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Neapolitans, masters and commanders, lieutenants in charge of non-rated ships; sloops, brigs and bomb vessels. If many were welcome it was not all; too many of those coming aboard were Hood’s men, none more so than Captain Horatio Nelson. To Hotham’s way of thinking, Nelson was a man much overindulged by his predecessor; how many times had he been sent away on detached duties in place of men equally deserving?
    Not that Nelson showed the slightest sign of disappointment, which in a way irritated Hotham. He was effusive in his praise, which the recipient took to be an attempt to crawl into his good books instead of genuine feeling. It would not wash; Hotham had his own client officers to care for, men like Ralph Barclay who would now be favoured with a chance to cruise independently and perhaps snap up a prize or two in the process.
    There was a temptation to remove Nelson’s blue commodore’s pennant, given to him when he had commanded not only his own vessel but a trio of frigates; it was, after all, only a courtesy rank in the gift of Hood as C-in-C. He decided to let it rest for a while. Nelson would find out soon enough how little favour he enjoyed in the great cabin of ‘Old Ironsides’, the sobriquet by which HMS Britannia was known throughout the fleet.
    ‘Captain Barclay, I find you well?’
    ‘Set up even better than normal, Sir William. No man deserves more what has come to you this day.’
    Picked up by others, unavoidable it having been said in such a carrying voice, it engendered a whole host of salutations. The cabin rang with, ‘Hear him, hear him!’ and clinking goblets, any natural enthusiasm being fuelled by already copiously consumed wine. The less pleased were well versed in false zeal, it being a very necessary trait in the service to manufacture sentiments not truly held.
    The bulkheads towards the stern were removed, to show a highly polished and long mahogany dining table, with all its leaves employed and set with crystal glass and silver cutlery, both gleaming due to the sunlight streaming through the casement windows.
    The very best of Hotham’s possessions had been laid out from which to eat and drink, in order to drive home that their host was already a wealthy man, to indicate that if God had answered his prayers, such good fortune would fall upon them too.

CHAPTER FOUR
    The trip across Italy by the Pelicans was one taken in mixed circumstances. The Via Traiana, running straight and flat through endless olive groves of Apulia, had been built in the reign of Trajan to shorten the route to the Adriatic and was, as Michael O’Hagan observed when told of its age, in a far better state than many a road in England laid down in the intervening seventeen hundred years.
    The benign weather that had greeted them at Brindisi did not last. Many times the Pearce party were caught in heavy rain, and in one case a ferocious storm that sent down bolts of lightning by the hundred, terrifying for the fact that there seemed no shelter for miles around; it was in the lap of providence that anyone or anything survived.
    They saw an ancient olive tree split in two and set alight. Several cows and sheep were struck dead as the Pelicans cowered by the coach, with Michael O’Hagan wailing a prayer to the Virgin Mary for salvation, hardly audible against the fury of the wind and the regular claps of thunder.
    Nor did they enjoy the comfort of a flat landscape forthe whole journey. Seven leagues from Benevento the road rose into the Apennines, escalating continuously through snowcapped mountains while the passes through which they had to make their way were also of high elevation.
    This necessitated that the passengers, wrapped up against the chill, walk alongside their conveyance so that it could breast the steep inclines, even being occasionally called upon to lend a shoulder so that the weary animals could make it to the next post house and rest, or to carry their own possessions – John Pearce’s chest