The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (15 page)

But first I had to get there, and the effect of all this excitement
and war talk on our situation seemed increasingly ominous. I couldn’t help but notice several men pointing to the boat and gesturing excitedly; more than once my ears caught the phrase “bunch of Yankee freaks” as it was hurled toward me and my compatriots. Rumors were flying from boat to boat, all lined up like sitting ducks at the docks, that soon all ships would be commandeered to move war munitions about the South. Not only ships but trains, as well, were rumored to be closed to paying passengers—particularly those with northern accents.

I had dutifully apprised Colonel Wood of the situation, bolstered by Billy Birch. The Colonel cursed and swore but still insisted that we would keep to our schedule and travel downriver; getting to New Orleans by December 12 was of utmost importance to him. “Vinnie has an important engagement then, and I need to get the boat fixed” was all he would say when we asked why. Then he cursed the poor box-office receipt from the morning, and the names of the two of my three private audiences that had sent word they would not be coming.

Hence his agitation as he dragged me through the crowded streets of Vicksburg, which, although there were no gaslights, were amply illuminated this night by torches and burning effigies of Abraham Lincoln, complete with tall stovepipe hat. Although I could barely see them; I was pulled so forcibly through the crowd, concentrating intently upon not tripping or stumbling, that I had little opportunity to look up. I was aware, mainly, only of trouser legs, some creased, some not, and the occasional hoopskirt, hem mud-splattered from the recent rains. It was a measure of how worked up the crowd was that few people stopped to gape down at me as Colonel Wood tugged me along.

Finally, we reached the hotel. Colonel Wood stomped up to the desk and was directed to a parlor off the lobby, which was crowded with men smoking, drinking, and arguing; I followed
him, and after being told to “Keep him here as long as possible; maybe I can charge extra,” practically shoved inside. There I tried to collect myself. My skirt was not torn, although the soles of my slippers were shredded. I looked about for a mirror, but of course there were none at my level. The only one was stationed above a fireplace, and there was nothing for me to climb upon that I might reach it. So I straightened my bonnet, patted my hair, trying to tuck stray strands back into my chignon, dragged a stool over to a velvet chair, took my seat, and waited.

The room was eerily still and dark; only one oil lamp was lit, so that the corners were hidden and long shadows smudged the carpet. But I could hear the agitation in the streets outside continue to build; shouts of “If South Carolina goes, we go!” and “Damn the Abolitionist Ape going to the White House!” reached my ears through the tightly drawn velvet curtains. These threats were punctuated by the tinkling of shattering glass and muffled thumps. With every sound I jumped, wanting to run to the window and look out at what must have been a tremendous scene. But I made myself stay perfectly still, collecting my composure before my visitor arrived. And as I sat there, so isolated yet also exposed, a curious conviction filled my breast. I felt that whatever happened this night, both in this room and outside on the streets, would be something I would never forget.

I sat for a very long time; I heard the determined tick of a mantel clock piling up whole minutes, and I knew that my audience would not be showing up. I slid off the chair and gathered up my cloak; I was about to go out into the hall and find the Colonel when I felt the building shudder, then heard a thunderous crash, a cascade of breaking glass. My heart was in my throat, my skin prickling with fear and excitement, and I ran toward the window to see what had happened. I was just about to climb, in a very unladylike fashion, atop a small table and pull back the heavy velvet
portieres when I heard the
click
of a door handle; whirling around, my heart once again threatening to burst through my bodice, I saw, through the gloom of the parlor, that it was only Colonel Wood.

“Oh! You startled me! What was that sound?”

“Someone threw a log through the lobby window. Turns out the hotel owner is a Yankee, a New Englander. Just like us.”

“Heavens!” Now I began to wonder how we’d get back to the boat through the angry crowd.

“Your appointment canceled. These damn Rebels—I don’t know how I’m going to get through to New Orleans by the twelfth. I guess I don’t think I can now.” The Colonel trudged over to the settee, which was illuminated by that one flickering oil lamp. I could see his face more clearly; in the shadows his eyes appeared hollow, his cheekbones sharp and threatening. He plopped down, removed his hat, and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Surely we can get out?” Hesitantly, I stepped toward him. For the first time ever, Colonel Wood appeared truly out of options. Beaten. He seemed too stunned to move, staring into the darkness, his bushy brows drawn together over his sharp nose.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to make it to Kentucky somehow; that’s still neutral territory. Then I’ll figure out what to do to salvage the rest of the season. Goddamn it, I wish I could get to New Orleans!”

