In Which Our Heroine Nearly Comes to Ruin
INTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST FALL,” MR. LONGFELLOW wrote, and thus far, I fear I have done an excellent job recounting the rain that fell upon my life on the river. It is time to remember something another great man once said.
“Every crowd has a silver lining,” Mr. Barnum told me once as I recounted to him some woe or another. I laughed, as he intended, but have never forgotten it. Now I shall attempt to recount the silver linings among the clouds—as well as the crowds.
Life on the Mississippi: How romantic it sounds, still, especially to those familiar with the novels of Mr. Twain! Long before anyone had ever heard of their adventures, I passed by Cairo, Illinois, where Huck and Jim were bound; I saw the sleepy streets of Hannibal, Missouri, where Tom Sawyer whitewashed his fence; I passed scores of mysterious islands, any one of which could have been Injun Joe’s hideout.
The scenery truly was thrilling, especially to one reared in the snug, protective hills of New England. The wild islands appearing, as if conjured, in the middle of the widest parts of the river. The high, rocky bluffs in Minnesota, just as Colonel Wood had described, where I saw my first bald eagle, that soaring symbol of our Grand Republic! The bustling docks of St. Louis, rows of boats and barges lined up, like floating dominoes, with exotic names such as La Belle du Jour and El Caballo del Mar. I was introduced to my first Negro there, a man with skin so dark his eyes popped blinding white; he was as fascinated by me as I was by him, so we shook hands cordially and parted as friends. Then New Orleans, where accents flew as thick and flavorful as the gumbo I tasted for the first time, a mixture of sharp, staccato French and lazy, drawling southern accents, combined with the occasional nasal twang of a Yankee tradesman.
I was presented with a slave once, in New Orleans! A beautiful girl, so graceful and delicate. When I first saw her, accompanying one of her young charges to the show, I was unable to take my eyes off her. Her owner—a smooth southern gentleman, well fed, obviously satisfied with his status as master—noticed and then sent her back aboard the Banjo that night as a gift to me. Naturally I could not accept this “gift,” but it took me several days to convince the girl to go back to her master.
I had felt morally obligated to refuse her, as no human being should ever be given as chattel! It was the great debate of our time, this decision as to whether or not new states should be allowed in as free or slave-holding, and of course, as a New Englander, I was firmly on the side of the abolitionists like Mr. Garrison and Mrs. Stowe. Yet after the girl left, reluctantly, I felt a surprising wrench; it only then occurred to me that the moral thing would have been to accept her and take her back north, where I could set her free. Even as I realized this, however, I remembered that I was almost as indentured as she; Colonel Wood would not have allowed it. She would have been one more mouth to feed, for obviously a slave could not perform and earn her keep, as the rest of us did.
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.
I joined in the congratulations without the slightest twinge of jealousy, and promised to contribute a cotton nightgown.
GALENA WAS A PRETTY LITTLE RIVER TOWN, LIKE ALL THE others—hilly, with a main thoroughfare lined with shops. I followed Colonel Wood through the bustling street to a handsome building called the DeSoto House; I had never stepped foot in a hotel before and was excited at the prospect. I had no inkling that in the years to come, I would stay in the finest of them all, with the most luxurious accommodations. I would even return to this hotel, occupying the largest suite!
But at the time, I managed not to betray my astonishment at the elegance of this establishment; indeed, I sailed through the door, clad in my most respectable gown, not one I would ever wear onstage but rather one of my church dresses, with matching bonnet, from home. It was a modest blue satin, with a high collar and black-velvet scallops along the hem and sleeves. With my head held high, I managed to give the appearance that I was quite at home in the ornate lobby, wallpapered and carpeted to a fault. Colonel Wood, however, could not maintain his composure. He stopped and gaped, forgetting to remove his hat. He looked cheap and gaudy, totally out of place, and I stared at him through new eyes, secure in my matchless deportment and bearing. Away from the boat, in such genteel surroundings, the unease he stirred in me melted away. He looked exactly what he was—a posturing, insignificant little man. And I felt exactly what I was—an elegant gentlewoman with superior breeding and appearance. A much larger personality, in every way.
