Fiddlehead

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.

The good would not necessarily outweigh the bad, but one could not pick and choose when it came to wishfully bestowing mythical aptitude on the masses … 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 crashing 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 shield 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. Assuming 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 assume they’ve sent for help, but they can’t assume 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 assessment.

“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 Washington, 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-fashioned, 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 glass 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!”

“We don’t have to, and you know it!”

Gideon frowned. “What do you mean by that?” he whispered.

Grant whispered in return. “Confused? Good. They’ll be confused too. Let ’em think we’re up to something. Right now, they’ll assume we mean to dig in our heels, but we could also have a plan to sneak him away, or call in reinforcements of our own. Lincoln has many friends, and someone will come calling eventually—or, for that matter, someone will notice that the president is missing.”

“Good. If we can hold on until dawn, they may decide this is more dangerous than they’d prefer and try a different approach. But,” Gideon warned, “they’ll come again. For him. For me.”

“Son,” Grant said. It was precisely the sort of voice that usually felt like nails on a chalkboard to Gideon, but for some reason, he didn’t mind it now. “All I can do is buy you time. But I doubt you need much more than that to think your way out of this.”

“Your vote of confidence is … meaningful to me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Someone outside disturbed the moment with a threat: “Don’t make us set fire to the house!”

Gideon and Grant paused and looked at each other across the door—each one trying to read the other, and gauge what they thought about that. Grant shook his head first. “If they could, they’d have done it already,” he said. “Haymes is a gambling woman, but she wouldn’t push them that far.”

“How do you know she’s a gambler?”

“She spends all her time with politicians. Name me a bigger risk if you can.”

“Are you going to answer them?”

Both men sat on the floor, watching from behind the swaying blankets. The wind had calmed, but only a bit. The night was still full of treacherous gusts, and threatening, broiling black clouds that hid all the stars.

“Yes, I’ll answer them. Like this,” Grant said. Then he shouted, “Light up a flare, and we’ll shoot any man who holds it!”

Silence in response.

After a few seconds of what must have been conferral: “Our offer stands!”

Quietly, Grant said, “Oh does it, now? Well, good for them.”

Nelson Wellers came tiptoeing around the corner, and announced himself by saying, “They’ll do it, if they’re Haymes’s men. She’s done worse than cook a family alive.”

“Sit down, doctor.”

“I can’t let them harm the Lincolns. I won’t have that on my conscience, not when I prevent it just by being less of a coward.”

“Thinking beyond the first option isn’t cowardice. If we beat this, you stay alive, and Gideon stays alive, his credibility intact. His editorial finishes taking the nation by storm—we all know the story is well on its way around the globe, so maybe, if we’re very lucky, it takes the South by storm as well. The war ends. The walking dead are vanquished. Stepping stones, doctor. Stepping stones.”

“Send him out, or we’re coming in!”

Grant said, “See? They’re backtracking. They aren’t threatening to burn the place down anymore. First blood was ours, and the first retreat is theirs.”

“Maybe they couldn’t reach Haymes?” Wellers suggested, but he put a question mark on the end.

“That would make sense,” Gideon mused. “They’re rather marvelously disorganized out there.”

The president peered out once more. “You could be right. And if you are, that’s one more advantage. We’re racking them up, over here!”

“Until they actually try to come inside.” Polly stood at the edge of the foyer. She spoke from the shadows behind the staircase, where no one could see her very well. “Then what do we do, Mr. Grant?”

“Then, my dear, when they try to come inside, we forcibly keep them out. Wellers, now that we’ve gotten the house as secure as possible, it’s time to ask: Does Abe have any other guns on the premises?”

“I’m sure he must.”

Polly answered. “There’s a cabinet in the cellar.”

“There’s a cellar?” Grant hesitated. “Oh that’s right. And it opens to the outside?”

“Yes, sir, it does.”

Gideon threw up a hand, volunteering himself. “Polly, take me to it. I’ll secure the cellar and bring up guns for everyone.”

Wellers was taken aback. “Mary, too?”

“Abe said she’s a better shot than he is,” Grant replied.

Gideon groaned. “I’ve seen her. She’s not terrible, but close enough. Still, he’s in that chair, and his hands barely work—so technically, he’s right. Doesn’t matter. We need every able body, and Mary’s able enough. Polly, take me to the guns, and be quick about it.”

“Good plan,” Grant said, endorsing it. “Now, Wellers, I want you to stay here and man the front. This is where they’ve been trying to communicate from, up until now, but they’ll be investigating the rest of the house, testing doors and trying their luck in other places. I’m going to do some reconnaissance. And as soon as Gideon gets back from his mission, I want him to relieve you.”

“All right.” Gideon agreed over his shoulder, one hand on Polly’s arm so she could lead him through the darkness.

The president’s instructions to Nelson Wellers followed behind him. “When he returns, you take the east wing. I’ll patrol the west. Do your best not to answer them, except with bullets. They may know your voice. Let’s keep them guessing about who’s inside.”

Polly drew Gideon into the large entryway, past the parlor and its unattended fireplace, burning low. Softly, she asked him, “Are you really going to give Mary a gun?”

“If she’ll take one.”

