The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [45]
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