POE MUST DIE (21 page)

He looked at Poe and Figg. “Upstairs I have on exhibition such eye-catching marvels as the wooden leg of Santa Ana, a bearded woman who stands nine feet tall and weighs four hundred and twenty pounds and I have fleas in my employ, sir, fleas who do the most astounding things. Upstairs there are jugglers, a family of pig-faced humans, lecturers on every topic know to human reason, ventriloquists and the one and only General Tom Thumb, that thirty inches of marvelous man, a midget born but a giant among giants. But tonight, tonight I am cursed with a goat who gives every indication of shitting forty days and forty nights and two fumble-figgered Ethiopians on the verge of being defeated by a dead eagle. Gentlemen, I find the odor in this room taxing. Let us retire to the stairs where we can converse and I can gaze down upon these two slackers as they rob me of a week’s salary.”

From the bottom step, Barnum watched the two Negros prepare the bald eagle for exhibition; Poe and Figg stood a few steps above him, Figg doing most of the talking, his husky voice telling Barnum in plain words of his murdered wife, of Jonathan, and of the men he had followed from London to Barnum’s American Museum. Poe noticed that no mention was made of the brutal way in which Althea Figg had died.

A frowning Barnum turned to look at Figg. “My deepest sympathies on the death of your wife, sir. I can only imagine your sorrow, though I know that should such a fate befall my darling Charity, I would be crushed. I can tell you that such men as you describe are with me now and yes, the Renaissance Players you refer to did recently join me from London, at my express invitation. Their arrival does coincide with the time you claim they departed England. I encountered them during my final year in Europe. Some four years ago, I first visited your country, dividing my time between England and the continent for more than three years.”

Poe was astounded when Figg said, “I was at Buckingham Palace the night of yer first command performance before our gracious Queen.”

Barnum’s eyebrows quickly climbed to the top of his round face. “You were present on that momentous occasion?”

“I was indeed.”

“Ah, let me say that this was a night for the ages. Charlie—what I call General Tom Thumb, for Charles S. Stratton is his Christian name—Charlie and I dressed for the occasion, him in brown silk and velvet, the both of us in knee britches. Two Yankees in the court of courts. Your indeed gracious Queen, sir, was instrumental in making my fortune, for after having been received at court, the world then became my oyster and since then I have dined well.”

A curious Poe asked Figg the reason for his being at Buckingham Palace.

“I was the guest of the Duke of Wellington and Prince Albert hisself. There was some talk about me teachin’ the Prince of Wales the use of his fists, as every gentleman should know somethin’ of this art. But the Prince he was only three at the time and it was decided that he was too young.”

Barnum said, “Mr. Poe mentioned earlier that you are acquainted with Mr. Charles Dickens, whom I also met in London. Mr. Dickens is a most successful author, a man expert at generating large sums of money for his work.”

Poe shifted uncomfortably on the steps. He saw Figg look at him, then look at Barnum and say, “’E’s ‘ad ‘is hard times, Mr. Dickens has. ’E’s been cheated more than once and some of his friends ain’t really his friends, if you know what I mean.”

Barnum nodded, silently encouraging to continue.

Figg said, “Indeed Mr. Dickens is quite successful, sir—”

“His cash register rings,” said Barnum. It was a sound dear to the showman’s ear, Poe noted.

“Here now,” said Figg. “It ain’t all that simple. You gets to be high and mighty and other people always resent it. They don’t want you lookin’ down on them. Mr. Dickens ain’t no different. He’s got those what envy him and are more than jealous besides. Mr. William Thackeray, ‘e jealous. Mr. Thomas Carlyle, ’e says Mr. Dickens ain’t nothin’ but an entertainer and both these gents, Thackeray and Carlyle, they are ‘spose to be friends of Mr. Dickens. Mr. Alfred Tennyson is a friend, leastwise I think ‘e is, but with that long face he carries ‘round with him, one can never tell. I know for a fact that Mr. Dickens has been betrayed and hurt on more than one occasion and I don’t mean just in regards to his purse. The world will harm you if it can, I figure.”

For a few seconds, Poe had the feeling that Figg was showing him some tiny bit of sympathy. But the writer quickly rejected the idea. How could someone as close to a Neanderthal as Figg was, be blessed with even a modicum of sensitivity. Yet Figg had been in the company of some of the most creative men in the English language and what’s more, he seemed to have a speck of insight into their real attitude towards Charles Dickens. Either that, or perhaps Figg was given to lying which Poe didn’t believe he was.

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.

“’E’s a man on fire, that one,” said Figg. “Seems to whirl about like a spinnin’ top.”

Poe started slowly walking up the stairs. “He makes money because people want to know if what he sells is real or humbug. First he tricks them and then they pay to hear him tell how he did it. Barnum could swindle a man out of twenty dollars and the man would give a quarter to hear Barnum tell of it. I have an intense desire to avoid all eagles in the future, living or dead. Tomorrow the Renaissance Players, I assume.”

“You assume correct.”

“Forgive me if I do not join the slaughter.”

Poe would always remember Figg’s soft, husky voice. “There will be no forgiveness for me until I do what has to be done.”

Poe, hearing the determination to destroy in the boxer’s voice, continued climbing the stairs, keeping his thoughts to himself.

That had been hours ago.

Now Poe, staring up at the ceiling, felt Figg nudge him.