“But the boat will make a trip upriver, won’t it? Whatever repairs you were going to get in New Orleans, they can wait?”

“ ‘Repairs’?” He turned to me, a quizzical expression in his eyes. He blinked twice, as if just now registering my presence. “Repairs? Oh—yes. It ain’t the repairs I’m talking about. It’s that appointment of yours.”

“It can’t matter, I’m sure whoever it is doesn’t care about me
at all, not with all this war talk.” I tried to soothe him, for some odd reason; I felt responsible for his agitation, as it was my appointment he was worried about. I found myself placing my hand upon his sleeve before I could even think what I was doing.

He looked at my hand, my small, manicured hand, my nails pink and shiny, my fingers small and delicate. He studied it, and then all of a sudden his face split into a terrifying, wolfish grin; I could see all his back teeth, even in the dim light.

“You don’t think he
cares
? You know how much I was going to
charge
for that one? Five hundred dollars, that’s what!”

“Five hundred dollars?” I was stunned—too stunned to remove my hand. “Whatever for? Who would want to pay five hundred dollars—it wasn’t Mr. Barnum, was it?” My heart quickened, and I looked eagerly into Colonel Wood’s amused eyes. They widened, then narrowed; their gaze swept me up and down again, lingering upon my bosom.

“Barnum? Ha! No, it ain’t no Barnum. I don’t know his damn name—an intermediary contacted me. But he wanted to pay to have you, my tiny cousin. Five hundred dollars, to be the first one to touch those sweet little breasts of yours, to take that sweet little c—”

“Don’t!” I shrieked, the word tearing itself from my throat. “Don’t say that! Don’t!” I put my hands over my ears, the searing, animalistic nature of my fear surprising me. Yet I knew it had always been there, always that quivering, fearful understanding of the true nature of man—and my utter helplessness in the face of it. I had buried it under layers of manners and deportment and denial, but I had carried it deep within me, from the first moment I had stepped foot on his riverboat.

“Listen to her shout! My, my, the famously composed Miss Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, yelling like a whore!” Colonel Wood laughed, amused by my revulsion. “You know, I didn’t understand,
at first, these men. Oh, I received many such requests, my dear, you can be sure of it. Men who wanted to touch you, feel you, have you. I thought they were queer, at first, figured they were sick. And maybe they are. But I held out for the highest bidder, and over time I started to understand their—curiosity, shall we call it? I mean, look at you.” With a leer, Colonel Wood leaned over me; before I could say a word he had picked me up, my legs dangling helplessly, and flung me down upon the sofa.

I lay there, frozen for a moment, unable to register anything but his hot, hungry breath in my face. Then terror claimed me, but I welcomed it. It surged through me like lightning, giving me strength, propelling my legs to kick out at him and my fists to strike him.

But he easily—oh, God, how easily!—trapped my legs with one knee, gathered both my wrists in one hand and held them over my head. His hot, whiskey-soured breath curdled my skin, moving lower and lower until I felt his mustache tickle my neck. The back of my spine began to quiver, turning to liquid; I felt as if I was going to be sick.

“You’re perfect, you know. Tiny, but perfectly formed—why, just look at the way you fill out that dress. I’ve always wanted to touch ’em, feel ’em, see what they looked like.” His breath came in rapid pants, like a dog’s, as he placed his huge, grasping hand against the curve of my bodice. He spread his fingers out; his little finger reached the top of my waist, the rest of his hand caressed, so delicately I thought I was imagining it, the swell of my breast. His breath grew ragged then, and I shut my eyes, my ears, and willed my mind to take me somewhere else. Desperately, I tried to summon up images from home, of sweetly babbling brooks and the comforting creak of Mama’s rocking chair and Papa’s workbench in the barn, where he loved to make things for me and Minnie, little toys and chairs and my stair steps. And then
I saw Minnie, her sweet, angelic face with the black curls drooping over her forehead, her innocent, deep blue eyes, and I began to sob and laugh, both. For I was suddenly glad, glad that it was I who had to endure this, instead of her. If this was the price I had to pay to protect her from men like Colonel Wood, from men like that nameless, faceless ogre in New Orleans who wanted to force themselves upon women like me, like Minnie—I began to imagine the size of him, what it would do to me, it would probably split me in two, and then I wasn’t glad. I was terrified, and I began to sob even harder as I felt the fragile cloth of my bodice tear beneath his ugly hands, the soft ripping sound it made a scolding, hushed betrayal.

