Jenny and Barnum (16 page)

“St. Barnum the Humbug!” a man shouted.

Barnum bowed low and swung into the companionway. The twenty ministers, beards hanging from half their faces, were gathered in the shadows like lepers.

“What's the meaning of this, Barnum?”

“I've had a terrible accident. Up on deck, I stumbled, and the razors I had gathered in the tablecloth went over the side. They're at the bottom.”

“What about the other, the perfect steel razor?”

“That was among them, I'm afraid. You saw that it was undistinguishable from ordinary razors. I made the simple mistake of mixing it up with the others.”

“There was no perfect steel razor!” one of the ministers cried. “It was all a hoax!”

“You saw it!” Barnum shouted. “My mistake is
my
loss. That was the only one of its kind—the only razor in the world that could have been your salvation, I swear it. This could have been the opportunity of a lifetime for me! You've lost nothing!”

“What about our faces?”

“You've lost nothing but some hair! It will be growing back before the end of the week!”

“We can't go up on deck like this!”

“Why not?”

“You heard the laughter, you madman! You did this deliberately!”

Barnum's eyes narrowed. “There may not be a penalty for bearing false witness, but there is for libel. I know—I went to jail for it. You didn't know
that
about me, did you?”

“I heard what you were telling people up there,” the young one said.

“Bring us a razor!” another demanded imperiously.

Barnum was headed up the companionway. “There aren't any aboard. You'll shave when you get ashore. It's only a minor inconvenience.”

“You're holding us up to public ridicule!” the young one shouted.

“Show them a little forgiveness,” Barnum sneered. “That's your stock in trade, isn't it?”

On the river, small pilot cutters had swung alongside, the men aboard craning their necks to see what the kid was shouting about and was causing the crowd on the deck to raise such a ruckus. When Barnum reappeared, the crowd cheered him. From the distance across the water a man on one of the cutters recognized him, and people began shouting his name. On deck, a brave soul pushed past him to clamber down the companion-way to eye the ministers for himself. His whoop seemed to carry for miles, and he returned to the deck in a hysterical state, screaming at the top of his lungs.

More boats followed the steamer down to South Street, and a crowd gathered quickly on the dock, with people running from all directions. The ministers remained hiding below, even after their luggage was put ashore and the story of what had happened to them spread through the crowd. People were leaning out of windows, and boys were climbing to rooftops and ledges. Someone yelled Barnum's name, then someone else, and a chant went up. Barnum stayed on deck, talking with passengers unwilling to disembark before getting a good look at the ministers. The noise became deafening, and soon enough the captain was conferring with his superiors from the Paquet Line offices. Then the three of them trooped over to Barnum.

“You caused this!” the captain shouted. “You make it stop!”

Barnum stepped out on the gangplank, waved the crowd quiet, held its attention a moment—and kept on going. The crowd cheered. As he pushed his way through to South Street, people grabbed at his lapels and demanded to be told what was happening. He smiled and disengaged himself. Behind him, people were shouting and laughing louder than ever. When he reached the fringe of the crowd, a great roar shook the air. Barnum knew what it meant, but almost against his will, like Lot's wife, he looked back to see the ministers running the gauntlet through the mob, collars up to conceal their foolishness.

Now that the joke was done, Barnum almost felt sorry for them.

By nightfall, Barnum again was the talk of New York.

In St. Petersburg Tom Thumb came down with a grippe, and the remainder of the tour, already a nightmare, was canceled. It was ten days before the little General dared travel again, and then the weather turned foul with spring storms. If the troupe found itself marooned in Russia for another month, Tom Thumb would not have been surprised. Nothing would have surprised him.

