The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  “No, Papa! I can’t! You’re really old enough to be a schoolteacher? How old are you?”

  “Nellie, that’s not polite,” her mother scolded, and I exchanged a knowing look with her.

  “Tell us more about yourself, Miss Bump, for that is why we wanted to meet you, after all.” Mr. Grant leaned back and removed a cigar from his pocket; I wrinkled my nose, for I found the smell of cigars distasteful—at home, Papa had smoked a pipe, which I much preferred—but I did not say anything. Instead, I gave a quick recitation of my life thus far; soon we were discussing the weather, the town of Galena, which was as new to the Grants as it was to me. They had recently moved there from St. Louis, I discovered, so that Mr. Grant could take over management of his father’s store.

  Politics, naturally, were discussed. The presidential election of 1860 was only a few months away.

  “I don’t really think too much of politics,” Mr. Grant admitted, his cigar spattering ash upon his trousers, which he did not notice, although Mrs. Grant did. “But I suppose I have to vote Republican. I can’t abide slavery, and I guess that Lincoln’s the best man to put an end to it, although at what cost, I don’t know.”

  “Do you think there will be war?” I asked, just to be polite; the increasingly fierce tensions between the North and South did not trouble me and seemed not to affect our troupe as, of course, we moved freely up and down the Mississippi, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line without thought. Even so, I had noticed that more and more, lately, Billy Birch and his minstrels discussed the situation at mealtimes; they were, after all, men.

  “If there is war, will you go, like you did before, Papa?” the oldest son said, scratching his nose.

  “We won’t talk of this now,” his mother said hastily, before Mr. Grant could answer.

  “Were you in the military?” I asked him.

  “Yes, but that was long ago,” he replied evasively, stroking his beard. “Don’t know that anyone would want me back, anyway. Well, if this fellow Lincoln is elected, there very well may be a war. I don’t think the South will stand for him.”

  “Well, then I hope he won’t win!” And with this mutually happy thought, we continued to converse pleasantly. The boys fidgeted and poked at each other but with obvious good nature; Mrs. Grant kept the babe upon her knee the entire time, jostling him gently, while Mr. Grant sat with his arm about his daughter’s shoulders. In short, I felt it was a most pleasant afternoon spent with a family similar to my own. My earlier fears and unease were forgotten.

  Finally conversation lagged, and we all rose and walked toward the door, the children giggling and asking if they could stand next to me and measure my height, which I agreed to without hesitation. Mrs. Grant once again expressed her surprise that I had ever been a schoolmarm. I imagined my youthful appearance made it very difficult for her to fully comprehend it.

  “It’s been such a pleasure meeting you all,” I said, extending my hand graciously and feeling it clasped with warmth and affection. “I hope we see one another again soon.”

  “As do we,” Mr. Grant said with a smile that crinkled his eyes. And as the Grants left the room, I heard Mrs. Grant remark to her husband, “What a dear little lady! Her manners could not have been nicer.”

  I smiled, refreshed from this interlude away from the boat, and collected my cloak and reticule. As I walked toward the lobby, where Colonel Wood was saying goodbye to the Grants, they all looked my way, waving; I waved back. They really were very lovely people, such a pleasant family, obviously of good breeding; I did hope we would meet again soon, perhaps for a picnic, or dinner, or—

  Mr. Grant reached into his breast pocket and took out a fistful of bills; he handed them to Colonel Wood, who bowed and pocketed the money quickly. The Grants left, and Colonel Wood turned toward me, grinning in almost a friendly way.

  “Five dollars! Five dollars, for an hour! What suckers they are! C’mon, we have a show to get back to. But whatever you did in there to charm those folks, Miss Hoity-Toity, remember to do it again. I’m going to put the word out far and wide. Imagine, five dollars! I bet I can charge twice that in a place like St. Louis or New Orleans!”

  Colonel Wood held the door open for me, for only the second time in our acquaintance. We found ourselves on the bustling sidewalk of Galena; I saw the Grant family turn into one of the shops, Mr. Grant already reaching into his breast pocket, ready to purchase some new distraction for his family.

