Miz Grovesnor asked me if I wanted anything to eat, and I told her I’d et with Earl and Dustin, and what I needed most was some sleep. So she told me goodnight, that she’d bring me some breakfast in the morning.
Never again, in all my life, did I sleep as sound as I did that night. When a creak of the stair steps woke me, the sun was already coming in the window. Miz Grovesnor appeared. She carried a tray of food in one hand, and some used clothing under her other arm. I smelled ham and wheat cakes, and it tasted as good as it smelled. Back at the plantation, we were only allowed ham once a year, at Christmastime.
I stayed with Miz Grovesnor for four days, while we waited for transportation. She taught me to play checkers, and to eat my food with a knife and fork.
We had a fine time. For a few days she was a mother to me. I think she felt that way, too. On the evening of the third day she said, “Caleb, you’re a fine lad, and don’t ever let anyone treat you otherwise. Now, hold out your hand, and take this.”
I held out my open hand, and she placed a red checker in it. “Caleb, keep this checker until you’re a man, and may it remind you that you are just as much a human being as anyone else. Whenever you see that checker, think of this lonely old woman living beside the river.”
On the fourth day she told me to sleep in my ragged new clothes, and to leave the house quietly when I was called. I was so excited that I barely slept. I was called very early in the morning. It was the night of a full moon.
A farm wagon, pulled by two big horses, stood in front of the house. The wagon bed was full of hay, and a four-prong pitchfork lay on top of the hay. A small man sat hunched over in the driver’s seat. He looked like he belonged there—indeed he looked like he’d grown up there.
“Hap, this is your passenger Caleb, who will be with you all the way to Washington DC.” (So that’s where I was going!)
With a name like Hap I expected the driver to be all smiles. Instead he was the sourest man I ever saw. All the wrinkles in his face turned down at the corners.
“Git in,” he said gruffly. “Lie down in that corner. And don’t move anywhere else in the wagon, or you’ll likely be a dead black boy. In fact, don’t move at all, especially if you hear voices.”
I grew to hate that wagon. For almost two weeks I bounced along in it, sneezing up the hay dust. I laid on my side, then my back, then my other side, then my belly. Twice a day Hap passed me, through the hay, some hardtack and a bit of salt meat, and four times a day he passed me a cup of water. Late at night we’d pull off beside the road and sleep until sun up.
The fifth morning of the long journey Hap said in an urgent low voice, “Stay in the corner of the wagon, and lie absolutely still.’’
I heard the sound of horse’s hooves, then a rough voice said, “You, there. Whatcha got in that wagon?”
“Load of hay. Taking it to my brother-in-law in Richmond. He owns a livery stable.”
“Maybe you got something under that hay?”
I held my breath.
The wagon pulled to a stop. I heard Hap scramble over the back of the driver’s seat. He must have picked up the fork, because the next thing I knew the tines came down through the hay and penetrated the floorboards about a foot in front of my face. The fork suddenly vanished, but then it came down again near my feet.
This happened four times. Then Hap’s voice asked, “Satisfied?”
“Richmond seems to me a long way to go with nothin’ but a load of hay. Better git along if you want to see that brother-in-law before the week’s out.”
The wagon began to move, and I breathed a long sigh of relief.
As we got closer to Washington DC I heard more voices, and could sense that we were passing more wagons. I also began hearing soldiers’ commands. When I whispered a question to Hap, he said, “We’ll be there tomorrow morning, before sun up. Now shut your voice.”
I didn’t have the slightest idea what was about to happen to me, and got very little sleep that night. It was still dark when the wagon rolled to a stop. “Follow me, and don’t waste any time,” said Hap.
I’d been lying in that wagon so long that I could scarcely move, but I managed to crawl up out of the hay and over the sideboard. Hap was already on the ground, walking toward a small white house. He pointed to a sign above the door. “I know you cain’t read. The sign says ‘A. Scruggs, Medical Practitioner.’ You’ve come to visit a doctor, boy.”
