Not so easy for those aboard the steamship to make out the manner of the odd-looking craft that has turned up in their track, and is sailing straight towards them. They see a barque, polacca-masted, with some sails set, and others hanging in shreds from her yards.
This of itself would be enough to excite curiosity. But there is something besides; a flag reversed flying at her mainmast-head—the flag of Chili! For the distress signal has not been taken down. And why it was ever run up, or by whom, none of those now in the barque could tell. At present it serves their purpose well, for, responding to it, the commander of the steam packet orders her engines to slow, and then cease action; till the huge leviathan, late running at the rate of twelve knots an hour, gradually lessens speed, and at length lies motionless upon the water.
Simultaneously the barque is “hove to,” and she lies at less than a cable’s length from the steamer.
From the latter the hail is heard first:
“Barque ahoy! What barque is that?”
“The Condor—Valparaiso. In distress.”
“Send a boat aboard!”
“Not strength to man it.”
“Wait, then! We’ll board you.”
In less than five minutes’ time one of the quarter boats of the liner is lowered down, and a crew leaps into it.