White Jacket

White Jacket - or, The World on
a Man-of-War

The Project Gutenberg EBook of White Jacket, by Herman Melville
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Title: White Jacket or, The World on a Man-of-War
Author: Herman Melville
Release Date: January 13, 2004 [EBook #10712]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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JACKET ***

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WHITE-JACKET OR THE WORLD IN A MAN-OF-WAR
BY HERMAN MELVILLE AUTHOR OF "TYPEE," "OMOO," AND
"MOBY-DICK"
NEW YORK UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 5 AND 7 EAST
SIXTEENTH STREET * * * * * CHICAGO: 266 & 268 WABASH
AVE.
Copyright, 1892 BY ELIZABETH S. MELVILLE
"Conceive him now in a man-of-war; with his letters of mart, well
armed, victualed, and appointed, and see how he acquits himself."

--FULLER'S "Good Sea-Captain."
NOTE. In the year 1843 I shipped as "ordinary seaman" on board of a
United States frigate then lying in a harbor of the Pacific Ocean. After
remaining in this frigate for more than a year, I was discharged from
the service upon the vessel's arrival home. My man-of-war experiences
and observations have been incorporated in the present volume.
New York, March, 1850.

WHITE-JACKET.

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