Both Royal Sovereign and Santa Ana were badly battered, although the British ship was finally prevailing over her enemy. But for Brax the news was disheartening: No specific moment had arisen during the hours of battle in which he could distinguish himself before either Captain Rotheram or Admiral Collingwood. Collingwood had even taken a bad leg wound from a splinter, but Brax had been off on some errand or other, and so had not been on hand to help the admiral. Or to somehow take the shrapnel for him.
He’d nothing to be ashamed of, for he’d fought as valiantly and with as much courage as every other crew member. There just wasn’t a decisive moment of heroism on his part.
Was his time in the navy worth it?
Marguerite’s sojourn away from the operating theatre had felt like hours. She lifted the watch from where it was pinned onto her jacket to read the time. The face was completely encased in dust. She wiped it with the sleeve on her other arm to check the time. It was fifteen minutes past one o’clock.
At least the noise on the orlop was reduced to a dull roar as compared to the decks above. She even removed the plugs from her ears as she moved back and forth between helping wounded men get positioned around the deck and assisting Mr. Beatty with his sweltering, messy work.
An unusual clattering on the stairs accompanied raised voices that could be heard above the din. On seeing who had just been brought down, all activity ceased on the orlop; the only sounds were those of the battle raging above, punctuated by the groans of the wounded who did not realize what was happening.
Several wild-eyed members of the admiral’s staff clambered into the orlop, including a man in chaplain’s dress. Behind them, and supported by a marine and two seamen—Darden and a man she’d heard referred to as Sandilands—was Nelson, drenched in blood. His green eyeshade was askew, and his face was completely drained of color. Nelson greeted the surgeon. “Ah, Mr. Beatty! You can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live. My back is shot through.”
The surgeon quickly recovered from his own shock and signaled to have his table cleared of its patient and a clean piece of canvas laid on top of it. Darden and the other two attendants gently lifted Nelson and laid him on the table. Mr. Beatty then motioned for Marguerite to join him.
She passed Darden and searched his face for an explanation, but it was as pale as Nelson’s and only reflected his abject misery. The other officers glanced curiously at Marguerite in her uniform but were too preoccupied to make comment.
“Quickly, Mrs. Ashby, we must make the admiral comfortable,” urged Mr. Beatty.
Together they worked to strip him of most of his uniform, working carefully not to move him too much. Nelson didn’t seem to care much. Marguerite retrieved as clean a blanket as she could find and spread it over the admiral.
While she and Mr. Beatty worked, Nelson continued to talk in a calm and composed tone.
His good eye first landed on the chaplain. “Dr. Scott, I told you so. I am gone.” Nelson paused briefly and added in a low voice, “I have to leave Lady Hamilton, and my adopted daughter Horatia, as a legacy to my country.”
Before the good chaplain could respond, Mr. Beatty interrupted. “Your lordship, I’m afraid I must examine your wound to discover the course of the ball. I will endeavor to do so without putting you in much pain.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Beatty, but assuredly my back has been shot through.”
Marguerite watched as the surgeon worked to trace the ball from its deep penetration into Nelson’s chest. “Your lordship,” Mr. Beatty said, “tell me of all the sensations you feel.”
Nelson grunted. “I feel a gush of blood every minute within my breast, but no feeling in the lower part of my body. Breathing is difficult.”
Mr. Beatty looked up at Marguerite as though Nelson had said something quite significant, but she had no idea what it was.
“And what of your back, sir?”
“I have very severe pain in my spine where the ball struck, and I felt it break my back.”
The surgeon probed Nelson’s chest and side a bit further. “My lord, I believe I’ve discovered the path the ball took. Please rest while I confer with my assistants over the best way to proceed.”
Marguerite rolled the blanket up over Nelson’s shoulders to warm him while Mr. Beatty stepped away, and placed two more rolled-up blankets under his shoulders to prop him up. To her surprise, Mr. Beatty didn’t confer with Messrs. Smith and Westemburg but instead motioned to Nelson’s staff members, including Darden, and the group of men huddled together out of Nelson’s sight. Activity on the deck resumed, with ambulatory men staying respectfully away from Nelson’s makeshift bed.
