The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (12 page)

I dreamed about the girl many nights after; she appeared, silent and reproachful, staring at me before vanishing into a soupy southern mist.

The dangers we faced as our little company cruised up and down the capricious Mississippi were more numerous than any plot from a dime novel! There was the ever-present terror of the boiler exploding, a fate that met many a steamship in those days, causing hundreds of gruesome deaths. We used to read about them in newspapers, exclaiming over the gory details of flesh melting away from bone, of decapitations caused by flying shards of steel. No mere schoolmarm ever faced such thrilling peril!

There were also dangers from the river itself; one never knew if, just around a bend, there might be submerged trees or even wreckage from other boats. Pirates, too, were rumored to be lurking in every hidden cove (although I’m sad to report that we never encountered any). Western storms were a constant threat; the weather in this part of the country was wilder, more electric, than I’d ever experienced back east. Once we came upon a town that had been nearly leveled by a tornado, and we could see the tempest’s path from the broken and uprooted trees on either side of the river. It was as if a heavenly foot had stomped through on its ruthless way to somewhere else.

The incessant mosquitoes and flies brought fever, aided by the dank, humid air, so that at one time or another, everyone in our company was felled by the ague. Despite my strong constitution, even I was laid low by it, tended to, with great care, by Sylvia. Soon enough, however, I was up and about, although I cannot say my recovery was aided by the food we were served. Oh, how the
thought of one of Mama’s layer cakes or delicate pies could bring tears to my eyes, a rumble to my ever-empty stomach! Our cook did not deserve her apron; well-cooked meat was a foreign concept to the woman, and she insisted upon boiling, rather than frying, the fish. A dense, chewy bread was our staple, as apparently she had never learned to put up vegetables or fruit!

Even when we left the boat and ventured onto shore—often in search of a boardinghouse that would serve a decent meal—there were many dangers awaiting our valiant little troupe.

Late at night, after the last show, was a particularly hazardous time. It was not unusual for the male members of the company to want to explore the streets, generally closest to the docks, which were lit up with gaslights, music, and sin. There were often brawls and disturbances; minstrel singers and plate spinners did not blend in well with farmers and fishermen. On more than one occasion we had to beat a hasty retreat late at night, the hands jumping down to the steam engine, many with their nightcaps on, to throw wood in the boilers as Captain Tucker ordered full steam, bullets screeching our way from the docks.

Naturally, I was never part of this kind of mischief. But when bullets were fired toward the boat, they were not particular about their target; I clasped my hands about my ears and ducked, but I heard my share of bullets whistling by my head, anyway. Fortunately, none of us ever came to peril, although once Colonel Wood found a bullet hole squarely in the middle of his silk top hat.

The safest place for any of us was onstage, in front of an eager crowd; that silver lining that Mr. Barnum would one day talk about. To see the joy on plain, work-worn faces as I sang, to hear the delighted laughter when I told a funny story—that was where I felt truly at home, loved,
safe
.

Although my fellow performers did not always feel quite so loved! Western audiences were swift to show boredom or
displeasure with an act that did not measure up. Tomatoes, apples, masticated wads of tobacco—all were thrown freely at the stage at one time or another. None, however, were thrown at me.

Why I was never so threatened, I can only ascribe to the peculiar effect I had upon most people, even those who could not refrain from remarking upon my size. Far from wanting to cause me harm, the audience seemed, as one, to desire to shelter me from it. This behavior was so marked, so pronounced, that some of the other acts tried to convince me to appear with them.

“C’mon, Vinnie,” the plate spinner, in particular, would beg. “I been hit with so many tomatoes lately I’m turning red! Just step out onstage with me, please? I’ll pay you, say, a dollar a week?”

I smiled but declined. I couldn’t appear in every act!

There was one person, however, who did not desire to shelter me from harm—one person, in fact, who seemed to go out of his way to cause me grief. And that was Colonel Wood.

“Move your tiny ass, Vinnie—if I catch you being late for an entrance again, I’ll boot you from here to kingdom come,” he would snarl, kicking at me with his dirty shoe. This was something he became very fond of doing, just as I became very fond of jumping nimbly aside to avoid him.