  As he had just done, back in the DeSoto House.

  WAR. DESPITE MY STUDIED INDIFFERENCE TO ITS CAUSES, IT appeared it was coming anyway. Abraham Lincoln was elected President in November of 1860, and immediately secession meetings popped up all over the Deep South—which was where we happened to be, as we were every winter.

  “Colonel, I think we ought to think about heading north,” Billy Birch announced early one December morning at breakfast. The bright southern light, reflected from the water, shone through one of the narrow windows and illuminated Billy’s head, bald as a polished billiard ball (save for the permanent black stain of burnt cork behind his ears). He wore a hat while performing, but other than that was completely unashamed of his naked pate.

  “North? During the winter? You know we can’t do that—the river might ice over, and besides, what the hell for?” Colonel Wood was hunched over his plate, his graying curls, clumped with traces of blackening, dangling over his greasy eggs. The sight of him eating in the morning was one more reason why I found it difficult to consume the first meal of the day. (The limp toast and runny eggs, fried not in butter but in rancid bacon grease, were another.)

  “Haven’t you been reading the papers? Here—look at the headline this morning.” Billy thrust a copy of the Vicksburg, Mississippi, Daily Citizen across the table. “Secession Meeting TONIGHT! Cowardly Unionists Urged to Leave Town, Declares Mayor. ALL HAIL THE GLORIOUS CAUSE!!!”

  “What’s that got to do with us? The box office could be better, I admit, but it’ll pick up this evening; not everyone’s going to those goddamned Secessionist meetings, you know. It’s just a few rabble-rousers.” Colonel Wood reached for his coffee cup and drank greedily, his mustache dipping into the cup.

  “Colonel, I think you’re wrong,” Mr. Deacon, the sword swallower, piped up. He was such a mild man; it was unusual for him to speak at the table. “Ever since the election, things have felt different down here. I been performing for years, and I ain’t never seen anything like it. These folks are angry, as angry as a hen going after a fox. I don’t think they’re in the mood for any entertainment.”

  “And none of us is a southerner,” Mrs. Billy Birch said. “What if there is war and we’re stuck down here? What will happen to us?”

  “I’m not going to be a slave!” Carlotta whimpered. She and her fiancé were still engaged; he was trying to put away some money before their wedding and, to that end, had decided to stay in St. Louis, working at the docks.

  “You silly ass, you’re not going to be any slave! You have yellow hair, I think—at least it used to be, probably all gray by now underneath that dye.” Colonel Wood laughed rudely.

  “My great-gran was a Creole girl, they say. Which means I have some nigger blood in me, and I’m not going to be no slave!” Carlotta started to cry.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up. Let a man have his breakfast in peace.” Colonel Wood threw a piece of toast at the sobbing girl.

  “Colonel, please! She’s frightened, poor thing.” I couldn’t help it; I scolded him in front of everyone even though I knew he detested it. But lately he had let pass a number of my spirited remarks, remarks that he would have mocked me for a year previous.

  I slid off my chair and went to comfort Carlotta; ever since she had tried to “help” me with her preventative powders, I had felt a kinship with her. I sensed she needed a good Christian influence; I think she sensed I needed a woman of the world to watch out for me. We probably were both correct.

  Colonel Wood glared at me but did not reply; abrupt
ly he rose and shoved his chair back toward the table. “We’re not running away from rumors about something that’s not going to happen. We have engagements—I have fifty dollars’ worth of private audiences for Vinnie in the next week alone, including one tonight, so obviously not everyone is going to the Secesh meeting. And then the boat needs some repairs in New Orleans, where we’re heading next. You all have contracts, you just remember that. I don’t want to see anyone sneaking out on me—you think Secessionists are angry? Just you see me trying to collect on a broken contract!” And with one last swig of his coffee, he was gone.

  We all stared at one another. Billy and the other minstrels, who were our de facto leaders—the performers with the most legitimate experience—scratched their chins and consulted over the newspaper. Mrs. Billy shook her head and poured Carlotta another cup of coffee, her mothering instincts, never far from the surface, coming out in full force.

