Fiddlehead

“No. There shouldn’t be.”

A volley of shots hailed from outside. When they paused, Grant kept as much cover as he could and smashed out the last of the glass at the bottom corner of the nearest window.

The outside lights still burned for the moment, but if the assailants had any sense, they’d rectify the situation momentarily. He couldn’t believe they’d left them alight this long. It was an amateur move. Maybe he hadn’t given the police force enough credit: Surely someone in an authentic uniform would know to meet darkness with darkness.

Keeping his head low, he peered past the curtains. The wind was cold and hard. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t close them; he gazed long and hard across the lawn, back and forth across the boundaries. A row of trees to the east gave cover to at least one man—he saw motion, a shifting of position from this tree to the next one, hopscotching closer. He waited for the man to dash for the next tree, and when he did, Grant fired a shot at him.

Between the distance, the wind, and his own precarious angle, the odds were against hitting him. But he was good—damn good—and managed to hit a trunk close enough to make the man dive back for his original position.

One more shot for good measure. Make the bastard keep his head down.

Three more bullets answered him, but nothing hit close to home. One more windowpane broke. That was a shame, but he’d figure out how to repay the Lincolns later. Maybe he could sue Haymes for the damages. The thought put a smile on his face.

Now, where were the rest of them?

A small orchard began where the lawn ended to the west. One or two men might be hiding there, easily. To the north lay the road, and on the other side of the road a ditch. Beyond the ditch, nothing but woods—all of them too far away to provide shelter for anything but a supernaturally skilled sharpshooter. No, the onslaught came from nearer than that.

He kept a wary eye on the lawn, until one bright assailant finally thought to shoot out the carriage lamps that lit up the sides of the house. It took him a few tries each, but a climactic shot took down the little lantern that illuminated the stoop, and now the playing field was more or less even.

Another bullet pinged inside the house, striking a tall clock hard enough to rock it.

Not much to be done about the windows and their frailty, but what about those curtains…? He wanted something heavier than the decorative cotton gauze. Something more like the blanket on the back of the couch in the parlor, come to think of it. Staying in a crouch, he went back to retrieve it, then used the door for cover as he hung it up over the window, blocking their view if not their ammunition.

But the window on the other side of the door was still a gaping hole in their defenses.

“Mister President!” Polly whispered. She’d snuck back down the stairs, her shape a doll-like shadow in the gloom. Only then did he realize how small she truly was.

“Polly, get back upstairs with Mrs. Lincoln!”

“Sir, I can’t. Mrs. Lincoln came downstairs before me. She’s in the library with Mr. Lincoln. I couldn’t stop her. If you know her at all, you’ll understand, sir, and you won’t yell at me about it.”

He gri

“Polly, have you ever shot a gun before?”

“No, sir, because I’m scared of them.”

“Are you scared right now?”

“Deathly, sir. Very, very deathly, if you don’t mind me saying. But I saw you cover the window with the blanket, and I had an idea about the other window.”

“Excellent. Tell me.”

“There’s another quilt down here. Robert’s old bedroom.”

“Can you get it for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Polly, be careful. But be quick.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and she was off.

More shots. These worried him, for they came from the other side of the house. He couldn’t leave his post, so he’d have to trust Gideon and Nelson. He had to believe that they’d regroup when they were able, but it was taking too long. They should’ve been back already.

In less than a minute, Polly returned with a quilt bundled under her arm. She collided gently with him in the darkness, partly because it was hard to see, and partly because things had gone quiet, and the poor girl had enough instinct for self-preservation to keep herself quiet, too.

“Here you go, sir,” she whispered close to his ear. “It’s not too heavy, but it’ll make it good and dark.”

“Excellent. Here, stand up right behind this door. It’s thicker than a Bible, and it’ll protect you. Hold up that side, and I’ll hold up this side. We’ll hang the ends over the curtain rods, all right?”

“Yes, sir. I think I can reach it.”

She had to throw her end of the blanket, but with a foot on the windowsill to give her a moment’s boost, she fulfilled her end of the assignment.

“Well done, dear,” he said to her, though now he could scarcely see her at all.

The interior of the house was as black as a tomb, except for soft, warm glows where the fireplaces yet burned—though they did little to warm the space anymore, or light it, either. Not with the windows gone and the wind screaming outside, driving around the eaves and wailing down the gutters. The blankets flapped and let shadows and light flicker through, a second at a time. But the weak glow showed them almost nothing.

Gideon Bardsley manifested behind the stairs once more, warning, “It’s me—don’t shoot.”

“Are the other two passages secure?”

“As secure as we can make them. But there’s nothing we can do about the windows except to cover them up, and avoid letting them see how many of us are inside.”

“Or how few,” Polly whispered.

“Now, you’ve been courageous so far. Keep your chin up. We have a handful of men with guns, ma

“I trust you.”

“Gideon, you’re right. We need to cover all the windows, at least on the first floor. That will be our next priority.”

“I already did it. The back entrance locks up easily, and fastens with a full-length beam. They’d need a horse to knock it down, and even if they had one, they probably couldn’t persuade it to help. So I took the long way back and drew all the curtains.”

“Excellent. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

The scientist paused, and when he said, “Thank you” Grant thought he almost sounded insulted.

“How many guns do you have on your person?” Grant asked him.

“Only the one.”

“What kind?”

“A Starr revolver.”

“Ah, another ’58 model. Good gun. How much ammunition?”

“A pocketful on me. More in my bag.”

“You always travel armed to the teeth?”

“Only when I’m wanted for murder.”

“Then today’s our lucky day.” Grant patted his own pockets to remind himself of his holdings. “I have a Remington and a fistful of cylinders.”

Bardsley snorted. “What about you? Do you always travel so heavy, yourself?”

“Only when warhawks are trying to assassinate me.”

Grant thought he saw Bardsley’s eyes roll, but in the dark he couldn’t be certain. “This isn’t an assassination attempt. They didn’t even know you’d be here.”

“They’re shooting at me all the same, and if they kill me, we both know what the history books will call it. Now, where the hell is Wellers?”

“He took the other wing, where Lincoln is. Might’ve stopped to look in on him.”

“Polly, go check.”

Polly dutifully crept away, relieved to be sent from the front of the fray.

“Mr. Grant,” Gideon said quietly, and closer to him than Grant expected. The man moved like a cat, for God’s sake. No wonder he’d stayed alive this long. “Lincoln has a gun as well. I don’t know how much ammunition he’s packed.”