The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [42]
“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,