Freedom Train Read online

  SOMETIMES YOU HAVE TO FIGHT FOR WHAT’S RIGHT.

  It’s 1947, and America is changing quickly. The Freedom Train is crossing the United States, carrying the founding documents like the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence. The Freedom Train allows ordinary people—including both blacks and whites in the segregated South—to see important American history and reminds everyone what “freedom” truly means.

  In Atlanta, Clyde Thomason is both excited and nervous for the train to arrive. He has been chosen to recite the Freedom Pledge, but he is terrified of speaking in front of everyone. If he doesn’t do it, though, the class bully will. When the bully starts beating Clyde one day, an African-American boy, William, rescues him. This is the beginning of an unlikely friendship at a time when Americans of all races, colors, and creeds are trying to find their places in this new society.

  When William’s family is threatened, will Clyde keep quiet, or will he have the courage to stand up for real freedom?

  “[A] fine story of a moment in history when times were changing and the Freedom Train reminded Americans of their better selves.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Cover design by Lauren Rille

  Cover illustration copyright © 2012 by Erin McGuire

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  Simon & Schuster • New York

  Ages 8–12 • 0112

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2008 by Evelyn Coleman

  Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Design Press

  Editorial development by Anna Marlis Burgard and Gwen Strauss for Design Press, a division of the Savannah College of Art and Design

  Jacket and interior illustrations by David Riley (M.F.A., illustration, 2007, Savannah College of Art and Design)

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Book design by Krista Vossen

  The text for this book is set in Sabon.

  The illustrations for this book are rendered in pen and ink.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  eISBN: 978-1-4424-3653-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Coleman, Evelyn, 1948-

  Freedom Train / Evelyn Coleman.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Twelve-year-old Clyde Thomason’s older brother is a guard on the Freedom Train, which is carrying the Bill of Rights and other documents throughout the country in 1948, but Clyde is also learning about rights and freedom as he is saved from a beating by an African American boy, and later returns the favor when men in their Atlanta suburb decide to show the “Nigras” their place.

  ISBN-13 978-0-689-84716-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 0-689-84716-5 (hardcover)

  [1. Race relations—Fiction. 2. Freedom Train—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.

  4. Bullies—Fiction. 5. Family life—Georgia—Fiction.

  6. Atlanta (Ga.)—Fiction. 7. Georgia—History—20th century—Fiction.]

  I. Title.

  PZ7.C6746Fre 2008

  [Fic]—dc22

  2007000953

  To those of us who recognize that the fight for

  equality of race and class and the fight against

  imperial power must be fought on the

  same battlefield. And to my grandchildren,

  Taylor Blayne Parker and Jody Santana Rhone—

  be brave, speak out! Never give up the fight

  for freedom, justice, and equality for all people.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: Captain Chester Saves the Day

  Chapter 2: A Visit to Another World

  Chapter 3: Getting Home — Almost

  Chapter 4: Cabbagetown

  Chapter 5: Whoo! Whoo!

  Chapter 6: The Third William

  Chapter 7: The Cure for Stage Fright

  Chapter 8: Christmas Eve

  Chapter 9: Men’s Talk

  Chapter 10: Girls, Frogs, and Friends

  Chapter 11: Men’s Work Never Tekes a Holiday

  Chapter 12: This Don’t Seem Like no Men’s Work to Me

  Chapter 13: One of Those Folk

  Chapter 14: The Freedom Pledge

  Chapter 15: Freedom

  From the Desk and Heart of Evelyn Coleman

  Author’s Historical Note

  Photographs

  Acknowledgments

  First I must thank Anna Burgard and Janice Shay of Savannah College of Art’s Design Press, for bringing this story to my attention. Without their support, encouragement, and Anna’s fabulous editing I wouldn’t have a story. And to Karen Wojtyla’s wonderfully brilliant editorial direction, plus the encouragement of Sarah Payne, who forced me to get this manuscript ready—without whom, you would not have a book to hold in hand. And to the incredible copyeditor, Erica L. Stahler, thanks—good looking out.