Yet as soon as we were led to a little side parlor, where the Colonel left me with an admonition to “Remember, no hoity-toity airs—I’m not paying you to disappoint the customers,” that unease crept back. Nervously I paced around, trying to admire the ornately carved woodwork and plush carpeting. The furniture was all large and overstuffed, and I remembered, with a pang of despair, that my stair steps were back on the boat. Locating a footstool, I dragged it over to a chair so that I might be able to climb onto it with some dignity.
Anxious and unsettled, my composure having deserted me, I could not help but recall what Mrs. Billy Birch and Carlotta each had said to me before I left the boat.
Mrs. Billy had tucked a large stone in my hand. “Put this in your reticule,” she whispered, as Colonel Wood was hovering nearby. “Don’t be afraid to swing it at that Mr. Grant’s head if you need to!” I had accepted the unusual gift with gratitude, and tucked it into my reticule, thankful for its sudden heft.
Carlotta had summoned me to her room earlier. I did not usually visit her here; when we females gathered for our nightly gossip, it was generally in Mrs. Billy Birch’s room, which was neat and homey, with a spirit lamp for making tea.
Carlotta’s room, by contrast, was slovenly, her stockings and petticoats draped over every surface, all in need of repair or washing. I tried not to notice them; obviously she wasn’t bothered by the chaos, as she had no blush or apology as she handed me a small envelope. Opening it, I saw that it contained a grayish powdery substance.
“Prevention powders,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re so little, Vinnie, I don’t know what to tell you to do so that it don’t hurt. But you oughtn’t to be havin’ babies, so use these. Mix ’em with water and then douse yourself with them down there.” And she pointed to her—I still blush to recall—womanly parts.
“ ‘It’? What do you mean ‘it’? What might hurt?”
“It. Screwin’. I don’t know what the Colonel thinks these men are going to want to do to you in private, and God knows I hope it ain’t what I’m thinkin’, but just in case. You don’t want to have a baby, do you?”
“I—I—I have no earthly idea what to say!” And I didn’t; I sat down upon the floor, my legs suddenly giving out, and I stared up at the girl who, I saw, thought she was only being kind.
“I know your ma probably never told you these things. My own ma didn’t. But you’re such a little thing, and I feel like someone ought. You do know what screwin’ is, don’t you?” She frowned in concern, her crow’s-feet crinkling up; against her sallow skin, bare of the cheap paint she used onstage, her yellow hair appeared even more artificial.
“I, well, yes, I believe so. Copulating, you mean?”
“Listen to you, Vinnie!” She grinned, her pale blue eyes round with admiration. “Always coming up with such fancy words—I plum forget you were a schoolmarm sometimes, and then you go and remind me. Copulating—I swear!” And she repeated it again, as if learning a new word in a new language.
“But why would you give me this?” I held out the envelope, away from my person, as if it might taint me by proximity. I struggled to understand what she was implying.
“So you don’t have a baby.” She repeated herself patiently, as if I were a child. “Don’t you understand? Screwin’ is how babies get made.”
“I understand that, Carlotta, but what I don’t quite see is why I would have need for this kind of—of prevention?”
“Oh, Vinnie! You’re such a smart little thing that I forget you don’t know much of the world! Why do you think men want to meet you alone? There’s only one reason for that, although I have to say it’s not right, not for someone your size, but Lord, I’ve learned it takes all kinds in this world. You have no idea some of the things these river men want—animals, sisters, even other men—”
“Stop!” I was sickened, horrified, by her meaning. Scrambling up from the floor, I felt my face burn, and I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Stop—I don’t want to hear this! I have no intention of engaging in—in—what it was you just said. Even Colonel Wood would not—these are respectable people, he said! There is no need for this!” And I thrust the envelope into her hands.
“But, Vinnie, I’m just looking out for you—you have to be prepared!”