“So … that’s a yes?”

“Yes,” he affirmed. “She doesn’t have to shoot well or wisely; we only need people who can shoot from inside, at various locations, giving the impression that the whole house is occupied … and there’s not just the six of us to hold down the fort.”

“So you’ll give me a gun too?”

“Yes, and I’ll expect you to use it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispered. “Watch out for that—yes, there. There’s a step before the door.”

He caught himself before he could fall, smacking one hand against the frame in order to steady his balance. “You can, and you will if you have to. This is the cellar? I’ve never been down here.”

“There’s not much to see,” she said vaguely. “Some storage, is all. Canned things, preserves. No books, though.”

“No books?”

She shook her head as she unlocked the door with a key from her apron pocket. “No. Mr. Lincoln says it’s too damp, and he loves them all too much to keep them there.”

“He doesn’t love any of them so much that he won’t build a wall with them, in the hope that it filters out any stray bullets.”

Polly shrugged a little and opened the door. “It’s different for him. He says books saved his life. I guess he figures books can go on saving his life, but he won’t stash them someplace damp and let them rot. They don’t do anyone any good that way. And, you have to admit, he has a point.”

The cellar was utterly black, without the first hint of a light. “Polly, I can’t see a thing,” Gideon said as he felt his way down the steps with his toes, scraping them across each board in search of its end, and then lowering them blindly until they stopped against the next one.

“Don’t worry. There’s a lantern at the bottom in case the electric lights go out.”

“Does that happen very often?”

“When there’s weather like this, yes. The gas lamps are more reliable, but Mr. Lincoln says electricity is the future. He’s having the old system replaced, a bit at a time, but he started in the cellar. He said he didn’t want to put the technology anyplace important until it was tested.”

“His love of novelty has always been at war with his innate sense of caution,” Gideon mumbled. “Where’s this lantern? And are there any windows down here?”

“Almost got it. And no, no windows, so no one will see it when we light it up.”

She pulled farther ahead of him, and soon, from the bottom of the steps, a light came up so brightly that it nearly blinded him.

He winced and looked away until she carried it off and his eyes adjusted. Then he joined her in the cellar—a finished, clean space, but low of ceiling and somewhat cold compared to the rest of the house. From down there, the wind was much subdued, as there were no nooks or crannies, loose window panes, or fireplaces for it to scrape against. There was nothing at all to see but foundation stones and rough-hewn shelves holding canned goods, disused kitchen supplies, and seasonal items that would come upstairs when the calendar called for them.

And against the far wall, a nice pine cabinet.

Polly approached it and tugged the knob. It wasn’t locked.

Upstairs, the temporary quiet was broken by more pops of gunfire, some from within, some from without. Gideon counted six shots from the Lincoln compound, and eight from outside it. Waste of bullets, all. A game of spending time and ammunition, seeing who had the most and who could least afford to lose it.

Polly also paused to hear out the shots upstairs. Their eyes met—hers wide and worried, his calculating and angry. The yellow glare of the lantern engulfed them, but not much beyond them; everything past the gun cabinet and the nearest wall of preserves remained cast in darkness. One more muffled bang—from inside, he thought—and then silence.

Whatever was going on, it wasn’t going away. The men outside would find their way inside eventually.

He spied the cellar door, up a short set of stairs. He climbed them and made sure it was locked, then returned to the cabinet.

He nudged Polly aside and reached for the contents. Two rifles and three smaller handguns. At a glance, it looked like a lone Colt and a pair of Remingtons. No surprise there. Old military men often preferred them, and every president counts as military by default. Two boxes of ammunition of varying sizes lurked beneath the guns. He pointed them out to Polly. “Take those and follow me. We’ll sort it out in the library, and get you ladies armed like men.”

“I don’t know if I can kill anybody,” she objected, so softly that, had she been another foot away, he wouldn’t have understood her.

“No one’s asking you to kill anyone. I’m asking you to stand inside and shoot outside, into the darkness.” He made for the stairs, and she tagged along behind him, bearing the boxes and the lantern. “Shoot into the trees, for all I care. Just shoot, and it will tell them we aren’t alone, we won’t let them have Nelson Wellers, and none of us are going quietly.”

Upstairs in the library he divvied out the available weaponry, leaving out the rifles for the present, since the women had no experience with them, Lincoln didn’t have the reach to fire them, and besides, there was less ammunition to fuel them.

Mary took the Colt. Polly took one of the Remingtons. Mary vowed to teach Polly how to shoot, a prospect that worried Gideon—hardly better than the blind leading the blind—but not so much that he tried to stop her. She understood the mechanics, even if she was a danger to herself and others when she employed them. That was fine. It’d have to be fine.

Back to the front door he went, to relieve Nelson Wellers.

“I’m running low,” the doctor confessed.

“There are bullets in the library. Not a magnificent stash, but enough to keep us on the defensive for another few hours yet, at this pace.”

“They won’t give us another few hours.”

Gideon swallowed, and tweaked the edge of the blanket to look outside. He saw nothing at first, and then motion. Two men, and then a third. Then he heard shots at the other end of the house—and more shots answering from within, from Grant. “They’ve found reinforcements.”

“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.