  Craig Harmon, director, Lincoln Highway National Museum & Archives; literally this book could not have been done without his assistance and his copies from the National Archives. Thanks, Craig, for all your support and guidance.

  Thanks to Rutha Beamon, archive specialist at the National Archives.

  The fantastic Marines themselves: John A. Brown, Theodore (Ted) Tintor, and Hank Steadman—I love you guys.

  The “real” folk singer, Cabbagetown native and friend, Joyce Brookshire. And the other Cabbagetown gang, Leon Little, Mack Jones, and Patsy Wyatt Clontz (too young to remember, but willing to share her mom’s stories).

  The folks in the historical section of the Savannah Public Library.

  My frogmen, without whom Chester and the second Chester couldn’t have lived: John B. Jensen, herpetologist, Georgia Department of Natural Resources; Walt W. Knapp, naturalist; Professor Tyrone Hayes, herpetologist; Gregory George, herpetologist, Atlanta Zoo; Michael Edwin Dorcas, Department of Biology, Davidson College, expert on barking tree frogs; and the folks of Allaboutfrogs.org/infor/species/barking.html.

  The American Flyer guy, Richard White of Miami, Florida.

  Larry Tye, author of Rising from the Rails: Pullman Porters and the Making of the Black Middle Class.

  Train experts: Jim O’Hara, SHS Trains; Steven Blackburn; Sam Rapp; Jami Reid, editor, Hot Box.

  Alexis Scott, publisher, Atlanta Daily World; and Portia Scott, great-granddaughter of publisher, Atlanta Daily World, who discussed the history of Atlanta with me and their relative Mary Ellis Odum. And, of course, the fabulous Charlotte Roy, former news manager, Atlanta Daily World, who graciously placed my article regarding firsthand accounts.

  Charles H. Atkinson, avid Atlanta history buff; Dozier C. Cade, former news reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, who covered the Freedom Train; George Goodwin, former news reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Joyce Burns and Doris Jackson of the Atlanta Public Library. And my friends at the African American Research Library: Francine Henderson, Janice Sykes, and Sharon Robinson.

  CAPTAIN CHESTER SAVES THE DAY

  Phillip Granger was the most ornery, hateful body that ever stepped foot in our school, and he never stopped proving it. He was in my class ’cause they kicked him out of his fancy private school. Seemed like we was getting the punishment, though, seeing as how he tortured us all. A couple days before Christmas vacation weren’t no different. I was minding my own business when I heard, “Pst,” from two rows back.

  Miss Fowler clapped her hands and said, “Get out your history books and read silently, class.”

  “Pst. Pst. Pst.”

  I didn’t look back. I opened my book. “Pst. Pst. Pst.” The “pst’s” was gettin’ louder. I twisted in my seat and saw Phillip Granger smirking at me.

  “Hey, Clyyyyde,” Phillip whispered.

  Phillip always said my name like it was as bad as eating a pile of dookie. His pa was a boss at the cotton mill. Phillip didn’t waste any time throwing it up in our faces, that his pa told our mas and pas what to do. Ain’t nothing we could say about it neither, since it was true. We just had to grin and bear it.

  Phillip smiled and held up a torn Marvel comic cover. “Look’ee, look’ee.”

  “You better give it back to him, Phillip,” Ronnie said. He sat in the middle row, between us. He was my best friend since we was little.

  Phillip, half standing, reached across two people and gave him a pluck in the head. “You better stay out of this, that’s what you better do, Ronnie Shumate.”

  “It’s okay, Ronnie,” I said. “My brother is gonna send me another just like that one.” I didn’t know that for sure, ’cause I hadn’t had a chance to tell Joseph that Phillip Granger had snatched my comic and tore it. It was his latest attack in a long list of meanness, and I didn’t want Joseph to think I couldn’t stand up for myself.

  Now I was about to explode. But I didn’t want no more trouble. Just yesterday me and Phillip went at it in the field after he snatched the comic book out of my hand. It was the cover with Captain Marvel and the Freedom Train.
I only had it ’cause my brother, Joseph, was one of the marines guarding the train. But like always, Miss Fowler only saw me doing the scuffling, and she give me the whupping instead of Phillip.

