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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- 10650
- text
- CHAPTER LXVII.
WHITE-JACKET ARRAIGNED AT THE MAST.
When with five hundred others I made one of the compelled spectators at
the scourging of poor Rose-water, I little thought what Fate had
ordained for myself the next day.
Poor mulatto! thought I, one of an oppressed race, they degrade you
like a hound. Thank God! I am a white. Yet I had seen whites also
scourged; for, black or white, all my shipmates were liable to that.
Still, there is something in us, somehow, that in the most degraded
condition, we snatch at a chance to deceive ourselves into a fancied
superiority to others, whom we suppose lower in the scale than
ourselves.
Poor Rose-water! thought I; poor mulatto! Heaven send you a release
from your humiliation!
To make plain the thing about to be related, it needs to repeat what
has somewhere been previously mentioned, that in _tacking ship_ every
seaman in a man-of-war has a particular station assigned him. What that
station is, should be made known to him by the First Lieutenant; and
when the word is passed to _tack_ or _wear_, it is every seaman’s duty
to be found at his post. But among the various _numbers and stations_
given to me by the senior Lieutenant, when I first came on board the
frigate, he had altogether omitted informing me of my particular place
at those times, and, up to the precise period now written of, I had
hardly known that I should have had any special place then at all. For
the rest of the men, they seemed to me to catch hold of the first rope
that offered, as in a merchant-man upon similar occasions. Indeed, I
subsequently discovered, that such was the state of discipline—in this
one particular, at least—that very few of the seamen could tell where
their proper stations were, at _tacking or wearing_.
“All hands tack ship, ahoy!” such was the announcement made by the
boatswain’s mates at the hatchways the morning after the hard fate of
Rose-water. It was just eight bells—noon, and springing from my white
jacket, which I had spread between the guns for a bed on the main-deck,
I ran up the ladders, and, as usual, seized hold of the main-brace,
which fifty hands were streaming along forward. When _main-top-sail
haul!_ was given through the trumpet, I pulled at this brace with such
heartiness and good-will, that I almost flattered myself that my
instrumentality in getting the frigate round on the other tack,
deserved a public vote of thanks, and a silver tankard from Congress.
But something happened to be in the way aloft when the yards swung
round; a little confusion ensued; and, with anger on his brow, Captain
Claret came forward to see what occasioned it. No one to let go the
weather-lift of the main-yard! The rope was cast off, however, by a
hand, and the yards unobstructed, came round.
When the last rope was coiled, away, the Captain desired to know of the
First Lieutenant who it might be that was stationed at the weather
(then the starboard) main-lift. With a vexed expression of countenance
the First Lieutenant sent a midshipman for the Station Bill, when, upon
glancing it over, my own name was found put down at the post in
question.
At the time I was on the gun-deck below, and did not know of these
proceedings; but a moment after, I heard the boatswain’s mates bawling
my name at all the hatch-ways, and along all three decks. It was the
first time I had ever heard it so sent through the furthest recesses of
the ship, and well knowing what this generally betokened to other
seamen, my heart jumped to my throat, and I hurriedly asked Flute, the
boatswain’s-mate at the fore-hatchway, what was wanted of me.
“Captain wants ye at the mast,” he replied. “Going to flog ye, I
guess.”
“What for?”
“My eyes! you’ve been chalking your face, hain’t ye?”
“What am I wanted for?” I repeated.
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