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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- 10863
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- CHAPTER LXVIII.
A MAN-OF-WAR FOUNTAIN, AND OTHER THINGS.
Let us forget the scourge and the gangway a while, and jot down in our
memories a few little things pertaining to our man-of-war world. I let
nothing slip, however small; and feel myself actuated by the same
motive which has prompted many worthy old chroniclers, to set down the
merest trifles concerning things that are destined to pass away
entirely from the earth, and which, if not preserved in the nick of
time, must infallibly perish from the memories of man. Who knows that
this humble narrative may not hereafter prove the history of an
obsolete barbarism? Who knows that, when men-of-war shall be no more,
“White-Jacket” may not be quoted to show to the people in the
Millennium what a man-of-war was? God hasten the time! Lo! ye years,
escort it hither, and bless our eyes ere we die.
There is no part of a frigate where you will see more going and coming
of strangers, and overhear more greetings and gossipings of
acquaintances, than in the immediate vicinity of the scuttle-butt, just
forward of the main-hatchway, on the gun-deck.
The scuttle-butt is a goodly, round, painted cask, standing on end, and
with its upper head removed, showing a narrow, circular shelf within,
where rest a number of tin cups for the accommodation of drinkers.
Central, within the scuttle-butt itself, stands an iron pump, which,
connecting with the immense water-tanks in the hold, furnishes an
unfailing supply of the much-admired Pale Ale, first brewed in the
brooks of the garden of Eden, and stamped with the _brand_ of our old
father Adam, who never knew what wine was. We are indebted to the old
vintner Noah for that. The scuttle-butt is the only fountain in the
ship; and here alone can you drink, unless at your meals. Night and day
an armed sentry paces before it, bayonet in hand, to see that no water
is taken away, except according to law. I wonder that they station no
sentries at the port-holes, to see that no air is breathed, except
according to Navy regulations.
As five hundred men come to drink at this scuttle-butt; as it is often
surrounded by officers’ servants drawing water for their masters to
wash; by the cooks of the range, who hither come to fill their
coffee-pots; and by the cooks of the ship’s messes to procure water for
their _duffs_; the scuttle-butt may be denominated the town-pump of the
ship. And would that my fine countryman, Hawthorne of Salem, had but
served on board a man-of-war in his time, that he might give us the
reading of a “_rill_” from the scuttle-butt.
As in all extensive establishments—abbeys, arsenals, colleges,
treasuries, metropolitan post-offices, and monasteries—there are many
snug little niches, wherein are ensconced certain superannuated old
pensioner officials; and, more especially, as in most ecclesiastical
establishments, a few choice prebendary stalls are to be found,
furnished with well-filled mangers and racks; so, in a man-of-war,
there are a variety of similar snuggeries for the benefit of decrepit
or rheumatic old tars. Chief among these is the office of _mast-man_.
There is a stout rail on deck, at the base of each mast, where a number
of _braces, lifts_, and _buntlines_ are belayed to the pins. It is the
sole duty of the mast-man to see that these ropes are always kept
clear, to preserve his premises in a state of the greatest attainable
neatness, and every Sunday morning to dispose his ropes in neat
_Flemish coils_.
The _main-mast-man_ of the Neversink was a very aged seaman, who well
deserved his comfortable berth. He had seen more than half a century of
the most active service, and, through all, had proved himself a good
and faithful man. He furnished one of the very rare examples of a
sailor in a green old age; for, with most sailors, old age comes in
youth, and Hardship and Vice carry them on an early bier to the grave.
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