They stood on the parade ground of Fort Saint Manoel with the darkness of pre-dawn slowly fading and an unnatural hush over the assembled men. Jack tried to ignore the sweat which already beaded on his eyebrows and hung irritatingly on the tip of his nose. He gripped the Gothic hilt of the 1845 pattern Wilkinson"s sword that hung at his waist and blew away a fly that hovered over his face, wishing he were anywhere but within this star-shaped fort on Manoel Island. If Jack swivelled his eyes slightly to the left he could peer through the dark to the entrance to Marsamxett Harbour and the anchorage of Sliema Creek, busy with a score of vessels, their Mediterranean rigs now familiar and their hulls sleek on the placid blue water. If he looked right and ignored the harsh limestone of the walls
