CHAPTER IX.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

"I saw before thy hearse pass on The comrades of thy peril and renown. The frequent tear upon their dauntless breasts Fell.

"I beheld the pomp thick gathered round Through armed ranks--a nation gazing on. Bright glowed the sun, and not a cloud distained Heaven's arch of gold; but all was gloom beneath.

"Awe and mute anguish fell On all. Yet high the public bosom throbbed With triumph."

There is one individual who, although mention has been made of him, has never yet appeared on the stage of our story, namely, Max Colmore, the son of Lady Colmore, and therefore Bertha's brother. Tom Bure had seen him only once or twice. The first time was when Tom--a very little boy then--was one day floating on the broad in his boat. Max, who was far older than he, had come to the bank with his gun on his shoulder, and ordered Tom to haul off on pain of being shot. Tom had obeyed, and forgiven his foe too for the sake of Bertha, but never had he forgotten the insult.

The second meeting was at the Hall after Tom's return from the Baltic. Our hero was by this time old enough to study the man and sum up his character, which he might have done, not only in a few words, but with three letters--F O P.

Tom wondered to himself how such a surly, haughty fellow as this, such a blood-proud fool, had been permitted to assume his Majesty's uniform; for he was then a captain in the army, and had even seen service in the wars.

Well, Tom Bure had quite as much aversion to a fop as his great chief, Nelson had, so he avoided Max as much as possible. Indeed, they would soon have quarrelled; for over his wine, of which he took a grown-up person's share, the captain talked almost disrespectfully of Nelson and "sailor fellows" in general.

Shockingly bad taste, you say? True, and the man was really no gentleman at heart.

Tom avoided him, therefore, for Bertha's sake, and although this was to be his last visit to the Hall for many and many a long day, he even cut this visit short.

After he had bidden good-bye to Lady Colmore and other guests, he simply bowed stiffly to Max, who was gaping at him through an eye-glass, and took his departure.

Slowly, through the shrubbery he was walking towards his boat when he heard a light step behind him.

He turned quickly.

"Dearest Bertha," he said gently, "I knew you'd come."

The girl was crying.

"Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed, "it seems all so sad and terrible, your going away like this. And something seems to say to me I shall never, never see you more."

"You mustn't talk so, my more than sister," said Tom. "True I am going away, but I shall return, safe and sound. I'm not going to be killed, Bertha, and I'm not going to lose a leg, like poor Merryweather. So you see I shall be able to dance on your wedding-day."

"Mamma says I am too young to think of the future, but she means to give me to some lord or another, and Max doesn't mind. I'm going to be sold, Tom."

"Bertha!" cried Tom, "sooner than you should be given away to a man you didn't care for, were he the proudest noble in Britain, I'd----"

There was the sound of voices heard coming towards them through the shrubbery, and so Tom's sentence was never finished.

* * * * *

Nearly four years had passed away. Busy and eventful years indeed they had been to both Tom Bure and to Raventree.

Not once in all that time had either of them seen home or friends. They had been kept constantly active, and pretty constantly in action. Tom had been much with Nelson, not in the same ships, but on the same service. He had been here and there in many lands too, for many of his duties had been to form a convoy to trading ships.

It was his fate, nevertheless, to be present at the great naval engagement of Trafalgar--a name that is never heard even to this day by a true Briton without a feeling of pride and patriotism.

Nelson had been on half-pay for a time. Perhaps he never expected to serve again. Nevertheless he came, like the hero he was, to his country's aid at his country's call.

I need not remind my reader of Napoleon's pet ambition, the invasion of England--he never could have reached Scotland--nor of that grand review he held on his birthday, August 15th, 1804, at Boulogne, surrounded by his dignitaries of State, his marshals, his ministers, his sailors and soldiers, or how liberally he distributed the ribbon of the Legion of Honour.

"Let us be masters of the Channel," he pompously exclaimed, "for six hours, and we are masters of the world!"

There was somewhat of honour to us in this sentence of the Emperor, for in smashing Britain he should certainly smash the world.

But the death of his chief admiral threw his scheme in abeyance for a time. Yet having the disposal of the Spanish fleet, he believed in 1805 that he had only to crush our squadrons in order to open the British door, and walk quietly in.

There is sometimes a good deal in that little word only, however. If you, reader, want to open a door and walk into a room, even if you are six feet high, and strong in proportion, as doubtless you are, you will find that you have attempted a task beyond your strength if behind that door there is stationed even a very, tiny man with his foot against it.

Now Britain had just such a little man to stand behind her door.

The little man was Nelson.

And the little man made a vow that he would put his foot against the door, and keep Napoleon Bonaparte on the other side of it.

And the little man did.

* * * * *

My readers have all heard tell and read of the marvellous chase by Nelson of the combined fleets of France and Spain. I may possibly be hauled up on the quarter-deck for calling it a chase, but really it was as much so as it was a search. He followed them all the way to the West Indies; he heard they were bound for Trinidad. He would have followed and drubbed them there, but the information was false, and only meant to mislead him. He would have followed them round the world, and drubbed them, just as he followed them back to Europe, and drubbed them there at last. And such a drubbing he administered to them!

History has no other such great naval fight as that of Trafalgar on record. No parallel to it.

I have, however, no intention of describing the Battle of Trafalgar. To do so would be to insult the British schoolmaster, and question the knowledge of the most ordinary British school-board boy--whoever that may be--who has mastered even an epitome of our nation's story.

NELSON'S LAST DAYS AND HOURS.

