Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure

by Clifford B. Hicks

  I reached under the mattress and drew out the pig bladder. With shaking fingers I tied the thong around my chest. Then I put on my oldest shirt, making sure that it covered the bladder. I put the money I had been saving, along with some valuable trinkets, in my trouser pockets. Peeking out the door, I saw no one, and crept down the corridor.

  I had been living in the White House long enough to know every hidden route to the outdoors. I made my way to the kitchen, and then to the door that serviced it. I could still hear loud shouts, but there was little light in the landscaping around the White House. I ran from bush to bush, hiding from an evil monster I hadn’t even seen. When I reached the high fence around the grounds, I turned to the right and made my way to the gate I knew was there.

  I sighed in relief. I had escaped. But Mr. Lincoln hadn’t.

  Chapter 8

  By dawn, half running and half walking, I reached the outskirts of the city. I was determined to put as much distance as I could between me and the White House.

  I took no rest all morning. Then, exhausted, I threw myself down on the grass in front of a wealthy two-story house. I lay there on my back, eyes closed, gulping the air. Suddenly I was aware of another presence near me. I opened my eyes. Three boys were looking down at me. They seemed huge, though they probably were only two or three years older than me.

  One boy had so much of his hair removed that he appeared to be bald. He had a bold, heavy jaw, and spoke through clenched teeth. “Hey, black boy! What do you think you’re doin’ on my lawn?”

  I swallowed, and said in a meek voice, “Resting.”

  “I reckon we might help you rest someplace else. You’d best skedaddle.”

  “Get on your feet,” said a second boy. I noticed his hands were balled into fists.

  I stood up.

  The bald boy said, “Anything in your pockets?”

  I shook my head, but that didn’t stop the boy with the fists from stepping in front of me, opening one of his hands, and jabbing it into my right hand trouser pocket. He produced my little packet of dimes.

  “Look what we have here,” he said, showing off the loot.

  Bald head whistled. ldquo;reckon that’s just about enough to pay the rent on this grass,” he said. “Don’t you think that’s about right, black boy?” He was looking directly at me.

  When I didn’t say anything, the three boys turned abruptly and sauntered down the street.

  I wanted to go after them and demand my money back, but I didn’t. Instead I thought about how hungry I was, how I was lost on the edge of a strange city, possibly pursued by an unknown monster, with no friends. It would be best to press on, rather than trying to claim my money.

  Chapter 9

  I found a route that headed north out of town, and in the next two days I put as much distance behind me as I could. Hunger was a constant problem. Occasionally I found something in other folks’ garbage to eat, and twice I stole (yes, stole) from vegetable gardens.

  I was hungry, not only for food, but also for companionship. I had no one to talk to, no one to share my plight. When, on rare occasions, someone would smile at me, I found myself smiling back for two or three miles. How I missed Mr. Lincoln, William Slade, and—yes— Mrs. Lincoln.

  I felt the need to put as much distance as I could between me and the city of Washington.

  It was the fourth day of my flight that good fortune finally glanced in my direction. It was about midday, and I was especially hungry. I hiked around a bend, and there in front of me were seven or eight soldiers. They were resting on both sides of the dirt road. In the middle of the men was a cannon. Obviously it was an artillery unit. I instantly noticed, as I approached them, that they were eating beans from plates, tin ware, boards, or any other kind of makeshift tableware in their possession.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off those beans. It was as though I was hypnotized.

  A voice asked me, “You never saw beans before, boy?” It was a friendly voice.

  I looked up, and saw a young man, perhaps a bit older than Pa. His black hair hung in uncombed curls down around the collar of his jacket, which was worn and dirty from long use. His mouth was turned upward in a smile.

  “Yessir. I seen lots of beans, and they sure look good.”

  “You’re a mighty young lad to be so hungry. You can have some of these beans, and some hardtack, too, if you don’t mind eatin’ with my spoon off this old tin plate.”

  “No sir. I don’t mind at all. And I’m mighty obliged to you.” I took the plate and immediately started eating. Then I said, with my mouth full, “How many beans can I have, sir?”

