The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (16 page)

I was without fear at that moment. I had been saved from Colonel Wood; I had been given a second chance. I detested how physically helpless I had been in his presence; the memory of how I had simply closed my eyes and surrendered myself to fate made my mouth taste sour. I would not be so helpless again, I vowed, not even on this unprecedented night. People needed me. I had a duty to them—and to myself.

But I did pause to tug at Sylvia’s skirt. “Thank you,” I said as she looked down at me. She nodded, unable to speak. And that’s all I ever said to her, and she to me, about what had happened that night. Remarkably, soon it faded into just another thread of the tapestry of my life upon the river, just another story remembered. But this one, I told to only one person. And he never repeated it.

It will come as no surprise to the Reader—as it came as no surprise to me—that I succeeded in getting all of us out of Vicksburg. Once at the ticket office, I climbed upon a chair and spoke to the agent face-to-face; I told him of our dilemma, of our desire to get back to our homes, to our families who had been parted from us for so long. I informed him of the many dignitaries—including Jefferson Davis, at that time only a senator from Mississippi—whom I had met in my personal appearances. And just for good measure, I invited him to plant a kiss upon my cheek, the one and only time I ever did so to a strange man, until I met President Lincoln.

But that was to come much, much later, when my life was changed so that had I not still had my beloved stair steps, made by my father’s own hand, the tread worn smooth in the middle, I never would have recognized it. For the present I was still the one, the only Dwarf Girl This Side of the Alleghenies, pleading for passage home.

Finally the ticket agent relented, and, with tickets in hand, Sylvia and I went back to the dock, where we spent the night beneath the stars and burning torches, the gunshots and firecrackers only diminishing once the sun came up. The steamer arrived early the next morning, and soon we all—including Colonel Wood, whom I could not simply leave behind, no matter how tempting the thought—were on our way to Louisville. There we disbanded with tearful goodbyes.

Except for Colonel Wood; he slunk off in the confusion of
sorting out our baggage, crying out, “You all still have contracts with me! This ain’t no act of God—it’s an act of war, and I’m tacking that time onto your contracts!”

“Let ’im try,” Billy Birch muttered. “Let ’im try to find me. I’m enlisting first chance I get—do you think that bastard will?” We all laughed at the notion.

Sylvia and I journeyed together as far as Boston. From there, she took one train north, and I another south. When we disembarked from the train, snow was beginning to fall; big, gentle flakes, welcoming me back home.

Sylvia bent to hug me tearfully; she actually fell upon her knees, even though I knew how much that must have hurt her. I asked her what she was going to do.

“I don’t know,” she said as tears fell, slowly as ever, upon her mammoth cheeks. For once she did not notice the strange looks and whispers we attracted. Her sorrow and uncertainty were too apparent, even though I knew she was relieved to be headed home. “I thought my mother might tell me in a dream, but I haven’t slept well these last few nights.”

“Who has?” I smiled, patting her on the back. Then a thought occurred to me; I didn’t know why I hadn’t figured it out sooner. “Sylvia!” I exclaimed, so excitedly that she nearly knocked me over in her surprise. “That’s it—I know what you can do and still stay at home in Wilton! You talk so often of seeing your mother in dreams. Why don’t you become a spiritualist? You’re so sympathetic, I know you’ll help any number of people who have lost dear ones.”

“A spiritualist? I don’t know, Vinnie.…”

“Sylvia, you’re lonely. This would be good for you, and you’d never have to leave home again. Why, people will come to see you from everywhere! And I promise I’ll help, in any way I can. I’ll write to all my friends and tell everyone I meet.” Little did either
of us realize how many, many people I would meet in the coming years—and how happy I would be to learn that Sylvia was able to make a decent living because of them, because of me.

The stationmaster called out that the train to Maine was about to leave.

“Vinnie, you’ve helped me so much already. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had. Write me, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Sylvia got up, tears still rolling down those granite cheekbones, but before she walked away, I called out to her.

“Wait! Sylvia, will you do—will you do one thing for me?”

“Anything, Vinnie. Anything you want.”

“Will you—will you pick me up and hold me high? I always wanted to see the world the way you see it. I want to see how different your view is from mine.”

Sylvia smiled, then picked me up carefully, holding me in her arms so that my feet did not dangle. She lifted me up so that my face was level with hers. And then we turned to look at the world.

I could see roads leading away from the station, snow-blanketed, peaceful ribbons of roads, leading to places unknown. I could see the tops of buildings, the rooflines, the chimneys. I could see over people’s heads, so that I was looking down upon them; how insignificant they all looked, how ordinary! The tops of hats were flat and round; the tops of bonnets were thin and worn, catching snowflakes in the creases.

I could see all the way to the end of the train platforms, my view unobstructed by legs and skirts and trunks and poles. From here, the distance between train and platform appeared small and manageable—not the wide, terrifying chasm that I experienced, fearful of missing the platform altogether and rolling onto the track, where I could be crushed.

