Struggles and Triumphs · Chapter 6 (1/2)

An amusing incident occurred when we were at Hanover Court House, in Virginia. It rained so heavily that we could not perform there and Turner decided to start for Richmond immediately after dinner, when he was informed by the landlord that as our agent had engaged three meals and lodging for the whole company, the entire bill must be paid whether we went then, or next morning. No compromise could be effected with the stubborn landlord and so Turner proceeded to get the worth of his money as follows:

He ordered dinner at twelve o’clock, which was duly prepared and eaten. The table was cleared and reset for supper at half-past twelve. At one o’clock we all went to bed, every man carrying a lighted candle to his room. There were thirty-six of us and we all undressed and tumbled into bed as if we were going to stay all night. In half an hour we rose and went down to the hot breakfast which Turner had demanded and which we found smoking on the table. Turner was very grave, the landlord was exceedingly angry, and the rest of us were convulsed with laughter at the absurdity of the whole proceeding. We disposed of our breakfast as if we had eaten nothing for ten hours and then started for Richmond with the satisfaction that we fairly settled with our unreasonable landlord.

At Richmond, after performances were over one night, I managed to partially pay Turner for his Avery trick. A dozen or more of us were enjoying ourselves in the sitting room of the hotel, telling stories and singing songs, when some of the company proposed sundry amusing arithmetical questions, followed by one from Turner, which was readily solved. Hoping to catch Turner I then proposed the following problem:

“Suppose a man is thirty years of age and he has a child one year of age; he is thirty times older than his child. When the child is thirty years old, the father, being sixty, is only twice as old as his child. When the child is sixty the father is ninety, and therefore only one-third older than the child. When the child is ninety the father is one hundred and twenty, and therefore only one-fourth older than the child. Thus you see, the child is gradually but surely gaining on the parent, and as he certainly continues to come nearer and nearer, in time he must overtake him. The question therefore is, suppose it was possible for them to live long enough, how old would the father be when the child overtook him and became of the same age?”

The company generally saw the catch; but Turner was very much interested in the problem, and although he admitted he knew nothing about arithmetic he was convinced that as the son was gradually gaining on the father he must reach him if there was time enough⁠—say, a thousand years, or so⁠—for the race. But an old gentleman gravely remarked that the idea of a son becoming as old as his father while both were living was simply nonsense, and he offered to bet a dozen of champagne that the thing was impossible, even “in figures.” Turner, who was a betting man, and who thought the problem might be proved, accepted the wager; but he was soon convinced that however much the boy might relatively gain upon his father, there would always be thirty years difference in their ages. The champagne cost him $25, and he failed to see the fun of my arithmetic, though at last he acknowledged that it was a fair offset to the Avery trick.

We went from Richmond to Petersburg, and from that place to Warrenton, North Carolina, where, October 30th, my engagement expired with a profit to myself of $1,200. I now separated from the circus company, taking Vivalla, James Sanford, (a negro singer and dancer,) several musicians, horses, wagons, and a small canvas tent with which I intended to begin a travelling exhibition of my own. My company started and Turner took me on the way in his own carriage some twenty miles. We parted reluctantly and my friend wished me every success in my new venture.

On Saturday, November 12, 1836, we halted at Rocky Mount Falls, North Carolina, and on my way to the Baptist Church, Sunday morning, I noticed a stand and benches in a grove near by, and determined to speak to the people if I was permitted. The landlord who was with me said that the congregation, coming from a distance to attend a single service, would be very glad to hear a stranger and I accordingly asked the venerable clergyman to announce that after service I would speak for half an hour in the grove. Learning that I was not a clergyman, he declined to give the notice, but said that he had no objection to my making the announcement, which I did, and the congregation, numbering about three hundred, promptly came to hear me.

I told them I was not a preacher and had very little experience in public speaking; but I felt a deep interest in matters of morality and religion, and would attempt, in a plain way, to set before them the duties and privileges of man. I appealed to every man’s experience, observation and reason, to confirm the Bible doctrine of wretchedness in vice and happiness in virtue. We cannot violate the laws of God with impunity, and he will not keep back the wages of well-doing. The outside show of things is of very small account. We must look to realities and not to appearances. “Diamonds may glitter on a vicious breast,” but “the soul’s calm sunshine and the heartfelt joy is virtue’s prize.” The rogue, the passionate man, the drunkard, are not to be envied even at the best, and a conscience hardened by sin is the most sorrowful possession we can think of. I went on in this way, with some scriptural quotations and familiar illustrations, for three-quarters of an hour. At the close of my address several persons took me by the hand, expressing themselves as greatly pleased and desiring to know my name; and I went away with the feeling that possibly I might have done some good in the beautiful grove on that charming Sunday morning.

