Chapter 1

Fire in the Night

Celeste stamped a brown bare foot and tightened her grip on her jumping rope. "Why can’t I go out to play?" she demanded crossly. "I took care of Button all mornin’ for Mama. You’re just mean, Papa, that’s what!"

The Key family was finishing their noon meal of greens, fried mush, and sorghum syrup in the small clapboard house on Peachtree Street. The sweltering day that August of 1904 lay like a heavy blanket over Statesboro, Georgia, stuffing every corner of the little house. But Samuel Key had just announced that the "young’uns" had to stay inside the rest of the day. The other children—Tom, fifteen; Lucy, twelve; and Buddy, six—eyed their father to see how he was going to react to this mutiny on the part of eight-year-old Celeste.

But Samuel just frowned, pushed back his chair, and pulled on his cap. Tom jumped up and grabbed his own cap, ready to go back to the blacksmith shop with his father to finish the work they’d started that morning.

KEY’S BLACKSMITHY said the blue and red sign over the wide stable door. The whole family was proud of that sign. Their papa didn’t work for nobody, white or black. Samuel Key owned his own blacksmith shop, and business was good. A few rich people owned those newfangled motorcars—"horseless carriages" they were called—but most people still relied on horses for everyday business. Even some of the white folks in Statesboro came to Key’s Blacksmithy to get their horses shod or their harnesses repaired.

But Samuel turned at the door, his face troubled. "No, Tom," he said. "I want you to help your mother this afternoon. She’s gotta deliver laundry ’cross town."

"Aw, Papa!" groaned Tom. "Why can’t Lucy and Buddy—?"

"Don’t argue with me, boy," snapped Samuel. "It’s you I need to go with your mother today. Do those deliveries and git your mother back here soon’s you can."

His eyes swept the rest of the children and finally rested on Celeste. The little girl’s lip was stuck out in a pout, and her arms were crossed stubbornly. "Trouble’s a’brewin’," he said darkly. "I’m sayin’ it again. Don’t want none of the rest of you young’uns to go outside today." Celeste squirmed under his piercing gaze. "You hear me, missy?"

Celeste nodded and hung her head. But as the door rattled shut, her lip stuck out even farther. What did Papa mean by trouble? She couldn’t get in trouble just playing with her jumping rope out back of the house.

G G G G

Mama and Tom had been gone for an hour, lugging a heavy basket between them with clean, starched clothes. They had to make deliveries to two of Mama’s clients—white folks over on Hill Street who hired Lilly Key to do their weekly laundry.

Doing laundry for other folks was a backbreaking job. First, Lilly scrubbed the clothes on a washboard with hard soap, then boiled them with soft soap in a big kettle over a fire in the backyard. Buddy was then put to work lifting the clothes with a large wooden "fork" into the rinse water—white things got another rinse with a bleaching agent—then fed through a crank ringer to squeeze the water out. Finally, Lilly and Lucy hung the clothes on the old clotheslines to dry in the hot Georgia breeze, then folded them carefully in a basket and returned them to their owners.

"At least these white folks have maids who can do the ironin’!" Mama always said gratefully, stretching the sore muscles in her back and shoulders. And the money she got paid always went in the rusty coffee can to help put food on the table.

Now the house was quiet, except for the occasional drone of a fly against a windowpane. Celeste gave one last rock to the cradle Papa had made. Button’s chubby arms and legs were flung out in peaceful slumber. Tiptoeing to the door of the room her parents and Button slept in, Celeste peeked around the curtain into the main room. No sign of Buddy; he must have fallen asleep in the back room shared by all four children. Lucy had her back to Celeste, humming to herself as she cleaned out the ashes from the woodburning cookstove at the far end of the main room, which the Key family used for cooking, eating, and sitting.

Celeste’s jumping rope lay waiting by the door, which Lucy had opened to catch any little breeze. She moved quietly across the scrubbed wood floor, silently picked up the rope, and slipped outside.

