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.
“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.
And above, the heavy guns thundered a funeral dirge.
As we have already seen, the Victory was engaged in a duel with the Redoutable when Nelson received his death wound. For a short period the Frenchman did not return the fire, and thinking that Captain Lucas was about to surrender, the Victory’s guns also kept silence. But the interval had been used for another purpose. The French crew were swarming over the bulwarks of the British flagship, climbing chains, and even clambering over the anchor in their attempt to get on board. A desperate resistance was offered, Captain Adair was killed by a musket ball, as well as eighteen marines and twenty seamen.
Help came from a sister ship. The Téméraire (98)—the fighting Téméraire of Turner’s glorious picture—was now astern of the Redoutable. Had she possessed the machine guns of to-day she could hardly have swept the decks of the enemy with more deadly effect. The men who were attempting to board went down like ninepins. The carnage was awful; the sight sickening. When the smoke cleared, little heaps of corpses were seen piled up on the decks, while the bodies of other poor fellows floated on the sea, now tinged with the blood of victor and vanquished. Five hundred and twenty-two of the Redoutable’s crew fell that day before she struck her colours.
The Bucentaure and the Santissima Trinidad were together throughout the battle and received a succession of attacks from various ships until they surrendered. Both of them were then little more than dismasted hulks. Villeneuve fought with the strength of despair, but the case was hopeless, and resistance only prolonged the agony. No assistance came to him despite his frantic efforts to attract attention. “My part in the Bucentaure is finished!” he cried at last, and so the gallant but weak-willed officer was taken.
In appearance Villeneuve was “a tallish, thin man, a very tranquil, placid, English-looking Frenchman; he wore a long-tailed uniform coat, high and flat collar, corduroy pantaloons of a greenish colour, with stripes two inches wide, half-boots with sharp toes, and a watch-chain with long gold links.”72
Other ships surrendered as the day wore on, the Algéçiras (74) to the Tonnant (80), the Swiftsure (74) and the Bahama (74) to the Colossus (74), the San Juan Nepomuceno (74) to the Dreadnought (98). Eighteen ships of the Allied Fleet were captured; one, the Achille (74), blew up with a terrific explosion.
The Victory had been roughly handled by her adversaries. In Hardy’s report of the 5th December 1805, he says:
“The hull is much damaged by shot in a number of different places, particularly in the wales, strings, and spurketing, and some between wind and water. Several beams, knees, and riders, shot through and broke; the starboard cathead shot away; the rails and timbers of the head and stem cut by shot, and the falling of the mizen-mast; the principal part of the bulkheads, halfports, and portsashes thrown overboard in clearing ship for action.
“The mizen-mast shot away about 9 feet above the deck; the main-mast shot through and sprung; the main-yard gone; the main-topmast and cap shot in different places and reefed; the main-topsail yard shot away; the foremast shot through in a number of different places, and is at present supported by a topmast, and a part of the topsail and crossjack yards; the fore-yard shot away; the bowsprit jibboom and cap shot, and the spritsail and spritsail topsail yards, and flying jibboom gone; the fore and main-tops damaged; the whole of the spare topmast yards, handmast, and fishes in different places, and converted into jury geer.
“The ship makes in bad weather 12 inches water an hour.”73
At five o’clock Gravina made the signal for retreat. What a sorry lot they were, those eleven ships—six Spanish and five French—which with their consorts had attempted to dethrone the Mistress of the Seas. Another four under the command of Dumanoir had also made good their escape, but only to be captured off Cape Ortegal on November 4th, by Sir Richard Strachan.
An eye-witness on board the Belleisle graphically describes the scene after the last shot had been fired: “The view of the fleet at this period was highly interesting, and would have formed a beautiful subject for a painter. Just under the setting rays were five or six dismantled prizes; on one hand lay the Victory with part of our fleet and prizes, and on the left hand the Royal Sovereign and a similar cluster of ships. To the northward, the remnant of the combined fleets was making for Cadiz. The Achille, with the tricoloured ensign still displayed, had burnt to the water’s edge about a mile from us, and our tenders and boats were using every effort to save the brave fellows who had so gloriously defended her; but only two hundred and fifty were rescued, and she blew up with a tremendous explosion.”
