by Amanda Dykes
“But . . . we’ve only just begun with measurements. How did you know—”
“Grant’s Shipman’s Guide,” Frederick said. He leaned over and tapped the leather-bound volume. “Lifeblood. You said it yourself.”
His foot twitched, awaiting the words that would set him free. He’d used his time on the roof last night to affix facts to his memory, in hopes that he might break free of the schoolroom today. It was August thirteenth. The single solitary day of the year he had somewhere he must be.
But his liberation was not so quickly won. “Very well,” Reskell said. “On to history. The HMS Jubilee, as we read yesterday, was a gift to the kingdom from Denmark. A proud tribute to our continued successful—”
“Sisterhood at sea.”
Reskell narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yes. But what you haven’t learned yet is that on her maiden voyage from Portsmouth, she listed and nearly dashed against East Sussex’s very own white cliffs—the Seven Sisters. It was so ornate and gaudy that she served little function but as a spectacle. The historian Peabody said the Seven Sisters looked like veiled mourners that day, stretching into the blue sky above a ship sure to sink.”
Frederick’s foot tapped faster. Time was wasting. “But she was saved from sinking,” he said, hoping to usher in the end of Reskell’s tale of the Jubilee. He had read the chapter detailing her unfortunate history for just such a moment as this. “Right? She limped back to Portsmouth and was permanently anchored in port, becoming perfect in her gaudy idleness to play prison to traitors awaiting their trials, attracting all the more attention to the treasonous souls she held, framing their disgrace.” He spilled the words in a rush, letting the Jubilee vanish in the waves of his mind. A fact memorized, recited, and now dutifully disposed of. He would have no need of this knowledge again.
Reskell assessed him and something very nearly conspiratorial appeared in his narrowed eyes. “I see you have been studious of late, Master Frederick.”
Frederick waited, breath bated.
“Very well. Go.”
He went like the wind itself, tearing over meadows and moors. With their low rises and stretches of great empty space, they felt more like home to him than anywhere upon this green earth. He did not belong in Edgecliffe. No more than he belonged in the village, Weldensea, or Bexhill beyond it.
Years ago he’d asked his governess what made a moor a moor. She’d laughed and told him he asked the strangest questions, that he may as well ask what makes the sea the sea, or England, England. Those had sounded like good questions to him, but he did not say so. When her laughter evened into a sigh, she answered, “A moor be a lifeless place, Master Frederick. There’s naught that grows there but prickly things.”
And to him, the moors came alive that day. He, even so young, knew what lifeless felt like, and he determined that as long as he was able, he would not let the moors feel that gaping, empty chasm.
So his feet flew through the moors whenever they could, fast and furious and full of life. Just as they did now. Just as they would for as long as—
A snatch of swift motion from the direction of the sea cliff stopped him. A form, strong but wiry, coming from the same place the boy had disappeared the night before. Here he was, in broad daylight—and coming at Frederick full force, head down.
Frederick turned to stop, letting his feet slide across the boggy expanse and willing his body to miss the lad.
But it was too late. He collided pell-mell with him, toppling the boy straight into the muck. They both tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs.
“So ye be at it again,” the boy said. He sounded young for one so strong. Frederick was splayed across the mud, face down.
“At what?” he said, attempting to get to his knees. A foot upon his back stopped him.
“Snatching my sheep like a common thief.” The foot went hard into his back, but Frederick resisted, pushing back and raising himself up as the boy’s spit landed beside him.
The heat of injustice began a slow boil inside Frederick. “I would never do that.” He turned to face the boy and found a fist in his face, positioned to blow. The face behind it was contorted into hatred, covered in the tar-black of the moor’s mud.
“Then explain why you were runnin’ like God’s wind to my pasture. Explain why your footprints mark this land betwixt, too many times to count.”
“I owe you no explanation,” Frederick said, the boil inside simmering until he clenched his own fists. He took a step back. “But I am no thief.”
