Marc Olden - Poe must die

Figg said, “That night in the palace, we was all pleased with your little Tom Thumb. Like a pretty little doll he was, leapin’ about and him no bigger than a tot’s toy. Dancin’, singin’, tellin’ jokes.”

Poe found the idea of a midget like Tom Thumb having such a hold on the public to be abominable. People had no desire to think. Divert, entertain, bamboozle and deceive them as did Barnum and you had free and easy access to their purses and brains forever.

Barnum squeaked at the two Negroes stuffing the eagle. “For God’s sake, do not damage his eyes! And I want both wings wired, both.” He turned back to his guests. “Please forgive me. The darker brother must be consistently guided down life’s more thorny paths. You were saying Mr. Figg?”

“Yes. I was sayin’ how pleased we all was with Tom Thumb, him bein’ so little and so capable and all.”

“I never let on his real age,” said Barnum. “He was five when I found him in Connecticut with his family but I told the world he was eleven. These days I forget how old Charlie really is.”

“That night at the palace you and him was backin’ out down a long gallery. The Lord-in-waitin’, he was bowin’ out behind you, showin’ you the way, he was.”

Barnum grinned. “Protocol.”

“Well, you and the lord was doin’ just fine. But Tom Thumb, his legs was too small to back up as fast as you two so he kept turnin’ and runnin’ after you, then he went back to backin’ out. Then he’d turn and run some more and back out some more.”

Barnum’s roar exploded in the narrow stairway.

“And somethin’ else, Mr. Barnum. Whilst you two was backin’ out, the Queen’s little poodle, it runs and attacks Tom Thumb who is now fightin’ for ‘is life. He ‘ad this little cane, Thumb did, and he uses it like a tiny sword and he’s really goin’ at it with this poodle and we was all laughin’ til the tears come to our eyes.”

Barnum wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “I remember. Oh how I remember.”

“Then Mr. Barnum, I runs to the window and I sees you and Tom Thumb outside and I sees the two of you smilin’ at each other. I sees you bow to each other, then you picks up Tom Thumb and you puts him in your carriage and the two of you drive off.”

“My fortune was made that night, sir. With my command appearance at the palace of your twenty-five-year-old queen, my fortune was made. From that moment on, I have stood in a shower of gold.”

Poe didn’t look at Barnum when he spoke. “You have done well, particularly when it comes to advertising yourself.”

“I have sir, I have. Advertising is to a genuine article what manure is to land-it largely increases the product.”

Poe didn’t mean to criticize Barnum, but the poet’s sharp tongue had been the habit of a lifetime. “Is it not a fact that your articles are not always genuine? I am referring to your luring people to see your embalmed ‘Feejee Mermaid’ who turned out to be a concoction of half fish, half monkey and no mermaid at all. Or what about ‘The Great Model of Niagara Falls,’ which was only eighteen inches high. You were not advertising the genuine article when you told the world about these attractions.”

Barnum chuckled. “No sir, I was not. I have been called charlatan, hoaxer, deceiver and deceptor deluxe. I have been called controversial but never have I been called dull. It may be said that I occasionally trick the people of this young republic but I invariably give them a good show. I understand and cater to the common man, the average man and therein lies my success and I might add, my acceptability by one and all. You and I, Mr. Poe, are paddlers in the same canoe. We have this hoaxing business in common.”

Poe sneered. “Do we? I write truthfully, sir. Not merely for money, but for truth.”

He didn’t like the grin that eased its way across Barnum’s wide mouth. “Mr. Poe, you are not always truthful. Four years ago you published a story in the New York Sun newspaper about eight people who crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a passenger balloon, a trip your story claimed took a mere three days.”

Poe held his breath, pressing his lips together tightly. Then forcing himself to smile, he said, “I was newly arrived in the city and in desperate need of money to support my sick wife and aged mother-in-law.”

“It was a hoax, sir.”

“It was.”

“And a most effective one. All copies of that newspaper were purchased.”

“Not too much later, I did better with my pen though not exceedingly better financially.”

Barnum nodded. “I am well aware. ‘The Raven’, it was called. A poem to strike terror in the hearts of all who read it. Ah, I think these two darkies are beginning to triumph over that dead fowl. Well, Mr. Figg, I must ask you the question, one I have avoided these past few minutes. You do not intend to discuss the matter of your wife’s death with the authorities?”

“No sir, I do not. I have been told by Mr. Dickens and others that the police in this here city are not the finest.”

“Hmmmm. They do have their lapses, yes. And so you intend to seek out those members of the Renaissance Players who have offended you and deal with them in your own fashion.”

“Yes sir, I do.”

Barnum scratched his bulbous nose. “I want no part of this, allow me to state at the outset. I have only your word as to what occurred, though I have read your letters of introduction from Mr. Charles Dickens to Mr. Poe and Mr. Titus Bootham. Granted they could be forgeries, though I doubt it. In any case, I cannot condone the slaughter of those in my employ. So allow me to say this: I ask only that you not shed blood in my museum, sir. It is my life’s work and there are women and children gathered here at all times in anticipation of merriment and the finest of informative entertainment.”

Boxer, beware the manure, thought Poe.

Barnum cleared his throat. “Mr. Figg, please give me your word that you will not secure your revenge anywhere on my property. Naturally, I have no control over what you do elsewhere.”

“You have me word, Mr. Barnum.”

“Excellent. Then I shall tell you that the Renaissance Players are staying at the second boarding house two blocks west of the Hotel Astor. But before you race off for a confrontation, know that they are on loan for a day. There is a dying man over in Brooklyn who all of his life had wished to see travelling players, clowns and such. He is the father of a youngster in my employ. I sent the Renaissance Players and others to this man’s farm, where they are giving a private performance for him and his family.”

Figg nodded gravely. Decent of you, Mr. Barnum.”

Surprisingly so, thought poe. But then again, not so surprising since Barnum was known to commit an impulsive act of kindness when not promoting himself with all-out vigor.

“They are due back sometime on the morrow. But I do have your promise that nothing will happen inside these walls?”

“You do, sir.”

There were footsteps behind Poe and Figg, who turned to see the blond youth coming down the stairs at top speed. “Mr. Barnum, Mr. Barnum, the goat has stopped shitting! The goat has stopped shitting!”

Barnum pushed his way between Poe and Figg and towards the boy. “Praise be. What is wrong boy? You seem troubled.”

“We have caught a pickpocket upstairs sir and no one knows what to do with him.”

The showman shook his rough head. “Pickpockets are trouble. But catch one and shut him up and tell all that a live pickpocket may be seen for a quarter, you will draw fools and some who are not.” To Poe and Figg-“Gentlemen, please excuse me” and he was gone, pushing the blond boy ahead of him, leaving Poe and Figg behind with the odor of the dead bald eagle.