The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin
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,
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.
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 journe
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.