It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being certain that no human care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him and attend to those to whom he might be useful. “For,” said he, “you can do nothing for me.”
As often as a ship struck, the crew of the Victory hurrahed; and at every hurrah a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero.
An hour and ten minutes elapsed, from the time when Nelson received his wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence; Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful and yet sublimest moment. “Well, Hardy,” said Nelson, “how goes the day with us?”—“Very well,” replied Hardy; “ten ships have struck, but five of their van have tacked, and show an intention of bearing down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”—“I hope,” said Nelson, “none of our ships have struck?” Hardy answered, “There was no fear of that.” Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself. “I am going fast,” said he;—“it will be all over with me soon.” Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life. “Oh, no!” he replied; “it is impossible.” Captain Hardy then, once more, shook hands with him; and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit, returned; and, again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander, congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them distinctly—but fourteen or fifteen at least. “That’s well,” cried Nelson; “but I bargained for twenty.” And then, in a stronger voice, he said, “Anchor, Hardy; anchor.” Hardy, upon this, hinted that Admiral Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. “Not while I live, Hardy!” said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavoring to raise himself from the bed: “do you anchor.”
He desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise.—“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 moment 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.
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. He expired at thirty minutes after four,—three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound.
Once, amidst his sufferings, Nelson had expressed a wish that he were dead; but immediately the spirit subdued the pains of death, and he wished to live a little longer; doubtless that he might hear the completion of the victory which he had seen so gloriously begun. That consolation—that joy—that triumph, was afforded him. He lived to know that the victory was decisive; and the last guns which were fired at the flying enemy were heard a minute or two before he expired.