS OF NEPTUNE. XXXVIII. THE CHAPLAIN AND CHAPEL IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XXXIX. THE FRIGATE IN HARBOUR.—THE BOATS.—GRAND STATE RECEPTION OF THE COMMODORE. XL. SOME OF THE CEREMONIES IN A MAN-OF-WAR UNNECESSARY AND INJURIOUS. XLI. A MAN-OF-WAR LIBRARY. XLII. KILLING TIME IN A MAN-OF-WAR IN HARBOUR. XLIII. SMUGGLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XLIV. A KNAVE IN OFFICE IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XLV. PUBLISHING POETRY IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XLVI. THE COMMODORE ON THE POOP, AND ONE OF “THE PEOPLE” UNDER THE HANDS OF THE SURGEON. XLVII. AN AUCTION IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XLVIII. PURSER, PURSER’S STEWARD, AND POSTMASTER IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XLIX. RUMOURS OF A WAR, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE POPULATION OF THE NEVERSINK. L. THE BAY OF ALL BEAUTIES. LI. ONE OF “THE PEOPLE” HAS AN AUDIENCE WITH THE COMMODORE AND THE CAPTAIN ON THE QUARTER-DECK. LII. SOMETHING CONCERNING MIDSHIPMEN. LIII. SEAFARING PERSONS PECULIARLY SUBJECT TO BEING UNDER THE WEATHER.—THE EFFECTS OF THIS UPON A MAN-OF-WAR CAPTAIN. LIV. “THE PEOPLE” ARE GIVEN “LIBERTY.” LV. MIDSHIPMEN ENTERING THE NAVY EARLY. LVI. A SHORE EMPEROR ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR. LVII. THE EMPEROR REVIEWS THE PEOPLE AT QUARTERS. LVIII. A QUARTER-DECK OFFICER BEFORE THE MAST. LIX. A MAN-OF-WAR BUTTON DIVIDES TWO BROTHERS. LX. A MAN-OF-WAR’S-MAN SHOT AT. LXI. THE SURGEON OF THE FLEET. LXII. A CONSULTATION OF MAN-OF-WAR SURGEONS. LXIII. THE OPERATION. LXIV. MAN-OF-WAR TROPHIES. LXV. A MAN-OF-WAR RACE. LXVI. FUN IN A MAN-OF-WAR. LXVII. WHITE-JACKET ARRAIGNED AT THE MAST. LXVIII. A MAN-OF-WAR FOUNTAIN, AND OTHER THINGS. LXIX. PRAYERS AT THE GUNS. LXX. MONTHLY MUSTER ROUND THE CAPSTAN. LXXI. THE GENEALOGY OF THE ARTICLES OF WAR. LXXII. “HEREIN ARE THE GOOD ORDINANCES OF THE SEA, WHICH WISE MEN, WHO VOYAGED ROUND THE WORLD, GAVE TO OUR ANCESTORS, AND WHICH CONSTITUTE THE BOOKS OF THE SCIENCE OF GOOD CUSTOMS.” LXXIII. NIGHT AND DAY GAMBLING IN A MAN-OF-WAR. LXXIV. THE MAIN-TOP AT NIGHT. LXXV. “SINK, BURN, AND DESTROY.” LXXVI. THE CHAINS. LXXVII. THE HOSPITAL IN A MAN-OF-WAR. LXXVIII. DISMAL TIMES IN THE MESS. LXXIX. HOW MAN-OF-WAR’S-MEN DIE AT SEA. LXXX. THE LAST STITCH. LXXXI. HOW THEY BURY A MAN-OF-WAR’S-MAN AT SEA. LXXXII. WHAT REMAINS OF A MAN-OF-WAR’S-MAN AFTER HIS BURIAL AT SEA. LXXXIII. A MAN-OF-WAR COLLEGE. LXXXIV. MAN-OF-WAR BARBERS. LXXXV. THE GREAT MASSACRE OF THE BEARDS. LXXXVI. THE REBELS BROUGHT TO THE MAST. LXXXVII. OLD USHANT AT THE GANGWAY. LXXXVIII. FLOGGING THROUGH THE FLEET. LXXXIX. THE SOCIAL STATE IN A MAN-OF-WAR. XC. THE MANNING OF NAVIES. XCI. SMOKING-CLUB IN A MAN-OF-WAR, WITH SCENES ON THE GUN-DECK DRAWING NEAR HOME. XCII. THE LAST OF THE JACKET. XCIII. CABLE AND ANCHOR ALL CLEAR.

CHAPTER I. THE JACKET.

It was not a _very_ white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience, as the sequel will show.

