and, indeed, ran the risk of igniting
them. Thus the French marksmen that crowded the tops of the
_Redoutable_ had it all their own way; and as the distance was short,
and their aim deadly, nearly every man on the poop, quarter-deck, and
forecastle of the _Victory_ was shot down.

Nelson, with Hardy by his side, was walking backwards and forwards on a
little clear space of the _Victory's_ quarter-deck, when he suddenly
swung round and fell face downwards on the deck. Hardy picked him up.
"They have done for me at last, Hardy," said Nelson; "my backbone is
shot through." A musket bullet from the _Redoutable's_
mizzen-top--only fifteen yards distant--had passed through the forepart
of the epaulette, smashed a path through the left shoulder, and lodged
in the spine. The evidence seems to make it clear that it was a chance
shot that wrought the fatal mischief. Hardy had twice the bulk of
Nelson's insignificant figure, and wore a more striking uniform, and
would certainly have attracted the aim of a marksman in preference to
Nelson.

Few stories are more pathetic or more familiar than that of Nelson's
last moments. As they carried the dying hero across the blood-splashed
decks, and down the ladders into the cock-pit, he drew a handkerchief
over his own face and over the stars on his breast, lest the knowledge
that he was struck down should discourage his crew. He was stripped,
his wound probed, and it was at once known to be mortal. Nelson
suffered greatly; he was consumed with thirst, had to be fanned with
sheets of paper; and he kept constantly pushing away the sheet, the
sole covering over him, saying, "Fan, fan," or "Drink, drink," and one
attendant was constantly employed in drawing the sheet over his thin
limbs and emaciated body. Presently Hardy, snatching a moment from the
fight raging on the deck, came to his side, and the two comrades
clasped hands. "Well, Hardy, how goes the battle?" Nelson asked. He
was told that twelve or fourteen of the enemy's ships had struck.
"That is well," said Nelson, "but I had bargained for twenty." Then
his seaman's brain forecasting the change of weather, and picturing the
battered ships with their prizes on a lee shore, he exclaimed
emphatically, "Anchor! Hardy, anchor!" Hardy hinted that Collingwood
would take charge of affairs. "Not while I live, I hope, Hardy," said
the dying chief, trying to raise himself on his bed. "No! do you
anchor, Hardy."

Many of Nelson