The Clockwork Century: Fiddlehead Part 24

"Ah. Is it...?"

He rolled over onto his side. "Broken. Not as bad as it could be," he said with a wince.

When she turned her head, she could see that yes, his hand was lying at an unhealthy angle. "Oh, no. We need to brace it." She wiggled a bit and frowned. No longer lying on his arm, but she was somehow still lying upon something. Ah. Her satchel. Still slung around her chest. Would wonders never cease?

"There seem to be plenty of promising sticks lying about, thanks to us. As for you," he said, "we need to see about that pretty little head of yours."

"What about it?" she asked. But now that he mentioned it, a spot to the left of her forehead, just above her ear, felt hot. When she touched it, it stung, and it left the tattered remnants of her glove covered in blood. "Hmm." She wasn't sure how much of the blood was from her head, and how much was from her hands-the gloves themselves were in shreds, and sc.r.a.ped skin showed through them. She was quite confident that when she warmed up enough to feel her fingers again, every single one of them would be in agony.

"Let me see it," Henry suggested.

"First, let's see about that arm."

"Heads are more important than arms."

He had a point, so she let him probe the problem, but only briefly. "You see? It's all right. I'm fine," she a.s.sured him. "If that's the worst I get from the adventure, I'll be in excellent shape. Now. I can stand. Can you?"

"You can stand? Prove it."

"Fine, I will." She did, and though the effort was at first unsteady, she settled the matter by arriving upright. "Your turn."

She offered him her hand and he grasped it, clutching his broken arm to his chest and letting her pull him to his feet. "See? Me too."

"Apart from the arm, are you intact? How do you feel?"

"Like I just fell out of an airs.h.i.+p and crashed through a tree. How about you?"

"The same. Now, let me bind up that arm, and I suppose we'll have to get on our way. Did I mention I used to work as a nurse?"

"Don't believe it came up."

"No? Well," she said, eyeing the ground for a promising splint. "I didn't last very long. I don't mind blood and bones, but I have trouble with vomiting and pus. Here. This will do nicely."

Before long, Henry was as patched up as he could expect to get, his injured arm fastened tight to a piece of wood, courtesy of the remains of the hemp belt, which had accompanied them to the ground. Maria had found it nearby and rejoiced. Henry's scarf served as a sling, tied up in a knot behind his neck.

Maria used her own scarf to staunch the bleeding above her ear. Her options were few, and it was dark enough that the stain scarcely showed. Maybe with a good laundering, it would vanish altogether. Or perhaps she'd pester Mr. Pinkerton for hazard pay, should she escape the mission alive. He could d.a.m.n well buy her a new scarf for her pains. And maybe a good winter coat, too.

"Where are we?" she asked, hoping that perhaps he'd paid closer attention on the way down that she had. "What time is it? How far away do you think we are?"

He s.h.i.+elded his eyes against the sun, and checked the shadows filtering down through the brittle, naked branches around them. "Well, it's early afternoon," he said. "I think we landed a little to the east of the road. West should be that way."

"How certain are you, exactly?"

"Somewhat. That's the best I can do."

"It'll have to suffice. We need to find that road and ... and stop that caravan."

"Single-handedly," he added, as he lurched forward in the general direction of west and south.

"Well, you'll be single-handed. But, between us, there are three hands." She mustered a smile. "And I'm sure we'll think of something."

Nineteen.

Gideon crouched behind the front door, performing mental calculations and deciding that yes, it'd likely withstand a significant ballistic onslaught. It was oak, he believed-upon rapping it gently and feeling the st.u.r.dy density of it-and fully three inches thick, with some variation where it was carved for the sake of a paneled appearance. Regardless, unless someone was firing a canon at the thing, it'd hold just fine. The lock, on the other hand ...

He examined it closely, since no one was firing at him right that moment.

