Survival School [alternate history] (Turn-of-the-Century Toughs)

Chapter One

As the wagon that had carried them here from the capital made its way back down the tree-lined lane – its motor startling a buggy's horse as the two vehicles passed each other – Bat turned himself about, assessing his surroundings. They were standing at the curve of the lane, in front of an elegantly proportioned, three-story brick building with shaded porches. The building's two wings flanked a central tower. If he turned back toward the lane, he could see that within the lane's curve lay a field of grass where horses grazed. To the left of the curving lane stood a farmhouse and barn and various work-buildings, while beyond them shone fields ripe with spring vegetables. There was also a poultry yard and a pond. To the right . . . Bat could not see past the wildflower meadow and shrubbery, but he could hear a creek singing as it ran over rocks.

Beside him, Joe gave voice to Bat's thoughts: "This is a prison?"

"It's easy on the eye, ain't it?" Their guide stepped back into view. He was older than the five of them – even older than Slow, who was nineteen. He looked as old as Bat's father, but Bat, who had worked the boats since he was old enough to cull an oyster, automatically subtracted half that number of years, knowing what weather and hard hours will do to a man.

Their guide continued, "Officially, this ain't a prison. It's the House of Transformation for Servant Boys – an institution to transform delinquent servant boys into good, law-abiding citizens."

He sounded as though he were quoting someone. Bat eyed him warily. The young man was wearing an ill-fitting grey uniform with a military-looking stripe on his left shoulder. His cap shadowed close-cropped hair, and his buttoned coat held a black cloth badge, with something written in grey letters across it. Bat couldn't get near enough to see what it was – not that it was likely to be anything he understood.

Their guide talked like a servant . . . but he was acting like a master. First thing he'd done, after he'd helped the boys out of the police wagon where they'd been locked up for hours, was to toss them the keys that the policeman had handed him. The young man had told them they could unlock the handcuffs and anklecuffs that bound them together.

Bat was inclined to like him for that reason alone. It had been weeks since he'd been allowed to do anything that brought him a little closer to freedom.

"Now, then." The young man swung around and pointed to the cluster of buildings near the farmhouse. "Farmhouse, chicken house, laundry-room, boiler house, blacksmith, carpenter shop, tailor shop, shoe shop. You'll get to know them all, in time. Chapel clock-bell in the tower has a high chime, like a bird. Fire bell's over there; it tolls real deep. It gets rung when there's a fire or other bad emergency." Joe narrowed his eyes at this point, staring at the bell and its rope that stood on a metal frame nearby, where the curve of the lane reached its apex. "Bakery, kitchen, and dining hall are in the north wing of the Administration Building." He pointed toward the north end of the building, in the direction of the farmhouse.

They all turned round to stare again at the elegant, towering building where they'd been deposited. It was fashioned in the usual tripartite manner of mansions in the Dozen Landsteads: a central building flanked by two wings, connected by "hyphen" passages. The columns were in the ancient style that had been in fashion when the New World was discovered over twenty centuries ago, then again when the Old World was rediscovered, over five centuries ago. There was a ring of rebirth carved atop the central tower; the tower must be where the chapel was located. The idea of eating and worshipping in such a building was amazing.

The idea of doing so while wearing prison uniforms made Bat's eyes widen.

Their guide continued, "The House of Transformation takes in apprentices and journeymen: boys from ages eleven to their twenty-first birthday. You'll work in the afternoons—"