He tapped softly on the door.
I heard footsteps inside. Then the door opened. Standing there was a portly middle-aged man. His face was unnaturally red.
Beside him stood a woman, younger than the man, small in build. There was a smile of greeting on her face.
“Ah, you’re right on time,” said the man. He spoke in a precise voice. “We calculated you might arrive today. Come in. Come in!”
The parlor was small, but surprisingly neat. Chairs were scattered around all the walls. Through a door on the left I could see a raised bed covered with a sheet. It was obvious that the parlor doubled as the doctor’s waiting room.
The woman smiled at me, and waved her hand. “Come in, Caleb. I’ll show you your room.”
A room of my own! This was too good to be true.
And it was a fine room, with a large bed, a table and chair, and a closet, though I had nothing to hang on the hooks.
The doctor’s wife told me to be as quiet as possible, and not to come into the parlor while I was staying with them. She said she didn’t know how long that would be, but at least a few days.
It could have been weeks as far as I was concerned. I was very comfortable with Dr. Scruggs and his wife, and the vittles were outstanding. Sounds made in the parlor came drifting up through a small square hole in the floor. With nothing else to do, I listened to what the patients said to each other. I learned more than I wanted to know about the patients, and about the doctor and his wife.
Chapter 3
On the fourth or fifth day (I can’t remember which) the doctor’s wife hurried into my bedroom and said, with excitement in her voice, “Caleb, put on your jacket and come downstairs with me.”
Standing straight as a poplar tree in the center of the parlor was a soldier in full uniform, his cap under his left arm.
“Caleb, this is Sergeant Lawrence Cantrell, who has a message for you. Sergeant Cantrell is stationed at the White House.”
The sergeant clicked his heels, and bowed slightly. “Are you the boy Caleb who recently escaped from Three Rivers Plantation in South Carolina?”
I nodded.
“Mr. Lincoln has been reading about you in the Baltimore newspaper, and would like to talk with you. I have a horse and buggy outside. Will you come with me please?”
I stammered my response. “Mr. Lincoln? Do you mean President Lincoln?”
“Yes. At the White House.”
“Of course.”
The sergeant thanked Mrs. Scruggs, and led me out to the buggy.
It took us almost an hour to reach the White House. I’d never seen so many people in my life. Soldiers were everywhere.
We finally passed through the gate of a black iron fence, and rolled up the gravel drive in front of the White House. It was the whitest white and the biggest house I’d ever seen. A man in uniform opened the door and helped me climb down off the buggy. I thanked Sergeant Cantrell, and followed the uniform through the door.
There was room after room, with finery everywhere. I thought I heard a boy’s voice, then another voice shouted, “Found you!” It made me feel better, not so lonesome, to hear those voices.
The uniformed man finally stopped in one of the rooms, nodded to a closed door, and said, “The Oval Office. President Lincoln is in there. Please be seated until he will see you.”
I squirmed up onto a gold trimmed chair. I made up my mind not to be scared no matter what happened. I forced myself to think of Hap, and Miz Grovesnor, and Earl and Dustin to keep my mind occupied.
Finally the door opened. The ma
n who stood there was almost as tall as the doorway. He had legs that seemed to stretch all the way to his skinny waist. His face was lined, as though he worried a good deal. There was a large wart on his right cheek. A thick beard rolled around his chin.
The gentle, pleasant scent of wood smoke surrounded him. I later came to believe that it had been with him since he was a lad in Kentucky. Each of us bears his own scent. That’s how hounds are able to track humans. I have firsthand knowledge of that fact.
“You must be Caleb,” he said in a slightly highpitched but penetrating voice. “I’m Abraham Lincoln. Won’t you come in?”
The office was a big one, and sort of round like a pear. A large desk occupied a space near a wall, which consisted of windows looking out on a garden. Mr. Lincoln waved me toward one of the chairs in the room. Then he surprised me. Instead of seating himself behind the desk, he pulled up a chair directly in front of me and sat down. I was face to face with Abraham Lincoln. We were no more than three feet apart!
