White-Jacket
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WHITE-JACKET
Imagine some midnight craft sailing down on her enemy thus; twenty-four pounders levelled, matches lighted, and each captain of his gun at his post!
But if verily going into action, then would the Neversink have made still further preparations; for however alike in some things, there is always a vast difference – if you sound them – between a reality and a sham. Not to speak of the pale sternness of the men at their guns at such a juncture, and the choked thoughts at their hearts, the ship itself would here and there present a far different appearance. Something like that of an extensive mansion preparing for a grand entertainment, when folding-doors are withdrawn, chambers converted into drawing-rooms, and every inch of available space thrown into one continuous whole. For previous to an action, every bulk-head in a man-of-war is knocked down; great guns are run out of the Commodore’s parlour windows; nothing separates the ward-room officers’ quarters from those of the men, but an en-sign used for a curtain. The sailors’ mess-chests are tumbled down into the hold; and the hospital cots – of which all men-of-war carry a large supply – are dragged forth from the sail-room, and piled near at hand to receive the wounded; amputation-tables are ranged in the cock-pit or in the tiers, whereon to carve the bodies of the maimed. The yards are slung in chains; fire-screens distributed here and there: hillocks of cannon-balls piled between the guns; shot-plugs suspended within easy reach from the beams; and solid masses of wads, big as Dutch cheeses, braced to the cheeks of the gun-carriages.
No small difference, also, would be visible in the wardrobe of both officers and men. The officers generally fight as dandies dance, namely, in silk stockings; inasmuch as, in case of being wounded in the leg, the silk-hose can be more easily drawn off by the Surgeon; cotton sticks, and works into the wound. An economical captain,
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while taking care to case his legs in silk, might yet see fit to save his best suit, and fight in his old clothes. For, besides that an old garment might much better be cut to pieces than a new one, it must be a mighty disagreeable thing to die in a stiff, tight-breasted coat, not yet worked easy under the arm-pits. At such times, a man should feel free, unencumbered, and perfectly at his ease in point of straps and suspenders. No ill-will concerning his tailor should intrude upon his thoughts of eternity. Seneca understood this, when he chose to die naked in a bath. And men-of-war’s men understand it, also; for most of them, in battle, strip to the waist-bands; wearing nothing but a pair of duck trowsers, and a handkerchief round their head.
A captain combining a heedful patriotism with economy would probably “bend” his old topsails before going into battle, instead of exposing his best canvas to be riddled to pieces; for it is generally the case that the enemy’s shot flies high. Unless allowance is made for it in pointing the tube, at long-gun distance, the slightest roll of the ship, at the time of firing, would send a shot, meant for the hull, high over the top-gallant yards.
But besides these differences between a sham-fight at general quarters and a real cannonading, the aspect of the ship, at the beating of the retreat, would, in the latter case, be very dissimilar to the neatness and uniformity in the former.
Then our bulwarks might look like the walls of the houses in West Broadway in New York, after being broken into and burned out by the Negro Mob. Our stout masts and yards might be lying about decks, like tree boughs after a tornado in a piece of woodland; our dangling ropes, cut and sundered in all directions, would be bleeding tar at every yard; and strew with jagged splinters from our wounded planks, the gun-deck might resemble a carpenter’s shop. Then, when all was over, and all hands would be piped to take down the hammocks from the exposed nettings (where they play the
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part of the cotton bales at New Orleans), we might find bits of broken shot, iron bolts and bullets in our blankets. And, while smeared with blood like butchers, the surgeon and his mates would be amputating arms and legs on the berth-deck, an underling of the carpenter’s gang would be new-legging and arming the broken chairs and tables in the Commodore’s cabin; while the rest of his squadwould be splicing and fi shing the shattered masts and yards. The scupperholes having discharged the last rivulet of blood, the decks would be washed down; and the galley-cooks would be going fore and aft, sprinkling them with hot vinegar, to take out the shambles’ smell from the planks; which, unless some such means are employed, often create a highly offensive effluvia for weeks after a fight.
Then, upon mustering the men, and calling the quarter-bills by the light of a battle-lantern, many a wounded seaman with his arm in a sling, would answer for some poor shipmate who could never more make answer for himself:
“Tom Brown?” “Killed, sir.” “Jack Jewel?” “Killed, sir.” “Joe Hardy?” “Killed, sir.”
