Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure

by Clifford B. Hicks

I worked for two or three hours that night, alone in The Palace, trying to compose a message to put on the linen. I didn’t want any unknown riffraff to be able to read it. I wanted an educated, intelligent person to be so curious that he would work long hours to solve the puzzle.

  Word by word I worked out the message, and word by word I scrawled it on a piece of paper. When I was finished, it read like free-verse poetry.

  At sunup the next morning I entered the print shop. I pulled out the drawer that held the new type face. I composed the message, and locked it in a chase.

  The piece of cloth never would have fit into our press, so I placed the chase flat on the bench and inked the type with a roller. Then I stretched the fabric over the type and anchored it with chunks of lead. I placed a wooden block on top of the linen, and struck it with a mallet.

  An inspection showed that the message was clean, unsmeared, and quite readable. I had invented the Getme printing press.

  My message was ready for years of storage.

  And then ready for eyes that are, as yet, unknown.

  Chapter 17

  Professor O’Harra closed Caleb’s journal, opened his briefcase and, with great care, placed the journal inside. He clasped his hands together, and folded them across his lap. He glanced up, first at Alvin, then Shoie, then Daphne. His gaze lingered on each face.

  “Now you know the story of young Caleb Getme’s life, from his own journal. What do you think?”

  Alvin opened his mouth to respond, but Daphne was faster. “I think he was one of the nicest persons who ever lived, and I think those two massas were awful to him, just terrible.”

  Shoie interjected a question. “Professor, did you find out what happened to Caleb after he wrote that journal?”

  “Yes. As a researcher, I got lucky. I had heard about Caleb’s existence from three or four different sources. Finding people and their papers is my business. I was then in Richmond, Virginia, and from there I sent out some queries to people here in Riverton—old-time business people, longtime residents, the Chamber of Commerce. Had anyone ever heard of a Riverton resident named James Hightower, who operated a print shop and published a newspaper named the Riverton Bugle in the 1860s? I received a reply from the secretary of the Riverton Historical Society, saying that indeed he knew of such a man, and had two old copies of his newspaper. He wrote, further, that the current owner of the local print shop was a descendant of Mr. Hightower, four times removed. So the shop is still surviving after several generations.

  “My first visit to your fair city brought me many rewards. Old family correspondence, notes written in family bibles, and court records told me most of the story of what happened to Caleb and Jim.”

  “I can’t wait,” interjected Alvin. “What happened to them?”

  “Jim continued to publish the newspaper until he died of influenza in 1898, at the age of 59. As the years passed, he spent more and more of his time as a journalist. Caleb gradually took over the responsibilities of the print shop.

  “When Jim died, he left a will which stipulated that Caleb was to inherit the shop, and was to turn over one half of its profits to Hannah. She, in turn, inherited the newspaper, and was to turn over half of its profits to Caleb. Thus their personal and financial lives were intertwined. Wise old Jim! Caleb worked in harmony with Hannah until he died of tuberculosis at the age of 62. By then he was a prominent citizen of Riverton.”

  “What about Lil’Nan?” Daphne asked the question.

  “Let me turn the clock back for a moment. Lil’Nan literally grew up in the print shop. By the time she was twelve or thirteen, she was as pretty as her mother had ever been. She had long hair, as black as her father’s, and eyes that seemed to smile all the time. Boys found all kind of reasons to hang around the shop. Finally Major Demarest’s youngest lad Justin asked Caleb for a job as printer’s devil. Caleb, recalling his own lean times and how much that job had meant to him, took him on. Justin and Lil’Nan thus were thrown into proximity much of the time, and it sort of naturally followed that they fell in love, and eventually were married.

  “Ultimately, when Caleb died, Justin inherited the shop. He in turn handed it down through three more generations of Demarests.”

  “That’s one of the greatest stories I’ve ever heard,” exclaimed Alvin.

