First published in 2018 in Great Britain by
Barrington Stoke Ltd
18 Walker Street, Edinburgh, EH3 7LP
This ebook edition first published in 2021
www.barringtonstoke.co.uk
Text 2018 Catherine Johnson
Illustration 2018 Katie Hickey
The moral right of Catherine Johnson and Katie Hickey to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in any part in any form without the written permission of the publisher
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library upon request
ISBN: 978-1-80090-084-4
To Elsa, the best dog in the world, who let me stay in her house while I wrote this book
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
Matthew Henson was the first American to reach the North Pole. That was over a hundred years ago in 1909. The American government gave everyone who came home from that trip medals. They were heroes! Did I say everyone? Matthew did not get a medal like everyone else. He did not get a heros welcome. In fact, for many years some people didnt even believe what hed done.
Oh, hed lived a long life, and an exciting one. Hed travelled the world and spoke many different languages. Matthew could drive a team of dogs across the ice, hunt wolves and seals and make just about anything out of wood or metal.
But when he came home to the land where he was born, the only work he could find was as a messenger boy or parking cars.
He died poor. Only his family and a few others knew about his adventures. But thirty years after he had died, people began to talk about him. They knew the stories were true and eventually he was reburied in a heros grave. They told his story and remembered his name. Nowadays youll find schools and colleges and even battleships named after him.
Why was he forgotten and ignored for so many years?
The reason was the colour of his skin
PART ONE
Running Away
CHAPTER 1
I walked out of my stepmothers house not long after my eleventh birthday. Truth was Id have left a whole lot sooner if she hadnt beaten me so hard I couldnt get out of bed for three whole days. My stepmother was called Nellie, and she hated me. She had this stick cut from a tree out by our small fields black oak, I think it was. It was harder than hell and had sharp points that cut into my skin. I dont know what I did to make her hate me so. All I know is that she never beat my sisters half as much as she beat me.
It was always my fault. That last time it was because I filled up the bucket too full with water from the creek. It slopped over the floor in the kitchen. The stick came down hard on my back, arms, legs, again and again. It felt as if every bone in my body was breaking. You should have seen the bruises! My one good jacket got torn.
I had to crawl back up the stairs to my bed and I lay there shivering. It was wintertime and the heat from the fire downstairs only just made it up through the boards. I lay there and looked up at the ceiling. It hurt so bad. That was when I made my mind up to escape.
The first time, I crept downstairs when the house was dark and still, but my bare feet thumped too loud on the stairs and Nellie caught me. She shot out of her bedroom and yelled all sorts, thinking I was stealing food. As soon as I saw her reach for that stick of hers, I was back upstairs faster than a squirrel up a tree. I lay back down in bed with my heart hammering in my chest.
I knew I couldnt stay. I had my mind set on the big city, Washington DC. Maybe somewhere there a boy like me could get a job. Had to be better than this. Ill try again tomorrow night, I said to myself. And she wont hear me next time.
I tore up my thin wool blanket into squares. I planned to tie them round my feet so no one would hear me come down the stairs.
Next morning, my sister Eliza looked hard at me. And when Nellie sent us out to cut wood, Eliza told me shed seen the blanket all cut up. She knew what Id done that for.
I have to go, I told her. Next time Nellie could break my legs.
When we were out of sight of the house, Eliza hugged me tight. I know, Matt, she whispered. I thought shed kill you last time But Ill miss you so bad.
I nodded. Ill miss you too. But I cant stay here any longer.
You going to the city? Eliza said. Washington?
I nodded again.
Quickest way is up the road past Port Tobacco. I heard people say you can walk there in a day or two, she told me.
I wiped my face with my sleeve. I was sad to leave my sister but I didnt want her to see me cry.
Always be polite, Matt, and be kind. Youll find work somewhere, Eliza said, and picked a bit of dust out of my hair. Just you watch out in the city. And remember, when you walk down those big city streets, keep on the outside of the sidewalk, near the road. I heard theres monsters living in those basements. They live in the dark and swallow up coloured children who fall in. So you make sure you dont.
I made a face. Eliza, thats all just stories, I said.
Just stay safe, you hear?
*
That night I stepped quiet as a polecat down the stairs and across the parlour to the front door. I opened it real slow. I held my breath but the door made no sound at all. Outside, it was dark and cold. The stars shone like bright diamonds in a great bowl of black, with the moon hung high like a big silver dollar. The ground sparkled with frost, and my breath made great clouds of smoke in the frozen air.
I ran across the moonlit fields and all the way to the road. With every step I took, I was further away from Nellie and I felt a little bit more free. It was like the stories Id heard of slaves escaping, and I was setting out towards freedom. I knew if Nellie caught me, shed drag me back and beat me until she broke my arms and legs.
I could feel the cold crisp frost through the blanket squares around my feet, but I kept running. When I could run no more, I stepped off the road and into the woods. I pushed some dead leaves out of the way and curled up in a hollow at the bottom of a tree. I held my jacket tight shut to keep out the chill, but I couldnt sleep, not a wink. I was too cold and too scared. I thought of all those stories Id heard of night-riders. My father used to tell me how theyd come galloping through the dark, hunting down coloured folk. They carried flaming torches and their cloaks flowed out behind them. They would shoot you or hang you from a tree just for talking to a white person. Or maybe my cruel stepmother would come hunting me through the woods with her black oak stick in her hand.
As soon as it was light, I set off again. I stayed close to the trees and as I walked I clapped my arms against my side and tried to think of good things. I thought about the times when my daddy let us play with the dog next door. Or when hed dig a pit and fill it with fire and wed roast corn cobs and sweet potatoes too hot to hold.
I shut my eyes and remembered how warm the food was and how the potatoes were sweet in my mouth. I was very hungry.
Washington will be full of stalls stacked high with oven-hot corn cobs or roast nuts or apple pie, I thought. Then I remembered I didnt have a nickel. Not one cent.
But I couldnt stop now. A big city like Washington DC? I said to myself. Therell be nickels and cents just dropped in the street, maybe dimes even