  Sylvia didn’t say a word. She seemed sadder than ever, these days. She claimed she had dreams of her dead mother, dreams in which she was told to leave the boat and go back home. So she increasingly longed for Maine yet seemed unable to do anything to get there. It was as if she was paralyzed by her longing; her already agonizing lethargy of movement increased. At times, I thought she was almost asleep onstage, her eyes barely open, as she swayed upon her feet.

  The only time she ever seemed motivated to action was if she thought Colonel Wood was being particularly harsh to me. But Colonel Wood lately seemed mollified by the money I was bringing in, the numerous private engagements that continued to line up. He had stopped threatening to kick me, although he did still act strangely toward me, particularly late at night when he had already emptied half a whiskey bottle. The strangeness was in his gaze, more and more; I felt its hot glare burn over my skin as he looked me up and down, as if he was attempting to see me in a different way—a predatory way. At times, I felt almost naked in his presence. It was in the manner with which he studied every inch of my form, as if he was trying to uncover a great secret with only his eyes.

  This was when I was most afraid. But Sylvia was my ever-present bodyguard, although she wasn’t allowed to accompany me to my private audiences. Those were in hotels, however, that were always filled with people—genteel people, people who could afford luxuries. With only a few exceptions, these audiences were reminiscent of my meeting with the Grants. They consisted mainly of curious families of good breeding who simply didn’t want to step foot on a showboat. More and more, my photograph, alone, appeared in the newspaper ahead of our engagements; I saved these notices whenever possible, amassing an impressive collection. I had an idea of what I would do with these once my contract was up.

  There had been a few times, however, more recently, when I met with lone gentlemen. I made sure to keep the door open then, my reticule—with that heavy stone in it—clutched in my hand. These meetings had been uncomfortable, for conversation was difficult. These men—great men, some of them men I would hear about later, such as Stephen Douglas of Illinois, Jefferson Davis of Mississippi—were somehow rendered mute by my presence, content to simply stare—or touch. As always, it seemed impossible to persuade these men that I was not a child in women’s clothing, eager to be lifted and carried and petted. Usually the gentleman would turn beet-red at my admonishment and apologize profusely—after he had kissed me, his beard and mustache rough against my cheek, so overly fragrant with toilet water that my eyes burned. On such occasions, I was embarrassed for us both.

  Once or twice, however, I had noticed a different attitude accompanied by a different look—a look very like the one Colonel Wood sometimes gave me. That voracious, curious look that I had to shut my eyes against, even as I took comfort in the hefty weight of Mrs. Billy Birch’s rock in my reticule.

  “Vinnie, we think you ought to talk to the Colonel,” Billy Birch declared, folding the newspaper and interrupting my reverie. Carlotta was still sobbing some nonsense about being forced to work in a cotton field; I had been patting her arm absently. The other minstrels, backing Billy up as they did onstage, nodded in unison.

  “What? Me? Talk to the Colonel?” I went back to my seat, for it was there, upon my special cushion, that I was nearer the height of my companions. And I felt, keenly, the need to be on equal footing at this moment.

  “Yes, you. Face it—you’re the biggest star on this boat. You’re the one who brings in the most money. And that’s the only thing the Colonel respects.”

  “The Colonel does not respect me, I assure you. He tolerates me. But he wouldn’t listen to me, Billy, no more than he’ll listen to anything but the clink of coins in his pocket.”

  “Fair enough, but still. You’re the best chance we have. We’re in danger here, all of us. We’re a northern troupe on a northern boat. Why, any moment now someone’s going to commandeer this thing if they’re thinking about war at all, and where will we be left? Stuck down here, and even the trains are having a hard time getting out.”

