to him and told him I wanted to bring out my father and family, twelve in all, and I would pay him when they landed. ‘I will gladly do it for you, he said, ‘though I have always insisted on payment in advance.’ I saved enough the first year to pay for all, and the same week, one year later, they were all with me in New York.”
Mr. Carter never lost sight of his fellow passengers of the “Francis.” Many of them were his lifelong friends. One of them was a little boy of five or six years, of whom he made quite a pet, and who used to walk the deck with him, holding his hand. This little George Ainslee grew up into a noble, self-sacrificing man, a devoted missionary to the Indians, and, when his mission was broken up by the war, becoming an equally devoted minister of the Presbyterian Home Mission Board.
Mr. Carter used often to relate an amusing incident of the voyage. To beguile the monotony of sea life, the young men formed a debating society, and were one day assembled near the bulwarks, when suddenly there came a cry from the other side of the ship, “Richard! Richard!” and, looking across, they saw an old woman clinging to a rope that hung from the rigging. “Something is the matter with your mother, Richard.” The young man crossed to inquire into the difficulty. “What’s the matter, mother?” “O, they’re a’ gaan to the one side of the ship, and it is going to coup [upset], and I’m just haudin’ doon wi’ a’ my micht.” It was irresistibly comic, the idea of the frail little woman, weighing perhaps ninety pounds, holding down the great ship, and the laughter that ensued broke up the debating society for that day.
Many of that little company of Scottish emigrants