She wanted to whoop with joy but only twirled around in a little dance. What a relief to get out of that stuffy house! The sun still hung high in the afternoon sky, but a light breeze ruffled the tops of the big oaks lining Peachtree Street, where colored folks like themselves lived. Papa’s blacksmith shop was just down the unpaved street and around the corner.

Skipping across the dirt street, Celeste put a fat oak between herself and the little clapboard house. Now Lucy couldn’t see her and haul her back inside. In fact, Celeste reasoned to herself, if she went one street over, Lucy wouldn’t see her at all and she could play all afternoon.

As Celeste lost sight of her house, she thought, Where is everybody? The streets seemed strangely deserted. Well, all the better for her. No one to make mention to Mama or Papa that they’d seen her playing outside that afternoon.

Feeling safe from discovery, Celeste twirled her rope and tried to jump like Lucy had taught her. But her feet kept getting tangled up in the rope. Finally, bored and hot, she wandered, dragging the rope behind her. She’d never walked around their neighborhood all by herself before. Passing house after house and turning on this street and that gave her a feeling of grown-up importance. She’d just walk awhile, then head back before Mama and Tom got home.

But finally her legs felt tired. Celeste sat down against a big oak, feeling the rough, warm bark on her back. Within moments she was fast asleep.

She awoke with a start. The sun was gone, and twilight hung over the trees. I’ve got to get home! she thought, starting to run. But finding Peachtree Street again wasn’t as easy as she thought. Anxious, Celeste ran faster. She wanted to ask someone where Peachtree Street was, but she didn’t see anyone she knew, and one old man just shouted at her, "Git on home, girl—be quick about it!"

Then somewhere up ahead, Celeste heard people shouting. She ran toward the sound; surely someone could tell her where Peachtree Street was. But as she came to a corner and looked down the next street, she hesitated. The people she saw were white and there were a lot of them. She quickly darted behind a tree. What were they all doing in the colored neighborhood?

Still, Celeste pondered, maybe one of these white people could tell her how to find Peachtree. After all, the people Mama did laundry for seemed nice enough. And Mr. Gunderson at Gunderson’s Mercantile where Mama bought cloth to make britches and dresses always gave her a lollipop. But . . . these white people seemed angry. Even more strange, some of them were wearing white sheets over their heads, like they’d just rolled out of bed.

She giggled at the ridiculous costume—but just then the shouting got louder, and suddenly several torches flared. "Key’s Blacksmithy!" somebody yelled. "Teach these blacks not to mess with white folks!"

The crowd surged past Celeste’s bushy hiding place. She felt a rush of both hope and terror. Those people were going to her papa’s blacksmith shop! If she followed them, she would find her way home. But why were they going there? What were they going to do?

Her legs felt leaden with fear. But somehow she managed to put one foot in front of the other and creep along behind the trees and bushes lining the street, following the crowd. And sure enough—soon she saw the blue and red sign of Papa’s shop! Now if she could only get past without Papa seeing her and sneak back into the house . . . .

Suddenly, she saw a torch flying through the blue-black dusk, landing on a pile of straw bales stacked on the side of the blacksmith shop. Another torch was flung through the opening to the loft where hay was stored to feed Willy, Papa’s mule, and the horses who were brought each day to get horseshoes fitted. In seconds, flames were leaping from the loft and up the side of the blacksmith shop.

Celeste screamed, but it was lost in the ugly laughter of the mob, who cheered as the flames lept higher. Then, like a restless, hungry cat on the prowl, the crowd suddenly took off running down the street, as if looking for another unsuspecting victim.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway of the blacksmithy, coughing and tugging on a rope. It was Papa! He was leading Willy the mule out into the fresh air. The mule’s ears were laid back, and he was squealing with fright. Slapping the mule on the rump, Samuel Key grabbed a burlap bag, plunged it into the water barrel beside the door, and started slapping the flames.