  “I thought you’d like it.” The professor reached for his briefcase, opened it, and placed it in his lap. “But Caleb’s story goes on and on and on. Now you—and yes, Daphne and Shoie—are involved in that story. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’ve been wondering how we might be involved,” said Shoie.

  “Remember the piece of special linen imprinted with the coded message, which really was intended to tell the searcher where to find Caleb’s box, full of his treasure?”

  “Who could forget it?” said Alvin.

  “That puzzle, written in free verse, was especially designed to be solved by someone not intent on making money from the treasure, but who would see that the treasure is disposed of precisely in accordance with Caleb’s wishes. We don’t know precisely what those wishes were, but we know that Caleb considered the contents of the box sacred, and would wish them treated with the utmost respect.”

  “Who’s that person?” asked Alvin.

  “I’ve asked myself that question many times, Alvin. I want to be that man. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that the answer depends upon what I will do with the treasure if I find it. I’ve figured out what the treasure is, and indeed in terms of money it may well be worth millions of dollars. But I honestly have no interest in selling it, if I ever find it.”

  “When you first came in the house seeking our help,” said Alvin, “you said it might mean some money to us.”

  “Quite true. And if it should turn out that you helped me find the treasure, and indeed did find it, and the treasure then were sold, I would be obligated to turn over, say, twenty-five percent of the proceeds to you.”

  “Wow! Twenty-five percent of millions of dollars!”

  “Let’s find the treasure first, before we sell it and split the income. You solve the puzzle. Your father and several other residents of Riverton have told me you kids know more about the layout of the town and its surroundings than anyone else. You ride your bikes tirelessly around it from one end to the other, day after day.”

  “So? Show us the puzzle.”

  “First let me tell you how I obtained it. I traced the Demarest family through the Major, his son Justin, and on down to a certain Morgan Demarest, who lives today in Indianapolis. I visited him ten days ago. I told him the bare bones of Caleb’s story to get him interested, then asked him if he had any artifacts, as we call them, of his family. He said that there was an old chest—apparently an artillery ammunition chest—in his attic that had been handed down through the generations because no one could decide what to do with it, nor even understood its contents.

  “I asked Morgan Demarest if I could see the chest and explore its contents. He gave me such permission. It was a medium-size chest, covered with decades of dust. I thought at first it might be Caleb’s treasure chest, but inside I found a marriage license, an old family bible, some old coins of the 1830s, a tattered map of Richmond, Virginia, and—” the professor held up a finger, lowered his voice, and enunciated each word very slowly, “—an old piece of linen cloth imprinted with a message in free verse.”

  As the professor reached into his briefcase, Alvin noticed that his fingers were trembling. He withdrew a tattered piece of cloth. It was off-white in color, though it was a dirty gray in spots where a mold had eaten away at it. A black message, somewhat fuzzy, had been imprinted on it.

  “It is so old that it is fragile, and I must ask you not to touch it. However, I want you to know the message it carries. I have copied it off for you, though I have read it so many times myself that I know it by rote.”

  He reopened the briefcase carefully, and gently placed the cloth inside, then pulled out a sheet of paper, inscr
ibed with handwritten words.

  “Here’s the message that Caleb left for the four of us, though he didn’t know who we’d be at the time he wrote it.” The professor softened his voice, and lowered it slightly.

  Go to the place of the dead

  Where headstones rule the glen,

  A place that lives in memories

  Of times long gone.

  Take shovel, take spade and pickaxe;

  These tools you will need

  To waken the treasure

  Sleeping in the burial ground.

  Take also an accurate timepiece.

  My name is Caleb Getme

  I’ve been a slave where cotton is the king.

  I’ve been proud friend of Mr. Lincoln

  In the House so White.

  Now I print with pride.

  I’ve gathered my treasures over the years;

  One by one they’ve come to me

  Until now, in a single place they sleep,

  Ready for your wakening call.

