By Elaine Lowe
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Extra info for Command the Wind
His golden eyes flickered for a moment away from the village and toward the opposite shore of Spithead. The Isle of Wight stood firm, weathering the spring weather with the stoicism that made England, well, England. The white chalk of the Culver Cliffs shone like a beacon, warning ships of the dangerous reefs surrounding the Isle. The light was so bright that even under the gray overcast skies he could barely squint at the cliffs without flinching. He blinked, determined to look away, when something caught his attention.
The eyes following him with wary curiosity. Hard men made a life with fishing and farming. Here perhaps things were a bit better than for most, due to the warmer weather but the threat of invasion from France or Spain had tempered their success with a certain fatalism. Sandham Castle on the edge of the cliffs bristled with artillery pointed toward today’s calm waters. Few starved on the Isle of Wight but the tension in the air from hostilities with the Spanish was palpable. With that tension came a distrust of strangers.
And she was willing prey. Chapter Three These boots were not made for walking. No, the swollen maggoty excuse for a cobbler responsible for these cursed leavings of a diseased impotent bull that some would call boots, no doubt thought he was doing a service. The cobbler supplied the boots for half the officers of those calling themselves the British Navy and a fair number of privateers and merchantmen. As such, the ripe-smelling sot had supplied boots made for clinging to the surface of a ship’s deck, not for walking across half of Christendom.