He turned to go, but the arm upon his elbow whirled him back around. In that motion, the boy’s cap tumbled off, unleashing long hair copper as a farthing and plaited unevenly, eyes green as an angry sea. This was no boy at all. It was the girl, Juliette Heath. The same girl whom he had watched from the corridor windows these past three years, whenever she happened to the pasture beyond with her flock. Her father’s flock, as was. There were times they’d nearly crossed paths over the years, but he’d been careful to stay well out of her way. She’d made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him—and staying away was the only way she’d left him to honor her. That, and the bells she knew naught of.
“It’s you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, eyebrows raised. “I do appear to be myself. What of it?”
“I . . . just . . .” His tongue was thick, the anger inside replaced by the old shame he knew too well. He’d killed the girl’s father, when it came down to it. There was no returning from that.
Her fist clenched tighter, and her wrist—the single spot on her not covered in mud or boy’s clothes—was marked with the crimson of a fresh cut from her fall.
“I meant you no harm,” he said. And the moment the words were out—the second he saw the ire in her emerald green eyes deepen to a flash of grief—he wished them back. She’d taken them to mean a pain much deeper than the surface wound. She grieved over the wound he could never undo. He hung his head.
“Well, now you’ve done it,” she said. Her jaw jutted out as she crossed her arms.
He was afraid to ask. “Done what?”
“Made me break my vow. I swore we would never speak again. Remember?”
How could he forget? He nodded, scuffed his boot. Three years ago to the day. She, more than anyone, knew what today marked.
“I wasn’t stealing your sheep,” he said. “Has someone been stealing your sheep?”
She averted her eyes and shrugged one shoulder. “Two are gone.”
But that was not an answer, not really. He waited.
She sighed, exasperated. “They may have . . . wandered while I was away.”
“Where were you?” He offered the question slowly, keenly aware that he was treading on thin ice and that any misstep would send this exchange crashing into the frigid depths. But perhaps, if he could keep her talking . . . it might help. Somehow.
“Out in the blue,” she said, as if it should have been obvious that she’d been at sea. She sighed again and began walking toward her flock.
He jogged to catch up. She didn’t bite his head off, merely gave him a furtive glance. As good as an invitation, coming from her. “You were at sea?”
“Only in the bay. Mr. Swain lets me go out to the frigates with him. He’s a pilot, you know.”
He did know. From the schoolroom window, three flights up in the west wing, he’d often watched Swain’s pilot cutter dart out to the bigger ships. He boarded the frigates to help guide them through the currents and hidden rocks of the coastal waters. ’Twas a common practice for captains to entrust their vessels to local watermen to pilot these waters. In truth, Frederick envied Swain. The way he, a common fisherman, could spend his days pulling fish from the sea and, just like that, be onboard some of His Majesty’s finest ships, beside captains and admirals whose names the whole world knew. It was honest work, adventurous work, and watching Mr. Swain made Frederick itch to get out to sea all the faster. To feel the thrill of churning waves in a groaning city with wooden
walls. To chase down enemies, bring justice. All the things he could not do here on shore.
Juliette spoke on. “I keep watch aboard his cutter while he pilots the frigates.”
Shock sputtered from Frederick.
“You find it funny,” she said. “Yes, I suppose navigating treacherous waters in Pevensey Bay, where tides grow larger than the sea cliffs themselves, is something to laugh at.”
“You misunderstand me,” Frederick said, gathering his wits.
“Oh?” She stopped, turned to face him. Her brow raised, a challenge. “Please, do enlighten me.”
She made a sight, stray hairs tangling above her head in a haphazard halo where her hat had been. She was a force to be reckoned with.
He paddled about in the muck of his mind for some appeasing explanation, but knew she would see through anything less than the truth.
“You . . . you’re a girl.”
She stared. “I don’t think the boat much cares whose hands guide it, so long as it reaches home,” she said. “Anyway. It brings in an extra shilling, and for that Mother and I are grateful.”
