Young Whit and the Traitor's Treasure

by Phil Lollar

  The end of the school week arrived. Johnny had finally finished his presentation the night before, mainly because he kept putting off doing the actual report to revel in the research of his ancestors.

  There was so much to his family’s story. He had even learned that his father had witnessed one of the Wright brothers’ early flights. Harold was a flyer himself in World War I, had been wounded in the leg in a dogfight at Verdun, France, crash-landed, and was rescued by Johnny’s mother’s brother, David McClintock, who was also a flyer.

  That’s how Father got his limp! thought Johnny when he read about it. He knew from the McClintock Family Bible that his Uncle David had introduced Harold to Janneth, but he didn’t know this.

  When he asked his father why he’d never mentioned what had happened to him in the war, Harold stiffened and replied briskly, “Some of us don’t like to talk about our pasts.”

  Johnny knew the tone and decided not to press for details, nor did he bring up the pages his father had removed from the Whittaker Family Bible.

  But despite the wealth of material, Johnny decided to focus his report on the Civil War portion with Nathaniel and G.W.—in part, he admitted to Emmy, to annoy Wilson. “I can’t wait ’til he hears it!” he told her gleefully as they walked to school. “I can just see his face drop! No more ‘lord of the manor’!”

  “Gettin’ a little cocky, aren’t ya?” she asked.

  He blinked innocently and put his hand to his chest. “Who, me?”

  Emmy laughed.

  Johnny barely noticed Mr. Blake’s math class lecture, and when the bell rang, he made his way along with everyone else to Mr. Greeley’s class. The presentations were the usual mix of really boring to pretty good. Emmy’s report was about her Italian heritage and was peppered with references to big family dinners with lots of delicious food, which made Johnny’s mouth water.

  He was a bit deflated when almost every boy in class talked about his Civil War ancestors. He should have expected that, he supposed. Emmy had told him most of the boys came from families that had been in the area for generations.

  Wilson also mentioned his Civil War heritage—his Great-Grandfather Thaddeus fought in it—but Wilson stuck mainly to his colonial roots. It made Johnny wish he had included some of his own Scottish family history in his report.

  At last it was his turn to present. Johnny made his way to the front of the class, took out his notes, and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Looks like you’re in for more about the War Between the States,” he began. Several class members chuckled, a few groaned, Arty snorted, and Wilson rolled his eyes, yawned, and slouched in his seat.

  Johnny consulted his notes and plunged ahead. “The Civil War has been called ‘the war between brothers,’ because in many cases actual family members fought against each other. That’s what happened in my family, though it was only long after the war that they became my relations. They fought in the greatest battle of the war, Gettysburg. My Great-Grandfather Nathaniel Whittaker was a private with the 20th Maine Regiment in the Union army, and my Great-Granduncle G.W. McClintock was a lieutenant in the 26th North Carolina Regiment, Pettigrew’s Brigade, Heth’s Division, Hill’s Third Corps, Army of Northern Virginia.”

  A noticeable change came over the room. Though most everyone had been half-listening, they all suddenly stirred and shifted in their seats, even Mr. Greeley. Arty’s head jerked up from the fingernail he was chewing on. Wilson emerged from his slouch and leaned forward in his chair, a look of stunned realization on his face.

  What just happened? Johnny wondered. He glanced at Emmy. She had also noticed the change but shrugged helplessly.

  He went on. “The 26th North Carolina was heavily engaged on the first day of the battle. The 20th Maine didn’t see action until the second day, on Little Round Top. On the third day, the 26th was part of Pickett’s Charge, while the 20th was held in reserve in the Union center. So, the greatest battle in North America contained two ‘greats’ from my own family.”

  Johnny continued to weave their stories together with the larger tapestry of his family’s history, revealing Nathaniel’s and G.W.’s lives and accomplishments after the war, right up to when they died.

  The restlessness in the room increased. In fact, the more he talked, the more everyone fidgeted—everyone, that is, except Wilson, whose expression had changed to a strange mixture of burning hatred and smug satisfaction. Johnny had definitely pricked some sort of nerve with everybody, but he had no idea which part of the presentation had done the pricking.