It was nothing special. Bra.s.s, with typical, easily circ.u.mnavigated workings. A thief or a locksmith could breach it in seconds. Two men with stout shoulders or feet could've forced it. A bullet could do so faster, if it occurred to a shooter to come up close and take a crack at it.

He looked around for something to brace the door more firmly. Did it open inward? He checked the hinges. Yes, as all exterior doors ought to. But one couldn't a.s.sume.

Shortly down the hall was a standing clock of considerable heft. If he were to drag over and shove it diagonally across the door, it'd serve at least to slow down any efforts to come inside, through the door or the broken windows that flanked it at waist height.

He peeked under the edge of the quilt, being careful to block any firelight that might escape with the bulk of his torso. Staring across the darkened lawn, he saw nothing moving. No one sneak-stepping across the gra.s.s. Though, when he leaned over to peek at a different angle, he saw something on the stairs of the stoop. It looked like a leg.

On closer inspection, as his eyes adjusted to the dim, almost impenetrable murk, he determined that it was the body of whoever the president had shot.

Gideon had no particular love for the old general, no more than he held for most people he just knew in pa.s.sing, but he respected the man's military prowess. He believed in his abilities as a soldier, if not as a politician-which probably put him in very good company, now that he thought about it. Not much of a president, but one h.e.l.l of a shot and tactician.

So presumably the man on the stairs was dead.

But how many others lingered out there? Grant hadn't given his estimation, and Gideon hadn't yet heard enough gunfire to get a good idea of what was coming from where, so there was no way of knowing. Except ... Grant was a master of these sorts of plans. He wouldn't tell them to board up the downstairs entrances for merely one or two men-so there must be three or four, if such measures were called for. Probably more than that.

Always the general, that one. He commanded like a general. Barked like one. Made a.s.sumptions like one.

Well, all right then-if he had to take orders from a general, let it be Grant. After all, the orders were professional, not personal. Grant would just as happily bark commands to Polly or Wellers, or to Lincoln himself. It was so ingrained in him from years of being in charge that it was difficult to hold it against him-and there was always the chance that he knew what he was doing.

So against his better judgment, and more than a little reluctantly ... Gideon chose to believe in Grant.

He'd take responsibility for the Fiddlehead's evidence, and trust Grant to manage the armed intrusion. It was a trade-off he could accept, given the scheme of things, because he didn't know if any of them would survive the night, and he couldn't bear to be responsible for the deaths of the Lincolns.

Or Polly, for that matter.

Polly, who was not even important enough to kill, he realized, and which horrified him. It surely meant she'd die first, if it came to that, because that was how the world worked. She'd made him gloves, once, and he'd defend her with his life for those ridiculous gloves.

Gideon slowly lowered the edge of the quilt, lest the motion be enough to lure more bullets. He looked again at the clock, and wondered if he could move it alone. It was huge, and certainly heavy.

He scooted over to it and pushed it with his foot, testing the weight and balance of the thing. It didn't budge.

Out in the lawn-or at the edge of it-someone called out, hailing whoever might be inside.

"You there, at the door! We only want to talk!"

It was nonsense, of course. First of all, anyone out there would've seen Grant shoot their colleague. If they weren't total idiots, they would've a.s.sumed it was the president behind the door, and addressed him accordingly. They'd be wrong, yes, but it was the logical conclusion. By pretending they didn't know, they only made themselves look like they weren't paying attention.

Gideon returned to the window. Adjusting the edge of the blanket again, he took another look at the lawn, but saw nothing. He did not answer, of course, for his voice might betray him as an educated colored man from the South. But though they were hunting an educated colored man from the South, for the time being, they had no reason to think he might be in the house. He did not plan to disabuse them of that notion.

He held his tongue, but continued to watch. He saw nothing, but he kept his ears open, and the man called again. "Send out the doctor, Nelson Wellers! He's wanted for harboring a murderer!"

