OUR DAUGHTER DIED IN SEPTEMBER 1866. MR. BARNUM put out the press release: “The Infant Daughter of General and Mrs. Tom Thumb Dead of Brain Inflammation.” Even in death, she remained nameless.
I killed her; I demanded her death. But I did not mourn her; that was Minnie’s duty, one that she begged to be allowed to perform.
“Let me reply to these letters, Sister. It will give me some pleasure.”
“Oh, Minnie, no, darling. You don’t have to do that—Mr. Barnum’s secretaries will send out a card.”
“No, let me, Vinnie. It’s odd, but I feel as if I owe that to her—to all the babies entrusted to us these past few years. It will soothe me to do so—and the people are so nice to write like this.” Minnie held up a letter for me to read.
Dear Mrs. General Tom Thumb, I am very sorry to here of the loss of your Fairy Angel who will surely be in Heaven now waiting for you. We lost a Daughter ourselves to the fever and I trust that they are both in a better place.
I returned the letter with a shaking hand and shakier conscience; I could not bear to keep reading. As relieved as I was to end this charade, I did not enjoy knowing that we had played so upon the emotions of those to whom we had previously given only joy. But I could not continue the practice of snatching babies and returning them as they grew too big; too big to complete the happy tableau that Mr. Barnum was determined to present of perfectly formed miniature father, mother, and child. So I demanded that we end it; we had made enough money on the European tour that Mr. Barnum had no choice but to agree with me.
Unfortunately, the only possible way to end the charade was to “kill” the child that had never really existed, except in the public’s mind. And so I was a murderer now.
But the deed was done; the letters and cards would soon subside. We would never have to speak of babies again—or so I thought.
“All right, you answer them. But, Minnie, promise me, if it gets too hard for you, you must stop. I know you—I know your tender heart.”
Minnie nodded, picked up her pen, and began to write; her sweet eyes were full of tears, but she answered every one in my name, writing as tenderly as if it had been her own child who died.
This was late September of 1866; we were back from Europe, resting up in Middleborough—enjoying a nation now at peace.
Mama and Papa were growing older, but they were content, now that all their children were back home. Safely returned from combat, Benjamin and James had begun families of their own; indeed, all of Mama and Papa’s children were married, with the exception of Minnie. And of course no one ever expected her to wed; she was fully part of my household, as Charles was quite as devoted to her as I was. We made our own little family. Whatever fears I had in taking her away from home and exposing her to the bigger world were forgotten as I relied upon her, more and more, for companionship. With Minnie always with me, I never had to spend much time alone with Charles.
Mama and Papa, however, had come to view my marriage most favorably. Papa especially doted upon Charles. He made him a complete set of miniature hand tools, such as any industrious Middleborough man would need. They were beautiful, hand-carved, and he made an equally handsome miniature toolbox in which to store them.
As disturbed as Mama was by the baby business, she never blamed Charles for it. She took to referring to Mr. Barnum as “that Barnum” once more, and sent back every present he ever gave her until finally he got the message. It bothered him, for he respected my mother immensely, often saying she was of “good, reliable New England stock.” But Mama could not forgive him—even if she could not help herself from loving me in spite of my own guilt, and trying, over and over, to find an excuse for my behavior.
“I suppose that man left you no choice,” she said one day soon after we returned from Europe. We were in the kitchen, knitting companionably. I was wearing a simple country gown without hoops, and my hair was parted plainly and loosely in the middle, gathered in a knot at the base of my neck. My feet were clad in those flat child’s slippers I used to find so tiresome but which now brought me sweet relief. It was such a blessing not to have to dress fashionably, mindful of hoops and trains; not to have my hair done up elaborately, anchored with heavy jeweled combs that caused my head to ache; not to have to converse nonstop with total strangers. Rocking with my mother in her cozy kitchen full of freshly preserved vegetables and fruits, jugs full of orange bittersweet branches with their red berries, the scent of apples in the brisk New England autumn air—it was utter bliss.
“I suppose he just put up handbills declaring it a fact, and you could do nothing but go along with him,” my mother said with a sniff.
“Mama, it wasn’t exactly that way.”
“Do you know how many people here in Middleborough wanted to see your daughter after they read about her in the newspapers? Do you know how many times I have had to make excuses to my own neighbors? Vinnie, that Barnum simply doesn’t consider other people in anything he does. I don’t know why you admire him so.”
“There are more sides to this story than you know” was all I could tell my dear mother. But I refused to continue this line of talk about Mr. Barnum; the man had sorrows of his own to bear. For he was still feeling, keenly, the loss of the American Museum in a horrific fire that occurred in 1865.
Oh, to think of that grand building and all that was in it, going up in flames! To imagine the horror, the spectacle, the heartbreaking screams of the animals panicking and running into the street only to be shot by police, fearful for the public’s safety; the sickening stench of burning flesh and feathers; the heat of the conflagration as it spread greedily from floor to floor. Mr. Barnum was not present at the time, thank Providence! But many a brave employee endeavored to save what they could; miraculously, none lost his life.
Mr. Barnum soon opened another museum, farther uptown, but I never thought his heart was fully in it; so much of his own history—as well as mine—had gone up in flames on Ann Street.
“Mr. Barnum has suffered such terrible losses,” I reminded my mother. “And his wife is no helpmeet for him.”
“Have you ever met her?”
“Once, in Bridgeport, while we were visiting Charles’s parents.”
“What is she like?”
I laid my knitting down for a moment and frowned, remembering. “She was as I had pictured her—thin, sallow, with graying hair, sunken eyes. A sour set to her mouth. She carried smelling salts with her everywhere she went, and retired at least four times a day to her room to nap. Poor Mr. Barnum!”
“ ‘Poor Mr. Barnum’?” Mama snorted. “It sounds as if he got the kind of woman he deserves. I’m sure he’s dragged her to the devil and back many times, that man!”
“Oh, Mama, no. You don’t know him, not like I do. You don’t—” But I broke off.
Mama did not reply, but she did look at me with a sudden sharpness. I had seen her look at my brothers and sisters like this, as if she could see right through to their hearts—and all the secrets they thought they carried within them. But she had never before looked at me in this piercing, knowing way, as I had always confounded her so.
I attacked my knitting with such dedication, sparks must have flown from my needles; at least I assumed that was what made my face burn with such surprising heat. No more was spoken of Mr. Barnum that day.
Not long after that, however, I was ready to pack my trunk again. Left too long to my own devices, to muse and ponder and dream, left to be truly a wife to my husband in the dull, flickering glow of lantern light instead of footlights, I felt as if I was suffocating. Over and over, I returned to that tree trunk in Papa’s cow pasture to pull up the weeds that continued to grow over my name.