  “Many as you want. I can get more. There’s a bucket of them over yonder. What’s your name, lad, and why are you on this road by yourself?”

  “Caleb Getme’s my name, and I’m alone ’cause my Pa and Ma got kilt.” I thought it best not to tell him where I’d been the past three years.

  “Well, Getme’s a strange moniker, but if Caleb Getme’s your name I reckon I have to accept that. My name’s Jim Hightower, and I’m pleased to meet you, Caleb.”

  “Same here, sir. What are you doing on this here road.”

  “What you see before you is one squad of Megan’s Battery of the 16th Indiana Volunteer Field Artillery, probably the finest light artillery unit in the Union army. Six of us aim the gun, and one of us handles the horses. At least we were the best, until we were discharged, soon as the war was over.”

  “Discharged?”

  “Yep. Discharged. Told to make our way home as a unit.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Indiana. All eight of us are from a town called Riverton. Caleb, the Garden of Eden ain’t somewhere else in the world. It’s right around Riverton. I’m goin’ home, and nothin’s gonna stop me. Want more beans?”

  “No, sir. I had plenty, and I do thank you. You got a ma and a pa up in that garden called Riverton?”

  “No, Caleb, they’re both dead, like yourn. But I got me a wife up there, prettiest girl I ever seen. We got married just two months before the war started. I can hardly wait to git back and see her again.”

  “I bet, Jim. Do you mind if I call you Jim?” This was the most companionship I’d had in many days.

  “Course not. Where you from, Caleb?”

  “A plantation in South Carolina.” I thought it best not to give him any information about my recent past.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Nowhere. Anywhere.”

  “Well, you happen to be goin’ in my direction, so you might as well tag along with me.”

  “I ain’t got no money, Jim.”

  “Makes no difference. Nothin’ to buy anyway.”

  Jim turned out to be the best friend I ever had in my entire life. We walked together, and learned ’most everything about each other. He told me he was a printer who printed for the people of Riverton, and also published a weekly newspaper.

  I learned that the artillery squad had fought at Gettysburg, as well as three other battles. Jim was in charge of this six-man squad, which had fired one of the battery’s four guns. The major had been commanding officer of the entire four-gun battery. All the men of the squad were from the Riverton area, along with the major and horse handler, so they had all been ordered home together.

  Major Demarest’s orders were to lead the men back to Riverton, along with the gun, which then was to be turned over to the mayor of the town, along with the gun’s equipment. This consisted of a two-wheel limber (a cart full of ammunition), and a two-wheel caisson (another cart full of ammunition and the equipment needed to fire the gun). The limber and the caisson could be hitched together to form a four-wheel wagon, with the gun pulled along at the rear.

  The gun itself somehow had taken on a life of its own as a member of the squad. Esau Trait, who had the job of aiming the piece, had started calling the gun Aimee, and the name had stuck.

  The first few days Jim and I were constantly together. I finally told him about living at th
e White House with Mr. Lincoln. He scarcely believed me, until one night when we were alone I took off my shirt, and showed him my freedom document from Mr. Lincoln.

  I soon began making friends among the other men. One of them gave me a battle cap. I don’t know whoever wore it before me. Whoever had worn it was now probably dead. Once when we stopped to rest, I saw a reflection of myself in a pond. When I pushed the cap over to one side of my head, I liked the effect. I wore it that way from then on.

  The first night I joined the squad Jim said, “Lookin’ to rain tonight, I ’spect. You better crawl into my tent.”

  It did shower that night, and I listened to the raindrops drumming on the canvas. I felt safe and cozy.

  I soon learned to do small jobs around the camp, to earn my vittles. I held the horses while they were being harnessed and unharnessed. I hobbled the horses for the night. When it rained, I cleaned the mud off the men’s shoes. I gathered wood for the campfire that the men started each evening. I brought oats, now stored in the limber, to the horses.

  “That’s absolutely avenaceous,” broke in Daphne.