“I’ve heard and read a lot about you, Caleb. Enough about you that I wanted to talk with you. You’ve had your share of adventures.”
At that point I blurted out something I hadn’t intended to say. “Ma and Pa got shot. Probably kilt.”
Mr. Lincoln reached out and touched me on the knee. “So I heard.” He repeated himself in a lower voice. “So I heard.”
There was silence for a while. Then Mr. Lincoln said, “I want you to know, Caleb, that I can’t do anything about your Ma and Pa, but I’ll do everything in my power to see that you’re taken care of.”
“That’s not much good if I ain’t got a Ma and Pa.”
“True words. But I just wanted you to know that it’s not in my power to bring back your parents. I don’t want to mislead you.”
“No, sir.”
“But I can—and I will—see that you never have to go back to that plantation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Caleb, you keep calling me ‘sir.’ Why is that?”
I thought about his question. “I guess because you’re a white man, sir.”
“That’s the wrong reason, son. Absolutely the wrong reason. You can call me sir because I’m a grown man and you’re still a boy. Or you can call me sir because I’m president of the United States. Those are good reasons. But never call me sir because I’m a white man.”
“No, sir. I mean yes, sir.” That was the first of many things I learned from Mr. Lincoln.
“Now, Caleb, I want you to know that I need you.”
“You need me, sir?”
“I need you to come live with me here in the White House. Will you? For one thing, it will solve my problem of what to do with you.”
“But I have nothing to offer you, sir.”
“Yes you do. You just don’t realize it. In the first place, I’m a very lonesome man. I thank the Lord that my wife and two of my sons are here with me, but I particularly need someone who isn’t family to talk to. Do you understand that, Caleb?”
“I can try, sir.”
“I mentioned that two of my sons are here with me. Another son died a few weeks ago, just before his twelfth birthday, which would make him, I believe, just about your age. His mother is almost out of her mind with grief, and I can scarcely think of anything but his death. Perhaps you will help take my mind off our loss.
“I must confess that the other reason I need you here is purely political. It is my strong belief, which I have expressed for years, that our two races can live together for the benefit of both. Still, my political opponents refuse to acknowledge that fact. I need a strong demonstration of my own belief. If we lived here, together, perhaps we could persuade others to follow our example.”
“Yes, sir. I think I understand. I will be very happy to try.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Lincoln rose from his chair, walked to the door, and opened it. “Send in Mr. Slade,” he called loudly, though I couldn’t see anyone in the waiting room.
A few seconds later a middle-age black man walked into the room. He was well dressed, indeed rather formally dressed, and wore a black bow tie tied in a ribbon knot. “May I be of help, sir?”
Mr. Lincoln addressed me. “Caleb, I want you to meet William Slade, my manservant. Mr. Slade, meet Caleb, whom you’ve been reading about in the newspapers. He’s the lad who escaped from that plantation down in South Carolina.”
Mr. Slade thrust out his hand, and I shook it.
“Caleb is moving in with us,” explained Mr. Lincoln. “Fix him up in the large closet next to my bedroom. You know, move in a cot, a table and chair, anything else he needs. And take him to Sumner Brandt, the clothier, Mr. Slade. Outfit him in good clothing but nothing very fancy. And get him a pair of shoes. Charge everything to my account.”
“Shoes?” I said in disdain. “Must I wear shoes?”
“Yes, you must wear shoes. You’re a member of my family. Get yourself settled in, Caleb, and then come see me in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 4
The next morning I waited until Mr. Lincoln was between appointments, then sidled into the Oval Office. He noticed my new clothing immediately.
“How are the shoes?” he asked.
I made a bad face. “They pinch.”
“Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. When I was your age, back in Kentucky, I went barefoot all the time. I couldn’t stand to wear shoes.”
“I suppose wearing shoes is one sign that you are growing up.”
