She was. Urged by wind and oars, making ahead to hit the course of the Wear Jack at an acute angle, she seemed bound to do it.
“What’s her game?” asked George.
“Foul us, get broadside on and board us,” replied Candon.
“How’d it be to put her about and get her on a wind?” asked Hank.
“No use, going about would give her lengths—those junks shoot up into the wind like all possessed and the sweeps help—Leave her to me.”
The Wear Jack kept on.
Racing now almost parallel—the junk ahead with sweeps drawn in, the two boats held only half a cable length apart. They could see the junk’s deck swarming, the hatchet men, now that they had got their courage were voicing it, and yells like the strident sound of tearing calico came mixed with the wash of the waves and the beating of a gong. Closer they got, still closer, the Wear Jack gaining under a strengthening flaw of the wind. Then, with a shout and with a lightning movement, Candon, to the horror of the others, put his helm hard over. The Wear Jack checked, shied just like a horse, and with a thunder of slatting canvas, and rattling blocks, plunged at the junk, ramming her abaft the chunky mast. The fellow at the steering sweep shifted his helm to get clear, the junk forged to starboard and the bowsprit of the Wear Jack, like a clutching hand, snapped stay after stay bringing the great sail down like a Venetian blind over the crowd on deck.
“We’re free,” shouted Candon, “bowsprit’s half gone. No matter, get forward, Hank, and clear the raffle!”
Then as the Wear Jack forged ahead, the Kiro Shiwo drifting her faster than the junk, the wind took her sails.