{"id":"01KG8AMDKGERB481A30QN1VQNW","cid":"bafkreiagarisla57lo6c6gojrwfz7enzi2q7dgofkdqxuxd44spkwsb5ze","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":249,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:36.270Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","start_line":164,"text":"CHAPTER I.\r\nTHE JACKET.\r\n\r\n\r\nIt was not a _very_ white jacket, but white enough, in all conscience,\r\nas the sequel will show.\r\n\r\nThe way I came by it was this.\r\n\r\nWhen our frigate lay in Callao, on the coast of Peru—her last harbour\r\nin the Pacific—I found myself without a _grego_, or sailor’s surtout;\r\nand as, toward the end of a three years’ cruise, no pea-jackets could\r\nbe had from the purser’s steward: and being bound for Cape Horn, some\r\nsort of a substitute was indispensable; I employed myself, for several\r\ndays, in manufacturing an outlandish garment of my own devising, to\r\nshelter me from the boisterous weather we were so soon to encounter.\r\n\r\nIt was nothing more than a white duck frock, or rather shirt: which,\r\nlaying on deck, I folded double at the bosom, and by then making a\r\ncontinuation of the slit there, opened it lengthwise—much as you would\r\ncut a leaf in the last new novel. The gash being made, a metamorphosis\r\ntook place, transcending any related by Ovid. For, presto! the shirt\r\nwas a coat!—a strange-looking coat, to be sure; of a Quakerish\r\namplitude about the skirts; with an infirm, tumble-down collar; and a\r\nclumsy fullness about the wristbands; and white, yea, white as a\r\nshroud. And my shroud it afterward came very near proving, as he who\r\nreads further will find.\r\n\r\nBut, bless me, my friend, what sort of a summer jacket is this, in\r\nwhich to weather Cape Horn? A very tasty, and beautiful white linen\r\ngarment it may have seemed; but then, people almost universally sport\r\ntheir linen next to their skin.\r\n\r\nVery true; and that thought very early occurred to me; for no idea had\r\nI of scudding round Cape Horn in my shirt; for _that_ would have been\r\nalmost scudding under bare poles, indeed.\r\n\r\nSo, with many odds and ends of patches—old socks, old trowser-legs, and\r\nthe like—I bedarned and bequilted the inside of my jacket, till it\r\nbecame, all over, stiff and padded, as King James’s cotton-stuffed and\r\ndagger-proof doublet; and no buckram or steel hauberk stood up more\r\nstoutly.\r\n\r\nSo far, very good; but pray, tell me, White-Jacket, how do you propose\r\nkeeping out the rain and the wet in this quilted _grego_ of yours? You\r\ndon’t call this wad of old patches a Mackintosh, do you?——you don’t\r\npretend to say that worsted is water-proof?\r\n\r\nNo, my dear friend; and that was the deuce of it. Waterproof it was\r\nnot, no more than a sponge. Indeed, with such recklessness had I\r\nbequilted my jacket, that in a rain-storm I became a universal\r\nabsorber; swabbing bone-dry the very bulwarks I leaned against. Of a\r\ndamp day, my heartless shipmates even used to stand up against me, so\r\npowerful was the capillary attraction between this luckless jacket of\r\nmine and all drops of moisture. I dripped like a turkey a roasting; and\r\nlong after the rain storms were over, and the sun showed his face, I\r\nstill stalked a Scotch mist; and when it was fair weather with others,\r\nalas! it was foul weather with me.\r\n\r\n_Me?_ Ah me! Soaked and heavy, what a burden was that jacket to carry\r\nabout, especially when I was sent up aloft; dragging myself up step by\r\nstep, as if I were weighing the anchor. Small time then, to strip, and\r\nwring it out in a rain, when no hanging back or delay was permitted.\r\nNo, no; up you go: fat or lean: Lambert or Edson: never mind how much\r\navoirdupois you might weigh. And thus, in my own proper person, did\r\nmany showers of rain reascend toward the skies, in accordance with the\r\nnatural laws.\r\n\r\nBut here be it known, that I had been terribly disappointed in carrying\r\nout my original plan concerning this jacket. It had been my intention\r\nto make it thoroughly impervious, by giving it a coating of paint, But\r\nbitter fate ever overtakes us unfortunates. So much paint had been\r\nstolen by the sailors, in daubing their overhaul trowsers and\r\ntarpaulins, that by the time I—an honest man—had completed my\r\nquiltings, the paint-pots were banned, and put under strict lock and\r\nkey.\r\n\r\nSaid old Brush, the captain of the _paint-room_—“Look ye,\r\nWhite-Jacket,” said he, “ye can’t have any paint.”\r\n\r\nSuch, then, was my jacket: a well-patched, padded, and porous one; and\r\nin a dark night, gleaming white as the White Lady of Avenel!\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJPBD2Q94XN872F7H5S7A","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"}],"ver":1,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:36.464Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:36.464Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}