The battle was over, but much yet remained to be done. Eighteen sail-of-the-line of the Allied Fleet had struck their flag, and it was Collingwood’s difficult task to secure the prizes. “A continued series of misfortunes,” to use the Admiral’s own words, “… of a kind that human prudence could not possibly provide against, or my skill prevent,” alone precluded him from keeping more than four trophies of Trafalgar.
“On the 22nd, in the morning,” he states in a despatch to the Admiralty, “a strong southerly wind blew, with squally weather, which, however, did not prevent the activity of the officers and seamen of such ships as were manageable from getting hold of many of the prizes (thirteen or fourteen), and towing them off to the westward, where I ordered them to rendezvous round the Royal Sovereign, in tow by the Neptune. But on the 23rd the gale increased, and the sea ran so high that many of them broke the tow-rope, and drifted far to leeward before they were got hold of again; and some of them, taking advantage of the dark and boisterous night, got before the wind, and have perhaps drifted upon the shore and sunk. On the afternoon of that day, the remnant of the combined fleet, ten sail of ships,74 which had not been much engaged, stood up to leeward of my shattered and straggling charge, as if meaning to attack them, which obliged me to collect a force out of the least injured ships, and form to leeward for their defence. All this retarded the progress of the hulks; and the bad weather continuing, determined me to destroy all the leewardmost that could be cleared of the men, considering that keeping possession of the ships was a matter of little consequence, compared with the chance of their falling again into the hands of the enemy; but even this was an arduous task in the high sea which was running. I hope, however, it has been accomplished to a considerable extent. I intrusted it to skilful officers, who would spare no pains to execute what was possible. The Captains of the Prince and Neptune cleared the Trinidad, and sunk her. Captains Hope, Bayntun, and Malcolm, who joined the fleet this morning, from Gibraltar, had the charge of destroying four others. The Redoutable sunk astern of the Swiftsure, while in tow. The Santa Ana I have no doubt is sunk, as her side is almost entirely beat in; and such is the shattered condition of the whole of them, that, unless the weather moderates, I doubt whether I shall be able to carry a ship of them into port....”
In a later letter Collingwood says, “There never was such a combat since England had a fleet.” Three of the prizes, the Santa Ana, the Neptuno, and the Algéçiras escaped in the gale and entered Cadiz harbour, the former two having been retaken by Cosmao Kerjulien, who lost three ships over the transaction. The Swiftsure (French), the San Ildefonso, the San Juan Nepomuceno, and the Bahama were the only Trafalgar prizes saved; these were taken to Gibraltar.
Villeneuve was sent to England and afterwards exchanged, Alava was fortunate enough to reach Cadiz on board the shattered Santa Ana. Although severely wounded, he recovered and lived for many years. Cisneros, after a gallant resistance, also escaped, and was promoted Vice-Admiral in return for his distinguished services, later taking up the important positions of Captain-General and Minister of Marine. Magon, who fought his flagship the Algéçiras until he was struck dead after receiving several wounds, is one of the most glorious names in the naval annals of France. Three officers in turn were dangerously wounded before the tattered flag of the battered hulk was finally lowered. Of the other admirals, Cosmao retook the Santa Ana and the Neptuno, already noted, Dumanoir was court-martialed, and Gravina succumbed to his wounds as these words formed themselves on his almost nerveless lips: “I am a dying man, but I die happy; I am going, I hope and trust, to join Nelson, the greatest hero that the world perhaps has produced.”75 Escano was injured in the leg, but reached Spain safely. Napoleon’s officers paid dearly for the fight in Trafalgar Bay, but Villeneuve was the scapegoat of Napoleon’s ambition. On his return to France he took his own life.
Collingwood gave the number of prisoners as 20,000, and the monetary loss of the enemy nearly £4,000,000, “most of it gone to the bottom.” The British loss was 1690 killed and wounded; that of the allies 5860, although no exact figures are obtainable. The captives were taken to England, and the officers allowed on parole, but the seamen and soldiers of the extinguished Allied Fleet were sent to the prisons of Porchester, Forton, Weedon, Norman Cross, Mill Bay, and Stapleton, locked up in local gaols, or interned in hulks. By a cruel fate the Bahama and the Swiftsure were added to the number of the latter. Few exchanges were made, and so the poor fellows either died in exile or remained until the downfall of Napoleon secured them liberty.