The way I came by it was this.

When our frigate lay in Callao, on the coast of Peru—her last harbour in the Pacific—I found myself without a _grego_, or sailor’s surtout; and as, toward the end of a three years’ cruise, no pea-jackets could be had from the purser’s steward: and being bound for Cape Horn, some sort of a substitute was indispensable; I employed myself, for several days, in manufacturing an outlandish garment of my own devising, to shelter me from the boisterous weather we were so soon to encounter.

It was nothing more than a white duck frock, or rather shirt: which, laying on deck, I folded double at the bosom, and by then making a continuation of the slit there, opened it lengthwise—much as you would cut a leaf in the last new novel. The gash being made, a metamorphosis took place, transcending any related by Ovid. For, presto! the shirt was a coat!—a strange-looking coat, to be sure; of a Quakerish amplitude about the skirts; with an infirm, tumble-down collar; and a clumsy fullness about the wristbands; and white, yea, white as a shroud. And my shroud it afterward came very near proving, as he who reads further will find.

But, bless me, my friend, what sort of a summer jacket is this, in which to weather Cape Horn? A very tasty, and beautiful white linen garment it may have seemed; but then, people almost universally sport their linen next to their skin.

Very true; and that thought very early occurred to me; for no idea had I of scudding round Cape Horn in my shirt; for _that_ would have been almost scudding under bare poles, indeed.

So, with many odds and ends of patches—old socks, old trowser-legs, and the like—I bedarned and bequilted the inside of my jacket, till it became, all over, stiff and padded, as King James’s cotton-stuffed and dagger-proof doublet; and no buckram or steel hauberk stood up more stoutly.

So far, very good; but pray, tell me, White-Jacket, how do you propose keeping out the rain and the wet in this quilted _grego_ of yours? You don’t call this wad of old patches a Mackintosh, do you?——you don’t pretend to say that worsted is water-proof?

No, my dear friend; and that was the deuce of it. Waterproof it was not, no more than a sponge. Indeed, with such recklessness had I bequilted my jacket, that in a rain-storm I became a universal absorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned against. Of a damp day, my heartless shipmates even used to stand up against me, so powerful was the capillary attraction between this luckless jacket of mine and all drops of moisture. I dripped like a turkey a roasting; and long after the rain storms were over, and the sun showed his face, I still stalked a Scotch mist; and when it was fair weather with others, alas! it was foul weather with me.

_Me?_ Ah me! Soaked and heavy, what a burden was that jacket to carry about, especially when I was sent up aloft; dragging myself up step by step, as if I were weighing the anchor. Small time then, to strip, and wring it out in a rain, when no hanging back or delay was permitted. No, no; up you go: fat or lean: Lambert or Edson: never mind how much avoirdupois you might weigh. And thus, in my own proper person, did many showers of rain reascend toward the skies, in accordance with the natural laws.

But here be it known, that I had been terribly disappointed in carrying out my original plan concerning this jacket. It had been my intention to make it thoroughly impervious, by giving it a coating of paint, But bitter fate ever overtakes us unfortunates. So much paint had been stolen by the sailors, in daubing their overhaul trowsers and tarpaulins, that by the time I—an honest man—had completed my quiltings, the paint-pots were banned, and put under strict lock and key.

Said old Brush, the captain of the _paint-room_—“Look ye, White-Jacket,” said he, “ye can’t have any paint.”

Such, then, was my jacket: a well-patched, padded, and porous one; and in a dark night, gleaming white as the White Lady of Avenel!

CHAPTER II. HOMEWARD BOUND.

“All hands up anchor! Man the capstan!”

“High die! my lads, we’re homeward bound!”

Homeward bound!—harmonious sound! Were you _ever_ homeward bound?—No?—Quick! take the wings of the morning, or the sails of a ship, and fly to the uttermost parts of the earth. There, tarry a year or two; and then let the gruffest of boatswains, his lungs all goose-skin, shout forth those magical words, and you’ll swear “the harp of Orpheus were not more enchanting.”

All was ready; boats hoisted in, stun’ sail gear rove, messenger passed, capstan-bars in their places, accommodation-ladder below; and in glorious spirits, we sat down to dinner. In the ward-room, the lieutenants were passing round their oldest port, and pledging their friends; in the steerage, the _middies_ were busy raising loans to liquidate the demands of their laundress, or else—in the navy phrase—preparing to pay their creditors _with a flying fore-topsail_. On the poop, the captain was looking to windward; and in his grand, inaccessible cabin, the high and mighty commodore sat silent and stately, as the statue of Jupiter in Dodona.

