The Journey of Little Charlie

  “Sure, Caleb Casement’s ’bout half a hour down that road.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’s quite welcome, son.”

  He stood and reached his right hand up to me.

  We shook hands and he said, “My name’s Johnny Norak. I gots some spare hardtack if you’s hungry.”

  “I’m Charlie Bobo. No, thank you, sir. I needs to get back to Dee-troit.”

  He said, “Safe journeys, son.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I started Spangler back toward where Syl’s folks was chained to the tree.

  Something made me turn and ax him, “Sir, can that boat of yourn go to Canada?”

  “Been there plenty; why you axing?”

  “Jus’ wondering.”

  “Be safe, son.”

  “You think your boat can carry three folk at the same time?”

  He looked at me for a uncom-fitting long time afore he answered.

  “Sure it can. No problem with that.”

  “You gonna be here for a while?”

  He smiled. “Son, this river’s fulla fish, but I’m-a do my best to empty it out. That ain’t likely to be no quick job. Go ’bout your business; I’m-a be here a long time. And if you miss me today, I’m-a be back tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Syl’s ma and pa was where I’d left ’em, leaning so’s the weight of the iron rod and chains was on the ground.

  I thought ’bout the luck of the Bobos and seent that no matter how good I planned things out, it was probably a sure thing that this was gonna go bad for me real fast.

  Syl’s pa coulda picked up both me and Spangler and toss us into the next district. What if soon’s I started taking ’em toward the blacksmith, he was to figger a way to take a rock, chuck it at me, and bash my head in?

  Not only wouldn’t they get free, but my life would be purt near ruint too.

  Soon’s they seent me, I tolt ’em, “Look, y’all. I know you’s waiting to jump me and bash my head in. I’m begging you, please don’t do nothing for another coupla hours or so.

  “I swear on my pap’s grave that I’m ’bout to turn y’all loose, but you gotta give me jus’ a little more time.”

  They ’changed looks with each other and fought to get on their feet.

  Syl’s ma said, “You’s ’bout to do what?”

  “There’s s’posed to be a blacksmith not far from here. Maybe I can pay him ’nough to get them chains took offen you. Jus’ holt up on doing anything rough till we get to him. You give me your word?”

  “What choice we got?”

  “I can jus’ let y’all go here, but if you swears you ain’t gonna do nothing to me, I’ll get them chains offen you.”

  Syl’s pa said, “I give you my word.”

  I knowed Syl’s ma could probably chuck a stone jus’ as deadly as he could, so I said, “Ma’am?”

  “I give you my word.”

  I tolt ’em, “And I give you my word too, and a Bobo’s word is his bond.”

  They looked at each other and she said, “What’s a Bobo?”

  * * *

  I didn’t feel relaxed till we heard the blacksmith’s hammer ringing out from somewhere ’head of us.

  Syl’s ma and pa heard it too. It was the first time I’d seent ’em smile.

  When we got to the smithy, there was two kids playing out front of the shop.

  Both kids ran screaming, “Father! Father, come quick!”

  The ringing of the hammer stopped and the smithy rushed out to see what had his chirren raising such a fuss.

  They run right to him and shot me dirty looks from behind his legs.

  Once he seent Syl’s ma and pa, the smithy spit at the feet of Spangler and said, “I’ll not be any part of chaining another human being, you filthy beast. Get off my property this minute or face the consequences.”

  Blacksmiths ain’t to be meddled with; breathing in hot coals and hammering all day seem to make them not the most kindly folk you’ll run into, and strong as they is, you don’t want to take no chances on getting one of ’em vexed ’nough to take a poke at you. With or without a hammer.

  I throwed my hands up and said, “Sir, I ain’t looking to chain no one. I wants to know how much you gonna charge me to take their shackles offen ’em?”

  Syl’s ma was still giving me ’spicious looks.

  The smithy said, “Are you jesting with me?”

  “No, sir, I ain’t taking no one back into that.”

  The smithy said, “There will be no charge. I’ll be greatly pleased to free these people.”

