Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure Read online

  “Yeah, and I think it should be outlawed. Nobody should be allowed to drop a fly ball on purpose. That rule should be wiped off the books.”

  “R-e-s-c-i-n-d-e-d. Rescinded. To revoke or repeal.” It was the Pest’s voice, of course.

  Shoie: “Yeah. Rescinded right off the books.”

  A guttural voice shouts from halfway back in the audience: “Naw. It’s a good rule. Keep it.”

  The man seated next to the shouter stands, throws out his chest, and says loudly, “Lousy rule. Should be restinded, or whatever the cute little girl said.”

  “JUDY! JUDY! JUDY!” Apparently a few of the spectators are still opening the show.

  Judy holds up both hands in front of her face as though to stop the show. Then, raising her voice to its highest pitch, she says, “I warned you kids—I mean, you children—to stay on the subject, and you’ve already drifted off. Let’s try again. Alvin, tell me realistically what you were thinking about as you waited to dig up that marvelous document.”

  “To tell the truth, I was thinking about the referee’s bad call in the UCLA—Notre Dame game the preceding Saturday. I’m sure you remember. Mike Moreno, the Notre Dame tight end, caught a pass and went racing down the sideline. He was hit by two UCLA players. He was clearly knocked out of bounds. His shoe may have been on the field, but his heel was clearly out of bounds.”

  “INBOUNDS, INBOUNDS, INBOUNDS!” A spectator in the third row was on his feet, shaking his fists and shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “I saw the replay,” Alvin shouted back. “Definitely out of bounds.”

  A heavyset man halfway back in the audience jumped to his feet, shook his fist, and hollered, “I saw the replay, too. Definitely inbounds, inbounds, INBOUNDS.”

  By now more than half the audience had taken up the cry, “Judy, Judy, Judy!” The cry was like a drumbeat, growing louder and faster by the minute.

  Judy elevated her hands over her eyes. Her head was waving backward and forward as if to deny what was going on. A gentle stranger came to her rescue.

  Professor O’Harra suddenly leaped off the crimson chair, pity for his hostess in one eye and a determination to do something about it in the other. His yellow cap was still on the side of his head, and he was flinging his shillelagh from one agile hand to the other. His silvery Irish voice reached every corner of the theater:

  Ireland must be heaven,

  For an angel came from there;

  I never knew a living soul

  One half as sweet or fair,

  (At this point the Professor tossed his shillelagh high into the air, caught it, then pointed it directly at Shoie who, taking the hint, reached in his pocket and pulled out his harmonica. The long, sweet tones backed up the Professor’s tenor notes.)

  For her eyes are like the starlight,

  And the white clouds match her hair,

  Sure Ireland must be heaven

  For my Mother came from there.

  Meanwhile, Daphne, seated on the couch, had assumed the yoga position, then pushed her right leg behind her neck. When the crowd applauded vigorously, she pushed her left leg behind her right one, forming her body into an “O”.

  The crowd went wild. Half applauded, the other half cheered and whistled. Alvin noticed that his mother was beating his father on the back while tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Suddenly the sweet tones of another old Irish favorite echoed around the studio:

  If her eyes are blue as skies, that’s Peggy O’Neill,

  If she’s smiling all the while, that’s Peggy O’Neill.

  If she walks like a sly little rogue, if she talks with

  A cute little brogue,

  Sweet personality, full of rascality,

  That’s Peggy O’Neill.

  While singing that final line, Professor O’Harra spun the shillelagh so fast the audience couldn’t even see it, took two dance steps, and flung the walking stick high overhead. It shot through the air, seemed to pause over Judy’s head, and started falling. The professor leaped forward, but it was obvious he’d be too late.

  Judd Harrison’s figure suddenly left his camera and came diving across the stage. He intercepted the walking stick just as it was about to clobber Judy on top of her head.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  By now Judy was sheltering her head beneath her arms, and had burst into tears. Judd was standing on the top of her desk leaning over her in a protective stance, the shillelagh firmly grasped in his right hand.

  Suddenly the stage curtain closed on the chaotic scene.

  “JUDY! JUDY! JUDY!”

  “Rescind the rule!”

  “Keep the rule!”

  “He was inbounds!”

  “He was out of bounds!”

  “Sure it was the same old shillelagh...”

  Daphne lunged forward, the “O” that was her body dropped off the couch and rolled across the stage floor.

  “LEAVE THAT CURTAIN SHUT!”

  Chapter 26

  The following day the same seven people left in the black limousine, Bixby still driving. Now all were talking at once, recalling their chaotic experiences on the AM America Show.

