Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5)

Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5) Page 47

“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 scraped 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 assured 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 airship 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 damn 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 shielded 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 sturdy 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. Brass, with typical, easily circumnavigated 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 assume.

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 grass. 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 passing, 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 hell 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 assumptions 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 assumed 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 shield. 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 class.