  Professor O’Harra closed Caleb’s journal, keeping a thumb between the pages to mark his place. “What do you mean ‘avenaceous’?”

  “That’s avenaceous. A-v-e-n-a-c-e-o-u-s. It’s one of my ‘a’ letters. It means ‘relating to oats.’ ”

  “Seems to fit pretty well,” remarked the professor. He reopened the journal, and resumed reading.

  Among others, Jim pointed out to me Major Demarest, the commanding officer of the battery. He had a stern, authoritative face that didn’t seem to go with the freckles on his cheeks and the red hair that poked out from under his cap. The men liked as well as respected him. I saw him watching me when I was odd-jobbing the battery. That night, after we ate, he sought out Jim. They had a short conversation. Both were smiling when the major walked away. Jim told me later that the major said it was alright for a black boy to march with the men, that I was earning my vittles with the work I was doing.

  That same night I found a new way to earn my keep. I was helping clean up the cookware, and just naturally started singing one of the songs that Ol’Nan had taught me so long ago. A few of the men gathered ’round, and clapped when I finished the song, so I sang another one.

  It became a nightly ritual. We’d pitch camp, start the fire, and eat. Then the men would gather round. I’d start singing. The men knew some of the songs, and would sing along with me.

  After three or four nights, a man named Shawnee Jones dragged an old fiddle from his pack, and started playing along with me. Jake Jacobin soon followed with a dented trumpet that he had used as a bugle during battle. We had a concert and sing-along every night. Jim told me the major was tremendously pleased because it gave the men something to do and to think about after a hard day of hiking.

  One Sunday morning Major Demarest passed the word for all men to meet immediately at the campfire. Jim rounded up the men. I stood just outside the circle, and listened. The major said he was under orders to fetch the artillery piece (that’s what the men called the cannon) home with him. But, said the major, the gun was slowing us down. Every time we came to a river or even a small stream, we had to send out men both up and downstream to find a likely place to ford. Even then, the heavy cannon often mired down in the mud. The horses sometimes refused to enter the water and had to be coaxed, which took up time.

  The war was over, the major said, and the cannon would never be fired again. He was taking it upon himself to leave it behind so we could get home quicker. As soon as he spotted a likely place to leave it, that’s what he intended to do. He wanted to abandon it in a place where the locals would have a great deal of trouble to get it back on the road. He’d take the responsibility of abandoning it, rather than rolling it all the way to Riverton.

  Major Demarest then took his place at the head of the column. The horses, pulling the artillery carts and Aimee, were approximately in the center. Jim and I walked toward the rear.

  It was mid-morning when the road began climbing up a rather steep hill. The major stopped at the top of the hill, and passed the command that the battery, including the horses and the gun, should assemble there.

  At the top, both sides of the road sloped steeply into a gully. The major gave orders that the horses were to bring the artillery piece to the top of the hill, where the men were to take over and maneuver it into position to be rolled down one side of the road. On signal, the gun would be pushed over the edge. It would roll down the long slope, and end up (forever it was hoped) in the deep ditch.

  At first everything went according to plan. The horses pulled the gun to the top of the hill, where they were unhitched, and led away. The men then rotated the cannon, and pushed it to the top of the slope.

  I tried to help. A man was assigned to each spoke of each wheel, and on signal was to throw his weight against his spoke, thus turning the wheel. I had seized one of the spokes, and was waiting for the order to send the cannon on its downward journey.

  At that moment one of the horses, several feet away, rebelled, reared up, and then came down on the horse ahead of it. Instantly, five more horses were fighting their way in all directions. Men were shouting. Animals were neighing.

  In the confusion, the gun tipped under me just enough to start rolling down the slope. No longer was there any unity in our team. Half tried to push the wheels forward, half tried to stop them from turning, to get the cannon back under control.

  Until I die I’ll never forget the next few seconds. My right leg slipped in the soft dirt at the same time the cannon lunged forward. I saw my leg move under the heavy wheel, then clearly heard the sudden snap as the wheel mashed my knee. A blinding whiteness engulfed me.

  I could hear myself scream.

