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Updated: May 31, 2025
Indeed, upon all these occasions, such alacrity and cheerfulness was I obliged to display, that I was frequently held up as an illustrious example of activity, which the rest were called upon to emulate. "Pull pull! you lazy lubbers! Look at White-Jacket, there; pull like him!"
"Jacket," cried I, "you must change your complexion! you must hie to the dyers and be dyed, that I may live. I have but one poor life, White-Jacket, and that life I cannot spare. I cannot consent to die for you, but be dyed you must for me. You can dye many times without injury; but I cannot die without irreparable loss, and running the eternal risk."
"I think it was about " He frowned, seeming to concentrate his will to recollect. "I think it was about something in the Bible." White-jacket George was glad of an opportunity to leave the room and lean upon Mist' Jackson's shoulder in the pantry. "He don't know they WAS any suhmon!" he concluded, having narrated the dining-room dialogue.
I've that here, White-Jacket" touching his forehead "which, under happier skies perhaps in you solitary star there, peeping down from those clouds might have made a Homer of me. But Fate is Fate, White-Jacket; and we Homers who happen to be captains of tops must write our odes in our hearts, and publish them in our heads. But look! the Captain's on the poop."
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.
White-Jacket has them all; and they are fine reading of a boisterous March night, with the casement rattling in your ear, and the chimney-stacks blowing down upon the pavement, bubbling with rain-drops. But if you want the best idea of Cape Horn, get my friend Dana's unmatchable "Two Years Before the Mast." But you can read, and so you must have read it.
"But how we boom through the billows!" cried Jack, gazing over the top-rail; then, flinging forth his arm, recited, "'Aslope, and gliding on the leeward side, The bounding vessel cuts the roaring tide. Camoens! White-Jacket, Camoens! Did you ever read him? The Lusiad, I mean? It's the man-of-war epic of the world, my lad. Give me Gama for a Commodore, say I Noble Gama!
Hear you that, White-Jacket! I tell you there is no escape. Afloat or wrecked the Martial Law relaxes not its gripe.
"Out of sight, ahead, to be sure, sir," muttered Jack Chase, in the top. Precisely thus stood the question: whether we beat them, or whether they beat us, no mortal can tell to this hour, since we never saw them again; but for one, White-Jacket will lay his two hands on the bow chasers of the Neversink, and take his ship's oath that we Yankees carried the day.
The reason why this place and these hours are selected rather than others is this: in the neighbourhood of the galley alone, and only after meals, is the man-of-war's-man permitted to regale himself with a smoke. A sumptuary edict, truly, that deprived White-Jacket, for one, of a luxury to which he had long been attached.
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