  He finally came to his conclusion. “Like everyone else here, though I am an individual, I am also the product of my family. The blood of my Great-Grandfather Nathaniel Titus Whittaker and my Great-Granduncle G.W. McClintock flows through my veins. I only hope that I can accomplish as much in my life as they did in theirs, and that in doing so, I can live up to the incredible example they set for me. Thank you.”

  All the other kids had gotten at least a smattering of applause when they finished. Johnny was met with stares and stone silence. He returned to his seat next to Emmy, who gave him a worried look.

  Mr. Greeley cleared his throat and rose from his chair. “Thank you for that ... interesting presentation, Mr. Whittaker,” he said. “That will be all for today, class. For homework, please read chapters three to five in your textbooks over the weekend.” He sat again and busied himself with arranging and stacking papers.

  The bell rang. A few people burst out of the room, but several nearest Johnny took great pains to give him a wide berth, even if they had to climb over desks to do so. When most of them had gone, Wilson, Arty, and one other seventh grader rose slowly and filed out, with Arty and the seventh grader glowering at Johnny. Wilson’s eyes burned with rage, and his mouth twisted in a strange, sneering grin.

  Johnny and Emmy gathered their things and headed for the door. Mr. Greeley still looked at his desk, giving them only a grunt and the slightest of waves when they said good-bye to him. Once they were out in the hallway, Johnny grabbed Emmy’s sleeve and said in a hushed voice, “What was that all about?”

  She shook her head slowly and replied, equally hushed, “Ya got me! Mr. Greeley wouldn’t even look at us!”

  “At me, you mean.” He frowned. “You think I shouldn’t have revealed my great-grandfather was a Yankee?”

  Emmy tilted her head in sympathetic wince. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “But the war’s been over for seventy years!” he said. “That can’t still matter to them, can it?”

  “Oh, yes it can. You’re in the South, Johnny. Feelings against Yankees still run very strong down here.”

  Johnny couldn’t believe it, but as the day went by, Emmy seemed to be proved correct. Everyone but her sat as far from him as possible in science. And as word of what happened in history class spread, people began avoiding them in the hallways. At lunch, even Luke and the other kids Wilson had bullied got up and moved to a different table when Johnny and Emmy sat down. Emmy clucked her tongue at them and said, “This is ridiculous!”

  Johnny sighed. “Maybe we shouldn’t hang around together anymore, at least until this blows over. I’m a pariah right now.”

  Emmy frowned. “What do fish have to do with this?”

  He shook his head. “No, not piranha—oh, never mind. Look, I don’t want the negativity of my Yankee heritage to rub off on you.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t be a dope, Johnny. I’m not going anywhere.” Then she blinked suddenly. “But I won’t be able to walk home with you this afternoon.”

  He nodded. “I understand, it’s okay ...”

  “I have a dentist’s appointment,” she said, exasperated. “My dad’s picking me up after lunch.”

  “Oh!” He smiled.

  She suddenly turned serious. “I can try to get out of it.”

  Now he rolled his eyes. “You don’t be a dope. Go to your appointment. I’ll be fine.”

  The afternoon was more of the same. He had put up a b
rave front for Emmy, but when she left, he realized he was really alone. No one would partner with him on the rope climb in gym, and people ignored him in woodshop, shunned him in English, and avoided him like the plague in the halls.

  He hadn’t seen Ben all day, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have talked to him in the open. But it would have been nice to know he was around. After school, Johnny looked for Ben in the custodial closet and downstairs in the basement, but he wasn’t in either place. At the top of the basement stairs, Johnny met Mrs. Monahan, who told him Ben had taken the day off for personal business. Johnny thanked her and headed for the doors.

  He knew a confrontation with Wilson was coming sooner or later. He hoped it would be sooner, partly so he could get it over with, but mostly because he really wanted to know what was going on. Sure enough, as he passed a wooded area just beyond the school grounds, Wilson, Arty, and three of their new clique rushed out from the woods and surrounded him.