What did I fear so, in the warm bosom of those who only loved me? I could not say, as at the time I did not recognize it for the fear it was. I simply felt driven to see, to experience—to give of myself to those whose approval should have meant less than my own husband’s but instead meant so much more. I simply knew that I could relax and sleep only on a rocking train or a bobbing boat. I simply realized I needed the warmth of an audience like a plant needs sun.
And I simply understood that the most satisfying moments in my life were spent poring over maps and train routes, discovering new towns that were popping up all over this great country of ours. I could not bear to think that there was somewhere I had never been, someone who might not know my name.
So in late autumn of 1866—after remaining in Middleborough for a suitable period of mourning for our “child”—Mr. Barnum and I decided that the Tom Thumb Company should once again set out, this time to the Deep South, where we had not been able to go during the four bloody years of the War Between the States.
“It will be lonely without a baby,” Minnie said softly as we settled into the train for our first leg of the trip. Eastern trains were becoming much more commodious for the traveler; some, like this one, even had upholstered seats if you paid extra to travel in what was called the “first class” section. There were also separate, private water closets for ladies and gentlemen! The modern world was astounding!
Commodore Nutt was once again with us, completing the perfect miniature foursome; across the aisle, he and Charles soon had a lively game of cards going with Mr. Bleeker and the other men of our troupe. While I did not approve of cards, at least the game kept Nutt out of more serious trouble. How a man could have such an appealing, impish presence onstage and be so completely unpleasant off, I could not fathom! Perhaps it was because of our earlier history, or perhaps it was because he sensed my disapproval now—either way, he kept as far away from me as possible. Although Charles, of course, held no grudge; Charles would not recognize a grudge if it came up and bit him on his pug little nose.
“It won’t be lonely, dear—think of how many people we will meet!” I patted Minnie’s arm excitedly; I had a pleasant, bubbly feeling in my stomach, as if I had swallowed a giggle. I always felt this way at the beginning of a journey.
“But we always have to say goodbye to them.” My sister sighed, leaning her curly head against my shoulder. “And that’s dreadful.”
I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Remember how you used to call everyone ‘dreadful’?”
“Did I?” She laughed, shaking her head so that her hair tickled my chin. “I don’t remember.”
“You did. You even thought Mr. Barnum was dreadful at first.”
“How silly of me! I was so little then! I don’t think anyone is dreadful now.”
“You don’t? Not anyone?” I couldn’t help myself; I inclined my head toward Nutt, who was slapping down a card and laughing boisterously, causing all the other passengers in the car to look his way.
Minnie followed my gaze. “Oh! Well, yes, I suppose I do think he is rather dreadful, at that. I’m so bored by his everlasting sonnets!” Then she closed her eyes and yawned, nestling her body even closer to mine.
I was glad to hear her say this. For I had feared lately that that horrid man had become quite smitten with her. He followed her around and attempted to sit next to her at mealtimes, reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets to her—which, kind as she was, she always applauded, complimenting him upon his memory. Several news articles had hinted at a romance or even assumed a marriage between these two—and Mr. Barnum, I knew, would not be displeased if there was.
But I would, for I wanted to keep Minnie to myself. She was the one person in my life whom I could love without guilt or shame or pretense. I was also selfish enough to think that I could fulfill that same role for her, and that she would be content with that. She always had been, after all; there was no reason to believe that we couldn’t continue on in this way.
And so, as the train began its comforting sway, back and forth, back and forth, along the rickety railroad ties, I rocked my sister to sleep. Just as I always had, just as I always would. It was a comforting, pleasant thought with which to begin our latest journey together.
IF EASTERN TRAINS WERE BECOMING MORE COMFORTABLE, THEN southern trains were still mired in the past—if they existed at all. For it soon was evident that the only thing left of the South, now that the War was over, was poverty. The scenery that we passed was a smoky nightmare of burnt-out plantations, scorched cotton fields, wrecked locomotives piled up next to railroad tracks. Our travel through these states was disjointed and unpredictable, as so many of the train routes had been broken up by the Union: tracks pulled up, bridges destroyed so that the Rebels could not move their troops easily from one point to the next. And there simply wasn’t enough money to rebuild them—so we often had to travel by stage or omnibus, hiring wagons to cart our miniature carriages, in which we always drove about town before our first show.
It was such a pleasure to see the joy on the faces of those poor, noble citizens of the Old South whenever they spied our polished little blue carriage, or Commodore Nutt’s walnut-shaped one. Shouts of “Tom Thumb! Ol’ Tom Thumb! Mrs. General! Minnie Warren!” would follow us to our hotel, where we would disembark and greet the crowd that had gathered to laugh and applaud. After the hardships they had endured, it was clear they needed entertainment, and we were happy to provide it as we continued the same program we had performed throughout England and France—without the baby, of course.
Charles and I barely glanced at each other while we danced “The Tom Thumb Polka”; watched by so many other eyes, we had no need to look into each other’s. Our true intimacy was with the audience. Never did we talk so animatedly as we did with our visitors after the performance, in the little informal levees that we held, where we signed our cartes de visites. Charles happily bestowed his kiss upon every female who wanted one, and even those who didn’t, and while I still could not approve of such indiscreet behavior, I enjoyed shaking hands with my many admirers. I often thought about how frightened, how ashamed, I had been in my early days upon the river; those dangerous times were like a dream to me. For I was Mrs. General Tom Thumb, beloved and admired, and no one would want to harm me now.
I always made it a point to wave to my new friends as they left clutching my photograph; I turned and greeted the next in line just as I heard the clink of coins rattling in the money box.
While none of our many admirers would ever have harmed us, we did face dangers on the road. We had, by necessity, to travel with great sums of money, Mr. Kellogg’s constant nightmare. There was always the danger of being robbed, particularly as our travel arrangements were often detailed in the Press.
One night we stopped at a very desolate hotel in Opelika, Alabama; the stairs leading up from the “lobby”—really just one large, stained spittoon—were merely rough boards loosely nailed to the rail. Our rooms were on the second floor, which was a blessing, as the third floor was reachable only by ladder!
The few inhabitants we had seen on the first floor were of such rough, dissipated appearance that our entire company was happy to gather in one room for the night, especially as Commodore Nutt was feeling poorly, suffering from the quinsy. We passed an uneasy few minutes until we heard a sudden scratching at the door, followed by retreating footsteps.
“Look here,” Charles suddenly said, as we all rushed to open the door; on it was freshly chalked the message 11:35.
“Whatever can it mean?” I wondered, and Rodney Nutt piped up, “It must be a message from the Ku Klux! It must mean someone is going to die at precisely eleven-thirty-five tonight!”
At this, we all froze in fear. The Ku Klux had just started to make its terrible presence felt, swearing vengeance against former slaves and northerners, and the name alone could strike terror in even the stoutest heart. Just as we were absorbing this, we heard the unmistakable report of two pistols fired successively.