  Yes, go to the place of the dead,

  The Cemetery it is called.

  Go there on the 10th of June—

  That date alone.

  No other date will suffice,

  Mark it well—the 10th of June.

  Find The Needle, a stone light of color;

  That stone is your guide to the treasure.

  At 4:45 pm on the 10th of June

  The almighty light will penetrate The Needle

  And leave its mark upon the earth,

  Thus revealing the treasure.

  There was a long moment of silence, finally broken by Daphne’s faint cough.

  Professor O’Harra lifted his head and looked around at the others. “What does it mean?”

  “First of all,” said Alvin, “it obviously means the cemetery. The message starts out ‘the place of the dead,’ and later calls it ‘the cemetery.’ ”

  “It certainly seems quite clear,” said the professor. “But I’ve been to the Riverton Cemetery three times, and spent hours each time, and I can find nothing that resembles a needle, and nothing that might lead to a buried treasure.”

  “There are two or three little cemeteries in Riverton,” offered Shoie. “They’re mostly behind churches, and have only a few headstones.”

  “I’ve explored them, too. I came up with empty hands. That’s why I’m here.” He nodded at Alvin. “Your father, and others in town, say you know Riverton as intimately as anyone around. I was hoping you would come up with something other than the Riverton Cemetery.”

  “Let’s think about the rest of Caleb’s message,” said Alvin. “I wonder why he’s so specific about the date. June 10th. Why not go treasure hunting anytime we feel like it?”

  The Pest objected, “but he said ‘that date alone,’ and ‘no other date will suffice.’ ”

  “And he’s just as specific about the time,” chimed in Shoie. “We not only are instructed try to find the treasure on June 10th, but at exactly 4:45 PM.”

  The professor shook his head. “And what’s The Needle? And how will it lead us to the treasure?”

  “We need to spend some time on this,” declared Alvin. “I think we kids should spend some time at the cemetery first thing in the morning. Maybe we’ll find something that will give us a fast start toward solving our problem. Then let’s all gather here after lunch, and decide what to do next.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” said the professor. He stood up, put on his perky little cap, and picked up his briefcase. “I’ll leave my copy of Caleb’s instructions with you. Happy hunting!” He walked toward the door, suddenly stopped and turned around. He spoke with some embarrassment. “There’s one of those Thingers left. Do you mind if I take it with me?”

  Chapter 18

  Just as Alvin and Daphne finished breakfast, Shoie showed up at the front door. Within minutes, the kids were cycling to the cemetery.

  After they’d parked their bikes, Alvin took over. “We’re going to inspect the whole cemetery,” he announced. “We’ll start along the north edge and work our way south. We’ll each walk slowly, with one row of headstones on our right, and another on our left. Read the name on every stone. We’re looking for the name Needle, or Treasure, or anything else unusual. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said the Pest.

  Shoie thrust out his hand with the thumb upright.

  It took them at least two hours to cover the entire cemetery. By then they had come up with headstones bearing the names Needston, Pinn, Thread, and Thimble, and Daphne had even come up with a man named Simon Treasure. But they all agreed they hadn’t really found anything definitive.

  Discouraged, they were about to cycle back home, when a middle-aged man came ambling toward them between the headstones. He was dressed in overalls and a blue denim shirt. A red bandana handkerchief drooped out of a back pocket.

  “What are you kids doing here?” he asked. “I been watchin’ you, and you’ve spent most of the morning walkin’ up and down the headstones.”

  “Hi, Mr. Farragut.” Alvin stepped forward. He knew just about everyone in town. “The cemetery looks mighty fine this time of year.” Mr. Farragut was the maintenance man.

  “Hello there, Alvin Fernald. Didn’t recognize you at first.” He pulled out his big red handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “You gotta admit it’s mighty strange for anybody to be taking a long walk in the cemetery.” He hastily added, “Not that there’s any law against it, mind. But it just looks strange.”