  Gradually as Bixby drove toward Gettysburg the car quieted down. In one of the silences, Waldo said, “Attention, everyone! In the hotel I picked up the first edition of the New York Times published after the Judy Melbourne Show. Would you like to hear what it has to say about that show?”

  Alvin’s parents nodded enthusiastically. Alvin growled in approval. The professor tossed his shillelagh to Shoie, who caught it and touched the Pest on top of the head.

  Waldo read the paper: “One of the rarest of moments in video comedy occurred this morning during what was supposed to be the AM America show. Thanks to the lovable antics of three youngsters from Indiana, the show fell deliciously apart like no other show in video history.

  “It was constant laughter. Cameraman Judd Harrison somehow managed to keep track of the action despite flying shillelaghs and impossible yoga exercises. He should be given a raise in pay.

  “And everyone who participated in the show should be asked back for a repeat performance. Judy, don’t lose your chance here. These kids are for real and are for laughs. Sign them up pronto, and they’ll raise your viewer rates back to where they were a year ago.”

  At that precise moment the phone inside the limousine rang. Waldo answered it and spoke for two or three minutes into it, gesturing wildly as he talked. Finally he lowered the phone to his lap, and said, “It’s Judy Melbourne’s agent. He wants to sign you kids up for a series of six shows. Are you interested?”

  All three heads immediately indicated no.

  Waldo relayed their answer into the phone, listened for a moment, then said, “He wants to know if you’ll discuss how much money it will take to get you to appear.”

  Again all three heads indicated no.

  Waldo spoke into the phone once more, then hung up. “I’m glad you made that decision,” he said, “although it’s a great opportunity to get into show biz.”

  There was no conversation for two or three minutes as each person in the limousine thought over the implications of the offer that had been turned down. Finally Mrs. Fernald picked up the well-wrapped box in her lap, which she had carried all the way from home, and said, “Here, Professor O’Harra, this is for you.”

  “A gift? For me?”

  He was as delighted as a small child with a birthday present, and immediately unwrapped it while everyone watched.

  When the box lid came off, he shouted, “Bingo! A whole box full of Thingers!”

  Alvin expected him to pass them around, but the professor promptly put the lid back on the box and clamped it with both hands in his lap, where it remained for the rest of the day.

  The dedication ceremony was scheduled to be held early in the afternoon, and they arrived in Gettysburg about noon. Flags were flying everywhere, along with signs welcoming the president. Alvin got the impression
that military detachments were marching on every street. An artillery piece was stationed at every corner. How proud Caleb would have been!

  They had a quick lunch, then drove out to the National Cemetery. During lunch Bixby had affixed an additional license plate to the front of the limousine, a plate that gave them instant access to any part of the cemetery. He drove slowly toward the section of the cemetery where Indiana soldiers were buried.

  Curious eyes peered in the windows. Spectators wanted to know who the celebrities were. Alvin was enjoying every second of it. At one point he whispered into the microphone connected to the driver’s compartment, “Slow down! There’s no need to be in any hurry.”

  A large raised platform suddenly appeared in front of them. It was covered with scores of folding chairs and a lectern, and faced out over a vast meadow which was already half covered with spectators.

  Bixby stopped the limousine, and almost instantly was opening the doors to let out his passengers. Alvin started out the door, then promptly realized that he should let his mother out first. She acknowledged his courtesy with a gracious smile.

  A man wearing a red ribbon led them up a stairway and out onto the platform. The adults were seated in chairs in the front row off to one side. The three children, as guests of honor, were seated in the middle of the front row. There was a single unoccupied chair off to the right side of the lectern. Below the edge of the platform, a military band had assembled.

  Ten minutes later the band struck up a fanfare and (Daphne was so excited she started trembling all over) the president of the United States strode across the platform toward her. The president chose her to speak to first, then Alvin and Shoie. He seemed honestly pleased to meet them. He then strode across and sat down in the single chair beside the lectern.

  All this was done to great applause. Then, as the noise died down, a man with a blue ribbon on his coat walked to the lectern. His introduction was simple: “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

  The president’s address was brief and to the point. “We are rededicating the cemetery that President Lincoln once dedicated. This was made possible following the preservation of his famous dedicatory speech. An African-American boy, in turn, hid and protected that speech for more than seven score years. It has been found and given to the nation by three youngsters from Indiana, Alvin and Daphne Fernald, and Wilfred Shoemaker, who will now each give us a few remarks on the subject.”