“Sylvester!” Mrs. Bleeker cried; Mr. Bleeker had remained outside to settle the horses. She wanted to run downstairs, but we enjoined her to stay; just at that moment, Mr. Bleeker burst into the room, his long face pale, his hair standing on end.
“Get your wraps, there’s a ’bus for the station at the door; we need to be on it.”
Half the company ran downstairs; the other half remained to bundle up Commodore Nutt, who was carried downstairs in Mr. Bleeker’s arms. Just as our half reached the door, we saw the ’bus pull off with the rest of the party, to our dismay.
“It’ll be back soon enough,” the toothless hotel proprietor told us as he spat on the floor. “And if it ain’t, you can all stay here until the morning, when the train comes.”
“No!” Mr. Bleeker said in a strange, strangled voice. “We must get to the station!”
I was surprised by his urgency, for Mr. Bleeker was such a patient, mild man. Minnie held tightly to my hand, and I felt her shivering. Charles, I noticed, was trying very hard to look as brave as Mr. Bleeker, but he could not help but tremble, too.
Finally the omnibus returned, and we all piled in, Mr. Bleeker urging the driver to hurry the horses on as he kept looking over his shoulder. But before we could reach the station, the driver pulled up with a cry.
“Get down!” Mr. Bleeker hissed, pushing Charles down to the floor of the wagon. I pulled Minnie down next to me, and we hid behind the seat in front of us. But I could still see; passing us on the narrow road was a line of horses, all covered in white fabric, with only holes cut out for their eyes and ears. Upon these horses were ghostly figures in white sheets and hoods; they passed us in silence as they rode in the direction of the hotel. Not a breath was exhaled, not a sound was made, from our party or theirs. Even the horses did not whinny. Minnie trembled and clutched at my hand, and Charles shut his eyes, like a child who wishes to believe himself invisible. But I did not blink as I watched those masked men ride by, erect in their saddles, ominous in their number.
Finally they passed, and we proceeded to the station at a breakneck speed; once we joined the rest of our party, Mr. Bleeker finally exhaled, a little color returning to his face.
“Those shots you heard back at the hotel,” he began, pausing to take a gulp of whiskey from the Commodore’s ever-present flask. “There were two men downstairs who tried to get me to take a drink with them. I said I had to get upstairs to my friends, but they kept insisting, getting meaner by the minute. Finally, I broke away, only to see them exchange a look and run outside. I was curious. So when I got upstairs, I went to take a look out on the landing. In the yard were two figures in white, like the men who just passed us, and they both pointed a pistol at me and fired. They nearly got my hat! I ducked inside, and that’s when I found all of you in the room with that message on the door, and I said to myself, Bleeker, get everybody the heck out of here! I just know they were planning to rob us, and if we’d stayed there they surely would have, or worse! Why nothing happened when they passed us on the road, I’ll never know—maybe they just didn’t recognize us.”
Mrs. Bleeker paled and nearly fainted upon her husband’s shoulder. Charles, too, turned an awful green color, and Minnie laid her head upon my shoulder and shut her eyes.
I remained upright on that cold, hard station bench, unable to stop seeing that ghostly line of horses and riders, pale, almost luminous, against the black of the Alabama forest. I couldn’t believe I’d actually seen the Ku Klux with my own eyes. How terrifying!
I couldn’t wait to write Mr. Barnum all about it.
OUR TRAVELS CONTINUED, NO LESS ADVENTUROUS—I SAW MY first alligator in Texas while crossing the Red River!—and in May of 1869, while staying in San Antonio, we received the following letter from Mr. Barnum:
My Dear Bleeker:
An idea has occurred to me in which I can see a “Golden Gate” opening for the Gen. Tom Thumb Co. What do you think of a “Tour around the World,” including a visit to Australia? The new Pacific Railroad will be finished in a few weeks; you will then be enabled to cross the American Continent to California, thence by steam to Japan, China, British India, etc. I declare, in anticipation, I already envy you the pleasures and opportunities which such a trip will afford.
For the next three days I shall study all the maps I can lay my hands upon and, in imagination, mark you crossing the briny deep to those far-off countries. And as for gold! Tell the General that in Australia alone (don’t fail to go to Australia) he will be sure to make more money than a horse can draw.
Decide quickly. If you consent to undertake the journey, prepare to start next month. Love to all,
Truly yours,
P. T. Barnum
“Well, isn’t this something,” Mr. Bleeker said after he finished reading the letter out loud to us all.
“A world tour,” his gentle wife exclaimed, and as usual, I could not detect her own wishes in it; our dear Mrs. Bleeker was a cipher, a genuinely loving, soothing presence who seemed to exist only for us. I could never imagine her in her own home, mending her own clothes, deciding on her own entertainment or enjoyment. She was expressly put upon this earth to live in the service of P. T. Barnum, the General Tom Thumb Company, and her husband—and possibly in that order.
“Australia?” Charles blinked, nervously lighting up a cigar, as Mr. Barnum would have done. “That wild place? Why, has any American ever been there?”
“Which is all the more reason that we should go,” I said decidedly; my husband’s nervous fears never ceased to challenge me, stirring up a recklessness I did not always know I possessed. “Imagine, to be among the first! And to travel the new Union Pacific railroad, too—I imagine we’ll see buffalo. And Indians, naturally!”
“Indians!” Charles puffed even more nervously, blowing a quick succession of smoke rings into the air.
“Oh, Sister—Indians?” Minnie, seated next to Mrs. Bleeker on a sofa, paled.
“From a distance, I’m sure,” I said hastily, although inwardly I did hope to see one or two up close; I had always wondered if their skin was as red as the clay earth they roamed, as was said.
“It’s a tremendous opportunity.” Mr. Bleeker consulted the letter again, spreading it upon the table as if it were a map. Indeed, we all drew close, to study it. As if Mr. Barnum’s expressive handwriting alone could tell us which direction to follow—and I truly believed, at that moment, that it could.
“If we do this,” Mr. Bleeker said in his grave, considered manner, “you’ll be world famous, for I know of no other troupe that has undertaken such an arduous journey. It’s truly unprecedented.”
“Then we must do it!” I couldn’t contain my excitement; I clasped my hands together and jumped up and down, letting my dignity fall to the floor in a rumpled heap. To think of it all! The exotic scenes—Commodore Perry had returned from Japan only a scant nine years before; even during the Civil War, newspapers had been full of the strange Oriental habits and customs just beginning to be known to the West. Those long sticks they used for utensils, the way they drank their tea in small bowls instead of cups. The way they sat upon the floor to eat! How charming a custom, especially for one my size! I had spent far too many an elaborate dinner perched upon precarious cushions, my feet dangling from my chair like a child’s. I couldn’t wait to partake of an authentic Japanese meal seated upon the floor, where everyone would be my size.