Or—“I’m sick of your uppity airs, Miss Uptight Yankee. Why don’t I just throw you in the boiler; you’re so little, I bet nobody would even notice you were missing,” he would growl, taking a swig of his jugful of whiskey. “Slap me on my own boat, in front of my own people, the hell you did.” That, of course, had been my fatal mistake; on his boat, he claimed his title of “Colonel,” placed it on his head like the gaudy hats he wore, and never let anyone forget it. Woe to anyone who challenged him—especially in front of an audience.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day when a dwarf would be
the biggest draw on my boat. God Almighty, what idiots these rubes are,” he would slobber after he was well and truly in his cups. Once drunk, he had a tendency to fall asleep in the oddest places; you never knew, in the morning, when you might stumble upon his drooling, snoring form sprawled all over a staircase or curled up among a coil of ropes on the deck—or even, more than once, leaning against the door to my stateroom.

The first time I discovered him there, bile rose in my throat until I feared I might contribute to the puddle of vomit in the hallway at his feet. I uttered a swift prayer of thanks for the presence of Sylvia in my room, and couldn’t fall asleep that night until she had moved my trunk against the door.

But the fact remained that I made the man money; knowing this, I could not completely believe that he would ever actually harm me. As the months went by, and 1858 passed into 1859 and then 1860, as the
Banjo
drifted up and down the river, its company so oddly detached from the ever-escalating political situation on both shores, my fame grew beyond what the Colonel could have predicted.

After showing him the
carte de visite
of General Tom Thumb, eventually I had persuaded Colonel Wood to have my photograph taken (by stressing the lucrative nature of such an enterprise; he sold the
cartes de visites
for twenty-five cents each, and kept all the profit himself). And over time, these postcards reached people who might otherwise have never visited a floating palace; they reached good people, respectable people. People who clamored only to see me—not anyone else.

The postcards had not, thus far, reached Mr. Barnum, as I had hoped; my fame may have been growing, but only along the Mississippi.

“Get in here, Vinnie,” Colonel Wood grumbled to me one morning as I was making my way to the dining room. As usual,
Sylvia was with me; she stopped, gazing down at me with a questioning look. I nodded for her to go ahead, watching as she lumbered down the hall, her shoulders rounded so that her head did not hit the ceiling, and then followed the Colonel into his office. He shut the door; it latched with a terrifying thud, and I realized, a sharp razor of panic cutting itself through my still-sleepy consciousness, that I could not reach the handle myself. I was as good as trapped.

But no, I told myself sternly. It was broad daylight, he appeared sober, and outside I could hear deckhands and members of the troupe bustling about, engaged in their usual morning activity.

“Sit,” Colonel Wood barked.

With some effort, I struggled into the only chair available to me, while he took his seat behind his cluttered desk. He did not offer to place a cushion upon my seat, so that I might be on his level; on the contrary, he grinned down at me with ill-concealed delight, while I sat so low I could barely see over the stacks of paper on his desk.

I hid my anger, as I was teaching myself to do, behind an excess of manners. “Yes, Colonel Wood? I’m eager to hear what you wish to discuss.”

“Always so damn polite,” he muttered. “That tiny mouth always pursed so prim and proper. Think you’re above us all out here—you know the rest of the company talks about your airs, don’t you?”

This was not the first time he had tried to insinuate himself between my friends and me; I knew enough not to rise to the bait. “Thank you for complimenting me on my manners,” I responded with a polite smile. “It is much appreciated.”

“Hmmph. Well, keep talking like that, Miss Dainty Dwarf. Because you’re going to start doing extra duty. I’ve had some requests
for private audiences for you, from some pretty important folks, and they’re willing to pay double the regular price.”

“Private audience? What do you mean?”

“Some hoity-toity types, who claim they’re above stepping foot on my boat, want to meet you. Privately, they say. Not onstage.”

“But where?” I couldn’t conceive of such an idea. I was finally accustomed to being on display in the galley before and after performances; I could not say I looked forward to it, but I had learned how to put the onlookers—and myself—at ease. I could not completely avoid being scooped up as if I were a mere child; there were those who would persist in doing so, no matter how much I protested. I had discovered, though, that if I spoke first, about the most normal of topics—the weather, the political situation, the latest fashions—fewer people were inclined to do so.

