Coaches rolled in and out, baggage cluttered the entrance, the inn servants bustled around and nobody took much notice of the lieutenant who had just entered from the street. It was June 3rd, 1794, and the inn parlour was full of senior officers, uniformed, gold-laced, weather-beaten and confident men, all known to each other and known to the waiters. Some minutes passed before Richard Delancey could gain anyone’s attention and even then the servant he accosted was gone again in an instant. “Admiral Macbride, sir? That’s his flag lieutenant on the staircase. Coming, sir!” Following the pot-boy’s glance, Delancey saw an elderly officer with a portfolio under his arm talking to a still older man in civilian clothes—perhaps a dockyard official. Making his way with difficulty through the crowd, Delancey reached the foot of the stair at the moment when the two men had finished their conversation. Before the flag lieutenant could go upstairs he asked whether he might see Admiral Macbride.
