The Lion at Sea Read Free Page A

torpedoes, while they excelled at technical details, they rarely appeared to think about strategy, let alone pass it on to their juniors. Only a few of them had done the course at the war college, and the very idea of lesser beings being interested, seemed to be enough to take their breath away.
    As the breeze increased, the flags began to snap in the wind and the water slapped more heavily against the side of the ship. Kelly shivered and began to wish he’d put on something warmer under his uniform.
    ‘Probably rain before long,’ Verschoyle observed quietly. ‘Then we’ll all get wet and the fireworks will be spoiled.’
    Certainly the sun had not reappeared and a long low bank of cloud, the forerunner of rain, was moving up from the south-west, like the vanguard of an advancing army. The popple and slap of water increased and a sudden gust set the halyards thrumming and the flags clattering noisily. Verschoyle had been growing more and more restless in the increasing cold and Kelly finally heard him give a deep sigh.
    ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have joined if I couldn’t take a joke,’ he muttered, and before Kelly realised what had happened, he had slid to the deck.
    There was an immediate scuffle and a murmur of voices and the Divisional Officer turned, scowling at Kelly and Kimister.
    ‘You two! Get him below!’
    Picking up Verschoyle’s shoulders while Kimister grabbed his feet, Kelly bundled the limp figure out of sight. Below deck Verschoyle pushed them away with a smile.
    ‘That’s all right, chaps,’ he said. ‘I can manage on my own now. I think I’ll go and have a fag in my hammock.’
    ‘But it’s the King!’ Kimister’s face was shocked. ‘God, you are a swine, Verschoyle!’
    Verschoyle smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve often thought so myself.’ His smile died. ‘But at least I’m not a wretched little bore like you, Kimister. Now, shove off back to mummy on deck and leave yours truly to enjoy the first bit of peace he’s had on this bloody ship since he joined.’
    Kimister bolted, terrified he’d miss the chance to salute his sovereign. ‘It’s so beastly unpatriotic,’ he said in a high, indignant voice and Kelly grinned. Although Verschoyle was a rotter, he thought, at least he was a rotter with style.
    He had barely taken up his place again in the division when there was a stir on his left.
    ‘Here she comes!’
    A petty officer – in fore and aft rig with a made-up bow tie – spoke sharply, the words carrying down the line on the breeze, then he saw the royal yacht, small and gay-looking among the preponderance of grey paint, and there was a sudden bang that made him jump, as Lord Nelson fired the first gun of the royal salute. It was taken up at once by the rest of the fleet, and for a few noisy minutes Kelly had a rough idea of what a battle might sound like. As the royal yacht drew nearer, old-fashioned and civilian among the angular shapes of the battleships, he saw groups of people standing on her deck, and the bright colours of women’s clothes. The water was white under her forefoot and her flags were streaming in the wind, and she was near enough now for him to see her seamen with their jumpers tucked into cloth trousers, even the silver badges on their arms. Huguenot ’s band burst into the National Anthem, a little unsteady at first but picking up quickly into an uneven blare of sound. Then somewhere behind him there was a clatter of blocks as flags rose to the yardarm and, as the royal yacht came abeam, the high twittering of bosuns’ pipes. Someone called for three cheers, and suddenly, bewilderingly, it all seemed worthwhile. After all, the little man just across the water represented in his person the strength, the power and the dignity of the British Empire, and like Nelson himself, he’d always been noted for his kindness. Into the bargain, he was a sailor king. He’d served at sea and loved the Navy. And he was their commander-in-chief and, if it