But always I was surrounded by others—Sylvia, the Tattooed Man, the Bearded Lady who had recently joined our troupe, Billy Birch and his men. The notion of being entirely alone with strangers was vaguely troubling to me.

“I’m going to have to secure some sort of private parlor in hotels, I guess. Most of these towns have one, and I’m sure some arrangement can be made so I won’t have to pay—free advertising, something. Up in Galena, there’s a Mr. Grant who would like to meet you, so that’ll be the first one.”

“Alone? This Mr. Grant—he’ll be alone?” Uneasiness filled my breast; I shifted in my chair, which was much too big for me. It served only to sharpen my acute awareness—it was almost an electric sensation, my skin tingling and burning—of my physical helplessness.

“How the hell do I know? If he’s alone, he’s alone. You’ll meet Grant, and you’ll do whatever he asks you to—none of this holier-than-thou behavior, Missy. You understand? He wants a kiss,
you get off your high horse and give him a goddamned kiss.” With a leer, Colonel Wood leaned across his desk toward me. His liver-colored lips, beneath his awful mustache still bearing traces of the blackening he used onstage, smacked at me, making disgusting kissing sounds. “You know, you ain’t half bad looking in that photograph of yours. Not so bad in person, either. Is
all
of you so pretty and tiny? Might have to check that out someday, what the hell, cousin or not.” And he started to laugh again, making those awful kissing sounds.

It was as if a slimy snake had slithered down my spine; I shivered, even though the air was close and hot about me, threatening to cut off my breath. I slid off the chair and ran to the door but could not open it; I could not reach the latch no matter how high I jumped—and jump I did, panic closing in around my throat like a vise, cutting off my breath, my thoughts.

Finally, with a great leap, I did reach the latch, but my hand was so small it was difficult to grasp and pull; my panic did not help matters. My grip kept slipping and slipping until suddenly the door gave way, opened from the outside; I nearly fell into the hallway. The thin dancing girl, Carlotta, was staring down at me in surprise.

“Why, Vinnie, are you all right?”

I nodded. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Colonel Wood had not moved a muscle. He remained seated at his desk; he was even going through some papers as if I wasn’t there. And I had to wonder if he had actually said the things that I thought he had.

All at once my mind shifted, as if it were a mechanical thing and completely out of my control, toward Minnie, my dear sister. I thought of how small she was, so much smaller than me. How sweet, how innocent. Thank goodness she was still home; had I ever thought to go back for her, to show her that the world was
not to be feared? “That dreadful man,” she had declared Colonel Wood before she had even seen him. I thought her so simple then; I had laughed at her. Now I wondered how she’d known.

But, of course, she didn’t. She was only afraid of the unknown in a way that I was not, at least not until this moment. I took a deep breath and told myself I would not begin to embrace such ideas. Mr. Grant was most likely a perfectly respectable man with a family; why else would he not wish to step foot upon the boat?

As for Colonel Wood—why, I would simply not allow myself to be alone with him again. It was an easy enough thing to accomplish; the boat was always full of people. There was no reason why I ever had to be alone with that man. And I knew I had only to ask and Sylvia would not leave my side.

Calm again, I walked with Carlotta toward the dining room, where I could hear my traveling companions talking, joshing, breaking into bits of song over the clash of silver and china. My heart lightened, for I knew they would be happy to see me. And indeed they were; as soon as I entered the dining room, there were cries of “Vinnie, Vinnie, come sit by me!”

I took a seat next to Mrs. Billy Birch and listened to all the good-natured gossip. Apparently Carlotta, seated by my side and suddenly all blushes and modest glances, was engaged to one of the regulars—the unattached young men who followed our boat up and down the river on their own pathetic rafts or canoes, looking for occasional work or trying to make a living fishing or peddling. Mrs. Billy asked me if I’d like to help make her a decent trousseau.

I nodded, happy for Carlotta. She had no future as a performer, poor dear. Getting married was the wisest thing she could do.