  I turnt to Syl’s ma and pa.

  Her hand was covering her mouth.

  She said to Syl’s pa, “Chester, when we gets loose, you promise me you won’t do nothing to him.”

  It took the blacksmith a hour of hard work to get the irons off Syl’s ma and pa.

  They rubbed their wrists and ankles. Their shoulders was already chafed raw and bloody.

  I was right ’shamed at how only three or four hours in chains had done so much damage.

  I tolt the blacksmith, “Sir, I ain’t going through Dee-troit again; if the sheriff seent us, he’d grab these folk for hisself.

  “There was a man fishing at the river; he tolt me his boat could go to Canada.”

  The smithy smiled and said, “That’s Norak; he’s a ferryman. He’ll take them over with no problem. You think you might want to go too?”

  “No, sir, I had me ’nough of Canada already. The parks is nice but the people’s too peculiar and on edge for my tastes.”

  The smithy said, “Let’s get everyone fed and we’ll set off.”

  It was real uncom-fitting to sit and eat with the blacksmith’s family and Syl’s ma and pa.

  After we was through, the blacksmith hitched a wagon for Syl’s folks to ride in, and me and Spangler followed ’em down to the river.

  The smithy rode with a double-barrel shotgun ’crost his lap.

  Syl’s ma said, “You’s too soft for this game, boy. I ain’t saying you can’t be toughened up, but you ain’t gonna never be no good at it. You ain’t kilt the human part of yourself off yet. And after you done spent time with Cap’n Buck, that say there’s something good ’bout you.”

  I was so relieved when we got to the river and Mr. Norak smiled and said, “I thought there was something ’bout you and all ’em questions, boy. Let’s get these folk where they belong.”

  Syl’s ma and pa thanked the blacksmith.

  I counted out ten ten-dollar bills and handed ’em to Syl’s ma.

  She stared at ’em, then said, “Thank you, Little Charlie Bobo. You doing the right thing.”

  I had lots I wanted to say to her, but if you’s responsible for putting heavy chains on someone’s neck and trying to steal ’em back into being a slave, I don’t think no ’pologies would ever get took to heart. I had to try anyway. I said, “Ma’am, sir, I’m sore shamed ’bout what I done.”

  She said, “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be free for the second time, boy. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

  I said, “There’s a sheriff in Chat-ham name of Sudbury; he’ll know where Syl’s at.”

  They both said, “Thank you.”

  They clumb into the rowboat, and Norak the ferryman picked up the oars, set ’em in the locks, and said, “I ain’t young as I once was; this might take some time. We’s fighting ’gainst a mighty current.”

  Syl’s ma and pa had their backs to us with their arms ’round each other’s waists.

  We watched ’em till they reached the other side.

  I’ll wonder for the rest of my life if things worked out OK.

  The blacksmith said, “How old are you, son?”

  “I’m gonna be thirteen in September, sir.”

  “So are you going to return to South Carolina?”

  “I ain’t sure, sir. I got some pondering to do. Ain’t really no need to go back; our land’s gone, ain’t none of my family’s
still alive, and my dog’s probably gone too. She’s the best hunting dog in Richland District; someone’s bound to have snatched her up.

  “Plus, I don’t know what Mr. Tanner’s gonna feel about all this mess. I ain’t keen to take no chance on getting whupped or hunged. Or cat-hauled.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay with us for a bit.”

  “Thank you, sir. I truly ’preciate that. I can pay.”

  “No need for that. I do jus’ fine. And you look like you ain’t no stranger to hard work.”

  “No, sir, I ain’t. I once plowed for twelve hours with a two-mule team, and I wasn’t but ten year old, sir.”

  The boat reached the other shore. Syl’s ma and pa got out and took to hugging and backslapping the ferryman.

  He pointed ’em south.

  Syl’s ma and pa walked up the river’s bank and disappeared into Canada.

  They never once looked back.

  If I was them, I wouldn’t-a neither.

  The train hissed before jerking to a stop.