Australia, I knew nothing about, other than that it was a wild, untamed place, much as our American West had been twenty years ago. Yet I was eager to see it; eager to see the highest mountain peaks on our own continent; eager to see the new railroad, almost finished, that linked the Atlantic to the Pacific; eager to see everything. That world that had beckoned to me for so long—it was not bigger than me, after all. I would conquer it by seeing every corner of it; I felt sorry for the women who had to content themselves with gazing at the globe while they dusted it, dutifully, trapped in the houses of their husbands.
“We must do it,” I said once more. “Think of how famous we’ll be! How much we will impress those who think our bodies are weak simply because they’re small!”
“Vinnie has a point there,” Mr. Bleeker said, doing his very best to keep his face neutral—he had the best poker face among us, with his drooping mustache and beard, and sad eyes; we often joked that if we found ourselves penniless, we could always send him out to win back our fortune in a saloon game. But I saw that glint in his eyes, the way he quickly licked his lips, as if tasting something tantalizing and sweet. I knew he desired to go, quite as much as I did.
He deferred, however, at least in manner, to Charles; after all, it was my husband’s name upon the masthead of our stationery. In theory, Charles was the decision maker of our party.
“Mr. Barnum obviously thinks this is a splendid idea,” I reminded him solemnly. He nodded—just as solemnly—and puffed upon his cigar once more. I could not look at Mr. Bleeker, for fear of spoiling the moment; we held our breaths, waiting for my husband’s verdict.
“Well, if Phineas thinks it’s a good idea,” he finally concluded, nodding gravely. And our collective breath was exhaled, glasses raised in a toast to the new adventure. Then we all scattered like mice to write letters, pack trunks, and take the first train back north so we could buy new clothes, mend old ones, and say goodbye to friends and family.
We left New York on June 21, 1869. The newspapers trumpeted the General Tom Thumb Company’s “Three Years’ Tour Around the World.” The company numbered thirteen, which Mama felt boded ill for our safe return. However, Mr. Bleeker quickly pointed out that he always paid full fare for each of the two ponies we brought with us to pull our miniature carriage, so that really there were fifteen in the party. I don’t believe this mollified her.
“Vinnie, please take care, and bring yourself and Minnie safely home,” Mama said, clinging to both of her daughters before we boarded the train from the New York and Harlem Railroad Station. This was a new, expanded station, very different from the little shack where I had first disembarked in New York, all those years ago. Yet there were rumors that an even grander, more central railroad terminal was to be constructed by Commodore Vanderbilt just a few blocks away. All those trains that came into New York from the north and east, like pins stuck haphazardly in a cushion, would now all end at the same terminus. The new depot was even rumored to have a restaurant inside for waiting passengers!
“Mama, I will, I promise! Try not to worry, and we will write whenever possible.” I kissed my dear mother on the cheek and patted Papa fondly on the shoulder; both were kneeling down, although I knew how difficult it was for them, now that they were older. Age had even made Papa less stoic; he had tears in his blue eyes, which he did not even try to hide.
“I’m always saying goodbye to my girls,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know why that is. I always said I never knew what to do with you, Vinnie, and I have lived to see the truth in it. You never stop surprising me—all the way around the world now! I never imagined I’d leave Middleborough, let alone see my daughters off to Japan!”
“We’ll bring you back glorious presents—would you like a samurai’s sword? That would be handy for cutting hay!” I laughed, kissing my father lightly; he surprised me by hugging me to him so tightly I could hear his faithful heart beating against my cheek, like the faint but reliable ticking of an old pocket watch. Then he released me with the same urgency, and groaningly pushed himself upright.
Blinking up at him through my own tears, I smiled, then gently pulled Minnie out of Mama’s possessive embrace. “Keep her safe,” Mama whispered to me, and I nodded, pulling Minnie toward the train, where Mr. Bleeker was waiting to lift us both up the stairs. The engine was already huffing, steam billowing out from the tall chimney. I hesitated only a moment, searching the platform for a particular gold-tipped walking stick. Mr. Barnum had promised he would try to see us off. I did so want to see him once more; three years seemed like such a long time.
He did not come, however, and I could wait no longer as the conductor made his final cry of “All aboard!” I nodded at Mr. Bleeker to lift me up, and then I made my way down the aisle of the train as it lurched away from the station. Stumbling, I nearly fell, headfirst, into the lap of a woman seated on the aisle. Only Mr. Bleeker’s ready hand upon my head kept me upright.
“Goodness me!” The woman laughed—and then she pulled me to her in a smothering embrace. “I declare, you are the sweetest little thing, aren’t you?”
“Madam, please!” I pushed myself away from her; she smelled strongly of peppermint drops and camphor. “I beg your pardon!”
She didn’t take offense; indeed, she kept beaming at me as if I were a precocious child.
“This is Mrs. Charles Stratton,” Mr. Bleeker informed her. “She is on her way to tour the West.”
“Oh, I knew her right away—I said to my Fred”—she poked the man next to her with her elbow; he grunted and turned away—“I said, ‘Fred, that’s that little Mrs. Tom Thumb, I just know it!’ She looks just like her little picture, yes, she does!” Still the woman beamed, even as she continued to talk above me, as if I wasn’t there. Smiling frostily, I bowed and continued down the aisle, shaking off Mr. Bleeker’s steadying hand upon my shoulder.
I climbed up into my seat next to Minnie; Mrs. Bleeker had already placed a cushion there for me, so that I might see out the window. As New York fell away, I wondered how many days it would be until we reached Omaha. There, we would board the new Union Pacific railroad, some of the first passengers to do so.
I doubted that vile woman was traveling any farther than Albany; certainly she wasn’t going to be shaking the hand of the Emperor of Japan!
Yet for a moment, I couldn’t prevent myself from imagining how it would be to travel—even if it was just to Albany—by myself, to climb upon a train unassisted, to carry my own luggage, to take whichever seat I wanted, no cushion or stool necessary.
I imagined what it would be like to be able to walk around freely, anonymously, nothing about me remarkable in any way. Would I like it? Would I trade my fame if it meant that I never had to suffer fools hugging me to them ever again?
I honestly did not know. And I was more than a little relieved that it was a moot point, after all.
THIS BOOK IS NOT INTENDED TO BE A MERE TRAVELOGUE; MY DEAR Mr. Bleeker wrote a very fine account of our journey in General Tom Thumb’s Three Years Tour Around the World, which I am sure you have read previously, as it was a very popular book and made quite a lot of money.
