“Not while I live, Hardy!” said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from the bed; “do you anchor.”
His previous order for preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of this. Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, “Don’t throw me overboard”; and he desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise.
Then, reverting to his private feelings: “Kiss me, Hardy,” said he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek: and Nelson said, “Now I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty.”
Hardy stood over him in silence for a minute or two; then knelt again, and kissed his forehead.
“Who is that?” said Nelson; and being informed, he replied, “God bless you, Hardy.” And Hardy then left him forever.
Nelson now desired to be turned on his right side, and said: “I wish I had not left the deck; for I shall soon be gone.”
Death was, indeed, rapidly approaching. He said to his chaplain: “Doctor, I have not been a great sinner.” His articulation now became difficult; but he was distinctly heard to say, “Thank God, I have done my duty!” These words he had repeatedly pronounced; and they were the last words he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes after four,—three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound.
Within a quarter of an hour after Nelson was wounded, above fifty of the Victory’s men fell by the enemy’s musketry. They, however, on their part, were not idle; and it was not long before there were only two Frenchmen left alive in the mizzen-top of the Redoubtable. One of them was the man who had given the fatal wound: he did not live to boast of what he had done. An old quartermaster had seen him fire; and easily recognized him, because he wore a glazed cocked hat and a white frock. This quartermaster, and two midshipmen, Mr. Collingwood and Mr. Pollard, were the only persons left on the Victory’s poop; the two midshipmen kept firing at the top, and he supplied them with cartridges. One of the Frenchmen, attempting to make his escape down the rigging, was shot by Mr. Pollard, and fell on the poop. But the old quartermaster, as he cried out, “That’s he, that’s he,” and pointed at the other, who was coming forward to fire again, received a shot in his mouth, and fell dead. Both the midshipmen then fired, at the same time, and the fellow dropped in the top. When they took possession of the prize, they went into the mizzen-top, and found him dead; with one ball through his head, and another through his breast.
The Redoubtable struck within twenty minutes after the fatal shot had been fired from her. During that time she had been twice on fire,—in her fore-chains and in her forecastle. The French, as they had done in other battles, made use, in this, of fireballs and other combustibles—implements of destruction which other nations, from a sense of honour and humanity, have laid aside—which add to the sufferings of the wounded, without determining the issue of the combat—which none but the cruel would employ, and which never can be successful against the brave.