  Applause, as Alvin (by prearrangement) went to the lectern first. There beside the road at his feet was the lifesize statue of Caleb, cast in gleaming bronze. His huge eyes looked as though he were asking a question. The Union battle cap was cocked to one side of his head. A crutch was gripped tightly under one arm, and one leg was cocked out at an angle. The other arm was extended as though in greeting. He wore a ragged jacket slightly too large for his small figure, and to it was pinned a medal designed from a bit of brass from an artillery shell and a piece of ribbon from a woman’s hat. Alvin suddenly realized that while he was examining Caleb’s statue, several thousand Americans were waiting for him to speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, some months ago, when I was invited here today, I had no idea what I would be saying to you. Last night, after I was in bed, I still had no idea what I would be saying here today. (Laughter.) Now I know. Those words made famous here still apply.

  “I hope President Lincoln will forgive me for borrowing those words of his that are most applicable, and adopting others.

  “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

  “Now we are testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.

  “But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our power to add or detract. It is for the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is for the living that we here highly resolve that those dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.”

  Alvin looked toward the hills surrounding Gettysburg, and said softly, “Thank you, Mr. Lincoln.” He stepped away from the lectern, turned and walked toward his seat. He heard the thunderous applause. From the corner of his eye he saw Professor O’Harra raise a box from his lap and hold it out as in offering.

  As soon as Alvin resumed his seat, Shoie walked to the lectern. He spoke only two words, and those softly.

  “Me, too.”

  When he turned toward his chair, the applause and cheering—and laughter—were intense.

  Daphne was the most confident of the three as she approached the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, one newspaper stated that because we three kids located the hidden copy of the Gettysburg Address, and dug it up, that the copy belongs to us. We don’t believe that is so. We believe that in his own way Caleb gave that document to the people of the United States, and that we—all three of us— hereby renounce, and yes, rescind, that’s r-e-s-c-i-n-d all rights to the Gettysburg Address. Thank you.” She did what she thought was a curtsy, and walked resolutely to her chair to a wave of applause.

  The man with the blue ribbon took over and introduced the governor of the state of Indiana. The governor requested that “Alvin and Daphne Fernald, and Wilfred Shoemaker please step forward.”

  Alvin and Shoie looked at each other in puzzlement. They hadn’t been told about this. The three kids walked over to stand in front of the governor.

  “Alvin Fernald, Daphne Fernald, Wilfred Shoemaker, it gives me great pleasure to award you each what the Indiana legislature has named the Indiana Medal for Extraordinary Service. The medal has been awarded only once before in the history of Indiana. That was to Caleb Getme during the Civil War. You will not find the medal itself very fancy or impressive. It is an exact copy of the medal fashioned for Caleb from a bit of ribbon from a woman’s hat and a piece of brass from an artillery shell casing. The legislature decided you would find it more meaningful this way.”

  The governor then pinned a medal on each of them. He followed with a handshake for each of the boys, and a hug for Daphne.

  That was all, except for a concert by the military band. Mrs. Fernald was in favor of departing immediately “to beat the crowd,” but the Pest insisted she had “something she had to do.” Her mother said that “children shouldn’t be alone in such a crowd,” that Daphne could go only if the two boys went with her, and that they must be back in thirty minutes.

  Daphne led the boys down in front of the platform, and they instantly saw her goal–the statue of Caleb. It took them ten minutes to work their way up to it.

  “It looks just like him,” she said to Alvin. Then, “I mean it looks just like I thought he’d look. Those big eyes, his crutch, the leg bent out at an angle, his medal pinned on his ragged jacket. Alvin, I’m going to cry.”

  “Go right ahead, Pest. You’ve earned it.”

  She seized Caleb’s bronze hand and squeezed it. At the same time she placed her cheek on his extended arm. Her eyes were closed, but a tear rolled out of her right eye, and dropped down onto Caleb’s arm.

  A woman standing nearby observed what was happening and searched through her purse for her own handkerchief.

  THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS

  Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

  Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield o
f that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

  But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave their last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that those dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  November 19, 1863

  The Gettysburg Address is perhaps the most famous speech ever written, yet it is only 272 words long, and took a bare three minutes to deliver.

  Its importance to our nation’s history can’t be overstated. Garry Wills, prominent historian and student of Lincoln, states in his volume, Lincoln at Gettysburg, “Lincoln... means to ‘win’ the whole Civil War in ideological terms as well as military ones. And he will succeed: the Civil War is, to most Americans, what Lincoln wanted it to mean. Words had to complete the work of the guns.”

  There are at least four original copies of the Gettysburg Address (original in the sense that they are copies either made by Abraham Lincoln or made at his direction.) These copies vary in small details. The supposition is that Lincoln himself made minor corrections to improve his own text, or copiers made minor errors in copying them. One of the versions was the one Lincoln handed to his secretary John Nicolay immediately after he concluded the address, and it is this version that in my fiction he gave into the protective custody of a 12-year-old black boy seated on the platform behind him. No such exchange ever took place.