I think that a man who is universally loved must be good and true at heart. Nelson's was a heart of oak in one sense of the term, but it was a tender and feeling heart nevertheless, and he wore it, figuratively speaking, on his sleeve. His kind and gentle nature could be read in his eyes, as well as in his every action, private as well as public. His men loved him, his officers, more especially his midshipmen, loved him, and the people loved him. Ah! there is no deceiving or dissembling before the people. In the matter of affection and good-heartedness, it is as impossible to deceive the people as it is to deceive a dog, and that is saying a deal.

As I sit here writing in my country home, I have but to place my hand before my eyes, and scene after scene rises up before my mental vision of Nelson's last days and hours.

SCENE I. It is the night of September 13th, 1805, and half-past ten of that night, and the hero is leaving Merton--a home of his in the country. But see, ere he leaves the house, he goes on tiptoe, fearful lest he should wake her, to the bedroom where his little girl Horatia lies sleeping. He gazes long and fondly at her, he softly kisses her, then kneels beside her bed with tear-filled eyes upturned to heaven to crave a blessing on her. I see him kneeling thus and there at this moment.

SCENE II. It is very early on the morning of the 14th. Hardly has the autumn day began to dawn, yet all around the George Inn, Portsmouth, dense crowds have gathered to catch but a glimpse of the naval hero before his embarkation. He had their huzzas many a time before, but now he has their hearts. They follow him even to the water's edge, they press forward to catch a sight of his face; many are in tears, and many kneel down and bless him as he passes. They love him as true and fervidly as he loves England. But, alas! they will never, never see him more.

SCENE III. Nelson has joined his fleet off Cadiz. Though at his express desire no guns are fired, no colours shown, that the enemy may be kept in ignorance of the arrival of a reinforcement, the loving-kindness and joy shown at his arrival cause him "the sweetest sensation of his life." The officers who come on board to welcome his return forget even his rank as commander-in-chief, in the enthusiasm with which they greet him. He cannot for a time speak for emotion. But he regains his voice at last, and then while they crowd around the table he proceeds to explain to them his previously arranged plans for attacking the enemy. That, he says, is the "Nelson touch." They see it all in a moment. It is a touch of true genius. So new, so singular, so simple. Some of them are even affected to tears, so much are their minds relieved by the prospect, nay, the very certainty of victory now before them.

SCENE IV. It is the very eve of battle, and among his warlike and busy thoughts those of home come crowding uppermost, and down he must sit all alone in his cabin to write to his little Horatia. Only a little letter, but how full of love and affectionate thoughtfulness.

"MY DEAREST ANGEL,--I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving your letter, and I rejoice to hear you are so very good a girl. The combined fleets of the enemy are now reported to be coming out of Cadiz; and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. I shall be sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to dear Merton. Be a good girl, mind what Miss Connor says to you. Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessing of your father,

"NELSON AND BRONTE."

SCENE V. Ah! this scene is one which is almost too gloriously dreadful to contemplate. But I can see our noble fleet advancing in two columns to crash through the enemy's battle line. And now the flashing guns, and the white wreathing smoke--the tapering masts, with flags unfurled, towering and swaying high above the battle clouds. But this scene fades momentarily from my view, or rather it resolves itself into another and a sadder.

SCENE VI. Nelson and Hardy on the battle-deck, in the very thick of the dreadful engagement. And, see, Nelson sinks rather than falls, and his faithful Hardy springs to his side. On that very spot his secretary, Scott, was killed some time before, and the blood, still fresh, stains our hero's clothes. I see him being borne tenderly below to the cockpit. I see him--kindly-hearted even in the hour of death--place his handkerchief over his face that his brave fellows may not know 'tis he, their own loved admiral, who is being carried below.

[Illustration: "The death of Nelson."]

SCENE VII. The cockpit. The dimly-burning lights, the smoke, the heat, and against the bulkheads the wounded, the dying, and the dead. The surgeons half naked, with blood-sprinked faces, arms, and garments; the "idlers"--all too busy here. Moan and groan and mournful cry. What a terrible scene! What a fearful place to die in!

But as the hero is borne down here, even wounded men forget their own pains and misery as they draw the chief surgeon's attention to the bearers.

"Doctor, doctor," they cry, "it is the admiral! It is Lord Nelson himself!"

The dying Hero is borne tenderly into the midshipmen's berth, and laid upon a bed. Even the surgeon, who hastens to help him, sees how unavailing all his efforts must be. The poor admiral can read his doom written in the surgeon's pitying face. Yet it only confirms what he himself had thought before. His days are numbered, his hour is come. He is in pain, in agony, so much so that he wishes death would come to relieve him--wishes it were all, all over; and yet not for a little. Hardy he must see, and it seems such an interminable time before he can come to him. "Will no one bring him?" he moans piteously. "Perhaps he is slain. He is surely dead."

But overhead the battle rages on and on, and he can hear the wild "hurrahs!" of the men as ship after ship strikes her flag.

Hardy comes at last and bends mournfully over him, utterly unable to suppress his emotion. But Hardy must tell him how the battle goes. Then this faithful officer, with a heart bursting with emotion, shakes hands, and rushes once again to his post on deck.

But see! Hardy has returned; and Nelson can talk now only of the dear ones at home.

"God bless you, Hardy," he says feebly, and shortly after, "Thank God, _I have done my duty!_"

And these are the last words the Hero speaks. His breast heaves, there is one long-drawn, but half-stifled sigh, and--_Nelson is no more_.