The Journey of Little Charlie

by Christopher Paul Curtis

  Thank you to Professor Richard J. Blackett at Vanderbilt University and to Chris Tomlinson for lending their expertise.

  And much gratitude to my many friends at Scholastic who have worked to make this book possible, with particular thanks to Joy Simpkins, Megan Peace, Deimosa Webber-Bey, Elizabeth Parisi, and especially to my editors Andrea Davis Pinkney and Anamika Bhatnagar.

  Christopher Paul Curtis grew up in Flint, Michigan. His first novel, The Watsons Go to Birmingham—1963, was awarded both a Newbery Honor and a Coretta Scott King Honor. His second novel, Bud, Not Buddy, won the Newbery Medal and the Coretta Scott King Award in 2000. Elijah of Buxton, the first of his Buxton Chronicles, was named a Newbery Honor Book, a Coretta Scott King Award winner, and a Canadian Library Association Book of the Year. His second Buxton novel, The Madman of Piney Woods, received four starred reviews. Christopher lives with his family in Windsor, Ontario. Visit him online at nobodybutcurtis.com.

  Journey back to Buxton and meet a boy who risked his own freedom to help others gain theirs …

  ’Bout the only good thing that came from Ma’s snake-in-the-cookie-jar lesson was there waren’t no one else ’round to see it, not even Cooter. It wouldn’t’ve been no time atall afore everyone in the Settlement knowed ’bout what happened. And even if Cooter and me are best friends, and he wouldn’t do nothing to on-purpose make me look low, I knowed that me running off from that snake like I’d done was such a good story that even a best friend couldn’t’ve been blamed for letting it accidentally slip out. ’Specially a best friend like Cooter.

  The whole adventure would just turn into another one n’em things that would be stuck onto my name forever. And, doggone-it-all, seems like what people enjoy sticking to your name permanent ain’t never good things, they’re always tragical. I ain’t the kind of person that complains for no reason, but I gotta say, I already got one tragedy tied up with my name that is so horrible that it wouldn’t be one bit fair that I’d get another.

  The tragedy that’s so horrible put a scar on me that I’m-a be carrying till the day I die. You’d think growned folks would cry when they saw me, but that don’t happen atall. Even Ma and Pa try to act like it ain’t all that noticeable and that they ain’t ’shamed to have folks see they’re raising me, but I know better.

  It happened when I waren’t nothing but a baby and I caint see why I’m to blame, but that’s when the famousest, smartest man who ever escaped from slavery stood on a tall stage that had got built in the schoolhouse and raised me way up over his head in front of a crowd of people. From the way Pa tells it, the man must’ve had me twenty feet up in the air. He was giving a speech when the accident happened ’cause every time he made a point he’d give me a little shake way up there over top of his head.

  I waren’t even a year old back when Mr. Frederick Douglass and Mr. John Brown visited Buxton. Pa said all the Settlement people had got excited and worked up something terrible ’bout them coming and were dashing ’round trying to polish Buxton up, sort of like the way you’d rub the dirt off your Sunday shoes if you knowed Mr. Travis was gonna give ’em a hard look.

  They rushed to get the new schoolhouse finished so’s there’d be a place big enough for the meeting. They made sure the picket fences in front of everyone’s home had got a good slap of whitewash on ’em. They made all kinds of food and such and they even had a special blanket made out of sewed-together flowers to go ’cross Flapjack the mule’s back so’s he could lead a parade.

  All this fussing was going on ’cause folks in Buxton were gonna celebrate three special people at this big meeting. Special person number one was Mr. Frederick Douglass ’cause he use to be a slave, just like most the folks here in Buxton, and now they say he can talk the bees outta flying to the flowers. Special person number two was Mr. John Brown ’cause folks say, other than maybe Reverend King, the man who started Buxton, there waren’t no white man ever made that was better’n him. And special person number three was me ’cause, it ain’t something I ever boast on, but I was the very first child to be born free in the Elgin Settlement at Raleigh in Canada West, what we call Buxton.

  Mrs. Guest, who’s the best sewer and knitter in the Settlement, had even gone and knitted some fancy clothes for me that Ma still keeps in a peculiar-smelling box made out of cedarwood. Me and Ma have a pretty good disagreement ’bout them clothes ’cause to me they look a powerful lot like a girl’s dress and bonnet. When I got growned enough to understand what it was they’d paraded me ’round in, I was just as much ’shamed ’bout the clothes they forced me to wear as I was ’bout the accident twixt me and special person number one.

  Pa said everything was all right with the celebrating until the parade got to the schoolhouse and most of the speechifying was over. That’s when Mr. Douglass came and took me from Ma, walked high up on the stage with me, and held me up in the air over his head.

  Ma said she was worrying right off ’cause Mr. Douglass is a excitable man when he gets talking, and he started bouncing me up and down and swinging me ’round with joy, saying I was a “shining bacon of light and hope for the future.”

  I asked Ma what that meant and she couldn’t say. Don’t seem to me that getting called a piece of meat off of a pig is anything that you should get excited ’bout, but Mr. Douglass thought it was great and folks kept cheering and he kept tossing me up and down till the accident happened.