I cannot pass over this time in my life, however, without wanting to share some of my impressions. Naturally I am proud of what we accomplished, especially in such primitive circumstances compared to the comforts of today. Our planned route involved an average travel of one hundred and ten miles every day, as well as the giving of two entertainments! To those who are used to more modern ways of travel and hospitality, this may not seem much of a feat. However, the last spike had just been driven in the Union Pacific railroad only a little over a month before we embarked upon it. The West was newly open, raw and unforgiving. Cities which today conjure up images of cultured civility—Salt Lake City, Omaha, Reno—were little more than canvas camps at the time, sprouting up along the newly built railway like prairie flowers. Many more of these temporary cities—hotels, restaurants, post offices, even, made of dirty canvas flaps draped over wobbly wooden frames—have now faded from memory, vanished in the dust of the trains that roared on ahead, once the tracks were laid.
We confidently expected to see Indians, and indeed, even as the train was pulling out of Omaha, nervous passengers were looking out the windows for the red man. Mr. Bleeker packed a pistol; so, too, did Charles, although it was a ridiculously tiny one given to him by Queen Victoria, with custom bullets so small they could scarcely hurt a prairie dog, let alone an Indian on a pony. Yet he strutted about, stroking his beard with one hand, patting his breast pocket with the other, just as he saw the other men doing—acting as if he had enough firepower to take out an entire band of ferocious savages.
While sleeper cars were now in use on eastern trains—a platform could be raised to join two facing seats into one bed, while above, a bunk was lowered from the arched roof of the car—those first trains to go west from Omaha were not outfitted in this way. Hence, on extended legs—our longest was twenty-six hours of continuous travel—we had to sleep, to use the word loosely, upright upon the hard seats. Even though they were upholstered in horsehair—an improvement over those hard wooden seats from my first train trip to Cincinnati back in the fifties—they made for very uncomfortable sleeping, indeed. Although for once, we little folk had the advantage of our companions, as we could curl up easier than they could!
As always, it was impossible to keep oneself clean and tidy; even with the windows pushed up, the dust from the prairie and the cinders and grit from the tracks managed to seep inside the cars. Not to mention that it was very hot, as we left Omaha in July of 1869. While there was a dining car on the train, the food was not well prepared or even fresh, and there was never any ice for water. In the primitive water closets, where I had to lug my steps with me so that I could reach the basin, the water in it was already so gray with other people’s grime that I never wanted to splash it upon my face. And the smell in that hot, stuffy little cell was intolerable.
But the scenery, as we sped across the great prairie, was always interesting, always majestic; I’d never seen a sky so big, not even upon the sea. The tall, waving grasses, undulating in the wind, were as hypnotic as any ocean waves. Prairie dogs popped up and down like children’s toys, and herds of antelope raced along the train, as did immense herds of buffalo. We could see them from a distance; at first, they resembled a swarm of flies moving now away, now toward, the tracks; as we got closer, we could actually feel the thundering of their hooves through the floor of the train. At the first sighting, more than a few passengers decided to use them as target practice; with cries and whoops, men pulled out their pistols or rifles and thrust them through the windows, the ringing from the shots practically piercing my eardrums.
We reached Cheyenne, our first stop, almost exactly twenty-four hours after leaving Omaha and without having seen a single Indian, much to my disappointment. The manager of the theater there met us at the train and helped us load our belongings—trunks of costumes, trinkets and cartes de visites that we would sell, scenery and props—into a waiting Wells Fargo wagon; Charles and I climbed into our miniature carriage, while Rodney Nutt harnessed our two little ponies, who were restless from being cooped up, prancing mischievously against the bit. We hadn’t a chance to freshen up; my traveling dress was dirty and wrinkled beyond measure, and I felt as wilted as the feather in my bonnet. But straight to the theater we went, Charles and I waving to the townspeople who spied our carriage and followed out of curiosity; Minnie and Nutt accompanying the Bleekers in the wagon. As soon as we reached the theater—really a barn, barely swept, with rows of crude benches and hay bales upon which the audience sat—we tidied ourselves as best we could. Mr. Bleeker and our agent hastily set up their concession and box office, and soon we were onstage in front of an eager audience of prairie folk. We repeated our performance later in the evening, then collapsed in a canvas tent that served as the town’s hotel, before getting back on the train the next day.
This became our routine, then. Many of the hotels were merely tents. Other times we stayed in houses, usually the mayor’s own, or one of his relatives’. We never ordered a meal to our own choosing; we ate what was given to us in the hotel, boardinghouse, or private dining room. Privacy was at a premium; oftentimes the men were separated from the ladies by only a thin canvas flap.
Charles and I, and Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker, as the two married couples, were sometimes accorded some privacy, but I always made sure that Minnie was with Charles and me, as she was the only other female. I knew she was very homesick on this trip, much more than she had been in Europe when she had the various infants to occupy her time.
“Vinnie, what do you think Mama and Papa are doing right now?” she would ask me several times a day, and it became almost a game; often I would answer nonsense, just to make her laugh.
“I expect Papa is baking a cake right now, wearing Mama’s best apron, and Mama is sitting by the fire smoking a pipe,” I might say, casually—and be grateful for Minnie’s helpless giggles at the notion.
Or—
“It’s five o’clock; wouldn’t Papa be bringing in the cows from the pasture right now?” Minnie would muse, peeking out the canvas flap of our latest “theater,” as if she could see all the way back to Massachusetts.
“No, he’s just taking them out now; they like to spend the night outside, not in the barn, don’t you remember? So they can look at the stars and wish upon them!”
Minnie laughed at this notion; her dimple deepened, and her merry eyes sparkled under her dark, suspicious brows. She flung her arms around me and whispered, “I’m so glad I’m here with you—I’m so glad that you’re not lonely!”
“Lonely?” I laughed, holding her at arm’s length, looking into her sweet, sympathetic face. “What do you mean? I wouldn’t be lonely—I wouldn’t have the time!”
Minnie merely smiled and hugged me again; then she walked away with such a knowing, understanding look, a sudden, sharp blade of guilt knifed itself through my heart. Was it wicked to keep her with me just because I needed her? Just because I was afraid of being left too much alone with my husband?
And did she truly understand that she was the necessary glue that kept Charles and me together, that she alone made us a family? We both clung to her, in different ways. Charles loved her dearly, as she loved him; the two of them played together, lavishing affection upon every stray dog, cat, or even the occasional chicken that wandered into our hotel or theater. Or they made up games of their own device, games that they would not teach anyone else, acting exactly like two school chums who wanted to appear clannish.
With Minnie, the three of us together at table could always find something to chatter about; she loved to listen to Charles’s tales, and he was a wonderful storyteller when he had an eager audience, which I must admit I was not. On the rare occasions when it was just Charles and me, we exhausted conversation before the soup was gone.