Thus ended the battle of Trafalgar—Napoleon’s maritime Waterloo. The idea of a great military commander conducting operations at sea was proved to be impracticable, while the superior qualities of British seamanship were once more evident. The method of warfare practised by the combined fleet, that of aiming at the rigging and picking off combatants by sharp-shooting, was less successful than our own principle of aiming at the vital parts of the hull. Whereas the British succeeded in firing a gun nearly once a minute, it took three minutes for the Allied Fleet to do so. The total armament on the English vessels numbered 2148 guns, while the French had 1356, and the Spanish 1270, bringing the combined force to 2626.
Great Britain gained enormously in prestige as a result of Nelson’s overwhelming victory. Amongst other important consequences Trafalgar led Napoleon to enforce his disastrous Continental System, by means of which he hoped to exclude from the Continent the goods of his persistent enemy. This, in its turn, brought on the war with Russia, a big step towards the final catastrophe of Waterloo.
More than two weeks passed before the people of England received certain intelligence of the great rout of the enemy in Trafalgar Bay. On the 6th November 1805, guns at the Tower and elsewhere announced the victory, and the glad tidings flashed through the length and breadth of the land—
The heart of England throbbed from sea to sea.
But, alas! the idol of the nation lay dead in the keeping of his comrades and sorrowing England could never again greet in life the son who had loved her so well.
Nelson had touched the imagination of high and low, and only the sad circumstance of an early death in the moment of glorious victory was wanted to ensure him the proudest place in all the long annals of British naval history.
Mr William Canton has written an exquisite poem76 which well expresses the mingled feelings of elation and grief with which the nation received the great news. He imagines a “glittering autumn morning” in Chester, the Cathedral bells clashing a jubilant peal for the victory. But while yet the air is filled with the glad tongues of the joy-bells—
Hark, in pauses of the revel—sole and slow—
Old St Werburgh swung a heavy note of woe!
Hark, between the jocund peals a single toll,
Stern and muffled, marked the passing of a soul!
English hearts were sad that day as sad could be;
English eyes so filled with tears they scarce could see;
And all the joy was dashed with grief in ancient Chester on the Dee!
After Nelson’s remains had been embalmed at Gibraltar they were conveyed in the Victory to Portsmouth, which was reached on the 2nd December 1805. In the early days of the New Year there was a lying-in-state in the beautiful Painted Hall of Greenwich Hospital, but comparatively few of the many thousands of people who wished to pay a last tribute of respect to the Admiral’s memory were able to do so. The coffin, made out of the mainmast of the famous l’Orient which blew up at the Nile, enclosed in an outer case, was then removed to the Admiralty, where it remained until the 9th January 1806, the day of the public funeral. The Prince of Wales, Dukes of the realm, prelates, statesmen, admirals, aristocrats and plebeians crowded into St Paul’s Cathedral, a fitting shrine for the dust of the greatest sailor of the country—
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze.
An Earldom was conferred upon the Rev. William Nelson, a large sum of money was voted by Parliament for the purchase of an estate to be named after Trafalgar, and certain monies were given to the dead Admiral’s two sisters. By such means the country sought to discharge its heavy debt to the glorious memory of Nelson. Nothing was done for Lady Hamilton, and although, at the time of Nelson’s death, her income amounted to about £2000 a year she died in very reduced circumstances at Calais in the year of Waterloo. Her daughter, and in all probability Nelson’s, was married on the 24th February 1822 at Burnham, Norfolk, to the Rev. Phillip Ward, M.A. She is described as both witty and fascinating, and her portrait by Sir William Charles Ross makes one believe that she was so.
More than a century has passed since the great battle was fought “in Trafalgar’s Bay,” but the memory of the little, one-eyed, one-armed man is still treasured by those who believe, as he believed, that the strength of Great Britain rests upon her command of the sea.
For he is England’s admiral,
Till setting of her sun.