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- 11359
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11299
- text
- the cut-throat martial law. And when my own brother, who happens to be
dwelling ashore, and does not serve his country as I am now doing—when
_he_ is at liberty to call personally upon the President of the United
States, and express his disapprobation of the whole national
administration, here am I, liable at any time to be run up at the
yard-arm, with a necklace, made by no jeweler, round my neck!
A hard case, truly, White-Jacket; but it cannot be helped. Yes; you
live under this same martial law. Does not everything around you din
the fact in your ears? Twice every day do you not jump to your quarters
at the sound of a drum? Every morning, in port, are you not roused from
your hammock by the _reveille_, and sent to it again at nightfall by
the _tattoo?_ Every Sunday are you not commanded in the mere matter of
the very dress you shall wear through that blessed day? Can your
shipmates so much as drink their “tot of grog?” nay, can they even
drink but a cup of water at the scuttle-butt, without an armed sentry
standing over them? Does not every officer wear a sword instead of a
cane? You live and move among twenty-four-pounders. White-Jacket; the
very cannon-balls are deemed an ornament around you, serving to
embellish the hatchways; and should you come to die at sea,
White-Jacket, still two cannon-balls would bear you company when you
would be committed to the deep. Yea, by all methods, and devices, and
inventions, you are momentarily admonished of the fact that you live
under the Articles of War. And by virtue of them it is, White-Jacket,
that, without a hearing and without a trial, you may, at a wink from
the Captain, be condemned to the scourge.
Speak you true? Then let me fly!
Nay, White-Jacket, the landless horizon hoops you in.
Some tempest, then, surge all the sea against us! hidden reefs and
rocks, arise and dash the ships to chips! I was not born a serf, and
will not live a slave! Quick! cork-screw whirlpools, suck us down!
world’s end whelm us!
Nay, White-Jacket, though this frigate laid her broken bones upon the
Antarctic shores of Palmer’s Land; though not two planks adhered;
though all her guns were spiked by sword-fish blades, and at her
yawning hatchways mouth-yawning sharks swam in and out; yet, should you
escape the wreck and scramble to the beach, this Martial Law would meet
you still, and snatch you by the throat. Hark!
Art. XLII. Part of Sec. 3.-“In all cases where the crews of the ships
or vessels of the United States shall be separated from their vessels
by the latter being wrecked, lost, or destroyed, all the command,
power, and authority given to the officers of such ships or vessels
shall remain, and be in full force, as effectually as if such ship or
vessel were not so wrecked, lost or destroyed.”
Hear you that, White-Jacket! I tell you there is no escape. Afloat or
wrecked the Martial Law relaxes not its gripe. And though, by that
self-same warrant, for some offence therein set down, you were indeed
to “suffer death,” even then the Martial Law might hunt you straight
through the other world, and out again at its other end, following you
through all eternity, like an endless thread on the inevitable track of
its own point, passing unnumbered needles through.
- title
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