And, as the concussions subsided, and the landward echoes of the shots died away, far and clear from the power-boat’s decks, across the water, came the defiant chorus:
“I saw the Shannon’s purple tide
Roll by the Irish town,
As I stood in the breach by Donal’s side
When England’s flag went down!—”
They were singing “Green Jackets,” these doomed men. Barres could hear them cheering, too, for a moment only—then every gun aboard the flimsy little craft spat flame at the big Canadian, and the bursting shells splashed the water all around her with their pigmy fragments.
Now, from the cruiser, a single gun bellowed. Instantly a red glare wrapped the launch; there was a heavy report, a fountain of rushing smoke and debris.
Against the infernal flare of light Skeel’s tall figure showed in silhouette, standing there with hat lifted as though cheering. Again, from the cruiser, a gun crashed. Where the burning launch had been a horrible flare shot up; and the shocking detonation rocked land and sky. On the water a vast black cloud rested, almost motionless; and all around rained charred 406 things that had been wood and steel and clothing, perhaps—perhaps fragments of living creatures.
So passed into eternity Murtagh Skeel and his Green Jackets, hurled skyward in the twinkling of an eye on the roaring blast of their own magazine. What was left of their green flag attained an altitude unparalleled that sunny morning. But their souls soared higher into that blinding light which makes all things clear at last, solves all questions, all perplexities—which consoles all griefs and quiets at last the bitter mirth of those who have laughed at Death for conscience’s sake.