Mr. Lincoln had mentioned a “document,” but I heard nothing more of it for a week or so. Finally my curiosity ruled. One day I said, “That document you mentioned, Mr. Lincoln, what’s it all about?”
“What document, Caleb? What are you talking about?”
I knew from the tone of his voice he was teasing me. “You know. It’s why I need a last name.”
“Oh. That.” He pulled out a drawer in his desk and withdrew a sheet of parchment. “Here. Read this.”
At the top of the paper was the heading “President of the United States.” Then there was a date. Then, the following, written in Mr. Lincoln’s own flowing, graceful hand:
“To whom it may concern: The bearer of this document, Caleb Getme, is a freed man, and is entitled to all the rights and privileges of any other citizen of the United States.” At the bottom of the document was his signature, followed by “President of the United States.”
“Caleb, I instruct you to keep this document safe at all times. If you travel away from this house, keep it on your person. Protect it in any situation where it might get wet. Do you know how to do that?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll tell you a little trick we used back in Kentucky. There is a butcher shop owned by a Mr. Kinski, on Third Street. Go there, and tell Mr. Kinski you want him to clean and soften a pig’s bladder for you. The process takes about a week. He should charge you about $1.25. When you pick up the bladder, stop at a boot shop and pick up two leather bootlaces. They will cost you another 25¢. Now, son, who do you think should pay for those two items, you or the United States Government?”
I didn’t want to pay for a pig’s bladder and a pair of bootlaces, but I couldn’t say that to Mr. Lincoln. “I should, I suppose.”
“Yes, you should, I suppose. Out of your own earnings. After you fetch the bladder and the laces, turn them over to Mr. Slade. He’ll show you what to do with them.”
The bladder turned out to be a soft little waterproof pouch, with a large opening on one end and a smaller opening at the other. Mr. Slade rolled up my freedom document, and placed it inside the bladder. He cut off two small pieces of leather bootlace, and tied one tightly around each hole. Then he took the larger of the laces, and tied it around the larger opening in such a way that half the lace was dangling on either side. He had me take off my shirt, and tied the bladder around my chest. When he had demonstrated how to do everything, he untied the lace, then hid the bladder under my mattress.
Pa had always dreamed about being a freed man, and now I was one!
Chapter 5
Early during my stay at the White House, Mr. Lincoln and I developed what he called our presidential handshake. It came about quite naturally. He had a habit of stretching out the long middle finger of his right hand. Once I happened to reach out toward him just as he thrust that finger forward. I grabbed the finger quite by accident. But it was no accident when I squeezed that bony finger three times. He replied by squeezing his finger around my hand three times. Neither of us said a word about it at the time, but each day from that time on, when first we saw each other, we delivered what he later came to call the presidential handshake.
Mr. Lincoln often asked me about my years at Three Rivers, and how I escaped. Once I told him about Miz Grovesnor, about how kind she was, and showed him my red checker. He seemed captivated, and immediately produced a checker board from inside his desk. I beat him the first game we played, but I knew he had been trying to lose. Youngsters have a sixth sense about adults losing on purpose. He beat me the next game.
I took my sworn duties seriously, but there seemed little I could do to cheer him out of his bleaker moods. One day early in July of 1863 I entered his office without knocking, to tell him I couldn’t find Mr. Calhoun. Mr. Lincoln was huddled over his desk, eyes downcast. He held a piece of paper crumpled in his hand. When I came closer, I saw a big tear rolling down his cheek. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s been a terrible battle at Gettysburg,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps the bloodiest battle of the war.” He shook the paper, as though to destroy it. “50,000 dead and wounded on each side. My God, Caleb, what are we doing? How will we answer to the good Lord?”
Suddenly I could scarcely see out of my own eyes, they were so filled with tears. Instinctively I wiped away one that rolled down my cheek. I reached out that hand, and stopped the tear on Mr. Lincoln’s face. Our tears mixed. He seized my hand with his own.