  Alvin didn’t try to explain. He simply said, “We’re looking for any headstone marked with the name Needle.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, Alvin? I could have saved you that long walk. I have a big book over at the maintenance building that shows the name of every person ever buried in this cemetery, and the location of every grave. Come along, kids. I’ll show you.”

  He led the way to a small building near the entrance. He unlocked the door and led them inside. One end was stacked with rows of tools. The other contained a counter and a few shelves. Mr. Farragut reached beneath the counter and dragged out a book measuring almost two feet square, and placed it on the counter. The kids gathered around as he opened it.

  “Sorry, but the book isn’t alphabetized,” said Mr. Farragut. “It’s organized by location of cemetery lot. So we’ll just have to run down the names on each page, and see if we can find a Needle in this haystack.” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

  That’s what they did. Four pairs of eyes ran down each page. By the time they’d finished the book, Alvin was certain they hadn’t missed anything they were searching for. They came up with the additional names Sewing, Darning, and Needman, but no Needle.

  Alvin thanked Mr. Farragut profusely, and invited him to the next Little League game.

  At home, the kids were tired and dispirited. Professor O’Harra showed up soon after lunch.

  “I was sure we’d find something,” said Alvin. “Some kind of clue. But we didn’t.”

  “I was equally sure you wouldn’t,” the professor said, “because I went over the same ground twice a few days ago. But don’t be discouraged. There has to be an answer to Caleb’s puzzle somewhere. We’ll find it!”

  On that indecisive note they left the puzzle for the day. The professor said he had to get back to his office in Richmond, and left them with one of his business cards. “Call me if you find anything,” he said. “Anything at all.”

  Alvin tugged his right earlobe and said, “I want to give some real thought to Caleb’s message.” The tug on the ear was a sure sign that his complex brain was fired up, and swinging into high gear.

  “I want to get something to eat,” said Shoie.

  “I want to take a bath,” said the Pest.

  Chapter 19

  Alvin came suddenly awake in the middle of the night. He was dreaming of a cemetery, one with huge headstones that were set into the ground at all angles. He was crouched among them, hiding from two
large men, who wore guns in their belts, and shouted terrible threats at him.

  Alvin sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. That cemetery in his dream looked so familiar!

  He spent the next hour trying to find the location of the cemetery in his mind. He searched as far back as his earliest memories. For a long hour, he searched in vain.

  Then, suddenly he raised his clenched fist, and in the darkness, shook it at the ceiling. He had solved the most important part of Caleb’s puzzle!

  He was so certain he could scarcely refrain from announcing it loudly to his parents and to the Pest. Instead, he fumbled for his flashlight on the nightstand. He was certain he had nailed down a victory, but he still had to solve some of the details.

  He reached into his pajama pocket for the copy of Caleb’s puzzle, which he’d placed there the night before, anticipating he might want to work on the problem during the night. As a precaution against rousing his parents, he made a tent of his blanket, using his head as a tent pole. Very little light escaped. He unfolded the paper, and shined the light on it.

  Alvin studied the sheet for at least half an hour. Then he reached out his hand, pulled open the drawer to his nightstand, and produced a pencil and a pad of paper, which he always kept there in the event his active brain had one of its midnight inspirations.

  He made a list of all the questionable notations in Caleb’s poem:

  The cemetery, it is called.

  10th of June, that date alone.

  The Needle.

  4:45 PM.

  He studied the list until he had memorized it, then pulled the blanket off his head, and settled back onto his pillow. He closed his eyes. The list appeared in front of him. He spent the rest of the night working on it.

  As he solved one part of Caleb’s puzzle, another came tumbling down to occupy his mind. He found that the more the pieces fell into place, the easier it was to solve the next bit of the puzzle. Almost like a jigsaw puzzle, he thought.

  When he climbed out of bed the next morning, he knew exactly what Caleb had wanted him to know. He had solved every item on the list of unknowns.