Nelson and Collingwood cutting the Enemy’s Lines at Trafalgar
H. C. Seppings Wright
Nelson, steering two points more to the north than Collingwood, so as to cut off the enemy’s way of retreat to Cadiz, came up about half an hour after the latter had begun his engagement. As the stately flagship entered the zone of fire a number of Villeneuve’s vessels poured a perfect avalanche of shot upon her decks. Down went a score or more of brave fellows, the wheel was smashed, necessitating the ship being steered in the gun-room, and a topmast dropped on the deck from aloft. A shot struck one of the launches, a splinter tearing a buckle from one of the shoes of either Nelson or Hardy, which is not quite clear. “They both,” writes Doctor Beatty, in his “Narrative,” “instantly stopped, and were observed by the officers on deck to survey each other with inquiring looks, each supposing the other to be wounded. His Lordship then smiled and said, ‘This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long’; and declared that, through all the battles he had been in, he had never witnessed more cool courage than was displayed by the Victory’s crew on this occasion.”
Steering for the Santissima Trinidad (130), at that time the biggest floating arsenal ever built in Europe, Nelson sought to engage her, but an alteration in position precluded this, and he tackled the Bucentaure (80), Villeneuve’s flagship. The French Admiral was at last face to face with the man whose spirit had haunted him since he assumed command.
Crash went the 68-pounder carronade into the 80-gun Frenchman, and down came the greater part of the Bucentaure’s stern. The Victory then grappled with the Redoutable, at the same time receiving a hurricane of fire from the French Neptuno (80).
Up in the fighting-tops of the Redoutable (74) were riflemen trying to pick off the officers of the Victory. One marksman, a little keener sighted or more fortunately placed than the others, saw Nelson walking up and down with Hardy. There was a flash of fire, a sharp crack as the bullet sped through the air, and the master mariner of England, of the world, of all time, fell in a heap upon the deck.
The fatal ball entered his left shoulder by the edge of the epaulet, cut through the spine, and finally buried itself in the muscles of the back.
Three fellows rushed forward to his assistance.
“They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he murmured, as they carried him below.
“I hope not,” was the Captain’s reply, not knowing the extent of Nelson’s injuries, and probably thinking that it might be possible to remove the missile.