“Perhaps the innocents will inherit the earth,” he said.
I asked, “Did you say those are Union casualties?”
Dark anger suddenly flooded his face. “No, Caleb, those are American casualties. Why do you put a higher value on Union men than on the Confederates? Those men were equally alive, and now they are equally dead. Each was a father, a husband, or a son. Perhaps all three at once. That’s what this war is all about. We are one people, and we must stay that way.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lincoln,” I said.
He pulled me up on his lap. He said, so softly I scarcely could hear the words. “Yes. We are all so sorry.”
Another time when I was called into his office, his face was equally grim, though I seemed to sense that he brightened a bit when he saw me walk through the door.
“Ah, Caleb. I have some news for you. In a small way it is good news, in a larger way it is bad news. I’ve sensed ever since you came here that you do not know for certain that your parents were killed during their escape attempt. Is that true?”
I caught my breath and stopped dead in my tracks. “Yes, sir. I don’t know for sure.”
“Well, now you will. Perhaps your mind will be more at ease. I have a friend, a prominent southern politician, who has remained close to me despite the war. We will be friends, I’m sure, until we die, even though we are far apart on political issues. Caleb, about a month ago I managed to send him a secret message. I asked him to investigate—and confirm or deny—the deaths of two escaped slaves from Three Rivers plantation in South Carolina. I have here his reply. I’ll read it to you. But you must prepare yourself for bad news.”
From his words, I already knew what the letter said.
He started reading. “My dear Abraham: The news from the battle front is constantly bad, no matter which side of this dreadful war we are on.
“At your request I have investigated the matter of the two escaped slaves. An old slave woman named Nan confirms that they were shot to death, and that she supervised the ceremonies when they were interred in the slave cemetery on the plantation.
“May we all soon have our peace, though I must add that I hope the Confederacy prevails. I wish you personally all the best.
“Abraham, I remain your close personal friend.” When I started crying, Mr. Lincoln hoisted me onto his lap. We remained together for most of an hour.
The brightest time of my day was always when I took a walk with Mr. Lincoln. Sometime in the afternoon—not always the same time—he would open the door, walk through, and reach out his big bony finger. We’d do the presidential handshake. Then, holding hands, we’d walk down the corridor and out the front door.
There are lots of paths on the White House grounds, and lots of places to explore. Our walks together were not very long—perhaps about ten minutes each. But they gave Mr. Lincoln a chance to get fresh air into his lungs, and me a chance to be with him.
One day, just after we started down a dusty path, he paused for a moment, then reached down and picked up something off the ground.
“Hold out your hand,” he said. My right hand was tightly interwoven with his middle finger, so I reached out my left. A moment later I looked to see what he had deposited there. It was a shiny copper penny.
“Probably some sightseer lost it,” he said. “But they say that a penny found is a lucky penny. Keep that close by, son, and perhaps you’ll have good luck the rest of your life.”
That night I transferred it to the pig bladder, where it has remained ever s
ince.
One day in 1863 Mr. Lincoln shouted, “Caleb, get me Caleb.” I jumped off my red stool and stepped through the door to the Oval Office.
“Caleb, do you know what a photograph is? It’s sometimes called a tintype.”
“Yes, sir. Miz Grovesnor told me. It’s sort of a frozen mirror image.”
“Tintypes—photographs—were invented less than ten years ago. Now I want a tintype of each man in my Cabinet, to freeze him into history. A photographer, if he’s on time, will soon appear in the waiting room. As soon as he comes, I want you to bring each member of the Cabinet into the room to be photographed. The order that you bring them doesn’t matter. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
So, in the next two hours, I brought them in one at a time to have tintypes made. It was the custom then for the man whose picture was to be taken to sit rigidly in a chair looking directly at the camera.
When the last man disappeared, Mr. Lincoln called the photographer and me into his office. “Sir, I want you to take one tintype of my friend Caleb, here, and me together. Where would you like us to pose?”