A ridiculous, made-up charge. Definitely not police officers; Polly had been right to distrust them. He wanted to tell her so, but she was at the other end of the house. And she already knew it, anyway.

Gideon still did not answer.

"Just send him out, and we'll call this a draw! There's no need for things to get any worse! No need for anyone else to get hurt!"

No need? No, he supposed not. But he didn't trust the speaker as far as he could throw a horse; and even if he did, he would never toss Wellers out onto the front yard and tell him he was on his own. In order to make that clear, Gideon poked the barrel of his Starr under the bottom of the blanket, through the corner window, and fired off two shots in the direction from which he'd guessed the voice had come.

Shots were fired in return. Several of them plunked against the door; he could feel them with his shoulder, but it was no more than a dull thud. He smiled. The door would definitely work as a s.h.i.+eld. A good one, if he could do something about that weak point, the lock.

When the men outside ceased their response, Gideon returned to the clock. Positioning himself on the far side of it, he braced his back as best he could, and shoved it with his boots. Always the best leverage that way. Simple mechanics: levers, screws, pulleys. If more people were of a mechanical, scientific bent, the world would be an easier place-he was confident of it.

Then again, if more people were of a scientific bent, it might lead to a more vibrant criminal cla.s.s.

The good would not necessarily outweigh the bad, but one could not pick and choose when it came to wishfully bestowing mythical apt.i.tude on the ma.s.ses ... or so he concluded, as the clock moved by inches as he bent and unbent his knees. He kept his eyes on the clock's face. The large piece of furniture was top-heavy, and it wouldn't do for him to shove it too hard and wind up with the thing cras.h.i.+ng across his lap.

A sharp hiss came from behind him. "What are you doing?"

He recognized it, and therefore did not startle. Instead, he said, "Mr. Grant, I am addressing a weak point in our defenses. The lock is a feeble thing. It could be resolved with one shot, at which point the door would open with a simple shove."

Gideon half expected the president to observe that the door stood between two broken windows, either one of which any fool could leap right through, as they were guarded only by blankets. But his good impression of the man's strategic mind was borne out when Grant only nodded. "Let me help."

Only a fool would hop through a broken window when he couldn't see what awaited on the other side. A wiser man might use the big oak door for cover-much like he and Grant were doing at present-and choose to lead a charge from that position. If he were lucky or ambitious enough, such a man might even blow the hinges and use the door as a s.h.i.+eld all the way down the corridor.

Perhaps. If another man or two were present to help him carry it.

Gideon knew he was overthinking the situation, but Grant didn't say or do anything to suggest that the extra precaution wasn't warranted, so he considered himself correct and proceeded with the wiggling, shoving, and balancing of the upright clock. Finally it was in position, and between the two of them, they knocked it ajar, forcing it into a diagonal across the door.

"That'll hold it for now." Grant sounded pleased.

"It also gives us more cover at the windows. But only a little," Gideon frowned. The clock was very tall, but when slapped across the entry, it looked much shorter. Only by virtue of a decorative column did it remain in position at all; otherwise, it might've fallen right to the floor. "This wouldn't have been my first pick for a defensive position."

"Mine either, but we rarely get a chance to choose such things. We're usually stuck with what we get. Anyway," he added, surveying the area with a critical eye. "As I told Polly, I've worked with worse. Only three entrances on the first floor-in a building this size, that's a relief. It could be far more. And given the high ceilings ... unless they bring a ladder, that's all we'll need to defend for now. a.s.suming all the curtains are drawn-and between you and Wellers, I trust that's the case."

Gideon nodded firmly. "And for all they know, we've got an armed man in every room."

"Oh, they know better than that. But they aren't dumb enough to risk it. Or, more likely, they don't have enough men to undertake an empirical study in the matter."

"So far."

"That's true: We must a.s.sume they've sent for help, but they can't a.s.sume we haven't done likewise. At least three or four men are out there, by my count, never mind the fellow on the stairs. You can bet they were able to spare someone to run off with a message, requesting reinforcements or instructions. They don't really know what to do," he said almost gleefully. "This isn't what they expected. Now they have to make a decision. A big one."

