Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5)

Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5) Page 50

“They’ve been free to go and get them. We haven’t. If we can make it to dawn…”

“Then what?” Gideon asked. “Then they’ll be able to see us if we try to sneak away. No. If we’re going to make some great move, we ought to make it before the sun comes up. The president likes to go on about our copious ‘advantages,’ and we can’t afford to squander one.”

“Then what do you propose?” The worry on Wellers’s face was digging in hard, setting lines there and drawing bags beneath his eyes.

“I propose to sit here and think about what to do next.” Another shot, back in Grant’s direction in the far hall. “Go see if he needs help. I’ll stay here and watch the new fellows. If you run past the office, send me Mary.”

“Mary?”

“She’s a wild shot with an ax to grind. I may need to guard the east wing where her husband is.”

“You think she’ll leave him?”

“I think she might trust my aim more than hers. Go and see,” he urged again. As Wellers left, he continued to eye the shadows outside. Yes, more men had definitely been rallied. If someone was shooting at the west wing, they’d added at least two—no, three, because here came another, scuttling through the darkness. It was looking like six to six, if Gideon were feeling optimistic. Even odds, except that it was three able-bodied men, two women, and a chairbound cripple versus six mercenaries.

Mary appeared beside him, her approach announced by the swish and sway of her skirts—and only then did Gideon notice that the wind was dying down. The makeshift curtains were not blowing quite so hard, and the chimneys were no longer being played like a set of organ pipes.

“All right, Gideon.” She was brandishing her weapon in a way that made him nervous, so he gently aimed it toward the floor for now. “What do I do?”

“Mrs. Lincoln, I want you to sit here and keep an eye on the front door, right here—through the edge of this blanket, see? Stay low, and keep from moving any more than necessary. The curtain will move some, because of the wind, but that’s all right; we just don’t want them taking shots at your head.”

She nodded grimly, her eyes narrowed. “All right. And if anyone approaches the house, I shoot!”

“No! Or, yes, you should shoot … but like this: If anyone approaches the front door here, I want you to fire a warning shot. Aim it anywhere: the sky, the ground, what have you. If it’s a friend who’s accidentally slipped through, coming to see about the ruckus, he’ll identify himself. If it’s a foe, he’ll shoot back or start making demands. Either way, we’ll hear you, and one of us will come to help. Is that all clear?”

“Crystal clear, yes.” The old lady squeezed her gun with both hands, and sidled up to the wall beneath the window. “Now, go look after my husband.”

He left her, and proceeded down the east wing hall, where the former president remained with Polly. He leaned his head around the corner, saw that all was well, and said, “Polly, I want you to come with me.”

“And leave Mr. Lincoln?”

“Mr. Lincoln,” Gideon addressed the man personally. “Do you have any objections?”

“None,” he said firmly, holding one of the rifles across his lap, despite the previous decision to leave them for later. Gideon wasn’t sure who’d given it to him, or if this was the best choice, given the man’s lack of depth perception and limited use of his hands, but it looked impressive all the same. And, ah, yes: He still had the handgun ready, half concealed by the blankets.

Polly gazed at the man as if she’d do what she was told, but she wasn’t prepared to like it much. “All right, Dr. Bardsley. What do I do?”

He led her out of the room and toward the foyer, to the stairs that led to the second story. “You go upstairs, and go back and forth between the windows. Draw all the curtains if they aren’t drawn already, but do it carefully. Keep from being seen. I don’t want anyone spying your shadow and taking a shot at you.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

“And I want you to watch for men who might be sneaking up on us from different sides. If you see such a man, fire a shot through a window in his general direction. Don’t worry about hitting him, just let him know that you saw him.”

“All right. I can do that.”

“I know you can. And don’t try to open a window—just shoot right through it. Glass isn’t that expensive. You’re worth more than the window, you hear me?”

She blushed, and even the dwindling firelight couldn’t hide it. “Thank you, sir.”

When she was gone, Gideon said to Lincoln through the still-open door, “I’m going to check the other end of the hall, then work my way back. If you have any trouble, fire a warning shot, but fire it into those books. Anywhere else, and it might bounce in this little room.”

“I’m not an idiot, Gideon.”

