Two ships of Nelson’s column, as yet not engaged,—­the “Spartiate” and the “Minotaur,”—­were then just reaching the scene.  Being in the extreme rear, the lightness of the breeze had so far delayed them.  Arriving thus opportunely, they hauled to the wind so as to interpose between the “Victory” and the approaching van of the allies.  Covered now by two wholly fresh ships, the captain felt at liberty to quit the deck, in accordance with Nelson’s desire.  The two tried friends—­Hardy had been everywhere with him since the day of St. Vincent, and was faithful enough to speak to Lady Hamilton more freely than she liked—­shook hands affectionately.  “Well, Hardy,” said Nelson, “how goes the battle?  How goes the day with us?” “Very well, my Lord,” replied Hardy.  “We have got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships in our possession, but five of their van have tacked, and show an intention of bearing down upon the Victory.  I have therefore called two or three of our fresh ships round us, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”  “I hope none of our ships have struck, Hardy.”  “No, my Lord,” was the answer, “there is no fear of that.”  Nelson then said, “I am a dead man, Hardy.  I am going fast:  it will be all over with me soon.  Come nearer to me.  Pray let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair, and all other things belonging to me.”  Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life.  “Oh no!” replied Nelson; “it is impossible.  My back is shot through.  Beatty will tell you so.”  Hardy then returned to the deck, shaking hands again before parting.

Nelson now desired the surgeons to leave him to the attendants, as one for whom nothing could be done, and to give their professional care where it would be of some avail.  In a few moments he recalled the chief surgeon, and said, “I forgot to tell you that all power of motion and feeling below my breast are gone; and you very well know I can live but a short time.”  From the emphasis he placed on his words, the surgeon saw he was thinking of a case of spinal injury to a seaman some months before, which had proved mortal after many days’ suffering; yet it would seem that, despite the conviction that rested on his mind, the love of life, and of all it meant to him, yet clung to the hope that possibly there might be a reprieve.  “One would like to live a little longer,” he murmured; and added, “What would become of poor Lady Hamilton if she knew my situation!” “Beatty,” he said again, “you know I am gone.”  “My Lord,” replied the surgeon, with a noble and courteous simplicity, “unhappily for our country, nothing can be done for you;” and he turned away to conceal the emotion which he could not at once control.  “I know it,” said Nelson.  “I feel something rising in my breast,” putting his hand on his left side, “which tells me I am gone.  God be praised, I have done my duty.”  To this latter thought he continually recurred.