The pirates quickly hauled up the flag, and Skyrme's stentorian voice shouted: "Forward!"
A second volley thundered down upon them from the British cannon. The flag fell a second time, and with it Skyrme, whose legs were torn off by a cannon ball. The pirates lost their self-control, and rushing to the man at the helm, forced him to turn and spread their sails for flight.
"Do not yield," roared Skyrme, clinging to the mast. "Shame and disgrace upon you! Stick to the ship, and rush upon her decks. Die the death of heroes!"
The pirates, with a last outburst of daring, began to urge the Fox-Hound toward the Swallow, and had almost succeeded in reaching it with their grappling irons, when a third volley echoed on the air. The main-mast was shattered and fell with all the rigging, into the sea.
They were lost. They could fight no longer.
"Throw the flag into the water that it may not fall into the hands of the enemy!" gasped Skyrme, only half of whose gigantic body remained. "Go to the powder room and fire among the kegs!"
Five pirates, with loaded pistols, instantly leaped below, and at the end of a minute, with a roar like thunder, a cloud of smoke rose into the air; otherwise there was no harm done. There was not powder enough to shatter the ship. The five pirates lay in the hold, burnt and swearing, as black as if they had been transformed into devils in advance. The explosion threw the helmsman flat on the deck and, as if he had no other care on his mind, he screamed for his hat, which had gone overboard.
The Englishmen instantly took possession of the wreck, whose deck was strewn with the dead and wounded.
The latter were raised and cared for.
"Don't touch me!" shrieked Skyrme in a frenzy of rage, and seizing a sabre in each hand he began a desperate struggle. The bravest soldiers could scarcely succeed in disarming the mangled giant, who, when his huge hands were chained in order to bind up his wounds, tore off the bandages with his fetters and, by a last tremendous exertion of strength, burst them and—died.