“HARDY,” SAID ADMIRAL HORATIO NELSON as he lay dying in the gloom of the Victory’s lowest deck, his face lit only by the faint glow of horn lanterns.

“This damned musket ball has fair done for me and – oh.”

William Beatty, the surgeon eased the admiral into a more comfortable position as Captain Thomas Masterton Hardy knelt down beside Nelson.

“But Hardy,” gasped Nelson as the blood began to bubble up and flow from his pierced lung, “now that I am breathing my last, I feel I must reveal to you that I have a rather – choke – strange confession to make.”

Hardy leaned forward . . .