Publisher's Synopsis
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 foundmyself without a grego, or sailor's surtout; and as, toward the end of a three years' cruise, no peajackets could be had from the purser's steward: and being bound for Cape Horn, some sort of asubstitute was indispensable; I employed myself, for several days, in manufacturing an outlandishgarment of my own devising, to shelter me from the boisterous weather we were so soon toencounter.It was nothing more than a white duck frock, or rather shirt: which, laying on deck, I foldeddouble 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 tookplace, transcending any related by Ovid. For, presto! the shirt was a coat!-a strange-looking coat, tobe sure; of a Quakerish amplitude about the skirts; with an infirm, tumble-down collar; and a clumsyfullness about the wristbands; and white, yea, white as a shroud. And my shroud it afterward camevery 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? Avery tasty, and beautiful white linen garment it may have seemed; but then, people almost universallysport their linen next to their skin.Very true; and that thought very early occurred to me; for no idea had I of scudding round CapeHorn 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 bedarnedand bequilted the inside of my jacket, till it became, all over, stiff and padded, as King James'scotton-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 andthe 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 universalabsorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned against. Of a damp day, my heartlessshipmates even used to stand up against me, so powerful was the capillary attraction between thisluckless jacket of mine and all drops of moisture. I dripped like a turkey a roasting; and long afterthe rain storms were over, and the sun showed his face, I still stalked a Scotch mist; and when it wasfair weather with others, alas! it was foul weather with me.