“I’m only thinking out loud,” he assured him. In the quiet that followed, he really should’ve turned and left; but, like Polly, he found himself reluctant to leave Lincoln alone. “Is there … anything I can get you? Anything you need?”

“I need for my friends to believe I’m still a capable man,” he said. “I will be fine, and so will the rest of you. With you and Grant defending the place, I’m confident that it will stand.”

Gideon wished he hadn’t said that, even if he agreed. “We’ll do our best,” he said, and he stalked off down the hall, praying their best would be enough.

Twenty

“I thought we’d landed closer to the road than this,” Maria grumbled, tripping over a tree root and scraping her already-raw hand against a trunk when she caught herself.

“So did I.” Henry grimaced with pain, so often that it seemed his whole face was set that way in a permanent expression of discomfort. But a broken arm was plenty of excuse, to say nothing of the assorted scrapes, bumps, and bruises that plagued them both.

Maria ached in places she rarely thought of, and she bled from more injuries than she let on. Besides the cut on her head, under her coat she hid a hard puncture that had made it past her corset stays. She didn’t know how deep it went, and she didn’t know what had caused it. Part of the Black Dove, as they’d kicked free of its tumbling wreckage? A tree branch on the way down? Something else, when she’d landed?

The wound was under her rib cage, on the right side. It left a great stain on her dress, so she kept her coat fastened around herself, even tighter than before. Now it wasn’t just the cold. She needed for Henry to believe that she was all right, because if he thought otherwise, he’d attempt to coddle them both and they’d never get anywhere.

Just this once, she was glad for the cold.

It kept her numb enough to keep walking, hiking between the trees and around them. She hoped they were headed in the right direction, but had no way of knowing for certain. She had no compass, only Henry’s gut feeling; and she did her best not to second-guess him, because she had no idea herself.

Finally, they saw a line where the trees thinned. When they stumbled up out of the woods, they found themselves on a road. It amounted to little more than four sets of ruts in places, but the rain that season had been bad, and it was no secret that the Confederacy was low on money. Public works were suffering along with everything else.

No other vehicles or travelers were present, a fact that bothered Maria. She’d hoped to find carts—of the motorized or horse-drawn variety, she did not care which—and use her wiles to flag one down for a lift. She was exhausted and sore. Henry surely was in no better condition, though he also seemed to be hiding the worst of his pain.

So they trudged forward, southbound and surly, until a benevolent farmer heading in the right direction came along. Maria bribed him with sorrowful eyes, and Henry sealed the deal with the few Confederate coins from his pocket that hadn’t rained across the Georgia countryside as he’d fallen to earth.

The ride was faster than walking, and it gave them time to rest, if not recover.

When the farmer took a turn for the west, he left them on the road and they continued on foot, thankful for the help but wishing for more assistance. It didn’t come.

The day grew later, and the shadows grew longer. Maria didn’t know what they’d do when night fell. They had almost nothing in the way of supplies, much less any source of light, and roaming along a road at night was a surefire way to get robbed or murdered … or so she’d always been told.

She squeezed the battered satchel that still hung around her neck, and yes, her gun was still there. But none of her bullets had survived the trip, so whatever was in the wheel was all she had left. Henry had done better for himself: His shoulder holster was under his coat, and therefore his firearm and supplies had survived the trip more completely.

She doubted their guns would be of much use against the Maynard device, but they made her feel better all the same.

Another hour passed, and her feet were blocks of ice. Her nose had lost all feeling, and her injuries hurt terribly. Henry was flagged as well: His ordinarily fair complexion had gone positively white, his glasses were long gone, and when he wiped at his nose with one torn sleeve, it left a damp, bloody streak on the back of his arm.

And then they heard voices, accompanied by the crush and roll of large wheels on uneven turf. Not far ahead, there were people. Carts. Horses.

And then the dome of the big black cargo dirigible came into view.

Henry stopped and took her arm. “Let’s leave the road. Come around to the side.”

“You want to sneak up on them?”

“I want to watch them before we try to engage. We might learn something. Spot a weak point. If we walk up to them now, they’ll shoot us before we get close.”

She wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t fight him when he led her off the tracks that passed for a highway and back into the trees. They circled quietly around, staying just beyond the clearly visible road, until they were within earshot.