  When the conductor lowered the steps onto the Buxton Station platform, only two figures, a man and a woman clinging to one another, were huddled in the door, hesitating before taking that final step.

  Their glances were fleeting and frightened. They had the alertness of deer in the forest, ready to take flight at the least provocation. As they peeked out from the train, every movement on the station’s platform drew their eyes in unison.

  They stepped onto the platform as one.

  The conductor cried, “All aboard!” and the train slowly creaked away.

  Trying to get their bearings, the couple sidled to the eave at the station’s southernmost point. They waited in silence.

  Five minutes later, the door of the train station was hurriedly pushed open onto the platform as a group of six people, winded and obviously running late, surged out.

  A young girl holding a sad brown sock doll preceded a tall young man, and a man and a woman, each carrying a child. Two girls. Twins.

  The man and woman holding the twin girls set them down and directed their attention to the couple under the southern eave.

  The twins fell apart; screaming “Mama!” they charged across the platform.

  The teenage boy began to cry and followed them.

  They were each snatched up and squeezed tight by the people waiting under the eaves.

  Smiling, the girl holding the sock doll walked to the family.

  Waiting until all eyes were on her, in a voice clear and strong she said, “Hello, my name is Emma Collins. I’m the first girl who was born free in Buxton.

  “And now you’re free too.”

  She extended her right hand.

  “Come,” she said, smiling. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Let me say to the teachers who are reading this that I am aware of how important it is for writers, especially young writers, to outline before they start writing fiction. Otherwise there is a tendency for the writer to meander, to wander, to blindly flail around for the story.

  My usual M.O. is to sit down and begin by imagining a character and a conversation. Then I start taking dictation. This is how I learn the character’s personality, quirks, and capabilities. It is an effective way for me to get deep into his or her inner workings.

  Even though there is no outline, most times when I start a novel I do have an idea where I want the story to go, but (and I’ve learned this through time and pain and struggle) if the story is a good one, it has a mind of its own and eventually it goes where it wants to. When this happens I’m pleased because I know I’ve tapped into something worthwhile. I’ve learned that instead of wrestling the writing back onto the road I want it to take, if I’m patient and listen carefully, the places where the story leads me always turn out to be the right places to go.

  The hijacking of The Journey of Little Charlie happened quite early in this creative process.

  The Journey of Little Charlie takes place in the southern United States and around the historically significant communities of Detroit, Michigan, and Chatham and Buxton, Ontario, Canada. I first became aware of Buxton and its outsized importance to both Canadian and American history while doing research for two other books, Elijah of Buxton and The Madman of Piney Woods.

  Buxton had been set up in the swampy wilderness of southeast Canada as a haven for people who had escaped slavery in the southern US. It was no accident that the settlement was established in what was then a very remote part of Canada: Its placement was largely influenced by the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, legislation passed by Canada’s hugely powerful southern neighbour.

  The act declared that when confronted by any white citizen, African Americans, even those in “free” states, had to present proof that they were not escaped slaves. If they were unable to produce the proper documentation, it was the duty of that white person to hold/arrest/kidnap them, which was the first step to being taken south and sold into servitude.

  Slavery lasted 245 years in the United States of America because there were tremendous financial incentives to keep it in place. Slaves were the single most valuable asset in the American economy; the value of one individual ranged, in today’s dollars, from $12,000 for a very young or very old field hand, to a staggering $176,000 for a skilled labourer.

  One of the consequences of the Fugitive Slave Act was that Windsor, Ontario, which is separated from the United States only by the Detroit River, and which was once a safe haven for escaped former slaves, now became less safe. Many African Americans and African Canadians were kidnapped in Windsor and taken to the US to spend the rest of their lives enslaved. The slave narrative later made into the movie Twelve Years a Slave tells the story of one such free northern man who was kidnapped during a visit to Washington, DC. The settlement of Buxton was established east of Windsor, and deeper in the woods of Canada, so the escapees could live their lives unmolested and without the threat America posed.