“We’ll be in Utah in the morning. I’m anxious to see how the polygamists live, aren’t you? It seems more barbaric than the Indians,” I said one evening as we dined alone in our hotel room—a corner of a canvas structure; the proprietor had proudly offered Charles and me “a romantic dinner for two,” apart from the communal table set up in the middle of the tent. He had found a small table and two camp stools, and hung up a thin curtain to shield us from the others. Yet we were taunted by the merry dinner talk, the convivial clinking of glasses, on the other side of the curtain.
“Charles? Did you hear me?” I spoke louder, trying to drown out the guffaws accompanying Rodney Nutt as he told a story about a man who once raced a horse the wrong way around a track. “About the polygamists?”
“Oh, I’m—of course, of course, polygamists! Dreadful insects, aren’t they—always buzzing around your ears! My dear, did I ever tell you about the time that I swallowed a bug? I was onstage during a sweltering heat, and a fly was buzzing about, and just as I opened my mouth to sing ‘Yankee Doodle,’ that creature flew into it and down my windpipe! I tell you, I couldn’t sing a word after that! I coughed and coughed until …”
Smiling tightly, I nodded at Charles as he continued his story, and allowed my mind to wander elsewhere—along railroad tracks, over mountains, across oceans. Dear God, please don’t ever let the world stop expanding, stop sprouting new cities and railroads and passageways for me to visit, for me to dream about—I almost prayed it out loud.
It was in Ogden, Utah, that I had the opportunity to correct Charles’s impression about polygamy. For it was here that I first saw it in practice. Ogden was a town of about two thousand people; compared to the other communities along the Union Pacific, it was a model of cleanliness and order, and we could not help but attribute this to the fact that the Mormon bishop controlled the town. Neat clapboard buildings lined clean streets; there were none of the usual saloons and houses of ill repute that had followed the progression of the railroad in other villages.
The bishop offered us the use of their Tabernacle for our entertainment; I thought this very good of him, indeed, and quite surprising. I could not imagine any Baptist church doing the same! So my initial impression of the Mormons was quite favorable.
He asked that the first two rows be reserved for his family. Over fifty seats in all, and I was amused, thinking, logically, that there were far more seats than could be filled by one brood. Yet in a flash the bishop returned with his brother, followed by seven adult females and forty-two children varying in ages from three to fourteen years; then came three more females and twenty-two children, whom the bishop referred to, casually, as “my family”!
It may have been amusing at first, as we peered out from behind the curtain, sure that at any minute the endless parade of children would stop, but soon I ceased to find it so. During our entertainments, Mr. Bleeker always invited a dozen children, from the ages of three to ten, to stand with Minnie onstage to compare their height to hers. When the invitation was extended on this night, Bishop West immediately turned to his family and beckoned the requisite number to the platform. Mr. Bleeker placed the smallest of them nearest to Minnie and then requested the parents to give their ages. Pointing to the first child, Mr. Bleeker inquired, “What is this child’s age?”
“Four years,” replied the Bishop with a satisfied smile.
“And this?” Mr. Bleeker pointed to the next.
“Four years,” the Bishop answered placidly.
“They’re both your children?” Mr. Bleeker could not help himself from asking.
The Bishop nodded. A faint blush mottled his cheeks.
“How old is this one?” Mr. Bleeker pointed to the next largest.
“Four,” the Bishop said, his voice becoming a bit strangled.
“Yours, as well?”
The Bishop nodded.
“And this one?”
“Four.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
“And this—?”
“Stop!” I could not help myself; I raced forward to Mr. Bleeker, tugging at the bottom of his coat, imploring him to cease this disgraceful display. Startled, that poor man could do nothing but signal to me to keep quite, and indeed, I did not know what more I could say—I only felt such embarrassment for the children, for the wives, for us all. It was barbaric, that’s what it was, barbaric that all these children of the same age could be sired by one father in these modern times. I did not want to be here any longer; I could not wait to leave. Yet even when we returned to our hotel, I could not prevent myself from inquiring into the marital status of the proprietor, and nearly screamed when I was told that he had ten wives!
Ten! Those poor women, having to subject themselves to one man, having to share him with others, having to raise all these other children as their own, having to lie down with him whenever he desired, never able to refuse—
“I trust the pin money won’t bankrupt you!” My husband was laughing with the innkeeper, man to man, and I whirled about.
“Charles Stratton, how dare you? How dare you laugh with this man as if—as if—”
The entire company was staring at me, mouths open; they had never seen me act so strangely. I took a breath and tried to calm myself, but I could not dampen the fire of indignation that burned in my breast, searing my skin as if it had been branded from within. Why did these men disgust me so? Why could I not look any of their wives in the eye? I had seen natives by now, brown-skinned people who lived in squalor, whose men drank but whose women carried their children on their backs, proudly erect. I had not been disgusted by them. They were not God-fearing people, and so could live only as their instincts told them, and it was obvious their women were strong, stronger than their men.
But the Mormon women were different; there was something shameful and dejected about them. They did not seem to live in the same sphere as their men, except to serve and—I couldn’t prevent a shudder—have relations and bear endless children. It was the same way in Salt Lake City, where we journeyed by wagon, since there was no railroad yet built from Ogden. When we arrived we were treated like dignitaries and introduced to everyone of importance, including Brigham Young. These men were cordial enough, but we met their women only during mealtimes when they served at table, their heads bowed in submission. The obsessively clean appearance of the city in general attested to a feminine hand, yet it remained hidden, as if behind a curtain—or jail—of masculine design.
I could not get out of Utah fast enough.
Finally, we continued west, to Nevada. Leaving the railroad, we decided to travel by stage to a few places, such as Virginia City; progress upon these mountain roads was perilous, beset as it was by not only unpredictable weather, steep mountain drops, and Indians, but also highway robbers. Naturally, we attracted much attention wherever we went, and my jewels and fine clothes were well known, as was the fact that we had, by necessity, to travel with large amounts of money.
One evening, our last night in Virginia City, two strangers struck up a seemingly pleasant conversation with Mr. Bleeker at the hotel, during which they urged him to take several precautions with my jewels, the cash from the box office, and other valuables.
“Cut a lining in your hat, Sir; that’s always where I carry any gold,” one of the fellows said.
“That’s a good plan; those highway robbers always check your boots first,” said the other.
“Thank you, Sirs, for the excellent advice,” Mr. Bleeker said.
“You’re leaving on the regular stage, then?” the first man asked as Mr. Bleeker rose to leave.
“Yes, indeed.”
“Good thinking, for it has an excellent guard, always.”
Mr. Bleeker left these two “gentlemen” to smoke cigars in the lobby of the hotel; he then snuck out the back door and went straight to the Wells Fargo and Company office to arrange for two wagons. We left at seven the next morning, and when we reached Reno, we heard that the regular noon stage had been held up by two masked men who, while methodically relieving all the poor passengers of their valuables, kept muttering, “Tom Thumb! Where’s Tom Thumb? He’s supposed to be on this stage!”
