THE SAME. THE COCKPIT OF THE “VICTORY” [A din of trampling and dragging overhead, which is accompanied by a continuos ground-bass roar from the guns of the warring fleets, culminating at times in loud concussions. The wounded are lying around in rows for treatment, some groaning, some silently dying, some dead. The gloomy atmosphere of the low- beamed deck is pervaded by a thick haze of smoke, powdered wood, and other dust, and is heavy with the fumes of gunpowder and candle-grease, the odour of drugs and cordials, and the smell from abdominal wounds. NELSON, his face now pinched and wan with suffering, is lying undressed in a midshipman’s berth, dimly lit by a lantern. DR. BEATTY, DR. MAGRATH, the Rev. DR. SCOTT the Chaplain, BURKE the Purser, the Steward, and a few others stand around.]

MAGRATH [in a low voice] Poor Ram, and poor Tom Whipple, have just gone..

BEATTY There was no hope for them. NELSON [brokenly] Who have just died?

BEATTY Two who were badly hit by now, my lord; Lieutenant Ram and Mr. Whipple.

NELSON Ah! So many lives—in such a glorious cause.... I join them soon, soon, soon!—O where is Hardy? Will nobody bring Hardy to me—none? He must be killed, too. Surely Hardy’s dead?

A MIDSHIPMAN He’s coming soon, my lord. The constant call On his full heed of this most mortal fight Keeps him from hastening hither as he would.

NELSON I’ll wait, I’ll wait. I should have thought of it. [Presently HARDY comes down. NELSON and he grasp hands.] Hardy, how goes the day with us and England?

HARDY Well; very well, thank God for’t, my dear lord. Villeneuve their Admiral has this moment struck, And put himself aboard the “Conqueror.” Some fourteen of their first-rates, or about, Thus far we’ve got. The said “Bucentaure” chief: The “Santa Ana,” the “Redoubtable,” The “Fougueux,” the “Santisima Trinidad,” “San Augustino, “San Francisco,” “Aigle”; And our old “Swiftsure,” too, we’ve grappled back, To every seaman’s joy. But now their van Has tacked to bear round on the “Victory” And crush her by sheer weight of wood and brass: Three of our best I am therefore calling up, And make no doubt of worsting theirs, and France.

NELSON That’s well. I swore for twenty.—But it’s well.

HARDY We’ll have ’em yet! But without you, my lord, We have to make slow plodding do the deeds That sprung by inspiration ere you fell; And on this ship the more particularly.

NELSON No, Hardy.—Ever ’twas your settled fault So modestly to whittle down your worth. But I saw stuff in you which admirals need When, taking thought, I chose the “Victory’s” keel To do my business with these braggarts in. A business finished now, for me!—Good friend, Slow shades are creeping me... I scarce see you.

HARDY The smoke from ships upon our win’ard side, And the dust raised by their worm-eaten hulks, When our balls touch ’em, blind the eyes, in truth.

NELSON No; it is not that dust; ’tis dust of death That darkens me. [A shock overhead. HARDY goes up. On or two other officers go up, and by and by return.] What was that extra noise?

OFFICER The “Formidable’ passed us by, my lord, And thumped a stunning broadside into us.— But, on their side, the “Hero’s” captain’s fallen; The “Algeciras” has been boarded, too, By Captain Tyler, and the captain shot: Admiral Gravina desperately holds out; They say he’s lost an arm.

NELSON And we, ourselves— Who have we lost on board here? Nay, but tell me!

BEATTY Besides poor Scott, my lord, and Charles Adair, Lieutenant Ram, and Whipple, captain’s clerk, There’s Smith, and Palmer, midshipmen, just killed. And fifty odd of seamen and marines.

NELSON Poor youngsters! Scarred old Nelson joins you soon.

BEATTY And wounded: Bligh, lieutenant; Pasco, too, and Reeves, and Peake, lieutenants of marines, And Rivers, Westphall, Bulkeley, midshipmen, With, of the crew, a hundred odd just now, Unreckoning those late fallen not brought below.

BURKE That fellow in the mizzen-top, my lord, Who made it his affair to wing you thus, We took good care to settle; and he fell Like an old rook, smack from his perch, stone dead.

NELSON ’Twas not worth while!—He was, no doubt, a man Who in simplicity and sheer good faith Strove but to serve his country. Rest be to him! And may his wife, his friends, his little ones, If such be had, be tided through their loss, And soothed amid the sorrow brought by me. [HARDY re-enters.] Who’s that? Ah—here you come! How, Hardy, now?

HARDY The Spanish Admiral’s rumoured to be wounded, We know not with what truth. But, be as ’twill, He sheers away with all he could call round, And some few frigates, straight to Cadiz port. [A violent explosion is heard above the confused noises on deck. A midshipman goes above and returns.]

MIDSHIPMAN [in the background] It is the enemy’s first-rate, the “Achille,” Blown to a thousand atoms!—While on fire, Before she burst, the captain’s woman there, Desperate for life, climbed from the gunroom port Upon the rudder-chains; stripped herself stark, And swam for the Pickle’s boat. Our men in charge, Seeing her great breasts bulging on the brine, Sang out, “A mermaid ’tis, by God!”—then rowed And hauled her in.—

BURKE Such unbid sights obtrude On death’s dyed stage!