“No, I thank you, but—no. There is no need, no need at all!” I hurried out of Carlotta’s room, still unable to look her in the face. How did she know of these things? I felt sorry for her, for her life; I felt even sorrier for her fiancé, who must not have any idea of her past. I knew she was only trying to be kind, but I could not help but feel sickened and insulted, all the same.
I refused even to consider the scenario she had so easily conjured up; still, I felt grateful, as I waited nervously in the parlor for Mr. Grant, that Mrs. Billy Birch’s rock was securely in my reticule, which was attached to my wrist.
There was a knock on the parlor door; my stomach plummeted to my feet, and I clasped my reticule to my breast. “C-come in,” I barely managed to say, through cold, trembling lips.
“Miss Bump?” A short, stocky man with a beard opened the door, hat in hand. His gaze swept the room at his own height; it took him a moment to remember to look down. Finally, he saw me; his eyes widened, and his face creased into a slow grin. “Oh, goodness! Just a moment—” He ducked his head back outside the door, and I heard him say, “Julia! Children! She’s in here!”
At the mention of a female name, my entire body, which I had been holding stiff as a corpse, perhaps in anticipation of my imminent doom, relaxed. I reached up to place my reticule upon an end table and turned to receive my visitors.
Mr. Grant ushered in his family: his wife and four children, the youngest a little boy still in skirts, carried by Mrs. Grant. The children shyly hung back while their parents approached me, somewhat timidly, as if I might suddenly attack them. They were, I was astonished to realize, almost as frightened of me as I had been of them! This realization made me relax even further; I stepped forward and held my hand out to Mr. Grant, hoping to put him at ease.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Bump.”
“Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Bump. I am Mr. Grant. This is my wife, Mrs. Grant, and our children. Freddie, Buck, Nellie, and little Jesse.”
Mr. Grant bowed stiffly, while Mrs. Grant, a plain woman with small, crossed eyes, shook my hand very timidly and shifted the child in her arms.
“Please, let us sit,” I said, and holding my skirts, I stepped upon the stool and climbed, as gracefully as possible, upon the chair I had chosen.
The children could not prevent themselves from giggling at my exertions; I pretended not to notice, and arranged myself and my skirts in my chair, my legs dangling above the stool.
“I thank you much for agreeing to meet us here,” Mr. Grant said pleasantly. “But the children did so want to see you, after we saw your photograph in the paper, and I couldn’t take them on a boat, you see—you understand.”
“Indeed,” I said coolly, as if there were no reason to take offense. Then I fell silent, as I could not begin to think what to say. I did not know them, after all. And I was not onstage, I could not break out into song. I had never been bashful in my life, but then nothing had ever prepared me for this; I had a wild impulse to shout that they were all “simply dreadful” and run out of the room. Only the thought of Colonel Wood, who must be hovering outside the door, prevented me from doing so.
“How tall is she, Papa?” one of the boys asked, and while his parents exchanged anxious looks, I was happy to hear his question. At least I could answer that.
“Thirty-two inches, which is how many feet, young man?” I could not help it; my teacher’s training came to the fore, and I looked at him sternly—although I had to smile when I saw his face pale and his eyes bulge.
“I—I—I don’t know?” He looked desperately at his father, who had an amused glint in his dark eyes.
“Two feet, eight inches,” I replied briskly. “You look old enough to know your mathematics!”
“For sure, for sure, son Frederick is lax with his schoolwork,” Mr. Grant chortled, slapping his knee. “Well done, Miss Bump! That you should know such a thing yourself!”
I swallowed my anger, continuing to smile politely. “Naturally I know such a thing, as I was a schoolteacher before coming west.”
“A schoolteacher!” Mrs. Grant almost dropped her child from her knee. “How can that be?”
“I was an excellent scholar and was asked to take over a classroom.”
“Extraordinary! Can you imagine your teacher being smaller than you, Nellie?” Mr. Grant addressed his daughter, for whom he obviously had a great fondness; he had sat with his arm about her shoulders from the moment they took their seats. She was a pretty thing, with long blond curls.
“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; abruptly 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, much 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.
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.
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.