"Whether or not to kill us all, knowing that the president's inside. And Lincoln, and two women."

"They know about Polly, but they didn't see Mary. And, as you said, we could have another half-dozen servants inside-all armed, all ready to defend the place with their lives. Polly didn't let the man in-she closed the door and left him there. Neither he nor his friends saw anyone but her. They know almost nothing, and that's to our advantage."

"I'm happy for any advantage we can claim, no matter how small." And again, he considered the wiles of Polly, for whom his admiration grew by the moment.

"It's not small. On the battlefield, information is currency."

Gideon sighed grouchily. "But we're missing as much information as they are. We don't know how many men they have any more than they know the reverse."

"True, but we know what they want. We know they're near the house, but lurking in the shadows-which means they fear us. Otherwise they'd charge, storm the place, and call their mission a success. We know who sent them, or we can make a good enough guess to predict their future course of action."

"And what might that be?" Gideon asked. He was confident he wouldn't care for whatever came next, but he wanted to hear Grant's a.s.sessment.

"Violence, and plenty of it. Haymes will kill me if she thinks she needs to, and leave William to run the show from under her thumb-which is how she prefers things, you know. Everything would take place under her thumb if she got her way."

Gideon didn't know much about the vice president, so he didn't know how likely this was. "Can she do that? Is Wheeler so ethically flexible?"

Grant shrugged, a gesture Gideon barely saw through the gloom. "He has a reputation for trustworthiness, and I've trusted him this long. But he's a politician, and the more time I spend in Was.h.i.+ngton, the less I know about such men. I've trusted plenty who proved me a fool. Given the present situation, I'd rather rely on soldiers. And I have good soldiers tonight, don't I? You and Wellers, both smart men who know their way around guns. And since Wellers is a Pink, I know he has some experience with danger, despite what a frail-looking fellow he is. All height and no weight, do you know what I mean?"

Gideon nodded. He'd had the same thought himself.

"But you can't put anything past him, so I don't mind what he looks like. And what of you?" Grant wanted to know, as if it only just dawned on him that he ought to ask.

"What of me?" Gideon responded in the rhetorical. "Can I fight, you mean? I've never fought in battle, but I escaped the South, and I've survived more than one attempt on my life. I've protected my family and served my benefactors as I was able, to the point of violence if necessary."

"That's good enough for me. And you're no coward, which is worth more than any formal service, in my experience," he said politely.

Gideon was almost touched. He hid it well. "My father fought in the Mexican War-for Texas, as you might expect, if not approve. My grandfather served in the Revolution. He died before my father was born."

In the dark, he could barely see Grant's eyes, but he saw them flicker. "Is that his coat? The one you wear all the time?"

"Yes. Old-fas.h.i.+oned, I know. But it suits me. My father left it to me, and I ... I prefer it."

"I recognized the old army cut," he said. "No business of mine, and so I never asked, but a man can be curious, can't he?"

Outside, the invaders tried again with their untrustworthy shouted compromises. "You send out Wellers, and we'll all go away! Call it a night!"

Grant and Gideon went to opposite windows and looked outside cautiously.

"This is good," Grant murmured. "They want to make a deal. Men who are confident of victory don't seek to make deals."

"Maybe they can't get reinforcements after all."

"That's possible. It's also possible that Haymes doesn't want the deaths of two presidents on her hands, and she's told them to withdraw. Don't forget: The advantage is ours, though we do not know its extent."

"Forgive me if I don't get too excited while they're out there holding us hostage."

"Absolutely." Grant lifted the quilt an inch farther, holding it away from the broken gla.s.s with the barrel of his '58. He raised his voice to project it, and hollered out into the night. "Forget it! Wellers is innocent!"

"You can't hide him forever!"