Marguerite focused on her patient. “Sir, would you like some water?”
“Yes, yes, water. Need a drink.”
She helped him take the cool liquid, which revived him a little.
“My thanks, madam.” He gazed up at her with his good eye, as though just seeing her for the first time. He gasped, but she wasn’t sure if it was in pain or recognition.
“You’re the waxworker, aren’t you? Why are you still here? And why are you in a uniform? Weren’t you transferred to the Pickle?”
“No, sir. Mr. Beatty requested that Captain Hardy let me stay to help out in the operating theatre. I obtained this uniform so I could move around easily on the quarterdeck. I came up to see the captain and to help Lieutenant Hastings move your wax figure on deck. Did you see it?” Marguerite added another blanket to Nelson’s shivering body and patted his face with a cloth dipped in water. She wished she had a lemon nearby to squeeze into the cup, which would make it more refreshing for the admiral.
“Yes, I saw it.” Nelson grunted again. “I nearly tossed Hastings overboard when I saw it. The fool thing was supposed to be brought up only if something happened to me. Hastings thought it would be a good decoy. I thought it an assault on my dignity.” Nelson went silent for a moment, as if thinking about it.
“Hate to admit he was right. Redoubtable focused her energies on that wax figure and off the other men on deck. Shot it to bits. Her crew stopped firing and began cheering. Thought they had conquered His Majesty’s navy. Gave us a chance to reestablish our dominance in the fight.”
Nelson screwed his face up in pain and touched his chest. “I feel another gushing. No matter. I’ll be done soon enough. Once we had the advantage again I stepped down to the fo’c’sle, and someone perched up in the Redoubtable’s masts realized they’d been mistaken in their impression of my demise. I’m certain my death ball came from a sharpshooter up in her mizzenmast.”
Nelson sighed. “I suppose Mr. Pitt must be told he was right about the wax figures. He’ll have a laugh at my expense, won’t he?” He grabbed Marguerite’s arm with his good hand in a viselike grip that belied his weakened state. “You’ll take the message to him, won’t you? Tell him I concede to his tactical brilliance on that one matter only.”
“Of course, my lord,” she replied.
Nelson released her arm. “But are we won for the day? I pray God doesn’t take me until I know. I must know if we’re victorious or not.”
Marguerite had no idea how to respond. She patted his forehead again with cool water.
“Fan, fan,” Nelson muttered. Marguerite ran and found her sheaf of stationery bundled up with her dress in the dispensary and waved it on his face, which seemed to bring him comfort.
The wait for the surgeon’s return was endless, even though only a short time had passed since Nelson was brought down. She glanced at her watch again. It was forty-five minutes past the hour of one.
Mr. Beatty finally broke away and returned, and most of the admiral’s staff that had crashed its way down the stairs, including Darden, came to stand watch at Nelson’s side. Marguerite thought Darden looked sickly, but her energies were concentrated on her patient.
After moments of quiet, Nelson became agitated again. “Where is Captain Hardy? Why hasn’t he come to see me?”
Mr. Burke, the purser, had
joined the staff gathered round the admiral and spoke up. “He is commanding a great victory topside, sir, and will be down as soon as the enemy is defeated.”
“Nonsense, all nonsense.” Nelson was quiet again. His breathing was labored.
Messages were repeatedly sent up to Captain Hardy to come and attend on the admiral, but thus far the captain had not come down himself, merely sending a return message that he would avail himself of the first favorable moment to visit his lordship.
Minutes later Nelson’s eyes flew open again. “Where is Hardy? Will no one bring him to me? He must be killed. Surely he is destroyed.”
Dr. Scott, the chaplain, tried also to comfort the admiral, but to no avail.
Hardy at last came down at almost two-thirty to pay a quick visit. He and Nelson shook hands affectionately and Nelson said, “Well, Hardy, how goes the battle? How goes the day with us?”