  Wilson still had the twisted smile on his face. “No boards for you to break this time, Sherlock,” he drawled. “No girlfriend or janitor to protect you, either.”

  Johnny took a breath and said, “I’ve told you, my name is—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Wilson cut in. “You don’t like to be called Sherlock. That’s okay, we gotta ’nother name for you now, lot’s better.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Wilson leaned toward him. “Traitor.”

  Johnny almost laughed. “Traitor? Because my great-grandfather fought for the Union, I’m a traitor?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Your Yankee great-granddaddy was the enemy. Your traitor’s blood comes from your great-granduncle.”

  Johnny blinked, stunned.

  “That’s right,” Wilson continued. “Your Great-Granduncle G.W. McClintock was a traitor, a liar, a coward, and a thief!” The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

  Johnny was momentarily speechless. His mouth opened and closed.

  Wilson went on. “Oh, yeah, you thought you’d just leave that part out of your little family history and no one would ever be the wiser, eh? Well, ya thought wrong.”

  Johnny’s voice finally returned. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  Wilson snorted. “Like you don’t know!”

  “I don’t know! What are you saying?”

  Wilson studied him for a moment. “You’re serious? You really don’t know what your great-granduncle did to my great-granddaddy?”

  “No!”

  “Well, you shoulda done more research, boy!” Everyone chortled.

  “All my research came from his letters to my family,” Johnny explained. “There was no mention of your great-grandfather in any of them.”

  “Well, no, there wouldn’t be, would there?” Wilson shot back. “Especially seein’ as how my great-granddaddy tried to stop him from stealin’ the Confederate payroll!”

  “What!”

  “That’s right, forty thousand in gold to pay General Joe Johnston’s men at the end of the war. That includes my Great-Granddaddy Thaddeus”—he jerked his thumb at his chest and then pointed at Arty and the others—“and all their relatives, too. And G.W. McClintock stole it from them. Stole it, deserted, and betrayed the Rebs to the Yanks!”

  Johnny’s mind was spinning, trying to sort out what he was hearing. “It’s not possible ... it can’t be. My grandpa and my mother liked him so much ...”

  “Aw! Mama and Grandpap liked him. Ain’t that nice?” Wilson mocked, and the others snickered. “Look it up, boy! There’s a painting of it in the town hall! Everybody knows about it!”

  “Oh, I’ll look it up all right,” Johnny said defiantly. “Count on it!”

  “Good!” Wilson replied. “Then you’ll know the truth about who you come from and what you are: a family of traitors, liars, thieves, and cowards. You, your great-granduncle, your grandpap, and your mama!”

  Johnny’s mind was still reeling, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. Wilson’s last comment made him snap. He charged at the brute, but the other boys were on him before he took two steps. They held him upright, and Wilson moved in close.

  “Last time, you showed me somethin’,” Wilson growled. “Now lemme show you somethin’!” He punched Johnny squarely in the stomach. “That’s for my Great-Granddaddy Thaddeus!” he hissed, and then he punched him again in the same spot. “And that’s for lockin’ me in a bathroom!”

  The boys let Johnny go, and he dropped to his knees, the wind knocked out of him completely. It felt as if he’d never be able to suck in air again. But when he finally managed a big gasp, a wave of nausea hit him, and he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the ground.

  Wilson and the boys in front of him jumped backward and yelled, “Ugh!” Arty pushed Johnny over, and everyone guffawed.

  “Let’s get outta here!” said Wilson. “Let the traitor lie in his own puke! Puke in puke!” They all laughed again and ran off whooping, leaving Johnny lying on his side, tears streaming from his eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  When he could finally move again, Johnny slowly sat up. He took shallow breaths and gently probed his abdomen to see if there was any serious damage. So far, so good, he thought. He steeled himself and then inhaled great gulps of air, stretching his arms upward at the same time. He felt a slight twinge in one of the stomach muscles, but no nausea. He exhaled slowly through pursed lips and then took in another deep breath. Everything seemed to be fine.