And then I heard a moan. A soft moan, a bleat, like a little lamb. “Oh,” Wood said in quiet surprise, and he fell off me, his eyes first open, then closing with a flutter as weak as the cry he had just uttered.

I looked up. Sylvia was standing before me, my reticule in her hand, an expression of utter amazement on her suddenly beautiful face as she gazed down at Colonel Wood, who was grasping his head, eyes still closed. Then she looked at me.

“You forgot this,” she said in that deep rumble of hers that always tickled my eardrums. “You forgot your reticule, and I brought it to you. Also, they’re taking the boat. Some men.”

“Oh.” It was all I could say. I felt for my bodice, fingered the torn cloth, and sought to cover it up; my cheeks were hot and sticky with tears, and in that moment I felt as helpless as a baby. Sylvia reached down to scoop me up, and it would have been bliss to allow her to do so, to carry me back to the boat in her arms, and tuck me into my bed, and sing me songs.

But something inside my soul would not allow it; I struggled to hold on to that feeling, that hot little burst of feeling deep within a place that no Colonel Wood could ever touch. I coaxed
it, and finally it propelled me out of my stupor. I stepped over Colonel Wood, who still lay upon the carpet, clutching his head, beginning to curse so that I knew he would recover. I tidied myself up, buttoned my cloak, and patted my hair. Then I turned to Sylvia.

“They’re taking the boat?”

“Yes, they say we have to leave, we only have an hour to get our things. How will we get home, Vinnie?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Grab him and drag him back with us.” I didn’t even glance at Colonel Wood, but I did register Sylvia’s deep smile of satisfaction as she reached down and hauled him up by his arm, ignoring his curses and moans. It was the happiest I had seen her in a very long time; we looked at each other and almost burst into laughter before mutually deciding against it.

Then I led us out of the parlor, through the crowded hotel lobby, where, despite the excitement of the evening, people stopped to gape at the sight of the dwarf leading the giant, who was dragging a limp man as if he were made of straw. Then we pushed our way through the frenzied, war-crazed streets of Vicksburg, back toward the
Banjo
, where already members of the troupe were carrying trunks and bags and costumes and piling them up on the dock; Mr. Deacon’s swords, wrapped in velvet cloth, were piled next to a wooden crate full of the plate spinner’s china.

“Vinnie! Colonel Wood! What happened?” The troupe was upon us as we joined them on the dock; strange men with pistols were standing on the upper deck of the boat, staring at Sylvia and me with open mouths.

“Someone should look after him,” I said with a dismissive kick at Colonel Wood, who lay crumpled at my feet where Sylvia had deposited him. “What’s going on here?” I shouted at Billy over the
sizzle of firecrackers popping in the streets, the far-off boom of what sounded like a canon, and that spectral, high-pitched Rebel yell that even bounced off the water, so that it sounded as if we were surrounded on all sides by banshees. Although, from the strutting, military posturing of the men on the boat and in the streets—they all had red scarves tied around their hats and those who had rifles carried them stiff against their shoulders—I knew what was happening.

“They’re commandeering the boat,” Billy Birch said. “Taking it over to move troops and munitions. We have to find another way back home. There’s a steamer coming here any minute that’s going north, but they say it’s already full.”

“Where’s the ticket office?” I looked around; gaslights from the boat illuminated the dock, torches flickered a brilliant orange, as if we were at the very gates of Hell—but just past the boat, the Mississippi loomed blacker than the sky above us.

“Up around the corner, but I already been. That’s how I learned it was full. But, Vinnie, I bet you can persuade the agent to let us on. As good as you talk, as little as you are—if anyone can do it, you can.”

“All right, I’ll go. Come with me, Sylvia.” And I turned on my heel and began to walk back up the dock, toward the wild streets, where men were drinking openly, singing a new song, one I’d never heard before but it began,
“Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton …”
It was very catchy, I decided, humming a bit of it.