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 harbourin 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 couldbe had from the purser's steward: and being bound for Cape Horn, somesort of a substitute was indispensable; I employed myself, for severaldays, in manufacturing an outlandish garment of my own devising, toshelter 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 acontinuation of the slit there, opened it lengthwise--much as you wouldcut a leaf in the last new novel. The gash being made, a metamorphosistook place, transcending any related by Ovid. For, presto! the shirtwas a coat!--a strange-looking coat, to be sure; of a Quakerishamplitude about the skirts; with an infirm, tumble-down collar; and aclumsy fullness about the wristbands; and white, yea, white as ashroud. And my shroud it afterward came very near proving, as he whoreads further will find.
But, bless me, my friend, what sort of a summer jacket is this, inwhich to weather Cape Horn? A very tasty, and beautiful white linengarment it may have seemed; but then, people almost universally sporttheir linen next to their skin.
Very true; and that thought very early occurred to me; for no idea hadI of scudding round Cape Horn in my shirt; for _that_ would have beenalmost 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 itbecame, all over, stiff and padded, as King James's cotton-stuffed anddagger-proof doublet; and no buckram or steel hauberk stood up morestoutly.
So far, very good; but pray, tell me, White-Jacket, how do you proposekeeping out the rain and the wet in this quilted _grego_ of yours? Youdon't call this wad of old patches a Mackintosh, do you?----you don'tpretend to say that worsted is water-proof?
No, my dear friend; and that was the deuce of it. Waterproof it wasnot, no more than a sponge. Indeed, with such recklessness had Ibequilted my jacket, that in a rain-storm I became a universalabsorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned against. Of adamp day, my heartless shipmates even used to stand up against me, sopowerful was the capillary attraction between this luckless jacket ofmine and all drops of moisture. I dripped like a turkey a roasting; andlong after the rain storms were over, and the sun showed his face, Istill 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 carryabout, especially when I was sent up aloft; dragging myself up step bystep, as if I were weighing the anchor. Small time then, to strip, andwring 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 muchavoirdupois you might weigh. And thus, in my own proper person, didmany showers of rain reascend toward the skies, in accordance with thenatural laws.
But here be it known, that I had been terribly disappointed in carryingout my original plan concerning this jacket. It had been my intentionto make it thoroughly impervious, by giving it a coating of paint, Butbitter fate ever overtakes us unfortunates. So much paint had beenstolen by the sailors, in daubing their overhaul trowsers andtarpaulins, that by the time I--an honest man--had completed myquiltings, the paint-pots were banned, and put under strict lock andkey.
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; andin a dark night, gleaming white as the White Lady of Avenel!