The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [43]
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