The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [55]
Papa sat next to me with his eyes squeezed shut; the moment the train had pulled out of the station in Middleborough, he had paled. Upon my suggestion that he look at the scenery, beginning to pass by ever faster, he turned decidedly green. From that moment on, he had refused to open his eyes or move his head; he sat as straight and stiff as a corpse against the hard back of his seat. I patted his hand in sympathy; his occasional squeeze was the sole indication I had that he had not passed on to the Great Beyond.
I was sorry for him, but even that could not dampen my excitement, excitement that had been building ever since that fateful afternoon a month ago when a Mr. Fuller had sent word—by telegram! We had never seen such a thing!—that, acting on behalf of Mr. Phineas Taylor Barnum, he, Mr. Fuller, would very much like to meet me.
Oh, the stir this simple message caused! Mama began cleaning right away, even as she and Papa argued with me about the obvious intent of the coming visit. Did I have any idea what I might be getting myself into? Why couldn’t I just stay home like the rest of their children? (Although when I pointed out that two of their sons were soldiers, they pretended not to hear.) Did I have no heart in me? Had I so enjoyed being surrounded by morally depraved show people that I was eager to escape the bosom of a Christian home to take up with them again? And that Barnum? That master of humbug! What might he do, in my name, in the good name of this good family, to dupe the public once more?
And most frequently asked of all the questions my parents hurtled at me, when they weren’t tidying and scrubbing and consoling Minnie, who flew into tears at the thought of another stranger coming to take me away—
How? How on earth had he heard of me? It had been almost two years since I had made my escape from the clutches of Colonel Wood (they made it sound so dramatic, I wondered if they pictured me running barefoot through a swamp just like Eliza in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, pursued by alligators, show folk, and Rebel soldiers) and come back, safe and sound, so they didn’t have to worry about me any longer. How had that Barnum (for this was how they began to refer to him, “that Barnum,” as if he had no other Christian name) heard of me in that time?
Naturally, I declined to join in this last speculation. For of course I knew: I was the one who had told him. That letter I mailed back in December—that had been my ticket out into the world, I dearly hoped.
And so it would seem to have proved. Mr. Fuller duly arrived; we chatted in the parlor (where I tried very hard to push away the memory of Colonel Wood’s fateful visit). I showed him my press clippings, the letters written to me by many a fine citizen of the West. I saved the most distinguished letter for last; in this late summer of 1862, any mention of Mr. Grant, with whom I had passed such a charming hour in Galena, was extremely impressive, indeed. After the Battle of Fort Donelson, when he had demanded “unconditional and immediate surrender” of the Rebel troops, Major General Ulysses S. Grant had become a household name. I could see that Mr. Fuller was very taken by my account of that visit and the letter of thanks, in Mrs. Grant’s hand, that had reached me on the boat.
Mr. Fuller departed with no indication of what he felt about me and my clippings, which worried me, even as it enabled Mama and Papa to cease their fretting. But Mr. Fuller must have made a favorable report to Mr. Barnum, for the former was soon back again, armed this time with a contract. At this point Mama and Papa began to protest even more forcibly. In the most polite language—and while simultaneously serving Mr. Fuller some of her most delicate shortbread cookies and tea—Mama made it known that she did not trust Mr. Barnum’s reputation for telling lies to the public, as she saw it.
“Perhaps we should meet Mr. Barnum himself,” I finally suggested, in desperation.