When we were at Camden, South Carolina, Sanford suddenly left me, and as I had advertised negro songs and none of my company was competent to fill Sanford’s place, not to disappoint my audience, I blacked myself and sung the advertised songs, “Zip Coon,” etc., and to my surprise was much applauded, while two of the songs were encored. One evening after singing my songs I heard a disturbance outside the tent and going to the spot found a person disputing with my men. I took part on the side of the men, when the person who was quarrelling with them drew a pistol and exclaiming, “you black scoundrel! how dare you use such language to a white man,” he proceeded to cock it. I saw that he thought I was a negro and meant to blow my brains out. Quick as thought I rolled my sleeve up, showed my skin, and said, “I am as white as you are, sir.” He dropped his pistol in positive fright and begged my pardon. My presence of mind saved me.

On four different occasions in my life I have had a loaded pistol pointed at my head and each time I have escaped death by what seemed a miracle. I have also often been in deadly peril by accidents, and when I think of these things I realize my indebtedness to an all-protecting Providence. Reviewing my career, too, and considering the kind of company I kept for years and the associations with which I was surrounded and connected, I am surprised as well as grateful that I was not ruined. I honestly believe that I owe my preservation from the degradation of living and dying a loafer and a vagabond, to the single fact that I was never addicted to strong drink. To be sure, I have in times past drank liquor, but I have generally wholly abstained from intoxicating beverages, and for more than twenty years past, I am glad to say, I have been a strict “teetotaller.”

At Camden I lost one of my musicians, a Scotchman named Cochran, who was arrested for advising the negro barber who was shaving him to run away to the Free States or to Canada. I made every effort to effect Cochran’s release, but he was imprisoned more than six months.

While I was away from home I generally wrote twice a week to my family and received letters nearly as often from my wife. One of her letters, which I received in Columbia, South Carolina, informed me it was currently reported in Connecticut that I was under sentence of death in Canada for murder! The story grew out of a rumor about a difficulty in Canada between some rowdies and a circus company⁠—not Turner’s⁠—for we met his troupe at Columbia, December 5, 1836. That company was then to be disbanded and I bought four horses and two wagons and hired Joe Pentland and Robert White to join my company. White, as a negro-singer, would relieve me from that roll, and Pentland, besides being a capital clown, was celebrated as a ventriloquist, comic singer, balancer, and legerdemain performer. My reinforced exhibition was called “Barnum’s Grand Scientific and Musical Theater.”

Some time previously, in Raleigh, North Carolina, I had sold one-half of my establishment to a man, whom I will call Henry, who now acted as treasurer and ticket-taker. At Augusta, Georgia, the sheriff served a writ upon this Henry for a debt of $500. As Henry had $600 of the company’s money in his possession, I immediately procured a bill of sale of all his property in the exhibition and returned to the theater where Henry’s creditor and the creditor’s lawyer were waiting for me. They demanded the keys of the stable so as to levy on the horses and wagons. I begged delay till I could see Henry, and they consented. Henry was anxious to cheat his creditor and he at once signed the bill of sale. I returned and informed the creditor that Henry refused to pay or compromise the claim. The sheriff then demanded the keys of the stable door to attach Henry’s interest in the property. “Not yet,” said I, showing a bill of sale, “you see I am in full possession of the property as entire owner. You confess that you have not yet levied on it, and if you touch my property, you do it at your peril.”

They were very much taken aback and the sheriff immediately conveyed Henry to prison. The next day I learned that Henry owed his creditors thirteen hundred dollars and that he had agreed when the Saturday evening performance was ended to hand over five hundred dollars (company money) and a bill of sale of his interest, in consideration of which one of the horses was to be ready for him to run away with, leaving me in the lurch! Learning this, I had very little sympathy for Henry and my next step was to secure the five hundred dollars he had secreted. Vivalla had obtained it from him to keep it from the sheriff; I received it from Vivalla, on Henry’s order, as a supposed means of procuring bail for him on Monday morning. I then paid the creditor the full amount obtained from Henry as the price of his half interest in the exhibition and received in return an assignment of five hundred dollars of the creditor’s claims and a guaranty that I should not be troubled by my late partner on that score. Thus, promptness of action and good luck relieved me from one of the most unpleasant positions in which I had ever been placed.