  “They are?” I felt a paralyzing chill in my chest, as if I’d swallowed a block of ice. Why had I no idea the situation was so bad? While once I would have been abreast of the latest political news, more and more, I had to admit, I had been focused only on my career. I scanned the papers not for mentions of the political situation but for mentions of my own name. Just when had I become so self-absorbed? It was a form of self-preservation, I realized now; I had resolved that I could survive Colonel Wood’s cruelty if my heart, my mind, had shrunk to a size designed to absorb my own troubles only.

  “Yes, they are. Very hard. If any of us tries to leave the boat on our own, that old devil will be after us with bloodhounds, worse than any overseer. We have to make him understand and get us out himself. That’s the only way; we have to stay together—and you’re the only one he might listen to.”

  I was silent, thinking. My contract was up in April. I hadn’t been home in all this time, and I could scarcely wait until then to see Mama and Papa, and especially Minnie. Her letters arrived as regularly as letters could on the river; they were tear-stained, hardly legible, usually one long, punctuation-free plea: “Please come home, Sister, Sister, come home I miss you what do you look like now are you still as small as me please come home.” I did not want to be stuck here in the South if war did come. I so longed to see my family, to tell them of my adventures, to assure us all that it had been worthwhile to leave.

  I also did not want to be away from the reach of Mr. Barnum, who was most definitely in New York, still running his American Museum.

  “All right,” I agreed, sipping my cold, weak coffee. “I’ll try to talk to him, although I warn you I don’t know how much influence I’ll have. But I’ll do my best to convince him.”

  “Hurray for Vinnie!” Billy Birch cried out, throwing his knife into the air. Mr. Deacon caught it with an expert flourish and swallowed it neatly, his hand disappearing into his mouth. His throat moved, as if he were truly swallowing it, then he showed us both hands, which were empty. He gulped and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then made as if to go; with a sly grin, he turned back to us and produced the knife, which he had neatly hidden up his sleeve.

  We all applauded, everyone happy, everyone united. Despite the threat of war, at that moment it felt as if we would remain untouched, in a protective bubble, just a happy little band of performers.

  Little did we know that this was the last time we would laugh together like this.

  “C’MON, VINNIE, MOVE YOUR ASS. AT LEAST THIS ONE DIDN’T cancel.”

  I hurriedly grabbed my cloak, leaving Sylvia in our room to read by the sputtering oil lamp. Then I followed Colonel Wood down the hall, in such a hurry that it wasn’t until we were off the boat that I remembered I had quite forgotten my reticule.

  “Oh, wait!” I called after him, turning to go back and get it.

  “Move your ass, I said—we’re late!” Without breaking his stride, Colonel Wood grabbed my arm; he practically dragged me through the raucous crowd, mu
ch louder, much angrier, than any I had ever seen.

  “But I forgot my reticule!”

  “Such a goddamned lady. ‘I forgot my reticule!’ ” He mimicked me cruelly, while still dragging me so that my slippers skimmed the ground; my arm felt wrenched from its socket. “We’re late, and I’m not going to lose a penny of this because you forgot your damn reticule. This has been one hell of a day.”

  For it turned out Billy Birch was correct: Nobody cared a whit about coming aboard our boat this day. The box office was scarce; the few people in the audience hardly paid any attention to the stage at all, so we did only one show. The rest of the day we stood along the deck, me on my steps so that I could see over the railing, watching the excitement on the shore. People running to and fro, pamphlets being handed out, guns firing up in the air, high-pitched yells that would later become the famous Rebel cry of the Confederacy. Strange flags, flags I’d never seen before, were flying everywhere; they were blue, with a white star in the middle. “Secesh flags,” said Billy Birch miserably. “They’re going to secede, they’re all going to secede, just you wait.”

  “How?” I didn’t completely understand. “How can they do that?”

  “They just can. States’ rights and all. But Lincoln won’t let ’em, he vowed to preserve the Union, and so there’ll be bloody hell to pay.”

  “ ‘Hell to pay’! Imagine, fighting right here in our own country! How horrid!” Yet my pulse raced at all the history I was witnessing. If the South was going to secede and take that first step toward war, how thrilling it was to be there when it happened! I couldn’t wait to tell my family all about it when I got home.

  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.