We were all arrayed in our best, and our bravest; like strips of blue sky, lay the pure blue collars of our frocks upon our shoulders; and our pumps were so springy and playful, that we danced up and down as we dined.

It was on the gun-deck that our dinners were spread; all along between the guns; and there, as we cross-legged sat, you would have thought a hundred farm-yards and meadows were nigh. Such a cackling of ducks, chickens, and ganders; such a lowing of oxen, and bleating of lambkins, penned up here and there along the deck, to provide sea repasts for the officers. More rural than naval were the sounds; continually reminding each mother’s son of the old paternal homestead in the green old clime; the old arching elms; the hill where we gambolled; and down by the barley banks of the stream where we bathed.

“All hands up anchor!”

When that order was given, how we sprang to the bars, and heaved round that capstan; every man a Goliath, every tendon a hawser!—round and round—round, round it spun like a sphere, keeping time with our feet to the time of the fifer, till the cable was straight up and down, and the ship with her nose in the water.

“Heave and pall! unship your bars, and make sail!”

It was done: barmen, nipper-men, tierers, veerers, idlers and all, scrambled up the ladder to the braces and halyards; while like monkeys in Palm-trees, the sail-loosers ran out on those broad boughs, our yards; and down fell the sails like white clouds from the ether—topsails, top-gallants, and royals; and away we ran with the halyards, till every sheet was distended.

“Once more to the bars!”

“Heave, my hearties, heave hard!”

With a jerk and a yerk, we broke ground; and up to our bows came several thousand pounds of old iron, in the shape of our ponderous anchor.

Where was White-Jacket then?

White-Jacket was where he belonged. It was White-Jacket that loosed that main-royal, so far up aloft there, it looks like a white albatross’ wing. It was White-Jacket that was taken for an albatross himself, as he flew out on the giddy yard-arm!

CHAPTER III. A GLANCE AT THE PRINCIPAL DIVISIONS, INTO WHICH A MAN-OF-WAR’S CREW IS DIVIDED.

Having just designated the place where White-Jacket belonged, it must needs be related how White-Jacket came to belong there.

Every one knows that in merchantmen the seamen are divided into watches—starboard and larboard—taking their turn at the ship’s duty by night. This plan is followed in all men-of-war. But in all men-of-war, besides this division, there are others, rendered indispensable from the great number of men, and the necessity of precision and discipline. Not only are particular bands assigned to the three _tops_, but in getting under weigh, or any other proceeding requiring all hands, particular men of these bands are assigned to each yard of the tops. Thus, when the order is given to loose the main-royal, White-Jacket flies to obey it; and no one but him.

And not only are particular bands stationed on the three decks of the ship at such times, but particular men of those bands are also assigned to particular duties. Also, in tacking ship, reefing top-sails, or “coming to,” every man of a frigate’s five-hundred-strong, knows his own special place, and is infallibly found there. He sees nothing else, attends to nothing else, and will stay there till grim death or an epaulette orders him away. Yet there are times when, through the negligence of the officers, some exceptions are found to this rule. A rather serious circumstance growing out of such a case will be related in some future chapter.

Were it not for these regulations a man-of-war’s crew would be nothing but a mob, more ungovernable stripping the canvas in a gale than Lord George Gordon’s tearing down the lofty house of Lord Mansfield.

But this is not all. Besides White-Jacket’s office as looser of the main-royal, when all hands were called to make sail; and besides his special offices, in tacking ship, coming to anchor, etc.; he permanently belonged to the Starboard Watch, one of the two primary, grand divisions of the ship’s company. And in this watch he was a maintop-man; that is, was stationed in the main-top, with a number of other seamen, always in readiness to execute any orders pertaining to the main-mast, from above the main-yard. For, including the main-yard, and below it to the deck, the main-mast belongs to another detachment.

Now the fore, main, and mizen-top-men of each watch—Starboard and Larboard—are at sea respectively subdivided into Quarter Watches; which regularly relieve each other in the tops to which they may belong; while, collectively, they relieve the whole Larboard Watch of top-men.

Besides these topmen, who are always made up of active sailors, there are Sheet-Anchor-men—old veterans all—whose place is on the forecastle; the fore-yard, anchors, and all the sails on the bowsprit being under their care.

