Chapter 53

SEAFARING PERSONS PECULIARLY SUBJECT TO BEING UNDER THE WEATHER.
--THE EFFECTS OF THIS UPON A MAN-OF-WAR CAPTAIN.

It has been said that some midshipmen, in certain cases, are
guilty of spiteful practices against the man-of-war's-man. But as
these midshipmen are presumed to have received the liberal and
lofty breeding of gentlemen, it would seem all but incredible
that any of their corps could descend to the paltriness of
cherishing personal malice against so conventionally degraded a
being as a sailor. So, indeed, it would seem. But when all the
circumstances are considered, it will not appear extraordinary
that some of them should thus cast discredit upon the warrants
they wear. Title, and rank, and wealth, and education cannot
unmake human nature; the same in cabin-boy and commodore, its
only differences lie in the different modes of development.

At sea, a frigate houses and homes five hundred mortals in a
space so contracted that they can hardly so much as move but they
touch. Cut off from all those outward passing things which ashore
employ the eyes, tongues, and thoughts of landsmen, the inmates
of a frigate are thrown upon themselves and each other, and all
their ponderings are introspective. A morbidness of mind is often
the consequence, especially upon long voyages, accompanied by foul
weather, calms, or head-winds. Nor does this exempt from its evil
influence any rank on board. Indeed, high station only ministers
to it the more, since the higher the rank in a man-of-war, the
less companionship.

It is an odious, unthankful, repugnant thing to dwell upon a
subject like this; nevertheless, be it said, that, through these
jaundiced influences, even the captain of a frigate is, in some
cases, indirectly induced to the infliction of corporal punishment
upon a seaman. Never sail under a navy captain whom you suspect
of being dyspeptic, or constitutionally prone to hypochondria.

The manifestation of these things is sometimes remarkable. In the
earlier part of the cruise, while making a long, tedious run from
Mazatlan to Callao on the Main, baffled by light head winds and
frequent intermitting calms, when all hands were heartily wearied
by the torrid, monotonous sea, a good-natured fore-top-man, by
the name of Candy--quite a character in his way--standing in the
waist among a crowd of seamen, touched me, and said, "D'ye see
the old man there, White-Jacket, walking the poop? Well, don't he
look as if he wanted to flog someone? Look at him once."

But to me, at least, no such indications were visible in the
deportment of the Captain, though his thrashing the arm-chest
with the slack of the spanker-out-haul looked a little suspicious.
But any one might have been