“Yes. But almost every man I’ve ever known is sorry that he has grown up. Children want to grow up, and adults want to—you might say—grow down. Caleb, I want to talk with you for a moment this morning about growing up. I don’t suppose anyone ever taught you to read and write.”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that’s the first thing I want you to do around here. To be successful you must learn to read and write. Every morning, starting tomorrow, you will take lessons from Mrs. Edgars, who was Willie’s teacher when he was alive.”
It was the finest gift I’d ever had. Reading and writing had always seemed like some kind of magic to me, ever since I’d discussed the subject with Ol’Nan.
“Mr. Slade will introduce you to Mrs. Edgars, and get you properly started. I’m convinced you’ll be a fine student.”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
As a matter of fact, I was a good student. In six months I had learned to read, and to write somewhat slowly, and in a year I could read a newspaper faster than Mrs. Edgars, who said I was the best student she’d ever taught. And my writing is fine and graceful, as you can tell from this journal.
About a week after I started my reading and writing lessons, Mr. Lincoln said to me one day, “Caleb, every man needs some kind of work to carry him through life. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Mrs. Edgars occupies your mornings, but I feel you should be doing something productive in the afternoons to pay for your food and lodging. Incidentally, how’s the food, Caleb? Is it satisfactory?”
“Oh yes, sir. Quite satisfactory.”
“Good. I’m about to make you my private messenger.”
“Messenger, sir?”
“Yes, when I want to talk with someone, say Mr. Seward, my Secretary of State, I’ll call and tell you to fetch him. In order to fetch him, you’ll have to know where his office is, so you’ll have to memorize the locations of all the offices in the federal government. Do you follow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Starting tomorrow afternoon Mr. Slade will teach you those locations.”
And that’s the way we worked it out. I got to know every official and where I could find him. My own “office” was the waiting room next to the Oval Office. Mr. Lincoln would holler at me, “Caleb, get me Mr. Slade,” and off I’d go, sometimes sliding on the shiny floors in my new shoes.
After a week of this work, Mr. Lincoln said, “Caleb, get me Mr. Slade, and then come into my office wi
th him.”
Off I raced, and returned with Mr. Slade. We entered the Oval Office together.
“Mr. Slade, Caleb has been standing in the waiting room all afternoon for several days now. I want you to ask the house carpenter to build a stool tailored to Caleb’s size, paint it very bright red, and install it in the waiting room.”
That’s how I got my red stool. That stool and I were partners all through my time in the White House, and became well known to the Cabinet members, the Army generals, and anyone else who had business to transact with the president.
Early on in my service, Mr. Lincoln called me in and told me to close the door. He said, “Every man should be paid a just wage for the work he does. Do you agree?”
I nodded.
“Well, Caleb, starting today the United States Government will pay you ten cents a day for fetching people to this office. Do you agree that is a proper wage?”
I couldn’t imagine that much money. Sixty cents a week, if I saved it! I nodded again.
On Saturday of each week, he would call me in, reach into the drawer of his desk, and with great ceremony bring forth some ten-cent pieces, and count off six of them. He would place them in my outstretched hand, and with equal ceremony I’d place them in my pocket. In the evening, I transferred them to a large tin cup in my room, which I hid in the back of my desk drawer. Faster than I imagined they counted out into dollars.
One afternoon, Mr. Lincoln shouted at me, “Caleb, get me Caleb!” I instantly reported to him.
“Caleb, I’m preparing a document for you, and you need a last name.”
“I never had a need for one before, sir.”
“No, but someday you will. What shall we call you?”
“I dunno. Maybe Wiggins? That was the name of my old master back on the plantation.”
“Not so good. I have a better name for you. What do I say most often when I call you?”
I thought a moment. “You say ‘Caleb, get me Mr. Somebody’.”
“That’s it! That will be your name from now on. Caleb Getme!”
Caleb Getme. I sort of liked the sound of it.
Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure Page 3