  Chapter 10

  I have no idea how long I was out of my mind. I sort of swam upward into consciousness. The pain was intense, and I was covered with sweat. Several faces were peering down at me. I was vastly relieved that Jim’s face was one of them.

  When I tried to move my leg, an agonizing pain flashed across my body.

  Major Demarest’s voice said, “Caleb, we have no regimental surgeon available. You’re lying on the caisson. We’re going to tie you in place with a rope, so you won’t roll off. Then we’re going to use two of the horses to pull you into the next town, where we hope to find a doctor.”

  The next few hours were a nightmare. Every jolt of the caisson brought a new flash of pain. Finally the caisson stopped, and I heard voices, one of them giving directions. The caisson moved again, but stopped shortly. Then I was carefully rolled onto a stretcher, and carried into a home, where I was placed on a treatment table.

  A round face entered my tunnel of vision. Ringlets of white hair surrounded grooved cheeks. “What’s your name, son?” said the face.

  “Caleb,” I managed to whisper.

  “I’m Dr. Shuck, Caleb. Michael Shuck. I’m going to see what I can do with that bad knee. At times it will be painful, but grit your teeth, and stay as motionless as you can. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled.

  The next hour was a nightmare. I sweated. I screamed. I cried. Dr. Shuck put a towel between my jaws, and told me to clamp down on it. I could feel his hands readjusting the bones in my knee. Eventually I felt him bandaging my leg, and the pain eased slightly.

  “Caleb,” Dr. Shuck said, washing the blood off his hands, “I have some bad news for you, and you might as well hear it now as sometime later. You are lucky that wheel didn’t sever your leg. Your knee is shattered beyond my ability to reconstruct it. You’ll probably never use your right leg again. You’ll walk on a crutch. But think about it, Caleb. You will be able to move around on your own. And you have the help of friends who obviously care about you.”

  I remained under Dr. Shuck’s care, in a bedroom in his home, for two days and two nights. Jim, Major Demarest, and two or three of the other men came regularly to check on my conditio
n. I learned that the battery was camped on the edge of town, and that the men had decided to remain there until I was well enough to travel. I was tremendously relieved at that news.

  On the third morning the doctor came into the bedroom and said, “Caleb, you should be able to ride without any damage to your knee. The major tells me he can fix you a bed atop the caisson or the limber. You shouldn’t put any weight on your right knee for at least a week. Then begin exercising it slowly.” He handed me a small glass container. “Take this. Inside are five tablets. Take one each day for five days. They’ll help you endure the pain. God rest you, son.”

  I said, “How can I pay you for what you’ve done, sir?”

  “Let’s just say that my fee is minimal in the case of a small black boy attached to a union army unit, and that the men of that unit have collected enough to pay the minimal fee.” He started out the door, then turned and said, “I’ve given our village blacksmith the dimensions for your crutch. Ask one of your friends to pick it up before you leave town.”

  Jim fetched the crutch for me. It was a single piece of light steel pipe with a piece of wood at the top, shaped to fit under my arm. It was not very exciting to look at, but it served me for the rest of my life.

  The next days dragged by. I was still in considerable pain. Strapped to the caisson, I had nothing to do all day but look upward at the sky, or forward at the horses’ rumps. Occasionally Jim or one of the other men would walk beside me. We talked. About the war. About Mr. Lincoln. About my knee. About the stars last night, or the weeds that grew knee-high along the road.

  I kept careful track of the days, and on the eighth day I asked Jim to bring me my crutch. I fitted it carefully under my shoulder, and with his help stood up, trying to support myself on the crutch and my good leg. Dizziness took over, and Jim had to catch me or I would have fallen. My right foreleg stuck out at a strange angle.

  For the next few days I mostly rode behind the horses in order to keep up with the column, but I exercised on my crutch at every opportunity. Slowly I became more adept. I found a rhythm to my steps, and suddenly I not only was walking, but could run for a short distance, swinging the crutch forward at exactly the right moment to maintain my forward progress. At every slight advance, the men cheered me on.