They are an old weather-beaten set, culled from the most experienced seamen on board. These are the fellows that sing you “_The Bay of Biscay Oh!_” and “_Here a sheer hulk lies poor Torn Bowling!_” “_Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer!_” who, when ashore, at an eating-house, call for a bowl of tar and a biscuit. These are the fellows who spin interminable yarns about Decatur, Hull, and Bainbridge; and carry about their persons bits of “Old Ironsides,” as Catholics do the wood of the true cross. These are the fellows that some officers never pretend to damn, however much they may anathematize others. These are the fellows that it does your soul good to look at;—hearty old members of the Old Guard; grim sea grenadiers, who, in tempest time, have lost many a tarpaulin overboard. These are the fellows whose society some of the youngster midshipmen much affect; from whom they learn their best seamanship; and to whom they look up as veterans; if so be, that they have any reverence in their souls, which is not the case with all midshipmen.

Then, there is the _After-guard_, stationed on the Quarterdeck; who, under the Quarter-Masters and Quarter-Gunners, attend to the main-sail and spanker, and help haul the main-brace, and other ropes in the stern of the vessel.

The duties assigned to the After-Guard’s-Men being comparatively light and easy, and but little seamanship being expected from them, they are composed chiefly of landsmen; the least robust, least hardy, and least sailor-like of the crew; and being stationed on the Quarter-deck, they are generally selected with some eye to their personal appearance. Hence, they are mostly slender young fellows, of a genteel figure and gentlemanly address; not weighing much on a rope, but weighing considerably in the estimation of all foreign ladies who may chance to visit the ship. They lounge away the most part of their time, in reading novels and romances; talking over their lover affairs ashore; and comparing notes concerning the melancholy and sentimental career which drove them—poor young gentlemen—into the hard-hearted navy. Indeed, many of them show tokens of having moved in very respectable society. They always maintain a tidy exterior; and express an abhorrence of the tar-bucket, into which they are seldom or never called to dip their digits. And pluming themselves upon the cut of their trowsers, and the glossiness of their tarpaulins, from the rest of the ship’s company, they acquire the name of “_sea-dandies_” and “_silk-sock-gentry_.”

Then, there are the _Waisters_, always stationed on the gun-deck. These haul aft the fore and main-sheets, besides being subject to ignoble duties; attending to the drainage and sewerage below hatches. These fellows are all Jimmy Duxes—sorry chaps, who never put foot in ratlin, or venture above the bulwarks. Inveterate “_sons of farmers_,” with the hayseed yet in their hair, they are consigned to the congenial superintendence of the chicken-coops, pig-pens, and potato-lockers. These are generally placed amidships, on the gun-deck of a frigate, between the fore and main hatches; and comprise so extensive an area, that it much resembles the market place of a small town. The melodious sounds thence issuing, continually draw tears from the eyes of the Waisters; reminding them of their old paternal pig-pens and potato-patches. They are the tag-rag and bob-tail of the crew; and he who is good for nothing else is good enough for a _Waister_.

Three decks down—spar-deck, gun-deck, and berth-deck—and we come to a parcel of Troglodytes or “_holders_,” who burrow, like rabbits in warrens, among the water-tanks, casks, and cables. Like Cornwall miners, wash off the soot from their skins, and they are all pale as ghosts. Unless upon rare occasions, they seldom come on deck to sun themselves. They may circumnavigate the world fifty times, and they see about as much of it as Jonah did in the whale’s belly. They are a lazy, lumpish, torpid set; and when going ashore after a long cruise, come out into the day like terrapins from their caves, or bears in the spring, from tree-trunks. No one ever knows the names of these fellows; after a three years’ voyage, they still remain strangers to you. In time of tempests, when all hands are called to save ship, they issue forth into the gale, like the mysterious old men of Paris, during the massacre of the Three Days of September: every one marvels who they are, and whence they come; they disappear as mysteriously; and are seen no more, until another general commotion.

Such are the principal divisions into which a man-of-war’s crew is divided; but the inferior allotments of duties are endless, and would require a German commentator to chronicle.

We say nothing here of Boatswain’s mates, Gunner’s mates, Carpenter’s mates, Sail-maker’s mates, Armorer’s mates, Master-at-Arms, Ship’s corporals, Cockswains, Quarter-masters, Quarter-gunners, Captains of the Forecastle, Captains of the Fore-top, Captains of the Main-top, Captains of the Mizen-top, Captains of the After-Guard, Captains of the Main-Hold, Captains of the Fore-Hold, Captains of the Head, Coopers, Painters, Tinkers, Commodore’s Steward, Captain’s Steward, Ward-Room Steward, Steerage Steward, Commodore’s cook, Captain’s cook, Officers’ cook, Cooks of the range, Mess-cooks, hammock-boys, messenger boys, cot-boys, loblolly-boys and numberless others, whose functions are fixed and peculiar.

It is from this endless subdivision of duties in a man-of-war, that, upon first entering one, a sailor has need of a good memory, and the more of an arithmetician he is, the better.