Suddenly, as Broncho watched the furious battle and meditated thereon, at a moment when the Higgins balanced giddily on the top of a sixty-foot "grey-beard," he caught sight of a ship hove-to on the port tack under lower-topsails, lying right across the down-easter's bows.
"Ship right ahead," he yelled. "We'll be clean over her as we're goin'."
Before he could say more the stranger lay close aboard on the crest of the last roller, in plain view of all.
She was an iron Clyde-built barque, with painted ports, and made a grand picture in the moonlight as she lifted gracefully to the top of the great hill of water. Helpless, unable to move out of the way, she lay at the mercy of the Higgins, and a collision in that sea would mean the loss of both ships with all hands.
"We'll hit her plumb on the port quarter," cried the bosun to Jack. "Down with your helm, down with it, even if we have our decks swept bare," he roared.
To bring the sea on either beam would mean the grave danger of broaching to, with the chance of a capsize and the certainty of having the decks swept fore and aft.
Jack, cool and collected as ever, hove the wheel down a few spokes.
"Right down!" yelled the bosun, who was hanging on to the mizzen backstays. "Right down, or you won't clear her."
"If you leave it to me, I'll clear her all right," said the rover coolly, his eyes glued on the barque.
"Have it your way, have it your way," returned the bosun, giving in to Jack's calm confidence.