  Ma says even back then I was a fra-gile child, and the more he tossed me, the more she was fretting. She said I was having a whole lot of fun then I smiled real big and, without no kind of warning atall, the accident happened. I throwed up everything I’d et all over Mr. Douglass’s beard and jacket.

  I learnt from Ma that people who use to be slaves love prettying up any kind of story. She says talking is near the only thing they use to get to do without no white person telling ’em how or when, so they make the most out of it once they get the chance. She says they love making a summer day a lot hotter than it really was, or making rain or drought last a whole lot longer than they really did, and they ’specially love telling you how their great-great-grampa or gramma use to be the king or queen of Africa.

  Bad as my luck is, the people that live in Buxton ain’t choosed to pretty up the fact I’m most proud of myself for, my rock chunking, they’ve prettified what happened twixt me and Mr. Frederick Douglass.

  They’ll tell you I throwed up on Mr. Douglass for a whole half a hour afore Ma came and snatched me away and pointed me out the schoolhouse window. They say I near drownded the man. Some folks swear I throwed up so hard that desks and chairs rose up and floated out of the schoolhouse. Mr. Polite said I throwed up so plentiful that didn’t no deers nor rabbits die in the woods for five years after. He said the bears and the wolfs et my vomit for that long since it was considerable easier for them to do that than to try to run down some animal that waren’t looking to get et.

  And that don’t make no sense. That don’t make no sense atall.

  First off, ’cause they’re always telling us how smart Mr. Frederick Douglass is. They tell us he can talk Greek like a Greek and Latin like a Latin, and anyone who’s that smart ain’t gonna sit and hold no baby over his head that’s throwing up on him for no whole half a hour. I could understand it if he was surprised at first, ain’t no one gonna expect to get throwed up on by a baby boy in a girl’s dress and bonnet. But if Mr. Douglass is near smart as folks say, seems to me he’d’ve had the sense to aim me out the window hisself. Seems to me if I really did throw up for a whole half a hour, only the first five minutes would’ve been on Mr. Douglass, the last twenty minutes would’ve had to be out that window.

  It also don’t make no sense ’bout the bears and wolfs neither, ’cause if they were coming into the Settlement three times a day to eat what I’d throwed up, this would’ve been a mighty unsafe place, but didn’t none of the growned folks act worried ’bout sending their children off to do no chores.

  Back when I was ’bout five or six Ma told
me to fetch a bucket and go into the woods behind our home and pick her some blueberries.

  This is probably one of the reasons Ma thinks I’m a fra-gile boy. I remember soon’s she told me to go I got all afeared and shake-ity.

  I said, “By myself?”

  She said, “It ain’t that far, ’Lijah. I’m-a keep watch over you.”

  “But, Ma! What ’bout all those bears and wolfs? What if I’m out there when they come for their supper?”

  She smiled and said, “ ’Lijah, don’t be silly. Ain’t no wild creatures like that been seen ’round these parts since afore you was borned.”

  I said, “But, Ma, how come everybody keeps telling me ’bout what I done to Mr. Douglass that got all the bears and wolfs coming to the Settlement looking for something to eat?”

  She laughed and told me some of that growned-folks talk, some of that talk that makes it so’s you ain’t never sure ’bout much of nothing. She said, “Son, you got one n’em sets of mind what’s gunn have you fretting ’bout the littlest things. Life’s gunn be a tough row to hoe for you if you don’t learn you caint be believing everything folks tell you, not even growned folks.”

  One minute Ma, who’s got a good head for thinking, tells me I got to respect everything what growned folks say and the next minute she’s wanting me not to believe some of the things the same growned folks tell me! If that don’t leave you scratching your head you got a better brain than me!

  Copyright © 2018 by Christopher Paul Curtis

  www.nobodybutcurtis.com

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Curtis, Christopher Paul, author.

  Title: The journey of little Charlie / Christopher Paul Curtis.

  Description: First edition. New York : Scholastic Press, 2018. Summary: When his poor sharecropper father is killed in an accident and leaves the family in debt, twelve-year-old Little Charlie agrees to accompany fearsome plantation overseer Cap’n Buck north in pursuit of people who have stolen from him; Cap’n Buck tells Little Charlie that his father’s debt will be cleared when the fugitives are captured, which seems like a good deal until Little Charlie comes face-to-face with the people he is chasing.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017020256 ISBN 9780545156660 (hc)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children of sharecroppers—South Carolina—Juvenile fiction. Fugitive slaves—South Carolina—Juvenile fiction. African Americans—South Carolina—Juvenile fiction. Plantation owners—South Carolina—Juvenile fiction. South Carolina—History—1775-1865—Juvenile fiction. United States—History—19th century—Juvenile fiction. CYAC: Sharecroppers—Fiction. Slavery—Fiction. Fugitive slaves—Fiction. African Americans—Fiction. Race relations—Fiction. LCGFT: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.C94137 Ap 2018 DDC 813.54 [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020256

  First edition, February 2018

  Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

  Cover art © 2018 by Levente Szabo

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-16400-8

  Excerpt from Elijah of Buxton copyright © 2007 by Christopher Paul Curtis

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