Barnum had extended the tour too far, asked too much of his little friend. Barnum could not have known about Joe Gallagher's broken arm, of course, or that Gallagher would have to be left behind in London. All that that had meant was added work on the stage for Tom Thumb, who had originated most of Gallagher's roles anyway. No, the draining agony in the situation came from what Barnum must have foreseen, the competition between Gallagher and Tom Thumb for Lavinia Warren. In his present state of mind, Tom Thumb completely believed that Barnum had foreseen every bit of it. Lavinia had not spoken civilly to Tom Thumb since the storm at sea, and his feeling for her had turned from love to livid hatred. She had written to Gallagher every day the troupe was away from London, and there was no doubt in Tom Thumb's mind of what she had planned for Gallagher and herself as soon as she was in his presence—that is, if that event had not happened already. Tom Thumb would not have been surprised by that, either. He brooded on it, wondering if Gallagher and Lavinia had been together. Tom Thumb knew he would not be the first man to be so stupid as to think he knew a woman better than he really did. It didn't matter anyway, because it was
going
to happen. Tom Thumb knew Lavinia that well, at least. She had a look in her eyes as obvious as an unmade bed.

His own mood was murderous. Was he supposed to laugh or cry? He was twenty-seven pounds of rage—who could fail to appreciate the comedy of it? Had Barnum seen this in advance, too? Had he seen the spectacle, for instance, of his little friend showing his anger in front of strangers? Or had Barnum been able to see that a midget had no choice but to hide his full-sized feelings?

All the thoughts of a murderous man, Tom Thumb knew, but he was incapable of getting himself under control. As clearly as he was able to see what had happened to him, just as clearly he could not rein in fantasies of revenge, or fateful justice, or outright perversion. He kept away from people, even arranging the troupe's transportation back to England to gain maximum privacy for himself. Barnum was paying the bill, Tom Thumb kept reminding himself.

After Lavinia, Gallagher, and Barnum, Tom Thumb focused on Jenny Lind, and in his wilder moments he wondered just how directly she had contributed to his troubles. Barnum had fallen victim to some mass hypnosis, and had given her the opportunity to clean him out—which opportunity she had seized, to be sure! Barnum was crazy now, Tom Thumb was sure. As Tom Thumb understood Barnum's finances, the old humbug didn't have the money to rent the halls for Jenny Lind's performances. What the hell was he going to do?

At least the situation gave Tom Thumb an opportunity to square accounts with Barnum—in a small way, of course, as always. Tom Thumb had an idea of just how big a jerk Lind and Co. thought Barnum was. Tom Thumb could remember how she had laughed loudly in Vienna at the idea of a man Barnum's age writing his autobiography. According to Wilton—who had heard it from Judge Munthe—Lind hadn't even looked at the book. She'd sent it to Munthe directly, unopened. She didn't give a damn about Barnum, America, or anything else. She was going to make her money as quickly as possible and clear out.

She was already resting for the trip across the Atlantic. As soon as Munthe had his claws on the $187,500, she'd changed her schedule to give herself a full three weeks' rest before the late April crossing. By contrast, if the Russian tour had gone to its originally scheduled conclusion, the troupe would have sailed from Liverpool after only three days in England. The deal was exactly the way she wanted, Wilton told Tom Thumb. Wilton was thrilled about the whole thing—another one over the side, as far as Tom Thumb was concerned. Wilton said that in London they called it “Lindomania”—England had gone wild when she had decided to make her home in London.

So: no more than six songs per performance, no performances on consecutive nights, no
operatic
performances, fees for a conductor and a tenor—both of whom had to be featured at every performance (she had chosen her Italian tenor, the one in love with her; the story was that the conductor was in no better shape—backstage was going to be interesting, to say the least)—wages for her maid, the valet, a secretary, all transportation, reasonable expenses, and on and on. She had gotten Barnum and Wilton to agree to everthing but the golden barge. It was a wonder that she deigned to work at all.

But Tom Thumb really understood what was going on, and in his rare moments of sanity he could see his jealousy of Jenny Lind and his self-pity beyond. He had heard the same story everywhere in Europe, that she was the greatest of artists, a miracle beyond all imagining. Her throat was sensitive; she needed rest. Right now she was taking it—the matter was that simple. She understood herself and her needs and she was in a position to care for herself. As an entertainer, Tom Thumb understood it all. Having to save himself for his own singing and dancing had taught him the meaning of limits and what was required to stay within them.

