Fiddlehead

Upstairs Polly screamed, and it was like an ice pick to Gideon’s soul.

“Help her!” Lincoln called without looking back. “Help the women upstairs, for the love of God!”

Upstairs, indeed—for, yes, it’d been his idea to put the women up there, and now Polly was screaming. He found the steps by the lingering firelight and tripped up them—he’d climbed them a thousand times, but the light was so dim and he was so hurried. Someone was still shooting up there, and his money was on Mary. He banged his knee on the top step, but that was fine, he needed to stay low anyway; so he used it as an excuse to fall down to all fours, then proceed in a low, awkward crouch toward Polly. Where was she? West wing, yes. He followed the sound of her voice until he could see her silhouetted in the hall light.

She wasn’t alone. A man held her … from behind? From her side? It was hard to say—she was fighting him like the devil, wrestling this way and that, until both their shapes were one great knot of shadow. Gideon wasn’t sure who was who, so he certainly couldn’t shoot.

He shoved his gun into his coat pocket.

He ran forward and seized the pair of them, wrenching them apart and taking the man by his shirt, then flinging him against a wall where he smashed a great crack in the plaster. The man lunged back, but he launched straight into Gideon’s fist, which caught him square in the stomach. He doubled over, catching the scientist’s knee in his face as he did so. As he staggered backwards, he found no retreat except the wall. As he reached up seeking to steady himself, the man found an oil lamp, turned down to nothing but still full of fuel. He grabbed at it, slipping when the glass shattered, but eventually got hold and pulled himself back to his feet. He must’ve been bleeding from the glass, but Gideon couldn’t see it. He saw nothing except for the fellow trying to step backwards, and a brighter shade behind him—someone wearing lighter clothing. Someone who swung an enormous stick and caught the intruder on the back of the head.

“Polly!”

“Got it from the broom closet,” she panted and pointed. The man had fallen to his knees, on the ground in the oil and glass, so she hit him again. He went down and stayed down, sprawled out between the scientist and the maid.

“Give me your hand,” Gideon commanded. She did, but she held on to the broom as she jumped over the unconscious figure on the floor. “Where’s the attic? There must be a door in the ceiling; where is it?”

“Here,” she said, leading him along the hallway, picking a spot, then changing her mind and going back a little farther. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s over here. It’s so hard to see, I can barely tell at all.”

He held up his hand, feeling around for the rope pull that would bring the door down. It fluttered against his fingers. He missed it, tried again, missed once more. Finally, he caught it and gave it a yank, and a set of rolling stairs rumbled down. He caught them with his shoulder so he could lower them more quietly than was their wont. “Get up there,” he ordered her. “This is getting out of hand. Just go. I’ll get Mary.”

“But, Gideon—”

“Do as I say!”

He left her, not knowing whether she’d obey or not, but knowing that Mary was not shooting anymore; she was shouting instead. He found her in the back bedroom, leaning out the window and shoving hard, then cackling like a witch as someone beyond hollered and fell heavily.

“Mrs. Lincoln!”

“Ladders!” she responded. “The bastards got themselves some ladders!”

“Didn’t think they’d manage that so fast,” he said under his breath, then went to her side. “You’re out of ammunition?”

She nodded, and the silver in her hair caught what little light came from the sky. “Fresh out. But they’re ru

He drew her back from the window. “You have to get up to the attic now,” he said. “Polly’s already there; she’ll pull the stairs up behind you.”

“What about Abe?”

“He’s down there with Grant and Wellers. They’re watching him. The mercenaries are inside the house, now.”

“They’re inside my house?” she shrieked.

“Keep your voice down, ma’am—and yes, they’re inside. I want you to go up to the attic and wait for us. We’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

“When it’s safe?”

“Yes, when it’s—”

“This is my house! I’m not going anywhere! Give me another gun!”

“Oh for the love of … no, Mrs. Lincoln.”

Downstairs it was heating up, getting louder. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, ru

For a moment, he seriously considered tying her up and sticking her in a closet, if only to get her out of his way.

No. There wasn’t time.

A large shadow loomed at the top of the stairs. Before he could demand that the shadow identify itself, a shot from below caught it in the back. It threw up its hands and fell backwards, tumbling down to the first floor like a rock down a fall.

“Wellers!” Gideon hollered.

“Right here,” said a voice from below. “That was close, eh? How are the ladies?”

Mary yelled, “We are just fine. Just fine, do you hear me, Dr. Wellers?”

“Gideon,” Wellers called, with a note of concern creeping into his voice. “It’s getting hot down here.”

“I know. I’m about to put her upstairs.”

“You aren’t putting me—”

Gideon grabbed Mary around the waist and threw her over his shoulder. “Ma’am, I do apologize, but you’re getting out of the way if I have to toss you up in that attic myself.”

“I’d like to see you try!” she yelled, beating her fists on his back.

“You are watching me try,” he said, but when he reached the attic stairs, he collided with them, because he hadn’t been able to detect them in the dark. “Polly,” he called up. “You there?”

“Yes, Dr. Bardsley, sir.”

“Incoming,” he warned, and climbed up just far enough to push the wriggling Mrs. Lincoln up into the overhead space. Then he jumped down, grabbed the edge of the steps with his fingertips, and flung the door back up into place. Polly said something through the ceiling, but he didn’t catch it, and he didn’t have time to ask her to repeat it.

He banged his leg on an old sideboard, no doubt a priceless antique, then dragged the thing away from the wall to leave it blocking the top of the stairs. Wouldn’t stop anyone, he knew, but it’d make a lot of noise and surprise the hell out of someone who happened onto it. Might even trip a body up. Maybe they’d get lucky and some damn fool would fall down and break his neck.

Gideon was of the very firm opinion that when men want to kill you, there’s no such thing as fighting dirty.

Back down on the first floor, things were not improving.

He ran into Wellers, still lingering at the bottom of the stairs, his back to them—his gun aiming first at the front door, and then the west corridor, while Grant held down the spot at the front windows. Lincoln rolled out from the library, briefly confusing Gideon, who had last seen him leaving it.

Wellers explained before he could ask: “We’ve barricaded the east wing with a pair of cabinets. I couldn’t have moved them on my own, but that chair of his is tougher than it looks. I didn’t realize we’d given him something with so much towing power.”

“I’d forgotten. Never thought he’d use it.”

“Now he’s ru

“At this rate, sooner than you think,” Lincoln said, delivering a box that looked frightfully empty. “This is the last of it. Where’s Mary? And Polly?”

“They’re stowed in the attic. They ought to be safe, so long as they stay quiet. They were out of bullets.” Lincoln gave Gideon a quiet stare he couldn’t quite read in the darkness of the foyer, even by the light of the last of the parlor embers. So he added, “It was the best I could do, sir. Considering.”