The man indicated a chair in front of a section of blank wall. Mr. Lincoln sat in the chair, one leg in front of the other. The photographer busied himself with his equipment for several minutes, then indicated I should take my place beside Mr. Lincoln. His arms were resting on the arms of the chair. I walked over and stood beside him. At the last second, for some reason still unknown to me, I reached out my right hand and placed it on Mr. Lincoln’s arm.
That tintype is the only one ever taken of me. It shows a tall, thin man seated rigidly upright in a chair, hands clasping the arms. Beside him is a small black boy with enormous eyes. One hand rests on Mr. Lincoln’s arm, as though the boy needs reassurance. Strangely, instead of looking directly at the camera, the two are looking straight at each other. There is a slight smile on each face, as though they share a secret.
Mr. Lincoln gave me a copy of the photograph, which I have kept in my little brass box of private possessions.
My favorite time was spent with the Lincoln boys’ used books, which Mr. Lincoln loaned me after I began learning to read. To this day I’d rather curl up with a book than play games or fish or hunt like most other boys. I never forgot Nan’s words, which she often repeated to me as we were picking cotton: “Learn to read, Sprout. It can set your mind free when your body is in chains.” Perhaps that’s why I learned to read so fast.
I played very little with Mr. Lincoln’s sons, Robert and Tad. Robert was older than I was, and operated on his own schedule. We were well aware of each other, but our paths seldom crossed.
One day in 1862, Mr. Lincoln told me, on a particularly cold, blustery day, his son Willie had put on a coat, thrown a scarf around his neck, and went outside to take a ride on his pony. When he came back in, several minutes later, he was shivering with a chill. He was immediately put to bed. Within an hour, a doctor arrived.
Over the next few days, Willie’s condition worsened. He died.
Mrs. Lincoln was so upset she appeared to be losing her sanity. She talked continuously, but no one could understand what she was saying. Mr. Lincoln’s mind frequently drifted away from his work, and on two occasions I entered the Oval Office and found tears running down his creased cheeks. I did my best to cheer him up, but I’m afraid I didn’t have much success.
Mr. Lincoln pined for his lost son all through the war years, and worried over Mrs. Lincoln’s mental state. Until Gettysburg the news for the most part only made the problem worse. Even then, as Mr. Lincoln pointed out to me, the Battle of Gettysburg, while proclaimed a Union victory, really was essentially a draw.
Chapter 6
One day in the middle of November, 1863, Mr. Lincoln called me into the oval office, where he asked me a strange question. “Caleb, you’ve never ridden on a train, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, every boy should ride on a train. For you, that time will come in three days. I want you to prepare yourself for that big event.”
“How do I do that, sir?”
“See that your Sunday clothes are cleaned and ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to go with me to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. I have been invited to deliver a short address to dedicate the new cemetery there. I think it would be excellent politics all around to have you appear on the stage with me. Will you do that?”
“Of course, sir.” I was vastly relieved that I would not be traveling alone, but with Mr. Lincoln.
On the 18th of November, a carriage took us to the Washington railroad station, where a train was awaiting us. What a sight! A big instrument of steel that shot steam in all directions, and had a whistle that penetrated my bones. A clanging bell contributed its share of noise. I was scared to death of the contraption, but Mr. Lincoln took me by the hand, and helped me climb up the steps to enter the presidential car.
We huffed and puffed our way to Baltimore, where we picked up a slew of eminent guests all bound for the dedication ceremony. Gettysburg, our final stop, turned out to be a city of moderate size, now alive with bunting, carriages and prominent pedestrians. The president was greeted by a Mr. David Wills, who was in charge of the entire ceremony. We stayed in his home that night. Mr. Lincoln had made arrangements for cots for Mr. Slade (who also accompanied us to the event) and me.