The difference was that she was an artist. That he was an entertainer had nothing to do with his size. His wildest dreams—which included dreams of being full-sized—did not take him as far as Jenny Lind had traveled thus far in reality. Tom Thumb could not imagine so much for himself. For all the venom in him, he could not resist the truth about her, what he had been hearing about her over and over ever since Barnum first mentioned her name.

She
thrilled
people! Crowds burst into tears when she sang! In a century blossoming with genius of every kind, without doubt Jenny Lind was the greatest performing artist, possessor of what could be the most beautiful singing voice in the history of the world.

All the same, that did not mean she was not something of a witch. She needed a conductor and a tenor, to be sure, but did they have to be tormented fools in love with her? Tom Thumb believed his own experience gave him special understanding here. He liked being surrounded by people who agreed with him, who didn't upset him emotionally, who flattered his ego. Jenny Lind was taking it one more step—one large,
selfish
step. Tom Thumb thought he saw a clue in her sending Barnum's autobiography to Judge Munthe. Barnum might be a rare character and a genius in his own right, but Jenny Lind was making it clear that she didn't have to be bothered with him. She had his money. It was his job to arrange her performances. After that, he had no importance to her.

Perhaps she could get away with it. Her position could be that strong. But in Tom Thumb's experience Barnum was not that simple—life around Barnum was never simple—and Jenny Lind was doing herself a disservice by not learning all she could about the man who was going to introduce her to the other half of the civilized world.

A note from Wilton was waiting for Tom Thumb when he arrived at Claridge's:

General
—

I hope this finds you well, or at least on the mend. Let me know when I can pop around to discuss several matters of importance
.

Yours, etc.,

John Wilton

It did not seem promising. Tom Thumb wrote that he could come by that afternoon, sending the message down to the hotel desk for delivery. Here as in New York there were always plenty of urchins in the streets outside, waiting for the opportunity to be useful.

When Wilton arrived at the hotel after two o'clock he found Tom Thumb in bed, the pillows propped up, a waiter serving him a late lunch, which included a chilled white wine. Tom Thumb had decided on this show after thinking about what Wilton could have in mind. Wilton's eagerness to accommodate him now promised that the ultimate result would probably be far from accommodating. Tom Thumb had figured to start fighting back now. He had forgotten that the wine would get him drunk.

“Are you all right, General?”

“I'm a little weak. Want some herring? Fish is supposed to be good for you.”

“Ah, no. I just had lunch. I don't want to tire you. The last message I had from Barnum indicated that you can expect an arrival in New York unlike anything since Christopher Columbus sailed into the harbor—”

“That was Henry Hudson,” Tom Thumb said disgustedly.

Wilton smiled. “I knew I hadn't gotten it right.”

“Yeah, well, what does Barnum have planned?”

“He didn't say. You're not to worry about anything, however. He says that everything is well in hand.”

Without the money to hire a hall, Tom Thumb thought, that was some trick. “You didn't come all the way over here to tell me this,” Tom Thumb said.

“No,” said Wilton, glancing at the waiter.

“You want him out of here?”

“There's no point,” Wilton said. “It's about your Commodore Nutt. Since he's been a resident here, I don't suppose there are any secrets about him at Claridge's.”

The waiter didn't blink.

“Go ahead,” Tom Thumb said. “I think you could probably set the guy on fire before you'd get a rise out of him.”

“According to the gossip of London, that's the way you Americans like it,” Wilton said. “In any event, Gallagher has been a problem here in town. He's spent an extraordinary amount of money here at the hotel—”

“Has he been running girls in here?”

Wilton studied him. “I was going to say, ‘and elsewhere.' He's been reasonably discreet. Barnum tells me that New York is a city that caters to the private needs of men, too.”

“You should have shut him down,” Tom Thumb said.

“He wrote the checks anyway,” Wilton protested. “I had the choice of honoring them or triggering a scandal. Jenny Lind would not want to be associated with this sort of thing. Gallagher is a clever fellow, apparently. He could very well be taking advantage of the situation.”