Frederick’s throat burned with responsibility for their situation. But something else in him battled to meet this fiery soul’s challenge. He narrowed his eyes, looking at the hat clutched in one of her hands.
“The boat might not be bothered, nor I, but I’d venture a guess its owner doesn’t know he’s taking a girl to sea.”
She narrowed her eyes. And he saw it, hiding behind the hard exterior. A flash of something—fear?
“You’d best take care in that getup,” he said. “Keep watch for the press gangs. They’ve been spotted hereabouts in the last fortnight.”
This, she laughed at. “If they want to kidnap me and put me to work on one of His Majesty’s ships, I welcome them. I would be a powder monkey to put all other powder monkeys to shame.” She spoke so lightly of the position he himself was headed for . . . and it smote him. He yearned to be at sea, yes, but could not pretend that the task of funneling gunpowder into cannons in the midst of battle did not shake something deep inside him.
Footsteps pounded behind him. Frederick knew, by the way Juliette’s cheeks flushed and the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile, that it could only be one person. He’d seen Juliette and Elias walk these moors arm in arm, day after day, year after year—climb down cliffs, duck into the sea cave in the cove below, scale trees above, splash in streams while running through fields. He’d seen the way the fierceness of her seemed to soften in his presence. The way she could sock him on the shoulder in jest, and an hour later, lay her head on that shoulder as if it were the truest home she knew. Frederick was glad of it—she deserved something good.
Frederick took a step back and turned. Indeed, it was Elias Flint. The boy drew up between them, casting a wary glance at Frederick. A quick look at Juliette, and the two seemed to speak in some secret language. He raising his eyebrows, she lifting a shoulder, then shaking her head sternly.
“Your mum has a hot kettle ready,” he said to her, offering his hand.
He thought of how his own father rang the bell for tea as if it were a weapon of precision. When he summoned the creaky tea cart in the drafty climes of Edgecliffe so that he could drill his son in the science of strategy over a game of chess, it held none of the warmth promised by Juliette’s mother’s humble kettle.
It had been only a couple of days ago, in front of the chess board, that Frederick glimpsed what he thought might be an inkling of pride on his father’s face. He had positioned a pawn so that it placed his father’s king in check.
“Ah, the humble pawn,” The Admiral said. “Now you’re thinking like a Hanford. Use the thing they least expect, the humble to do the work of the mighty. That’s my son. Leave off there. Next time we play, your pawn will overtake my king. And that’s what you’ll do someday, Frederick. You’ll step into my place. The way of the Hanfords.”
Of all the pomp and plans in that speech, only three words had landed deep inside of Frederick: “That’s my son.” He thought perhaps someday, if he distinguished himself at sea, he might see those words spread across his father’s countenance. What would it be to make him truly proud of Frederick?
He watched Juliette and Elias go. He had heard Elias now lived in the sheepherder’s shed only a stone’s throw from the Heath home. It was a common expectation that someday, when their ages caught up to their hearts, the two would wed, keep sheep, and lead a good life. He thanked heaven that God had seen fit to give the girl a safe place in this cold world.
Encouraged by such a promise, Frederick climbed the rise to the church. The stone structure perched on a hill awaited him, just as it had the day the shepherd was buried.
Three years ago, Frederick had awoken from his graveside slumber, heaviness draping him in silence. The sun was sinking over the horizon and into the sea.
Something was wrong.
In truth, too many things were wrong to be counted. But the stillness—only waves in the distance marking time—unsettled his soul. It was the silence. He recalled the way, after his mother’s burial, the funeral bells had rolled their slow, mournful toll over the hills of Pevensey Bay. It had stirred something in his young heart, this invisible thing that gave voice to loss. But none had rung for the shepherd. He was certain the sound would have awakened him if they had.
He took himself to the chapel, silhouetted against the grey sky, and found it empty. The vicarage, likewise, lay silent to his knock.