Yet for all I could see, nothing was as grand as how I’d imagined it. Nothing was as big as my dreams.

“You can put me down now,” I told Sylvia, whose blue eyes were full of tears, huge tears—tears as big as her heart. She did, and then she grabbed her two valises, which looked like toys in her hands. I waved as she lumbered along the narrow wooden platform. I knew I would never forget her.

Turning, I made my way to my own platform, after paying a porter to carry my trunk and stand by to lift me onto the train. I was back home by the next morning—dreaming my big dreams in the comfort of my own dear feather bed, my sister’s happy, contented face nestled into my shoulder, her arms tight around me, binding me to her. She whispered that I was never to leave her again.

But I knew, even before I drifted off to sleep, the grime of travel still upon me like a second skin, that I would.

INTERMISSION
 

From
Godey’s Lady’s Book
, September 1860—Sara J. Hale

This year the
last Thursday in November
falls on the 29th. If all the States and Territories hold their Thanksgiving on that day, there will be a complete moral and social reunion of the
people
of America in 1860. Would not this be a good omen for the perpetual political union of the States? May God grant us not only the omen, but the fulfillment is our dearest wish!

From
Harper’s Weekly
, January 19, 1861

S
ECESSION OF
M
ISSISSIPPI
, F
LORIDA, AND
A
LABAMA

The Mississippi State Convention on 8th adopted an ordinance providing for immediate secession from the Union. Reports from Jackson, the capital of Mississippi, confirm this news. On 10th, Florida seceded by 62 to 7. On 11th, Alabama seceded by 61 to 39.

[ FIVE ]
 
Another Brief Interlude of Music
and Tender Reunion

V
INNIE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING
?”

“Nothing!” I whisked the paper off my desk and tucked it inside my apron pocket, placing the pen in the ink bottle so forcibly the ink splattered. Then I massaged my hand; no pen was small or light enough for me to use easily, and my fingers and palm often ached when I wrote long letters. Turning to greet my sister, I smiled broadly. “Just writing to an old friend! What do you want, Pumpkin?”

“Mama said to come down for dinner,” Minnie said with a scolding frown; I couldn’t help but smile at her. How serious she had grown in my absence! She was now twelve, almost a young woman, although her body had not filled out as much as mine; she still looked quite childish, even in long skirts, and she came up to only my chin. This impression was not helped by the fact that she continued to play with dolls. But her manner was much
more serious, even as her deep brown eyes retained their incongruous twinkle. Her thick black brows were often drawn over her nose in a suspicious frown. Papa joked that Minnie was the family inquisitor, judge and jury all wrapped up into one—although her distrust reminded me more of a child’s resistance to change.

“Are you sure that was what you were doing?” she asked, folding her arms suspiciously across her flat chest; I decided I ought to introduce her to ruffled corset covers. Carlotta had taught me that trick.

“Absolutely—just writing an old friend!” I slid off the cushions of the chair, pushed it back toward the writing desk, and followed Minnie out of our room.

“Then I don’t know why you’d try to hide the letter, Vinnie. Why would you?”

“Why, I didn’t! Would you like to read it, if you don’t trust me?” I tucked my hand inside my apron, as if to show it to her.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that!” Her eyes grew big with remorse as her face paled. “Forgive me, Vinnie! I’m sorry! I do trust you, more than anyone in the world!” And her little rosebud lips trembled as she fought back tears.

I put my arm about her as we made our way down the narrow back stairs—more shallowly spaced than the front stairs, and so the ones that Minnie and I used the most—and into the kitchen. My dear, simple little sister! Every mood so fleeting yet so obvious; there was no mystery to Minnie, none at all. She loved whom she knew, distrusted everyone else, and shared her emotions, her thoughts, as freely as they occurred to her. I remembered how I had promised myself I would come for her and take her with me on my adventures; I knew, now, what a selfish notion that had been. Minnie must not leave home and experience the things I had; this was where she belonged, safe and loved and hidden from people like Colonel Wood. I could not reclaim my own innocence.
And so she must keep hers, remaining unspoiled for the both of us.

“What are you sorry about, my chick?” Mama was placing platters of stewed meat, covered in bubbling gravy and topped with airy dumplings, upon the linen tablecloth; my stomach growled in anticipation. I had been home for nearly a year, yet I had not tired of Mama’s delicious cooking.

It was December of 1861, and the War that had started so vividly and personally for me was being fought in bloody earnest all across the South. I had spent so much time there, seeing it only as a place where simple people were eager to be entertained, just like their brethren up north, that I had a difficult time thinking of them as the enemy.

But two of my brothers were now in Yankee blue, so I could not be neutral. Benjamin had been the first to enlist, joining up with the Massachusetts Volunteer Militia even before I came home. I missed his presence keenly; I still felt pain at the way we had parted. I needed to know that he was not ashamed of me.