The following morning we were taken on a tour of the cemetery grounds, then deposited at the platform where the president would speak. It was there that the president informed me that he would not be the principle speaker. That honor belonged to Mr. Edward Everett who, according to Mr. Lincoln, was the best orator in America. I was warned that I would have to sit through two to three hours of oratory before the President delivered his three-minute address.
Eventually Mr. Lincoln was shown to his seat in the first row of chairs on the platform, and I was escorted to a seat just behind him.
Mr. Everett was indeed a humdinger of a speaker. His voice would rise to a thunderous roar, then suddenly sink to a whisper. Meanwhile his arms waved constantly in emphasis. I could tell from the applause that the speech was well received, but I had difficulty staying awake.
Then Mr. Lincoln was introduced. He stepped forward to the podium. Atop his head was his black silk top hat, which was encircled by a black ribbon in honor of his dead son. He took off his hat and, from the top of his head, he produced two sheets of paper, on which he had written his remarks. Sometime previously he had told me that when he was riding the legal circuit in Illinois, he carried his important papers inside his top hat.
His brief address seemed to be accepted moderately well, but with no great enthusiasm. He was interrupted five times with brief applause.
When he ended his speech, he picked up his hat and made a gesture as though he would put the prepared copy back on top of his head, awaiting the top hat. He then appeared to have changed his mind. He donned his hat, turned, took a few steps, and handed me the paper.
On the train ride back to Washington, Mr. Lincoln seemed somewhat disappointed with the reaction to his address. He said very little to me.
And that was my adventure in Gettysburg.
Chapter 7
The war wore slowly and desperately on. Casualties were extreme. Union armies could not seem to trap their enemy counterparts. Would the bloodshed never end?
Then at last there was hope from the west. General Grant, fighting along the Mississippi River basin, reported one victory after another. Mr. Lincoln marked him as a man who would fight, not delay, and put him in charge of all the Union armies.
The Confeds were stretched mighty thin, and began losing more and more territory, and more and more men. Smiles, which had been absent for many months, began to appear in the corridors of the White House. General Grant’s name was on everyone’s lips.
On April 9, 1865, General Lee surrendered to General Grant. The Civil War was over. All of the church bells in Washington rang si
multaneously. Cannons were fired. People danced in the streets.
For the first time in years, Mrs. Lincoln wore a smile as she moved about the White House. She seemed to have shaken her extreme sadness over Willie’s death.
On April 14, Mr. Lincoln called me into his office. “Caleb, Mrs. Lincoln has made it known to me that she wants to attend the Ford Theater this very evening. Lord knows she has had few moments of enjoyment in years. She has invited Mr. and Mrs. Grant to attend the theater with us. In a few minutes a Mr. Hennings will appear in the waiting room. He is a messenger from Ford Theater, and will be carrying four theater tickets. Please thank him for me, and bring me the tickets.”
I was happy to see both Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln in such a festive mood. General and Mrs. Grant cancelled the event at the last moment. But Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln seemed determined, and about 7:30 PM they departed in a horse drawn carriage. I had already eaten my evening meal with Mr. Slade. I went to my room, where I read by lantern light for half an hour, then fell into a sound sleep.
About 11:00 PM I was awakened by shouts and gunshots. Women were screaming, and I could see through a window that horses were racing up to the main door of the White House. Hastily I pulled on my trousers, then ran down the stairway toward the entrance. There I met Mr. Slade. “What’s happened?” I shouted.
“Mr. Lincoln’s been shot! Someone has tried to assassinate him! And they have attempted to kill Mr. Seward, too!”
“Where is the president?”
“I’m not sure, but I believe he is in a home across from the theater. Go to your room, Caleb, and stay there until we know we are safe.”
I turned around on the stairway, and went promptly to my room. Already I was frightened. Would the assassins come to the White House? If they had the ability to kill the president, what would they do to a small black lad who had lived with him? In my imagination, I already saw evil men rushing through the front door, then searching me out in my room.
Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure Page 4