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. “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.