  “Pst. Pssst.”

  I guess I needed to make my life more miserable. It wasn’t enough that I was the shortest twelve-year-old in seventh grade. Or maybe it wasn’t enough that my blond hair had a permanent cowlick that people teased me about. ’Cause I did what I shouldn’t have done—looked back again, just asking for it.

  Phillip held up the Captain Marvel cover. He balled it up slowly in his left hand. Then he hawked a glob on it.

  I hunkered down as Phillip’s bony fingers squeezed the paper tighter, the muscles in his arm flexing. I knew what was comin’ next. I squinted my eyes at him like Ma does when she’s warning me ’bout something.

  Miss Fowler was rummaging around at her desk. I cleared my throat so she’d look up.

  Phillip threw the spitball.

  Miss Fowler didn’t see nothing. Seemed like she weren’t never looking when Phillip did something bad.

  I ducked.

  But not soon enough.

  Splat. It hit me and popped off onto the floor beside my chair. I could feel the slime of Phillip Granger’s spit on the side of my ear. I grabbed for the handkerchief in my shirt pocket. And that’s when I knew I was doomed, ’cause Chester—that was my frog—started squirming.

  I’d packed him in my pocket that morning with some moss, wet dirt, and grass underneath my handkerchief. He’d been so still and quiet I’d forgotten ’bout him. Now I poked his head back down. I said as quiet as I could, “Stay still.”

  Chester hated being poked. I felt him pushing to get out. I grabbed him. That got him riled, and he told me so, in his itty-bitty-dog barking tree frog voice.

  Miss Fowler’s head jerked up. “Who is making that noise?”

  One of my favorite things about frogs and crickets is there ain’t hardly no way to tell where the sound they’re making is coming from. I tried to sit still, squeezing Chester’s sides to keep him from hopping out. But he just yelped louder.

  Miss Fowler stood up calmly, like nothing was going. Just watching her, you wouldn’t guess she was ’bout to snatch up her ruler. It was twelve inches long, and mostly every kid knew how to measure on account of it. Six inches of it done hit me just yesterday, and my hand was still smarting from it.

  Miss Fowler gave the evil eye to each one of us, like she could see right through to our brains and read our minds.

  Slapping the ruler on her palm, Miss Fowler walked between the desks. Then she held up her hand so we could see how red it was, just to show us she meant business.

  Each of us looked down hard at our book, aiming to look innocent.

  Then Chester started squirming, trying to escape. I squeezed him harder, just for a second. He barked—Quit it!—real loud.

  I had to think fast or I was a goner. I did a fake hiccup and hoped Miss Fowler would think that was the noise she heard.

  Miss Fowler said, “All right, I’ve had quite enough. Who is making that noise? I know a real hiccup from a fake one, and that was most certainly a fake one.”

  I wondered, How could anyone know the difference between a fake hiccup and a real one?

  Someone said, “Where can I learn how to do fake hiccups, Miss Fowler?”

  Then the entire class started hiccuping and laughing.

  Miss Fowler was boiling mad now. She smacked her hand again as she walked past me to the back of the opposite row and slammed her ruler down on a desk.

  I don’t know what come over me, ’cause most times I ain’t no tattletale. Maybe it was ’cause I hadn’t seen her so mad before. Or maybe, I s’pose, ’cause she was already walking back my way, but all of a sudden I blurted out, “Phillip Granger threw a spitball at me.”

  Miss Fowler appeared to get taller. “Phillip Granger, what has possessed you?” she said, and cracked him across his knuckles.

  “Ow!” Phillip yelled.

  I had to give it to Miss Fowler, when she got mad, she’d whack anybody.

  “It wasn’t me!” Phillip shouted.

  “Are you yelling at me, Phillip Granger?” Miss Fowler said, her eyes stretched open, her finger pointing at Phillip, her face as red as her hair. “No one shouts at me in my own classroom, young man.”