  Elijah of Buxton and The Madman of Piney Woods grew from my research into this small village that is such fertile ground for dramatic storytelling. I intended to set Little Charlie there as well, with even a few of the characters from the previous books playing small roles, but the story had other ideas.

  In looking back over my notes for Elijah of Buxton, I came across an article published by Mary Ann Shadd Cary in a newspaper called the Provincial Freeman in September 1858. Shadd was the first woman of African descent to publish a newspaper anywhere in North America, and her daughter, Sarah Cary, makes an appearance in The Madman of Piney Woods as the owner of the Chatham print shop where Benji learns to write like a reporter. In the 1858 article, Shadd described a young African American boy whose family had lived in Canada for years who was (unbeknownst to him) being taken by train back into the US by a slave catcher. A white resident of London, Ontario, saw the two at a train station and became suspicious. He telegraphed ahead and, during its stop in Chatham, Ontario, the train was overtaken by a very large group of black and white people from Buxton and Chatham known as the Buxton Vigilance Committee. The boy, Sylvanus Demarest, was freed.

  This article raised so many questions in my mind, chief among them this: How did this boy not know what was happening to him? Finding no other sources to research, I decided to answer my own questions by writing a novel about the incident, knowing nothing more about Sylvanus than his name.

  So that’s where I was going to go with Little Charlie. I was going to tell in alternating chapters the story of two boys: one black, Sylvanus Demarest, and one white, Little Charlie Bobo. I’d hoped to explore how much each was a product of his own environment and times, as well as to try and analyze what goes into making a human being do something courageous.

  My first step would be to catch the voices of the boys. I started writing the chapters Little Charlie would narrate first since it would be he who was going to have to make the longest journey.

  But once I started pinning Little Charlie to the page, once I got to know his voice a
nd personality, I knew this was his book. Sylvanus was going to have to wait.

  I saw something in Little Charlie and knew, in spite of his circumstances and upbringing, that this was a character capable of doing something very brave, even heroic. But the story had other plans.

  We’re all heroes in our dreams. When looking back at some grand historical injustice I’m sure you’ve probably done as I have and said, “If I had been around at that time I would’ve …” Then you fill in the blank with whatever courageous, life-endangering action you would have taken to right this wrong.

  Which is fine, except chances are good that that’s pretty much a self-delusional lie.

  The human condition is such that you and I would probably not be among the one-tenth-of-one-percent of people who really would initiate something brave. (Excuse my cynically low figure.)

  No, we would be among the throng, the 99.9 percent who are quite content to either sit back and do nothing, or who at most would clench our teeth, furrow our brow, and say with great indignation, “Isn’t that terrible?”

  But it is that one-tenth-of-one-percent that is the stuff of great historic events and subsequently good fiction. When an author chooses to write in first person, the author develops a real closeness with the narrator; they become friendly. And after getting to know Little Charlie, I was convinced that even though he was raised awash in racism, ignorance, and all-encompassing poverty, he was a part of that brave minority.

  Here was someone who was capable of seeing the lie of what he’d been taught. Here was someone who possessed great courage to which we all could aspire. Here was someone who, when presented with a great historic injustice, might have shaken his head and muttered, “Isn’t that terrible?”—but instead of those words being the end of his reaction, they were the beginning, and he decided to cross a line, to step over into the ranks of the one-tenth-of-one-percent.

  A step that is available to all of us.

  Many thanks to the people who read the manuscript for me and provided great suggestions: Dr. Rose Casement, Habon Curtis, Cydney Curtis, Rian Cocchetto, Jay Kramer, and Charlette White.

  Huge thank-yous and “big ups” to two writers/readers who have supported and encouraged me since I first thought of myself as a writer: A. Corinne Brown and Janet Brown. In 1994, the Brown sisters were in the first and only writers’ group I will ever belong to. In addition to being writing colleagues, I count them as great friends. Angela’s background in literary criticism and Janet’s perspective as a librarian with the Windsor Public Library have been most helpful in the writing of The Journey of Little Charlie. Their invaluable insights have made me a much better writer.