The mule bolted past Celeste, his eyes ringed white with panic. Fear rooted Celeste to the ground. She wanted to run to her father, but she was afraid of the fire. And what if he got angry with her for leaving the house?

Just then another figure—smaller and boyish—came running down the street. "Papa! Papa! Come quick!" Buddy screamed. "They got Tom!"

Celeste saw her father look helplessly at the flames licking hungrily at the wooden blacksmith shop. Then with a howl of desperation, the big man tossed aside the wet burlap sack and took off running after Buddy.

G G G G

Celeste crept up to the little clapboard house on Peachtree Street, her teeth chattering even in the muggy evening. The door was closed, but she could hear anxious voices through the open window—Lucy’s and Mama’s. Button was whimpering. Where was Papa? Was he inside? Oh, how she longed to be safe inside the house with her family! But did she dare go back inside? Were they all angry at her?

Tears spilled down the little girl’s cheeks. Why, oh, why did she disobey her papa and run away this afternoon?

Lucy’s high-pitched wail carried out the window. "But why did they attack you, Mama?"

Celeste heard her mother moan. "I . . . I don’t know. Something to do with that murder trial goin’ on at the courthouse—two colored fellows are accused of killing a white family. Everyone’s goin’ crazy! As Tom and I got done deliverin’ the laundry, a group of white boys started yelling at us, calling us names, telling us to get out of their neighborhood. I begged Tom to ignore them, but he . . . he yelled back at them, told them we had business there. That made them mad. Before I knew what was happening, the boys had pushed me down and were beating on Tom." Lilly started to cry.

"Mama, I’m scared!" It was Buddy’s voice, pushing in anxiously. "Will Papa find Tom?"

The sobs and moans increased. "Oh, God, I hope so. But now Celeste is missin’, too! And that mob—burnin’ your papa’s shop. Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, what we gonna do?"

Celeste couldn’t bear it anymore. She burst into the room and flung herself into her mother’s arms. "Here I am, Mama!" she cried. "I only went outside to play with my jumpin’ rope, an’ I . . . I got lost."

Jumping rope. Celeste suddenly realized her hands were empty. "My jumping rope be lost, too," she said mournfully.

To her surprise, her mother hugged her fiercely, kissing her all over her dirt-streaked face. Then, just as suddenly, Lilly held Celeste at arm’s length and scolded, "You naughty girl! Didn’t you hear your papa tell you there was trouble in the town? Ain’t we got enough to worry about right now without you runnin’ off and scarin’ me half to death? I’m a’gonna switch your legs good—"

"Mama!" screeched Buddy, who was peering out a window. "Here comes Papa! He’s got Tom!"

Celeste’s switching was forgotten as Lilly flew to the door and opened it wide. Samuel Key stumbled in, carrying lanky Tom in his big arms. The teenager’s face was swollen and bloody, his clothes torn and dirty.

"He ain’t dead," Samuel grunted, laying the boy down gently, "an’ I don’t think nothin’s broke—’cept maybe a couple of ribs." Samuel’s face was twisted with grief and anger. "Should never have let you two go this afternoon," he mumbled. "Not with that murder trial making everyone crazy."

The other children crowded close, staring in shock at their older brother lying unconscious on the bed. But Lilly was already a whirlwind of activity—wringing out a wet rag and beginning to wash Tom’s bloody face, all the while snapping out instructions. "Lucy, put some water on to boil and tear up those clean rags for bandages. Buddy, find the iodine. Samuel, help me get these torn clothes off him."

Celeste crept over to the bed she shared with Lucy and curled up in a little ball. Mama wasn’t going to switch her, after all, she thought with guilty relief. Her tummy growled with hunger, but the little girl’s eyelids began to droop as her mother cleaned and bandaged Tom’s wounds with a singsong voice.

"There, there, Tommy boy . . . Lord’s gonna see us through. . . . It’s gonna be all right. . . . Mama gonna take care of you. . . . You sleep, now, sleep. . . ."