“Very well, my lord,” Hardy replied. “We have got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships in our possession, but five of their vanguard have tacked, and show an intention of bearing down on Victory. I have therefore called two or three of our fresh ships round us, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”
“Ah, excellent. I hope,” said Nelson, “none of our ships have struck their colors, Hardy.”
“No, my lord, there is no fear of that.”
“Then I am greatly encouraged.” Nelson closed his eyes again.
Soon Nelson was calling fitfully for Captain Hardy again. He seemed to derive comfort only from the presence of his friend and colleague. Hardy stepped back into Nelson’s view.
“I am a dead man, Hardy. I am going fast. It will be all over with me soon. Pray, let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair so she can make a memento, and give her all other things belonging to me.”
“Your lordship, does Mr. Beatty hold out no prospect for your life?”
“Oh no! It is impossible. My back is shot through. Beatty will tell you so.”
Hardy looked to the surgeon, who nodded sadly.
“Nelson, you may trust that I will follow your requests exactly, although I will never give up hope of your recovery.”
The two men clasped hands before Hardy returned to the upper deck to resume his duties.
Out of her perpetual habit, Marguerite looked at her watch again. It was three o’clock.
Mr. Beatty signaled Marguerite away from Nelson’s side and escorted her to the dispensary to speak privately.
“You must know, Mrs. Ashby, that nothing can be done for Lord Nelson.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No. When he told me of the gushing he feels in his chest, I checked his pulse. I believe that he is hemorrhaging such that his entire body cavity is being filled. Some months ago there was another man on Victory with similar complaints as Nelson’s after a spinal injury. He expired in a short time. I’m certain Nelson remembers the man, thus why he knows he’s finished.” Beatty’s voice broke. “I cannot save him.”
Marguerite tried to contain her shock and remain calm. “But … what will happen to the fleet? To our likelihood of victory?”
Mr. Beatty wiped an eye. “Lord Collingwood is next in command and is surely able to carry out the day. But I must caution you. Only the captain and those of the admiral’s staff down here now, plus Smith and Westemburg, know that the admiral’s wound is fatal. No one else must know. It would be devastating for the crew to learn that Nelson was not long for the world.”
Marguerite herself felt the walls of the ship crumbling in on her. The navy without Nelson? Impossible. She mustered a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Beatty, for your confidence in me. And now we should return to the patient.”
The surgeon escorted her out, but she didn’t get any farther than Darden’s side.
“Lieutenant! You look ghastly.” Darden’s face had gone from pale white to a greenish cast, and he was weaving back and forth. Mr. Beatty left her to cope with the lieutenant while he went back to make Nelson as comfortable as possible.
She put Darden’s arm around her shoulder and escorted him to one of a few free spots on the deck, under the stairs and well away from Nelson. He fell to the floor heavily.
“Darden! What happened?” She dropped to her knees and quickly began loosening his clothing.
“I don’t know. I got a little light-headed standing near Lord Nelson. Perhaps it’s just too confined down here.” Darden cocked himself onto one elbow. “Listen!”
Marguerite stopped. “I hear nothing.”
“Right. Our cannon have stopped. I pray we haven’t struck our colors. We can’t both lose Nelson and lose to the French.”
“Nor can we lose you, Lieutenant. My, but this boot is wedged onto your leg.”
Darden gasped in pain. “What are you doing to me, woman?”
“Just trying to make you comfortable.”
“Well, you’re not. You’re tearing my foot off at the ankle.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be wearing boots. Perhaps you should be barefoot like the rest of us.” She brought one stained foot forward to show him.
Darden laughed despite his pain. “Most impressive, sailor. You should be instructing crew in proper dress. Ahhh!” He winced as Marguerite finally yanked his boot off with a great sucking sound.
Blood spurted everywhere.
“You’re injured! When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recall anything.”
Marguerite threw the boot aside and inspected his foot. She found a gash near his ankle. Grabbing the boot again, she scrutinized it and found a tear near the bottom. She turned it upside down and shook it. A sharp, bloodied piece of wood shrapnel tumbled out. She held it up for him to see.