MIDSHIPMAN Meantime the “Achille” fought on, Even while the ship was blazing, knowing well The fire must reach their powder; which it did. The spot is covered now with floating men, Some whole, the main in parts; arms, legs, trunks, heads, Bobbing with tons of timber on the waves, And splinter looped with entrails of the crew.

NELSON [rousing] Our course will be to anchor. Let me know.

HARDY But let me ask, my lord, as needs I must, Seeing your state, and that our work’s not done, Shall I, from you, bid Admiral Collingwood Take full on him the conduct of affairs?

NELSON [trying to raise himself] Not while I live, I hope! No, Hardy; no. Give Collingwood my order. Anchor all!

HARDY [hesitating] You mean the signal’s to be made forthwith?

NELSON I do!—By God, if but our carpenter Could rig me up a jury-backbone now, To last one hour—until the battle’s done, I’d see to it! But here I am—stove in— Broken—all logged and done for! Done, ay done!

BEATTY [returning from the other wounded] My lord, I must implore you to lie calm! You shorten what at best may not be long.

NELSON [exhausted] I know, I know, good Beatty! Thank you well Hardy, I was impatient. Now I am still. Sit here a moment, if you have time to spare? [BEATTY and others retire, and the two abide in silence, except for the trampling overhead and the moans from adjoining berths. NELSON is apparently in less pain, seeming to doze.]

NELSON [suddenly] What are you thinking, that you speak no word?

HARDY [waking from a short reverie] Thoughts all confused, my lord:—their needs on deck, Your own sad state, and your unrivalled past; Mixed up with flashes of old things afar— Old childish things at home, down Wessex way. In the snug village under Blackdon Hill Where I was born. The tumbling stream, the garden, The placid look of the grey dial there, Marking unconsciously this bloody hour, And the red apples on my father’s trees, Just now full ripe.

NELSON Ay, thus do little things Steal into my mind, too. But ah, my heart Knows not your calm philosophy!—There’s one— Come nearer to me, Hardy.—One of all, As you well guess, pervades my memory now; She, and my daughter—I speak freely to you. ’Twas good I made that codicil this morning That you and Blackwood witnessed. Now she rests Safe on the nation’s honour.... Let her have My hair, and the small treasured things I owned, And take care of her, as you care for me! [HARDY promises.]

NELSON [resuming in a murmur] Does love die with our frame’s decease, I wonder, Or does it live on ever?... [A silence. BEATTY approaches.]

HARDY Now I’ll leave, See if your order’s gone, and then return.

NELSON [symptoms of death beginning to change his face] Yes, Hardy; yes; I know it. You must go.— Here we shall meet no more; since Heaven forfend That care for me should keep you idle now, When all the ship demands you. Beatty, too. Go to the others who lie bleeding there; Them can you aid. Me you can render none! My time here is the briefest.—If I live But long enough I’ll anchor.... But—too late— My anchoring’s elsewhere ordered!... Kiss me, Hardy: [HARDY bends over him.] I’m satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty! [HARDY brushes his eyes with his hand, and withdraws to go above, pausing to look back before he finally disappears.]

BEATTY [watching Nelson] Ah!—Hush around!... He’s sinking. It is but a trifle now Of minutes with him. Stand you, please, aside, And give him air. [BEATTY, the Chaplain, MAGRATH, the Steward, and attendants continue to regard NELSON. BEATTY looks at his watch.]

BEATTY Two hours and fifty minutes since he fell, And now he’s going. [They wait. NELSON dies.]

CHAPLAIN Yes.... He has homed to where There’s no more sea.

BEATTY We’ll let the Captain know, Who will confer with Collingwood at once. I must now turn to these. [He goes to another part of the cockpit, a midshipman ascends to the deck, and the scene overclouds.]

CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music] His thread was cut too slowly! When he fell. And bade his fame farewell, He might have passed, and shunned his long-drawn pain, Endured in vain, in vain!

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Young Spirits, be not critical of That Which was before, and shall be after you!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES But out of tune the Mode and meritless That quickens sense in shapes whom, thou hast said, Necessitation sways! A life there was Among these self-same frail ones—Sophocles— Who visioned it too clearly, even while He dubbed the Will “the gods.” Truly said he, “Such gross injustice to their own creation Burdens the time with mournfulness for us, And for themselves with shame.”9—Things mechanized By coils and pivots set to foreframed codes Would, in a thorough-sphered melodic rule, And governance of sweet consistency, Be cessed no pain, whose burnings would abide With That Which holds responsibility, Or inexist.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES Yea, yea, yea! Thus would the Mover pay The score each puppet owes, The Reaper reap what his contrivance sows! Why make Life debtor when it did not buy? Why wound so keenly Right that it would die?

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Nay, blame not! For what judgment can ye blame?— In that immense unweeting Mind is shown One far above forethinking; processive, Yet superconscious; a Clairvoyancy That knows not what It knows, yet works therewith.— The cognizance ye mourn, Life’s doom to feel, If I report it meetly, came unmeant, Emerging with blind gropes from impercipience By listless sequence—luckless, tragic Chance, In your more human tongue.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES And hence unneeded In the economy of Vitality, Which might have ever kept a sealed cognition As doth the Will Itself.

CHORUS OF THE YEARS [aerial music] Nay, nay, nay; Your hasty judgments stay, Until the topmost cyme Have crowned the last entablature of Time. O heap not blame on that in-brooding Will; O pause, till all things all their days fulfil!