Cherie Priest - Fiddlehead

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!”