“You didn’t feel this slice your foot?”
“I felt nothing.” Darden began shivering.
She threw the boot and the projectile aside to get him some water and a blanket. She sought out one of the surgeon’s assistants, but they were both busy with other patients, and she didn’t dare interrupt Mr. Beatty’s attendance on Nelson. She would have to take care of this herself. Adding a roll of bandages and scissors to her collection of goods, she returned to Darden.
He drank the water greedily, then eyed the bandages and scissors. “You don’t intend on removing my foot for its small offense, do you?”
“No! I mean, I wouldn’t know how to do that. Forgive me. What I really mean is that I’m going to look at your ankle again, but I don’t think there is any shrapnel left in it, which means I’ll just bandage you up tightly to try to staunch the blood flow.” She cut away the lower part of his stocking to fully expose his foot, snipped a length of bandage, and wound it firmly and repeatedly up and over his ankle, securing it at the top of his foot. Marguerite’s ministrations seemed to have some good effect, for the color was already returning to his face.
“Lieutenant, I’m afraid you’re going to survive.”
“My mother will be ecstatic. And now you’ll need to put my boot back on.”
“You’ll recover much better here without your foot confined in it.”
“That would be true if I planned to stay here recovering. But Captain Hardy will need me more than ever without Lord Nelson. He’ll need every available officer.”
“But you’re not really in any condition to—”
“Please put my boot back on.”
“I really think you should lie here for at least—”
“My boot.”
Stubborn, dutiful Darden had returned to the scene, and she knew better than to continue arguing with him. With a sigh, she gently replaced the torn boot on his bandaged foot.
She helped him to his feet, where he wobbled unsteadily before regaining his posture and straightening his soiled, sweat-encrusted jacket.
Marguerite shook her head. “You are completely impossible, Lieutenant Hastings.”
“Feel free to chastise me after we’ve won the day. For now I must take my leave of you. I’ve rested long enough.” Darden st
epped gingerly on his newly wrapped foot, but, realizing he could put pressure on it easily, was soon making his way off the orlop back to the quarterdeck, where the great cannon had resumed firing.
Meanwhile, Nelson continued to decline. “Fan, fan. Water,” he continued to request, and Marguerite took turns with Dr. Scott and Mr. Beatty to comply with his wishes. Marguerite also found some pillows and used them to bolster him up into a near sitting position.
Nelson seemed more content now. In fact, he now gave his attention to other wounded sailors in the orlop, insisting that Mr. Beatty and his assistants return to the wounded and let him be.
“For,” he said once again, “you can do nothing for me.”
The surgeon obeyed and for a few minutes he, Smith, and Westemburg busied themselves with other patients while Marguerite stayed close to Nelson to tend to his needs.
But soon Nelson wanted Mr. Beatty again, to emphasize once more his imminent mortality.
“Ah, Mr. Beatty! I have sent for you to say, what I forgot to tell you before, that all power and motion and feeling below my breast are gone, just as happened to that midshipman not so long ago, so you very well know I can live but a short time.”
Nelson’s emphatic manner left the surgeon nodding his head miserably. “My lord, you told me so before. I had merely hoped …”
Mr. Beatty pulled the blanket down in an attempt to examine Nelson again, but the admiral stopped him. “Ah, Beatty! I am too certain of it. Scott and Burke have also tried to hope on my behalf. You know I am gone.”
The surgeon replied in utter dejection, “My lord, unhappily for our country, you are right. Nothing can be done for you,” and withdrew out of Nelson’s line of sight to conceal his emotions.
Nelson put a hand on his left side. “I know it. I feel something rising in my breast which tells me I am gone.”
Marguerite and Mr. Burke resumed fanning the admiral, who was sweating profusely once again.
“God be praised. I have done my duty,” he said.
Nelson and Darden could have been birthed from the same mother. Duty was their only focus.
A Royal Likeness Page 35