The British ships now bore down, Collingwood in the Royal Sovereign being the first to engage. He was twenty minutes in the midst of a furious cannonade before he received support. The whole British fleet now came into action, but not near enough for Nelson, and he signalled, “Engage the enemy more closely,” and set the example by dashing into the enemy’s line. Seven or eight of the weathermost ships immediately opened a terrific fire on him. So fierce was it that for a few minutes the Victory made no reply. Her mizzen top-mast went over the side, her wheel was knocked away, and a double-headed shot killed eight marines at one stroke. Amidst this hail of death the hero moved with the utmost indifference. As a splinter tore the buckle from his shoe he remarked smilingly to his captain, “This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long.” But now the gallant old ship got to work, and with a broadside that disabled her immediate enemy, drove into the Redoutable so closely that the muzzles of the Victory’s guns touched the enemy’s side.
At half-past one, when Nelson was walking the deck, a musket-shot from the Redoutable mizzen-top struck him, and he fell with his face to the deck. “They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he exclaimed. “I hope not,” answered the captain. “Yes,” said Nelson; “my backbone is shot through.” They bore him to the cockpit, and on the way he drew a handkerchief over his face that his sailors might not see him and be discouraged. The gloomy cockpit was a shambles, resounding with the groans of anguished men. Dr. Beatty flew to his side. “Ah, Mr. Beatty,” said Nelson, “you can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live; my back is shot through.” And so it was. The decorations with which he had adorned himself were too good a mark for the French sharpshooters.
The hero lay a-dying while the storm of crashing artillery continued to rage. High above the thunder came the huzzas of his seamen as ship after ship of the enemy struck. The dying man turned and smiled. “Will no one bring Hardy to me?” he asked, but the captain could not be spared. All the beauty, the magnanimity, and tenderness of Nelson’s disposition shone out in those dying hours. At last Hardy came. “Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?” “Very well, my lord,” was the reply; “we have got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships.” “I hope,” said Nelson anxiously, “that none of our ships have struck.” “No fear of that, my lord,” replied Hardy. And now the surgeon tearfully told him that his life was done. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty!” Nelson was dead.
As his breath floated away, the cannonading ceased, and Trafalgar was won. Of the French and Spanish fleet that rose and fell upon the waves on that October morning all that remained was a huddle of hulks rolling helplessly in the trough of the sea, with the British colours flying on the stumps of the wreckage, and a trail of beaten ships staggering portwards for safety. Nelson had not spent his life’s blood in vain. He had ensured his land a century’s command of the sea, during which time she spread her empire far and wide, and developed her commerce to an extraordinary degree.
The Death of Nelson.
(By Benjamin West, P.R.A. By permission of the Corporation of Liverpool.)
Napoleon on Board the “Bellerophon.”
(From the picture by W. Q. Orchardson, R.A., in the National Gallery of British Art. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.)