“Yes, my backbone is shot through,” and then Nelson placed a handkerchief over his face that the crew might not know who formed the central figure of the solemn little procession. Some sailors on the Santissima Trinidad, however, could see from the stars on his coat that an important officer had fallen, and cheered.
They laid him in a midshipman’s berth in the dimly-lit cockpit. He looked into the face of Death as he had looked into the face of the enemy, without flinching but not without hope. Sometimes a sentence would escape his lips. “Ah, Mr Beatty,” he said to the surgeon, “you can do nothing for me; my back is shot through,” and to Dr Scott, the chaplain, “Doctor, I am gone: I have to leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country.”
Very little relief could be afforded him. He sipped lemonade frequently, his breast was rubbed, and constant fanning helped to soothe his agonies a little. Nelson sent for Hardy, whom he valued as an able officer and friend, but as the Captain could not leave his post at once the dying man feared for his safety. “Will no one bring Hardy to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!”
The cheers of the British tars were borne down to the cockpit as often as an enemy’s ship struck her flag, and a smile played over the pallid features. At last Hardy appeared and took his chief’s hand. “How goes the day with us?” was the eager question.
“Very well, my Lord. We have taken twelve or fourteen ships; but five of their van have tacked and mean to bear down on us; but I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”
“I hope none of our ships have struck?” Nelson hastened to ask, seeing that Hardy was anxious to return to his post.
“There is no fear of that,” was the reassuring answer.
Hardy, unable to restrain his tears, ascended the companion ladder. As the guns were fired into the passing squadron of Rear-Admiral Dumanoir, the ship shook violently, thereby causing the dying man intense agony. “Oh, Victory, Victory,” he cried, “how you distract my poor brain,” followed by “how dear is life to all men.” Then his wandering thoughts turned homeward, and the memory of happy hours at Merton made him add, “Yet one would like to live a little longer, too.” Hardy again entered the cockpit with the good news that fourteen or fifteen ships had struck. “That is well,” Nelson breathed, “but I bargained for twenty. Anchor, Hardy, anchor.” The Captain then asked whether Collingwood should not take the post of Commander-in-chief. The Admiral answered with all the force he could muster, “Not whilst I live, Hardy—no other man shall command whilst I live. Anchor, Hardy, anchor; if I live I’ll anchor.”
Nelson was sinking: the moment for taking his long farewell of his Captain had come. “Don’t throw me overboard, Hardy. Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton; take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me, Hardy.” As the sorrowful officer bent over him consciousness began to fade. “Who is that?” he asked. On being told that it was Hardy, he whispered, “God bless you, Hardy.”
His life flickered like the candle fixed on the beam above, and then slowly went out. He murmured that he wished he had not left the deck, that he had not been a great sinner, and said with deliberation, “Thank God, I have done my duty.” “God and my country” were the last words heard by the sorrowful little group gathered round their beloved master. In the arms of Mr Walter Burke, the purser of the ship, Nelson lay dead.