Fiddlehead

“Considering, yes. Let us pray it’s enough. Though if we’re relying on Mary to stay quiet…”

From his position at the front of the house, Grant hissed, “They can’t have too many men left. I saw three go scampering into the trees like frightened rabbits, and we’ve killed more than a handful. They’ve stopped making requests and demands, and now they’re only sneaking. We’ve held the fort, men.”

“But how much longer can we hold it?”

“The rest of the night?” the president guessed. “Listen, do you hear that? They’ve stopped shooting.”

He was right, but no one relaxed. They clustered together, three men standing and one sitting, listening for the next wave of peril.

“This is your last chance!” cried someone outside. “Give us Nelson Wellers and the negro, or we’re coming inside!”

Gideon scowled, partly because they’d figured out he was present, and partly because they hadn’t even bothered with his name.

Grant shouted in return, “No, it’s your last chance! You’ve already tried to come inside, and what’s it got you? Half a dozen dead men and nowhere!”

For a full minute, no one responded from outside. Then, just when the men inside had begun to hope they wouldn’t hear anything more: “We have more men on the way! You won’t survive until dawn!”

At that point, it might have gotten strange. Tense conversations might’ve occurred within, as the men in the Lincoln compound admitted that the men outside were probably right.

But instead, a new voice entered the conversation.

A loud one, projected mechanically from somewhere above, higher than the roof and with greater force than anyone below it: “On the contrary!”

A brilliant white beam of light shot down into the front lawn, illuminating everything a hundred feet around with such blinding vividness that even the men inside averted their eyes.

Gideon’s adjusted first. He held up his arm and squinted, coming closer to the broken windows covered by shredded blankets that barely served as any cover at all, anymore. He stood to the side and narrowed his eyes.

The column of light blasted down from something black and massive above the house—something that hovered with a rumble and the hiss of hydrogen. He saw no details, no refined lines of anything outside the ferocious column, which then began to move.

The light pivoted, swung, and swayed, strafing the tree line and revealing three men with their faces covered … and now their eyes covered, too, as they slunk away, seeking cover from the all-knowing beam. The light shifted again, passing over the lawn to reveal bodies, some unmoving and some still twitching. It ran the length of the drive and chased two more men into a ditch; they scrambled up the other side and fled.

And from the great light the voice came again. “We can see you! We will shoot every last one of you sons of bitches, and we’ll enjoy it! You have until the count of ten exactly to be clear of these premises—and then we open fire!”

It was a big voice, even without the electrical amplification. Gideon could tell it belonged to a big man. But that wasn’t what surprised him. What surprised him was the fact that the speaker was almost certainly another colored man—though this man’s voice had slightly different inflections from his own, so he was probably not from Alabama. He wracked his working knowledge of Southern accents, trying to place it. Not Louisiana, not Mississippi. Not a river man, this one. Not Te

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

The light showed motion in the trees, men departing as quickly and gracelessly as fleas leaping off a dog.

“Seven! Six! Five!”

There was a ratcheting sound, the drop and shift of something heavy, as the voice continued.

“You know … I never was a very patient man.”

And then, without a further countdown, something preposterously huge opened fire.

It sprayed the woods with bullets that pierced trees and shattered saplings, raining down broken limbs and splinters from all angles. It blew great holes in the lawn, blasted pits into the drive, and left nothing but a crater where the lamppost used to be.

And, above it all, they could hear the sound of a big man laughing.

When the yard seemed clear and the driving pulse of the enormous gun had ground to a halt, an immense armored dirigible lowered itself toward the remains of the Lincolns’ yard. A side panel opened—and an oversized harpoon appeared and was fired directly at the ground, smashing an awful hole in the lawn that Mary would surely complain about in the morning. But there it stuck, as firmly as any ship’s anchor.

Beneath the craft a hatch opened, and then a set of stairs extended, much like the ones that led up into the attic.

Grant, Wellers, and Lincoln joined Gideon at the front door.

Lincoln said, “Pardon me, men.” And he opened that door, wheeling himself forward onto the stoop. The others followed close behind but lingered together, scarcely breathing as they watched a bulky colored man in a Union-blue coat descend, every step a stomp, and every shift of his shoulders like the rolling of river rocks in motion.

Bald as an onion, the man was not young—closer to fifty than forty, Gideon guessed; and he had a scar across his cheek that must have come from some grievous old wound. But right now he was smiling from ear to ear, crinkling the scar and his eyes alike.

He opened his arms toward them and cried, “Gentlemen! I am Captain Croggon Beauregard Hainey, and I bring you the services of my ship and crew.”

Gideon was taken aback. “Hainey? Of the Macon Madmen?” Well, that accounted for the accent.

Captain Hainey performed a little bow. “At your service! Are you the renowned doctor, Gideon Bardsley?”

“I am.”

“Then it’s a pleasure!” He came forward, hand extended, and vigorously shook Gideon’s hand. “From one old criminal to a young one: I’ve heard great things about you—great things indeed!”

President Grant came forward and gave the next handshake. “I’ve heard many tales of the Macon Madmen. You’re the last of them, aren’t you?”

“So far as I know,” the captain confirmed. “I was i

“You’ve got one whenever you want one,” the president assured him. “That was some amazing shooting. What sort of gun is it?”

“Oh, that?” he said casually. “That’s the Rattler. It’s a Gatling conversion. I’ll show it to you, if you like. But first…” He turned his attention to Lincoln.

Lincoln sat serenely, a peaceful and knowing expression on his face. “Do I have Kirby Troost to thank for your intervention?” he asked.

“You know Troost: The man’s a miracle, but he can’t be every place at once. So, yes, you owe it in part to that strange little fellow, and in part to those strange little ladies.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, where Mary and Polly were descending the dirigible steps with caution.

“Wait … how?” Gideon began to ask, and then he shouted to the women, “You’re supposed to be in the attic!”

To which the captain said, “I found them on the roof, which is close enough. They flagged me down, and good on ’em for doing so! I wasn’t sure I could find the place; there’s not a ray of light anywhere for a mile. The weather’s done a number on the District, taking the power and taps alike—but your missus was up there with a lantern, waving it around on the widow’s walk like … like a little maniac,” he gri

Nelson Wellers gasped. “Mrs. Lincoln, you could’ve been shot!”

“But I wasn’t!” she hollered back. Then, in an ordinary voice, she said, “Thank you, young man,” as a tall, slender negro with long, braided hair took her elbow and helped her down the last step.