  Chester pushed to get out. I squeezed again, he barked again. I couldn’t keep squeezing him, or I’d kill him. I just dropped my head. Unless Miss Fowler believed Phillip was the best ventriloquist in all of Fulton County, it was all over for me.

  Now Miss Fowler was really fired up. She spun around and peered over the rims of her black cat-eye glasses as she came toward me.

  “See, right there,” Phillip said, pointing at me, “by his desk. He just dropped the spitball he was gonna throw at me.”

  Miss Fowler leaned over and examined the balled-up paper with the end of her ruler. “Isn’t this that Marvel comic book with the Freedom Train on it, Clyde Thomason?”

  “I-I-I . . . I-I-I didn’t do it. Phillip Gra-a-anger threw it at me.”

  “Clyde, you’re the only student with one of these Freedom Train comic books. Are you letting someone else take the blame for your shenanigans? That’s perfectly all right,” Miss Fowler said, walking to her desk. She laid down the twelve-inch ruler and picked up Mr. Justice.

  “But I-I-I . . .”

  “Not another word,” Miss Fowler said. “I don’t want to hear it. Your brother is the pride of Cabbagetown, and you’ve destroyed the gift he sent you just to make a spitball. An ingrate, that’s what you are, Clyde Thomason.”

  Weren’t no call to say nothing now, stuttering or not.

  In Miss Fowler’s hand was a big old wood paddle in the shape of a flattened-out baseball bat that had MR. JUSTICE printed on it like a first grader done wrote it with a nail. Kids said Miss Fowler scratched the name on it with her fangs.

  Miss Fowler pulled her chair in front of her desk and sat down facing the class. She patted her knees. “Come forward, Clyde Thomason, Mr. Justice is waiting.”

  I stood up and took a step toward her, but I couldn’t really see her anymore. My eyes went all blurry. I reached for my handkerchief to wipe off some of the sweat. But when I pulled it out, Chester jumped out too.

  Hop, hop, HOP. Oh, no!

  Chester was a handsome frog. He was green, like summer leaves, with black spots dotting here and there. He was always smiling, and he had a purty yellow throat, a short, pointy head, and a full, fat, slimy body. But it seemed Miss Fowler didn’t care ’bout the looks of no frog. She threw Mr. Justice onto the floor, jumped up screaming, “Heavens,” and ran out of the room.

  I grabbed for Chester, thinking I could say a big green bugger had popped out of my handkerchief. But ’bout that time Chester hopped over a boy and three girls. Most of the girls went to squealing and jumping up on their desks.

  “Come on, Chester, quit playing around,” I said. But before I could nab him, he hopped onto Phillip Granger’s head.

  Phillip looked like a bear had got ahold of him. The next thing I knew, he was hopping around crying, and I mean really crying, all snotty nosed. He ran around in a circle, with Chester clinging to his head like a rodeo cowboy on a steer. Chester wasn’t ’bout to be knocked off. Who’da thought someone as nasty as Phillip Granger would be scared of a bitty old frog?

  I kept snatching at Chester, but it’s hard to catch a frog when somebody is hopping around with arms flying and they’re taller than you. I finally jumped up onto a chair and grabbed Chester. I said to him, “Thanks, Chester, you saved me from a whupping—at least for a while.”

  But Phillip didn’t give a hoot that I hadn’t gotten a whupping. ’Cause he shouted at me from across the room, “You knew I hate frogs. That’s why you brought him, ain’t it? Well, I’m gonna get you for this, Clyde. I’m gonna get you good.”

  And I knew Phillip Granger meant it.

  A VISIT TO ANOTHER WORLD

  Before I could explain that I didn’t have no notion ’bout his feelings for frogs, there was Miss Fowler at the door with the principal, Mr. Leon Little. I stuffed Chester back into my pocket just as Mr. Little motioned for me to follow them.

  Mr. Little was new to the school and to Cabbagetown, but not Georgia. He was from Atlanta. Even though Cabbagetown was a part of Atlanta, they were ’bout as different as the sun from the moon.