"Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that I bear you any ill-will on account of what has passed. The words I uttered in my passion I am sorry for and disclaim, now that I am cool. I was angry—very angry, certainly; but that is past. How can you wonder that I am sad and silent, when you remember that we may never return to the 'bonny banks o' Nith.' We are going among strangers, and into strange lands: let us not forget our old friendship—let us always be friends as well as countrymen."
"That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates," replied Goldie. "What wi' yer English lingo and yer grand words, ye talk for a' the warld like a prented bulk; it does a body's lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, 'shouther to shouther' is the word in the Highlands, and we'll tak it for our by-word." And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by the hand.
Next day, they took their passage in the steamer for Liverpool, and from thence made the best of their way to London. There they were soon picked up by one of the "crimps," on the look-out for men for the outward-bound Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped on board the Briton—a vessel of twelve hundred tons. Here everything was strange to them, and they were subjected to a course of discipline to which they had not before been accustomed. They both proved themselves to be smart, active young fellows, and good seamen; but at first Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie—for he was too cunning and timeserving to commit himself in any way; while the latter, always in the habit of speaking out his mind boldly and freely, frequently got himself into trouble by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness of his remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in their true colours, and the scale was turned in favour of Goldie, whose frank and open manners, and straightforward, fearless confidence, established him in the general good opinion of his officers and messmates; while, on the other hand, the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more apparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance to the latter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates rankled deep in the heart of the vindictive Cummin; and, forgetting that he himself was the cause of it, he attributed all to the influence of the detested Goldie. A circumstance soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of evil passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was within a few degrees of the equator, when one day a strange sail was seen ahead, which proved to be a "homeward-bounder." The captain immediately determined to board her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief mate.
"Midshipman! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the letters, and pass the word fore and aft that a bag is going to be made up for England. First cutters, clean themselves!"
The breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as the stranger was still at a considerable distance, orders were given to "pipe to dinner," and for the cutter's crew to come up as soon as they had dined, to lower the boat down. In a short time, the coxswain of the boat—a fine, active, young north-country man—came up with three of his crew, two of whom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat, while the coxswain, with the other man, jumped in, to be lowered down in her. One of the men at the "falls" was Cummin; lowering away, quickly and carelessly, he allowed the rope to run too quickly round the "cleat," and not being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go "by the run." The consequence was, that the stern of the boat was plunged into the water, while the bow hung suspended in the other tackle—the men were thrown out, and the poor coxswain, not being able to swim, made two or three ineffectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident was so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little apparent danger—for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the poor fellow was within arm's-length almost of the boat's gunwale—that he was gone almost before an alarm was given. The men were all below at dinner; but ill news flies fast—in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways, each hurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first up, and, rushing aft on the poop, he exclaimed, "Where is he?" and, hardly waiting for an answer, sprung over the taffrail into the water, a height of twenty feet, and dived after the sinking man; but in vain—the poor fellow was gone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin severely for his carelessness, degraded him from his station as topman, made him a "sweeper," and stopped his allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly praised on the quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a handsome present from the captain, besides being promoted to the station of boatswain's mate at the first opportunity. This was a bitter potion for the moody and jealous spirit of Cummin; and he brooded day and night over his fancied wrongs.
The ship was now rapidly approaching the "line," and the crew had been for some time anticipating with great glee the day of fun and license which was in store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with practising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-water sailors who had never been to the southward of the equator; and strange and mysterious were the notions which many of the latter formed of the dreaded "line," from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some imagined that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not be cut without the permission of the old king of the waves; others were gulled into the belief that there was a large tree growing out of the water, to which the ship was to be made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were gone through. But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed into certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his report to the captain—
"The sun's up, sir."
"What is the latitude?"
"Fifty minutes north, sir."
"Very well—make it twelve o'clock."