Fiddlehead

The president considered this, and said, “He should keep the gun for now, unless we get any other good ideas that require it. But I hope it doesn’t come to that. If everything goes to hell, he might need a last defense, though I hope it doesn’t come to that, either. It’s a wonder he can even hold one.… Goddammit, what’s taking so long down there?”

“I could go and find out.”

“No, because if you don’t come back, then I’m really up a creek. Stay here, and take shots at anything you see moving past the edge of that quilt, you got it?”

Grant shuffled low and fast back into the hall, even though it made his knees ache. All along the hall the other doors were shut. When he tried one he found it locked—and saw no key—so that was good. Maybe Wellers had done it, or maybe the Lincolns kept half the place closed up tight at any given time. Didn’t matter. It was another line of defense.

He went ahead and ran the rest of the way, a

“What are you…?” he began to ask, but realized the answer before he finished the question.

Without stopping her task, Mary answered him anyway. “One of the windows broke from the shooting outside. The bullet went into that painting over there,” she complained.

Wellers finished the explanation. “But I’d like to see a bullet break through a wall made of books.”

Abe smiled, a smile you’d only recognize as such if you knew how hard it was for him to move his face. “It’s a good thing I have so many.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Grant conceded. “Wellers, did you get the far entrance secured?”

“Yes, sir. Took me a minute, because I had to draw a sideboard across it, but I think the sideboard was made of lead.”

Mary shook her head. “Oh dear, Aunt Agatha’s sideboard? No, but it’s rosewood, and filled with silver. You’ll hurt your back, dragging around furniture like that!”

“My back is just fine, and they’ll have a hell of a time opening the door past your Aunt Agatha’s sideboard,” he said, grunting as he stacked another armload of books—up over his head now. “Almost done with this,” he promised.

Mary noted, “It doesn’t need to go all the way to the top. Unless they’re standing on stilts, they’ll never get a bullet that high.”

Lincoln’s smile faded, and his good eye stared into space. “I need to get in touch with Allan Pinkerton. I have to send him a wire as soon as possible.”

Wellers finished with the last of his books, and wiped his dusty palms on the top of his thighs. “If we can get a wire out to anybody, we need to send word to the District office. If we can get their attention, they can send agents to help us.”

More shots erupted outside, and were answered by Gideon Bardsley from within.

“I’ll get back there and help him,” Grant said, giving up on the idea of signaling for aid. “Wellers, when you’re done here, make a pass of the back of the house. Bardsley said he’d secured it, and I believe him, but they’ll be circling so we need to circle, too.”

“I can help,” Polly said. “I can … I can sneak out through the cellar. Take a message to the District office, if you need me to.”

“That’s very brave of you, dear,” Grant said kindly. But with the lights out and armed gunmen surrounding the place, it’d be a suicide mission at the very best, and he wouldn’t have it on his watch. “But let’s not resort to such drastic measures yet. The Lincolns need you here now. Abe, maybe you ought to give her your gun and let her stand guard.”

“I’ll give it to Mary, when she’s satisfied with the blockade. She’s an excellent shot, and I don’t know about Polly’s prowess with a weapon.”

“I’m no good at all,” Polly admitted.

Mary Lincoln said to Grant, “Polly’s idea might be a good one. Draw her up a message, and let her run with it.”

“No.” He was thinking of Betsey Frye, who’d last run errands for him. He couldn’t do that to this girl, too. “Not yet. They’re getting the lay of the land, watching the house from every angle. They’ll shoot her if they see her.”

“They might shoot me even if they don’t. They’re tearing up the house right good, Mr. Grant,” she said, some kind of terrible plea in her eyes.

She was afraid, and she wanted to run. Grant understood, but he also understood that if she ran, they’d chase her. “How about this,” he started, but when another gunshot rang out from the front door where that colored scientist was valiantly holding down the fort, he spoke more quickly. “Let us figure out how many there are and where they’ve stationed themselves. At some point they’ll dig in and call for assistance, but not quite yet. They’re still trying to decide how many of us are in here, and how strong we are, and how determined we are to hold our ground. There’ll come a window, Polly—a window when it’ll be safer than it is right now. When that window comes, I’ll give you the note and send you ru

She nodded gravely.

He turned on his heels and dashed back down the hall, knowing he’d lied to her, but that it was necessary. The truth was, he’d only send her if it got so bad she was just as likely to die on the road as in the house. They’d see her in a heartbeat, even if she found a good dark cloak.

The Lincoln crew was already outnumbered—heavily so, he suspected—and he guessed they’d already sent for assistance; he knew it in his bones, like Abe sometimes said. In another few minutes—maybe more, maybe less—they’d be farther outnumbered and outgu

No. She was safer inside. They all were, for now. That could change in an instant. Then again, it might not.

He counted the variables.

Someone would’ve heard all the shooting, that was a virtual certainty. Who would they summon? The real police? Some local night watchman? Neighbors or friends? It was as likely as not that someone would rouse the nearest Pinkerton office. Everyone knew that Lincoln relied on them—his affiliation with them was the stuff of history books—and the District office was one of the largest outside of Chicago, second only to New York. They weren’t the law, but they were lawful, so long as they were paid.

All right, then. Let it be mercenary against mercenary, and may the best army win.

But until reinforcements arrived by the gift of fortune or could be flagged down, Grant had a fortress to secure. And despite the peril to himself and to his friends, and the potential damage to his legacy for murdering a man on a stoop, and the fact that the fate of the nation—the fate of the continent, as Bardsley liked to remind him!—was on his shoulders … for the first time in months, he was sober. He was certain. He was ready.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Eighteen

“Can you see it anywhere?” Maria asked, sca

“Along the road ahead of us, I think. We’ll catch up to it soon; we’re flying faster than that big old cargo cruiser, even with the thruster working fu

They were both cold and uncomfortable, and still shaky from the firefight they’d left behind them and weather that simply wouldn’t cut them a break. But the clock was ticking, and a weapon of unparalleled, poorly understood destruction was crawling toward the Confederacy’s biggest metropolitan area.