And opposite all these poor fellows’ names, down would go on the quarter-bills the bloody marks of red ink – a murderer’s fluid, fitly used on these occasions.
CHAPTER XVII
AWAY! SECOND, THIRD, AND FOURTH CUTTERS, AWAY!
It was the morning succeeding one of these general quarters that we picked up a life-buoy, descried floating by.
It was a circular mass of cork, about eight inches thick and four feet in diameter, covered with tarred canvas. All round its circumference there trailed a number of knotted ropes’-ends, terminating in fanciful Turks’ heads. These were the life-lines, for the drowning to clutch. Inserted into the middle of the cork was an upright, carved pole, somewhat shorter than a pike-staff. The whole buoy was embossed with barnacles, and its sides festooned with sea-weeds. Dolphins were sporting and flashing around it, and one white bird was hovering over the top of the pole. Long ago, this thing must have been thrown over-board to save some poor wretch, who must have been drowned; while even the life-buoy itself had drifted away out of sight.
The forecastle-men fished it up from the bows, and the seamen thronged round it.
“Bad luck! bad luck!” cried the Captain of the Head; “we’ll number one less before long.”
The ship’s cooper strolled by; he, to whose department it belongs to see that the ship’s life-buoys are kept in good order.
In men-of-war, night and day, week in and week out, two lifebuoys are kept depending from the stern; and two men, with hatchets in their hands, pace up and down, ready at the first cry to cut
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the cord and drop the buoys overboard. Every two hours they are regularly relieved, like sentinels on guard. No similar precautions are adopted in the merchant or whaling service.
Thus deeply solicitous to preserve human life are the regulations of men-of-war; and seldom has there been a better illustration of this solicitude than at the battle of Trafalgar, when, after “several thousand” French seamen had been destroyed, according to Lord Collingwood, and, by the official returns, sixteen hundred and ninety Englishmen were killed or wounded, the Captains of the surviving ships ordered the life-buoy sentries from their death-dealing guns to their vigilant posts, as officers of the Humane Society.
“There, Bungs!” cried Scrimmage, a sheet-anchor-man, “there’s a good pattern for you; make us a brace of life-buoys like that; something that will save a man, and not fill and sink under him, as those leaky quarter-casks of yours will the first time there’s occasion to drop ‘ern. I came near pitching off the bowsprit the other day; and, when I scrambled inboard again, I went aft to get a squint at ‘em. Why, Bungs, they are all open between the staves. Shame on you! Suppose you yourself should fall over-board, and find yourself going down with buoys under you of your own making – what then?”
“I never go aloft, and don’t intend to fall overboard,” replied Bungs.
“Don’t believe it!” cried the sheet-anchor-man; “you lopers that live about the decks here are nearer the bottom of the sea than the light hand that looses the main-royal. Mind your eye, Bungs – mind your eye!”
“I will,” retorted Bungs; “and you mind yours!”
Next day, just at dawn, I was startled from my hammock by the cry of “All hands about ship and shorten sail!” Springing up the ladders, I found that an unknown man had fallen overboard from the
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chains; and darting a glance toward the poop, perceived, from their gestures, that the life-sentries there had cut away the buoys.
It was blowing a fresh breeze; the frigate was going fast through the water. But the one thousand arms of five hundred men soon tossed her about on the other tack, and checked her further headway.
“Do you see him?” shouted the officer of the watch through his trumpet, hailing the main-mast-head. “Man or buoy, do you see either?”
“See nothing, sir,” was the reply.
“Clear away the cutters!” was the next order. “Bugler! call away the second, third, and fourth cutters’ crews. Hands by the tackles!”
In less than three minutes the three boats were down; More hands were wanted in one of them, and, among others, I jumped in to make up the deficiency.
“Now, men, give way! and each man look out along his oar, and look sharp!” cried the officer of our boat. For a time, in perfect silence, we slid up and down the great seething swells of the sea, but saw nothing.
“There, it’s no use,” cried the officer; “he’s gone, whoever he is. Pull away, men – pull away! they’ll be recalling us soon.”
“Let him drown!” cried the strokesman; “he’s spoiled my watch below for me.”
“Who the devil is he?” cried another.
“He’s one who’ll never have a coffin!” replied a third.
“No, no! they’ll never sing out, ‘All hands bury the dead!’ for him, my hearties!” cried a fourth.