Finally, we reached San Francisco. It was such a relief to be in a cultured metropolis once more, with paved roads and gaslights and hotels made of wood, not canvas. Triumphantly, Charles and I paraded through the streets in our miniature carriage, our ponies none the worse for the trip. Three times a day we filled Platt’s Hall, which held two thousand people, and were able to telegraph Mr. Barnum that the trip had been the “golden opportunity” he had envisioned, indeed.
We left San Francisco for Yokohama, Japan, on November 4, 1869; we would not return to the shores of this great country of ours until June 22, 1872. All in all, we traveled 55,487 miles (31,216 of them by sea) and gave 1,472 entertainments in 587 different cities and towns in all climates of the world without missing a single performance because of accident or illness.
We met the Viceroy of India, King Victor Emmanuele II of Italy, Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria, and assorted Maharajas and Shahs. We ate leechee nuts in China, chewed tea leaves in Ceylon, and consumed octopus in Japan. We saw the Pyramids, pilgrims on their way to Mecca, and sampans in Japan. The heat in Singapore was like being wrapped in a hot woolen blanket and set out in the noonday sun; the cold of the Australian desert at night made your bones cry. We saw women dressed scandalously, in nothing but scarves and jewels, in Madras; we observed entire families bathing together in the nude in Japan. Trains, when we could find them, were primitive: some with benches, with no backs, for seats; others simply cavernous cars in which you sat upon the floor. Ships were steamers, and often they were overcrowded, with poor people practically hanging off the deck rails. Often we would get to a destination with no clear idea how we would then travel on to the next place; maps were crude, unreadable, and unreliable.
Yet even in such places we would sometimes come across a reminder of home; of civilization. Minnie spied an 1862 issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book in a fish market in Bombay, of all places; she eagerly begged the fishmonger to give it to her, instead of using it to wrap up his eels. Somehow he understood, and she carried it with her through the rest of the tour, reading and rereading it although the fashions, of course, were long out of style even before we left home. (Such wide skirts we used to wear! And those ridiculous, enormous-ribboned bonnets!)
And one evening in Ceylon, while I was trying to read by the weak oil light in the hotel parlor (there was no reading in the primitive bedrooms, as everything was encased with thick mosquito netting), Mr. Bleeker presented me with a tattered copy of the New York Herald Tribune. “Look at this,” he said with a sly grin. He pointed to an article with his bony finger.
“Barnum’s newest sensation,” I read aloud, and laughed. I checked the date of the paper; it was over a year old. But seeing Mr. Barnum’s name in print, so far away from him, after having been gone so long, made my heart leap unexpectedly, almost as if he himself had entered the room. We stayed in communication during the trip, of course, but mainly with telegrams, which were always so businesslike and addressed to the troupe in general, never to me personally. And if telegrams were sporadic in the places we were visiting, letters were even more so. So it was with a hunger I hadn’t even been aware was gnawing at me that I read his name.
“The old man has kept himself busy while we’re away,” Mr. Bleeker said with a chuckle, as he folded his long frame into an absurdly small, lacquered Oriental chair. He lit his pipe and puffed until he could get a good draw on it.
“Yes, it appears he has,” I said as I continued to read the article. Mr. Barnum had begun presenting a new discovery, an Admiral Dot. Admiral Dot was “a dwarf more diminutive in stature than General Tom Thumb was when I found him,” Mr. Barnum had told the newspaper.
“You’ve got to admire him. He loses his museum, he builds another. He sends you all off to see the world—”
“And he replaces us with someone else.” Crumpling the newspaper, I tossed it on the floor. But Mr. Bleeker didn’t notice, as he finally had gotten his pipe burning to his satisfaction, and was stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“He just keeps on going. ‘Admiral Dot.’ He has a genius for naming things, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Almost God-like, naming all the animals.”
Mr. Bleeker must have finally noticed the sarcasm in my voice, for he peered at me through the pipe smoke, eyebrows raised. Then he saw the newspaper on the ground.
“What’s wrong, Vinnie? I thought you’d be happy to know that he’s carrying on, as usual.”
“Oh, I suppose I am, it’s just—never mind.” I picked up my book and tried to find my place, but suddenly Mr. Bleeker plucked it out of my hands.
“You’re not jealous of that Dot fellow, are you?”
“I have no need to be jealous of another performer—especially one so unproven—thank you very much. Now, will you please return my book?”
“But that’s just Barnum’s way! You know that! He knows what the public wants, and he gives it to them. Truth is, he usually tells them what they want, before they know it. So the public wants to see another little man. So? That has nothing to do with you. It’s not personal with him like that.”
“Nothing ever is personal with him.” I sniffed, then held my hand out for my book. Mr. Bleeker gave it back to me, but I still felt him staring at me. He even scratched his head, so deep was his puzzlement.
Suddenly, however, he snapped his fingers and smiled; like an eager pupil, he tugged on my sleeve. Not in the mood to hide my impatience, I closed my book with a sigh and looked up.
“But Vinnie, listen! I never did tell you what he told me after your wedding. All that day, he was proud as could be, but I tell you, Vinnie, after the reception was over, he asked me to drive back home with him. And he was sad, Vinnie—the saddest I’d ever seen him.”
“He was?”
“He sure was! You know he’s sometimes a crier—remember how he sobbed when the Emancipation Proclamation was announced?”
“Yes.” And despite myself, I smiled; that was one of my most cherished memories, the January day when we all sat in his office and he read aloud Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation from the newspaper, tears running unchecked down his pink face.
“Well, that day in the carriage, he had tears in his eyes. Sad tears. And he said, ‘Bleeker, this has been the happiest day of my life. And the saddest.’ And I asked him why, and he said, ‘Because I’ll never have this great a success again. Those two little people, they’ve spoiled me. How will I ever top this?’ And you know, Vinnie, I don’t think he’ll ever stop trying, even though he knows, deep in his heart, that he won’t. But it’s just in him to keep going, that’s the thing you have to admire about him. You two, though—Charles and you—you brought him the greatest success he’s ever known, and he won’t ever forget that. Or you. The two of you, well—you’re special.”
I stared at Mr. Bleeker for a long moment; he stared back, that anxious, eager smile upon his face. And I couldn’t help but nod, as his intentions were so obviously good.
“Yes, of course. I know that. I’m just tired from this heat, that’s all.”
“I’d give my favorite pipe for a cold bath tonight, but the manager said there isn’t any fresh water.” Mr. Bleeker nodded in agreement, and he settled back down with his pipe, content to watch an enormous moth that was determined to hurl itself, over and over, toward the oil lamp.
I opened my book again, but I found myself staring at the same page for the longest time, before finally giving up and going upstairs to bed.