While travelling with our teams and show through a desolate part of Georgia, our advertiser, who was in advance of the party, finding the route, on one occasion, too long for us to reach a town at night, arranged with a poor widow woman named Hayes to furnish us with meals and let us lodge in her hut and outhouses. It was a beggarly place, belonging to one of the poorest of “poor whites.” Our horses were to stand out all night, and a farmer, six miles distant, was to bring a load of provender on the day of our arrival. Bills were then posted announcing a performance under a canvas tent near Widow Hayes’s, for, as a show was a rarity in that region, it was conjectured that a hundred or more small farmers and “poor whites” might be assembled and that the receipts would cover the expenses.

Meanwhile, our advertiser, who was quite a wag, wrote back informing us of the difficulties of reaching a town on that part of our route and stating that he had made arrangements for us to stay overnight on the plantation of “Lady Hayes,” and that although the country was sparsely settled, we could doubtless give a profitable performance to a fair audience.

Anticipating a fine time on this noble “plantation,” we started at four o’clock in the morning so as to arrive at one o’clock, thus avoiding the heat of the afternoon. Towards noon we came to a small river where some men, whom we afterwards discovered to be down-east Yankees, from Maine, were repairing a bridge. Every flooring plank had been taken up and it was impossible for our teams to cross. “Could the bridge be fixed so that we could go over?” I inquired; “No; it would take half a day, and meantime if we must cross, there was a place about sixteen miles down the river where we could get over.” “But we can’t go so far as that; we are under engagement to perform on Lady Hayes’s place tonight and we must cross here. Fix the bridge and we will pay you handsomely.”

They wanted no money, but if we would give them some tickets to our show they thought they might do something for us. I gladly consented and in fifteen minutes we crossed that bridge. The cunning rascals had seen our posters and knew we were coming; so they had taken up the planks of the bridge and had hidden them till they had levied upon us for tickets, when the floor was re-laid in a quarter of an hour. We laughed heartily at the trick and were very glad to cross so cheaply.

Towards dinner time, we began to look out for the grand mansion of “Lady Hayes,” and seeing nothing but little huts we quietly pursued our journey. At one o’clock⁠—the time when we should have arrived at our destination⁠—I became impatient and riding up to a poverty-stricken hovel and seeing a ragged, barefooted old woman, with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, who was washing clothes in front of the door, I inquired⁠—

“Hallo! can you tell me where Lady Hayes lives?”

The old woman raised her head, which was covered with tangled locks and matted hair, and exclaimed⁠—

“Hey?”

“No, Hayes, Lady Hayes; where is her plantation?”

“This is the place,” she answered; “I’m Widder Hayes and you are all to stay here tonight.”

We could not believe our ears or eyes; but after putting the dirty old woman through a severe cross-examination she finally produced a contract, signed by our advertiser, agreeing for board and lodging for the company and we found ourselves booked for the night. It appeared that our advertiser could find no better quarters in that forlorn section and he had indulged in a joke at our expense by exciting our appetites and imaginations in anticipation of the luxuries we should find in the magnificent mansion of “Lady Hayes.”

Joe Pentland grumbled, Bob White indulged in some very strong language, and Signor Vivalla laughed. He had travelled with his monkey and organ in Italy and could put up with any fare that offered. I took the disappointment philosophically, simply remarking that we must make the best of it and compensate ourselves when we reached a town next day.

When the old woman called us to dinner we crept into her hut and found that she had improvised benches at her table by placing boards upon the only four chairs in her possession, and at that, some of us were obliged to stand. The dinner consisted of a piece of boiled smoked bacon, a large dish of “greens,” and corn bread. Three plates, two knives, and three forks made up the entire table furniture and compelled a resort to our jackknives. “A short horse is soon curried,” and dinner was speedily despatched. It did not seem possible for an audience to assemble in that forsaken quarter, and we concluded not to take the canvas tent out of the wagon.