“Silence,” said the officer, “and look along your oars.” But the sixteen oarsmen still continued their talk; and, after pulling about for two or three hours, we spied the recall-signal at the frigate’s fore-
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t’-gallant-mast-head, and returned on board, having seen no sign even of the life-buoys.
The boats were hoisted up, the yards braced forward, and away we bowled – one man less.
“Muster all hands!” was now the order; when, upon calling the roll, the cooper was the only man missing.
“I told you so, men,” cried the Captain of the Head; “I said we would lose a man before long.”
“Bungs, is it?” cried Scrimmage, the sheet-anchor-man; “I told him his buoys wouldn’t save a drowning man; and now he has proved it!”
CHAPTER XVIII
A MAN-OF-WAR FULL
AS A NUT
It was necessary to supply the lost cooper’s place; accordingly, word was passed for all who belonged to that calling to muster at the main-mast, in order that one of them might be selected. Thirteen men obeyed the summons – a circumstance illustrative of the fact that many good handicrafts-men are lost to their trades and the world by serving in men-of-war. Indeed, from a frigate’s crew might he culled out men of all callings and vocations, from a backslidden parson to a broken-down comedian. The Navy is the asylum for the perverse, the home of the unfortunate. Here the sons of adversity meet the children of calamity, and here the children of calamity meet the offspring of sin. Bankrupt brokers, boot-blacks, blacklegs, and blacksmiths here assemble together; and cast-away tinkers, watch-makers, quill-drivers, cobblers, doctors, farmers, and lawyers compare past experiences and talk of old times. Wrecked on a desert shore, a man-of-war’s crew could quickly found an Alexandria by themselves, and fill it with all the things which go to make up a capital.
Frequently, at one and the same time, you see every trade in operation on the gun-deck – coopering, carpentering, tailoring, tinkering, blacksmithing, rope-making, preaching, gambling, and fortune-telling.
In truth, a man-of-war is a city afloat, with long avenues set out with guns instead of trees, and numerous shady lanes, courts, and
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by-ways. The quarter-deck is a grand square, park, or parade ground, with a great Pittsfield elm, in the shape of the main-mast, at one end, and fronted at the other by the palace of the Commodore’s cabin.
Or, rather, a man-of-war is a lofty, walled, and garrisoned town, like Quebec, where the thoroughfares and mostly ramparts, and peaceable citizens meet armed sentries at every corner.
Or it is like the lodging-houses in Paris, turned upside down; the first floor, or deck, being rented by a lord; the second, by a select club of gentlemen; the third, by crowds of artisans; and the fourth, by a whole rabble of common people.
For even thus is it in a frigate, where the commander has a whole cabin to himself and the spar-deck, the lieutenants their ward-room underneath, and the mass of sailors swing their hammocks under all.
And with its long rows of port-hole casements, each revealing the muzzle of a cannon, a man-of-war resembles a three-story house in a suspicions part of the town, with a basement of indefinite depth, and ugly-looking fellows gazing out at the windows.
CHAPTER XIX
THE JACKET ALOFT
Again must I call attention to my white jacket, which, about this time came near being the death of me.
I am of a meditative humour, and at sea used often to mount aloft at night, and seating myself on one of the upper yards, tuck my jacket about me and give loose to reflection. In some ships in which. I have done this, the sailors used to fancy that I must be studying astronomy – which, indeed, to some extent, was the case – and that my object in mounting aloft was to get a nearer view of the stars, supposing me, of course, to be short-sighted. A very silly conceit of theirs, some may say, but not so silly after all; for surely the advantage of getting nearer an object by two hundred feet is not to be underrated. Then, to study the stars upon the wide, boundless sea, is divine as it was to the Chaldean Magi, who observed their revolutions from the plains.
And it is a very fine feeling, and one that fuses us into the universe of things, and mates us a part of the All, to think that, wherever we ocean-wanderers rove, we have still the same glorious old stars to keep us company; that they still shine onward and on, forever beautiful and bright, and luring us, by every ray, to die and be glorified with them.
Ay, ay! we sailors sail not in vain, We expatriate ourselves to nationalise with the universe; and in all our voyages round the world, we are still accompanied by those old circumnavigators, the stars, who are shipmates and fellow-sailors of ours – sailing in heaven’s
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