Now looking back on that moment, he wondered at the blind fervor that had overtaken him. He’d been desperate for those bells to be rung, to fill the day before it ended, to send the shepherd out with a song as he crossed into eternity. It had felt as if he were drowning and those bells were air. And if he felt this way, mustn’t the shepherd’s family, also? And mustn’t he be the one to give them that air? He who had stolen air and life from the man?
It was this strain of clumsy thought that sent him running toward a figure down the lane. It was Elias, hands in his pockets, sadness his cloak.
Frederick caught up to him and spoke past his burning lungs. “Why . . . ” He stopped, momentarily halted by Elias’s narrowed eyes, the way he stepped back as if Frederick carried the plague. “Why did the bells not ring for him?”
A single derisive laugh. Elias shook his head slowly. “It costs money to ring the bells.”
Frederick cast a glance back at the church.
“Money they don’t have,” Elias said. “No thanks to you.”
The talk of bells costing money had been as foreign to Frederick as any talk of money. With Edgecliffe’s silhouette looming large in the distance, he suddenly felt small. Ashamed. How had he never considered such?
Elias turned to go.
“Wait.” Frederick reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder. He dug in his pocket and found the sixpence piece his mother had given him. The one he had clutched as if it were a lullaby all his boyhood. Holding fast for just a moment, he reached out his hand to offer it.
Elias recoiled. “Best to keep your distance,” he said. “No money can undo what’s been done.”
As Elias walked away, Frederick realized he was right. The truth of it made him wish to vanish entirely. Instead, he did the only thing he could think of. It would not take away Juliette’s loss, but it was the only offering he had.
He’d made his way back to the chapel, took hold of the worn rope, rough against his young hands, and pulled. It was, he feared, the most unnatural performance the bell tower had ever known in all its time keeping watch over weddings and wars, fire and funerals. There in the hands of a boy who had nothing, they rang out in clumsy cadence for the shepherd.
He dropped his coin in a wooden bowl near the door and left.
Having saved a few coins, he’d repeated the act the next year, and the next, though first arranging for the ringing and its payment with the vicar—swearing him to secrecy. Perhaps it was not done, the ringing to mark an anniversary of
one’s passing, but it was all he could think to do.
Last summer he’d realized that, with his impending journey to sea, this might be the last time he would be there to arrange for the ringing. He would have to find another way.
So for six months, whenever he could spend the day away without it being noticed, he’d donned the oversized garments of a field worker and gone to work with the tenant farmers.
He’d asked them to call him Fred. They had, none the wiser that they were breaking ground next to the young master of that very land. When he offered no surname and fell into the River Welden while trying to pull a rock from the soil, they pulled him out with hearty laughs, gave him a soggy slap on the back, and christened him Young Freddy Rivers, who came to work the land a few days a month.
He received his meager pay along with them. And with each crack in that ground, each mass of earth moved by his own growing arms, the words of the footman—“never knowin’ the work it takes to keep the land beneath his feet alive”—faded. He was proud to know, at least a little.
So now he entered the vicarage carrying a satchel filled with coins from his own hard work. He rang the bell, shook the vicar’s hand, and left the satchel with the man’s assurance that every thirteenth day of August for the next ten years, the bells would ring whether he was there to do so or not.
“Ye be careful, lad,” the vicar said in parting. “There be press gangs about. Took two fishermen over in Bexhill just yesterday morning.”
“They’ll not take the likes of me,” he said. “They want sea knowledge in a man’s bones, not just in his head.” Frederick tapped his skull ruefully. “They’ll be sticking to the fishing harbors and merchant vessels.”
He thanked the vicar and left the churchyard. Senses heightened after the vicar’s warning, he froze when he heard a twig snap from behind the yew tree. He swallowed. But stealth was not the way of a press gang, not from the tales he’d heard. Theirs was the way of brute force.
He began again, shoulders forward and ears trained behind him. If there was anything to be wary of, he would hear it move again.