  He rose to his feet, picked up his book bag, and made his way back to a water fountain in the schoolyard where he rinsed his face and the taste of vomit from his mouth. He could see the town hall clock tower from here. Maybe he could get there or to the library before it closed and look up Wilson’s story.

  But the thought of doing more research right then almost made him sick again, and besides, he probably smelled awful. He didn’t want to admit the real reason to himself: He was afraid of what he’d find, afraid that Wilson’s story was true. He also thought of seeing if Emmy was home yet, but he decided against that, too. He couldn’t face telling her what had happened. So he went on home.

  When he got there, Johnny peered through the front window to make sure no one was in the living room. When he saw that it was empty, he raced through it and up the stairs to his room. There, he changed into a clean shirt. He took his dirty shirt to the bathroom to scrub the vomit from the sleeve and collar in the sink, before putting the shirt in the clothes hamper. Johnny looked at his reflection in the mirror. Fortunately, he had no scratches or abrasions on his face.

  He went back to his room and closed the door. The two family Bibles and the bundles of letters were stacked neatly on his desk. He didn’t want to look at them.

  Johnny stretched out across his bed on his back and closed his eyes, but Wilson’s mocking voice kept intruding on his thoughts. “Traitor. Liar. Coward. Thief. Grandpap and Mama ...” It couldn’t be true! G.W.’s letters were so filled with joy, kindness, optimism, and bravery. How could he also be a coward, a traitor, and a thief? And how could Grandpa Jackson and Mother have misjudged him so badly?

  Mother.

  Johnny opened his eyes and bolted upright, feeling a tug of soreness in his middle. He scooted off the bed, retrieved the key on the long chain from his desk drawer, and opened the trunk.

  Janneth’s framed picture lay atop the bric-a-brac and gewgaws. He lifted it and studied her angel face. He missed her. She would know what to do, what to say, and how to make him feel better.

  But she was gone, almost five years now. He wished there were some way he could see her again—go back in time—but such adventures were the stuff of novelists like H.G. Wells and Mark Twain. He wished he could dive into those books and talk to her once more. But wishing didn’t make a thing happen, and he realized that, for the first time in his life, the contents of the trunk had actually made him miserable.

  Johnny scowled, set the picture on his desk firmly, grabbed the McClintock Family Bible and the b
undles of letters, and stuffed them roughly back in the trunk. He snatched up his mother’s picture and laid it, more gently, in its place atop everything, and then tilted the trunk lid and let it slam down heavily. He was just about to relock it when he heard a muffled snap and the faint sound of cracking glass from within the trunk. He winced, groaned, and opened the lid.

  The cracked glass was the pane in his mother’s picture’s frame. What cracked it was the loose panel in the underside of the lid, the one with his great-grandfather’s name carved in it. It had fallen onto the picture and the other mementos in the trunk.

  And on top of the loose panel was what appeared to be a very old journal.

  Johnny moved the book and panel and carefully removed the glass from the frame before it could harm the photo. Then he picked up the journal and thumbed carefully through its pages. Part of it was written in a language he didn’t know, but other parts he recognized as ancient Latin, though he could read only a few words. Many of the entries had dates on them, and the entries toward the beginning of the journal looked much, much older than the entries toward the end.

  He also noticed that the entries were written in different handwriting and different ink. They would go along in the same handwriting and ink for a while, but then they would suddenly change. At first, Johnny thought his great-grandfather must have written it all, but he only found Thomas’s name two-thirds of the way through. A few pages later, the handwriting changed again to Grandpa Jackson’s, which Johnny recognized from his research on the McClintock family letters.

  Then in the very last entry on the very last page, he saw something unexpected.

  His name.

  John Avery Whittaker.

  A chill went down his spine, and it got even bigger when he studied the words above his name and suddenly realized he knew them! Not their meaning, but he recognized them as the words his grandpa used to say when he would ask about the trunk: “Neamhnaid fior pris ... beatha fhada.”

  What did it all mean? Why was his name written in this old, musty book? Was it just more family history? But if it was, then why was it hidden in the trunk?