AS OUR TRAVELS CONTINUED, OUR CLOTHING NEVER SEEMED TO be clean; the dust and dampness of travel was trapped forever within the folds of cotton, silk, and satin. We mended and remended until our fingers were sore; it’s difficult to contemplate what to pack for three years’ travel, and when clothing ripped or became worn, we could not replace it. For one thing, very few places where we traveled were adept at sewing Western fashions, complete with the new bustles and tight bodices in fashion. Sarongs and kimonos were plentiful, but of courser Minnie, Mrs. Bleeker, and I could not wear those! For another, particular items such as gloves, shoes, bonnets, etc., that had to be custom-made for Minnie and myself were impossible to come by. So we had to continually patch and repair.
In some places, such as Japan and China, where there were few Americans or Europeans, communication was impossible, if not comical; we bowed and scraped a lot. Our size, however, never failed to bring a grin or a smile even to the most dour Chinaman or round Buddhist matron; this was always our entrée into different cultures, and it always assured us goodwill and hospitality. If few of the people we met had ever seen an American, they certainly had never seen a very tiny one, and so Charles, Minnie, Nutt, and myself had to put up with much patting and touching and petting. Never did I feel there was anything sinister or insulting in it, though—and, after all, we were just as curious about their strange costumes and manners as they were about ours. So it was more of a mutual curiosity; we patted and touched and petted right back, free to do so in a way we were not at home—and we enjoyed it.
So used was I to seeing the world through a maze of table legs, wagon wheels, ladies’ skirts, and men’s trousers, I could only note, with pleasure, how much more colorful it was in these exotic lands. The vivid hues of the Orient were a welcome contrast to the more sedate—dare I say dull?—wardrobe choices of the West, such colorful silks in hothouse colors of pinks and oranges and greens!
When travel became difficult, particularly in Australia, where we had to journey hundreds of miles in the desert with only a faint pair of wagon tracks to guide us, the four of us—Minnie, Nutt, Charles, and myself—trudged through the sand just like everyone else, to give the horses a rest. The horses sank to their knees, as did Mr. Bleeker and the others; we did not, although it was difficult to get our footing, as we never reached solid ground.
Despite all the perils we faced—a typhoon on the way to Japan, pythons in Ceylon, wild kangaroos in Australia, fearsome spiders everywhere; despite the marvels we saw—the great Pyramids of Egypt, which inspired Mr. Bleeker to whisper that for once, he understood how we must feel, as he thought himself to be only about two feet tall at that moment—only once did I experience, keenly, my size and how vulnerable it made me. And that was in Nevada, before we even left our own continent.
Minnie, Mrs. Bleeker, and myself were perched in a hired wagon; it had a cover on it, but the sides were wide open to the elements. We had stopped at an inn, where the men and the driver got out to ask for directions. We were on a mountain road with drops so steep as to not be believed; as we waited patiently inside the wagon for the men to return, something startled the horses and they took off, uncontrolled, around the bend.
As the wagon careened faster and faster, the thundering of the horses’ panicked hooves ringing, like a blacksmith’s hammer, in my ears, Minnie and I bounced around helplessly; soon we were covered in bruises. I feared, desperately, that we would be thrown from the wagon. Our feet could not steady us, as they could not reach the floor, and our hands were too small to grip the rough wooden slats of the seats; at one point I looked down, amazed to see that my palm was cut and bleeding. Then I felt an arm around me; Mrs. Bleeker somehow managed to gather us both in her arms, grasping us tightly. And she began to pray, like the serene creature she was; she told us not to be afraid, even unto death.
Death seemed like a distinct possibility, for we could not know when the horses would stop, and sharp boulders surrounded us on all sides. Had the wagon been smashed, we surely would have perished; as it was, the horses continued their wild ride until they rounded a particularly sharp curve—all three of us were thrown, together in a prayerful heap, down to the floor of the wagon—to a suddenly flat, fenced parcel of land. One of the horses swerved, with a wild whinny, directly into the fence; for one suspenseful minute, we slowed almost to a walk.
“Quick, jump, before they take off again!” I cried, not content to pray. I grabbed Minnie and hugged her to me; closing my eyes, I pushed us both from the wagon, and we landed on a soft patch of grass, rolling over and over. Miraculously, we were mostly unhurt, as was Mrs. Bleeker, who landed only ten feet away. Gasping and blinking, we sat catching our breath until Mr. Bleeker came running up on his long, loping legs, his beard practically trailing behind him.
“Julia! Vinnie! Minnie! To see you alive—didn’t think I would! You’ve had a providential escape!” He fell to his knees and fiercely embraced his wife.
“I did not really think any of us would be killed,” his wife replied, although her lips trembled, as did her hands. “I was so busy holding the little ones so that they wouldn’t go flying out, I couldn’t be afraid.”
“You saved us,” I told her, my own limbs shaking. “You kept us inside the wagon.”
That was the one time, on the entire trip, Reader, when I truly felt vulnerable. Every other danger had been equal to us all. Indians, robbers, those terrifying sudden thunderstorms in the mountains that could wash away a road in the blink of an eye—any in our party could have perished because of them, regardless of size.
But as that wagon careened down the road, and Minnie and I were utterly helpless, unable to brace our feet against anything to keep us inside, I had felt, for only the first time since my days with Colonel Wood, physically vulnerable. Even more distressing, I had felt unable to protect my sister, despite my promises to Mama and Papa—and to myself.
“Are you all right?” I finally looked at Minnie, who was still in my arms. “Oh, what a terrible blow it would be to Mama and Papa, had we both perished!”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Minnie answered, with an unexpected little laugh. “I thought to myself, Go ahead, horses, do your best; I can ride as fast behind you as you can run.” She laughed again; I stared at her as she gently but firmly unwound my arms from her shoulders and slid off my lap. She stood up and brushed her torn skirts briskly; my timid little sister did not appear to have been frightened in the least.
“You did, did you?” I asked her, amazed.
“Yes. For you see, Sister,” Minnie said with a suddenly wise, ancient look in her eyes, “I am not to be killed so easily.”
I laughed, surprise and relief chasing away my terror. And I believed her, all of a sudden. I believed her conviction, her defiance in the face of disaster. Or perhaps I simply wanted to believe her. Whatever the case, for the rest of the trip I did not worry at all for my sister’s safety, and it was a great burden lifted from my shoulders. No more did I feel guilt and anxiety for keeping her with me; she would be perfectly fine.
How foolish I was! For it wasn’t kangaroos or snakes or typhoons or runaway horses that I needed to fear. It was nothing nearly so dramatic as all that.
No, it was simply love, the desire to live a normal life, like any woman. This was what I myself did not have the courage to face. And so I did not think, even for a moment, that my sweet, simple sister did.
But I was wrong.