- end_line
- 2389
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.270Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2319
- text
- our _salt horse_.
I sometimes thought that the junks of lean pork—which were boiled in
their own bristles, and looked gaunt and grim, like pickled chins of
half-famished, unwashed Cossacks—had something to do with creating the
bristling bitterness at times prevailing in our mess. The men tore off
the tough hide from their pork, as if they were Indians scalping
Christians.
Some cursed the cook for a rogue, who kept from us our butter and
cheese, in order to make away with it himself in an underhand manner;
selling it at a premium to other messes, and thus accumulating a
princely fortune at our expense. Others anthematised him for his
slovenliness, casting hypercritical glances into their pots and pans,
and scraping them with their knives. Then he would be railed at for his
miserable “duffs,” and other shortcoming preparations.
Marking all this from the beginning, I, White-Jacket, was sorely
troubled with the idea, that, in the course of time, my own turn would
come round to undergo the same objurgations. How to escape, I knew not.
However, when the dreaded period arrived, I received the keys of office
(the keys of the mess-chest) with a resigned temper, and offered up a
devout ejaculation for fortitude under the trial. I resolved, please
Heaven, to approve myself an unexceptionable caterer, and the most
impartial of stewards.
The first day there was “_duff_” to make—a business which devolved upon
the mess-cooks, though the boiling of it pertained to Old Coffee and
his deputies. I made up my mind to lay myself out on that _duff_; to
centre all my energies upon it; to put the very soul of art into it,
and achieve an unrivalled _duff_—a _duff_ that should put out of
conceit all other _duffs_, and for ever make my administration
memorable.
From the proper functionary the flour was obtained, and the raisins;
the beef-fat, or “_slush_,” from Old Coffee; and the requisite supply
of water from the scuttle-butt. I then went among the various cooks, to
compare their receipts for making “duffs:” and having well weighed them
all, and gathered from each a choice item to make an original receipt
of my own, with due deliberation and solemnity I proceeded to business.
Placing the component parts in a tin pan, I kneaded them together for
an hour, entirely reckless as to pulmonary considerations, touching the
ruinous expenditure of breath; and having decanted the semi-liquid
dough into a canvas-bag, secured the muzzle, tied on the tally, and
delivered it to Rose-water, who dropped the precious bag into the
coppers, along with a score or two of others.
Eight bells had struck. The boatswain and his mates had piped the hands
to dinner; my mess-cloth was set out, and my messmates were assembled,
knife in hand, all ready to precipitate themselves upon the devoted
_duff_: Waiting at the grand cookery till my turn came, I received the
bag of pudding, and gallanting it into the mess, proceeded to loosen
the string.
It was an anxious, I may say, a fearful moment. My hands trembled;
every eye was upon me; my reputation and credit were at stake. Slowly I
undressed the _duff_, dandling it upon my knee, much as a nurse does a
baby about bed-time. The excitement increased, as I curled down the bag
from the pudding; it became intense, when at last I plumped it into the
pan, held up to receive it by an eager hand. Bim! it fell like a man
shot down in a riot. Distraction! It was harder than a sinner’s heart;
yea, tough as the cock that crowed on the morn that Peter told a lie.
“Gentlemen of the mess, for heaven’s sake! permit me one word. I have
done my duty by that duff—I have——”
But they beat down my excuses with a storm of criminations. One present
proposed that the fatal pudding should be tied round my neck, like a
mill-stone, and myself pushed overboard. No use, no use; I had failed;
ever after, that duff lay heavy at my stomach and my heart.
- title
- Chunk 3