Fiddlehead

A loud grunt and a moan, and then the clamor of something heavy being dropped. Close. Very close. Closer than they’d realized. But Gideon knew about punt guns, and he knew you had to be close to make one count.

“Go!” Grant said again, and this time the scientist didn’t argue.

He stood when he reached the hall and was safe from wandering bullets, only to run smack into Mary. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and before she could speak, he said, “Upstairs with you! I’ll send Polly, too, and both of you should run from window to window, and fire at anything that moves. Don’t let yourself be seen, understand?”

“Dr. Bardsley?” Polly squeaked from behind him.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes…”

“Then go, both of you. Get up there and stay there, and don’t come down until we give the all clear. Run!”

He released Mary’s shoulders and tried not to worry at how frail they felt beneath his fingers, and how small a woman she really was.

Down the other hall he ran—away from Lincoln, which he didn’t like, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. For now, no one was shooting down the corridor they were in, so he’d have to pick and choose.

Wellers was reloading. He had to be, for the inside defense had fallen silent. And, yes: As Gideon flung himself down beside his friend, he saw through the window’s shattered edge that men were approaching.

“Gideon! For God’s sake…” Wellers voice trailed off as his attention returned to his ammunition.

The interlopers wore scarves over their faces like ordinary burglars or bandits. For some reason the mundanity of it all offended Gideon. You’d think people would have the good grace to dress up for an assassination.

One man was nearly to the bushes. The fluffy things were half naked, courtesy of November, but they kept the house from being wholly open to the elements. Gideon flung the blanket aside and took aim, faster than Grant did, because he had less time: The man was right on him, close enough that he could see the fellow’s breath puffing out around his face in a foggy aura.

He fired, and caught the man square in the chest.

Even Mary couldn’t have missed him, he had come so near. Another man behind him swerved to avoid his compatriot’s body and began a sideways retreat, or revisal of strategy—but Wellers was on his feet now, and he fired, too.

Gideon couldn’t see what he hit, but the second man went down, and both the scientist and the doctor dropped back to cover. Now it was Wellers’s turn to shoot while Gideon reloaded everything he had. When he was done, he covered his friend so he could do the same. It was a brutal give-and-take, a frantic cooperation that had to work for them both to stay alive.

“You good?” Gideon asked.

“Good as I’m going to get. You hear that?”

Yes, he heard shots from the front of the house, and from the far end behind him as well. “Lincoln,” he murmured. “Stay here. I’ve got him.”

“You’re not the one being paid to protect him,” Wellers objected, climbing to his feet and hugging the wall to make himself as small a target as possible.

Another loud blast, similar to the one at the front door, shattered the window and blew the curtains halfway across the room. “More buckshot,” Gideon griped, which once again meant that someone was close.

Wellers whipped his gun hand around to squeeze off three fast shots, two of which hit home.

He ducked back as fire was returned, but Gideon leaned out and shot again—mostly wanting to see what had happened. Yes, there was a dead man on the lawn right before the protective hedge. Yes, a shotgun with a snubbed, sawed-short nose was lying in the grass beside him, its hardware shimmering in the moonlight. The new mercenaries were better armed, or differently armed; it all depended on how you looked at it.

In the trees, something moved. Two somethings.

“Gideon, stay here—I have to reach Lincoln.”

“Fine.”

Gideon took out his frustration on the two men nearest, right as they stepped out of the woods. Faces covered. One with a handgun, one with another big fowling gun—a punt gun, Grant had called it, and Gideon had heard them called shotguns by cavalrymen. Whatever they were called, he knew they were a deadly mix of imprecision and power—bad enough at a distance, and terrifying at any nearer range.

Wellers retreated in a crouched position. His shoes slid on the wood floor until they found the rug in the hall, and then he dashed.

Gideon returned his attention to the window and saw … nothing this time.

Nothing and no one, except the dead man on the ground … and, over there, another dead man. He heard footsteps ru

“Goddammit!”

He leaped to his feet and ran to the hall, shutting the door behind himself and locking it. For all that it wouldn’t stop a shotgun or a determined enough kick, the noise would give them a bit more warning.

From upstairs, the ladies fired madly, wildly—too fast, Gideon thought. They’d burn through their ammunition too quickly at this rate. But there was nothing he could say to them now, nothing he could do to instruct or steady them; so he just listened to the violent bursts from the windows above him, and the sound of Polly’s fast little feet ru

Next, he ran for Lincoln’s room.

Past the front door, and past Grant, who was using the door for cover—standing now, rather than sitting behind the window sills—and aiming with a measured, frightening accuracy. Wasting no bullets. Giving as good as he was getting, and he was getting it pretty good.

Gideon jumped as a vase on a table behind him shattered.

He dived back into the hall, leaving the president to his defensive measures, and kept scrambling over to the library, where Lincoln had had just about enough of this. The old man wheeled out into the hall, his chair humming warmly, its wheels grinding against the expensive rugs like they meant business. The revolver in his hand underscored the threat nicely.

Gideon heard a crash from upstairs—or was it downstairs? Or behind him? There were too many explosions, too many things breaking at once for him to sort them all out.

Lincoln shouted, “Gideon!,” and raised his handgun.

In return, Gideon cried, “Mr. Lincoln!,” and raised his own.

They fired simultaneously, Gideon’s shot taking down a man at the end of the hall—a man on the verge of ru

Lincoln fired again, and the man went down.

“Sir!” Gideon ran to Lincoln’s side. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Where will we go? They’re outside, aren’t they? No—we defend this place. If I’m to have a last stand, let it be here!”

“No! No talk of last stands!” Gideon shouted at him, then dropped his voice. “We will live through this. All of us. And we will stop the war, and we will save the world.” He grabbed the mechanical chair and tried to force Lincoln back into the library … but another man appeared in the hall, and Gideon swore like the sailor he’d never been. One of the big crashes must’ve been a breach in the study. Those sons of bitches. There was a hole in the fort, goddammit.

“Get this bastard out of the way!” Lincoln roared. Gideon was startled to hear his voice so strong, as he was so often softer spoken. But now he shouted, gesturing down at the man he’d shot. “Move him! Let me through!”

“Yes, sir.” Gideon shook his head, but he bent down and grabbed the corpse under its arms. He dragged it to the foyer and tossed it in, freeing the hallway for Lincoln to pass, then barreled forward before he realized there was another armed man in front of him. Lincoln guided the chair away from the newcomer as Gideon opened fire. The man jerked aside, seeking cover, but finding none. He fell to the scientist’s next round.